The Second Deadly Sin (9 page)

“What makes you think things will be any different in Kiruna?” Lundbohm says.

He raises his head slightly, and looks her in the eye.

“The fact that you are a different kind of man,” she says, meeting his gaze until he turns away and orders another cup of coffee.

She becomes aware that she has some kind of hold over him. He is so much older than she is, so she hasn’t thought about him in that way while they have been conversing. But of course, he is a man after all.

She is not unaware of her good looks, and sometimes she has taken advantage of them herself. It was her hair and her trim waist that led to the repairing of the roof of the teacher’s house very cheaply by a couple of local farmhands two years ago.

But more often than not her beauty has been a confounded
nuisance. It is a pain, constantly having to hold would-be suitors at bay; but now, when she sees Lundbohm averting his gaze because he is afraid that it might betray his thoughts, she feels her heart give a leap of pleasure.

She has a hold over him. Over the man Rudyard Kipling calls “the uncrowned king of Lapland”.

She knows that he is acquainted with a lot of remarkable people – Prince Eugen, Carl and Karin Larsson, Selma Lagerlöf. But who is she, compared with people like that? Nothing, a mere nobody. But she still has her youth and her beauty, and that combination has given her this experience. She thanks God from the bottom of her heart. If she had been ugly, she would never have found herself sitting here with him.

Now he is looking at her again.

“If you find that anything is missing from your classroom that ought to be there,” he says, “readers, blackboard and easel, slates for the pupils – just let me know. Personally.”

Their conversation moves on to the importance of education. She says that Kiruna is a mining town, and hence she is well aware that everything is going to be different from what she has been used to. She thinks that the best thing about the labour laws passed in Sweden in 1912 is the protection given to young children that prevents them from being exploited by industry. There are no such laws preventing them from being exploited in the interests of agriculture.

“How will children be able to educate themselves in school if they are already worn out by hard labour? The desire to learn is snuffed out in their heads. I’ve seen this happen with my own eyes.”

Now she starts talking about her beloved Ellen Key and
The Century of the Child.
Her cheeks glow as she preaches the gospel according to Key, how all a child’s bodily and spiritual energy until the age of fifteen should be concentrated on its education in school, indulging in sport and play, being encouraged to perform tasks at
home and in vocational schools – but certainly not exploited by being forced to work in industry.

“Nor should children have to perform exhausting work on farms and in farmhouses,” she says, lowering her gaze as she recalls the way in which young boys and girls were made to slave away as housemaids or farmhands by the gentleman farmer.

Lundbohm is infected by her enthusiasm.

“As far as I’m concerned, industry and other similar activities are merely the means, not the goal,” he says.

“So what is the goal?”

“The goal is always to enable people to lead the most rewarding life possible. Also on a spiritual level.”

When he says this, she looks at him with such veneration that he feels obliged to add, almost in embarrassment, “Besides, the most efficient workers are always the ones who have been through school.”

He explains that they have also reached this conclusion in Russia, where standards of general education still leave much to be desired. Workers who can read and write always receive higher wages than those who can’t: illiterates always end up doing the most onerous and debilitating work. And the reason why German industry has progressed further and faster than its English counterpart is that German citizens are better educated. And just look at the productive and intelligent American workers. It’s all down to schooling.

Lundbohm feels exhilarated. Happier than he has felt for a long time. That’s the blessing bestowed by travelling. For several hours one has nothing better to do than to get to know a fellow human being.

And when it’s a fellow human being like this one! … Ravishing. And intelligent with it.

There is a shortage of beautiful women in Kiruna. The women are young, to be sure. Kiruna is a newly built town populated by young people. But life is hard up there in the far north; it takes its
toll and the drudgery marks their faces. They lose their apple-red cheeks. They dress in men’s overcoats and woollen shawls in an attempt to keep out the cold. It’s true that the engineers’ wives retain their healthy glow, but they don’t want to go out walking or jogging as women would do in Stockholm. No, in summer there are too many mosquitoes, and in winter it’s too cold. So they stay indoors and lounge around and put on weight.

