The Black Path (6 page)

“Could be.”

There was a knock, and after a second Inspector Anna-Maria Mella stuck her head round the door.

“Oh, so this is where you are,” she said cheerfully to the chief prosecutor. “We’re ready to go over the whole thing. Everybody’s here. Are you joining us?”

The question was addressed to Rebecka Martinsson.

Rebecka shook her head. She and Anna-Maria Mella bumped into each other sometimes. They said hello, but not much more. It was Anna-Maria Mella and her colleague Sven-Erik Stålnacke who’d been there when she cracked up. Sven-Erik had held on to her until the ambulance arrived. She thought about it sometimes. Somebody holding on to her. It had felt good.

But it was difficult to talk to them. What would she say? Before she went home from work, she usually glanced out the window at the parking lot below. Sometimes she saw Anna-Maria Mella or Sven-Erik Stålnacke there. When that happened, she’d hang about for a little while until they’d disappeared.

“What’s happened?” asked Alf Björnfot.

“Nothing since we last spoke,” said Anna-Maria Mella. “Nobody’s seen a thing. We still don’t know who she is.”

“Can I have a look at her?” said Alf Björnfot, reaching out his hand.

Anna-Maria Mella passed over a photo of the dead woman.

“I think I recognize her,” said Alf Björnfot.

“May I?” asked Rebecka.

Alf Björnfot passed over the photo and looked at Rebecka.

She was wearing jeans and a sweater. He’d never seen her like that since she’d started working for him. It was because it was Sunday. She normally had her hair up, and wore well-tailored suits. It made him think she was a kind of strange, exotic bird, somehow. Some of the other prosecutors would put on a suit if they were involved in proceedings. He himself had given that up long ago. Made do with pulling on a jacket if he had to go to court. He ironed just the collars of his shirts, and wore a sweater over the top.

But Rebecka always looked expensive, somehow. Expensive and very simple in her gray and black suits with a white shirt.

Something stirred in his mind. That woman. He’d seen her with a suit on.

Like Rebecka. A white shirt and a suit. She was an exotic bird too.

Different from the others.

What others?

A picture of a female politician came into his head. A suit, with the shirt collar on the outside. The hair in a blonde bob. She’s surrounded by men in suits.

The thought was lurking just out of reach, like a pike among the reeds. It could feel the vibrations of something approaching. The EU? UN?

No. She wasn’t a politician.

“Now I remember,” said Alf Björnfot. “I was watching a news item. They were filming a gang of suits who’d got together for a group photo in the snow here in Kiruna. What the hell was it about? I remember laughing because they weren’t dressed for the weather at all. No overcoats. Thin black shoes. They stood there in the snow lifting their feet up like storks. They just looked so funny. And she was there…”

He beat his forehead as if to get the coin to drop down into the machine and pay out.

Rebecka Martinsson and Anna-Maria Mella waited patiently.

“I’ve got it…” he said, clicking his fingers. “It was that former resident of Kiruna who’s got one of those new mining companies. They were having their company meeting or something like that up here…Oh, what’s the matter with my brain!

“Come on!” he said pleadingly to Rebecka and Anna-Maria. “It was on the news before Christmas.”

“I fall asleep on the sofa after the children’s programs,” said Anna-Maria.

“Oh!” exclaimed Alf Björnfot. “I’ll ask Fred Olsson. He’s bound to know.”

Inspector Fred Olsson was thirty-five, and completely indispensable as the unofficial computer expert for the entire building. He was the one everybody rang when the computer had frozen or when they wanted to download music from the Net. He had no family, so he was happy to come over in the evening and help his colleagues with their electronics at home if need be.

And he kept an eye on people in town. He knew where the villains lived and what they were up to. Bought them a coffee from time to time and kept himself informed. He knew the fine-meshed net of power. Knew which of the important people in town were watching each other’s backs, and whether it was because they were related, because they had something on each other, or because they were doing each other a mutual favor.

Alf Björnfot got up and plodded along the corridor and down the stairs to police headquarters.

Anna-Maria gave Rebecka a signal, and both women ran after him.

On the way to Fred Olsson’s office, Alf Björnfot suddenly turned back to the pursuing women and shouted:

“Kallis. Mauri Kallis, that’s his name. He was born here, although it’s a long time since he moved away.”

