The Second Deadly Sin (33 page)

“Yes,” Lizzie hisses bitterly. “It is very serious. But tell him about that other business!”

“One of the maids was going to empty the ash from the tiled stove in herr Fasth’s bedroom,” Blenda says. “It was the day after the murder. There was a piece of a shirtsleeve lying in the stove. That seemed very odd. Why would a man want to burn his shirt?”

Björnfot says nothing, just sits there with his hand over his mouth, looking at them both. It is a very unusual gesture, most unlike him.

“And besides,” Blenda says. “When he changes his shirt he always leaves the dirty one lying on the floor. That day he took a new shirt, but didn’t leave a dirty one for washing. So it was obviously the shirt he’d been wearing the previous day that was in the stove. Do you understand?”

Björnfot nods. He understands very well.

Lizzie glares at him as if what she really wants to do is to set the whole of the world on fire. Blenda bites her lips and hardly dares look at him. It was very brave of her to come here. Fasth is the most powerful man in Kiruna – apart from Lundbohm, of course, but he is hardly ever in town, he’s nearly always away on business.

The mining company owns everything. The company has built the town and the church. The company pays the wages of the police and the vicar and the schoolteachers. And Manager-in-Chief Fasth is the company.

In the end Björnfot takes his hand away from his mouth.

“I want to meet her,” he says. “The girl who found the shirtsleeve in the stove.”

“Yes, my great-grandfather, Oskar Venetpalo, was a rock-blaster. A simple man, you understand. He was tricked by Hjalmar Lundbohm. He discovered extensive slabs of iron ore in Tuolluvaara. But, you know how it is: he was one of those old-fashioned, loyal workers, and so he went to Lundbohm and told him about it. And Lundbohm submitted a prospecting licence application the very next day.”

Martinsson was standing on Johan Venetpalo’s porch, smoking a cigarette. Venetpalo was in a wheelchair, and was evidently pleased about the unexpected visit. The fact that she was a prosecutor did not seem to bother him.

“But my great-grandfather said nothing about it, of course,” he went on. “Not a word. I know that he signed some document or other that said it was Lundbohm who had discovered the Tuolluvaara iron ore deposit. And then from time to time he received gifts of money from Lundbohm – but he never said why. Obviously both his wife and his children wondered what was going on. My granddad always used to say that his father had been swindled. But of course, he was employed by the mining company, and probably didn’t dare stir up trouble.”

“No, of course not.”

“And Lundbohm was crafty. No doubt he ought to have submitted the prospecting application on behalf of the state, but instead he sold the rights to a foundry owner who in turn handed them on to a newly registered mining company. It was devilishly difficult for the
authorities to kick up a fuss, so they drew up a contract with that newly established company – and Lundbohm became managing director of that mine as well, with an income of five thousand a year. That was a lot of money in those days. Why are you asking about this?”

“Just general interest. You know how it is, you catch on to something that fascinates you, and so you follow it up.”

Venetpalo gave her a searching look.

“Is it because of her – Solveig Uusitalo from Kurravaara? She was a grandchild of Lundbohm’s, after all.”

“Sol-Britt. Yes, in a way. I’m not involved in the murder investigation, but you can’t help but be interested in her background.”

Venetpalo gave a start.

“I’m not a murder suspect, I hope?”

“No.”

“It’s true that families up here in the north can hate one another for generations. And if there had been any money around, no doubt we would have done so. If Sol-Britt had inherited a few million. But Lundbohm died as poor as a church mouse. And Frans Uusitalo was illegitimate, as they used to say in those days.”

“Yes.”

“But what’s the point of hating and cursing one another? It doesn’t make you any richer.”

“You wrote a letter to the editor of a newspaper.”

“Oh, you remember that, do you? You know, after all this happened …”

He gestured towards his legs.

“. . .I hit the bottle for a year or two. My wife left me, and I was a bit fed up with the world at large. But you learn your lessons, don’t you? If it’s not one thing, it’s another, as the girl said when she got a nosebleed. Maybe my great-grandfather did the right thing, holding his tongue and coiling in a bit of cash now and then. Anyway, do you
think we’re going to have a winter at all this year? Or are we just going to have Stockholm-type slush? This climate change lark is a real pain in the arse.”