Their conversation hops around from one topic to another.

They talk about the Mona Lisa, which had been stolen and disappeared for two years before reappearing at the Louvre just before Christmas. A crafty art gallery owner in Italy lured the thief out of his lair and pretended to be interested in buying the painting.

They agree to differ when it comes to votes for women – but Elina insists that she is no suffragette, and Lundbohm jokes that if she were to become one, he would personally force-feed her in prison. Elina asks him to talk about Selma Lagerlöf and her visit to Kiruna when she was writing her book about Nils Holgersson and his marvellous journey all over Sweden: and he does so. They discuss Strindberg’s posthumous reputation, his bitterness and his funeral. And they talk about the
Titanic,
of course. It is exactly two years since the catastrophe took place.

Then, before they know it, they arrive at their destination. Such a disappointment. The train shudders to a stop, doors open, people jostle in their attempts to disembark with all their luggage.

Elina has to go back to her compartment.

Lundbohm takes his leave, wishes her all the best, and encourages her again to get in touch with him personally if there are any problems or any equipment missing in her classroom.

She hardly has time to blink before he vanishes.

She is surprised. She thought they would at the very least get off the train together, perhaps walk along the platform together. Then she feels angry. If she had been an upper-class lady no doubt he
would have accompanied her to her compartment, carried her suitcase and helped her off the train. Offered her an arm to lean on as she stepped down onto the platform.

When she is standing outside the station building, waiting for her two trunks to be delivered, her anger is replaced by shame.

What on earth had she expected? That they would become friends? Why should he have been interested in that?

And she had gone on a bit. Thinking back, she could not help but blush. He must have thought she was the most presumptuous and self-centred little schoolmistress he had ever come across. Her inflammatory speech about Ellen Key – to somebody who actually knew her.

A youth appears with her trunks on a wheelbarrow. They are very heavy – one of them in particular. It is very difficult, wheeling them through the deep snow.

“What have you got inside these trunks, Missus – bricks?” he asks with a grin. “Are you thinking of building a house?”

Another youth appears and offers to help, but she has difficulty in hearing what they are saying.

The station is teeming with people. Loading and unloading is going on wherever you look. Outside the station building are queues of horses and sledges waiting for passengers. A girl is standing by a large pot of coffee over a small gas stove, selling mugs of coffee and buns.

A flock of thrushes are singing in a birch tree laden with snow. That is all she needs to rekindle her high spirits. The shame she had been feeling melts away. He is only a man, after all, and there are thirteen to the dozen of those. How beautiful it all is, thanks to the snow and the sunshine. She wonders what it will look like in the evening, with the mountain lit up and all the street lights aglow.

Kiruna – the name sings inside her mind’s ear. Kiruna. The name comes from the Sami word
gieron,
which means ptarmigan.

*

Lundbohm hurries off the train. He has no time to spare as he has had an idea about the accommodation provided for the new schoolteacher. It has to be arranged at once, so that she doesn’t realise that he has changed what was planned, for what he thinks will be for her benefit.

He doesn’t want to give her the impression of being an old man pestering her, but he wants to meet her again. And if his little plan comes off, he will certainly be able to do that. Often.

Sol-Britt Uusitalo’s cousin was called Maja Larsson. Martinsson leaned her bicycle against the woodshed, and looked around.

It was Larsson’s mother’s property. It was obvious that an old person who had run out of steam had been living there for a long time. The house was clad with pink Eternit panels, and several of them had come loose. The gutter was also hanging loose. The window frames needed repainting. The porch seemed to have sunk and was at an angle outside the front door. Several large, straggly bushes – Martinsson guessed they were currant bushes – were growing on the south side of the house. Remains of the homemade trellis that used to support them were lying on the ground, rotten and covered in moss.

Martinsson knocked on the door as the bell didn’t seem to be working.

