Until Thy Wrath Be Past (19 page)

“‘Expect’,” said Mella before she could stop herself. Then she darted into her office and fetched the documents lying on her desk to hand them over to Martinsson.

Having followed on her heels, Martinsson collected them in Mella’s doorway, the other officers trailing after her like a tail.

“They’re probably not in the right order,” Mella said.

“That doesn’t matter,” Martinsson said.

She glanced at the noticeboard in Mella’s office. Pinned up were photographs of Wilma Persson, Simon Kyrö and Hjörleifur Arnarson, with the dates when the first two had disappeared and when Hjörleifur had been murdered. There were maps of the area where Wilma had been found dead, and of Vittangijärvi. The names of the Krekula brothers were also posted.

“All that stuff,” Martinsson said, pointing, “we’ll move into the conference room tomorrow. So we have everything in one place. When shall we meet tomorrow? Eight o’clock?”

I don’t care what they think, Martinsson said to herself as she walked off with the documentation under her arm. I’m responsible now, and everything will be done by the book. It’s not my style to watch from the sidelines. If I’m in charge of the investigation, I’m the one who makes the decisions.

“Wow,” Mella said when Martinsson had left. “Do you think we’ll have to line up before the meeting tomorrow? In alphabetical order? Like at school?”

“But she did a bloody brilliant job today with Tore Krekula,” Stålnacke said. “Without her . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Mella said impatiently. “I just think a little humility wouldn’t go amiss.”

The silence between them seemed to last for eternity. Stålnacke looked hard at Mella. Mella stared back at him, ready to fight her corner.

“Looks like it’s time to go home,” Olsson said, and was seconded by Rantakyrö, who explained that his girlfriend was getting annoyed – she’d phoned him about supper an hour ago now, and he had promised to call in and rent a film on the way home.

Word soon gets around in a little town like Kiruna. Pathologist Lars Pohjanen tells his technical assistant Anna Granlund that Rebecka Martinsson saw Wilma Persson in a dream after she died and told him that Wilma did not die in the river. That was why he took samples of the water in her lungs.

Granlund says she believes in that kind of thing – her sister’s grandfather’s cousin was able to staunch blood by the laying on of hands.

Granlund’s work is covered by hospital confidentiality rules, but she cannot resist telling her sister about this phenomenon over a pizza lunch at Laguna.

Her sister promises not to say anything about it, but close family does not count, of course, so she tells her husband that evening.

The husband does not believe in that kind of thing, however. That is precisely why he tells one of his mates about it while they are sitting in the sauna after a body-building session. Perhaps he feels the need to test the credibility of Martinsson’s claim. Could it really be possible? He wants to see how his friend reacts.

His mate does not say much at all. Just pours more water onto the hot stones.

His mate often goes hunting with an old Piilijärvi resident, Stig Rautio. They bump into each other outside the Co-op. He repeats the story to Rautio. Asks if he knew Wilma Persson. She was murdered, it seems. It was that District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson – the one who killed those pastors a few years ago – she was the one who . . .

Stig Rautio. He hunts on land owned by Tore and Hjalmar Krekula. He calls on Isak and Kerttu Krekula with the rent he owes Tore Krekula – Tore’s wife has told him her husband is visiting his parents. There is no urgency regarding the rent payment, but Rautio is curious. Everyone in the village, indeed in the whole of Kiruna, knows that the police have searched the Krekula brothers’ houses in connection with the murders of Wilma Persson and Hjörleifur Arnarson. Isak Krekula is in bed in the little room off the kitchen, as he always is nowadays. Kerttu Krekula is frying sausages and has made some mashed turnips for her boys. Hjalmar is eating, but Tore is only drinking coffee: he’s already eaten at home – after all, he has a wife who cooks for him.

Kerttu Krekula does not ask if Rautio would like a mug of coffee. They realize that he is only nosing around, but they cannot tell him anything. He hands over the envelope with the rent. He had used the first envelope he could lay hands on, and it happened to be one of his wife’s special ones, bought at Kiruna market. It looked as if dried flowers had been pressed into the hand-made paper. Taking the envelope, Tore gives it a quizzical look. Aha, says the look, someone is trying to give the impression of being posh and remarkable.

