The Second Deadly Sin (35 page)

Then he shouted to Marcus.

“Mind how you go, mi’lad!”

“Kids,” he muttered to himself. “Those were the days.”

Thanks to the sense of balance and lack of fear typical of a young boy, Marcus was already a long way ahead of them, bending his knees and stepping out boldly.

At the far end of the bog, at the edge of the trees, a man appeared on the wooden bridge. He raised a hand in greeting.

“Marcus?” he shouted.

Stålnacke and Eriksson stopped, and waved back cautiously.

“I can take him from here on,” the man shouted. “Maja is back there by the cottages. It’s so damned slippery everywhere. You can go back now!”

“Aha, it’s her bloke,” Stålnacke said to Eriksson. “Örjan, I think his name is. He was there when von Pest dragged us all out to interrogate her. Or was it von Post? Von Pest is better … You should have been there. Bloody bastard of a prosecutor. Anyway, let’s turn back. I’ll be grateful if I get back to the car in one piece.”

“Bye, then,” Eriksson shouted. “Max an hour. Say hello to Maja and thank her.”

They turned and made their way back to the steps with considerable difficulty. The man at the edge of the forest beckoned to Marcus.

*

Marcus went slowly towards the man with the mop of hair. Deep down inside he was talking to the Wild Dog. Vera will soon arrive. And Krister. And Rebecka. They’ll soon be here. And fetch me. Soon.

The man said hello to him, turned on his heel, and Marcus followed him. Now and then he turned to look at Eriksson and Stålnacke, but before long they were no longer in sight. The wooden
bridge over the bog came to an end, and the path continued through the trees. Now he could hear the sound of the rapids. He tried to step on bare ground whenever possible – there was sometimes ice under the patches of snow, and it was easy to slip and fall.

“You go first,” the man said.

Marcus walked quickly ahead.

The trees began to thin out as they approached the river, and he saw a woman with white hair standing on the bank. She was about a hundred metres ahead by an upturned boat, hacking away at the oars that were frozen fast to the ground.

She was chopping away at the riverbank with a spade.

Holding the spade in both hands, and chopping away. Again and again.

Marcus stopped dead.

He had seen that woman by the boat before. Then. When he was standing at the top of the stairs and looking into his grandmother’s bedroom. He hadn’t seen the person’s face, because whoever was with Grandma had worn a balaclava. The kind of woollen headgear you wear when riding a snow scooter, with holes for the eyes and mouth.

But now. He recognised the body. The arms, hacking away over and over again.

Stabbing his grandmother. And he had been a coward and run away. He hadn’t rescued his grandmother. He crept back down the staircase and opened the window even though his hands were shaking. Jumped out of the window and started running. Ran through the forest. Then Krister had arrived. And Grandma was dead.

Now. Now the murderer was going to capture him.

He heard his own hoarse voice screaming.

He screamed as loudly as he could, and tried to run away. But he couldn’t.

The man behind him had lifted him up. Holding onto his arm and jacket. Marcus’s feet were running in the air.

“Shut up,” the man grunted.

“Krister!” Marcus screamed as loudly as he could. “Krister!”

Then a tree came flying towards him.

And everything went blank.

*

Eriksson and Stålnacke did not hear any screams. They were in the car, on their way back to Kiruna. Two knights in shining armour who were going to make sure that Willy Niemi, aged nine, stopped bullying Marcus Uusitalo, aged seven.

Manager-in-Chief Fasth marches through Kiruna. He is a sort of living plough. People move out of his way, greet him curtly, raise their caps, curtsey, glance furtively at him.

It does not worry him in the least that people are afraid of him. On the contrary, he welcomes it. People’s hatred only makes him stronger – it is like steel hardening in the fire.

And in fact he has no problem with what the people of Kiruna suspect, but cannot prove.

He forced that upstart fröken down on her knees, and now he has the whole population of Kiruna on their knees.

The only person with any power over him is Managing Director Lundbohm. But Lundbohm is a fool. Fasth has written to him about the tragic event. Explained that an investigation concluded that she had had several lovers, had given birth to a child, and that quite a few men could possibly be the father. But that the murder is unsolved, and likely to remain that way.

