by Will Dean
‘Didn’t mean to frighten you and your man in the office back there. I don’t live nearby here. They’re changing the tyres over on my truck, putting new winters on, so I don’t have nowhere to leave my firearm right now.’
I shake my head dismissively. He’s maybe a foot taller than me with a broad neck and large rough hands. I feel the truck leaning to his side.
‘Who was your brother?’
‘Fredrik Larsson, he passed in ’93. Lived here and worked at the SPT pulp mill up the road. I’m based in Jönköping so don’t often get up this far north, not back then neither. Saw that ghostwriter got arrested again and finally thought my family could put all this to bed. Then the ghostwriter gets released and I don’t know what to damn well think, pardon my language.’
‘You want a coffee? There’s a McDonald’s five minutes away, we could sit outside and you can keep your gun locked in the truck.’
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Sounds good.’
I back up and drive to McDonald’s. We end up using the drive-thru for coffee and donuts and sit in the car park with the windows cracked open. I can see Tammy’s takeout van in the distance, steam rising from its roof.
‘Fred thought someone was spying on him back in the week before he died. We talked on the phone, joked it was the government or something. I reckon he was picked, y’know. I think the Medusa coward that done this to my big brother had him in his sights for a while before he pulled that trigger.’
‘Any idea who picked him?’
He shakes his head.
‘I’ve talked to a lot of people in the area about the shootings, Mr Larsson. Can I run a few names by you maybe and you can tell me if you recognise anyone, or if anything rings a bell in your head.’
He takes a slurp of coffee. He’s removed the lid because he can’t seem to master drinking out of the little hole in the plastic.
‘Fire away.’
‘Well, let’s start with Holmqvist. I think many people still suspect him, at least for some of the deaths.’
‘Seems like a first-rate weirdo to me, but Fred never talked about him, never talked about no book writer.’
‘Okay, what about Bengt Gustavsson? He’s a retired soldier, lives in Mossen village.’
He shakes his head.
‘Viggo Svensson? He’s a taxi driver from Mossen.’
He shakes his head and bites a chunk out of a sugar-dusted donut.
‘Two sisters who carve model trolls, Cornelia and Alice Sørlie?’
‘Sorry, nope, never heard of none of them. Fred and me didn’t talk much,’ he looks down at the half-donut in his hand. ‘We shoulda talked more than we did.’
‘What about Hannes and Frida Carlsson? They live at the end of the road in Mossen village, at the centre of Utgard forest. He works in the pulp mill that employed your brother, Fred.’
‘He the boss?’
‘One of them, yes. He runs the––’
‘Well, Fred did mention his boss a few times. Said he was breaking his balls over Fred’s holiday time around his wedding if I remember right. Fred wanted a decent honeymoon and the boss was having none of it. Fred reckoned the boss hated him cos Fred got chatting to the boss’s missus at the Christmas party the year before. Well, I asked Fred if he was flirting with her cos he was a good-looking lad was Fred and he had an eye for the ladies, but he tells me no, just being friendly. You reckon that mill boss is the killer?’
‘I don’t know about that, but I think you should tell the police what you just told me.’
‘Well, maybe.’
‘And one more thing,’ I say. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but I’ve been talking to some old-timers who used to visit a place between here and the mill. It’s a strip club now.’
He smiles at me and I see sugar crystals stuck to his lips. ‘You mean, The Love Shack?’
‘I’ve never heard it called that. That was the name of the brothel?’
‘No, it never had no name I don’t think. That’s just what Fred and me used to call the place. Fred went there a fair bit I think before his wedding. He used to complain to me about the steep prices. He’d go there with a big-spender mate from the mill. Pete, I think his name was. But Fred never went back after he got married, he turned to his other vices; at least that’s what he told me. He was a red-blooded young guy, y’know, into hunting and gambling and fighting. Told me he never stepped a foot inside that place after he took his vows.’
‘He ever mention a man who worked there? A barman?’
‘Never mentioned no men. Those places don’t usually have no men working in them.’
