A Darker Shade of Sweden (17 page)

“Are you ready?” the preacher asked in an unctuous voice. “Are you willing to let go of your thoughtless life and receive redemption from your brother? What is bound on earth is bound in heaven and what is released on earth is released in heaven.”

Edvin Pekkari was drawn to the bars by a power he was unable to resist.

Maybe what he saw in the teary, sincere eyes of the father was the image of his heavenly maker.

He was unable to stop himself from seizing the knotty hands of Oskar Lindmark's father. And while he held them, tears streamed down both their faces.

Borg Mesch rigged his camera and immortalized the moment.

“God's forgiveness,” the preacher said. He too seized Pek­kari's hands through the bars.

In that moment, the door burst open. In strode the Western Laestadian preacher Jussi Salmi. East and West were adversaries in faith ever since the Laestadian congregation had split in two. Preacher Jussi Salmi in a roundabout way had learned what was happening in the jailhouse and had therefore brought the widow of postman Johansson, who belonged to his congregation. His red cheeks and the fact that he had removed his mittens showed that he had been in a hurry. He greeted the policemen with the same embrace and a “God's peace.”

Johansson's widow also mumbled a “God's peace.” Spett noted that she showed the same interest in the floorboards as had Oskar Lindmark's father.

“
Jurmalan terve
,” preacher Wanhainen said, carefully wiping tears from his cheeks with a cloth handkerchief. “This evening, Pek­kari has been absolved of his sins.”

His statement made preacher Salmi grind his teeth. It was ignominious to arrive late and also to have lost the race to redeem Pekkari. But he refused to let himself be disheartened. He tore off his coat and pointed at Johansson's widow.

“This mother,” he said tremulously to Pekkari. “This woman, who has lost her husband. This mother of fatherless children has come here to forgive you. She has not traveled as a gentleman, in a sled with bells . . .”

Here he made a brief pause while his opponent Wanhainen blushed in vexation.

Preacher Wanhainen and Lindmark's father had indeed arrived in a horse-drawn sled. And it was true that Lindmark's horse had a bell around its neck. What pride. Vanity of vanities!

“. . . but tonight she has left her little ones to walk on foot through darkness . . .”

What followed was a soulful sermon on the widow who had suddenly lost her provider and who would now have to trust to God and, of course, her congregation siblings. The sermon rambled this way and that, touching on the widow's mite and the camel and the eye of the needle and that many are too great in their own eyes to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but the true God was the God of the poor, indeed, the God of the widow. And Now Here She Was.

Preacher Wanhainen mostly looked as though he had a mind to throw both the Western preacher and the widow out into the snow. Oh, if they had only walked, in the fashion of pilgrims.

“To lose your only son . . .” he tried.

But his words fell on bedrock. Now the hands of the widow and of the murderer had also met between the bars.

He asked her to forgive. And without being able to make herself meet his eyes, the widow whispered that if indeed he was truly sorry, she forgave him. Then she turned to her congregation preacher and said that the little ones were all alone at home. That she must return.

Through the window, acting parish constable Spett saw her enter the street. In the glow of the streetlight he saw her bend down and wipe her hands on the snow, as if she wanted to wash them clean. Then she hurried off.

Back by the cell, the preachers were now deep in a dispute concerning the vanity of the world and the fact that East Laestadian women were permitted to wear hats.

Spett turned around.

“Out,” he roared. “It's bedtime for converts and sinners both. You are welcome to return tomorrow after the hearing.”

When all visitors had disappeared, Spett leaned against the bars and spoke to Pekkari.

“Now that you have received absolution from God, perhaps you might tell us where the rest of the haul is hidden.”

Björnfot, who was busy shining his boots in preparation for the next day's trial, stopped rubbing the leather and raised his head.

But young Mr. Pekkari gave no reply. Without a word, he backed into the corner of his cell and lay down on the cot, his back to the two policemen.

The trial was held the next morning. It had stopped snowing but the wind had picked up during the night and now a storm was brewing. It lifted the newly fallen snow, whipping it madly across the mountain and along the streets in town. You could hardly see your own hand in front of your face. The wind took your breath away.