Then he carried on toward Fred Olsson’s office.

“What’s Mauri Kallis got to do with anything?” Anna-Maria muttered to Rebecka. “It was a woman we found.”

All three of them were standing in the doorway of Fred Olsson’s office.

“Fredde!” puffed the prosecutor. “Mauri Kallis! Didn’t he have a meeting up here with a load of bigwigs in December?”

“He did,” said Fred Olsson. “Kallis Mining has a company here in town called Northern Explore Ltd., one of the few companies of theirs that’s listed on the stock exchange. A Canadian investment company sold off all their holdings at the end of the year, so there were a lot of changes on the board….”

“Can you find a picture of the meeting?”

Fred Olsson turned his back on the three people who had popped up in his doorway and switched on the computer. The three visitors waited patiently.

“They elected somebody from Kiruna, Sven Israelsson, onto the board,” said Fred Olsson; “I’ll do a search on him. If I look for Mauri Kallis I’m bound to get thousands of hits.”

“I’ve got a vague memory of a gang of suits standing in the snow having their photo taken,” said Alf Björnfot. “I think the woman in the ark was in that picture.”

Fred Olsson tapped away at his keyboard for a little while. Then he said:

“There. Looks like it is her.”

On the screen was a picture of a group of men in suits. In the center of the picture stood a woman.

“Yes,” said Anna-Maria. “She’s got that antique nose, it kind of starts up between her eyebrows.”

“Inna Wattrang, head of information,” read Alf Björnfot.

“Bingo!” said Anna-Maria Mella. “Get her identified. Inform her next of kin. I wonder how she ended up on the marsh.”

“Kallis Mining has a cabin in Abisko,” said Fred Olsson.

“You’re joking!” exclaimed Anna-Maria.

“It’s true! I know because my sister’s ex is a plumbing and heating engineer. And he was working up there when they built it. And it isn’t really a cabin. More like a proper house with top sports facilities, something like that.”

Anna-Maria turned to Alf Björnfot.

“No problem,” he said before she could get the question out. “I’ll sign a search warrant straightaway. Shall I ring Benny the locksmith?”

“Please,” said Anna-Maria. “Let’s go!” she shouted, racing to her room to pick up her jacket. “We’ll do the briefing this afternoon instead!”

Her voice could be heard from inside her office.

“You come too, Fredde! Sven-Erik!”

A minute later, they’d all disappeared. There was a sudden Sunday silence in the building. Alf Björnfot and Rebecka Martinsson were still standing in the corridor.

“So,” said Alf Björnfot. “Where were we?”

“We were drinking coffee,” Rebecka said, smiling. “It was just time for a top-up.”

“Isn’t it beautiful,” said Anna-Maria Mella. “Like a tourist brochure.”

They were driving along Norgevägen in her red Ford Escort. To the right of them lay Torneträsk. Clear blue sky. Sun and sparkling snow. Everywhere along the length of the lake were arks in every conceivable color and shape. On the other side of the road the mountains stretched away into the distance.

The wind had dropped. But it hadn’t turned warm. Anna-Maria looked in among the birch trees and thought the snow had formed a solid crust. They might be able to use kick sledges in the forest.

“Try looking at the road instead,” said Sven-Erik, who was sitting next to her.

Kallis Mining’s mountain cabin was a large, timbered house. It was situated in an attractive spot down by the lake. In the opposite direction Nuolja Mountain towered above.

“My sister’s ex told me about this place when he was working up here,” said Fred Olsson. “His father was involved in the building. It’s actually two chalets from Hälsingland that they’ve transported here. The timber is two hundred years old. And the sauna’s down there by the shore of the lake.”

Benny the locksmith was sitting outside in his van. He wound down the window and shouted, “I’ve opened up, but I’ve got to go.” He raised his hand in a quick salute and drove away.

The three police officers walked in. Anna-Maria thought she’d never seen anything like it. The hand-hewn silver-gray timber walls were sparsely decorated with small oil paintings featuring motifs from the mountains, and mirrors in heavy gilded frames. Enormous Indian-style wardrobes in pink and turquoise contrasted sharply with their simple surroundings. The ceiling had been opened up, with the beams exposed. The broad wooden floor planks were covered with rag rugs in every room but one: in front of the big open fire in the living room lay a polar bear skin with the head on and its mouth gaping open.

