A Darker Shade of Sweden (18 page)

Kajsa settled down on the floor with a disappointed sigh.

“I suppose we'll have to take a look at where his friends live,” Spett suggested.

Björnfot shook his head.

“I don't think he's the kind of man who trusts his friends . . .”

He turned to the landlady.

“What's the name of his fiancée? Where does she live and work?”

Majken Behrn was the fiancée of postal assistant Per-Anders Niemi. She was nineteen years old. A girl with round cheeks and curly hair who attracted customers to Hannula's General Store, where she worked as a sales clerk. When Björnfot and Spett asked her to put on her coat and hat and come along, Björnfot knew that they were on the right track.

She didn't ask what it was all about. Hurried to get her coat on. Didn't even take the time to remove her apron. As if the wife of shopkeeper Hannula might forget that she had been picked up at work by the police if she was just quick enough about it.

“Perhaps you can guess what this is about,” Björnfot began as they started off along the street.

But it wouldn't be quite that easy.

Majken Behrn wound her scarf several times around her neck as protection against the snowstorm and shook her head.

“Your fiancée, Per-Anders Niemi: did he spend the evening before last in your company?” Björnfot yelled over the wind.

“Yes,” she yelled back. “I'll swear to that.”

Then, quickly, she added: “Why do you ask?”

“It's regarding a double homicide,” Spett said bitingly. “And I'll ask you to remember that, miss.”

They fell silent and struggled on through the storm to the house where Majken Behrn lived.

It was a pleasant room, Björnfot thought as he looked around. Woven curtains with knit fringes. Between the outer and the inner windows, Majken Behrn had put
Cladonia stellaris
, the white lichen beloved by reindeer, against the damp. In the lichen, she had placed little Santa Claus figurines made of yarn. On the wall in the bedstead alcove hung a paper Christmas hanging depicting a farmyard house elf feeding red apples to a horse.

There was a plain wooden chair on each side of a drop-leaf table covered by a spotless embroidered tablecloth. A coffee pot stood on an iron stove with a hotplate. Over the pot handle a small, crocheted kettle-holder hung neatly.

Kajsa shook off snow to the best of her ability. Then she found a tub of water on the floor in the alcove and drank noisily. Spett and Björnfot searched the room. Looked in drawers and every­where. Nothing.

She doesn't even ask us what we're looking for, Björnfot thought. She knows.

Spett called for Kajsa to come. When she didn't appear, he went over to the sleeping alcove.

“What's that she's drinking?” he asked.

He saw that the tub held a piece of clothing put there to soak.

“I hope you haven't put any lye in the water,” he said.

“No, no,” Majken Behrn assured him, suddenly blushing. “It's just. It's nothing . . .”

“What are you washing?” Björnfot asked when he saw the color rise in her cheeks. Spett pulled the garment out of the tub. It was a pair of men's breaches. Even though they were wet, you could see that the legs beneath the knees were stained with blood. Björnfot turned to Majken Behrn. If her face had been red a moment ago, it was now white as linen.

“Those are your fiancée's trousers,” he said sharply. “And it's Oskar Lindmark's blood.”

Majken Behrn was breathing harshly. She fumbled blindly for something to hold on to.

“Tell us everything,” Spett said. “If you do, you may save yourself. Otherwise you'll be sentenced as an accomplice, I can promise you that.”

Majken Behrn said nothing. But she turned slowly, pointing to the iron pipe leading to the stove.

Spett dropped the wet pants on the floor. He hurried to the stove and grabbed the iron pipe with his huge fists.

“How?” he said.

Majken Behrn shrugged.

“Don't know.”

Spett tugged at the stovepipe and the middle part of it came loose.

“There's something stuck inside,” Spett said, peering down into the loose pipe.

Majken Behrn turned in alarm to Björnfot.

“Don't tell Per-Anders. He'll kill me.”

“He won't be killing any more people,” Björnfot said calmly as Spett began unfolding a thick wad of bills with his sooty hands.

Majken Behrn was standing by the window. She looked at her engagement ring. At the white frost ferns on the windowpane.

To know something, yet not know, she thought. How could you explain that?

