The Blood Spilt (30 page)

“But not now,” said Sven-Erik decisively. “When somebody’s come and taken the boys away.”

* * *

Micke Kiviniemi looked out over the room from his strategic position behind the bar. King of all he surveyed. His noisy, messy kingdom, smelling of fried food, cigarette smoke, beer and aftershave with undertones of sweat. He was pouring beers one after the other, with the odd glass of red or white wine or a whisky in between. Mimmi was scampering between the tables like a performing mouse, bickering happily with the customers as she wiped down tables and took orders. He could hear her saying “chicken casserole or lasagne, take it or leave it.”

The TV was on in the corner and behind the bar the stereo was doing its best. Rebecka Martinsson was sweating away in the kitchen. Food in and out of the microwave. Collecting baskets of dirty glasses from behind the bar and bringing out clean ones. It was like a really nice film. All the bad stuff seemed a long way off. The tax office. The bank. Monday mornings when he woke up feeling so bloody tired, deep in his bones, lying there listening to the rats in the garbage.

If only Mimmi could have been a little bit jealous because he’d given Rebecka Martinsson a job, everything would have been perfect. But she’d just said that was great. He’d stopped himself from saying that Rebecka Martinsson was something new for the old men to look at. Mimmi wouldn’t have said anything, but he had the feeling she had a little box hidden away somewhere. And in that little box she was collecting all the times he’d made a mistake or overstepped the mark, and when the box was full she’d pack her bags and go. Without any warning. It was only girls who cared who gave a warning.

But right now his kingdom was as full of life as an anthill in the spring.

* * *

I can do this job, thought Rebecka Martinsson as she sluiced down the plates before putting the tray into the dishwasher.

You didn’t need to think or concentrate. Just carry, work hard, get a move on. Keep up the tempo all the time. She was unaware of how her whole face was smiling as she carted a basket of clean glasses out to Micke.

“Okay?” he asked, and smiled back.

She felt her telephone buzzing in her apron pocket and got it out. No chance that it would be Maria Taube. She worked all the time, that was true, but not on a Saturday night. She’d be out and about, people buying her drinks.

Måns’ number on the display. Her heart turned over.

“Rebecka,” she yelled into the phone, pressing her hand against her other ear so she could hear.

“Måns,” he yelled back.

“Hang on,” she shouted. “Just a minute, it’s so noisy in here.”

She rushed out through the bar, waving the phone at Micke and holding up the fingers of her other hand; she mouthed “five minutes,” moving her lips clearly. Micke nodded in agreement and she slipped outside. The cool night air made the hairs on her arms stand on end.

She could hear a lot of noise at the other end of the phone too. Måns was in a bar. Then things quieted down.

“Okay, I can talk now,” she said.

“Me too. Where are you?” asked Måns.

“Outside Micke’s Bar & Restaurant in Poikkijärvi, that’s a village not far from Kiruna. What about you?”

“Outside Spyan, that’s a little village bar on the edge of Stureplan in Stockholm.”

She laughed. He sounded happy. Not so damned dismissive. He was probably drunk. She didn’t care. They hadn’t spoken to each other since the evening when she’d rowed away from Lidö.

“Are you out partying?” he asked.

“No, actually I’m working illegally.”

Now he’ll get mad, thought Rebecka. Then again, maybe not, it was a gamble.

And Måns laughed out loud.

“I see, and what is it you’re doing?”

“I’ve got a brilliant job washing up,” she said with exaggerated enthusiasm. “I’m earning fifty kronor an hour, that’ll be two hundred and fifty for the night. And they’ve promised I can keep the tips as well, but I don’t know about that, there aren’t that many people coming into the kitchen to give a tip to the washer-up, so I reckon I’ve been taken for a bit of a ride there.”

She could hear Måns laughing at the other end. A kind of snort that ended up in an almost pleading hoot. She knew he did that when he was wiping his eyes.

“Bloody hell, Martinsson,” he sniveled.

Mimmi stuck her head round the door and gave Rebecka a look that meant “crisis.”

“Look, I’ve got to go,” said Rebecka. “Otherwise they’ll dock my pay.”

“Then you’ll end up owing them money. When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll probably end up having to come and fetch you,” said Måns. “You’re just not reliable.”

You do that, thought Rebecka.