I drop Martin Larsson off at the police station with his rifle cocked over his arm. I park and walk past my office and on up the street. The heavy glass door of Björnmossen’s hunting store squeaks as I open it.
‘You here to shut me down, Moodyson?’
Benny Björnmossen’s sitting behind the till on a brown leather stool.
‘Just browsing, I need a few things.’
He grunts and I pace around the creaky floorboards checking out racks of wet-weather gear and fishing tackle. The store smells of waxed jackets and cigarettes and rubber boots. Behind the till is a wall of small wooden boxes on shelves all behind a locked wire screen. Ammunition. Each box has a printed label with an excellent name like Hornet or Winchester or Remington or Magnum or Krag or Ruger or Beowulf.
I look at GPS tracking devices designed to be strapped to hounds. I check out scopes and high-energy dog food and telescopic tripods.
‘You have any night-vision binoculars, Benny?’
He walks over to me like a cowboy in a western. His legs are bowed and I can see red bumps all over his neck and chin. At first I think they’re razor burn, but as he steps closer I can see them on his wrists too. They’re mosquito bites.
‘Now, listen to me, if you can’t see it properly then you can’t shoot it properly, you understand what I’m saying?’
I nod.
‘You can hunt from sunrise, or an hour before sunrise if you really know what you’re doing, until sunset. That’s the code. You only shoot when you can see real good so there’s no need for no night-vision technology.’
‘I’m not hunting,’ I say. ‘I want to watch bats and birds of prey, that’s all.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say so? You like raptors, eh?’
I nod. I don’t even know what a raptor is.
‘Well, then, that’s a different thing altogether, but still ain’t got no night-vision technology in stock. Those right there should do you pretty good.’ He points to the cabinet in front of me and I notice he’s wearing a diamond ring, a solitaire, the kind you expect to see on a woman’s hand. ‘Them Leicas. Nice magnification, easy to use, anti-glare lenses. You buy them and you won’t go far wrong.’
‘I need some other bits and bobs, too.’
He scratches a bump on the side of his neck. ‘Bits and bobs?’
‘I need a big torch. I need the best bug repellent you’ve got. I need something I can use against animals.’
‘Do you mean a gun?’
‘No, something more like bear-spray or pepper spray.’
‘I just got guns. Oh, and a catapult, I guess. Use them for throwing fishing bait, but you put a stone in there you could do some real injury to an animal I’d say.’
‘I’ll take it. And I need a backpack, a light one.’ He hands me a dark green backpack. ‘And a knife, please. Whatever you think is the best one.’
‘I’m not being funny, miss, but you want to pay me all this money so you can go look at bats and birds?’
‘I don’t have anything else to spend my salary on round here, do I, Benny? I need a cap, too, one of those waxy green ones with ear flaps to keep the rain off my hearing aids.’
‘You birdwatching in town or out in the country?’
‘Both.’
‘Well, I’d say you better take this one, then.’
He hands me a bright orange cap with reflectiv
e ear flaps.
‘Don’t want you being Medusa’s next victim, now do we?’
‘I’ll take both caps,’ I say. ‘How much?’
He walks over to the till and adds up all the items. As my Visa card is being processed – cards take a long time to go through up here in Gavrik – Benny Björnmossen looks at me.
‘I’m just gonna come straight out and say it. I reckon you’d best be careful how you write your newspaper. This here’s a small town, and we got lots of jobs depending on tourism and field sports up here.’
‘I write the truth,’ I say, almost shouting. Then I calm myself. ‘But I’m also conscious of the community. I’m careful.’
‘All right. Well fine, just mind you are,’ he says, pushing my knife and my boxed binoculars into brown plastic bags. ‘Gavrik’s a nice town, but some of your stories make out like it’s some kind of hellhole.’ He scratches his neck. ‘Would hate for your paper to get any problems.’ He hands back my Visa card and looks at me. ‘Mind you do stay conscious.’
32
I write the last of my pieces and then email them through to Lena to edit and arrange. I tell her my plan as I walk out the door.
‘Well, take precautions,’ she says.
I head home and find my mountain bike in the shelter by my apartment building. It’s crusted with grime, and it takes me about six attempts to remember the combination to the lock.