In spite of this, people had plodded down to the courtroom. Word had spread about the atrocity. Everyone wanted to get a look at the murderer, as well as hear more about the shudder-worthy deed. And watch the shiny buttons, uniforms and store-bought boots of the servants of justice. The kind of footwear poor folk could only dream about. The crowd wore large, homemade shoes of reindeer skin, which they stuffed full of hay.

The presiding judge, Manfred Brylander, regarded his courtroom. Today's audience was filling it to the brim; people were even jostling one another outside in the hallway. And it was growing warm, of course. The usher had been feeding the stove all morning. The steam was rising from wet woolen coats and furs. On the floor, snow had melted into small lakes. You could smell the odor of sour fat from peaked shoes. A number of dogs lay at the feet of their owners, adding to the musty smell of poverty filling the room. Manfred Brylander wiped sweat from his brow, banged his gavel and called upon women, children, and youths to leave. So they did, but the crush grew no less. Some of those in the hallway managed to squeeze in. The women and children remained in the hallway, out of his sight.

He glared at the audience. There were the Laestadian brethren, like gloomy ravens on the branches of a spruce. The Eastern brothers looked askance at the Western and vice versa. There was the indignant public, Lapps, Swedes, and Finns, all wanting to see the murderer pay with his life.

Per-Anders Niemi and his friends sat in the front row. They had caught the killer and enjoyed admiring glances and slaps on the back. A few people even snuck them a coin, or a piece of dried meat.

“Will it ever begin?” Per-Anders Niemi called out, well aware that he would never be ordered out of the room.

Kiruna, judge Brylander thought. A town of rebels and agitators. The room seemed full of an electric power. Something vibrating, waiting to be let loose. He could see it in their burning eyes. He feared that the mere sight of the accused would make the entire crowd explode. He looked at sheriff Björnfot and acting parish constable Spett. Dressed in uniform and stiff-legged, polished and brushed. The sheriff let his hand rest easily on his service gun.

“Any outburst and I'll clear the room,” judge Brylander warned, but without looking at Per-Anders Niemi.

The district police superintendent, Svanström, was serving as prosecutor. There was no defense attorney. After all, the accused had declared himself willing to confess.

The prisoner was brought in. His hands and feet were chained and he rattled a bit when taking his seat at the place of the accused. His large prison uniform made him look smaller than ever.

The proceedings began. Svanström presented the strong evidence pointing to Pekkari. Johansson's service gun, which had been found in Pekkari's room, and the mailbag with part of the stolen money, found in the attic above his abode.

“Do you admit,” asked the judge, “that on December fifth, and without leave, you borrowed a sled from hauler Bäckström, that you drove it in the direction of Gällivare, that in cold blood you shot mailman Johansson and killed his errand boy Oskar Lindmark with an axe? That you then broke open the mailbox and stole an insured parcel?”

Pekkari whispered something inaudible.

“Louder!” the judge urged.

Pekkari said nothing. Then a man in the audience stood up. It was Oskar Lindmark's father. He remained silent. Just stared at Pekkari until the judge ordered him to sit.

But then Pekkari began to speak.

“I confess,” he said in a steady voice.

“This is a most serious crime, and I must urge you to reply honestly to the questions of the court,” judge Brylander admonished him. “Did you perform your actions alone?”

“Yes,” was the answer.

“Did no one accompany you in the sled?”

“No one but the devil!”

There was a ripple through the audience. Someone blew his nose, someone gestured quickly with his hand. Someone else muttered something and half rose in his seat. It was like drifting snow pushed across the frozen crust by a gust of wind. Judge Manfred Brylander had heard of the religious ecstasy of the Laestadians, their
liikutuksia
. He had never seen it with his own eyes. What did it take for something like that to start in this flock of ravens? Had it already begun? He lifted his gavel but didn't strike the table in front of him.

“Did you not have anyone else with you?” he asked the accused.

“No one except the devil,” Mr. Pekkari said.

Now his voice rose and he called out from the stand like a preacher.

“I obeyed him. At Tuolluvaara I wanted to turn back. But he whispered in my ear. Urged me on. I had not yet found safety in the blood of the lamb.”