Larsson answered it, and Martinsson almost took an involuntary stride backwards. What a beautiful woman! She was not wearing make-up, and the wrinkles on her face gave her a weatherbeaten look. Her cheekbones were high, and she stretched her long, slim neck when she saw Martinsson. A regal movement – perhaps that was what almost made Martinsson take that step backwards. She seemed to be about sixty. Her hair was pure white, and had been braided to form lots of long, thin plaits which were collected in a large bun at the back of her head. Her hair was snake-like. Her eyes were light grey, her eyebrows thick and blonde. She was wearing a pair
of men’s trousers which hung around her hips, and a V-necked brown woollen jumper, patched at the elbows.

“Is something wrong?” she said.

Martinsson realised that she was staring. She introduced herself and explained why she was there.

“It’s your cousin,” she said. “Sol-Britt Uusitalo. I’m afraid that she’s been murdered.”

Larsson looked at Martinsson as if she was a little girl selling Christmas magazines. Then she sighed deeply.

“For Christ’s sake … I expect you want to come in and talk. Yes, of course you do – come right in.”

She led the way into the kitchen. Martinsson kicked off her shoes and followed her. She sat down on the rib-backed settee, declined the offer of coffee and took a notebook out of her pocket.

Larsson opened a kitchen drawer and dug out a packet of cigarettes.

“Let’s hear it, then! Would you like a fag?”

Martinsson shook her head. Larsson lit one for herself and sent the smoke spiralling out through her nostrils. She stood by the stove and pulled a metal chain which opened a ventilation flap in the ceiling.

“Somebody stabbed her while she was asleep.”

Larsson closed her eyes and lowered her head. As if she were trying to take in what Martinsson had just said.

“Please excuse me if I seem … It’s my mother. She hasn’t much longer to live. I’m only staying here so that I can be close to her as the end approaches. I sometimes feel as if I don’t have any emotions left in my body.”

She looked intently at Martinsson.

“Marcus?!”

“He’s O.K.,” Martinsson said. “Uninjured.”

“Have you come to ask me to look after him?”

“I don’t know. Could you?”

Larsson’s face hardened.

“Huh, I assume that means his little mum said no. Had she injured her back, perhaps? Or had a pipe just burst in her kitchen? Did she even bother to ask how he was?”

Martinsson thought how Marcus’s mother had gone on about the probability of her partner walking out on her if she agreed to look after her son. She had not asked about how he was.

“I’ll take care of him,” Larsson said. “Of course I will. If there’s nobody else. It’s just that my mother is so … I’m away at the hospital nearly all the time. I don’t know if I’d be able to manage it. He doesn’t know me at all. I don’t live here – as I said, it’s just now, when my mum … And I must admit that I’m crap when it comes to handling children. I never had any myself. Oh God, oh God … I think the world has gone mad. But I’ll look after him. Of course I’ll look after him.”

Martinsson opened her notebook.

“Who might have called her a whore?”

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody had written that on the wall above her bed.”

Larsson stared hard at Martinsson. Like a fox standing motionless in the trees at the edge of the forest, trying to decide if the approaching stranger is friend or foe. In the end she responded. Her voice was low and soft. The silver snakes were wriggling on top of her head.

“I know who you are; you’re Rebecka Martinsson. Mikko’s and Virpi’s daughter. You’ve moved back here. I didn’t know what you look like nowadays – I only met you once when you were a little girl. Well, Rebecka, you know what it’s like here in the village.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Perhaps you don’t. You’re a prosecutor after all. People daren’t muck you about. But it was different with Sol-Britt …”

She shook her head. A gesture that suggested she didn’t have the strength to spell things out.

“Tell me.”

“Why? People in this village are a lot of bastards, but they wouldn’t murder her. If I spill the beans and you then go round asking questions, they’ll know I’ve snitched on them. And I’ll have stones thrown through my windows.”

“Somebody stabbed her to death,” Martinsson said sternly. “Not just once. A hundred times. I saw her. Are you going to help me?”

Larsson placed her hand on the back of her neck and glared at Martinsson.