Smedsberg looked as if he might be smiling. Ringmar saw the smile come and go within a fraction of a second. The camera saw it. What did it mean?
'What has really happened between you and Aryan, Gustav?'
'I've already told you, a hundred years ago. It was a girl.'
'Josefin Stenvång,' said Halders.
'Er . . . yes.'
'But that's not all, is it?' Ringmar eyed Smedsberg.
'There are other reasons as well, aren't there?'
'I don't know what he's told you, but whatever he's said, it's wrong,' said Smedsberg.
'But you can't know what he's said, can you?'
'It's wrong in any case,' said Smedsberg.
'What's the truth, then?'
Smedsberg didn't reply. Ringmar could see something in his face that he thought he recognised. It wasn't relief. It was at the other end of the emotional register, the dark side.
'It will be better for you if you tell us.'
That same smile again, like a flash of cynicism, combined with the darkness in the boy's eyes. What has he been through? Ringmar didn't know, couldn't begin to guess.
'Gustav,' said Ringmar, 'that story you told us about how you were attacked on Mossen – it's not true, is it?'
Smedsberg said nothing. He wasn't smiling any more.
'You were never attacked, were you?'
'Of course I was.'
'It doesn't matter if you change your story.'
'Of course I was,' Smedsberg said again.
And again: 'Of course I was.'
Are we talking about the same thing? Ringmar thought.
'Were you attacked by your father, Gustav?' Ringmar asked.
Smedsberg didn't answer. That was an answer in itself.
'Was it your father who attacked you at Mossen, Gustav?' Ringmar asked.
'No.'
'Did he attack you at home, Gustav?'
'It doesn't matter what he said.'
'Who, Gustav? Who has said what?'
Smedsberg didn't answer. Ringmar could see that the lad wasn't feeling well now, not well at all. What the hell was he concealing? Is it something that has nothing to do with this business? Something worse? Ringmar looked at Halders, and winked.
'That story about the branding iron you told us the first time we met – you made it up, didn't you?'
'Did I?' said Smedsberg.
'Nobody uses such things, do they?'
'Not nowadays, perhaps.'
'And they never have used them at your farm,' said Halders.
A special look in Smedsberg's eyes again, something different this time. Is he playing games with us? Ringmar wondered. No, it's something different. Or it might be a game, but not his.
'What made you think of that branding iron, Gustav?'
'Because it LOOKED LIKE IT.'
Oops, Ringmar thought.
Halders seemed to be waiting for more.
'Haven't you been able to check it out?' asked Smedsberg.
'Check what out?' asked Halders.
'The iron, for Christ's sake!'
'Where would we be able to do that?'
Smedsberg looked at Halders, and now there was something different in his eyes. Perhaps it was desperation now, and insecurity.
'Do I have to spell everything out for you?' he said.
* * *
'He hasn't told us a single thing,' said Halders as they drove past Pellerins Margarine factory.
'Or everything,' said Ringmar.
'We ought to have grilled those other two student brats straight away,' said Halders.
'You're talking about people who have been badly assaulted,' said Ringmar. 'One of them so badly that he was on the point of being a permanent invalid.'
'He'll recover,' said Halders. 'He'll be OK.'
'Even so,' said Ringmar.
'He'll be able to play for the Blue and Whites six months from now,' said Halders. 'Even if he's still lame. Nobody would notice the difference among that lot.'
'You must be getting them mixed up with Örgryte football club,' said Ringmar.
'I think the most important thing now is to go out there again,' said Winter from the back seat.
He watched the townscape change and eventually disappear. Forests and an endless network of lakes now. Commuter trains.
He had been poring over the transcripts of the interviews with the children and trying to conjure up a picture of the man who had talked to them, done other things. He'd searched and searched. There was something he could make use of. The man had a parrot who might be called Billy. Winter had gone back to Simon Waggoner with ten toy parrots in ten different colours, and Simon had picked out the green one.
He had also pointed at the red one.
The man might well have been in his forties, possibly a worn-out thirty-year-old, possibly a fit and active fifty-year-old. Winter had been talking to Aneta Djanali when Halders and Ringmar returned from interrogating Smedsberg.
'We sent him home,' Ringmar had said. 'I think it's the best thing for now.'
They had made up their minds to make the journey out into the country.
'I'll come with you,' Winter had said. 'I've been there before and I can think about this other stuff in the car.'
He was sitting in the back seat, hunched over his PowerBook. Lakes and forests and hills turned into plains.
'That's it,' said Ringmar at the crossroads.
'Drive straight to old man Carlström's,' said Winter.
Ringmar nodded, and they passed a hundred metres away from Smedsberg's house. They couldn't see a tractor, there was no sign of life.
'It's like being at sea,' said Halders.
Ringmar nodded again and drummed on the steering wheel.
'A different world,' said Halders. 'When you see this, you begin to understand a thing or two.'
'What do you mean?' asked Winter, leaning forward.
'Smedsberg is an odd character, isn't he? When you see this, it becomes easier to understand why.' They passed a man on a tractor who raised a hand in greeting. The tractor had emerged from a side road a hundred metres ahead of them, from a little copse. Like a tank coming out of a patch of camouflaging bushes. 'A different world,' said Halders again. They could see two figures on horseback in what appeared to be the far distance.
They were being followed by birds. A minor twister whistled across a little field, whipping up a swirl of dead leaves. Ringmar drove past the same house as before. They suddenly found themselves in a forest, shadows. Then they were back among the open fields again. They passed Smedsberg's wife's family home. Gerd.
They were there.
They got out of the car and walked towards the house. Nobody came out to greet them.
'How shall we explain our visit this time?' said Ringmar.
'We don't need to explain ourselves this time either,' said Winter.
