43

JERNER HAD BROUGHT A BROWN BRIEFCASE WITH HIM THAT looked to be about as old as he was. Winter had seen it. Jerner had it tucked under his arm, Winter had seen it leaning against the visitor’s chair when they stood up to leave.

Oh my God.

Winter felt he couldn’t really control the hand still holding the damn receiver, which had almost become a part of him over the last few hours.

Was that a car he could hear outside? Had traffic started moving? Was it that early, or late?

Stay calm now, Winter.

There was one thing he had to do, without delay. He dialed the number for Police Operations Center.

“Hello Peder, it’s Winter again. Send a car immediately to this address.”

He listened to what his colleague had to say.

“It’s to the home of somebody called Mats Jerner,” he said. “No, I don’t know exactly which apartment, I’ve never been there. But send the nearest team there as quickly as possible. What? No, wait outside. Outside the door to the apartment, on the landing, yes. They are to wait for me. I’m on my way.” He needed to clear his throat. “Send a locksmith there as well. Tell him to step on it.”

What was the number three route? Westward from the city center? Eastward, southward? Maybe Jerner didn’t drive that route exclusively. Did he remember correctly that they had changed the number three route recently? It had stopped passing by Winter’s flat, didn’t stop at Vasaplatsen anymore. Then it had come back again. I seem to remember noticing that.

He put on a sweater, stepped into his boots, wriggled into his leather jacket, and grabbed the door handle just as the bell rang from the other side.

He opened it and found Ringmar standing there.

“Are you on your way out, Erik?”

“Where’s your car?”

“Just outside your front door.”

“Good. I can drive,” said Winter. “Come on, I’ll explain on the way.”

They took the elevator. Ringmar had left the sliding doors open so that it didn’t automatically return to the ground floor.

“It’s Smedsberg,” said Ringmar as they rattled down.

“What?”

“Old man Smedsberg. Georg Smedsberg. He was the one who attacked the students.”

“Where have you been, Bertil?”

Ringmar’s face was blue in the red light of the elevator, which tended to highlight his features. There was fire in his eyes. Winter detected a smell coming from Ringmar that he’d never noticed before.

“His son knew the whole time, of course,” said Ringmar. “Or almost the whole time.”

“Have you been out there, Bertil?” Winter looked askance at Ringmar, who was staring straight ahead. “Did you go there on your own?” Ringmar continued to stare straight ahead. “For Christ’s sake, Bertil. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

Ringmar nodded and continued to tell his story as if he hadn’t heard Winter’s question.

“They’ve all been out there. All the guys. I have half a kilo of dirt that will prove it, though we don’t even need technical evidence in this case.”

“Did he confess?” Winter asked.

Ringmar didn’t answer the question, but continued telling his story.

“I went into the house just as he was about to do God only knows what to the boy. His son. Then it was just a matter of listening. He wanted to talk. He’d been waiting for us, he said.”

They were down. Winter opened the door and Ringmar accompanied him, almost tentatively, still absorbed in his story. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Ringmar’s voice echoed: “Gustav knew his father wanted to punish the others-or warn them, rather, give them a serious warning that they were not to say anything, that he’d already done it, and would do it again, so Gustav came to us with his story about branding irons.”

They were standing on the pavement. Ringmar’s unmarked police car felt warm when Winter touched the hood.

“I’ll drive,” he said. “Give me the keys.”

“But it wasn’t really a story, was it?” said Ringmar, as they sat down in the car. “Branding irons like that did exist, and we checked up. And came to Carlström. And from him to old man Smedsberg. Or was it vice versa?” Ringmar stroked his nose and took a deep breath. “The boy wanted us to get to his father.” Ringmar looked at Winter. “He didn’t dare say anything himself. He was too scared. He knew he’d never be able to get away from the old man.”

“Did he tell you that?” asked Winter, running a red light in the deserted Allé. The traffic lights weren’t working.

“He came home with me in the car,” said Ringmar.

“Good Lord. Where is he now?”

“In his room.”

“Are you sure?”

Ringmar nodded.

“Do you believe it all?”

“Yes.” Ringmar turned to look at Winter. “You weren’t there, Erik. If you had been, you’d have understood.”

“Where’s old man Smedsberg?”

“With our colleagues in Skövde by now,” said Ringmar, checking his watch. “Christ, is that the time?” He looked at Winter again. “They were out there, Kaite and the other guys, and saw the old man attack his son. I’m not clear about all the details, but they surprised the bastard. The boy, Gustav, must have been unable to move. Paralyzed. His father laid into him.” Ringmar rubbed his face. “It must have been going on for ages.” He rubbed his face again, making a scraping noise against the stubble on this chin. “Destroyed, of course. Ruined.” He rubbed, and rubbed again. “There’s nothing to see on the surface, of course, but it’s there inside. Ruined by his father. It came-”

“Bertil.”

Ringmar gave a start, as if waking up out of something else, from a different dimension. The word came into Winter’s head, “dimension.” We’re moving in different dimensions here, one, two, three. The heavens, the ocean, the earth, out and in, down and up. Dreams, lies.

He ran another red light-the system seemed to be stuck on the merry color of Christmas. He drove in a semicircle, past old Ullevi Stadium, the Göteborgs Posten offices, Central Station. It was early morning, but still black night. Dark taxicabs were parked alongside the railway lines. Follow the tracks, Winter thought.

“He set off for the city and paid them a visit,” Ringmar continued. “And, well… we know the rest.”

“So he was the one who stole the iron from Carlström’s barn?” said Winter.

“Yes.”

“That’s not the only connection we have out there,” said Winter.

“What do you mean?”

“Smedsberg was married to Gerd, who had previously been a neighbor of Carlström’s. Do you remember that?”

“Of course. We checked up on the marriage.”

“I think that Carlström and Gerd Smedsberg had an affair.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Go back and read the case notes, Bertil. Think about how people have reacted. You’ll realize then.”

“Is it relevant?” Ringmar asked.

“Carlström’s foster son, Mats Jerner, wasn’t unknown to Smedsberg,” said Winter. “I could see that from the start. It was obvious.”

“And?”

“Smedsberg is just as guilty for what’s happened. He probably abused Mats Jerner. I’m almost convinced that he ruined Jerner as well, when he was a boy. Or was one of the people who did. Abused him sexually. Smedsberg is just as guilty for what’s happened.”

“Just as guilty of what, Erik?” asked Ringmar, who seemed to have only just become aware of the fact that they were heading somewhere. He looked around as they drove up onto the bridge. “Where are we going?”

“To Mats Jerner’s place,” said Winter.

They were on the bridge. Lights were burning everywhere, as if on a dome rising out of the sea and the land around them on all sides. It’s as if the city were alive, Winter thought. But it isn’t.

They were alone on the apex of the bridge, then started descending again. Winter could see the water glittering from the reflection of the illuminated oil storage tanks that were the most attractive objects in sight. They passed a streetcar and a bus. Neither had any passengers.