The Second Deadly Sin

by Larsson, Åsa

  She is furious deep down inside because Lundbohm did not even ask about the boy.

  But there again, perhaps it is as well that he did not. What if he had in fact taken on responsibility for the child? Who would have looked after the boy then? Some housekeeper?

  Nevertheless, she thinks as she allows the white sauce to burn at the bottom of the pan: he ought to have asked how the boy was!

  *

  It is late evening. Lundbohm is in the courtyard of his official residence, all by himself, smoking a cigar. He has donned his large wolfskin coat and accompanied his guests on the first stage of their walk home.

  It has been a very pleasant evening – almost disgracefully pleasant, bearing in mind that Manager-in-Chief Fasth has not even been buried yet. Nobody so much as mentioned his name during the course of the dinner. When Lundbohm said a few words and proposed a toast in his memory, everyone raised their glasses in appropriate silence: but they were all keen to talk about something else the moment their glasses had been set down on the table.

  Perhaps I’m the only one who will miss him, Lundbohm thinks as he gazes up at the pole star as usual.

  Fasth was a tough customer, and widely disliked. But he did his job, and did it well.

  And mine too, Lundbohm admits to himself. He took care of all the things I prefer to have nothing to do with – discipline, rules and regulations, bookkeeping.

  And now Lundbohm has lost his housekeeper as well.

  He tries to erase Lizzie’s expressionless face from his memory. She is always sunshine itself, just like …

  Elina.

  But he is not going to think about Elina. He must not. Nothing can turn the clock back. What is done cannot be undone.

  Pegasus, Taurus, the Charioteer – they all stare coldly down at him. He stands alone in the wintry night, and feels so shatteringly lonely. The words of the Bible float into his mind: When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?

  I am nobody, he thinks, and suddenly feels just as lonely as he did during those early years in the infant school. Even then he was an overweight dreamer, without friends.

  And now – if I didn’t have the mine, and this home? Who would I be then? The whole world knows the managing director of the mine. But who knows Hjalmar Lundbohm?

  Elina, he thinks. Did she really love me? Did she? All those men who regularly turned their heads to look at her. All the letters they used to leave outside her door.

  He recalled her skin. Her body. His own surprise at the beginning – because she really did seem to want him. Even though he was old enough to be her father.

  He has difficulty in breathing, drops the cigar in the snow. He suddenly feels afraid of falling. And not being able to stand up again.

  It’s just that I’m tired, he tells himself. This is nothing. It’s just that I’ve been working too hard.

  He staggers indoors, arms outstretched in order to keep his balance.

  Once inside, he flops down onto the bench in the hall.

  The boy – obviously it could be his. But she didn’t confirm or deny it when he asked. And how would he be able to look after him? The lad needs a mother. And he knows that Lizzie and her fiancé have taken him to their hearts.

  That is the best thing for him.

  The house is so quiet. There is nothing in his bed apart from his hot-water bottles.

  He shuffles slowly up the stairs to his bedroom. Muttering to himself on every step: best thing for him, best thing for him.

  Ten million, Martinsson thought as she drove home. The share certificates were in her handbag on the back seat.

  Canadian dollars, she thought as she stood at a loss in her kitchen, the share certificates in her hands. Eventually she placed them right at the bottom of the pile of invoices lying on her desk.

  “I shall go and fetch Marcus,” she said to Vera and the Brat. “You can wait here.”

  But when she opened the front door, Vera took advantage of the opportunity to sneak out.

  “Huh, typical,” Martinsson said as she opened the car door. “You never pay any attention to what I say, do you? So you are going to come with me and fetch Marcus, are you?”

  Vera jumped in and sat down on the front passenger seat. Martinsson could hear the Brat yapping away inside the house.

  She drove along the dirt road until she came to the path leading to the River Rautas.

  The last of the daylight was fading away. The sky was dull blue. The moon shone out through narrow gaps in the clouds. Drops of moisture trembled on tree branches. Patches of snow here and there shone like polished mirrors.

