by Asa Larsson
“Of course he’s dead,” Martinsson said impatiently. “We’ll find him as soon as the ice on Vittangijärvi thaws.”
“Hmm, I’ve been trying to keep an open mind. Might he have killed Wilma himself, for instance?”
“And then killed Hjörleifur Arnarson? Hardly, don’t you think? Anyway, I reckon we should follow up on this line of investigation now – we don’t have unlimited resources.”
“We should probably just wait to see what develops,” Mella said. “Hope that the forensic examination of Hjörleifur’s body and his house, and the clothes Hjalmar and Tore Krekula were wearing, produce interesting results. And hope that we find the door and Simon Kyrö’s body when the thaw comes, and that there are finger-prints on it, or something of the sort.”
Clearing his throat, Fjällborg gave Martinsson a withering look.
“I’ve got to go,” Martinsson said. “I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow.”
“Johannes Svarvare told me that Isak Krekula had a heart attack just over a week before Wilma and Simon went missing,” Mella said. “And when he said that, I had the impression that he wanted to say more, but was holding back for some reason.”
“He’s scared of them,” Martinsson said.
“I can’t help wondering if he had a heart attack because he’d heard that they were going to go diving to look for the aeroplane. There’s something about that bloody plane. It’s a bugger that the ice is melting, and that it’s not possible to go diving there right now. We’ll have to wait. I hate waiting.”
“I hate waiting too.”
“So do I!” Fjällborg said, slamming the potato stew down on the table. “I hate waiting for food to get cold.”
Mella laughed.
“What are you having to eat this evening?”
“Smoked pike.”
“Smoked pike? I’ve never tried that.”
“It’s good! What are you having?”
“We’ve eaten already,” Mella said. “Gustav was allowed to choose, so we had ‘porky sausages’.”
“Hmm,” Fjällborg said when Martinsson had hung up. “How’s it going?”
“Not very well,” Martinsson said. “I think the Krekula brothers are guilty, but . . .”
She shrugged.
“We’ll have to hope the forensic examination turns up trumps.”
Fjällborg ate in silence. He had heard her talking about the Krekulas’ haulage business and the Germans during the war. He knew exactly who Martinsson ought to talk to in order to get information about all that. But the question was: would that person be willing to talk?
Måns Wenngren is sitting in his flat in Floragatan. All the lights are out. The television is on, its flickering screen relieving the darkness. Some Seinfeld episode that he has seen before.
Martinsson has not rung today. No text messages, nothing. The previous evening she had both texted and rung him. He had not answered. She had left a message.
Now he regrets not having answered. But everything is arranged the way she wants it to be. She wants to live in Kiruna. She is busy with work and has no time to talk.
Yesterday. He had thought he would try and make it clear to her that he had no intention of playing the love-lorn loon, allowing her to trample all over him.
“Yes, I’m angry,” he says to his empty flat. “With good reason.”
He puts down his mobile. If there is no message from her tomorrow, he will phone her.
“But I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” he says out loud.
He longs to be with her. He imagines them back on good terms, imagines travelling up north to spend the weekend with her. He can take Friday off. He does not have any important meetings planned.
THURSDAY, 30 APRIL
A snowstorm was brewing. April in Kiruna. Martinsson woke up and all she could see through the window was the white, snow-laden wind howling around the house.
It was 5.30. She had just poured herself a cup of coffee when her mobile rang. She could see from the display that it was Maria Taube, her former colleague at Meijer & Ditzinger. They had both worked for Måns Wenngren before Martinsson had moved back to Kiruna.
Pressing “answer”, she gave a theatrical groan suggesting she was still half asleep.
“Oh dear!” Taube said. “I’m sorry! Did I wake you?”
Martinsson laughed.
“No, I was just teasing you. I’ve been up for some time.”
“I knew you would be. You’re a workaholic. It’s O.K. to ring you when everyone else is still asleep. But I thought that maybe the laid-back lifestyle of the northern Swedes we’re always hearing about might have rubbed off on you.”
