by Asa Larsson
“Roy. Yes, he’s certainly handsome. It remains to be seen if he’s going to be any good as a police dog. I can’t let him out at the same time as Tintin. He chases after her and winds her up. And Tintin needs to take things easy until she whelps.”
Martinsson looked over at Tintin.
“She’s good, from what I’ve heard,” she said. “She found the vicar in Vuolusjärvi, and tracked down Inna Wattrang. Amazing.”
“Oh yes, she certainly is good,” Eriksson said, turning away to hide his proud smile. “I always compare them with my previous dog, Zack. It was a privilege to work with him. He taught me all I know. I just followed him. I was so young in those days, didn’t have a clue. But I’ve trained Tintin.”
The bitch looked up when she heard her name and came trotting over to them. Sat down next to the boot of Eriksson’s car as if to say, “Shall we get moving?”
“She knows we’re going out on a job,” Eriksson said. “She thinks it’s great fun.”
He turned to Tintin.
“It’s no good,” he said. “The car won’t start.”
The dog tilted her head to one side and seemed to think this over. Then she lay down in the snow with a resigned sigh.
“Why don’t you take my car?” Martinsson said.
It dawned on her that she was talking to Tintin, so she turned to face Eriksson.
“Sorry,” she said. “I expect you’ll be the one doing the driving. I don’t need my car today.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly . . .”
As she pressed the keys of her Audi A4 Avant into his hand, he kept asking whether she was sure she would not need the car that day. In any case, there was bound to be another solution. They could come and fetch him, for instance.
“Why can’t you just say thank you?” she said. “I’m going inside. Unless you need some help moving the dog cages. Just go! They’ll be waiting for you.”
He said he could manage the cages himself. So she left him to it, pausing in the doorway to give him a wave.
She had not even taken her jacket off when he knocked on the door of her office.
“It’s no good,” he said. “It’s an automatic. I can’t cope with them.”
She smiled.
That doesn’t happen very often, he thought.
Other women went around smiling all day long. Whether they were happy or not. But not this one. And she didn’t just smile with her mouth, oh no, you had to look deep into her eyes. A merry tune was playing at the very back of her eyes when she looked at him.
“What about Tintin?” she said.
“No, she’s used to a stick shift as well.”
“It’s dead easy, you just . . .”
“I know!” he said, interrupting her. “That’s what everyone says, but . . . It’s no good, I just can’t do it.”
Martinsson looked at him. He met her gaze without a trace of embarrassment or shyness. Held her gaze.
She knew he was a lone wolf.
And it’s not just because of how he looks, she thought.
Eriksson’s face was badly scarred by severe burns. A house fire when he was a teenager, she had heard. His skin was shiny with patches of pink, his ears two newly opened, crinkled birch leaves, no hair, no eyebrows or lashes, his nose just two holes in the middle of his face.
“I’ll drive you,” she said finally.
She expected him to protest. To start going on about how she was supposed to be at work. That she no doubt had all kinds of other things to do.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling mischievously to show that he had learnt his lesson.
It suddenly turned warm as they were driving. The sun’s hot breath. Melting snow dripped from spindly pine trees and from the branches of birches already taking on a violet tone. Patches of open water had begun to appear round the stones in the river. The ice was beginning to recede from the riverbanks. But the cold would return when night fell. It had not surrendered yet.
Martinsson and Eriksson followed the forest tracks north of the Torne. The police had marked the route with strips of red plastic tape. If they had not done so, it would have been virtually impossible to find the right place out here in the wild. There were tracks running off in all directions.
The barrier across the track leading to the summer cottages on the promontory at Pirttilahti was standing open. The site was covered with all kinds of huts and chalets made out of spare bits of timber, wooden cottages and several outside toilets. Everything appeared rather higgledy-piggledy; people seemed to have built wherever they could find room. There was also an old red-painted wooden hut on wheels with dark green window frames. It was propped up on railway sleepers, and there were flounced flowery curtains at the windows. It made Martinsson think of small, tired travelling circus troupes. Here and there lengths of wood had been nailed up between pine trees. Hanging from them were swings with greying ropes, or tatty fishing nets weighed down by fragments of ice that had not yet melted in the spring sunshine. Along the walls of the cottages were stacks of rotting wood, unlikely to be much good for burning. Lying all over the place were things that might come in handy one of these days: part of an old porch, a pretty but broken wooden gate leaning against a tree, stacks of timber only just adequately covered by tarpaulins, piles of old bricks and paving stones, grindstones, a street lamp, an old tractor, rolls of fibreglass insulation, an iron bed.
And lots of rowing boats in among the trees. Upside down and covered in snow. Made of wood and plastic, in varying states of repair.
By the side of a permanent landing pier was a floating jetty that had been dragged up onto the riverbank. The police and forensic teams were gathered there.
“What a place!” Martinsson said with delight, switching off the engine.
Tintin and Roy immediately started howling and barking with excitement.
“Some of us can’t wait to start work,” Eriksson said, laughing.
They got out of the car quickly.
Inspector Mella came over to them.
“What a row!” she said with a chuckle.
