Until Thy Wrath Be Past (23 page)

“Really? Wow!”

“Yes, their business expanded impressively during those years. By nearly 500 per cent. And they acquired five refrigerated vans during the same period. When I compared them with other haulage companies, none of them expanded anywhere near as much.”

“Really?”

“Isak Krekula was on very good terms with the German army. There’s nothing odd about that – lots of firms were. In Luleå, for instance, the Germans had enormous depots for weapons and provisions. Transport was needed to move all the stuff to the Eastern front. I found a copy of a contract between the German army and Swedish Road Freight Centre Ltd. German soldiers were freezing to death in Finnish Lapland during the winter of 1941–2, and the German military attaché in Sweden ordered wooden huts from Swedish manufacturers. And so of course they also needed contracts with transport companies to carry those huts to the Eastern front. That’s what the S.R.F.C. contract was all about. So that winter there was nonstop shuttle traffic between the north of Sweden and the Eastern front. Isak Krekula’s haulage firm was one of the signatories to the contract between the S.R.F.C. and the German army. The contract was approved by the Foreign Ministry and the Swedish government.”

“I see,” Mella said, trying to resist the temptation to read an article about storage in her magazine.

“Once all the huts had been transported, deliveries continued to be made to the German front line. Including weapons, although there was nothing about that in the S.R.F.C. contract. And what’s more,” Martinsson continued, “I found a letter from
Oberleutnant
Walther Zindel, an army officer stationed in Luleå and in charge of the German depots in the region, to Martin Waldenström, the managing director of L.K.A.B. In it Zindel asks for Isak Krekula to be released from his contract with the Kiruna mine concerning four lorries for transporting iron ore, so that they could be used by the German army in Finnish Lapland.”

“Excuse me for being a bit slow on the uptake . . .” Mella began.

“You’re not slow on the uptake. All this doesn’t necessarily mean a thing. But it’s set me thinking. How come that Isak Krekula’s firm could grow so much more quickly than any of his competitors? A haulage firm was a lucrative business during the war. Obviously, everyone involved wanted to invest and expand. Where did Isak Krekula get all the money that enabled him to invest so much more than the others? It’s just not possible for him to have earned so much from his haulage business alone – I mean, if that were the case, at least one or two of his competitors would have been able to expand at a similar rate. And my neighbour Sivving says that the Krekulas were crofters as far back as anybody can remember, so there’s no money in the family.”

“Are you suggesting he might have been doing something illegal?”

“Perhaps. He must have got the money from somewhere. And you have to ask where. And I wonder why
Oberleutnant
Zindel asked the managing director of the mine to release Krekula from his three-year contract. Why Krekula? There were other hauliers who had contracts with L.K.A.B.”

“So?”

“I don’t know,” Martinsson said. “I don’t even know how to go about discovering what kind of a customer Isak Krekula was, or finding out about his dealings with Walther Zindel. In any case, it wouldn’t be of any help to us. Even if we discovered that he was involved in dirty business with the Germans, that would have no bearing at all on whether Tore and Hjalmar Krekula had anything to do with the deaths of Wilma Persson and Simon Kyrö.”

“Always assuming that Simon Kyrö is dead in fact,” Mella said mechanically.

“Of course he’s dead,” Martinsson said impatiently. “We’ll find him as soon as the ice on Vittangijärvi thaws.”

“Hmm, I’ve been trying to keep an open mind. Might he have killed Wilma himself, for instance?”

“And then killed Hjörleifur Arnarson? Hardly, don’t you think? Anyway, I reckon we should follow up on this line of investigation now – we don’t have unlimited resources.”

“We should probably just wait to see what develops,” Mella said. “Hope that the forensic examination of Hjörleifur’s body and his house, and the clothes Hjalmar and Tore Krekula were wearing, produce interesting results. And hope that we find the door and Simon Kyrö’s body when the thaw comes, and that there are finger-prints on it, or something of the sort.”

Clearing his throat, Fjällborg gave Martinsson a withering look.

“I’ve got to go,” Martinsson said. “I’ll see you at the meeting tomorrow.”

“Johannes Svarvare told me that Isak Krekula had a heart attack just over a week before Wilma and Simon went missing,” Mella said. “And when he said that, I had the impression that he wanted to say more, but was holding back for some reason.”

