“Have you seen him?” Winter asked.

“A black man out here on the flats? That’s a sight worth seeing.”

“So he hasn’t been seen around here?”

“Never. Who is he?”

“Nobody else you know has mentioned him?” Winter asked.

“Who could that be?”

“I’m asking you.”

“There is nobody else here,” said Carlström. “Couldn’t you see that for yourselves? Did you see any other houses near here?”

“So you haven’t spoken to anybody else about a stranger in the vicinity?”

“The only strangers I’ve seen for a very long time are you two,” said Carlström.

“Do you know Gustav Smedsberg?” Ringmar asked.

“Eh?”

“Do you know anybody named Gustav Smedsberg?”

“No.”

“His mother grew up around here,” said Winter. “Gerd.” He hadn’t asked Smedsberg senior about her maiden name. “She married Georg Smedsberg from the neighboring parish.” Although it’s hardly the right name for it, Winter thought. It’s too far away.

“I’ve never heard anything about it,” said Carlström.

“The Smedsberg kid knows this Aryan Kaite who has disappeared,” said Ringmar.

“Really?”

“And these boys have both been violently attacked,” said Winter. “That’s why we’re here.”

He tried to explain about the branding iron. They were very curious to see what one looked like. And they’d heard that he might have one. It would help them to decide on the plausibility.

“The plausibility of what?”

“Of the assumption that it was used as a weapon.”

Carlström looked as though he very much doubted that.

“Who said that I mark my animals with an iron?”

“We asked around a bit in the village.”

“Was it Smedsberg?”

Does he mean the young one or the old one? Ringmar and Winter looked at each other. He remembered the name he’d never heard of before.

“Georg Smedsberg thought he’d seen you using one of those irons ages ago,” said Winter.

“Is that him in the car outside?”

The old man sees more than you’d think. Winter was very tempted to turn around and look out of the window to see if Smedsberg’s silhouette could be seen in the car.

“Why doesn’t he come in?” said Carlström.

“He only showed us how to get here,” said Winter.

Carlström muttered something they couldn’t catch.

“I beg your pardon?” said Winter.

“Yes, that might well be,” said Carlström.

“What might?” asked Winter.

“That I branded a few cattle.” He looked up, straight at Winter. “It wasn’t illegal.” He gestured with his hand. “They don’t like it nowadays, but nobody said anything then.”

“No, no, we only wanted to see what-”

“I don’t have the iron anymore,” said Carlström. “I had two at one time, but not now.”

“Did you sell them?”

“I sold one twenty-five years ago to an auctioneer, so you can try and track that one down.” One of his eyes glinted, as if the very thought amused him.

“What about the other one?”

“Thieves.”

“Thieves?” said Winter. “You mean it’s been stolen?”

“This autumn,” said Carlström. “That was why I was asking questions when you came knocking at my door. I was going to ask if that’s what you’d come for, but then I thought it was better to be careful.”

“What happened?” asked Ringmar. “The theft.”

“I don’t know. I went out early one morning and tools were missing from the shed.”

“Several tools?”

“Quite a few. New and old.”

“Including your marking iron?”

“Who would want that?”

“So the marking iron was stolen?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

“When exactly did this happen?”

“This autumn, like I said.”

“Do you know what day it was?”

“I think probably not. I was going to go into the village that day, I think, and it’s not every day I do that…”

They waited.

“I’m not sure,” said Carlström. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Have you had any break-ins before?” Winter asked.

“Never.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

“For a few old tools?” Carlström looked surprised, or possibly just bored stiff.

“How many tools?”

“Not many.”

“Do you know exactly?”

“Do you want a list?”

“No,” said Winter. “That’s not necessary yet.” Ringmar looked at him but said nothing.

“Have you heard of anybody else being burgled?” Ringmar asked.

“No,” said Carlström.

We’ll have to check with the neighbors, Winter thought. The problem is, there aren’t any neighbors.

“Do you live alone here, Mr Carlström?”

“You can see that, can’t you?”

“But we can’t know for sure,” said Ringmar.

“All alone.”

“Do you have any children?”

“Eh?”

“Do you have any children?” Winter asked again.

“No.”

“Have you been married?”

“Never. Why?”

“Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Carlström,” said Winter, getting to his feet.

“Is that it, then?”

“Thank you very much for your help,” said Winter. “If you hear anything about your tools I’d be grateful if you could let us know.” He handed over a business card. “My number’s on the card.”

Carlström handled it as if it were a thousand-year-old piece of china.

“Especially if you hear anything about that branding iron,” said Winter.

Carlström nodded. Winter asked his last question, the one he’d been waiting with.

“Do you happen to have a copy of your mark, by the way?” he asked in an offhand tone. “That symbol, or number combination, or whatever it was.”

“Eh?”

“What did your mark look like?” Winter asked.

“I don’t have a copy, if that’s what you want to see,” said Carlström.

“But you remember what it looked like?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Could you draw it for us?”

“What for?”

“In case it turns up.”

“If it turns up, it’ll turn up here,” said Carlström.

“But we’d be grateful if you could help us all the same,” said Ringmar. “Then we could exclude your iron if we find the one that was used in the attacks.”

“Why on earth would my iron have been used?” Carlström asked.

“We have no idea,” said Winter, “and we don’t think it was, of course. But it would still be helpful to know what it looked like.”

“Yes, yes,” said Carlström. “It’s a square with a circle in it and a C inside the circle.” He looked at Winter. “C stands for Carlström.”

“Could you possibly draw it for us?”

Carlström made that strange sighing noise again, but stood up and left the room without a word. He returned a minute later with a sketch that he handed to Ringmar.

“Have you had it long?” Ringmar asked.

“As long as I can remember. It was my father’s.”

“Many thanks for all your help,” said Winter.

They went back through the hall and stood in the doorway. The darkness was compact now; there was no sign of any stars or moon in the sky. The only light Winter could see was the lighthouse on the horizon, brighter now.

“What’s that over there?” he asked, pointing. “The light.”

“Television tower,” said Carlström. “Radio, television, those stupid computer contraptions, God knows what else. It’s been there for some time.”

“Anyway, many thanks,” said Ringmar, and they went back to the car and got in. Carlström was still in the doorway, a hunched silhouette.

“Are you cold?” asked Winter as he started the car.

“No. You weren’t very long,” said Smedsberg in the darkness.

“We took longer than we meant to.”

Winter turned the car around and headed for the main road.

“Were we on the veranda long enough for you to recognize him?” Winter asked as they turned right.

“A few years’ve passed, but I’ve seen ’im now and again,” said Smedsberg. “While I was sitting there I remembered ’is name as well. Carlström. Natanael Carlström. The kind of name you should remember.”

“Is he religious?” asked Ringmar. “Or rather, his parents?”

“Dunno,” said Smedsberg. “But there were a lot of God-fearing folk ’round here in the old days, so it ain’t impossible.”