Frozen Tracks (32 page)

'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?

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.

'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.