Rautio regrets not having looked for a different envelope: a used one with a window would have been better, but so what! He says he has heard that the police have been round – what a gang of idiots, halfwits! What the hell do they think they’re doing? Next thing we know they will be knocking on his door as well. Then he tells them about that business concerning District Prosecutor Martinsson and Pathologist Pohjanen. That she had dreamt about Wilma Persson, and gone to the pathologist as a result.

“Before long they’ll be buying crystal balls instead of chasing after thieves,” he jokes.

Nobody reacts, of course. The joke hangs in the air, awkward and heavy-handed. The Krekulas carry on as if nothing had happened. Hjalmar eats his mashed turnip and pork sausages, Tore taps on his coffee cup with his fingernail and gets a refill from his mother.

It is as if nothing unusual has happened. They make no comment on what Rautio says about the police. The kitchen is as silent as the grave for what seems like an eternity. Then Tore checks the notes in the envelope and asks if there is anything else Rautio wants to discuss. No, there is nothing else. He leaves without any gossip to pass on.

When Rautio is gone, Tore Krekula says, “What a bloody load of rubbish! Claiming that the prosecutor dreamt about her.”

Kerttu Krekula says, “This will be the last straw for your father. It’ll be the death of him.”

“People talk,” Tore says. “They always have done. Let ’em.”

Kerttu slams her palm down on the table. Shouts, “That’s easy for you to say!”

She starts clearing the table. Despite the fact that Hjalmar has not finished eating yet. A clear signal that there is nothing more to be said.

There never is anything more to be said, Hjalmar thinks. It was the same then. Last autumn, when Father had his heart attack. When Johannes Svarvare got drunk and started blabbing. There was nothing more to be said almost before they started speaking.

It is late September. The sun is setting on the other side of the lake. Hjalmar Krekula has carried the outboard motor indoors for his father. It is lying on the kitchen table, on a layer of newspapers. Johannes Svarvare usually dismantles it and gives it a service for Isak Krekula. The carburettor is blocked as usual.

Svarvare messes about with the motor. Isak serves him some vodka, by way of thanks. Tore Krekula’s wife is at a Tupperware party, so he is having dinner with his parents. Hjalmar is there as well. There is no room to swing a cat round in the kitchen. The table is piled high with plates of hamburgers and macaroni in white sauce alongside engine casing, screwdrivers, keys, a sheath knife, a plastic bottle with a long tube containing oil for the gearbox, new spark plugs and a tin of petrol in which the filter will be soaked.

Svarvare is gabbling away nineteen to the dozen. He is going on about old marine engines and various boats they have had or helped to build, and he even babbles on about the time he and his cousin loaded five sheep into his uncle’s rowing boat to take them to their summer grazing on one of the islands in the River Rautas, and how they hit a rock in Kutukoski and sank, all the sheep drowned, and he and his cousin only just escaped with their lives.

They have heard the story about the drowned sheep in Kutukoski before, but Hjalmar and Tore Krekula continue eating and listen just like they used to do when they were children.

“Speaking of drowning,” Svarvare says as he unscrews the carburettor, “do you remember that time in the autumn of 1943 when we were waiting and waiting for that transport plane that never arrived?”

“No,” Isak says, sounding a warning note.

But Svarvare has been drinking, and does not hear any warning notes.

“It disappeared, didn’t it? I’ve always wondered where it can have come down. It was coming from Narvik. It always seemed to me that the plane was bound to have followed the River Torne past Jiekajärvi and Alajärvi. But if you asked folk who lived up there, none of them had seen or heard such a plane. So I reckon it must have gone off course and turned south after Taalojärvi, then somehow turned off again and tried to make an emergency landing on the lakes at Övre Vuolusjärvi or Harrijärvi or Vittangijärvi. Don’t you agree? The whole crew must have drowned like rats.”

Tore and Hjalmar concentrate on their food. Kerttu is standing at the counter with her back to them and seems to be busy with something. Isak says nothing, merely hands Svarvare the key so that he can detach the float. Svarvare continues his outpouring:

“Anyway, I told Wilma – she and Simon go diving, you know – that this would be something for them to explore if they could find it. Try Vittangijärvi, was my advice. Because if it had gone down in Övre Vuolusjärvi we’d no doubt have heard about it by now. And Harrijärvi is so small. So Vittangijärvi would be as good a place to start looking as anywhere, don’t you think?”