The night before last she had suddenly awoken. Per-Anders was standing by the iron stove. He was twisting the pieces of the stovepipe together. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Just go back to sleep,” he said.

Then he came to her in bed. He was cold. His hands like two winter pikes. “Soon, now,” he whispered in her ear before she went back to sleep. “Soon I'll buy you a fur coat.”

In the morning, he had awakened before her. Told her not to light a fire in the stove to make coffee. She mustn't touch the stove for a few days, he said. And his pants were soiled. He asked her to wash them for him. “I helped the cobbler with his Christmas pig,” he said. “He sure bled all over me. I asked if I could have the head to bring you.”

She laughed and pretended to shudder. Later, when she heard about the two murders, she stopped laughing. But she said nothing. Perhaps didn't want to know. Lit no fires in her stove.

“And he, Edvin Pekkari,” she said to herself, forgetful of the presence of Spett and Björnfot, “he was such a nasty man. Never said a word. Didn't even say hello when you went into the post office. But stared at me as soon as he thought I wouldn't notice. In that way, you know. The whites of his eyes all yellow. It could have been him. It should have been him.”

Sheriff Björnfot threw open the courtroom door. Judge Manfred Brylander lost his way in the middle of a sentence. People turned their heads.

“Pekkari is innocent,” Björnfot called out, striding up to the bar. “Release him!”

“What are you talking about?” judge Brylander exclaimed.

He had grown vexed and worried when Björnfot and Spett left the courtroom. His thin hair now lay sweaty and flat on his head. He was gasping for air like a clubbed fish.

“I've got the money from the robbery in my hand,” Björnfot called, holding high the parcel he had found in Majken Behrn's stovepipe.

“And this,” he went on, lifting his other hand, “is the murderer's trousers. Stained by Oskar Lindmark's blood.”

All the spectators gasped in unison. Theirs was a joint inhalation of horror at the sight of the wet pants in Björnfot's hand, and perhaps an inhalation of rapture at the amount of money known to be in the parcel he held.

Per-Anders Niemi rose quickly. Before anyone managed to stop him, or even realized that he ought to be stopped, a few quick steps had brought him to the side door at the front of the room, the door through which the accused Pekkari had been brought in only an hour before.

“Stop!” sheriff Björnfot roared, but by then Per-Anders Niemi was already out of the room.

Outside the doorway he ran straight into the hard fist of acting parish constable Spett.

It took only a second or two. Then Spett walked in, holding Per-Anders Niemi by the scruff of his neck.

Björnfot looked around for the men who had helped Per-Anders Niemi bring Edvin Pekkari to the police station. One of them was crouched down in his seat like a sinner at the altar. Björnfot grabbed his hair and pulled him to his feet.

“I'll talk,” he whimpered.

“You'll shut up!” Per-Anders Niemi yelled, trying to pry himself loose from Spett's closed hand.

“No,” his friend cried in desperation. “I want to speak. I haven't slept since it happened. Per-Anders told me about the money. Said we should rob the mail sled. But only that. He never said anything about killing anyone. We took the sled since the hauler was gone. We stopped at Luossajokki, turned the sled over and pretended that its runner had broken. We had mufflers up to our ears and caps pulled down low. They'd never have recognized us, we didn't need to . . . Per-Anders hid behind a tree, since the postman knew him. They stopped to help us. Oskar jumped out of the mail sled and bent down to look at the runner. Postman Johansson stayed in the sled, holding back the horse since it wanted to go on. Then Per-Anders slipped out from behind the tree. He jumped on the sled and shot Johansson in the back.”

“With Johansson's gun?” Björnfot asked.

“No, with his own. We found Johansson's later and pretended to discover it in Pekkari's room when we rushed him. Even Pekkari though we found it in his drawer. Tried to tell us that someone else must have put it there. Sneaked in while he was sleeping.”

“But after that,” Björnfot said. “Out in the woods. When Per-Anders Niemi had shot mailman Johansson.”

“The shot made the horses go crazy. Our horse reared up and tried to run, but the sled was turned over and stuck in the snow. The mail horse bolted. Per-Anders Niemi was standing in the sled, holding on, and called out to me. The boy, he said. Get him!”