“He’s scared of them,” Martinsson said.

“I can’t help wondering if he had a heart attack because he’d heard that they were going to go diving to look for the aeroplane. There’s something about that bloody plane. It’s a bugger that the ice is melting, and that it’s not possible to go diving there right now. We’ll have to wait. I hate waiting.”

“I hate waiting too.”

“So do I!” Fjällborg said, slamming the potato stew down on the table. “I hate waiting for food to get cold.”

Mella laughed.

“What are you having to eat this evening?”

“Smoked pike.”

“Smoked pike? I’ve never tried that.”

“It’s good! What are you having?”

“We’ve eaten already,” Mella said. “Gustav was allowed to choose, so we had ‘porky sausages’.”

“Hmm,” Fjällborg said when Martinsson had hung up. “How’s it going?”

“Not very well,” Martinsson said. “I think the Krekula brothers are guilty, but . . .”

She shrugged.

“We’ll have to hope the forensic examination turns up trumps.”

Fjällborg ate in silence. He had heard her talking about the Krekulas’ haulage business and the Germans during the war. He knew exactly who Martinsson ought to talk to in order to get information about all that. But the question was: would that person be willing to talk?

Måns Wenngren is sitting in his flat in Floragatan. All the lights are out. The television is on, its flickering screen relieving the darkness. Some
Seinfeld
episode that he has seen before.

Martinsson has not rung today. No text messages, nothing. The previous evening she had both texted and rung him. He had not answered. She had left a message.

Now he regrets not having answered. But everything is arranged the way she wants it to be. She wants to live in Kiruna. She is busy with work and has no time to talk.

Yesterday. He had thought he would try and make it clear to her that he had no intention of playing the love-lorn loon, allowing her to trample all over him.

“Yes, I’m angry,” he says to his empty flat. “With good reason.”

He puts down his mobile. If there is no message from her tomorrow, he will phone her.

“But I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” he says out loud.

He longs to be with her. He imagines them back on good terms, imagines travelling up north to spend the weekend with her. He can take Friday off. He does not have any important meetings planned.

THURSDAY, 30 APRIL

A snowstorm was brewing. April in Kiruna. Martinsson woke up and all she could see through the window was the white, snow-laden wind howling around the house.

It was 5.30. She had just poured herself a cup of coffee when her mobile rang. She could see from the display that it was Maria Taube, her former colleague at Meijer & Ditzinger. They had both worked for Måns Wenngren before Martinsson had moved back to Kiruna.

Pressing “answer”, she gave a theatrical groan suggesting she was still half asleep.

“Oh dear!” Taube said. “I’m sorry! Did I wake you?”

Martinsson laughed.

“No, I was just teasing you. I’ve been up for some time.”

“I knew you would be. You’re a workaholic. It’s O.K. to ring you when everyone else is still asleep. But I thought that maybe the laid-back lifestyle of the northern Swedes we’re always hearing about might have rubbed off on you.”

“It has, but round here ladies of a certain age are up and about very early.”

“Yes, I know how it is – first one up gets a medal. My aunts are like that; they sit at the dinner table competing to see who’s been up longest. ‘I woke up at 5.00 and thought I might as well get up and clean the windows.’ ‘I woke up at 3.30, but thought I’d force myself to stay in bed, so I didn’t get up until 4.30.’”

“A bit like us, then,” Martinsson said, taking a sip of coffee. “Are you at work already?”

“I’m on my way. And walking. Listen.”

Martinsson could hear early birds singing.

“We’ve got a terrible snowstorm up here,” she said.

“You’re kidding! Down here all the cafés have set up their pavement extensions, and people are talking about how many tulips they’ve counted in their gardens in the country.”

“Have you managed to get to smell the tulips, my dear?”

“No, I haven’t, darling. I’m stuck in a rut, working myself to death and getting involved in destructive relationships.”

“Then you’d better climb out of your rut,” Martinsson said, sounding like a perky weather forecaster. “Your body can do other things; it’s your mind that’s getting in the way. Dare to do something different. Wear your watch on the other wrist. Have you tried walking backwards today?”

