Until Thy Wrath Be Past Part 18

"Now."

"Now? But it's only . . ."

"Yes, but you know what old people are like. When they finally get the chance to get the night's sleep they've always longed for, they wake up at 4.00 in the morning."

"I hope you're right."

"I am. I'm sitting in my car outside his house. He just looked out at me from behind his kitchen curtain for the third time."

"She's mad," Mella said when she had hung up.

"Who?" Robert said as he caressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Rebecka Martinsson. She's taken over the investigation. I like the woman, for Christ's sake I mean, I saved her life back there in Jiekajarvi: that does things to you. And she's fun to talk to when she relaxes. Even if we are very different. She's a b.l.o.o.d.y good prosecutor."

Robert kissed the back of her neck, and pressed his lower body against her backside.

Mella sighed.

"I suppose I'm put out because she seems to be taking everything over. I'd really prefer to run this case myself."

"She needs to realize that you're an alpha female," Robert said, squeezing her nipples.

"Yes," she said.

"Didn't you read a book recently? What was it called There's a Special Place in h.e.l.l for Women Who Don't Help Each Other?"

"No, you're thinking of There's a Special Place in h.e.l.l for Men Who Don't Have the Sense to Agree When Their Wives Act Like a b.i.t.c.h. Hey, what do you think you're going to do with this?"

"I don't know," he said softly into her ear. "What does the alpha b.i.t.c.h want me to do with it?"

Svarvare offered Martinsson a cup of coffee to start the day. Declining his best china, she asked for a mug instead. And accepted his offer of a sandwich. He smelled dirty the way old men do; hygiene was evidently not his strong point. He was wearing a vest under a knitted cardigan. A pair of black trousers, very shiny at the rear, held up by braces. She could not suppress the feeling that she did not want to put anything in her mouth that he had touched. When had he last washed his hands? She shuddered at the thought that the fingers he had used to hold his false teeth had also been in contact with the bread and whatever he had put into the sandwich.

But then again I can allow a dog I have never seen before to lick my mouth, she thought.

She smiled and looked down at Vera, who was sniffing around under the kitchen table, gulping down sc.r.a.ps of food and crumbs, and licking the legs of the bench where something had trickled down and dried up.

Including you, you filthy little swine! she thought. I must be out of my mind.

"You knew Wilma, is that right?" she said.

"Yes, of course," Svarvare said, downing half his mug of coffee.

There are questions he is dreading that I might ask, Martinsson thought. I'll start with the easy ones.

"Can you tell me a bit about her?"

He seemed surprised. Relieved at the same time.

"She was so young," Svarvare said, shaking his head. "Much too young. But you know, it's a good thing if youngsters come to a village like this one. And when she moved in with Anni, Simon Kyro also started to come and visit his uncle. The whole place seemed to come to life. Those of us who live here are all old-timers. But her and her friends well, they looked like . . ."

He held up both hands and bent his fingers to look like claws, and pulled a face intended to be frightening.

"Black all round their eyes, and black clothes. But they were fun. And there was no harm in them. Once they borrowed kick-sledges from us old-timers and went racing around the village. There must have been ten of them. Careering around and shouting and laughing. Taking it in turns to give the others rides. Like a flock of crows. They say that young people nowadays just sit around indoors and gape at computers. Not her."

"Did she visit you sometimes?"

"Oh yes, often. She liked to hear me going on about the old days. It's not the old days for me, of course: everything seems to have happened quite recently. You'll understand what I mean one of these days. It's only your body that grows old. Inside here I feel . . ."

He tapped the side of his forehead and grinned.

". . . like a seventeen-year-old."

"Did you tell her anything you regret having told her?"

He fell silent. Stared at a deep scratch in the middle of the kitchen table.

"You liked her, I think?"

He nodded.

"She was murdered, as you know. She and Simon went diving, and someone made sure they never came back up again. At any rate, she never came back up again. Strictly speaking the boy's still missing, but presumably he's somewhere in Vittangijarvi."

"I thought they found her in the Torne, downstream from Tervaskoski?"

"Yes, they did. But she'd been moved there. Don't you think you owe it to her to tell me what's nagging at you?"

He stared at the scratch on the table.

"You should let sleeping dogs lie," he said.

Martinsson's hand shot out of its own accord and covered the scratch in the table.

"But sometimes those sleeping dogs wake up," she said. "And now Wilma's dead. I think you're an honourable man. Think of Wilma. And Anni Autio."

Her last remark was a gamble. She had no idea what sort of a relationship he had with Anni Autio.

He poured himself some more coffee. She noticed that he placed his left hand over his right one in order to keep it steady.

"Well," he said. "But don't tell anybody I said anything, mind. I told Wilma about an aeroplane that had been missing since 1943. It came down somewhere. I've spent ages thinking about that aeroplane. Wondering where it might have crashed. I told Wilma I thought it must have come down either in Vittangijarvi, Harrijarvi or ovre Vuolusjarvi."

