they all look the same, then?'
'I know what they looked like at home. This one was
similar to them. But I didn't see the branding bit itself.'
Ringmar stood up.
'I'd like you to take a look at some photographs,' he
said.
He walked over to a cabinet, took out one of the
folders and produced the pictures.
'Oh shit,' said Smedsberg when he saw the first photograph.
'Is he dead?'
'None of these pictures are of dead people,' Ringmar
said. 'But they could easily have been.'
Smedsberg was shown several pictures from various
angles of the three young men who had been attacked
with what seemed to be the same weapon.
'And I was supposed to be the fourth victim, is that
it?' Smedsberg said.
'Assuming it's the same attacker, yes.'
'What kind of a bloody madman is this?' Smedsberg
looked up at Ringmar, then back down at the photograph
of the back of Jakob Stillman's head. 'What is he
trying to do?' He looked again at the photograph.
Ringmar observed him closely. 'Although he's a madman,
it doesn't look like he wants to do anything but knock
somebody about.' Smedsberg looked up again. 'Anybody
at all.'
'Do you know any of these lads?' Ringmar asked.
'No.'
'Take your time.'
'I don't know any of them.'
'What can you say about the wounds, then?' Ringmar
pointed to the photographs.
Smedsberg scrutinised them again, held some of them
up to the light.
'Well, I suppose he could have been trying to mark
them.'
'Mark them? What do you mean by that?'
'Like I said before. It could be a marking iron. A
branding iron.'
'Are you sure?'
'No. The problem is that you often brand farm
animals with some characterising mark on their skin.
But these are not that kind of wound, as far as I can
see.'
'There's something I don't understand,' Ringmar said.
'A branding iron is used for branding cattle. But in this
case it's been used as a club. Would there still have been
a brand mark?'
'I really don't know.'
'OK. But an ordinary branding iron must be pretty
heavy, you need to be on the strong side to use one, is
that right?'
'Yes, I would say so.'
'You'd need an awful lot of strength, in fact?'
'Yes.'
'The man who attacked you – did you get the impression
that he was big?'
'Not particularly. Normal.'
'OK. Let's assume he's determined to club you on the
back of the head with a branding iron. He creeps up
behind you. You don't hear him and ha—'
'Why didn't I hear him? I should have done, surely?'
'Let's not worry about that for the moment,' Ringmar
said. 'He's behind you. He attacks you. At that very
moment you veer to one side.'
'Stagger to one side, I'd say. I wasn't stone-cold sober,
to be honest.'
'Stagger. You stagger to one side. He attacks you.
But all he can hit is thin air. He hits thin air. His weapon
thuds down into the ground and gets stuck. He tugs at
it, but it doesn't come loose. You see him standing there,
and then you leg it.'
'Yes.'
'Why did this weapon, whatever it was, get stuck in
the ground?' Ringmar wondered. 'It wouldn't have done
if he'd jabbed at you in a straight line.'
'So he didn't do that, I suppose,' said Smedsberg.
'Really?'
'He took a swing at me with the branding iron.'
'If that's what it is,' Ringmar said.
'Whatever it is, you'd better catch him damn fast,'
Smedsberg said. 'He might come after me again, right?'
Ringmar made no comment. Smedsberg looked away.
He seemed to be thinking something over.
'Maybe he's trying to brand people, really brand
them.' He was looking at Ringmar now. 'Maybe he
wants to show that he owns them, these people he's
branded?'
Ringmar listened. Smedsberg looked as if he were
concentrating, as if he'd already accepted a job as a CID
officer and was now on duty.
'Maybe he didn't want to kill us. The victims. Maybe
he just wanted to show that, er, that he owned us,' said
Gustav Smedsberg.
'Fascinating,' said Halders. 'We'd better give him a job
here. Start at the bottom and work his way up to the
top.'
'And where's the top?' asked Aneta Djanali.
'I'll show
'I know what they looked like at home. This one was
similar to them. But I didn't see the branding bit itself.'
Ringmar stood up.
'I'd like you to take a look at some photographs,' he
said.
He walked over to a cabinet, took out one of the
folders and produced the pictures.
'Oh shit,' said Smedsberg when he saw the first photograph.
'Is he dead?'
'None of these pictures are of dead people,' Ringmar
said. 'But they could easily have been.'
Smedsberg was shown several pictures from various
angles of the three young men who had been attacked
with what seemed to be the same weapon.
'And I was supposed to be the fourth victim, is that
it?' Smedsberg said.
'Assuming it's the same attacker, yes.'
'What kind of a bloody madman is this?' Smedsberg
looked up at Ringmar, then back down at the photograph
of the back of Jakob Stillman's head. 'What is he
trying to do?' He looked again at the photograph.
Ringmar observed him closely. 'Although he's a madman,
it doesn't look like he wants to do anything but knock
somebody about.' Smedsberg looked up again. 'Anybody
at all.'
'Do you know any of these lads?' Ringmar asked.
'No.'
'Take your time.'
'I don't know any of them.'
'What can you say about the wounds, then?' Ringmar
pointed to the photographs.
Smedsberg scrutinised them again, held some of them
up to the light.
'Well, I suppose he could have been trying to mark
them.'
'Mark them? What do you mean by that?'
'Like I said before. It could be a marking iron. A
branding iron.'
'Are you sure?'
'No. The problem is that you often brand farm
animals with some characterising mark on their skin.
But these are not that kind of wound, as far as I can
see.'
'There's something I don't understand,' Ringmar said.
'A branding iron is used for branding cattle. But in this
case it's been used as a club. Would there still have been
a brand mark?'
'I really don't know.'
'OK. But an ordinary branding iron must be pretty
heavy, you need to be on the strong side to use one, is
that right?'
'Yes, I would say so.'
'You'd need an awful lot of strength, in fact?'
'Yes.'
'The man who attacked you – did you get the impression
that he was big?'
'Not particularly. Normal.'
'OK. Let's assume he's determined to club you on the
back of the head with a branding iron. He creeps up
behind you. You don't hear him and ha—'
'Why didn't I hear him? I should have done, surely?'
'Let's not worry about that for the moment,' Ringmar
said. 'He's behind you. He attacks you. At that very
moment you veer to one side.'
'Stagger to one side, I'd say. I wasn't stone-cold sober,
to be honest.'
'Stagger. You stagger to one side. He attacks you.
But all he can hit is thin air. He hits thin air. His weapon
thuds down into the ground and gets stuck. He tugs at
it, but it doesn't come loose. You see him standing there,
and then you leg it.'
'Yes.'
'Why did this weapon, whatever it was, get stuck in
the ground?' Ringmar wondered. 'It wouldn't have done
if he'd jabbed at you in a straight line.'
'So he didn't do that, I suppose,' said Smedsberg.
'Really?'
'He took a swing at me with the branding iron.'
'If that's what it is,' Ringmar said.
'Whatever it is, you'd better catch him damn fast,'
Smedsberg said. 'He might come after me again, right?'
Ringmar made no comment. Smedsberg looked away.
He seemed to be thinking something over.
'Maybe he's trying to brand people, really brand
them.' He was looking at Ringmar now. 'Maybe he
wants to show that he owns them, these people he's
branded?'
Ringmar listened. Smedsberg looked as if he were
concentrating, as if he'd already accepted a job as a CID
officer and was now on duty.
'Maybe he didn't want to kill us. The victims. Maybe
he just wanted to show that, er, that he owned us,' said
Gustav Smedsberg.
'Fascinating,' said Halders. 'We'd better give him a job
here. Start at the bottom and work his way up to the
top.'
'And where's the top?' asked Aneta Djanali.
'I'll show
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