Lundbohm did not reply. Fasth expects to see very little of him in Kiruna in future. So much the better.

But now Fasth has other things to think about. The stone-crusher at the mine is out of order, and he is marching through the town like a ruler infuriated by the incompetence of others.

Some bloody minder who can’t do his job. What is the point of mining ore if you can’t transport it to where it is needed? None! The ore must be crushed and loaded onto railway wagons.

Normally you can hear the noise made by the stone-crusher from a long way off, the gigantic grinder that smashes up the large blocks of iron ore. But now silence reigns. The men are sitting around, smoking, but they soon get to their feet when they see the manager-in-chief approaching.

One of them tries to explain the situation.

“A large block of stone has got well and truly stuck.”

But Fasth is not there to partake in a conversation over coffee. He shoves the man to one side and snatches the iron bar from him.

They all follow him like a school class. The crusher is a sort of enormous rolling pin with spikes sticking out from a screw-shaped jacket of steel. It normally spins round like a propeller, crushing the stone into smaller and smaller pieces which fall down onto the railway wagon waiting beneath it.

Fasth jumps down into the crusher.

“This is your job, for Christ’s sake,” he snarls.

He forces the iron lever under the block of stone that has stuck fast.

“You’re a load of bloody women,” he grunts. “Every one of you a soppy little fröken. You’ll have your wages docked as a result of this.”

The word “fröken” runs through the assembled spectators like a wave on a beach. They don’t even need to look at one another. They are all thinking the same thing. It’s as if she is standing there beside them. Eyes gleaming and cheeks glowing.

They glance unobtrusively at Johan-Albin – he knew her, after all. He’s engaged to the housekeeper she used to live with.

Down in the crusher Fasth snorts like a bull as he struggles with the block of stone. It doesn’t want to budge. But he is determined to teach that gang of namby-pambies up there a lesson.

“Does any of you even have a cock?” he asks, as he throws up his jacket.

Then he gets to work again with the lever.

The youngest member of the team picks up the jacket, and looks around for a place to hang it up.

And then everybody’s eyes fasten on the same thing at the same time.

The main switch. Nobody has turned it off.

They exchange looks. Nobody says “voi perkele” and rushes forward to switch off the electricity. The young man with the jacket folds it neatly over his arm.

And then Fasth manages to prise the block of stone loose.

There is a roaring sound as the crusher starts revolving. Stones smash up against steel and all hell is let loose.

The stones under Fasth’s feet sink down like quicksand. The crusher seems to gulp him down. In the twinkling of an eye the whole of the lower part of his body has vanished.

They don’t even hear him scream. They just see the look of surprise and horror on his face. His gaping mouth. Any noise he makes is drowned out by the deafening roar of steel smashing against stone.

It is all over in a few seconds. The crusher swallows Fasth up and grinds him to bits together with the stone, reduces his body to scraps of flesh and bone and spits out the remains onto the railway wagon below.

Johan-Albin switches off the electricity supply, and silence falls.

Then he spits down into the crusher.

“Ah well,” he says. “We’d better fetch the police superintendent.”

Måns called Martinsson back almost an hour later.

“Are you quite sure it says Share Certificate Alberta Power Generation?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m holding them in my hand.”

“How many shares are we talking about?” Måns wondered.

“It says: ‘Representing shares 501–600’ on the first certificate, ‘601–700’ on the next one, and ‘701–800’ on the third.”

“Good God, Rebecka. Does it say anything on the back about the transfer?”

“Just a moment, I’ll have a look … ‘Transferee’ and ‘4 March 1926, Frans Uusitalo’. A bit further down it says ‘Transferor, Hjalmar Lundbohm’. So, what does it all mean?”

“The company still exists. It’s an incredibly big hydroelectric company based in Calgary. There have been a lot of new issues. In the early days those shares comprised a tenth of the value of the company. Now it’s one ten thousandth of the whole value.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’re still worth quite a lot.”

“How much? Shall I put them in my inside pocket and take the first flight I can find to South America?”

“Yes, you would certainly have been justified in doing that – had it not been for a deed of transfer on the reverse side.”

“Meaning what? How much? Come on, Måns, explain yourself.”

