“I’ll come with you,” Winter had said. “I’ve been there before and I can think about this other stuff in the car.”

He was sitting in the backseat hunched over his laptop. Lakes and forests and hills turned into plains.

“That’s it,” said Ringmar at the crossroads.

“Drive straight to old man Carlström’s,” said Winter.

Ringmar nodded, and they passed a hundred meters away from Smedsberg’s house. They couldn’t see a tractor; there was no sign of life.

“It’s like being at sea,” said Halders.

Ringmar nodded again and drummed on the steering wheel.

“A different world,” said Halders. “When you see this you begin to understand a thing or two.”

“What do you mean?” asked Winter, leaning forward.

“Smedsberg is an odd character, isn’t he? When you see this it becomes easier to understand why.” They passed a man on a tractor who raised a hand in greeting. The tractor had emerged from a side road a hundred meters ahead of them, from a little copse. Like a tank coming out of a patch of camouflaging bushes. “A different world,” said Halders again. They could see two figures on horseback in what appeared to be the far distance.

They were being followed by birds. A minor twister whistled across a little field, whipping up a swirl of dead leaves. Ringmar drove past the same house as before. They suddenly found themselves in a forest, shadows. Then they were back among the open fields again. They passed Smedsberg’s wife’s family home. Gerd.

They were there.

They got out of the car and walked toward the house. Nobody came out to greet them.

“How do we explain our visit this time?” said Ringmar.

“We don’t need to explain ourselves this time either,” said Winter.

The winds circled around the house. Everything was just the same as the last time. In the distance Winter could see the tower he’d noticed before, like a lighthouse. Darkness was closing in quickly. It felt colder here than anywhere else. On their last visit he’d thought that if they returned soon everything would be white, and it really would look like a wintry sea.

When he raised his hand to knock, he thought about the feeling he’d had when he’d last stood there: the certainty that he would return, and he hadn’t been able to explain that feeling. But it had to do with darkness. It was a premonition that forebode something terrible. Now that I’ve experienced the feeling, it won’t go away, he’d thought. He could feel it again now. That’s why he’d chosen to accompany the others, to see if he would experience it again. Yes. There was a secret buried here. And something had made him come here again, and it had nothing to do with the assaults on the young men, with this case. What was it? It must have some connection with it, surely. But simultaneously he thought that he would have to bear it in mind again, remember that not everything was what he saw and thought it was, that there was something else about this place.

Why am I thinking like this?

After the third salvo of hammering they could hear somebody moving inside, and a voice said: “What do you want?”

“It’s us again,” said Winter. “From the police. May we come in and ask you a few more questions?”

“About what?”

The voice was as gruff as before and still seemed to be in several layers, an old man’s voice. Life is a series of repeats, Ringmar thought. At best.

“Can we come in?” Winter said again.

They heard the same mumbling and a clanking of bolts. The door opened and the man inside again appeared as a silhouette, illuminated by a low light from the hall and perhaps also the kitchen. Winter held out his ID. The man ignored it but nodded at Halders.

“Who’s he?”

Halders introduced himself and showed the man his ID.

“What’s it about this time, then?” said Carlström, who appeared to be even more hunched than before. His head was still shaved, and he was wearing what might have been the same whitish shirt, suspenders, trousers of no particular style, and thick woolen socks. He hadn’t abandoned his classic rural attire.

Talk about contrasts, Halders thought, looking at the two men facing each other. Winter’s white shirt made the old man’s look black.

Halders could smell a wood-burning oven and recently cooked food. Pork. It was damp and chilly in the hall, and this was not entirely due to the air coming from the outside.

“We just have a few things we’d like to clarify,” said Winter.

The old man made a sort of sighing noise and opened the door wider.

“Well, come in, then.”

He showed them into the kitchen, which seemed to have shrunk since the last time, just as he seemed to be more hunched.

This is one of the solitaries, Winter thought. One of the most solitary men on earth.

The wood-burning stove was alight. The air in the kitchen was dry and distinctly warm, in contrast to the raw damp in the hall.

Carlström gestured for them to sit down. He didn’t offer coffee. The kitchen seemed to be overfilled by the four men, as if a new record was about to be set for a country kitchen in the

Guinness Book of World Records, Halders thought.

“Do you remember us talking about marks made by a branding iron the last time we were here?” Winter asked.

“I’m not senile,” said Carlström.

“We’ve found one,” said Winter. “One that looks like a brand. On one of the boys.”

“Really?”

“It looks like your mark, Carlström.”

“Really.”

“What if it is your mark?”

“What am I supposed to do about it?”

“How could your mark have ended up on the skin of a young man in Gothenburg?” asked Ringmar.

“I don’t know,” said Carlström.

“We don’t know either,” said Winter. “It’s a mystery to us.”

“I can’t help you,” said Carlström. “You could have saved yourselves the journey.”

“Have any of the stolen goods come back?” asked Winter.

“Before any stolen goods come back pigs will have learned to fly from here to Skara,” said Carlström.

Winter thought of his own drawing, the flying pig. That felt like a long time ago.

“You understand why I’m asking, don’t you?”

“I’m not stupid,” said Carlström.

“Somebody might have stolen that iron from here, and used it.”

“That’s possible,” said Carlström.

Halders knocked against a little iron poker lying on the stove, and it fell on the floor with a hollow clang. Natanael Carlström gave a start and whipped around. Rather nimbly, Winter thought. His back had straightened out for a second. Winter looked at Halders, who was bending down and caught his eye. Halders was not stupid.

“I must ask you again if there’s anybody you suspect,” said Winter.

“Not a soul,” said Carlström.

“You didn’t see anything suspicious?”

“When are you talking about?”

“About the time of the theft,” said Winter. “You said last time that you discovered the theft more or less right away.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t remember that.”

Winter said nothing. Carlström looked at Ringmar, who remained silent.

“You had equipment out there that was stolen.”

“Yes, that’s probably what happened.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve found any other, er, tool or equipment with your owner’s mark on it since we were here last?” Winter asked.

“Yes, I have,” said Carlström.

“You’ve found something?”

“Yes, I just said so.”

Winter looked at Ringmar.

“What is it?” asked Winter.

“It’s a little iron,” said Carlström. “It was in the old barn.”

The old barn, Halders thought. Which is the new one?