The Second Deadly Sin
Page 32
*
Eriksson was sitting at his kitchen table. It was almost midnight. The doctor at the hospital had given him some sleeping pills, but he did not want to take them. They had promised to ring as soon as Marcus regained consciousness, and he wanted to be awake when that happened.
He tried to convince himself that he would just have to reconcile himself to things that he could not change.
But he could not stop thinking about Marcus. He had sat on the edge of his bed at the hospital, holding his hand until he fell asleep. Then the doctor had insisted that he go home. “You must also get some rest,” she had said.
All human relationships are transient, he told himself.
But that did not help.
He looked out at his dark garden where not long ago he had lain in the dog kennel, reading aloud to Marcus.
As soon as his mother hears that he is rich, he thought, she’ll take the first available flight up here and come to fetch him. I must be happy. Happy for every minute I still have with him.
His train of thought was interrupted by the dogs starting to bark and running to the door.
Martinsson was standing outside.
She looked awful. The light over the door made her eyes look like holes. Her nose was blue and swollen. Her upper lip as well. They had stitched over her eyebrows.
“I’ve come to fetch the Brat,” she said stiffly. The whole of her face was struggling to prevent her from bursting into tears.
“Oh, Rebecka,” he said. “Come in.”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I just want to go home.”
“Vera?” he said. “What happened?”
She shook her head again. And something inside him suddenly caused him so much pain that he burst out crying.
“She left a trail,” Martinsson said in a voice that threatened to break. “Maja would have found us.”
Although he was the one who was crying, he wanted to hug her. To hold her close when she was so very sad.
She stood out there in the feeble light from the lamp over the door. Her chest was heaving as if she were out of breath.
“Marcus is still alive,” he said eventually. “Come in for a moment, my dear.”
“It doesn’t help,” she whispered. “It doesn’t help that he’s still alive.”
She leaned forward. Pressed her clenched fist to her midriff as if to prevent the tears from forcing their way out. She held on to the rail. A long, agonised wail forced its way out. An anguished cry, of the kind that shatters a person, forces her down onto her knees.
“It doesn’t help,” she sobbed.
Then she looked up at him.
“Hold me tight. I must … Somebody must hold me tight.”
He took a step forward and wrapped his arms round her. Rocked her from side to side. Held her tight. Mumbled into her hair.
“There, there. Cry now. Cry away.”
And they both cried.
The dogs came out and stood round them. The Brat forced its nose in between Martinsson’s knees.
She looked up at Eriksson. Sought after his mouth with hers. Cautiously, as it was so tender and painful.
“Have sex with me,” she said. “Fuck me all ends up so that I can forget about all this.”
He ought not to. He should say no. But she had her arms around him – how could he possibly thrust her away? His hands roved around inside her overcoat and under her jumper. He pulled her into the hall.
“In you come,” he said to the dogs, and managed to close the door behind them.
Then he took hold of her hands and walked backwards up the stairs, leading her up. Her tears were dripping down onto his hands. The dogs followed them, like a sort of bridal procession.
He laid her down underneath him on the bed, and didn’t want to let her go. Couldn’t let her go. He caressed her. Over her skin and her small breasts. She wriggled out of her clothes and told him to get undressed. He did so. Lay down on top of her, expecting all the time that she would suddenly say “Stop!”
She was so soft. He kissed her hair and her ears and the side of her mouth that wasn’t so tender. After all, he hadn’t indulged in any chewing tobacco.
She did not say “Stop!” She guided him inside her.
This is all wrong, he thought. But he was away on cloud nine.
*
Afterwards he fetched a glass of water and one of the sleeping pills he had been given by the doctor.
“What about Marcus?” she asked when he came back. “Will his mother want to take him on now that he’s rich?”
“I don’t know,” he said, handing her the tablet. “Here, take this. Sleep now.”
“She’ll want the money,” Martinsson said. “She hasn’t even wanted to see him. But now … That bloody woman. Of course she’ll want to have him now.”
She fell silent when she saw his sorrowful eyes.