He unscrews the mouthpiece, puts it to his mouth and blows out the flakes of metal. Then he holds it up in the light from the window. Squints through the little hole to see if it is clean. He turns to Tore and Hjalmar.

“I was only thirteen then, but your dad took me with him. We needed to work in those days.”

“What did Wilma say?” Isak asks casually, as if he was not really interested.

“Oh, she was as keen as anything. Asked me if she could borrow some maps.”

Svarvare sounds satisfied now. It is evidently a pleasant memory. A keen young woman interested in something he had to tell her. Their fingers on the map.

He drops the filter into the can of petrol. Dries his hands as best he can on his trousers, and knocks back the few drops left in the Duralex glass.

But instead of refilling it, Isak screws down the cork of the vodka bottle.

“Thanks for your help today, that’s all for now,” he says.

Svarvare looks a bit surprised. He had expected several more glasses of vodka while he fitted the engine back together. That was the usual pattern.

But he has spent his entire life in the village and had dealings with Isak Krekula since childhood. He knows it is prudent to pay attention when Isak says, “Time to go.”

He says thank you, staggers unsteadily out of the house and heads for home.

Kerttu remains standing absolutely still, her back to her family and her hands resting on the countertop. Nobody says a word.

“Is Father alright?” Tore says.

Isak has tried to stand up from his chair by the kitchen table. His face is white as a sheet. Then he falls. Makes no attempt to break his fall with his hands. Hits his head on the table as he collapses onto the floor.

Tore puts the fancy envelope with the rental payment into his pocket. As always, Hjalmar thinks that there is a lot of money around of which he never sees a trace. He does not know what the firm’s turnover is. He does not know how much of the forest they own, and what income it brings in. But then, Tore is the one with a family to look after.

There is a clattering of crockery as Kerttu nonchalantly drops plates, cutlery and mugs into the sink.

“Two sons he’s got,” she says without looking at them. “And what good do they do him?”

Hjalmar notices how Tore reacts badly to what she says. The words stab him like knives. Hjalmar has been used to such rebukes ever since he was a little boy. All the abuse. Useless, thick as three planks, fat, idiot. Actually, most of it has come from Tore and Isak. Kerttu has not said much. But she never looks him in the eye.

Things are going downhill, Hjalmar thinks.

There is something almost comforting about that thought. He thinks about the prosecutor, Rebecka Martinsson. Who saw Wilma after she had died.

Tore looks at Hjalmar. Thinks that he is keeping silent as usual. There is something the matter with him.

“Are you ill?” he says brusquely.

Oh yes, Hjalmar thinks. I’m ill.

He stands up, walks out of the kitchen, leaves the house, crosses the road. Trudges home to his sad little house full of furniture, curtains, cloths, you name it, none of which he has bought himself.

And then we spoke to Johannes Svarvare, he thinks. Father was in intensive care.

In his mind, Tore flings open Svarvare’s front door. Marches into the kitchen.

“You bastard,” Tore says, taking his knife from its sheath on his belt.

Hjalmar remains in the doorway. Svarvare is scared stiff, nearly shitting himself. He is lying on the kitchen sofa, still suffering from yesterday’s hangover, from when he sat in the Krekulas’ house, taking their outboard motor to pieces. He sits up now.

Tore stabs his knife into Svarvare’s kitchen table. He had better realize that this is serious.

“What the hell . . . ?” Svarvare splutters.

“That aeroplane that disappeared,” Tore says. “And all that was going on in those days. You’ve blabbed on about it like a silly old woman. Stuff that everyone’s forgotten about, that ought to be forgotten. And now Father’s in hospital thanks to you. If he doesn’t make it or I hear that you’ve squeaked one more bloody word . . .”

He wrenches the knife loose and points it at Svarvare’s eye.

“Have you been gossiping to anybody else?” he says.

Svarvare shakes his head. Stares squint-eyed at the knife point.

Then they leave.

“At least he’ll keep his trap shut now,” Tore says.

“Wilma and Simon?” Hjalmar says.

Tore shakes his head.

“They’ll never find anything anyway. Let them think of it as an old man’s ravings. We’ll keep our eye on ’em. Make sure they don’t go diving there.”