“You’re an agent of the dark forces, you know,” Taube said dejectedly. “I’ve actually read a book about mindfulness. It says that you’ve always got to be ‘with it’. I wonder if they’ve tried being ‘with it’ at Meijer & Ditzinger . . .”

“Is Måns being cruel and nasty?”

“Yes, he is in fact. Have you two had a row or something? He’s in such a bloody awful mood. He flew into a rage yesterday because I’d forgotten to put Alea Finance on the list of firms allowed to make late payments.”

“No, we haven’t actually had a row. But he’s annoyed with me.”

“Why? He’s not allowed to be annoyed with you. It’s your duty to keep him happy and well fed and satisfied, so that he couldn’t care less whether or not Alea Finance has to pay a late fee of five or six thousand. I mean, they have a turnover of two million. Not to mention the loss of prestige for M. & D. – I’ve heard the lecture before. Anyway, why is he annoyed with you?”

“He thinks I’ve been too reticent. And he doesn’t like me settling in up here. What does he expect? Am I supposed to move in with him until he gets fed up with me and starts running off to the pub with the lads and screwing the trainee lawyers?”

Taube said nothing.

“You know I’m right,” Martinsson said. “Some men and some dogs are just like that. It’s only when you look the other way and signal that you’re totally uninterested that they come running up to you wagging their tails.”

“But he’s in love with you,” Taube said tamely.

But she knew that Martinsson was right. It was good for Wenngren that Martinsson had moved up to . . . Nowheresville. He was the sort of man who finds it hard to cope with an intimate relationship. Both she and Martinsson had seen him lose interest in attractive and gifted women who had simply become too attached to him.

“If he weren’t like that,” Taube said, “would you consider moving back here?”

“I think it would make me ill,” Martinsson said, with no trace of humour in her voice.

“Stay there, then. You’ll just have to have a hot long-distance relationship. There’s nothing to beat a bit of longing for what you can’t have.”

“Yes,” Martinsson said.

Although I don’t actually long to be with him any more, she told herself. I like him. I like it when he’s here. It works well. I might sometimes miss the sex. I like sleeping in his arms. And now that he isn’t getting in touch, I obviously feel put out and scared of losing him. But I find it hard to cope with his restlessness after he’s been up here for more than three days. When I start feeling that I need to think up some way of stopping him getting into a bad mood. When he refuses to try to understand why I need to live here. And, now, when he’s sulking. And refusing to answer his mobile.

For a fleeting moment she wondered if she ought to ask Taube if she thought Wenngren had been with someone else. If there was a suitable candidate in the office.

But I’m damned if I shall, she thought. In the old days I’d have been awake half the night, conjuring up all sorts of images in my mind’s eye. But I don’t have the strength now. I refuse to do that.

“I’m at the office now,” Taube said, panting slightly. “Can you hear me walking up the stairs instead of taking the lift?”

Martinsson was about to say, “You should keep asking yourself: What would personal trainer and media star Blossom Tainton have done?” But she couldn’t keep the banter going any longer. They often spent ages on the phone joking like this. Presumably that was why both of them sometimes hesitated to ring – things simply got out of control.

“Thank you for calling,” she said instead, and meant it.

“I miss you,” Taube panted. “Can we meet up the next time you come to Stockholm? Presumably you won’t need to be on your back the entire time?”

“Who is it that always . . .”

“Yes, yes. I’ll ring. Love and kisses!” Taube said, and hung up.

Vera stood up and started barking.

Sivving Fjällborg’s heavy footsteps were approaching the house. Bella was already scratching away at the front door.

Martinsson let her in. Bella immediately ran to Vera’s food bowls in the kitchen. They were empty, but she licked them just to make sure, and growled at Vera, who held back at a respectful distance. When the bowls had been licked clean, they greeted each other and sparred playfully, ruffling the rag mats in the process.

“What foul weather!” Fjällborg grunted. “The bloody snow is coming at you from 90 degrees. Look at this!”

He removed snow from his shoulders, where it had formed icy clumps.

“Mmm,” Martinsson said. “Soon they’ll be singing ‘Sweet lovers love the spring’ in Stockholm.”

“Yes, yes,” Fjällborg said impatiently. “Then they’ll get beaten up in the streets as they make their way home from the May Day celebrations.”