"What kind of a plane was it?"

"I don't know, I never saw it. But it was German. The Germans had big storage depots in Lule. One of them was right next to the cathedral. Oberleutnant Walther Zindel was in charge of them. The German troops in the north of Norway and Finnish Lapland needed weapons and food supplies, of course, and so the Germans used the port of Lule in the north of Sweden. Their fleet was inferior to the British one, so they didn't dare rely on supplies reaching them via the Norwegian coast."

"I know, of course, that they were allowed to use our railway network," Martinsson said slowly. "For transporting troops going on leave and coming back again."

Sucking hard at his dentures, Svarvare eyed her up and down as if she were mentally deficient.

"Well, yes," he said. "Anyway, Isak Krekula was a haulier. I left school at the age of twelve and started working for him. I was strong, and I could carry things and load lorries. I also did a bit of driving now and then they weren't so strict about it in them days. Anyway, that evening in the autumn of 1943, Isak drove one of his lorries to Kurravaara, and I went with him. Swedish Railways had stopped transporting German troops that summer, so we were never short of work not that we had been before, come to that. The troops had to be provided for. So we sat there, waiting and waiting. There was me, Isak, and some of the lads from the village he'd hired to help with the unloading and reloading. But we gave up when morning came and nothing had happened. Isak paid one of the village lads to stay on and look out for the aeroplane, and to telephone if it turned up. But it seemed to have been gobbled up somewhere. Isak heard eventually that n.o.body knew what had happened to it. But you know, people didn't talk about that sort of thing. Not then, and certainly not now. It was sensitive, you see."

How sensitive? Martinsson wondered. Sufficiently sensitive for two young people to be killed to prevent gossip starting up again? Surely that could not be possible?

"It's so long ago," Svarvare said. "It happened, and now it's in the past. n.o.body wants to remember what went on. And before long all those who can will be dead and buried. The girls who used to stand by the railway lines and wave to the German soldiers in the trains on their way up to Narvik, all those who celebrated the arson attack on the Norrskensflamman in 1940 you know, the attack on the Communist, anti-German newspaper based in Lule and all those who fraternized with the Germans stationed in the north. And my G.o.d, you should have seen the fuss in support of the German consul Weiler all the miners who were excused military service because we were selling steel to Germany, they were all in favour of that. It was only afterwards that they started going on about how we had to do it because we'd have had our throats slit if we didn't. Let's face it, even the king was a sympathizer."

Svarvare wiped away a drop of coffee that had trickled down the side of his mouth.

"I just thought it might be exciting for the kids to go looking for a wrecked aeroplane."

Martinsson thought for a moment.

"You asked me not to tell anybody that you'd been speaking to me," she said. "To whom shouldn't I say anything? Are you frightened of anybody in particular?"

Svarvare took his time, then sat up straight and looked her in the eye.

"The Krekulas," he said. "Isak has always been keen to jump in with both feet no matter what. He'd be quite capable of setting fire to a house while the occupants were asleep. And the boys follow in his footsteps. They were so put out when I said I'd told Wilma about that plane. All that was done and finished with, they reckoned. I've been working for them for G.o.d only knows how many years, helped them with anything that cropped up. I was always on call. Always. And then they come here and . . ."

His hand dropped down on the table like a full stop at the end of a sentence. Vera, who had been lying under the table, woke up with a bark.

"Why? Was there something special about that plane?"

"I don't know. You've got to believe me. I've told you everything I know. Do you think that the Krekulas had something to do with Wilma's death?"

"Do you think so?"

His eyes filled with tears.

"I should never have said anything to her. I just wanted to make myself interesting. I wanted her to think it was fun to talk to me. It's no fun, dammit all, being on my own all the time. It's all my fault."

Once outside again, Martinsson took a deep breath.

As Strindberg said, she thought, you have to feel sorry for people. I don't want to die alone.

She looked at Vera, who was standing expectantly by the car.

Dogs are not enough, she thought.

She switched on her mobile. Ten past seven. No messages. No missed calls.

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to you then, was her unsent message to Mns Wenngren. Screw some other woman if you want to.

I'm sitting on Hjalmar's window ledge. Watching him as he wakes up with a start. Worry is pounding away inside him. That worry is sinewy and has fists as hard as Isak's, his father's. That worry has pulled his leather belt out of its loops.

He's sleeping a lot now. He's tired. Doesn't feel up to doing anything at all. But sleep is spasmodic and unreliable. Worry drags him to his feet. Usually at about 3.00 or 4.00 in the morning. It's light during the night now. Hjalmar curses the light, and tells himself that's why. But he knows the truth. His heart is racing. Sometimes he's afraid it will be the death of him. But he's started to get used to it. Knows his heart will calm down after a while.

Just think: I shall never, ever sleep again.

Hjalmar dreams about me sometimes. How I hacked a hole in the ice from underneath. He dreams about the water squirting out through the hole when I stuck my hand through it. In his dream more and more water comes spurting out, and he drowns in it. He wakes up, gasping for breath.

