Until Thy Wrath Be Past Part 15

Chief Prosecutor Alf Bjornfot was Martinsson's boss. These days he worked mostly in Lule and let Martinsson take care of Kiruna district.

"That may be, but you're dealing with me now, not him," Martinsson said slowly.

Olsson's and Rantakyro's tails stopped wagging. The hunt had been called off.

"They've threatened me and tried to scare me off the case," Mella said.

"There's no proof of that," Martinsson said.

"I rang Goran Sillfors. He told me that he'd mentioned to someone who lives in Piilijarvi that we'd paid a visit to Hjorleifur. Piilijarvi's a village! If one person knows something, everyone knows it! Tore and Hjalmar must have heard that we had been talking to Hjorleifur. They no doubt went straight to his place after they'd spoken to us in the car park."

"But we don't know that for sure," Martinsson said. "If you can prove it if someone has seen them near or even in Kurravaara, you'll get your permission."

"Oh, for Christ's sake . . ." Mella groaned.

The whole pack, apart from Stlnacke, looked imploringly at Martinsson.

"We'd be reported to the Parliamentary Ombudsman," she said. "The Krekula brothers would just love that."

"We'll never catch them," Mella said dejectedly. "It will be another Peter Snell case."

Fifteen years earlier, a thirteen-year-old girl, Ronja Larsson, had gone missing one Sat.u.r.day evening after visiting some friends. Peter Snell was an acquaintance of the family. One of the girl's friends had said that he had made advances, and that Ronja had thought he was "creepy". The morning after her disappearance, Snell had poured petrol into the boot of his car and set fire to it in the forest. When interrogated, he had denied committing a crime, but could not give a satisfactory explanation for burning his car.

"He doesn't need to," Chief Prosecutor Alf Bjornfot had said to Mella. "There's no law to stop you burning your own car if that's what you want to do. It proves nothing."

There had been vain attempts to find D.N.A. traces in the burnt-out wreck. The girl's body was never found. The case was written off, closed as far as the police were concerned. They knew who the murderer was, but couldn't produce enough evidence to charge him. Snell owned a break-down firm. Before the Ronja Larsson case, the police had frequently used his break-down lorries in connection with traffic accidents and similar situations. Following the case, they cut him off. He threatened to sue.

Martinsson said nothing for a few seconds. Then she smiled mischievously at the Kiruna police officers.

"It'll be O.K.," she said. "We'll establish a link between them and the crime scene. Then we'll be able to turn their houses inside out."

"And how will we do that?" Mella said doubtfully.

"They'll tell me of their own accord," Martinsson said. "SvenErik?"

Stlnacke looked up in surprise.

"Have you got my direct line on your mobile?"

Stlnacke and Martinsson pulled up outside Tore Krekula's house at 5.15 on April 28. His wife answered the door.

"Tore's not at home," she said. "I think he's at the garage. I can phone him."

"No, we'll go over there," Stlnacke said with a good-natured smile. "You can come with us and show us the way."

"You can't miss it. You just need to drive back through the village and . . ."

"You can come with us," Stlnacke said in a friendly voice that clearly expected to be obeyed.

"I'll just go and get my jacket."

"No need for that," Stlnacke said, ushering her gently along. "It's nice and warm in the car."

They drove in silence.

"I apologize for the smell," Martinsson said. "It's the dog. I'll give her a good wash this evening."

Laura Krekula glanced casually at Vera, who was lying in the luggage s.p.a.ce.

Martinsson keyed a text message into her mobile. It was to Mella. It said: Laura Krekula out of the house.

The garage was built out of breeze blocks. Standing outside it were several buses, snowploughs and a brand-new Mercedes combi E270.

"In there the office is on your right as you go in," Laura Krekula said, pointing to a door remarkably high up in the wall. "Can I walk back? It's not all that cold."

Martinsson checked her mobile. A text from Mella. We're outside now, it said. Martinsson nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Yes, that'll be O.K.," Stlnacke said.

Laura Krekula set off. Stlnacke and Martinsson stepped over the high threshold of the staff entrance. There was a faint smell of diesel, rubber and oil.

