Until Thy Wrath Be Past (14 page)

Rebecka Martinsson was getting out of her car outside the police station as Mella came storming out of the door.

Then Mella had a brainwave. She could ask Martinsson to go with her to talk to Hjörleifur. Even if it was not a good idea to go out there on her own, she could keep her colleagues out of it for the time being.

“Hello,” she said. “Do you fancy coming into the forest and having a chat with the most eccentric character in Kiruna? I have . . .”

“Hang on a minute,” Martinsson said, fumbling for her mobile, which was ringing away inside her briefcase.

Måns. Rejecting the call, she switched off her phone. I’ll ring him later, she thought.

“Sorry,” she said to Mella. “What were you saying?”

“I’m going to talk to Hjörleifur Arnarson,” Mella said. “Do you know who he is? You don’t? It’s obvious you’ve been living in Stockholm for a while. He lives near Vittangijärvi, and I think that’s where Wilma and Simon were diving when they disappeared. I’d prefer not to go out there on my own. My colleagues are . . . er . . . busy with other things this morning. Would you like to come with me? Or do you have something important that needs doing?”

“No, I’ve nothing special on,” Martinsson said, thinking of the work piled up on her desk.

All being well, she should be able to deal with most of it that evening.

“So you’ve never heard of Hjörleifur Arnarson,” Mella said as they drove out to Kurravaara.

They had the police snow scooter in the trailer so they would be able to get to Vittangijärvi.

“Tell me about him.”

“I hardly know where to begin. When he first moved to Kiruna, he lived out at Fjällnäs. His mission was to raise a new breed of pig. The idea was that these pigs would be able to survive in the forest up here and tolerate the winter temperatures. So Hjörleifur crossed wild boar and Linderöd pigs. My God, those pigs! They had no intention of staying in the forest when they could rootle around in his neighbours’ potato fields. The whole village was in uproar! The neighbours were furious, rang us up, wanted us to drive out there and capture the pigs. Hjörleifur tried to fence them in, but they kept escaping. The pigs, that is – ha, ha! – not the neighbours. In the end someone in the village shot them all. My goodness, there was no end of a hullabaloo!”

Mella chuckled at the memory.

“And then a few years ago there was a big N.A.T.O. exercise in the forests north of Jukkasjärvi, Operation North Storm. Hjörleifur made a contribution to world peace by running around naked in the woods while they were on manoeuvres. They had to interrupt the exercise and go looking for him.”

“Naked?” Martinsson said.

“Yes.”

“But that North Storm exercise was in February, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“February. Twenty, thirty degrees below zero?”

“It was an unusually warm winter,” Mella said with a laugh. “Not much more than minus 10. He had a pair of boots and a blanket under his arm when they caught him. He’s a naturist. Only in the summer normally; his contribution to world peace was a special effort. He never wears clothes in summer. He believes that his skin absorbs solar energy, so he also hardly eats anything then.”

“How do you know all this?”

“When that neighbour shot his pigs . . .”

“Eh?”

“It led to a court case. Taking the law into his own hands or malicious damage, I can’t remember which; but the case went to court in the summer. You should have seen the judge and jury when Hjörleifur turned up as the plaintiff.”

“I can imagine!” Martinsson said, roaring with laughter. “The spring sunshine is pretty strong today. Think we’ll get a peek?”

“You never know,” Mella said with a smile. “We shall see.”

There were no roads leading to Hjörleifur Arnarson’s house, which was a two-storey building, timber-clad and painted red. In what passed for a garden were an old bathtub and masses of other junk, rabbit cages, traps of various types and sizes, bales of hay, a plough, and sundry bits of wood nailed together and looking like the early stages of some building project.

Several hens were wandering and scratching away in the soft spring snow. A friendly dog, seemingly a Labrador–border collie cross, came trotting over to greet them, wagging its tail.

“Hello!” Mella shouted. “Is anybody home?”

