Before the Frost

Linda left the station. The rain had turned into a thin drizzle. A car honked its horn, so close to her that she jumped. It was Lindman. He pulled over and opened the door.

“Jump in. I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks.”

There was music on. Jazz.

“Do you like this music?” she asked.

“Yes. A lot, actually.”

“Jazz?”

“Lars Gullin. A sax player, one of Sweden’s best jazz musicians ever. He died much too young.”

“I’ve never heard of him, but I don’t like this kind of music.”

“In my car I play what I like.”

He seemed stung and Linda instantly regretted what she had said. Unfortunately one of the many things I’ve inherited from my father is this ability to make thoughtless, hurtful comments.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

His answer was curt.

“Sjöbo. To see a locksmith.”

“Is it going to take long?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Maybe I could come along. If you’ll have me.”

“If you can stand the music.”

“From now on I love jazz.”

The tension was broken. Lindman laughed and drove north. He drove fast. Linda had the urge to touch him, to run her fingers over his shoulder or his cheek. She felt more desire than she could remember feeling in a long time. She had a silly thought that they should check into a hotel in Sjöbo. Not that there probably even was one. She tried to shake off the thought, but it stayed with her. Rain splattered the windshield. The saxophone poured out some high, insistent, quick notes. Linda tried to pick out the melody line, without success.

“If you’re talking to a locksmith in Sjöbo, it must have something to do with the investigation. One of them. How many are there, exactly?”

“Medberg is one. Bolson is another, so are the burned animals, and the two church fires. Your dad wants them all treated under the rubric of one investigation, and the D.A. has agreed. At least for now.”

“And the locksmith?”

“His name is Håkan Holmberg. He’s not your average dime-store locksmith; he makes copies of very old keys. When he heard that the police were wondering how the arsonists broke into the churches, he remembered that he made two keys a few months ago that could very well have been old church keys. I’m on my way to see if he remembers anything else. His workshop is in the center of Sjöbo. Martinsson had heard of him before. He’s won prizes for his craftsmanship. He’s also studied philosophy and teaches in the summer.”

“In his workshop?”

“In another part of the farmstead. Martinsson has thought about doing it sometime. The students work in the smithy half the day and explore philosophical issues the rest of the time.”

“Not something for me,” Linda said.

“What about your dad?”

“Even less so.”

They arrived in Sjöbo and stopped outside a red brick house with a giant iron key hanging outside the door.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go in with you.”

“If I understood matters correctly, you’ve started working.”

They walked in. It was very hot. A man working at the forge nodded at them, then took out a piece of glowing iron and started hammering it.

“I need to finish this key,” he said. “You can’t interrupt this kind of work once you’ve started. It lets a kind of hesitation into the iron. That happens and the key will never sit well in its lock.”

They watched him with fascination. At last the key lay finished on the anvil. Holmberg wiped the sweat from his face and washed his hands. They followed him out into a courtyard with tables and chairs. A coffee pot and some cups had been put out. They shook hands. Linda felt foolishly flattered by Lindman’s introducing her as a “colleague.” Holmberg served the coffee and put on an old straw hat. He noticed Linda looking at it.

“One of the few crimes I’ve ever committed,” he said. “I take a trip overseas every year. A few years ago I was in Lombardy. One afternoon I was somewhere close to Mantua, where I had spent a few days in honor of the great Virgil, who was born there. I caught sight of a scarecrow out on a field. I don’t know what crop he was supposed to be protecting. I stopped and thought that for the first time in my life I wanted to commit a crime, become a dishonest blacksmith, in a word. So I snuck out onto the field and stole his hat. Sometimes in my dreams it isn’t a scarecrow at all but a living person. He must have realized I was a harmless coward who would never steal from anyone — that’s why he let me take the hat. Perhaps he was the remains of a Franciscan monk hoping to do one last good deed on this earth. In any case, it was an overwhelming, tumultuous experience for me, to commit this crime.”