Sometimes he dreams that my hand clamps itself like a vice round his, and that I drag him down into the water.

He dreams about thin ice. Ice that gives way beneath him. Black water.

He doesn't have the strength to look after himself properly. He looked a right mess at my funeral. He hadn't had a shower for ages, and his hair was greasy.

Hjalmar Krekula checked the time on his mobile: 7.10. He ought to have been at work ages ago. But Tore had not phoned to ask where the devil he was.

But maybe it was only fair to have a day off when you had helped to . . . No, he dismissed all thoughts and images involving Hjorleifur Arnarson. Pointless. The whole business was so b.l.o.o.d.y pointless.

I'm used to doing whatever Tore wants me to do, Hjalmar thought. I was forced to do it at first. But then it became a habit. No doubt it all goes back to when we got lost in the forest. I stopped thinking for myself. Making my own mind up. I just did as I was told.

It is October 1957. A Sat.u.r.day. The older boys from the village are playing bandy on the ice covering the lake.

Tore Krekula asks his dad if he can go and watch. Yes, of course he can. He takes his bandy stick and sets off. Hjalmar is also going to watch, but first he has to carry firewood and water to the sauna down by the lake. Isak makes the sauna so hot that there is a danger of burning the whole place down. Tonight they are going to have a bath. He has sawn through the ice down by the jetty and made a hole so that Hjalmar can carry water up to the big tub that is heated by a wood fire.

Hjalmar does all the heavy stuff. Tore is excused, even though he has started school this autumn. On the first day of term Isak took Hjalmar by the ear and told him: "It's your job to look after your brother, is that clear?"

It is just over a year since the incident in the forest. Tore is still receiving letters and parcels but less often, of course. His new satchel is a present from the Friends of the Forest Club in Stockholm.

Hjalmar looks after Tore. That means that Tore rules the roost over his cla.s.smates, even the older pupils. Tore steals their money, threatens them, fights and decides which of his cla.s.smates is going to be beaten up after school every day. He concludes that it is going to be a skinny little lad with gla.s.ses by the name of Alvar. If anybody objects, or even hits back, Tore calls Hjalmar. Alvar has an elder brother, but n.o.body wants to get involved in a fight with Hjalmar Krekula, so he doesn't intervene. Besides, their dad drowned a couple of years back. Tore and his mates have a lot of fun with Alvar. During the last lesson of the day, one of them might put up his hand and ask permission to go to the toilet. When the bell goes, Alvar finds that his shoes are full of water. Or perhaps the sleeves of his jacket are crammed full of wet paper. After P.E., they sometimes steal his trousers so that he has to go home in his underpants. Alvar is frightened all the time. He runs home from school. He begs his teacher to let him go before the bell rings. Tells her he has stomach-ache. That is no doubt true. He comes home to his mother with his clothes and school books in a mess, but he does not dare tell her who is responsible. His elder brother says nothing either.

That is what Tore Krekula is really like, the little hero of the forest from Piilijarvi. But needless to say, the Friends of the Forest Club in Stockholm know nothing at all about it.

Hjalmar has carried all the necessary water and firewood to the sauna, ready for the evening's ablutions, so he can run to the other end of the village and watch the bandy match. They are using birch branches as goal posts. Not all of them have skates, some just have to run about in their ordinary shoes. Most of the bandy sticks are home-made.

Tore cheers up when he sees Hjalmar approaching, although he pretends he has not seen him. Hjalmar has the feeling that something stupid is about to happen. Something tells him he ought to go back home right away. But he does not.

Hans Aho shoots at the goal, but Yngve Talo makes a save. Someone tries to intercept the pa.s.s out, and there is a scrum inside the penalty area.

Tore takes the opportunity to jump down onto the ice with his stick and bandy ball. He hits the ball into the empty goal at the other end.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?" shouts the goalie, who has been upfield in support of his team's attack.

"Pack it in, Tore," one of the girls in the crowd of spectators shouts.

But Tore does not pack it in. The goalie skates back and tells him again to clear off.

Tore grins and leaves the pitch, but he soon returns, dribbling the ball.

The game comes to a halt. The lads tell Tore to go home and stop messing about. Tore asks if they own the lake. n.o.body has told him that they do.

"Hjalmar," he shouts. "Does this crowd own the lake? Have you heard anything about it?"

When the big boys are playing, the little lads keep out of the way. That is an unwritten law.

The bandy players look over at Hjalmar. A few are about the same age as him; most are older. They want to see if he is going to join in the sabotage. Everyone knows that the Krekula brothers stick together. Not that Hjalmar would stand a chance against the combined bandy teams, but the fact that he is outnumbered does not usually put him off. Everyone is wondering how serious the fighting is going to be.

Hjalmar is furious. That b.l.o.o.d.y Tore! Why does he always have to stir up trouble unnecessarily? But this time he can sort things out for himself. Hjalmar turns away and gazes out over the lake.