The office was on the right. The door was open. It was barely more than a cupboard. Just enough room for a desk and chair. Tore Krekula was sitting at the computer. When Martinsson and Stlnacke came in, he swung round to face them.

"Tore Krekula?" Martinsson said.

He nodded. Stlnacke seemed to be embarra.s.sed and was staring at the floor. He had his hands in his jacket pockets. Martinsson was doing the talking.

"I'm District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson, and this is Inspector Sven-Erik Stlnacke."

Stlnacke nodded a greeting, his hands still in his pockets.

"We met yesterday," Krekula said to Martinsson. "You're a bit of a celeb here in Kiruna, not someone we'd forget easily."

"I'm investigating the death of Hjorleifur Arnarson," Martinsson said. "We have reason to believe that it wasn't accidental. I'd like to ask you if . . ."

She was interrupted by her mobile ringing, and looked at it.

"Excuse me," she said to Krekula. "I have to take this call."

He shrugged to indicate that it did not matter to him.

"h.e.l.lo," Martinsson said into the phone as she walked out through the door. "Yes, I sent you the material yesterday . . ."

The door closed with a click, and they could no longer hear her.

Stlnacke smiled apologetically at Krekula. Neither spoke for a moment.

"So Hjorleifur Arnarson is dead, is he?" Krekula said. "What did she mean, it wasn't an accident?"

"Huh, it was a nasty business," Stlnacke said. "It seems that someone killed him. I don't really know what we're doing here, but my boss is in league with the prosecutor . . ."

He nodded in the direction of the door through which Martinsson had disappeared.

"And you seem to have annoyed my boss," Stlnacke continued. "I don't know how much of what she's told me is true, but she has a talent for rubbing people up the wrong way."

Krekula said nothing.

"Anyway," Stlnacke said with a sigh, "I a.s.sume you know about that b.l.o.o.d.y shooting at Regla."

"Of course," Krekula said. "There was a lot about it in the papers."

"It was all her fault," Stlnacke said vehemently. "She exposes her staff to danger without a moment's thought. I had to take sick leave afterwards . . ."

He broke off and seemed to be lost in thought.

"And now she can't wait for the forensic boys to complete their job. If in fact someone has been out at Hjorleifur's place, we'll soon know all about it. My G.o.d, it's amazing what the tech wizards can do nowadays. If someone has left a strand of hair behind, you can bet your life they'll find it. They're going through Hjorleifur's house with a fine-tooth comb."

Tore Krekula ran his hand over his head. His hair had not thinned with age.

"Not that it proves anything even if someone has been there," Stlnacke said, looking up at the ceiling and speaking as if he had forgotten that Krekula was there. "I mean, you can have paid someone a visit, but that doesn't mean you killed them."

At that moment the door opened and Martinsson came back into the office.

"Sorry about that," she said. "As I was saying, Hjorleifur Arnarson has been found dead in his home. Have you been out there? You and your brother?"

Tore Krekula looked at her slyly.

"I won't deny that we were there," he said after a while. "But we didn't kill him. We simply wanted to know what he'd seen. I mean, the police don't tell any of us in the village a d.a.m.ned thing. But that was where they lived, after all. My aunt Anni was Wilma's great-grandmother. You'd have thought they would have given her a bit of information."

"So you were there," Martinsson said. "What did he say?"

"Nothing. He probably thought you'd be furious with him if he said anything to us. We left none the wiser."

Martinsson looked at her mobile.

"It's 5.56. I confirm herewith that the police will search the houses of Tore and Hjalmar Krekula, both of whom we have good reason to suspect of the murder of Hjorleifur Arnarson."

She turned to Tore Krekula.

"Take your clothes off. We'll be taking them with us. You can keep your underpants on. We have some things in the car that we can lend you."

The police are searching the houses of Tore and Hjalmar Krekula. I'm sitting on the roof of Tore's porch. There's a raven perched next to me. It knows I'm there, I'm convinced of it. It leans its head to one side and studies me, even though there's nothing for it to see. It moves a step closer, then steps away again. Tore's wife Laura is standing outside the front door, s.h.i.+vering. When she arrived home from the garage the police were already here the blonde policewoman with the long plait, and three uniformed colleagues. They wouldn't allow Laura into the house. Then the policewoman's mobile rang. It was a short call. She simply said "O.K.", and they went inside.