Now the flock of ravens was sobbing in the benches. Embracing each other. Giving God's redemption to the brother closest to them.

“I did it,” Mr. Pekkari called out, raising his shackled hands and shaking them to heaven in despair. “Young Oskar Lindmark. He was on his knees before me, begging for his life. He spoke of his mother. He clasped his hands. He turned his face towards me and I beat him to death.”

Sheriff Björnfot leaned towards acting parish constable Spett.

“Come along outside for a while,” he said curtly.

Out in the street, Björnfot began walking quickly. The storm hit them. The wind whipped along the streets. When Spett called to Björnfot to slow down and wait, his mouth filled with snow. Turning his collar up and buttoning his coat was a chore. Snow blew in at his neck and between the buttons. Kajsa ran along behind him, sheltered from the wind by his legs.

“He didn't do it,” Björnfot yelled.

Although they walked close together, his voice was lost in the wind. Spett had to strain to hear him.

“What do you mean, sir?” Spett called back.

Björnfot pulled Spett into a doorway. They stood inside, in lee of the wind. Snow had already formed a hard crust on their clothes. Kajsa was biting her paws, ridding them of clumps of snow.

“Damn it, Pekkari is innocent,” Björnfot said, out of breath. “You saw Oskar Lindmark. He was wearing mittens. There's no way he could have kneeled and clasped his hands and talked of his mother.”

“Well, Pekkari is exaggerating. I suppose he enjoys the attention, now that . . .”

“Right,” Björnfot said. “He enjoys the attention, as you put it. The back of Oskar Lindmark's head was crushed. He was hit from the back. If he'd been on his knees, facing his killer, he would have been hit here.”

He pointed to his forehead.

“Pekkari's lying. Why doesn't he say where the rest of the money is?”

“I suppose he's hid it and hopes to get away with life. Then maybe to escape . . .”

Björnfot shook his head. The icicles in his mustache jingled.

“He doesn't know. It's that simple.”

“Then why would he confess?” Spett wondered distrustfully.

“I don't care!” Björnfot snapped. “But who else knew about the insured parcel? Who . . .”

“Who found the gun in Pekkari's room?” Spett asked with clenched teeth. “Per-Anders Niemi did.”

They remembered Per-Anders Niemi and his friends, delivering the badly beaten Pekkari to the police station.

“I'll rip his head off his shoulders,” Spett growled. “It'll be a deliverance for him to confess. And those tail-wagging friends of his . . .”

“But first, we'll take a look at his room,” Björnfot said, opening the door.

The wind tore at it. Kajsa looked at the two men.

Do we have to go back out into that? she seemed to be saying.

Postal assistant Per-Anders Niemi rented a room in an unplastered brick house on Kyrkogatan.

“He shares it with a friend,” said the landlady who opened the door for Björnfot and Spett.

“Was he home on the evening before last?” Björnfot asked as he stepped into the room.

“Don't think so,” the landlady said. “He spends most of his time with his fiancée. She rents a room of her own.”

She gave the policemen a knowing glance.

The rag carpets on the floor were overlapping to keep out the cold. The two beds were separated by a hanging piece of cotton. There was a washstand with a bowl and a jug. Next to a portrait of King Oscar II on the wall hung a shaving mirror, brown with rust. Beside each bed stood a valet stand. A yellowed undershirt and a pair of socks hung on the one by Per-Anders Niemi's bed.

Spett and Björnfot tore the covers off both beds. They lifted the pillows and the horsehair mattresses. They rolled up the rag carpets and examined the floorboards just as they had done in Pekkari's room. When they'd turned the room upside down, they searched the attic. And found nothing.

“Are you finished?” the landlady asked, glaring at the mess in the room. “Can I make up the beds again?”

Björnfot seemed not to hear her. He was gazing out the window at the white curtain of snow. He had been so certain. Now he suddenly felt unsure. Perhaps Pekkari was guilty after all. Perhaps he just didn't want to admit killing Oskar Lindmark from behind. That was a base deed, after all. Perhaps he wanted to add drama to what had happened.