Frozen Tracks

by Ake Edwardson

  'So that we can make comparisons,' said Winter. We don't really need to explain anything, he thought. But sometimes it makes things easier.

  'I'd also like a bit of information about your foster son,' said Winter.

  He could see that the old man gave a start.

  'Say that again?'

  'Your foster son,' Winter repeated.

  Carlström turned round, like a very old man, lifted the lid of the stove, bent down awkwardly and peered at the fire, that was showing no signs of dying.

  'Did you hear what I said?' asked Winter.

  'I heard you,' said Carlström, slowly straightening his back. Either what I said has made him more ancient, or he's trying to think. Winter watched the old man close the lid and look at him. 'I'm not deaf.' He glanced at the other two intruders, then looked at Winter. 'Who said anything about a foster son?'

  Does everybody have to keep secrets to themselves in this world? Halders thought. He had sat down on one of the wooden kitchen chairs. They looked fragile, but this one felt stable under his weight.

  'Do you have a foster son, Mr Carlström?'

  'What's he done?'

  'Do you have a foster son?'

  'Yes, yes, yes. What's he done now?'

  'What's his name?' Winter asked.

  'What's he done now?' asked Carlström again.

  Now, Winter thought. What had happened earlier?

  'Nothing as far as we know,' said Winter. 'But as we've been here before and discussed those things that were stolen from your farm, we ca—'

  'Mats hasn't taken nothing,' said Carlström.

  'No?'

  'Why should he? He's not interested.'

  'Mats?' said Winter.

  'Yes, Mats. That was the name he had when he came here and it was the name he had when he left.'

  'The last time we asked you, you said you didn't have any children,' said Winter.

  'Well?'

  'That wasn't quite true, was it?'

  'This has nothing to do with them thefts,' said Carlström, 'nor with them assaults or whatever they were.' He turned round again, bent down and picked up a piece of firewood, which he pushed into the stove. Winter could see the flames and sparks from where he stood. 'And besides, he's not my son.'

  'But he lived with you, didn't he?'

  'For a while.'

  'How long?'

  'What difference does it make?'

  Yes. What difference did it make? I don't know why I'm asking that. All I know is that I have to ask. It's like that feeling before I knocked on the front door.

  'How long?'

  Carlström seemed to sigh, as if he felt obliged to answer all these stupid questions so that the townies could drive away over the fields again and leave him in peace.

  'A few years. Probably about four years.'

  'When was that?'

  'It was a long time ago. Many years ago.'

  'What decade?'

  'It must have been the sixties.'

  'How old is Mats?'

  'He was eight when he came,' said Carlström. 'Or maybe it was ten, or eleven.'

  'When was it?'

  'The sixties, like I said.'

  'What year?'

  'For Christ's . . . I don't remember. The middle, I suppose. Sixty-five or so.'

  'Has he been back here often since he moved out?' Winter asked.

  'No.'

  'How often?'

  'He didn't want to come back here.' Carlström looked down, then up again. There was a new expression in his eyes. Perhaps it denoted pain. It could also mean: he didn't want to come back here and I don't blame him.

  'What's his surname?'

  'Jerner.'

  'So he's called Mats Jerner?'

  'Mats is his first name, I've already told you that.'

  Has this Mats Jerner been here and nicked a weapon so that this man takes the blame? Winter thought. Is the foster son so self-confident that he knows he can get away with it?

  Is any of this probable?

  Has something happened out here in the sticks that involves the Smedsberg family and the old man Carlström?

  Smedsberg's wife grew up not far from here. What was her name? Gerd. She knew Natanael Carlström.

  How could he be a foster parent? Was he different then? Perhaps he was a nice man once upon a time. Maybe such considerations didn't matter. Very strange things happened in those days between adults and children, just like now, Winter thought.

  'When was Mats here last?' Winter asked.

  'It's odd,' said Carlström. He seemed to be studying the wall behind Winter.

  'I beg your pardon?' said Winter.

  'He was here a month ago,' said Carlström.

  Winter waited. Ringmar was bent over the stove, about to open the lid. Halders looked as if he were studying Carlström's profile.

  'He came to say hello. Or however you put it.'

  'A month ago?' Winter asked.

  'Or maybe it was two. It was this autumn, in any case.'

  'What did he want?' Halders asked.

  Carlström turned to look at him.

  'What did you say?'

  'What did Mats want?'

  'He didn't want anything,' said Carlström.

  'Could he have taken your branding irons?' asked Winter.

  'No,' said Carlström.

  'Why not?'

  Carlström didn't answer.

  'Why not?' asked Winter again.

  Carlström still didn't answer.

  'So can we assume that he took them?' asked Halders. 'It's looking very much like it.'

  'He would never go near them,' said Carlström.

  'Never go near them?' said Winter.

  'There was an accident once,' said Carlström.

  'What happened?'

  'He burnt himself.'

  'How?'

  'He got in the way of the iron.' Carlström looked up again. His head had become increasingly bowed as the interview proceeded, and in the end he was forced to straighten himself up, but soon his head began to droop again. 'It was an accident. But he got scared of the iron. It got a grip on him.'

  'Got a grip on him?'

  'Fear got a grip on him,' said Carlström.

  'He's a grown man now,' said Halders. 'He knows that these implements can't burn him.'

  Winter saw something definite in Carlström's face: doubt about what Halders had said, or certainty.

  'What did Mats say when he was here?' Winter asked.

  'He said nothing.'

  'Why did he come, then?'

  'No idea.'

  'Where does he live?' Winter asked.

