Until Thy Wrath Be Past (6 page)

“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 knees 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.”

“Of course.” Mella made an effort. “Maybe someone siphoned off the petrol while the car was standing here during the winter. Someone on a snow scooter, perhaps?”

“There aren’t any scratches on the cap to the petrol tank. Mind you, if I could find the key, no doubt anybody else could have as well. I still think it’s odd, though.”

“Everything O.K.?”

Eriksson knocked on the open door of Martinsson’s office. He remained standing in the doorway. This time he took a good look round the place. The desk was piled high with legal documents. A cardboard box full of material having to do with some environmental investigation occupied the visitor’s chair. It was obvious that she was working her socks off. But he had known that already. Everyone in the police station knew it. When she had taken up her post in Kiruna, she had set lawsuits in motion at such a rate that the local solicitors complained. And God help any police officer who submitted inadequate preliminary-investigation documents – she would chase them up, thrust instructions detailing what needed to be done into their hands, then phone and nag them until they did what she wanted them to do.

Martinsson looked up from the file on a drink-driving case.

“No problems at all. How did it go out there? Did you find him?”

“No. What have you done with Tintin?”

“She’s here,” Martinsson said, rolling back her desk chair. “Under my desk.”

“What?” Eriksson said. His face was one big smile as he bent over to investigate. “Now look here, old girl; did it take just one afternoon for you to forget your boss? You’re supposed to jump up and dance out to greet me the moment you hear my footsteps in the corridor.”

When Eriksson bent down and started talking to her, Tintin got up and walked over to him, her tail wagging.

“Just look at her,” he said. “Now she’s ashamed because she didn’t show me the respect I deserve.”

Martinsson smiled at Tintin, who was arching her back submissively, wagging her tail excitedly and trying to lick her master on the mouth. Then she suddenly seemed to remember Martinsson. She hurried back, sat down beside Martinsson’s chair and placed her paw on the woman’s knee. Then she scurried back to Eriksson again.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Eriksson said. “Amazing! She stayed under your desk even as I was approaching. And now this. She’s giving you the highest possible marks. She’s normally very loyal to her master. This is most unusual.”

“I like dogs,” Martinsson said.

She looked him in the eye. Did not avert her gaze. He returned the look.

“Lots of people like dogs,” he said. “But dogs obviously like you. Are you thinking of getting one?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But the dogs I have in mind are those I played with as a child. It’s difficult to find intelligent hunting dogs now. Mind you, I don’t hunt myself. I want a dog that runs loose around the village during the winter, but that’s not allowed any more. That’s how it was when I was a girl. They knew everything that was going on. And hunted mice in the stubble-fields.”

“One like her, in other words?” he said, nodding towards Tintin. “Wouldn’t that be the right dog for you?”

“Of course. She’s lovely.”

Several long seconds passed. Tintin sat between them, looking first at one, then the other.

“Anyway,” Martinsson said eventually, “you didn’t find him.”

“No, but I knew we wouldn’t from the start.”

“How could you know that? What do you mean?”

Eriksson looked out of the window. Sunshine and a light blue sky, softening up the icy crust on the snow. Icicles hung in pretty rows dripping from gutters. The trees were suffering the pains of spring.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just that I sometimes get a feeling. Sometimes I know the dog is about to find something even before it starts barking. Or that we aren’t going to find anything, as on this occasion. It’s when I feel . . . how shall I put it? . . . maybe
open
is the right word. A human being is something special. There’s more to us than we realize. And Mother Earth is more than just a lump of dead rock. She’s also alive. If there’s a dead body lying somewhere in the countryside, you can feel it when you reach the place. The trees know, and vibrate with the knowledge. The stones know. The grass. They create an atmosphere. And we can perceive it if we just . . .”

He shrugged as a way of finishing the sentence.

“Like people do when they are dowsing for water,” Martinsson said, feeling that this sounded awkward. “They don’t really need a divining rod. They simply know that the water is there.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Something like that, perhaps.”

He gave her a searching look, suspected that there was something she wanted to tell him.

“What’s on your mind?” he said.

“The girl they found,” Martinsson said. “I had a dream about her.”

“Really?”

“It was nothing much. Anyway, I have to go home now. Need a lift?”

“No, but thanks all the same. A mate of mine’s coming to help me with the car. So you saw Wilma, did you?”

“I dreamt about her.”

“What did she want, do you think?”

“It was a dream,” Martinsson said again. “Don’t they say that all the people in your dreams are really yourself?”

Eriksson smiled.

“Cheerio,” was all he said.

And off he went, with the dog.

Mella drove down to Piilijärvi, some 60 kilometres south-east of Kiruna. The snow had melted from the road. All that was left was an icy ridge in the middle. Mella needed to inform Anni Autio, Wilma Persson’s great-grandmother, that the girl had been found, and that she was dead. It would have been helpful to have Stålnacke with her, but that was out of the question. He could not forgive her for what had happened during the shooting in Regla.

“And what the hell am I supposed to do about that?” Mella said aloud to herself. “He’ll be retiring soon, so he won’t have to put up with me much longer. He can stay at home with Airi and her cats.”

But it nagged at her. She was used to laughing and joking with her colleagues. It had always been such fun, going to work. But now . . .

“Not much bloody fun at all!” she said to herself as she turned off onto the narrow, winding road leading from the E10 to the village.

And things were not getting any better. She rarely asked the others if they fancied lunch somewhere as a group. Often she just drove home and forced down some yoghourt and muesli on her own. She had started ringing her husband from work. In the middle of the day. To talk about nothing at all. Or she would invent errands: “Did you remember Gustav’s extra pair of gloves when you took him to nursery?” “Can you pick up some shopping on the way home?”

Anni Autio lived in a pink Eternit-clad house in the middle of the village, by the lake. The wooden steps up to the front door were stained brown, carefully looked after, and generously sanded to prevent falls. The handrail was black-painted iron. A handwritten note inside a plastic pocket, attached to the front door with a drawing pin, read:

“RING
And WAIT.
It takes ages for me to get to the door.
I AM at home.”

Mella rang the bell. And waited. A few ravens were frolicking in the thermals above the lake. Black and majestic against the blue sky. Their cries filled the air. One of them was wheeling round and round in concentric circles. Without a care in the world.