Martinsson smiled at the man in the wheelchair.

Your typical murderer, isn’t he? she said to herself.

*

Follow the money, she told herself later when she had sat down in the car and switched on the engine.

But there was no money to follow.

She phoned Sonja at the police station switchboard.

“Am I right in thinking that there was no money to speak of in Frans Uusitalo’s estate?” she asked.

Sonja asked her to hold the line a moment, and was soon able to report that there wasn’t – barely enough to cover the funeral expenses, in fact.

“And do you know,” Sonja began – but by then Martinsson had already said thank you and hung up.

Martinsson drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and checked her watch. Only five to nine.

“Not everything ends up in the official estate documents,” she said to the Brat. “I suppose I’d better drive out to Lainio one more time.”

*

Stålnacke had reported sick. Said that he had a bad cold – but everybody knew that it was Jocke Häggroth who was haunting him with his shattered skull under his arm.

Eriksson drove round to visit him, and rang the doorbell. Stålnacke opened the door and two cats stuck their heads out, took note of the soaking wet conditions and decided to go back to the sofa. Stålnacke was dressed, shaved and combed.

Good, Eriksson thought.

It was tidy and cosy inside. Potted plants in bloom, and framed school photographs of grandchildren on the walls.

Those were the kind of things that were only to be found in houses overseen by a woman, Eriksson thought. In the homes of single men like himself you’re only likely to find weeping fig plants with hardly any leaves left, or bayonet lilies in ugly pots with soil as dry as snuff.

Eriksson reported on Marcus, about how he was being bullied by older schoolmates.

“I spoke to both the headmaster and the school welfare officer after I’d dropped off Marcus. Oh yes, they both said, there had been a spot of bother now and then, but they had ‘intervened directly’. And ‘spoken to all those involved’.”

“And a fat lot of good that would have done, no doubt,” Stålnacke said, recalling his own depressing feeling of impotence when his daughter Lena had been frozen out by her schoolmates. She had become thin and sickly, with constant stomach ache. Hadn’t wanted to go to school. She was grown-up now, but until she had transferred to another school it had been pure hell.

“I want to have a chat with that bully’s parents,” Eriksson said. “That’s the least I can do for Marcus. It’s people like that who protect their young gangsters no matter what the little swine get up to. And scare folk. I thought we could put an end to that. And I’d appreciate it if you would come with me.”

“Why?”

“It would be better if there were two of us. And you could be a witness to prove that I hadn’t threatened the bastard of a father.”

Stålnacke grinned.

“I see, so that’s how it is, eh? I’d better come along to make sure you don’t murder anybody.”

“Yes, please do that.”

“Did you say they were called Niemi?” Stålnacke said. “Maybe we should ask around a bit before we pay them a visit.”

“There you are, you see,” Eriksson said with a smile. “I knew you would be useful.”

The maid who found the shirtsleeve in the stove in the manager-in-chief’s bedroom lives on the island with her mother and three siblings.

It is the mother who opens the door. She has large, frightened eyes, and there is something more than just fear in her gaze. Resistance.

The police superintendent has to stoop in order to get through the entrance door, and is barely able to stand upright in this little hovel.

He explains why he has come, and Lizzie and Blenda, who have accompanied him, urge the little girl to tell Björnfot what she saw.

The maid doesn’t say a thing. Her two small sisters are sitting on the floor, and they also say nothing, stare in silence at the strangers. The mother starts clearing up after the evening meal, just simple wooden bowls and spoons: they have eaten barley porridge without even a dash of milk. She says nothing, but keeps a wary eye on her daughter and the visitors when Björnfot starts trying to coax the girl to speak up.

She is so unwilling to talk that at first he thinks perhaps she doesn’t understand – maybe she only speaks Finnish? Or perhaps she’s not right in the head? Is she an idiot? Someone who can only cope with the simplest of tasks – chopping firewood or rinsing washing?

“So you are Hillevi,” he says, but receives no answer.

“You work for herr Fasth, is that right?”

Not a word. She merely tightens her lips.