“Would you have been prepared to look after him?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said softly. “Ever since I first found him. I can’t explain it. But I was allowed to take care of him for a few days. Now …”
He shook his head sadly.
She sat up.
“Get dressed,” she said. “I’ll ring Björnfot and Mella.”
*
Mella, Martinsson, Eriksson and Björnfot met in the latter’s little flat that he used when he was in Kiruna. It was in the middle of the night – half past one, to be precise.
They sat in a room that had both a dining area and a small three-piece suite, and warmed themselves up with a cup of tea. Björnfot’s tracksuit was draped over the back of the sofa, and in the bathroom there was a special stand in which his skis were fixed, ready for waxing. It was obvious that at least somebody was longing for snow.
“You’re out of your mind,” Mella said to Martinsson.
“She left him when he was one year old,” Martinsson said. “And she never even wanted to see him in the school holidays. I want those share certificates to disappear.”
Björnfot opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“We can lock them up in a bank vault,” she went on. “He can have them when he’s eighteen. I promise to keep an eye on the company and make sure that they don’t plan any new share issues, or anything else that could affect the value of Marcus’s certificates.”
“Örjan knows that they exist,” Mella said with a yawn.
“That they existed! But – oops, Sol-Britt must have thrown them away,” said Martinsson. “Under the impression that they were worthless. If Marcus’s mother wants to take care of him, then that’s fine –but she must want to have him without any financial reward.”
“She won’t want to in that case,” Mella said.
She turned to Eriksson.
“But are you really willing to take care of him? Believe you me,” she said, “looking after a youngster involves an awful lot of work. And he’s been through quite a bit.”
“Yes, I’m willing,” Eriksson said. “And I don’t want his money. We can burn those share certificates.”
“Nothing is going to be burnt,” Björnfot said. “Besides, what is there to burn? I’ve never seen any share certificates.”
“Nor have I,” Mella said. “Can we go to bed now?”
“Yes,” Martinsson said, being careful to avoid looking Eriksson in the eye. “I suppose we can.”
THURSDAY, 27 OCTOBER
Von Post woke up with a stab of pain in his chest.
Hell and damnation, he thought as he reached for the telephone. Björnfot responded after the first ring. Von Post looked at the clock. Yes, of course he would be awake – it was just gone eight, after all.
“Jenny Häggroth!” von Post said. “I take it she isn’t still locked up in the cell at the police station?”
“Well,” the Chief Prosecutor said ponderously, “if you, in your capacity as leader of the investigation, haven’t issued an instruction to release her, she’s no doubt still there.”
“Hmm,” Björnfot said even more ponderously. “I spoke to Mella a short time ago, and she said she rang and reported to you last night. No doubt that conversation will be noted in both of your mobile phones, so perhaps you might like to devote a little time to adjusting your memory.”
“I’ll call them and instruct them to release her immediately,” von Post said. “There’s not really a problem. After all, it was only last night that—”
“With Silbersky as her defence counsel? You can’t assume that. When the reason for holding somebody under arrest or in custody no longer applies, the unlawful deprivation of liberty must cease immediately. Immediately. Not a few hours later. And definitely not the following morning.”
Von Post groaned audibly. That hook-nosed swine will have him for breakfast.
“I shall be found guilty of professional misconduct,” he snarled between his teeth.
Judges and prosecutors were sometimes found guilty of professional misconduct. If they forgot to subtract days already spent in custody from a prison sentence, or in some other way deprived a person of his or her freedom illegally. The result would not be the sack, but a significant loss of prestige. It was the kind of thing that colleagues chirrupped on about behind one’s back for ever and a day.
“Rebecka Martinsson will sit in the public gallery eating popcorn,” he said.
“I find that difficult to believe,” his boss said, while thinking to himself: but I might.
Martinsson woke up and looked straight into Eriksson’s eyes. How long had he been lying there, waiting for her to wake up? Lying at the foot of the bed were Tintin, the Brat and Roy, slowly waking up.
“Hello, my lovely,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
She moved the muscles in her face. Stiff and swollen.