The winds circled round the house. Everything was just the same as the last time. In the distance, Winter could see the sort of tower he'd noticed before, like a lighthouse. Darkness was closing in quickly. It felt colder here than anywhere else. On their last visit, he'd thought that if they returned soon, everything would be white, and it really would look like a wintry sea.
When he raised his hand to knock, he thought about the feeling he'd had when he'd last stood there: the certainty that he would return, and he hadn't been able to explain that feeling. But it had to do with darkness. It was a premonition that foreboded something horrendous. Now that I've experienced the feeling, it won't go away, he'd thought. He could feel it again now. That was why he'd chosen to accompany the others, to see if he would experience it again. Yes. There was a secret buried here. And something had made him come here again, and it had nothing to do with the assaults on the young men, with this case. What was it? It must have some connection with it, surely. But simultaneously he thought that he would have to bear it in mind again, remember that not everything was what he saw and thought it was, that there was something else
about this place.
Why am I thinking like this?
After the third salvo of hammering, they could hear somebody moving inside, and a voice said:
'What's it about?'
'It's us again,' said Winter. 'From the police. May we come in and ask you a few more questions?'
'About what?'
The voice was as gruff as before and still seemed to be in several layers, an old man's voice. Life is a series of repeats, Ringmar thought. At best.
'May we come in?' Winter said again.
They heard the same mumbling and a clanking of bolts. The door opened and the man inside again appeared as a silhouette, illuminated by a low-octane light from the hall and perhaps also the kitchen. Winter held out his ID. The man ignored it but nodded at Halders.
'Who's he?'
Halders introduced himself and showed the man his ID.
'What's it about this time, then?' said Carlström, who appeared to be even more hunched than before. His head was still shaved, and he was wearing what might well have been the same whitish shirt, braces, trousers of no particular style and thick woollen socks. He hadn't abandoned his adherence to classical rural attire.
Talk about contrasts, Halders thought, looking at the two men facing each other. Winter's white shirt made the old man's look black.
Halders could smell a wood-burning stove and recently cooked food. Pork. It was damp and chilly in the hall, and this was not entirely due to the air coming from the outside.
'We just have a few things we'd like to clarify,' said Winter.
The old man made a sort of sighing noise and opened the door wider.
'Come on in, then.'
He showed them into the kitchen, which seemed to have shrunk since the last time, just as he seemed to be more hunched.
This is one of the solitaries, Winter thought. One of the most solitary men on earth.
The wood-burning stove was alight. The air in the kitchen was dry and distinctly warm, in contrast with the raw damp in the hall.
Carlström gestured for them to sit down. He didn't offer coffee. The kitchen seemed to be overfilled by the four men, as if a new record was about to be set for a country kitchen in the Guinness Book of Records, Halders thought.
'Do you remember us talking about marks made by a branding iron the last time we were here?' Winter asked.
'I'm not senile,' said Carlström.
'We've found one,' said Winter. 'One that looks like a brand. On one of the boys.'
'Really?'
'It looks like your mark, Carlström.'
'Really.'
'What if it is your mark?'
'What am I supposed to do about it?'
'How could your mark have ended up on the skin of a young man in Gothenburg?' asked Ringmar.
'I don't know,' said Carlström.
'We don't know either,' said Winter. 'It's a mystery to us.'
'I can't help you,' said Carlström. 'You could have saved yourselves the journey.'
'Have any of the stolen goods come back?' asked Winter.
'Before any stolen goods come back, pigs will have learnt to fly from here to Skara,' said Carlström.
Winter thought of his own drawing, the flying pig. That felt like a long time ago.
'You understand why I'm asking, don't you?'
'I'm not stupid,' said Carlström.
'Somebody might have stolen that iron from here, and used it.'
'That's possible,' said Carlström.
Halders knocked against a little iron poker lying on the stove, and it fell on the floor with a hollow clang. Natanael Carlström gave a start and whipped round. Rather nimbly, Winter thought. His back had straightened out for a second. Winter looked at Halders, who was bending down, and caught his eye. Halders was not stupid.
'I must ask you again if there's anybody you suspect,' said Winter.
'Not a soul,' said Carlström.
'You didn't see anything suspicious?'
'When are you talking about?'
'About the time of the theft,' said Winter. 'You said last time that you discovered the theft more or less straight away.'
'Did I say that?'
'Yes.'
'I don't remember that.'
Winter said nothing. Carlström looked at Ringmar, who remained silent.
'You had equipment out there that was stolen.'
'Yes, that's probably what happened.'
'I don't suppose you've found any other, er, implement or equipment with your owner's mark on since we were here last?' Winter asked.
'Yes, I have,' said Carlström.
'You've found something?'
'Yes, I just said so.'
Winter looked at Ringmar.
'What is it?' asked Winter.
'It's a little iron,' said Carlström. 'It was in the old barn.'
The old barn, Halders thought. Which is the new one?
35
Natanael Carlström fetched his contraption. Something for very small creatures, Winter thought.
'So this is your owner's mark, is it?' said Ringmar, holding up the disc that was attached to the short handle. Everything was small, but solidly made, as if it had been cast in a single piece.
What an evil thing, Halders thought.
Carlström nodded in response to Ringmar's question.
'Have you ever used this?'
'A long time ago.'
'How long ago?'
Carlström made a gesture that could encompass the last two thousand years.
'And it wasn't stolen?'
'I don't know. Somebody could have nicked it and brought it back again.'
'Wouldn't you have noticed if they had?'
'Yes, I suppose so.'
'We would like to borrow this iron from you,' said Winter.
'Please do,' said Carlström.
I wonder what he's thinking, Halders thought. About us lot here in his tumbledown house that looks as if it will be blown away any minute over the plain, like pigs heading for Skara.
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