Now they're taking Tore's clothes away. I a.s.sume they're hoping to find blood-stains from Hjorleifur.

Tore arrives and stands watching them. He says nothing at first, tries to catch the policewoman's eye, but fails. He smiles scornfully at her colleagues instead and asks if they'd like to search his dustbin. Which they do. Tore's wife says nothing. She doesn't dare ask what they're looking for. She has learnt not to wind Tore up.

The raven caws and clicks and clucks it seems to be trying out different sounds to see if I'll react to any of them. I can't respond. Giving up, it flies off to Hjalmar's house 150 metres away. Perches in the big birch tree and calls to me. In a flash I'm sitting beside it on a branch.

Hjalmar opens the door when the police ring the bell. He seems half asleep. His mop of hair resembles a spiky tuft of winter gra.s.s. His stubble is like a sooty shadow on his cheeks and neck. His belly sticks out like an overfed pig under his tent-like T-s.h.i.+rt. When the police officers ask him politely to wait outside until they've finished, he doesn't put any trousers on, just steps outside in his underpants. The older officer, the one with the s.h.a.ggy moustache, takes pity on him, and allows him to sit and wait in the police car.

I land in the prosecutor's hair. I'm like a raven on the top of her head. I dig my claws into her dark locks. I turn her head to look at Hjalmar. She sees him sitting there in the police car, blinking. She opens the door and talks to him. I peck at her head. She must wake up now.

Olsson, Rantakyro and Stlnacke carried clothing out of Hjalmar Krekula's house and searched through the garage looking for a murder weapon. An hour and a half later they announced that they had finished.

Martinsson contemplated Hjalmar Krekula. She saw how he was leaning against the car window. It looked almost as if he were about to fall asleep. His eyelids were half-closed.

Suddenly he felt her watching him. He turned his head slowly and looked at her through the car window.

She felt as if she were being stabbed inside. His gaze dug into her just like a pike clamping its jaws round the bait. And her gaze dug into him. Like when the hook pierces the pike's cheek.

Fleeting images flitting through her consciousness.

n.o.body has touched him since he was a very little boy. Torture and pain are embedded in all that fat. This is something he can't eat himself out of. He is at the end of the line.

But I've touched him, she thought although it wasn't so much a thought as an insight. He was young. I was not that old either. Fifteen, perhaps. I held him under his arms and lifted him up towards the heavens. The sun at its zenith. Dry soil under my bare feet. He slept in my arms. Was he my little brother? My child? My little sister?

Her heart felt as if it might burst with compa.s.sion. She wanted to place her hand on the car window. So he would place his hand against hers on the other side of the gla.s.s.

"h.e.l.lo," Olsson said beside her. "I said we're finished."

Following her gaze, he saw Hjalmar Krekula.

"That b.l.o.o.d.y swine!" he said between gritted teeth. "Let him suffer. Did they think they could mess about with Mella and get away with it? Let him sit there and stew in his underwear."

Martinsson nodded absent-mindedly. Then she went over to Stlnacke's car and opened the back door.

"We've finished," she said to Hjalmar.

He was sitting there like a lump of lard, looking at her. Stlnacke had draped a red-and-black synthetic blanket over his bare legs.

They had slashed Mella's tyres, Martinsson reminded herself. Nicked her mobile and lured Jenny to Jarnvagsparken to scare the s.h.i.+t out of her. I must get a grip.

"We're taking you to the station for questioning," she said. "You're not under arrest, so I'll give you a lift home when we've finished."

She controlled any feelings of sympathy. Made sure they were not noticeable. She caught sight of a raven perched on the porch roof.

"We'll fetch you a pair of trousers."

Transcript of the Interrogation of Tore Krekula.

Place: Kiruna police station.

Date and time: April 28, 19.35.

Present: Inspectors Anna-Maria Mella and Sven-Erik Stlnacke, and District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson.

A.-M.M.: Interrogation begun at 19.35. Can you tell us your name, please?