35

NATANAEL CARLSTRÖM FETCHED HIS… CONTRAPTION. SOMETHING for very small creatures, Winter thought.

“So this is your owner’s mark, is it?” said Ringmar, holding up the disk that was attached to the short handle. Everything was small, but solidly made, as if it had been cast in a single piece.

Crazy-looking thing, Halders thought.

Carlström nodded in response to Ringmar’s question.

“Have you ever used this?”

“A long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

Carlström made a gesture that could encompass the last two thousand years.

“And it wasn’t stolen?”

“I don’t know. Somebody could have stolen it and brought it back again.”

“Wouldn’t you have noticed if they had?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“We would like to borrow this iron from you,” said Winter.

“Please do,” said Carlström.

I wonder what he’s thinking, Halders thought. About us here in his tumbledown house that looks as if it will be blown away any minute over the plain, like pigs heading for Skara.

“So that we can make comparisons,” said Winter. We don’t really need to explain anything, he thought. But sometimes it makes things easier.

“I’d also like a bit of information about your foster son,” said Winter.

He could see that the old man gave a start.

“Say that again?”

“Your foster son,” Winter repeated.

Carlström turned around, like a very old man, lifted the lid of the stove, bent down awkwardly, and peered at the fire that was showing no signs of dying.

“Did you hear what I said?” asked Winter.

“I heard you,” said Carlström, slowly straightening his back. Either what I said has made him more ancient, or he’s trying to think. Winter watched the old man close the lid and look at him. “I’m not deaf.” He glanced at the other two intruders then looked at Winter. “Who said anything about a foster son?”

Does everybody have to keep secrets to themselves in this world? Halders thought. He had sat down on one of the wooden kitchen chairs. They looked fragile, but this one felt stable under his weight.

“Do you have a foster son, Mr. Carlström?”

“What’s he done?”

“Do you have a foster son?”

“Yes, yes, yes. What’s he done now?”

“What’s his name?” Winter asked.

“What’s he done now?” asked Carlström again.

Now, Winter thought. What had happened earlier?

“Nothing as far as we know,” said Winter. “But since we’ve been here before and discussed those things that were stolen from your farm, we ca-”

“Mats hasn’t taken nothing,” said Carlström.

“No?”

“Why should he? He’s not interested.”

“Mats?” said Winter.

“Yes, Mats. That was the name he had when he came here and it was the name he had when he left.”

“The last time we asked you, you said you didn’t have any children,” said Winter.

“Well?”

“That wasn’t quite true, was it?”

“This has nothing to do with them thefts,” said Carlström, “nor with them assaults or whatever they were.” He turned around again, bent down, and picked up a piece of firewood, which he pushed into the stove. Winter could see the flames and sparks from where he stood. “And besides, he’s not my son.”

“But he lived with you, didn’t he?”

“For a while.”

“How long?”

“What difference does it make?”

Yes. What difference did it make? I don’t know why I’m asking that. All I know is that I have to ask. It’s like that feeling before I knocked on the front door.

“How long?”

Carlström seemed to sigh, as if he felt obliged to answer all these stupid questions so that the townies would drive away over the fields again and leave him in peace.

“A few years. Probably about four years.”

“When was that?”

“It was a long time ago. Many years ago.”

“What decade?”

“It must have been the sixties.”

“How old is Mats?”

“He was eight when he came,” said Carlström. “Or maybe it was ten, or eleven.”

“When was it?”

“The sixties, like I said.”

“What year?”

“For Christ’s… I don’t remember. The middle, I suppose. Sixty-five or so.”

“Has he been back here often since he moved out?” Winter asked.

“No.”

“How often?”

“He didn’t want to come back here.” Carlström looked down, then up again. There was a new expression in his eyes. Perhaps it denoted pain. It could also mean: He didn’t want to come back here and I don’t blame him.

“What’s his surname?”

“Jerner.”

“So his name is Mats Jerner?”

“Mats is his first name, I’ve already told you that.”

Winter thought: Did this Mats Jerner come here and steal a weapon so that this man would take the blame? Is the foster son so self-confident that he knows he can get away with it?

Is any of this probable?

Did something happen out here on the flats that involves the Smedsberg family and old man Carlström?

Smedsberg’s wife grew up not far from here. What was her name? Gerd. She knew Natanael Carlström.

How could he be a foster parent? Was he different then? Maybe he was a nice man once upon a time. Maybe such considerations didn’t matter. Very strange things happened in those days between adults and children, just like now, Winter thought.

“When was Mats here last?” Winter asked.

“It’s odd,” said Carlström. He seemed to be studying the wall behind Winter.

“I beg your pardon?” said Winter.

“He was here a month ago,” said Carlström.

Winter waited. Ringmar was bent over the stove, about to open the lid. Halders looked as if he were studying Carlström’s profile.

“He came to say hello.”

“A month ago?” Winter asked.

“Or maybe it was two. It was this autumn in any case.”

“What did he want?” Halders asked.

Carlström turned to look at him.

“What did you say?”

“What did Mats want?”

“He didn’t want anything,” said Carlström.

“Could he have taken your branding irons?” asked Winter.

“No,” said Carlström.

“Why not?”

Carlström didn’t answer.

“Why not?” asked Winter again.

Carlström still didn’t answer.

“So can we assume that he took them?” asked Halders. “It’s looking very much like it.”

“He would never go near them,” said Carlström.

“Never go near them?” said Winter.

“There was an accident once,” said Carlström.

“What happened?”

“He burned himself.”

“How?”

“He got in the way of the iron.” Carlström looked up again. His head had become increasingly bowed as the interview proceeded, and in the end he was forced to straighten himself up, but soon his head began to droop again. “It was an accident. But he got scared of the iron. It got a grip on him.”

“Got a grip on him?”

“Fear got a grip on him,” said Carlström.

“He’s a grown man now,” said Halders. “He knows that these tools can’t burn him.”

Winter saw something definite in Carlström’s face: doubt about what Halders had said, or certainty.

“What did Mats say when he was here?” Winter asked.

“He said nothing.”

“Why did he come, then?”

“No idea.”

“Where does he live?” Winter asked.

“In town.”

“What town?”

“The big town. Gothenburg.”

That surprised Winter: Gothenburg referred to as “town.” He’d thought the old man was referring to one of the smaller towns situated to the north, like spiky little growths on the enormous featureless plain. Perhaps Gothenburg was the only town of real significance when the young ones left this desolation for the city. There weren’t many alternatives.

“Where does he live in Gothenburg?” Winter asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What does he do?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Winter couldn’t make up his mind if Carlström was lying or telling a sort of truth. Maybe it didn’t matter. But once again Winter could sense the pain the old man was enduring. What was causing it? Was it longing, or regret, or… shame? What had happened between the man and the boy? Smedsberg had said the boy was badly treated. How did he end up here in the first place? Where did he come from? Suddenly, Winter wanted to know.