“What I’m saying is that those share certificates are worthless as far as you are concerned.”

“But … ?”

“But for Frans Uusitalo, or his heirs, they are worth about ten million.”

“What? You’re joking!”

“Canadian dollars.”

There followed a few seconds of silence. Martinsson took a deep breath.

So Sol-Britt Uusitalo was rich, she thought. She lived in a broken-down old house in Lehtiniemi, weighing up every krona she spent. And she had no idea …

“You can’t steal share certificates,” she said. “Because they spell out who owns them from generation to generation.”

“Did her father have any other heirs?” Måns said.

“I’ll ring you later,” Martinsson said.

“What does that mean?”

“Thank you, Måns. Thank you – clever, handsome Måns! I love you! But for Christ’s sake … I’ll ring you later!”

“Don’t do anything silly now,” Måns said.

But Martinsson had already hung up.

*

“I tried to tell you this when we spoke not long ago,” Sonja said when Martinsson rang. “But you were in such—”

“Yes, I know!”

“That’s all very well, but there you see.”

“I’m sorry. I’m listening now.”

“He had a son as well. Older than Sol-Britt. With another woman. But there wasn’t even enough money to cover the cost of the funeral in his estate.”

No, there wouldn’t be, Martinsson thought. But she said, “So Sol-Britt had a half-brother, did she? What was his name?”

“Oh, come on! How on earth could I remember that? Do you want me to check?”

“Yes, straight away,” Martinsson said. “I want the whole family tree.”

The Niemis’ house was situated a bit further down the creek in Kurravaara. Fru Niemi let in the police officers who wanted to speak to her and her husband. She was scared stiff at first, but they assured her that nothing had happened to any of her children or relatives.

She was in her thirties, tall and slim. Her hair was dyed blonde and closecropped at the back, but her fringe was long and the hair in front of her ears hung down as far as her mouth. She had several rings through her left ear, and one through her nostril. Her mouth was busy chewing gum, and she kept an eye on the television in the kitchen: somebody was advertising a miraculous vegetable peeler that would transform the purchaser’s life and make their children beg to eat carrots and cucumber.

Stålnacke and Eriksson sat down, and fru Niemi shouted for her husband. He appeared in the doorway and introduced himself as Lelle. He was as blonde as his wife, with muscular arms. His nose seemed to have been broken at some time, and gave him the appearance of a good-looking but somewhat worse-for-wear boxer.

“Police,” fru Niemi said curtly.

“Yes, but we’re not here on official business,” Eriksson said.

“Can we offer you anything?” Lelle wondered, smiling as if they were two childhood friends who had come to visit him. “Coffee? Light beer?” Eriksson and Stålnacke raised their arms in a gesture that said
no thank you.

“We’ve come about your boy Willy,” Eriksson said, “and another boy at the same school. Marcus Uusitalo.”

The smile faded immediately from Lelle Niemi’s lips.

Too late now for a beer, Stålnacke thought.

“Not all that business again, surely,” Lelle Niemi said.

Then he shouted upstairs.

“Willy, come down here!”

There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs, then young herr Niemi appeared in the doorway. His father ushered him in so that the boy was standing in front of him.

“If you’re going to start going on at me about bullying, the lad should hear what you have to say. Because he’s the one you’re going to accuse, I take it?”

“Do you want me to address him or you?” Eriksson said.

“Talk to Willy direct. That’s the way I’ve brought him up – matters are always discussed directly with the person concerned. Isn’t that so, Willy? Eye to eye. No beating about the bush.”

Willy nodded and gritted his teeth.

“You and your mates,” Eriksson said to Willy, “I want you to leave Marcus Uusitalo in peace. Steer well clear of him.”

“But what the hell,” Willy howled. “I haven’t done anything. I’ve said already, I haven’t done anything. Tell him, Dad.”

“It’s alright, Willy,” Lelle Niemi said, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I hope you’re not going to call my son a liar.”

“He is a liar,” Eriksson said. “And a bully. I feel sorry for you, Willy. Because that’s the kind of thing you learn at home. In one way or another. But now I’m going to make you stop bullying him. I’m glad to be able to do that – I’m concerned about Marcus’s welfare.”