  'In town.'

  'What town?'

  'The big town. Gothenburg.'

  That surprised Winter: Gothenburg was referred to as 'town'. He'd thought the old man was referring to one of the smaller towns situated to the north, like spiky little growths on the enormous flatness of the plain. Perhaps Gothenburg was the only town of real significance when the youngsters left the desolation of the countryside for city life. There weren't many alternatives.

  'Where does he live in Gothenburg?' Winter asked.

  'I don't know.'

  'What does he do?'

  'I don't know that either.'

  Winter couldn't make up his mind if Carlström was lying or telling a sort of truth. Perhaps it didn't matter. But once again he could sense the pain the old man was enduring. What was causing it? Was it longing, or regret, or . . . shame? What had happened between the man and the boy? Smedsberg had said the boy was badly treated. How did he end up here in the first place? Where did he come from? Suddenly Winter wanted to know.

  'Tell me about Mats,' he said.

  Open questions.

  'What do you want me to say?'

  Soon closed.

  'How did you manage to get custody of him?'

  'Don't ask me!'

  'You offered to take care of him.'

  We'll go over to leading questions instead.

 
'It just happened, I suppose.'

  Which work well, and hence are just as worthless as ever.

  'Where did he come from?'

  Carlström didn't answer. Winter noticed the momentary pain in his eyes again.

  'Did he have any parents?' Winter asked.

  'No,' said Carlström.

  'What had happened?'

  'They were not worthy to be his parents,' said Carlström.

  That was a very odd expression to come from this man.

  'Not if you can believe the woman from the Child Support Agency,' said Carlström.

  Who entrusted a young boy to the care of a lone man, Winter thought. Possibly a psychologically damaged and scared little boy.

  'Have you always lived alone, Carlström?'

  'Eh?'

  'Were you living without a woman when Mats was here?'

  Carlström looked at him.

  'I've never been married,' he said.

  'That's not what I asked,' said Winter.

  'A woman was living with me,' said Carlström.

  'When? When Mats was here?'

  Carlström nodded.

  'All the time?'

  'In the beginning,' he said.

  Winter waited with his follow-up question. Carlström waited. Winter asked a different question: 'What had happened to Mats?'

  'I don't know details like that.'

  'What did the woman from the Child Support Agency say?'

  'Somebody had . . . raped him.'

  'Who? His father?'

  'I don't want to talk about it,' said Carlström.

  'It co—'

  'I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!'

  There was a loud crackle in the wood-burning stove, a birch log had protested; the sound underlined Carlström's words.

  Winter glanced at Ringmar, who shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  'Was Mats, er, exposed to anything while he was here?' asked Winter, and noticed that Carlström gave another start. 'What I mean is, did anybody in the village hurt him in any way? Interfere with him in some way or other?'

  'I don't know,' said Carlström.

  'Anything. Anything at all.'

  'So that now he's getting his own back, is that what you mean? Attacking people in Gothenburg? Is that what you're saying?'

  'No,' said Winter.

  'But is it what you're thinking?'

  'The boys who were clubbed down weren't even born when Mats was a little boy,' said Winter.

  'No, precisely,' said Carlström.

  But you were, Winter thought. And Georg Smedsberg.

  Nobody answered the door at Smedsberg's house. It was empty, black. It stood like a crumbling fortress on the plain north of Carlström's farm.

  'Maybe he's playing bridge,' said Halders.

  'Where?' said Ringmar.

  There was nothing around them but darkness, a sky with pale stars that seemed to be covered by dark veils that only allowed thin wisps of light through. They could hear a humming noise that could be traffic from a long way away, or Smedsberg's ventilation system, or just the wind itself that hadn't come up against any resistance out there.

  They went back to Halders' car and headed south. Their headlights clove through the fields, shone up heavenwards when Halders drove up a little hill, the only one for miles around. Nobody in the car spoke, all were deep in thought. Winter felt cold, especially after the conversation with Natanael Carlström, who had watched them drive away without waving.

  Winter could see flakes from heaven through the window.

  'It's started snowing,' he said.

  'The day before the day,' said Halders.

  'It'll be Christmas Eve in two hours,' said Ringmar.

  'Merry Christmas, chaps,' said Halders.

  He parked outside police headquarters, which had Advent candles in every other window.

  'Now that really is a neat way to illustrate the shortfall in the police budget,' Halders had said when they had set off and it was already dark. 'Pretty and neat and symmetrical, but half baked.'

  Now he was driving home, to Lunden. They watched his rear lights disappear into the snow.

  Winter looked at Ringmar.

  'Leave your car here, Bertil. I'll drive you home.'

  Home, Ringmar thought.

  They drove in silence. Winter waited while Ringmar walked to his front door. Bertil seemed to be dressed in gold thanks to the ridiculous glare from the neighbour's lights. Winter watched him close the door behind him, and immediately got out of his car and walked up the yellow brick road to the door.

  Ringmar opened it straight away.

  'Are you alone in the house, Bertil?'

  Ringmar burst out laughing, as if Winter had said something funny.

  'Come back home with me instead. We can chat for a bit and have a beer. And celebrate Christmas. I have a guest room, as you know.'

  They walked back along Ringmar's path. The neighbour's Christmas decorations swayed in the wind.

  'He's opened the pearly gates,' said Ringmar, gesturing towards the neighbour's garden.

  36

  The wall clock in the kitchen showed past midnight; it was Christmas Eve now. The shepherds would be watching their flocks.

  'Merry Christmas, Erik.'