“I know,” said Ringmar.

“I didn’t approve.”

“That’s it?”

Winter didn’t answer, took another draw on his cigarillo, stood up and walked over to the window, opened it, and saw that it had stopped raining. He tapped the ash from his cigarillo after checking to make sure nobody was marching around on the lawn below. He turned around.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“How much did you actually know about… Bengt’s financial affairs?” asked Ringmar.

“Enough to disapprove.”

“You are a moral person.”

“He did something wrong,” said Winter. “He could have stayed in Sweden and, well, helped out. He could afford it. And he could have had his house in the sun.” Winter smiled. “If he’d paid his taxes we might have had an extra CID officer.”

He went back to his desk. He suddenly felt weary. All the things he’d just said to Bertil. What was the point? Everything could have been resolved if only they’d spoken to each other. The only thing that helps is communication with words. That’s the only thing that enables us to make progress. Silence begets more silence, and eventually causes a muteness that is like cement.

“By the end it became impossible to say anything,” he said. “It was as if we’d lost the ability to talk to each other.” He sat down. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think there must have been something else, further back in time. Something unconnected with-with that money business. Something different.”

Ringmar didn’t answer. The shadows behind his eyes had deepened.

“Jesus, Bertil, I shouldn’t be sitting here telling you this.”

“That’s why I came here.”

“I don’t think you’re a masochist. And you’re not like him.”

“We’re all different,” said Ringmar, “but even so, we all make the same damned mistakes.”

“What mistakes have you made?”

“I must have done something. I have a grown-up son who doesn’t want to meet me. He doesn’t even want to talk to me.”

“He’ll regret it. He’ll change his mind.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

Winter didn’t reply. Rain was pattering against the windowpane again, coming from a sky that had turned black. It’s not even five o’clock, but night is upon us.

“I’m sorry, Erik. It’s just that… Oh, damn…”

“I could try to talk to him,” said Winter.

“I don’t even know where he is.”

“But your daughter has some kind of contact with him, doesn’t she? Moa?”

“I don’t actually know exactly how much,” said Ringmar.

“Should I talk to her as well?”

“I don’t know, Erik. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she… respects her brother’s wishes.”

“What about Birgitta?”

“It’s even worse for her. He seems to have decided that since he doesn’t want to talk to me, that includes her as well.” Ringmar sat up straight and smiled, just as Winter had done a couple of minutes previously. “A sort of package deal, you might say.”

“Should I give him a good beating if I find him?”

“At last we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty. I thought you were never going to ask that.”

“Violence is the most extreme form of communication. When words are not enough, it’s time for a good thump.” Winter held his fist up in the mixture of light and smoke. “It’s not an uncommon way of communicating.” He took down his fist. “Not in the force, either.”

“Still, perhaps we ought to try verbal methods first,” said Ringmar.

There was a knock on Winter’s door and Winter shouted in response. Bergenhem came in and walked up to the desk that was lit up by a circle of light while the rest of the room was in darkness.

“Are you interrogating each other?” Bergenhem wondered.

“When you don’t have a suspect, you have to make do with what you do have,” said Winter.

“Count me out,” said Bergenhem.

“But you’re in,” said Winter. “You knocked on that door and came into this office.”

“I checked up on that marking iron or whatever it’s called. Smedsberg’s farm-union babble.”

“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.”