Åsa Larsson - Until Thy Wrath Be Past

“Nothing,” Mella said. “I just can’t start my car.”

Robert didn’t answer the phone. He was probably out playing in the snow with the kids. Ringing Stålnacke was a non-starter. She couldn’t phone any of her other colleagues either.

It’s Saturday, she thought. They’re off duty. I’ve got myself into this situation. The last thing I need is another story about how inconsiderate I am.

In the end she dialled Rebecka Martinsson’s number. Martinsson picked up after two rings.

“I’ll fill you in later,” Mella said, glancing at Anni, who was in the kitchen getting some yoghourt and bread. “Can you come and fetch me, please? I hate having to ask you.”

“I’ll be there right away,” Martinsson said, without asking any questions.

Forty minutes later, Rebecka Martinsson pulled up at Anni Autio’s house.

Mella was standing outside, waiting for her. Slammed the passenger door as she got into the car.

“Let’s go,” was all she said.

Once they had left the village, the story came tumbling out.

“The bastards,” she said, bursting into tears. “What a bunch of fucking cunts.”

Martinsson said nothing, concentrated on her driving.

“And they knew the score exactly,” Mella snuffled. “I can’t prove a bloody thing. Not that Hjalmar slashed my tyres, not that they nicked my mobile, nothing.”

Shame raged inside her. She had allowed herself to be terrified. Tore Krekula must have felt like a bloated rat on top of a rubbish tip when he offered to drive her into Kiruna and she said no.

“He enjoyed every minute of it,” she said to Martinsson.

I ought to have made a scene, she thought. I ought to have raised hell and screamed and accused them. I should have insisted that they drove me into town. Instead I let them see that I was shit-scared.

“I’ll give them hell!” she roared, slamming her fist down on the glovebox. “I’ll reopen every suspended investigation, check out every retracted accusation involving those damned brothers. You can charge them. They’ll regret the day they started fucking with me.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Martinsson said calmly. “You’ll keep a cool head and act in a professional manner.”

“You saunter in all serene and innocent,” Mella said, “and they launch an all-out attack. Crash, bang, wallop!”

“Some people…” Martinsson said, without finishing her sentence. “Do you think this has anything to do with Simon and Wilma?”

“Simon and Wilma. I’m going to find Simon. And I’m going to discover exactly how they died.”

“Yes, you do that,” Martinsson said. “That’s your job.”

“I’ll call in the media and appeal to the public for information. And I’ll ring the Krekula brothers and suggest that they switch on their televisions.”

She slapped her forehead.

“Oh, shit!” she said. “I was supposed to collect Jenny from the stables. What time is it?”

“Quarter past two.”

“I can just make it… that is, if you… Is it O.K. if we pick her up?”

There was no sign of Jenny at the stables. Mella ran into the coffee room, checked all the seats around the riding track, every box, every stall. She asked all the stable girls she could find, becoming desperate when they shrugged and said they had no idea where Jenny might be. Martinsson was hard on her heels. They finally discovered one of Jenny’s friends behind the main building. She was busy splitting bales of hay open for the horses in the paddock.

“Hi Ebba,” Mella said in an uncharacteristically cheerful voice, trying to subdue the suspicions that were beginning to creep up on her. “Where’s Jenny?”

Ebba looked at Mella in confusion.

“But you sent her a text,” she said. “Jenny was so upset. She texted you back, then rang you, but you didn’t pick up.”

Mella went ice-cold with horror.

“But I haven’t sent any texts,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “I have… My mobile…”

Martinsson’s mobile rang. It was Måns Wenngren. She ignored the call.

“What did the text say?”

“Surely you must know what you wrote?” Ebba said.

Mella groaned, covering her mouth with her hand to prevent herself from screaming.

“Oh my God!” Ebba said, looking scared. “You texted Jenny that she should meet you. Immediately. She was pretty put out, having to go back to town.”

“Where to?” Mella screeched. “Where was she supposed to go?”

“To that old open-air stage in the park by the railway station. We thought it seemed odd. A funny place to meet. She tried to ring and text you, but you didn’t answer. Neither did Robert. Your text said to come immediately – Jenny was afraid something might have happened to you.”

The stage in Järnvägsparken, Martinsson thought. There won’t be a soul anywhere in the vicinity.

“Are you saying it wasn’t you who sent that text?” Ebba said, sounding worried.

But Mella was already racing for the car. Martinsson ran after her.

Mella’s heart was thumping. She could envisage Tore and Hjalmar Krekula telling Jenny that her mother had had an accident. She could see them driving off with Jenny in their car.

How many times had Mella found herself observing her only daughter surreptitiously since she had become a teenager? Mella had contemplated Jenny’s budding breasts, her perfect pink skin. Prayed for divine protection. Please God, don’t let anything awful happen to her. And now… Please, please God…

Martinsson set off with Mella on her mobile, trying to ring Jenny. No answer. Please, please God… Don’t let anything happen to her. Please don’t let anything happen to her. We’ll be there very soon.

Martinsson drove through the park along the pedestrian walkway to the stage. There was Jenny. She looked frozen to death in her stable girl’s light jacket. Mella leapt out of the car, yelling out her daughter’s name. Jenny! Jenny!

“I’m here, can’t you see?” Jenny said, breaking free from her mother’s embrace.

She was furious. Scared as well, you could see that in her eyes.

Mella flew into a rage.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” she thundered.

“I tried to ring you. My battery ran out. God knows how long I’ve been standing here waiting. Nobody answered! You didn’t. Dad didn’t. What’s going on? Why are you crying?”

The late news on North Swedish Television carried pictures of Wilma Persson and Simon Kyrö. The presenter said that although the young people had disappeared in October, Wilma’s body had only just been found. Mella stood in front of the camera asking the public for any leads. Anything and everything was of interest, she said. Did anyone know where the kids were planning to go diving? Had anybody spoken to them before they disappeared?

“Don’t be afraid to ring us,” she said. “Rather a call too many than one too few.”

Anna-Maria Mella was sitting on the living-room sofa, watching the late news. Robert was beside her. Each of them had a pizza in a box on their knees. Jenny and Petter had already finished eating. There were empty boxes and drinks cans on the table. Marcus was staying over at his girlfriend’s place. Gustav had been asleep for ages.

All around Mella and Robert, behind them and on the floor in front of the sofa, was clean, crumpled laundry waiting to be sorted and folded. Robert had been out with Gustav all day. They had had lunch at his sister’s.

It would never occur to him to volunteer to fold newly washed laundry, Mella thought disapprovingly. Everything was such a mess. She would need to devote an entire holiday to catching up with the housework. And she would have much preferred a real dinner instead of this nasty, greasy pizza. She made a play of dropping the slice in her hand into the box, and pushing it away.