I throw the bike in the back of my truck and drive west towards Mossen village. Past the supermarket and under the motorway and on towards the forest. It’s windy and it smells like it might rain. I park up in the digger graveyard and it feels okay to be back here, considering Viggo’s romantic shitshow. I hide the Toyota as best I can between an old horsebox and a rusting Honda excavator. The backpack’s covered in labels and tags so I pull them all off. I stuff a packet of wine gums inside, and the knife in its stiff leather sheath, and Tammy’s bear-spray and the catapult. I’m not confident about the catapult at all. I pack ‘jungle strength’ roll-on insect repellent, and then finally, carefully, I place the Leica binoculars on top. They’d cost about triple what I was expecting. My truck’s a rental, so aside from my laptop, these binoculars are now my most valuable possession in the world.
I drag my hair back in a ponytail, and pull on the waxed green cap, the one Benny Björnmossen said was suitable for town use only. But as I have no intention whatsoever of straying more than two metres away from the Mossen gravel track, I’d say my chances of getting shot are roughly nil. I need camouflage, not protection.
I pull on the backpack and tighten the straps and then I drag out my bike. I lock my truck and gaze over towards the forest. The outer pines look like a tidal wave. I start to cycle, the seat uncomfortable between my legs, my balance a little unsteady over the saturated gravel. Still no rain, but it feels like it could come any second. I pull out onto the road and increase my speed and move up through the gears with audible clicks. The moist air freezes my cheeks and I get feedback in my hearing aids. I have about a kilometre more of smooth asphalt before it all turns to shit so I decide to enjoy it. No cars in front and none behind. I pass two magpies on the verge and they look like they’re not getting on.
The turning to Mossen is marked by a small yellow signpost: Mossen 6km. I don’t know which part of Mossen that six kilometres refers to. I’d say Frida’s place is about fifteen kilometres and Bengt’s caravan is about two. I guess they just picked somewhere in the middle, maybe the hill.
Now that Holmqvist has been released without charge I can feel a countdown ticking, an upturned egg timer losing sand grain by grain until the next hunter shows up dead and eyeless. The experts have said the killer is likely to be local to Utgard, with knowledge of the woods and good outdoor skills. If the villagers were normal I’d probably extend my search but one of them’s hiding something, I can feel it.
Slower now, swerving to miss puddles that could be as deep as a dinner plate or as deep as a saucepan. Bikes don’t come with rear-view mirrors so I can’t see back to the asphalt, just forward to a mean alley through densely-packed spruce trees. The air smells musty, like a carpet that’s been left out in the rain, and there are mushrooms everywhere, even some growing out of the gravel track itself. There are dozens of varieties, tall and pale, squat and dark, spongy and grey. They don’t look tasty, not like a mushroom you’d get on top of a restaurant burger. Most look worm-riddled and wet. I get up to the first bend and push on, my legs getting used to the exertion, my senses attuned to the trees each side of me like some kind of primal defence. As long as I’m on the track, I’m okay. I’m going to be fine.
Bengt’s place is up ahead. There are stacks of wooden pallets piled behind the house, almost up to the roofline. They’re covered in ivy, an even thicker blanket than what’s clinging and climbing up the rest of the walls. He lives in a house full of God-knows-what wrapped in a green cloak of poison. No wonder he moved out to the garden. I cycle past the front windows, two downstairs and two upstairs, curtains drawn across them all. Rare to see curtains in Sweden. My apartment doesn’t have any. Up here in Värmland, light is at a premium.
I speed up after I pass the house, and cycle towards the caravan and the vegetable garden. The leaves and stalks are bright and they’re the only colours I can see: vivid greens and dark reds and purples. His patch is immaculate. I move down to fifth gear, my thighs pumping the pedals to go faster so I can move past the caravan unnoticed. No lights are on. My heart’s beating hard now and I’m breathing deep gulps. The air smells pretty good along this stretch, like rubbing pine needles between your fingertips. I keep going, eyes probing in front for the passing place I’ve assigned to be my parking bay for the next few hours. I think I see it, but it turns out to be a flat rock where no spruce can grow. I ride on and the air changes. It thickens and becomes more still and it smells bad, like a wet dog with indigestion. I brake sharply and miss the passing place and jump off my bike. The earth’s soft. Gravel with a coating of leaves and needles and crushed pine cones. I walk my bike back to the half-moon of extra gravel placed on the left side of the track so two cars can pass each other, and peer into the tree cover. It’s 4pm and the light’s dropping. I’m not here for night-time surveillance and I’m sure as hell not here for a walk in the woods.
