Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“I’m a widower,” said the man, standing up. He walked to the iron stove and put in some more birch wood. There was a sizzling sound as the dry wood reached the flames. Winter noticed that smell again.

“Has Gustav ever brought a friend home with him from Gothenburg?” asked Ringmar.

“When would that be?”

“Whenever. Since he started studying at Chalmers.”

“Yes,” said Smedsberg, remaining by the stove and warming his misshapen and discolored hands on the hotplates. “When ’e came around to give us a hand with t’ potatoes ’e brought a friend with ’im.” Smedsberg seemed to be smiling, or he might have been grimacing from the heat that he must be feeling in his palms. “A black one.” He removed his hands and blew into them. “As black as the soil out there.”

“So his friend was a black person, is that right?” asked Ringmar.

“Ya, a real blackie,” said Smedsberg, and now he was smiling. “First time for me.”

My first black man, Winter thought. There’s a first time for everything.

“He’d a come in useful to scare the cows in,” said Smedsberg.

“Was his name Aryan Kaite?” Winter asked.

“I don’t recall a name,” said Smedsberg. “I don’t even know if I ever heard ’is name.”

“Is this him?” Winter asked, showing him a copy of a photograph of Kaite they had taken from his student room. Smedsberg looked at the photograph and then at Winter.

“Hell’s bells! They’re all alike, aren’t they?”

“You don’t recognize him?”

“No,” he said, handing the photograph back.

“Has he been here again since then?”

“No. I ain’t seen ’im again since then, you can bet yer life I’d a remembered if I had.” He looked from Winter to Ringmar. “Why are you asking all this? Did he disappear?”

“Yes,” said Winter.

“Is ’e one of them others that was attacked?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, why else would you come ’ere?”

“Yes, he’s one of them.”

“Why would anybody want to take a shot at Gustav and this blackie, then?” asked Smedsberg.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” said Winter.

“They mebbe deserved it,” said Smedsberg.

“I beg your pardon?”

“They mebbe got what they deserved,” said Smedsberg.

“What do you mean?” asked Ringmar, looking at Winter.

“What was they up to?” said Smedsberg.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Ringmar.

“They must a been up to sumthin’. It can’t just be a coincidence that somebody took a shot at both of ’em, can it?”

“It didn’t happen at the same time,” said Winter.

“Still,” said Smedsberg.

“And Gustav hasn’t said anything to you about this?”

“ He ain’t been here since October, like I said.”

“There’s such a thing as the telephone,” said Winter. There was even one in this house. Winter had seen it in the hall. An old-fashioned rotary, of course.

“We ain’t spoken for a month or so,” Smedsberg said, and Winter noticed how his face changed, clouded over.

Ringmar leaned forward.

“Do you have any other children, Mr. Smedsberg?”

“No.”

“You live here all alone?”

“Since my Gerd left us, yes.”

“Was Gustav still living at home then?”

“Yes.” Smedsberg seemed to be looking into space. “ He was little, and then ’e grew big. Did ’is national service as well. Then… Then ’e moved to Gothenburg and started ’is studies.”

“So he doesn’t want to take over the farm?” said Ringmar.

“There’s nuthin’ to take over,” said Smedsberg. “I can barely scrape together a living ’ere, and when I go the crows can ’ave it.”

They made no comment.

“You want some more coffee?” asked Smedsberg.

“Yes, please,” said Ringmar, and Winter looked at him. Bertil must have a death wish. It will be a painful farewell. “If we have time.”

“I’ll just stir up the dregs,” said Smedsberg, and went over to the stove. Winter gave Ringmar the thumbs-up.

“Gustav told us something else,” said Winter. “The injuries those boys suffered might have been caused by an iron of some kind. That’s what Gustav thought. Some sort of marking iron used on cattle.”

“A branding iron, you mean? Are we supposed to have a branding iron here?”

“I don’t think he said that. But the boys might have been beaten with a branding iron.”

“I never heard of anythin’ like that,” said Smedsberg.

“Like what?”

“That anybody clubs folk down with a branding iron. Never heard of it.”

“That’s what Gustav suggested.”

“Where’d ’e get that idea from? We never had a branding iron here.”

“But he could have been familiar with one all the same, could he?” asked Ringmar.

“I suppose ’e could,” said Smedsberg. “I wond…” but he didn’t finish. The coffeepot was starting to rattle on the stove. He fetched the coffee and came back to the table.

“No, thank you,” said Winter. Smedsberg sat down.

“I’ve just used ear tags on the cows ’ere,” he said. “If I ever needed to mark ’em. But in the old days we had the number from the cooperative that we used to mark cattle with.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Winter asked.

“Like I said. We marked ’em with a number for this district.”

“For the district? Not the farm?” Winter asked.

“No. For the area.”

“But we were told that there are special numbers that indicate the precise location the animals come from.”

“That came later, ninety-five, with the EU.”

“And there’s one of those for every farm?”

“Yes.”

“So there’s one for your farm, then?”

“Yes. But I got no cows nowadays. No animals at all, apart from dogs and cats and a few chickens. I might buy a couple of pigs.”

“But you still have the number?”

“It’s always there. It goes with the farm.”

Winter saw Ringmar take a drink of coffee, and his face suddenly split down the middle and a black stream of coffee gushed forth from his eyes… Well, not quite, but he made a face.

“So you’ve never had one of these marking irons, branding irons, at this farm?”

“No. It’s more or less unheard-of. It’s in America where they got such enormous ranches and they brand their cattle so that they can keep track.” He smiled. “I bet they steal cattle over there as well.” He took a swig of asphalt. “I reckon they brand horses in Germany as well.”

“But not here?”

“ Horses? There ain’t no horses in these parts.”

“Do you know anybody who might have used that method of marking cattle?” Winter asked.

Smedsberg didn’t answer immediately; he seemed to be searching for the answer in the depths of his mug of coffee; then he looked up again. He looked across the room and out of the window, where the view was curtailed by the rain.

“Somewhere where Gustav might have seen it?” said Winter.

“Didn’t you asked ’im?”

“Not directly,” said Winter, although that wasn’t really true. Gustav Smedsberg had said that he couldn’t remember. “But it’s sort of become more relevant now.”

“Become hotter?” A smile twinkled in Smedsberg’s left eye. A farmer with a sense of humor, as black as his coffee and as the night outside, in another hour or two.

“So you’ve never seen an iron like that?” Winter asked.

“There is a farm in the upper parish, as we call it.” Smedsberg looked Winter in the eye. “I don’t come from around these parts, but my Gerd did. When ’er parents were still alive we sometimes used to visit.”

He scratched his right cheek again, and his forehead, as if to massage the memory.