Per-Anders Niemi's friend tottered. In his mind, the scene was played out again. The sheriff had to grab hold of him to keep him from falling down.

Oskar Lindmark's face is pale blue in the moonlight. He is kneeling by the sled to look at the runner that is supposedly broken. Eyes wide. He hasn't understood what has happened, though the shot has been fired and the mail horse has neighed in panic and bolted. The mail horse is running, though not very fast in the loose snow. Per-Anders Niemi is standing in the mail sled, yelling:

“I have to break it open to get the money. The kid! Get him. Don't let him get away!”

They stare at each other, Per-Anders Niemi's friend and Oskar Lindmark. Frozen in fear of this deed that lies before them. The grown man's mind calls out: I can't!

Their horse rears up, trying to get loose. And suddenly Oskar Lindmark jerks. He gets to his feet. Stumbles, but doesn't fall. Runs off like a hare in the moonlight.

“Get him,” Per-Anders Niemi roars. “If he escapes in the woods we're done for.” His friend takes the axe. And goes after the boy.

The snowflakes dance so beautifully in the air. As though they can't make up their minds whether to fall or rise. Clouds float across the moon. Like a woman's behind in a smoking sauna, fat and shiny. Hiding and revealing itself in a dance of veils. The shadows of the trees on the snow are now sharp and black, now soft and almost invisible. Not even if the moon is entirely hidden by clouds will Oskar Lindmark get away. It's easy to follow his footprints in the snow. But still Per-Anders Niemi's friend runs so hard that he can taste blood. His feet sink down in the snow, but since he can run in Oskar's tracks he is gaining on him. And he is just a little boy. Oh, God. Per-Anders Niemi's friend has soon caught up with him. He raises the axe and strikes the boy's head before he manages to turn around. The boy mustn't look at him; he wouldn't have been able to endure it. Now Oskar Lindmark lies before him, face down. His feet are still running, like those of a sleeping dog.

The man hits him over and over, because of those feet.

Per-Anders Niemi's friend kept his eyes on Björnfot.

“Lindmark ran. But I caught up with him quickly. I hit his head with the back of the axe. He died in the snow. I walked back to the sled and managed to get it right side up on the road. Held the horse until Per-Anders came trudging up with the money. He had Johansson's pistol. My pants were bloody. It drove me insane, that blood, so Per-Anders said we could switch. He put on my bloody pants and gave me his clean ones. Outside town we jumped off, lashed the horse and walked home, each to his own place. The snow was coming down heavier. We knew all the tracks would soon be gone.”

The third man who had come along when they took Pekkari to the police station suddenly stood up.

“It can't be true!” he exclaimed, looking in horror at Per-Anders Niemi and his friend who had just confessed to the awful deed. “You damned bastards. I believed you. When you came to me and said we should search Pekkari's room. When you said that you suspected him. You bastards!”

The room grew deathly silent. Then Spett spoke up.

“Out, all of you,” he cried. “There will be a new trial here tomorrow. But now. Get out! Get out!”

People rose from the benches, as if stunned.

Nobody spoke. They had sat there, willing an innocent man's death. Guilt pulled a thick blanket over the courtroom. The Laestadian brethren looked awkwardly down at the ground. Nobody looked at Edvin Pekkari.

Pekkari, who stood up by the bar, still in chains, and who called out:

“But I did it. Can't you hear me? I am guilty. I AM GUILTY!”

The snowstorm lasted for three days. Then it went on its way to ravage other places, leaving Kiruna in peace under a soft, white blanket. Horses pulled snowplows and drifts cracked fences. Birch tree branches bent all the way down to the ground under their snowy loads.

Björnfot and Spett stood at the railroad station, watching Edvin Pekkari board the southbound train. The mining company had ordered men to shovel snow from the tracks. People were moving back and forth over the platform, passengers and goods.

Pekkari with huddled shoulders and a knitted cap. He carried all his belongings in one suitcase. Nobody was going with him. Nobody had come to see him off.

“So, I guess he's moving out, then,” Spett said.

Björnfot nodded.

“Why the devil did he confess?” Spett wondered.

“Who knows,” Björnfot said. “Perhaps the attention,” he said. “He became famous overnight. And before that he was a loner nobody wanted to know.”