I pull my bike over knobbly roots and mossy stumps. I’d planned to drag it maybe five trees deep off the track and drop it, so it wouldn’t be visible. In reality, I pull it two trees deep behind the track and lean it up against a dying birch. I want to be able to find it again quickly if I need it.
Taxi’s probably still working so I’ll do Hoarder first. Tonight is about downhill residents, I’ll tackle uphill when I’m more experienced, when I can handle it.
I walk on the edge of the track, ready at any moment to dive into the trees if a van comes by. I pull out my bug repellent and roll it over my face and wrists. I already have something buzzing close to my ear and it’s driving me crazy, like a siren inside my hearing aid. And then the sting comes. Not from a mosquito but from the repellent itself. My skin feels like it’s on fire, my eyelids burning, my upper lip stinging – like someone pushed a bouquet of nettles into my face.
It settles down a little and I calm myself and tuck my jeans into my socks and my jacket into my jeans. It’s not a good look.
I had planned to peer into Hoarder’s caravan from the edge of his land. Now I see that the trees are too thick and it just won’t work. I cross the road and jump a ditch full of pale brown water and marestail weeds lying down in the direction of flow like kelp strands in a tide. I move behind a pine but it feels too exposed so I go one tree deeper. Looking up, I see only branches, countless scratchy branches piled up towards the sky. The bottom few are dead and the rest are weighed down with wet needles. I put my sheathed knife into my jacket pocket and then pull it back out and open the sheath and touch it and then close the sheath. I place the bear-spray down at my feet. The binoculars have Made in Germany etched into them and they
feel heavy, reassuringly heavy. It takes me a while to get the focus right and to work out how to see one image instead of a Venn diagram of two intersecting images. I rest my chest against the trunk of the tree and watch.
I can hear his wind chimes, faint and distant. I zoom in on them, the vertical bars clanging together in the light breeze. I focus up on the bedroom windows of the house itself. There are crucifixes in most of them. Hadn’t noticed before. The glass is dirty but I can see little objects arranged on the window sills, organised next to each other: little figures and models, and one looks like an angel complete with a set of lace wings. The upper part of the pane has been boarded up and I can see ivy growing through the wooden cladding in several places, growing into the house and inside the wall cavities and eating it up.
There are piles of firewood stacked neatly between the house and the outdoor toilet. They’re covered in tarp sheets. How does Bengt light a fire if he can’t get inside his own house? Is there a back door? I notice a black cable on top of the tarps, a thick electrical cord joining the house to the caravan.
I pull back from the trunk of the spruce to adjust my position but the tree’s holding me. There’s a thick trickle of amber, or spruce sap, whatever it’s called, dribbling down through the grooves of the rough bark and it’s making my jacket sticky. I’ve got tree jam gumming up the front zip. As I try to pull it out of the zip it just sticks my fingers together.
I pan over to the caravan and all I can smell is gooey pine sap. Lights approach from my left, headlight beams scattered by the pine trunks. It’s Viggo’s white Volvo. I pull myself tight to the tree to stay hidden and then turn back to the caravan once the taxi’s passed by. I don’t want to pry, and I don’t want to watch Bengt doing anything too private, but I have to see this. A little invasion of privacy to potentially save lives and write a really good piece. No-brainer. And anyway, Lena’s sanctioned it, she told me it’s okay. I’ll take my time and look for anything suspicious. Anything out of place. Tracks, an outbuilding, something that doesn’t fit. If the police won’t do their job right I’ll have to give them a push. Although I didn’t fill Lena in on any specifics, and she didn’t ask for any.