She looked over at Martinsson. Perhaps it had been a mistake, bringing her along. Martinsson’s appearance seemed too elegant somehow. It would be easy to assume that she was upper class. But then again, if you allowed an excited dog to lick off all your make-up, as Martinsson was doing, you might pass muster. Mella tried not to think about Stålnacke. He always had a calming effect on people.

I miss him, she surprised herself by thinking. I’m as angry as hell with him, but I regret not having him around.

“Hi there!” a man said, appearing from behind the house.

Hjörleifur Arnarson was wearing incredibly filthy blue overalls which hung loose round his skinny body. His hair was long and curly, although the crown of his head was bald. His face was deeply tanned and weatherbeaten. He looked much the same as he had done the last time Mella had seen him. That must have been about fifteen years ago, she thought. He was carrying a basket of eggs. The hens assembled devotedly around his feet.

“Women!” he said with a broad smile.

“Er, yes,” Mella said. “We’re from the police.”

She introduced herself and Martinsson.

“You’re welcome even so,” Hjörleifur said. “Maybe you’d like some eggs? Environmentally friendly. They’ll make you more fertile. Do you have any kids?”

“Yes,” Mella said with a laugh, a bit taken aback. “Four.”

“Four!”

Hjörleifur paused and stared at her in admiration.

“All with the same man?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not so good. It’s best to have children with as many different men as possible. That ensures a richer gene pool. Increases your chances of a biological bull’s eye.”

He turned to Martinsson.

“Do you have any children?”

“No,” she said.

“That’s not good. Is it intentional or accidental? Forgive my frankness, but infertile women are useless for the future of humankind.”

“Perhaps it leaves us free to get some work done instead,” Martinsson said. “While the rest of you are busy making children.”

“We can do all the work ourselves,” Hjörleifur said. “As well as make children. But I expect you are fertile in fact. Probably just one of them career women. With the right man you ought to be able to produce loads of children.”

“With the right men, surely, you mean,” Mella could not resist saying, and was delighted to note the cut-it-out look she received from Martinsson.

“But only one at a time,” Hjörleifur said, eyeing Martinsson covetously. “Come in.”

Martinsson gave Mella a look that said, “Come in and be impregnated, is that what he means?”

“We just wanted . . .” Mella said, but Hjörleifur had disappeared inside the house.

All they could do was follow him.

Hjörleifur was putting the fertility-boosting eggs into an egg box on the kitchen counter. He wrote the date on each of them with a pencil. Mella looked around with a mixture of horror and elation. She was impressed to see a kitchen as messy and dirty as this one – it made her own kitchen look like an advert in a home-improvement magazine.

In front of the wood-burning stove was a big pile of shavings and bark from timber Hjörleifur had sawn up. There was a cork mat on the floor, but it was impossible to see what colour it was under all the layers of dirt. A rag rug under the table was the same greyish-brown shade. The cloth on the kitchen table was stiff with congealed grime. The window panes had been half-heartedly wiped in the middle so that it was just about possible to see out. There were no curtains. Instead Hjörleifur had installed shelves in front of the windows, on which were rows of tins and potted plants. An old-fashioned zinc bathtub stood in the middle of the floor, and washing was hanging in front of the stove. There were piles of dirty dishes everywhere. Mella suspected that Hjörleifur never washed up, simply using the plate and mug nearest to him as needed. A yellowish-green sleeping bag lay on the kitchen sofa. The ceiling was black with soot, and the paraffin lamp hanging from it was covered in dust and spiders’ webs.

Both women declined the offer of ecological herbal tea.

“Are you sure?” Hjörleifur said. “I make it myself. It’s high time you started eating in an environmentally friendly way, if you don’t already. Only 10 per cent of us will give birth to children sufficiently capable of coping with life to ensure that our genetic heritage will survive for the next three generations.”

“You usually bathe at Vittangijärvi, is that right?” Mella said, thinking that it was time to change the subject.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever seen these two down by the lake?”