“It has, but round here ladies of a certain age are up and about very early.”
“Yes, I know how it is – first one up gets a medal. My aunts are like that; they sit at the dinner table competing to see who’s been up longest. ‘I woke up at 5.00 and thought I might as well get up and clean the windows.’ ‘I woke up at 3.30, but thought I’d force myself to stay in bed, so I didn’t get up until 4.30.’”
“A bit like us, then,” Martinsson said, taking a sip of coffee. “Are you at work already?”
“I’m on my way. And walking. Listen.”
Martinsson could hear early birds singing.
“We’ve got a terrible snowstorm up here,” she said.
“You’re kidding! Down here all the cafés have set up their pavement extensions, and people are talking about how many tulips they’ve counted in their gardens in the country.”
“Have you managed to get to smell the tulips, my dear?”
“No, I haven’t, darling. I’m stuck in a rut, working myself to death and getting involved in destructive relationships.”
“Then you’d better climb out of your rut,” Martinsson said, sounding like a perky weather forecaster. “Your body can do other things; it’s your mind that’s getting in the way. Dare to do something different. Wear your watch on the other wrist. Have you tried walking backwards today?”
“You’re an agent of the dark forces, you know,” Taube said dejectedly. “I’ve actually read a book about mindfulness. It says that you’ve always got to be ‘with it’. I wonder if they’ve tried being ‘with it’ at Meijer & Ditzinger . . .”
“Is Måns being cruel and nasty?”
“Yes, he is in fact. Have you two had a row or something? He’s in such a bloody awful mood. He flew into a rage yesterday because I’d forgotten to put Alea Finance on the list of firms allowed to make late payments.”
“No, we haven’t actually had a row. But he’s annoyed with me.”
“Why? He’s not allowed to be annoyed with you. It’s your duty to keep him happy and well fed and satisfied, so that he couldn’t care less whether or not Alea Finance has to pay a late fee of five or six thousand. I mean, they have a turnover of two million. Not to mention the loss of prestige for M. & D. – I’ve heard the lecture before. Anyway, why is he annoyed with you?”
“He thinks I’ve been too reticent. And he doesn’t like me settling in up here. What does he expect? Am I supposed to move in with him until he gets fed up with me and starts running off to the pub with the lads and screwing the trainee lawyers?”
Taube said nothing.
“You know I’m right,” Martinsson said. “Some men and some dogs are just like that. It’s only when you look the other way and signal that you’re totally uninterested that they come running up to you wagging their tails.”
“But he’s in love with you,” Taube said tamely.
But she knew that Martinsson was right. It was good for Wenngren that Martinsson had moved up to . . . Nowheresville. He was the sort of man who finds it hard to cope with an intimate relationship. Both she and Martinsson had seen him lose interest in attractive and gifted women who had simply become too attached to him.
“If he weren’t like that,” Taube said, “would you consider moving back here?”
“I think it would make me ill,” Martin
sson said, with no trace of humour in her voice.
“Stay there, then. You’ll just have to have a hot long-distance relationship. There’s nothing to beat a bit of longing for what you can’t have.”
“Yes,” Martinsson said.
Although I don’t actually long to be with him any more, she told herself. I like him. I like it when he’s here. It works well. I might sometimes miss the sex. I like sleeping in his arms. And now that he isn’t getting in touch, I obviously feel put out and scared of losing him. But I find it hard to cope with his restlessness after he’s been up here for more than three days. When I start feeling that I need to think up some way of stopping him getting into a bad mood. When he refuses to try to understand why I need to live here. And, now, when he’s sulking. And refusing to answer his mobile.
For a fleeting moment she wondered if she ought to ask Taube if she thought Wenngren had been with someone else. If there was a suitable candidate in the office.
But I’m damned if I shall, she thought. In the old days I’d have been awake half the night, conjuring up all sorts of images in my mind’s eye. But I don’t have the strength now. I refuse to do that.
“I’m at the office now,” Taube said, panting slightly. “Can you hear me walking up the stairs instead of taking the lift?”
