Åsa Larsson - Until Thy Wrath Be Past

“Maybe it was the boyfriend who put the door over the hole?” Rantakyrö said.

“But why was her body moved?” Olsson said.

Mella said nothing. If Wilma had been murdered, one reason for moving the body could have been that the murderer lived nearby, or that it was widely known that he often visited the lake. Hjörleifur Arnarson lived not far from there. And he often visited it. But there was no point in mentioning him to her colleagues.

It’s not him, she thought. Those bloody Krekula brothers have something to do with this, I’m sure of it.

But she also needed to talk to Hjörleifur Arnarson. Preferably not on her own.

“How’s your daughter?” Olsson said.

“She’s O.K.,” Mella said. “It was mostly me who was scared.”

“What a pair of swine!” Rantakyrö said with feeling. “Have you had her number changed?”

“Of course.”

“They must be involved in some way or other,” Rantakyrö said vehemently. “We need to get them back for what they did to you, Mella.”

“I don’t know about that,” Stålnacke said. “I don’t think what they did necessarily has anything to do with the two kids. You went to see them. They took the opportunity to cause trouble. If you’d been from the Inland Revenue or the local council, or if you’d been a traffic warden or anybody else they have it in for, they’d have treated you just the same.”

“But it’s also possible that they tried to scare me off because they know something, or are mixed up in this business.”

Stålnacke’s tone of voice went up a notch.

“Or else your emotions are running ahead of your brain – and it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Mella stood up.

“You can go to hell,” she said calmly to Stålnacke. “Go home to Airi or do whatever the hell you please. I’m going to investigate the death of Wilma Persson and the disappearance of Simon Kyrö. I think he’s somewhere under the ice. If they were murdered, I’m going to find out who did it.”

She strode out of the room.

“What are you gawping at?” Stålnacke said after she had left.

His colleagues did not respond. They did not want a row. Olsson shook his head almost imperceptibly and pretended to concentrate on his Blackberry. Rantakyrö picked his nose conscientiously. Both were signalling: For God’s sake, that was wholly unnecessary.

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.