She showed Hjörleifur a photograph of Wilma and Simon.

He looked at the picture and shook his head.

“I think they were diving in the lake on October 9. That must have been shortly after the ice formed. Did you ever see or meet them? Have you noticed anything happening down by the lake? Do you know about Göran and Berit Sillfors’ shed door? Seems it was nicked last winter.”

Hjörleifur’s expression changed. He looked grumpy.

“Questions, questions,” he said.

For a while Mella said nothing.

“They may have been murdered,” she said eventually. “It really is important that you tell me anything you know.”

Hjörleifur remained silent the way little children do, his mouth tightly closed.

“Come back tomorrow,” he said finally. “Maybe I might have seen something.”

“Tell me now,” Mella said. “I . . .”

“Maybe I haven’t seen anything at all,” Hjörleifur said.

He eyed Mella defiantly. It was clear that she was not going to get anything out of him today.

She gritted her teeth.

The stubborn old goat, she thought.

She opened her mouth to urge him to tell her what he knew, but Martinsson got there first.

“Thank you so much for being willing to help us,” she said. “We’ll be happy to come back tomorrow.”

She smiled at him, revealing her perfect teeth. Her eyes gleamed. “What’s the name of your lovely dog?” she said.

Hjörleifur melted.

“Vera,” he said with a smile. “So there we are then. Come back tomorrow. I’ll boil a few eggs for you.”

Hjörleifur Arnarson stood outside his front door watching Mella and Martinsson drive away. Martinsson had put him in a good mood, but now he was suffering agonies.

When they came back tomorrow, what if they brought handcuffs with them? What if they took him to the police station and locked him up? What if he was no longer free? Unable to get out? Locked up in a grey concrete cage?

Back in the house, he fished his mobile out of a cupboard. He hardly ever used it. But this was an emergency. Holding a piece of aluminium foil between his head and the phone, he dialled the number of Göran and Berit Sillfors.

“What have you told the police?” he said in an agitated voice when Göran Sillfors answered.

Göran Sillfors sat down on a stool in the kitchen and took his time to convince Hjörleifur that he and his wife had not said anything at all, and that nobody believed that Hjörleifur had anything to do with the disappearance of the young couple.

Once Hjörleifur had calmed down, Sillfors couldn’t resist enquiring, “And what about you? What did you tell them?”

Hjörleifur could feel the vibrations coming from the telephone. They heated up his ear and gave him a headache.

“Nothing. They’ll be back again tomorrow,” he said curtly.

And hung up.

It is not easy to be Göran Sillfors. He is a talker, a blabber. He likes the sound of his own voice. He will hold forth about anything under the sun, especially himself. He is the type about whom people say, “He gossips like an old woman” and use phrases like “verbal diarrhoea”. He is the type people want to kill to get him to shut up.

Of course, he senses that this is how he is regarded. But instead of being quiet, he just talks some more. He has learnt to talk without pausing so that it is impossible for people to end conversations with him.

Now Göran Sillfors really has got something to talk about. Something that other people really will be interested in, especially people living in Piilijärvi. The police suspect that Wilma Persson and Simon Kyrö were murdered. The police have been talking to Hjörleifur, who might know more than he has admitted. Sillfors is sitting on a piece of red-hot news, and now he rings his cousin’s former workmate, who lives in Piilijärvi.

He cannot know what a terrible mistake that is. What consequences that telephone call will have.

After taking the call, his cousin’s former workmate puts on his jacket and goes into the village.

The word spreads like water beneath late-winter snow.

Mella and Martinsson arrived back at the police station at 12.30.

“I’d love to go looking for that shed door,” Mella said as they were getting out of the car. But it would have to wait. The ice was too unreliable to walk on. Almost half a metre thick, but there was still a danger of falling through it. “I wonder if Krister Eriksson would be able to put Tintin on the trail of a wooden door?