  The path was slippery, and you couldn’t see where you were going. The wooden bridge over the bog was even worse.

  Vera scampered along, digging in her claws, but both she and Martinsson slipped several times. Tumbled down into the mud.

  When they reached the far side of the bog, Vera’s stomach was soaking wet, and Martinsson was wet up to her knees.

  Her boots were sliding in all directions. Her toes were icy cold.

  The cottages on the riverbank were shrouded in darkness. Abandoned and empty. Boats were lying upside down on the riverbank. Tarpaulins were spread over bicycles and sandpits and garden furniture.

  Martinsson wondered which of the cottages Larsson was renting.

  “Ah well,” she said to Vera. “Come on.”

  Vera sneaked off into the trees. Martinsson kept going until she saw a light in one of the cottages. She knocked on the door.

  Maja Larsson opened it.

  “Good heavens,” she said when she saw Martinsson’s soaking wet legs.

  She produced a pair of dry skiing socks, and put the coffee on the stove.

  Martinsson massaged her feet, and felt the pain as the cold slowly faded away.

  “Örjan and Marcus went upstream to do some fishing,” Larsson said. “Let’s hope they don’t slip and smash their skulls in the dark. They ought to be back any minute now. Why not take off your jeans while you’re waiting? Would you like a sandwich with liver pâté?”

  “Yes please. I haven’t had any lunch. Did you know that Sol-Britt had a half-brother?”

  “What? No, I didn’t. She always used to say that it was lucky I was around because she didn’t have any siblings. Hang on a minute, I have to count in order to make sure that your coffee isn’t too strong. Örjan always says that the spoon ought to be able to stand up in the cup of its own accord …”

  “So she didn’t know about it?”

  Larsson switched on the coffee machine and produced a loaf of bread from a plastic bag. She seemed to be thinking hard as she made the sandwich. She cut the bread slowly into exactly identical slices. Then spread the butter and liver pâté as if she were painting in oils.

  “No, I suppose I ought to be absolutely astounded. But then, all families have their secrets, don’t you think?”

  She placed the sandwiches in front of Martinsson.

  “She said nothing to me. But she must surely have known about it. After her father’s death, in any case.”

  Martinsson’s mobile rang. Maja turned away and collected two coffee mugs from a cupboard. Martinsson took her mobile from out of her overcoat pocket. A text message from Sonja.

  Sol-Britt Uusitalo’s half-brother. I’ll send his name, personal identity number and passport pic by e-mail.

  Martinsson opened her e-mails.

  Örjan Bäck, 19480914-6910.

  *

  Martinsson stopped breathing. It took several seconds before the passport photograph appeared. She recognised that mop of fair hair.

  “How did it happen?” she said, trying hard to make her voice sound the same as normal. “How did you and Örjan get together?”

  Shit, she thought. Shit, shit, shit.

  “He came to read my water meter last spring,” Larsson said, putting the mugs down on the
table.

  “I thought homeowners read meters themselves nowadays, and sent the readings to the company?”

  “Yes, I’d done that in fact, but they had some kind of computer glitch, and a lot of data simply disappeared out of the system. Anyway, Örjan came to read it. And I had a rotten tree that was threatening to fall down on top of my shed. He offered to cut it down for me, and things just went on from there. Why …”

  Martinsson stood up.

  “Marcus!” she exclaimed.

  Larsson had picked up the coffee jug, but put it back down on the table.

  “Good Lord, Rebecka,” she said. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know how to put this,” Martinsson said, “but Örjan, he’s—”

  As she said that there was a sound from inside the hall cupboard. A choking sound.

  Larsson jumped back in horror, as if she had just seen a snake. She uttered a brief yelp of surprise.

  Martinsson took a couple of quick paces forward and opened the cupboard door.

  Marcus fell out. His knees were pulled up towards his face. He was trussed up with gaffer tape, round his wrists and feet, round his body and over his mouth.

  He looked up and stared wideeyed at Martinsson.

  Martinsson bent down to remove the tape from over his mouth, but she couldn’t: it was stuck fast.