“Come off it,” she said. “You are calling me lovely because you want to make love to me again. Dogs in your bed?”
He sighed.
“I know. It’s your and Marcus’s fault.”
Martinsson reached for her coat that was lying on the floor, and took out her mobile. Three messages and five missed calls from Måns.
There’s something wrong, she thought, when you don’t want to ring your boyfriend. When you don’t want to talk. When you just feel under pressure. And maybe there’s something amiss when you have sex with somebody else.
“I’m going to dump Måns,” she said to Eriksson.
He stroked her hair.
Yes, he thought. Yes!
But he actually said, “Don’t make any big decisions now.”
“O.K.,” she said.
“Make small decisions. I’m going to fetch Marcus from the hospital. Would you like to have breakfast with us?”
She smiled. Tentatively. It caused her too much pain in her face and in her heart. One little decision at a time.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d love to have breakfast with you.”
THE AUTHOR’S THANKS
I stumbled and fell. The book came adrift and ran off into the trees. My thanks to all of you who helped me back up onto my feet – you know who you are. For a while I thought the book was lost forever, but it came back in the end, my beloved little devil.
Hjalmar Lundbohm actually existed – but the whole of his relationship with Elina is invented, of course. I make things up and tell lies, that’s my job. I make a mess of Martinsson’s face, and kill dogs.
There are so many people I would like to thank, but on this occasion I must make special mention of the following:
My publisher Eva Bonnier, and my editor Rachel Åkerstedt for your strict but loving assistance, and all the lovely people I have contact with at Albert Bonniers publishing house and the Bonnier Group Agency.
Eva Hörnell Sköldstrand and Sara Luthander Hallström who read my text and encouraged me. Malin Persson Giolito! “Read it with a knife in your hand,” I said, and she produced a machete! My mum and dad, who are mainly to thank for my culture, my origins and my feeling for the part of Sweden where I grew up.
Curt Persson, county custodian of antiquities for Norrbotten, who so generously passed on his vast knowledge of Kiruna around the time of the First World War, and of Hjalmar Lundbohm. Kjell Törmä who allowed me to use his story about when he gave up chewing tobacco, but ended up by drying out wet tobacco in his microwave. Cecilia Bergman, who I ring non-stop with questions about the work of a prosecutor, and how the law works. Professor Marie Allen at the Rudbecklaboratoriet in Uppsala, who has such fascinating stories to tell about bones and blood that one is tempted to change one’s profession. Chief Medical Officer Peter Löwenhielm, who has helped me with my dead bodies. Niklas Högström, who instructed me about shares in the old days. Jörgen Wallmark at the Ice Hotel in Jukkasjärvi for showing me around the workshops there. Any errors in the book are entirely my responsibility, because I forgot to ask, misunderstood what I was told, or made things up so that they fitted better into the story.
Stella and Leo. Now the book is finished! I know you have been longing for that to happen! Ola, my arctic fox: my love and thanks.
And for those of you who wonder about the meaning of “Hänen ej ole ko pistää takaisin ja nussia uuesti”, I would translate it roughly as follows: “All you can do is put him back again and fuck him once more”. In other words, “He is so awful that you have to recreate him”. My grandmother used to come out with statements like that. The fact that she was a deeply religious Laestadian was no obstacle – language used to be a bit more spicy up in Tornedalen.
ÅSA LARSSON was born in 1966; she grew up in Kiruna and now lives in Mariefred. She is a qualified lawyer and in 2003 published The Savage Altar, which was awarded the Swedish Crime Writers’ Association prize for best first novel. Its sequel, The Blood Spilt, was chosen as Best Swedish Crime Novel of 2004, an honour bestowed on The Second Deadly Sin in 2012.
LAURIE THOMPSON is the distinguished translator of novels by Henning Mankell and Håkan Nesser. He was editor of Swedish Book Review until 2002.
† Laestadianism is a conservative Lutheran sect, based predominantly in Scandinavia. It traces its roots to the teachings of Sami-Swedish botanist Lars Levi Laestadius, in the mid-19th century.