* * *

At half-past eleven Lars-Gunnar Vinsa came in. Nalle wasn’t with him. He stood in the middle of the bar looking around. It was like grass in the wind. Everybody was affected by his presence. A few hands raised in the air in greeting, a few nods, a few conversations broken off or slowed, only to resume. A few heads turned. His arrival had been registered. He leaned over the counter and said to Micke:

“That Rebecka Martinsson, has she cleared off or what?”

“No,” said Micke. “Actually, she’s working here tonight.”

Something in Lars-Gunnar’s expression made him go on:

“It’s just a one-off, it’s really busy tonight and Mimmi’s already got her hands full.”

Lars-Gunnar reached over the counter with his bearlike arm and hauled Micke toward the kitchen.

“Come with me, I want to talk to her and I want you to be there.”

Mimmi and Micke managed to exchange a glance before Micke and Lars-Gunnar disappeared through the swing door into the kitchen.

What’s going on? asked Mimmi’s eyes.

How should I know, replied Micke.

Grass in the wind again.

Rebecka Martinsson was standing in the kitchen rinsing dishes.

“So, Rebecka Martinsson,” said Lars-Gunnar. “Come out the back with Micke and me, we need to talk.”

They went out through the back door. The moon like a fish scale above the black river. The dull sounds from the bar. The wind soughing in the tops of the pine trees.

“I want you to tell Micke here who you are,” said Lars-Gunnar Vinsa calmly.

“What do you want to know?” said Rebecka. “My name is Rebecka Martinsson.”

“Maybe you should tell him what you’re doing here?”

Rebecka looked at Lars-Gunnar. If there was one thing she’d learned in her job, it was that you should never start babbling and chattering.

“You seem to have something on your mind,” she said. “You carry on.”

“This is where you come from, well, not here, but Kurravaara. You’re a lawyer, and you’re the one that killed those three pastors in Jiekajärvi two years ago.”

Two pastors and one sick boy, she thought.

But she didn’t correct him. Stood there in silence.

“I thought you were a secretary,” said Micke.

“You must understand we’re wondering, those of us who live in the village,” said Lars-Gunnar. “Why a lawyer’s got herself a job in the kitchen, working under false colors. What you’re earning tonight is probably what you’d normally pay for lunch in the city. We’re wondering why you’ve wormed your way in here… poking about. I mean, I don’t really care. People can do what they want as far as I’m concerned, but I thought Micke had a right to know. And besides…”

His eyes slid away from her and he looked out across the river. Let out a deep sigh. A weight settled on his shoulders.

“… there’s the fact that you were using Nalle. He’s only a little boy inside his head. But you had the stomach to worm your way in here with his help.”

Mimmi appeared in the doorway. Micke gave her a look that made her come outside to join them, closing the door behind her. She didn’t speak.

“I thought I recognized the name,” Lars-Gunnar went on. “I used to be in the police, so I’m well aware of what happened in Jiekajärvi. But then the penny dropped. You murdered those people. Vesa Larsson, anyway. It may well be that the prosecutor didn’t think there was a case to answer, but I can tell you as far as the police are concerned, that doesn’t mean a thing. Not a bloody thing. Ninety percent of cases where you know someone’s guilty finish up not even going to court. And you must be feeling really pleased with yourself. Getting away with murder, that’s clever. And I don’t know what you’re doing here. I don’t know if that business with Viktor Strandgård gave you the taste for more, and you’re here playing the private eye off your own bat, or if you’re maybe working for some newspaper. I don’t give a shit which it is. But in any case, the charade stops right here.”

Rebecka looked at them.

I ought to make a speech, of course, she thought. Speak out in my defense.

And say what? That this had given her something else to think about, other than putting stones in her jacket pockets and sewing them up. That she couldn’t cope with being a lawyer anymore. That she belonged to this river. That she’d saved the lives of Sanna Strandgård’s daughters.

She untied her apron and handed it to Micke. Turned away without a word. She didn’t go back through the bar. Instead she went straight past the henhouse and over the road to her chalet.

Don’t run! she told herself. She could feel their eyes on her back.

Nobody followed her demanding an explanation. She pushed her belongings into her suitcase and overnight bag, threw them on the backseat of her rented car and drove away.

She didn’t cry.

What does it matter? she thought. It’s completely and utterly insignificant. Everything is insignificant. Nothing matters at all.

