Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“What the hell…” he had managed to mutter in a shaky voice, and the other person was still tugging at the handle or whatever it was and it had dawned on him now, he’d been slow on the uptake, but now he realized that this wasn’t some old guy digging up potatoes two months late, and in a strange place at that. The guy had jerked whatever it was out of the ground, and then presumably had looked at him, but he wouldn’t have seen much, as his intended victim had fled over the soccer field at a pace that would have forced Maurice Greene and Ato Boldon and all the other wooden-legged Olympic sprinters to give up. All the potato man would have seen was his back and his legs, on the way to anywhere that would provide protection. He hadn’t heard any footsteps following him, but he hadn’t listened for any either. He had raced across the road and in among the little houses and across the street on the other side of the block and down the hill, eventually slowing down because his rib cage would have burst otherwise.

His name was Gustav Smedsberg, and he was sitting in front of a police officer in a thick woolen sweater who had introduced himself as Bertil Ring-something.

“You did the right thing, getting in touch with us, Gustav.”

“I remembered reading something about some guy going around bashing people on the head.”

Ringmar nodded.

“Was it him?”

“We don’t know. It depends what you remember.”

“What I remember is more or less what I told the guy I spoke to on the phone. The duty officer or whatever you call it.”

“Let’s run through it once again,” said Ringmar, and they did.

“Odd that I didn’t hear him,” said Smedsberg.

“Were there any other noises at the time?”

“No.”

“No traffic in the street?”

“No. Only a newspaper delivery boy.”

“Somebody was delivering newspapers at that hour?”

“Yes. Or just before. As I was crossing the street before you get to the sports field. Gibraltargatan.”

“Did you see this delivery boy?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That it was a newspaper delivery boy?”

“Somebody carrying a pile of newspapers early in the morning,” said Smedsberg. “That’s what I call a newspaper delivery boy.”

“Just one? Or two? Three?”

“Just one. I didn’t see any others. He was just going into one of the apartment buildings as I passed by.” Smedsberg looked at Ringmar. “That’s a tough job. So early in the morning.”

“Did you speak to him? To the newspaper boy?”

“No, no.”

“Did you see him again?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of co-” Smedsberg looked up at Ringmar again, and sat up straighter on the chair, which creaked.

“Do you think that-”

“Think what?” said Ringmar.

“Do you think it was the newspaper boy who tried to kill me?”

“I don’t think anything,” said Ringmar.

“Why are you asking so much about him, then?”

“Describe how he was dressed,” said Ringmar.

“Who? The newspaper boy?”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea. No idea at all. It was dark. It was raining a little and I was sort of looking down.”

“Did he have anything on his head?”

“Er, yes, I think so.”

“What exactly?”

“A wool hat, I think. I’d have remembered if it was a baseball cap, I think, a Nike cap or something like that.” He looked out of the window, then back again at Ringmar. “I’m pretty sure it was a wool hat.”

“The person who attacked you. Did he have anything on his head?”

No answer. Smedsberg was thinking. Ringmar waited.

“I really don’t remember,” said Smedsberg eventually. “Not right now, at least.” He ran his hand over his forehead, as if trying to help his memory along. “Isn’t that the kind of thing I should be able to remember?”

“It depends on the circumstances,” said Ringmar. “Maybe you’ll remember in a little while. Tomorrow maybe, the day after. It’s important that you get in touch with us the moment you remember anything. Anything at all.”

“Anything at all? Shouldn’t it have something to do with the case?”

“You know what I mean.”

“OK, OK. I feel a little, well, a little tired right now.” He was thinking about his bed, and his plans for today, which weren’t exactly ambitious.

“I think it might have been an iron,” said Gustav, after they’d had a short break.

“An iron?”

“A branding iron. The thing you mark cattle with.”

“Would you recognize a thing like that?”

“I grew up on a farm.”

“Did you have branding irons there?”

He didn’t answer. Ringmar wasn’t certain he’d heard the question, and repeated it. The boy seemed to be thinking about his answer, or perhaps about the question. It was a simple question.

“Er, yes, of course. They’re old things, been around for a long time.”

“Is that normal?” Ringmar asked.

“What do you mean, normal?”

“To brand your animals that way?”

“People do it. But it’s not like in Montana or Wyoming,” Smedsberg said. He looked at Ringmar. “American prairies.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been there.”

“Really?”

“Cody. Terrific place.”

“Were you a cowboy?”

“No. But maybe one day. When I’ve graduated from Chalmers.”

“The cowpokin’ engineer.”

Smedsberg smiled.

“There are jobs there. Engineering jobs, I mean.”

“How were you able to see that it was a branding iron?” Ringmar asked, abandoning Montana for Mossen.

“I didn’t say it was, definitely. But I think so. Then again, I didn’t hang around, if you know what I mean.”

“Was it the handle that looked familiar?”

“I guess it must have been.”

“What did it look like?”

“I can try to draw it for you. Or you can visit a farm and see one for yourself.”

“Do they all look the same, then?”

“I know what they looked like at home. This one was similar to them. But I didn’t see the branding part itself.”

Ringmar stood up.

“I’d like you to take a look at some photographs,” he said.

He walked over to a cabinet, took out one of the folders, and produced the pictures.

“Oh shit,” said Smedsberg when he saw the first photograph. “Is he dead?”

“None of these pictures are of dead people,” Ringmar said. “But they could easily have been.”

Smedsberg was shown several pictures from various angles of the three young men who had been attacked with what seemed to be the same weapon.

“And I was supposed to be the fourth victim, is that it?” Smedsberg said.

“Assuming it’s the same attacker, yes.”

“What kind of a lunatic is this?” Smedsberg looked up at Ringmar, then back down at the photograph of the back of Jakob Stillman’s head. “What is he trying to do?” He looked again at the photograph. Ringmar observed him closely. “Looks like he’s just out to bash somebody in the head.” Smedsberg looked up again. “Anybody at all.”

“Do you know any of these guys?” Ringmar asked.

“No.”

“Take your time.”

“I don’t know any of them.”

“What can you say about the wounds, then?” Ringmar pointed to the photographs.

Smedsberg scrutinized them again, held some of them up to the light.

“Well, I guess he could have been trying to mark them.”

“Mark them? What do you mean by that?”

“Like I said before. It could be a marking iron. A branding iron.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. The problem is that you often brand farm animals with some characterizing mark on their skin. But these are not that kind of wound, as far as I can see.”