Martinsson was about to say, “You should keep asking yourself: What would personal trainer and media star Blossom Tainton have done?” But she couldn’t keep the banter going any longer. They often spent ages on the phone joking like this. Presumably that was why both of them sometimes hesitated to ring – things simply got out of control.
“Thank you for calling,” she said instead, and meant it.
“I miss you,” Taube panted. “Can we meet up the next time you come to Stockholm? Presumably you won’t need to be on your back the entire time?”
“Who is it that always . . .”
“Yes, yes. I’ll ring. Love and kisses!” Taube said, and hung up.
Vera stood up and started barking.
Sivving Fjällborg’s heavy footsteps were approaching the house. Bella was already scratching away at the front door.
Martinsson let her in. Bella immediately ran to Vera’s food bowls in the kitchen. They were empty, but she licked them just to make sure, and growled at Vera, who held back at a respectful distance. When the bowls had been licked clean, they greeted each other and sparred playfully, ruffling the rag mats in the process.
“What foul weather!” Fjällborg grunted. “The bloody snow is coming at you from 90 degrees. Look at this!”
He removed snow from his shoulders, where it had formed icy clumps.
“Mmm,” Martinsson said. “Soon they’ll be singing ‘Sweet lovers love the spring’ in Stockholm.”
“Yes, yes,” Fjällborg said impatiently. “Then they’ll get beaten up in the streets as they make their way home from the May Day celebrations.”
He didn’t like Martinsson comparing Stockholm and Kiruna to Stockholm’s advantage. He was afraid of losing her to the metropolis again.
“Have you got a moment?” he said.
Martinsson adopted an apologetic expression and was about to explain that she had to go to work.
“I wasn’t going to ask you to clear away snow or anything like that,” Fjällborg said. “But there’s someone you ought to meet. For your own good. Or rather, for the good of Wilma Persson and Simon Kyrö.”
Martinsson felt depressed the moment she and Fjällborg walked through the door of the Fjällgården care home for the elderly. They brushed off as much snow as they could in the chicken-yellow stairwell, climbed the stairs and walked across the highly polished grey plastic floor tiles. The plush painted wallpaper and neat, practical pine furniture cried out INSTITUTION.
Two residents in wheelchairs were leaning forward over their breakfast in the kitchen. One of them was propped up with cushions to make sure he did not fall sideways. The other kept repeating “Yes, yes, yes!” in an increasingly loud voice until a carer placed a calming hand on his shoulder. Fjällborg and Martinsson hurried past, trying not to look.
Please spare me this, Martinsson said to herself. Spare me from ending up in a day room with worn-out, incontinent old folk. Spare me from needing to have my bottom wiped, from sitting parked in front of a television surrounded by staff with shrill voices and bad backs.
Fjällborg led the way as fast as he could along a corridor with doors either side leading into individual rooms. He also seemed far from happy with what he was seeing.
“The man we’re going to meet is called Karl-Åke Pantzare,” he said quietly. “My cousin used to know him. They saw a lot of each other when they were young. I know he was a member of a resistance group during the war, and I know my cousin was a member as well – but he’s dead now. It wasn’t something he talked about. This is Pantzare’s room.”
He stopped in front of a door. There was a photo of an elderly man and a nameplate that announced: “Bullet lives here”.
“Just a minute,” Fjällborg said, holding on to the rail running along the wall so that the old folk still able to walk had something to hang on to. “I need to pull myself together.”
He rubbed his hand over his face and took a deep breath.
“It’s so damned depressing,” he said to Martinsson. “Bloody hell! And this is one of the better places. All the girls who work here are really friendly and caring – there are homes that are much worse. But even so! Is this what we have to look forward to? Promise to shoot me before I get to this stage. Oh dear, I’m sorry . . .”
“It’s O.K.,” Martinsson said.
“I forget, I’m afraid. I know you had no choice but to shoot . . . Huh, it’s like talking about ropes in a house where a man’s hanged himself.”