YELLOW LEGS

Bitter cold February. The days are growing longer, but the cold is hard, like God’s fist. Still implacable. The sun is nothing more than an image in the sky, the air is like solid glass. Under a thick white blanket the mice and voles find their way about. The cloven-footed animals gnaw through the icy bark on the trees. They are growing thinner, waiting for the spring.

But minus forty degrees or the snowstorms that cover the whole landscape in a slow white wave of destruction don’t bother the wolf pack. Quite the contrary. This is the best time. The best weather. They have picnics with outdoor activities in the blizzards. There is sufficient food. Their territory is extensive, their hunters skillful. No heat to torment them. No bloodsucking insects.

As for Yellow Legs, her days are numbered. The glint of the alpha female’s sharp teeth tell her it’s time. Soon. Soon. Now. Yellow Legs has tried everything. Crawled on her knees, begging to be allowed to stay. This February morning, the time has come. She is not permitted to approach the family. The alpha female lunges at her, jaws snapping at the air.

The hours pass. Yellow Legs does not leave straightaway. Stays a short distance away from the pack. Hoping for a sign that she will be allowed to return. But the alpha female is implacable. Gets up and drives her away.

One of the males, Yellow Legs’ brother, turns away from her. In her mind she wants to bury her nose in his fur, sleep with her head resting on his shoulder.

The young wolves look at Yellow Legs with their tails down. Her yellow legs want to run, to chase them through the trees, tumbling over and over in a play fight, then up on her feet being chased by them in her turn.

And the cubs, soon they’ll be a year old, cocky, foolhardy, still like puppies. They understand enough about what’s happening now to keep calm and stay out of it. Whimpering uncertainly. She wants to drop an injured hare at their feet and watch them set off after it, ecstatic at the chance to hunt, leaping over one another in their eagerness.

She tries one last time. Takes a tentative step forward. This time the alpha female chases her right to the edge of the forest. In under the gray branches of the old fir trees, stripped of their needles. She stands there watching the pack and the alpha female, calmly making her way back to the others.

Now she must sleep alone. Until now she has rested among the sleepy sounds of the pack, yelping and hunting in their dreams, grunting and sighing, farting. From now on her ears will remain alert while she herself drifts into an uneasy sleep.

From now on unfamiliar scents will fill her nose, eroding the memory of her sisters and brothers, half-siblings and cousins, cubs and elders.

She sets off at a slow trot. Travelling in one direction. Yearning to be going the other way. She has lived here. She will survive there.

S
UNDAY
S
EPTEMBER
10

It is Sunday evening. Rebecka Martinsson is sitting on the floor in her grandmother’s house in Kurravaara. She’s lit a fire in the stove. A blanket over her shoulders, her arms around her knees. From time to time she takes a log out of the wooden box from the Swedish Sugar Company. She is gazing into the fire. Her muscles are tired. During the day she has carried rugs, blankets, quilts, mattresses and cushions outside. She’s beaten them and left them hanging out there. She has scrubbed the floor with yellow soap and cleaned the windows. Washed all the china and wiped out the kitchen cupboards. She’s left the ground floor at that. She’s had the windows wide open all day to air the place, get rid of all the old, stale air. Now she’s lit a fire in both the kitchen stove and the other room to drive out the last of the damp. She has kept the Sabbath day holy. Her mind has rested. Now it is resting in the fire. In the age-old way.

* * *

Inspector Sven-Erik Stålnacke is sitting in his living room. The television is on, but with no sound. Just in case there might be a cat miaowing outside. It doesn’t matter, he’s seen this film before. It’s Tom Hanks, falling in love with a mermaid.

The whole house feels empty without the cat. He’s walked along the side of the road, looking in the ditch and calling quietly. Now he feels very tired. Not from walking, but from listening so hard all the time. From keeping going. Although he knows there’s no point.

And no sign of life from the priest who’s vanished. Both evening papers had got hold of it on Saturday. Center page spread on the disappearance. A comment from the national police profiling team, but nothing from the female psychiatrist who did actually help them with a profile. One of the evening papers had found some old case from the seventies, where some lunatic in Florida had murdered two revivalist preachers. The murderer had been killed himself by a fellow prisoner while he was cleaning the toilets, but during his time in jail he’d boasted that he’d committed other murders he hadn’t gone down for. Big picture of Stefan Wikström. The words “priest,” “father of four,” “despairing wife” appeared in the text under the picture. Not a word about possible embezzlement, thank the Lord. Sven-Erik also noticed that it didn’t say anything about Stefan Wikström being opposed to women priests.