“Good grief,” commented Anna-Maria.

The kitchen, hall and living room were open plan; on one side were huge windows giving a view over the marsh, sparkling in the late winter sunshine. On the other side of the room the light filtered in through small high-set leaded windows with hand-blown glass in different shades.

On the kitchen table stood a carton of milk and a packet of muesli, a used bowl and a spoon. On the draining board dirty plates were piled high, with the cutlery sticking out in between.

“Ugh,” said Anna-Maria as she shook the carton of milk and heard the soured lumps clunking around inside.

Not that her house was ever tidy. But to think that somebody could stay in such a fine place all by themselves and not keep it nice. That’s what she’d do if she ever had the chance to live like this. Strap her skis on outside the door and go for a long cross-country trek over the marsh. Come home and cook dinner. Listen to the radio while washing up, or just enjoy the silence and think her own thoughts with her hands in the warm water. Lie on that inviting sofa in the living room and light a fire, crackling in the hearth.

“Perhaps these people aren’t the kind that wash up,” commented Sven-Erik. “There’s probably somebody who comes in and cleans up after them when they’ve gone.”

“In that case we need to get hold of that person,” said Anna-Maria quickly.

She opened the doors to the four bedrooms. Big double beds with Sami coverlets. Above the bed heads hung reindeer skins, silver gray against the silver gray walls.

“Nice,” said Anna-Maria. “Why doesn’t my house look like this?”

There were no wardrobes in the bedrooms; instead big American trunks and antique chests stood on the floor to store things in. Coat hangers hung from beautiful Indian folding screens and elegant hooks or horns on the wall. There was a sauna, a laundry room and a big drying cupboard. Next to the sauna was a large changing room with space for ski clothes and boots.

In one of the bedrooms was an open suitcase. Clothes lay in a heap both in and out of the case. The bed was unmade.

Anna-Maria poked about among the clothes.

“A bit of a mess, but no sign of a struggle or a break-in,” said Fred Olsson. “No blood anywhere, nothing unusual. I’ll check the bathrooms.”

“No, nothing’s happened here,” said Sven-Erik Stålnacke.

Anna-Maria swore to herself. It would have been helpful if this had been the scene of the murder.

“I wonder what she was doing here,” she said, eyeing a skirt that looked expensive, and a pair of silky stockings. “These aren’t exactly the clothes for a skiing holiday.”

Fred Olsson reappeared behind them. He was holding a purse. It was made of black leather, with a gold-colored chain.

“This was in the bathroom,” he said. “Prada. Ten to fifteen thousand kronor.”

“Inside it?” asked Sven-Erik.

“No, that’s how much it costs.”

Fred Olsson tipped out the contents onto the unmade bed. He opened the wallet and held Inna Wattrang’s driving license up to Anna-Maria.

Anna-Maria Mella nodded. It was definitely her. No doubt.

She looked at the rest of the things that had fallen out of the bag. Tampons, nail file, lipstick, sunglasses, face powder, a load of yellow credit card slips, a pack of painkillers.

“No cell phone,” she established.

Fred Olsson and Sven-Erik nodded. There was no telephone anywhere else either. That might mean the perpetrator was somebody she knew, somebody whose number was programmed into the phone.

“We’ll take her stuff to the station,” said Anna-Maria. “And we’ll seal this off anyway.”

Her glance fell on the purse again.

“It’s wet,” she said.

“I was just coming to that,” said Fred Olsson. “It was in the sink. The tap must have been dripping.”

They looked at each other in surprise.

“Strange,” said Anna-Maria.

Sven-Erik’s substantial moustache came to life beneath his nose, moving in and out and from side to side.

“Can you take a walk around the outside?” asked Anna-Maria. “I’ll just go round inside one more time.”

Fred Olsson and Sven-Erik Stålnacke disappeared outside. Anna-Maria walked around slowly.

If she didn’t die here, she thought, the killer has at least been here. And he was the one who took the phone. But of course she might have had it with her when she went out running, or whatever she was doing. In her pocket.

She looked in the washbasin where the purse had been. What had it been doing there? She opened the bathroom cabinet. Completely empty. Typical for a place that’s going to be used by guests and employees or rented out; nothing personal is left behind.