“You don’t need to muzzle yourself. I understand.”
“I get so damned depressed,” Fjällborg said. “Please understand that I think about this even though I try hard not to. Especially with my arm and all that.”
He nodded towards his dysfunctional side. The one that could not keep up. The side whose hand could not be trusted, and kept dropping things.
“As long as I can . . .” Martinsson said.
“I know, I know.” Fjällborg waved a hand dismissively.
“And why must places like this always have such cheerful names?” he hissed. “Fjällgården, Mountain Lodge, Sunshine Hill, Rose Cottage.”
Martinsson could not help laughing.
“Woodland Glade,” she said.
“It sounds like a tract from the Baptists. Anyway, let’s go in. You should be aware that his short-term memory is pretty bad. But don’t be misled if he seems a bit confused. His long-term memory is fine.”
Fjällborg knocked on the door and they entered.
Karl-Åke Pantzare had white, neatly combed hair. His eyebrows and sideburns were bushy, with the stubbly, spiky hair typical of old men. He was wearing a shirt, pullover and tie. His trousers were immaculately clean and smartly pressed. It was obvious that earlier in his life he had been very good-looking. Martinsson checked his hands: his nails were clean and cut short.
Pantzare shook hands with both her and Fjällborg in a pleasant, friendly fashion. But behind his welcoming look was a trace of anxiety: had he ever met these people before? Ought he to recognize them?
Fjällborg hurried to allay his uncertainty.
“Sivving Fjällborg,” he said. “From Kurravaara. When I was a lad they used to call me Erik. Arvid Fjällborg is my cousin. Or was. He’s been dead for quite a few years now. And this is Rebecka Martinsson, the granddaughter of Albert and Theresia Martinsson. She’s from Kurravaara as well. But you haven’t met her before.”
Pantzare relaxed.
“Erik Fjällborg,” he said brightly. “Of course I remember you. But goodness me, you’ve aged a lot.”
He winked to show that he was teasing.
“Huh,” Fjällborg said, pretending to be offended. “I’m still a teenager.”
Fjällborg and Martinsson accepted the offer of a coffee, and Fjällborg reminded Pantzare of a dramatic ice-fishing session with Fjällborg’s cousin and Pantzare on Jiekajaure.
“And Arvid used to tell me about how you cycled into town whenever there was a dance on a Saturday night. He said that the 13 kilometres from Kurra to Kirra was nothing, but if you met a nice bit of skirt from Kaalasluspa, that meant you had to cycle back with her first, and it was a long way home from there. And then of course he had to be up at 6.00 the next morning to do the milking. He sometimes fell asleep on the milking stool. Uncle Algot would be furious with him.”
The usual run-through of relatives they both knew followed. How a sister of Pantzare’s had rented a flat in Lahenperä. Fjällborg thought it was from the Utterströms, but Pantzare was able to inform him that it was in fact from the Holmqvists. How another of Fjällborg’s cousins, a brother of Arvid’s, and one of Pantzare’s brothers had been promising skiers, had even competed in races in Soppero and beaten outstanding Vittangi boys. They ran through who was ill. Who had died or moved to Kiruna, and, in those cases, who had taken over the childhood home.
Eventually Fjällborg decided that Pantzare was sufficiently relaxed and that it was time to come to the point. Without beating around the bush, he said that he had heard from his cousin that both he and Pantzare had been members of the resistance organization in Norbotten. He explained that Martinsson was a prosecutor, and that two young people who had been murdered had been diving in search of a German aeroplane in Lake Vittangijärvi.
“I’ll tell you straight, because I know it will go no further than these four walls, that there’s reason to assume that Isak Krekula from Piilijärvi and his haulage business were mixed up in it somehow.”
Pantzare’s face clouded over.
“Why have you come to see me?”
“Because we need help,” Fjällborg said. “I don’t know anybody else who is familiar with how things were in those days.”
“It’s best not to talk about that,” Pantzare said. “Arvid should never have told you. What can he have been thinking?”