  A sudden thought flashed into her mind.

  But … This was not possible. Because Örjan …

  Marcus’s gaze switched to something behind her head. And at the same moment she felt fingers of steel around her neck.

  Larsson was astoundingly strong. She grasped Martinsson’s neck with one hand, and grabbed tight hold of her hair with the other. Then she hit Martinsson’s head against the doorpost. Martinsson raised her hands to defend herself, but before she had lifted them as far as her face, her head hit the doorpost for the second time. After the third thump, her vision started to turn black at the edges. It was as if she were looking at Marcus through a keyhole. She did not feel the fourth thud against the doorpost. She had a vague feeling of her legs disappearing from underneath her. Her arms became helpless.

  Then she fell. On top of Marcus.

  One evening in August 1919, Hjalmar Lundbohm bumps into Police Superintendent Björnfot. They decide to have dinner together, at the Railway Hotel. They start with cheese, butter and pickled herring, with a shot of schnapps and a lager chaser; then Lübeck ham with spinach and eggs and more schnapps; and they round things off with soured whole milk, coffee and cognac.

  By the time the whisky appears on the table, they are both distinctly merry: but they are sturdy, upright gentlemen and can handle strong drink better than most, and so they continue beckoning to fröken Holm, who is their waitress. They drink and they smoke.

  They talk about the war, which has finished at last. About how times have changed. Lundbohm sighs about the way in which the new board of directors at the mine keep poking their noses into everything: they want to be kept informed and consulted over every little detail.

  “I’m a man of action,” he says. “If something needs doing, I do it, no messing about.”

  It is a different world now. The jazz bacillus is everywhere. Votes for women. Civil war in Russia. And time is running out for the managing director of the mine. Herr Lundbohm will celebrate his sixty-fifth birthday next spring. They wallow in memories.

  In the end Lundbohm brings up the subject of Elina Pettersson. He tells the police superintendent it’s no secret that he and the schoolteacher were more than just good friends for the year before her murder.

  Björnfot becomes very quiet indeed now, but Lundbohm doesn’t seem to notice.

  “But then, she had several lovers,” he says, and pauses. When Björnfot looks puzzled, he goes on.

  “I know about that. The investigation made that clear. There were several possible candidates for paternity.”

  “What investigation?”

  “Yours! Your investigation! Manager-in-Chief Fasth told me about it before he … Well, that was also a tragedy. We’ve certainly had our trials and tribulations, haven’t we?”

  Police Superintendent Björnfot says nothing. He says nothing and shakes his head slowly. Stares at his glass of whisky, seems to hesitate, but then decides to speak up, come what may.

  “No, as far as I’m aware she never had any other lover. But I’m absolutely certain that it was Manager-in-Chief Fasth who killed her.”

  Lundbohm shudders. Like a dog shaking itself free of water. Wonders what the hell Björnfot is talking about.

  And the superintendent of police looks at the managing director of the mine and thinks: he didn’t know. He really didn’t know.

  Then he tells his friend the whole story. About the shirtsleeve in the stove. About what the maids have said.

  When he has finished, he expects Lundbohm to say something, to react in some way.

  But Lundbohm just sits there with his eyes and mouth wide open.

  In the end Björnfot becomes uneasy.

  “Herr Lundbohm,” he says. “Herr Lundbohm. Are you alright?”

  But Lundbohm has lost the ability to speak. Nor is he capable of standing up. Björnfot calls to fröken Holm. One of the girls in the kitchen runs to fetch the doctor while they and a few customers who are still present combine to carry Lundbohm down to fröken Holm’s bed.

  “He’s not drunk,” Björnfot shouts. “I’ve seen him drunk, and he’s not like this. Look at him! He’s trying to speak!”

  The doctor arrives, but by then Lundbohm is able to walk, albeit with difficulty, and to speak again.

  The doctor suspects nicotine poisoning and heart problems. And he comments that drinking in moderation never did anybody any harm.

  “And that applies to the police as well!”

