Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“I noticed we don’t have any details about that,” said Winter.

“They’re coming now.” Bergenhem sat down on the chair beside Ringmar. He seemed to be exuding an air of excitement. Winter switched on a standard lamp next to the Panasonic. It was all so cozy. All that was missing was a few candles.

“I spoke to a woman at the Ministry of Agriculture,” said Bergenhem. “Prevention of cruelty to animals section.”

“Where else?” said Ringmar.

Winter couldn’t help laughing.

“It’s about to get even funnier,” said Bergenhem.

“Sorry, Lars,” said Ringmar. “The interrogation I just went through has exhausted me.”

“Branding irons like that actually exist in Sweden, not just in Wyoming and Montana.” Bergenhem had a notebook open in front of him but didn’t need to consult it. “But it’s no longer allowed in Sweden to burn symbols onto animals. Not with hot irons, that is.”

“What do they do, then?” asked Ringmar.

“They use so-called freeze branding,” said Bergenhem.

“Carbon dioxide snow, also known as dry ice,” said Winter.

Bergenhem looked at him. He seemed almost disappointed.

“Did you know about that?”

“No, just a lucky guess.”

“That wasn’t guesswork, come off it.”

“Go on,” said Winter.

“Anyway, they can freeze the branding iron using dry ice, or liquid nitrogen, and then brand the animals.”

“And that still happens today?” asked Ringmar.

“Yes, apparently. It’s used mostly on trotting horses, as a sort of ID. And the woman at the ministry figures it’s also used on cattle.”

Ringmar nodded. Bergenhem eyed him acidly.

“You knew that already, didn’t you, Bertil?”

“Farmers aren’t satisfied with a number clipped onto a cow’s ear,” said Ringmar. “If they’re milking a lot of cows at a time, they can’t see the label on the ear when they’re busy down at the udder.”

“Good God, what is this?” Bergenhem wondered. “Did I walk in on a boardroom meeting at the Federation of Swedish Farmers?”

“The new EU regulations are a pain in the ass,” said Winter.

“Why is it forbidden to brand cattle with a hot iron?” Ringmar asked, looking serious again.

“Well, I suppose it’s for humanitarian reasons, if you can use that expression in this context. In any case, the cruelty to animals law was revised in 1988, and as a result it was legal to brand cattle with a cold iron, but it says nothing about hot ones, which means that it’s forbidden.”

“But you can use the same branding iron for both methods?” asked Winter.

“It seems so.”

“Did you ask about that specifically?”

“Yes.”

“OK. Go on.”

“The most interesting part is the symbol itself,” said Bergenhem. “They use a combination of numbers.” Now he was reading from his notebook. “It’s usually three digits, but it can be more.”

“What do the numbers mean?” Ringmar asked.

“It’s a number allocated to a particular farm, and applied to each product.”

Ringmar whistled.

“Does this apply to every farm in Sweden?” Winter asked.

“Every farm with cattle and sheep and goats and pigs.”

That could apply to the police station we’re in at this very moment, Ringmar thought. The staff-and our clients.

“What about the ones who don’t?” asked Winter.

“What do you mean?”

“The ones who no longer keep animals? That’s not exactly uncommon nowadays. Are they still on the list? Or have they been removed?”

“I don’t know yet. I couldn’t get through to anybody from the registration department.”

“So our young men might have a combination of numbers underneath their scabs,” said Ringmar. “A sort of tattoo.”

“Is it possible to accelerate the healing process?” Bergenhem wondered.

“I’ll have a word with Pia,” said Winter.

“In which case we’ve solved the case,” said Ringmar.

Bergenhem looked at him.

“Are you being serious, Bertil?”

“I certainly am.”

“So,” said Winter, “we have an attacker who dipped his weapon into dry ice before launching his attack.”

“And where could he have done that?” asked Ringmar.

“He might have been carrying the dry ice in a thermos,” said Winter. “For instance.”

“Would it leave any traces afterward?” asked Bergenhem.

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Winter. “Who would know about this kind of thing? Animals and dry ice and that kind of stuff?”

He looked at Ringmar.

“Inseminators,” said Ringmar. “They keep sperm in a deep freeze.”

Winter nodded.

These guys are in the wrong business, Bergenhem thought.

THE CHILDREN WERE ASLEEP. HALDERS AND ANETA DJANALI WERE on the sofa, and Halders was listening to U2. All That You Can’t Leave Behind.

He had flashes of black memories.

He didn’t know if Aneta was listening. She was contemplating the rain lashing the glass door leading out onto the patio.

It’s a beautiful day, sang Bono. He could hardly be heard above the noise of the rain that was getting louder now. Perhaps this is an Irishman’s idea of a beautiful day, Halders thought. Or a Gothenburger’s.

He felt Aneta’s hand around his neck.

“Do you want that massage now?”

He bowed his head slightly; she got up and stood behind him and started massaging his damaged vertebrae.

He could feel himself relaxing as she massaged away.

Stuck in a moment you can’t get out of, sang Bono. Exactly. That was a good thing right now.

Was it a year ago that his ex-wife was killed? It was in the beginning of June, he remembered that. The school final examinations had taken place in mid-May, so the seniors had graduated already, but his children still had a few days left in the term. It had been hellishly hot, and hell had continued for him.

They caught up with the bastard eventually. Halders had tried to track him down himself, but failed. Then he’d been injured in the course of duty. An idiotic injury. Caused by an idiot-himself. No, he thought, as Aneta kneaded the back of his neck like a professional, it wasn’t me, then. It was somebody else.

The bastard hit-and-run driver was a pathetic type who was not worth pummeling to death. When Halders saw him, long afterward, the cretin meant nothing to him anymore. He felt no hatred. He had neither the time nor the strength for that. He’d needed all his strength for the children, who had been slowly beginning to understand what had happened to their lives. Nothing would ever be the same as before. Margareta’s voice had gone, her body and her movements. They had been divorced, he and Margareta, but that didn’t matter.

“Mom’s in heaven now,” Magda would sometimes say.

Her big brother would look at her without comment.

Maybe he doesn’t believe her, Halders sometimes thought, as he sat with them at the breakfast table. Doesn’t believe in heaven. Heaven is up there in the sky, just something we can see from the earth. It’s the same up there as it is down here. Mainly air and rain, and big distances between everything.

“How’s it feel now?” asked Aneta.

Slow down my beating heart, sang Bono, in a voice that could have been black, as black as Aneta’s hands that he could see on his shoulders. One hand on his chest. Slow down my beating heart.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said.

Angela drove through the rain. It was really evening now, even if the transformation had been barely noticeable. She smiled. December was almost here, and she was looking forward to the Christmas holidays. Her work with her patients was getting more arduous. They grew more tired as the year drew to a close, and she too became more tired. She had managed to get time off between Christmas and New Year’s. Erik had muttered something earlier on about going to the Costa del Sol. She had hoped that Siv would call. She got along well with Siv. She also got along well with a blue sky and some sun and a glass of wine and charcoal-grilled langoustines.