“They just go mad, they’re so desperate to get to work,” Eriksson said. “I don’t want to shush them up as I want this to be a positive experience. But I’m not at all sure that it’s good for Tintin. She shouldn’t get this excited in her condition. She needs to get to work, then she’ll calm down. Where do you want us to search?”
Mella looked over towards the river.
“The forensic team have just arrived. They’re working down by the jetty, but I thought you and Tintin could check along the riverbank. The girl was out diving with her boyfriend, so he must be here somewhere. Maybe his body has floated ashore nearby, who knows? It would be helpful if you could search a little way upstream and downstream from here, and then we can go up to the rapids. Some people dive in the rapids to retrieve lost fishing tackle – a decent Rapala can set you back 150 kronor after all. So they go looking for a few of those . . . As I said, I’ve no idea. But young people are always short of money. Such a tragic accident. A damned shame if ever there was one. They had the whole of their lives to look forward to. It would be nice for the relatives if we could find both of them.”
Eriksson nodded.
“Tintin can make a start,” he said. “But she’s not going to walk 3 kilometres. I’ll take Roy out later.”
“O.K. Maybe we can let her search the promontory here, and then up by the rapids. It’s open water there, and we can cross over to the far side later. I’ve got some officers out looking for the car, but they’re keeping away from the riverbank. A hundred metres, I told them.”
Eriksson nodded his approval. Letting Tintin out of the car, he strapped her into her work coat.
She stopped barking and scuttled excitedly around his legs; he had to disentangle himself from the lead.
When he had disappeared, being dragged down towards the promontory by an excited, whimpering Alsatian, Mella turned to Martinsson.
“What brought you out he
re?”
“I’m just the chauffeur,” Martinsson said. “Krister’s car wouldn’t start.”
They eyed each other for a long moment. Then both said at the same time, “How are things?”
Mella answered first. “Fine, just fine.” Martinsson looked her over. Inspector Mella was short, barely 1.5 metres tall. But it had never registered with Martinsson that Mella was small. Until now. The inspector was almost swallowed up by her black leather jacket. Her long, light blonde hair hung down her back in a thick plait as usual. It struck Martinsson that she had seen very little of Mella recently – for the last year or so, in fact. Time really did fly. It was obvious from Mella’s eyes that things were not fine at all. Just over a year ago, she and her colleague Sven-Erik Stålnacke had been involved in a gunfight; both of them had been forced to shoot to kill. Mella had been responsible for getting them into that situation. She hadn’t wanted to wait for back-up.
Of course Stålnacke’s angry, Martinsson thought. No doubt he feels bad, thinks it was all her fault.
And he’s right, really, she reasoned. Mella had put both her own life and his at risk. There had been a wild horse in this mother of four. But now that horse’s spirit had been crushed.
“I’m fine,” Martinsson replied to Mella’s question.
Mella looked hard at Martinsson. She did seem to be in good shape. A hell of a lot better than she had been. Still thin, but not nearly so pale and wretched. She was doing a good job as district prosecutor. Had some kind of relationship with her old boss from Stockholm. Not that he was much to write home about. One of those well-heeled types who sail through life, getting by on charm and good looks. He drank too much, anybody could see that. But if he made Martinsson feel good, so be it . . .
One of the forensic officers shouted to Mella. They were going to take the body away. Did Mella want to see it before they did? Shouting “I’m coming,” she turned back to Martinsson.
“I want to have a look at her,” she said. “It will feel better, somehow, if I’ve seen her when I talk to her next-of-kin. They usually want to view the deceased, to reassure themselves that it really is their relative we’ve found. So it’s good to know what state the body is in. I can well imagine. She’s been in the water since last autumn.”
Mella suddenly bit her tongue. For Christ’s sake, she shouldn’t be babbling on about dead bodies to Martinsson. Martinsson had killed in self-defence. Three men. Smashed the skull of one and shot the other two. She had been on sick leave for a long time. Nearly two years later, when Lars-Gunnar Vinsa killed his son and took his own life, it had all been too much for her. Martinsson had ended up in a psychiatric ward.
“I’m O.K.,” Martinsson said, as if she had read Mella’s mind. “May I have a look as well?”
The skin on the girl’s face was white and bloated from the water. One hand was without its diving glove, and there was next to nothing left of it. The flesh had come away and exposed the bones. The little finger and thumb were missing. So was her nose. Most of her lips too.
“That’s what happens,” one of the forensic officers said. “When they’ve been in the water for a long time. The skin tears easily and peels away, and then they drift around and bump into things. That causes noses and ears and such-like to fall off. Pike might have been nibbling at her as well. We’ll have to see how she holds together when the pathologist cuts away her diving suit. Will Pohjanen be doing the post-mortem?”
Mella nodded, keeping an eye on Martinsson, who was staring at the girl’s battered hand as if transfixed.
A little way off, Inspector Sven-Erik Stålnacke pulled up in his Volvo, got out and shouted to Mella.
“We’ve found the kids’ car. Over by the rapids.”
He walked towards them. Gingerly, legs wide apart so as not to slip, just as they all were doing.
“It was parked in the felling area,” he said. “A hundred and fifty metres from the rapids. They must have driven as far as they could over the rough ground so they wouldn’t have to carry their heavy diving gear.”
He rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully.
“Then of course it was covered in snow during the winter. They’re digging it out now. That’s what we thought was so odd when they disappeared last autumn – the fact that nobody had seen their car. But it’s obvious now. If it was in the forest, completely covered in snow . . . Not even people riding snow scooters along the riverbank would have noticed it. The lad did well to drive it that far, though. The trees have all been felled down towards the rapids, but the area’s full of big stones and stumps.”
Martinsson seemed to snap out of her trance, standing there in front of the girl.
“She might have been the one driving,” she said, nodding towards the body. “According to the statistics, women are better drivers than men.”
She gave Stålnacke a knowing smile.
Normally, he would have responded with a snort, making his greying scrubbing brush of a moustache stick straight out. He would have said that statistics were lies, damned lies, and then asked where Martinsson got her ideas from. He would have had a self-satisfied giggle while Martinsson and Mella rolled their eyes.
But all he said was: “You may be right.”
He asked Mella what she wanted them to do with the car.
Oh dear, Martinsson thought. Things really are frosty between the pair of them.
“There’s no reason to suspect a crime,” Mella said. “If we can get hold of a spare key, someone can drive it back to town.”
“Well, we can try, I suppose,” Stålnacke said doubtfully. “If we can get it onto the road, that is.”
“I’m only asking you to try,” Mella said, a splinter of ice in her voice.
Stålnacke turned on his heel and walked away just as Eriksson was returning.
“Oh,” Mella said, disappointed. “I’d hoped to hear her barking.”
“No, she didn’t find anything. I’ll take a walk with Roy, but I don’t think the boy is here.”
“What do you mean?” Mella said.
Eriksson shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll take a walk with Roy, and we’ll see.”
Patting Tintin, he told her what a good job she had done. Opening the boot of Martinsson’s car, he allowed the dogs to change places. Roy could not believe his luck. He danced the dance of the happy tracker dog, in the end not knowing what to do with all the joy in his body. So he sat down and gave a huge yawn.
Tintin was not happy with the changeover. She barked away in desperation. Was that little nothing going to go out with the boss and have fun while she, the alpha bitch, was shut up in the car? Unacceptable. Totally unacceptable.
Her barking penetrated the bodywork of the car as she spun round and round in her cage.
“Not good,” Eriksson said, as he watched her through the rear window. “She’s not supposed to get stressed in her condition. I’m sorry, Anna-Maria, but this is no good.”
“Should I put her on her lead and take her for a walk?” Mella said. “Maybe if she’s outside . . .”
“That would only make things worse.”
“I could take her back to town with me,” Martinsson said. “Do you think that would calm her down?”
Eriksson looked at her. Now that the sun was out, she had taken off her woolly hat. Her hair was slightly tousled. Those sand-coloured eyes. That mouth. He wanted to kiss that mouth. She had a scar running from her upper lip to her nose, from the time Lars-Gunnar Vinsa had thrown her down the cellar steps. A lot of people thought it was ugly, felt sorry for her, went on about how pretty she had been before. But he liked the scar. It made her look vulnerable.
Desire coursed through his body like a jet of hot water. Her beneath him on all fours. One hand sifting through her hair. The other gripping her hip. Or she’s sitting astride him. His hands cupping her breasts. He whispers her name. A strand of her hair is sticking to her face, wet with perspiration. Or she’s on her back beneath him. Her kn
ees drawn up. He thrusts into her. Slowly now.
“Don’t you think?” she said again. “She can wait in my office. Nobody will mind. You can fetch her when you’ve finished.”
“Yes, why not,” he said, averting his eyes in case she saw through him. “That would be fine.”
Mella and Stålnacke were standing by the car that had been discovered near the river, a Peugeot 305.
“I found the key,” Stålnacke said. “It occurred to me that they’d probably done the same as people who go berry-picking. They don’t want to take the car key with them, because if you drop it and lose it in the forest you have a hell of a job getting home. Way out here in the wild. I usually hide mine inside the back bumper. They’d hidden theirs on top of one of the tyres, under the wheel arch.”
“Really?” Mella said patiently.
“Anyway, I thought I’d try and drive it out onto the road before the snow melts too much in the heat – there are a hell of a lot of stones and rocks, and . . .”
Mella glanced involuntarily at the clock on her mobile. Stålnacke hurried to get to the point.
“When I turned the key, the car started right away, no problem.”
“Really?”
“But . . .”
He raised a finger to emphasize that they had reached the point he wanted to talk to her about.
“. . . but it ran out of petrol after only a few seconds. So there was only a drop in the tank. I thought you’d want to know that.”
“Really?”
“So they’d have been stuck. They’d never have made it back to Piilijärvi. The nearest petrol station is in Vittangi.”
Mella made a sort of humming noise to indicate surprise.
“It’s strange, don’t you think?” Stålnacke said. “I mean, they weren’t stupid, were they? How did they think they were going to get home?”
“I’ve no idea,” Mella said with a shrug.
“Oh well,” Stålnacke said, obviously irritated by the fact that she did not share his puzzlement over the empty petrol tank. “I just thought you might be interested.”