  Martinsson slowly recovers consciousness, and hears somebody shouting. Her head is riven with pain, and when she gasps for breath she discovers that she cannot breathe in through her nose. It feels as if somebody has deposited a large lump of clay over her face, over her nose, and blocked all her airways.

  She doesn’t move – the urge to vomit comes darting up from inside her.

  Somebody is shouting over her, in the darkness. A man.

  “No, no,” he yells. “This wasn’t what we agreed.”

  She is lying in such a strange position, her legs stretched up behind her back, and her hands behind her back as well.

  At first she has the vague feeling that she has been split into two pieces. Broken her back.

  Then she hears a woman’s voice. Maja Larsson.

  “Shush, this is the last one. It’s all for you, my darling. Just keep calm. If you could move her car—”

  “No, I’m not going to do anything. This has nothing to do with what I promised. I’m not doing anything.”

  “Alright, alright, I’ll move it. I’ll take care of everything. Keep calm. Sit down. Stop marching up and down. Keep calm.”

  No, her back isn’t broken. She’s been trussed up. And she has a splitting headache. She tries to hold her breath and listen for any trace of Marcus.

  Lie still. Don’t throw up. Don’t move. If you do, Larsson will start smashing your skull again.

  She hears the sound of a bottle being placed on the table. And something else. A glass?

  “Here you are,” Larsson says. “Just keep calm. I’ll soon be back.”

  “What are you going to do? Where are you going? You mustn’t leave me alone.”

  “I’m going to move her car. I’ll put the boy in the boat and overturn it. The simplest drowning accident anybody could possibly imagine. I’ll fetch a tarpaulin and some weights for her.”

  “I don’t want anything to do with this. You promised.”

  “I’m sorry. But you don’t need to do anything.”

  A somewhat muffled voice now. As if she is pressing her mouth against his hair.

  “Keep going – it’ll soon be over. And then everything will be yours. Y
ou’ll be able to travel to wherever you like. Do whatever you like. For the rest of your life. And if you’d like to have me there with you …”

  “Of course I would. You must come with me.”

  “. . . then of course, I’ll be there.”

  Steps over the floor. Then the door. Opened. Closed.

  The sound of the glass as he slides it towards himself. The sound of the metal stopper when he opens the bottle. The sound of liquid being poured into a glass.

  Has she gone now? wonders Martinsson. Is he on his own? Yes, he is.

  If only I could understand, she thinks, struggling so as not to sink into oblivion again. It is like a heartbeat inside her, a sort of murky liberation. Fractions of a second that are not throbbing pain. Her body longs to give way. To sink into that oblivion.

  No, she says to herself. And she says aloud to him, “She’ll kill you.”

  As she says that, she opens her eyes.

  Maja’s boyfriend is sitting at the kitchen table. He gives a start and stares at her.

  “Örjan,” she says – her voice is hoarse as a result of her blocked nose, and she makes a supreme effort to spit out onto the floor slime and blood that would prefer to be sliding down her throat. “She’ll kill you.”

  “Rubbish,” he says. “Shut your gob, or I’ll smash your skull in.”

  Martinsson is gasping for breath.

  “My skull is already smashed,” she manages to say. “This isn’t what you had bargained for, surely? Killing a child.”

  He thumps his fist down onto the table, in time with his roaring.

  “Shut up! Shut up, shut up! She’s doing all this for me. For my sake! So why should she want to kill me? She wouldn’t get an öre if she did that.”

  He slides his glass to one side, raises the bottle to his mouth and gulps down large amounts of Jägermeister.

  “Cousins don’t inherit,” he says, as if he is repeating something he has learnt by rote. “Sol-Britt and Maja were cousins.”

  “No,” Martinsson says. “But aunts inherit. And Maja’s mother is Sol-Britt’s aunt. Think about that. If Sol-Britt had survived, you would have inherited half of it. And half of it is a lot of money, But Maja wouldn’t have got anything at all. She was patient to start with. It’s three years since she ran over Sol-Britt’s son.”