“Puhutko suomea?” he asks in stumbling Finnish.

Then Blenda intervenes.

“What’s the matter with you?” she snaps at the girl. “Tell him about the shirt!”

“I was mistaken,” the girl says. “It wasn’t a shirt. It was just a dirty rag one of the other maids had thrown into the fire.”

She speaks quickly, as if reciting something she has learnt by heart, and glances furtively at her mother.

“Perhaps you had better come with us to the police station so that we can discuss this matter properly,” Police Superintendent Björnfot says.

He tries to sound authoritative, but he can hear that his voice lacks its usual power.

The girl squeals in horror, and her mother catches his eye and stares hard at him.

“It’s two months now since my Samuel was killed in a rock-blasting accident,” she said. “He was keeping the dynamite warm and ready for the blasters. The mining company guarantees work for widows like me, so I work as a cleaner in the lodging houses used by unmarried men who work in the mines: I get forty kronor a week for every man I clean for. And a bit extra if I do his laundry as well. And Hillevi was given a job, working for Fasth. Between us we earn just about enough to keep our heads above water. If it weren’t for what the company has done for us, and not least Manager-in-Chief Fasth, well! … I’d have had to sell off the children at a pauper’s auction.”

The working blouse she has on is so worn that it is almost transparent.

“I’m well aware of who fröken Pettersson was,” she says, looking
at them in desperation. “Like a ray of sunshine from the heavens above. But …”

“I understand,” Björnfot says.

He withdraws sadly into the falling snow. Trailing behind him are Lizzie, who is crying her eyes out, and Blenda, who is as silent as the grave.

“It’s not right,” Lizzie sobs. “It’s not right.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Björnfot says in annoyance. “Accuse the manager-in-chief of murder because he didn’t smack the bottoms of his servants? I haven’t got a credible case to argue. Even if that poor little girl were to dare to tell a jury what she saw, it wouldn’t be enough.”

Lizzie tries to stop crying, but the tears just keep on flowing. She sounds like an injured animal. Björnfot can’t bear to listen to it.

“I shall be sacked,” Blenda says. “Why? For nothing.”

Police Superintendent Björnfot walks back to the police station, and spends the whole evening glowering at the empty cells while the tiled stove cools down.

Lizzie spends the night on the sofa bed, staring up at the dark ceiling.

I can’t bear this, she says to her God, clasping her hands so tightly that her fingers turn white. I can’t bear the thought of him getting away with this unpunished. It’s not right.

Ragnhild Lindmark worked for the home-help service in Lainio. She welcomed Martinsson into her home, and did her best to answer the questions put to her.

“But I’m afraid you’re not going to get any coffee,” she said. “I was forced to give it up several years ago. You can probably understand how much of the stuff one had to drink in the houses of all those old folk. I’d poisoned myself by the end.”

A canary was perched on the curtain pole, and occasionally sang. The whole of the window-ledge was covered in small glass figures. Outside everything seemed quiet and peaceful in the dull, misty weather. Ragnhild made some green tea and explained to Martinsson that the water shouldn’t boil, and the tea shouldn’t brew for too long.

“I buy it on the net,” she said when Martinsson politely expressed her appreciation.

“You used to look after Frans Uusitalo, is that right?” Martinsson said.

“Yes – ugh! What a horrible mess that was! I told him over and over again that he should tell me when he was going to go out into the forest – he could fall off his bike or goodness only knows what else could happen, and it would help if I knew where to go looking for him. But you know what old men are like. He was in incredibly good shape. Over ninety years old, just imagine that! Why are you wondering about him?”

“I’m just looking a bit more closely into his death. Do you know if there was anybody who had a grudge against him?”

“No. What are you getting at? He was mauled by a bear.”

“Can you remember if anything unusual happened shortly before he disappeared? Something outside his normal routine. Did he seem worried at all? Anything odd?”

“Eh? No. As far as I can recall, everything was exactly the same as usual. What do you think might have been worrying him?”

Martinsson did not know what to say.

What indeed? she thought.

“There’s something about his death that doesn’t add up,” she said eventually. “Did he have any money?”

“As far as I know he had just about enough to pay for his food and his electricity bills.”