Åsa Larsson - Until Thy Wrath Be Past

“And how will we do that?” Mella said doubtfully.

“They’ll tell me of their own accord,” Martinsson said. “SvenErik?”

Stålnacke looked up in surprise.

“Have you got my direct line on your mobile?”

Stålnacke and Martinsson pulled up outside Tore Krekula’s house at 5.15 on April 28. His wife answered the door.

“Tore’s not at home,” she said. “I think he’s at the garage. I can phone him.”

“No, we’ll go over there,” Stålnacke said with a good-natured smile. “You can come with us and show us the way.”

“You can’t miss it. You just need to drive back through the village and…”

“You can come with us,” Stålnacke said in a friendly voice that clearly expected to be obeyed.

“I’ll just go and get my jacket.”

“No need for that,” Stålnacke said, ushering her gently along. “It’s nice and warm in the car.”

They drove in silence.

“I apologize for the smell,” Martinsson said. “It’s the dog. I’ll give her a good wash this evening.”

Laura Krekula glanced casually at Vera, who was lying in the luggage space.

Martinsson keyed a text message into her mobile. It was to Mella. It said: Laura Krekula out of the house .

The garage was built out of breeze blocks. Standing outside it were several buses, snowploughs and a brand-new Mercedes combi E270.

“In there – the office is on your right as you go in,” Laura Krekula said, pointing to a door remarkably high up in the wall. “Can I walk back? It’s not all that cold.”

Martinsson checked her mobile. A text from Mella. We’re outside now , it said. Martinsson nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Yes, that’ll be O.K.,” Stålnacke said.

Laura Krekula set off. Stålnacke and Martinsson stepped over the high threshold of the staff entrance. There was a faint smell of diesel, rubber and oil.

The office was on the right. The door was open. It was barely more than a cupboard. Just enough room for a desk and chair. Tore Krekula was sitting at the computer. When Martinsson and Stålnacke came in, he swung round to face them.

“Tore Krekula?” Martinsson said.

He nodded. Stålnacke seemed to be embarrassed and was staring at the floor. He had his hands in his jacket pockets. Martinsson was doing the talking.

“I’m District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson, and this is Inspector Sven-Erik Stålnacke.”

Stålnacke nodded a greeting, his hands still in his pockets.

“We met yesterday,” Krekula said to Martinsson. “You’re a bit of a celeb here in Kiruna, not someone we’d forget easily.”

“I’m investigating the death of Hjörleifur Arnarson,” Martinsson said. “We have reason to believe that it wasn’t accidental. I’d like to ask you if…”

She was interrupted by her mobile ringing, and looked at it.

“Excuse me,” she said to Krekula. “I have to take this call.”

He shrugged to indicate that it did not matter to him.

“Hello,” Martinsson said into the phone as she walked out through the door. “Yes, I sent you the material yesterday…”

The door closed with a click, and they could no longer hear her.

Stålnacke smiled apologetically at Krekula. Neither spoke for a moment.

“So Hjörleifur Arnarson is dead, is he?” Krekula said. “What did she mean, it wasn’t an accident?”

“Huh, it was a nasty business,” Stålnacke said. “It seems that someone killed him. I don’t really know what we’re doing here, but my boss is in league with the prosecutor…”

He nodded in the direction of the door through which Martinsson had disappeared.

“And you seem to have annoyed my boss,” Stålnacke continued. “I don’t know how much of what she’s told me is true, but she has a talent for rubbing people up the wrong way.”

Krekula said nothing.

“Anyway,” Stålnacke said with a sigh, “I assume you know about that bloody shooting at Regla.”

“Of course,” Krekula said. “There was a lot about it in the papers.”

“It was all her fault,” Stålnacke said vehemently. “She exposes her staff to danger without a moment’s thought. I had to take sick leave afterwards…”

He broke off and seemed to be lost in thought.

“And now she can’t wait for the forensic boys to complete their job. If in fact someone has been out at Hjörleifur’s place, we’ll soon know all about it. My God, it’s amazing what the tech wizards can do nowadays. If someone has left a strand of hair behind, you can bet your life they’ll find it. They’re going through Hjörleifur’s house with a fine-tooth comb.”

Tore Krekula ran his hand over his head. His hair had not thinned with age.

“Not that it proves anything even if someone has been there,” Stålnacke said, looking up at the ceiling and speaking as if he had forgotten that Krekula was there. “I mean, you can have paid someone a visit, but that doesn’t mean you killed them.”

At that moment the door opened and Martinsson came back into the office.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “As I was saying, Hjörleifur Arnarson has been found dead in his home. Have you been out there? You and your brother?”

Tore Krekula looked at her slyly.

“I won’t deny that we were there,” he said after a while. “But we didn’t kill him. We simply wanted to know what he’d seen. I mean, the police don’t tell any of us in the village a damned thing. But that was where they lived, after all. My aunt Anni was Wilma’s great-grandmother. You’d have thought they would have given her a bit of information.”

“So you were there,” Martinsson said. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. He probably thought you’d be furious with him if he said anything to us. We left none the wiser.”

Martinsson looked at her mobile.

“It’s 5.56. I confirm herewith that the police will search the houses of Tore and Hjalmar Krekula, both of whom we have good reason to suspect of the murder of Hjörleifur Arnarson.”

She turned to Tore Krekula.

“Take your clothes off. We’ll be taking them with us. You can keep your underpants on. We have some things in the car that we can lend you.”

The police are searching the houses of Tore and Hjalmar Krekula. I’m sitting on the roof of Tore’s porch. There’s a raven perched next to me. It knows I’m there, I’m convinced of it. It leans its head to one side and studies me, even though there’s nothing for it to see. It moves a step closer, then steps away again. Tore’s wife Laura is standing outside the front door, shivering. When she arrived home from the garage the police were already here – the blonde policewoman with the long plait, and three uniformed colleagues. They wouldn’t allow Laura into the house. Then the policewoman’s mobile rang. It was a short call. She simply said “O.K.”, and they went inside.

Now they’re taking Tore’s clothes away. I assume they’re hoping to find blood-stains from Hjörleifur.

Tore arrives and stands watching them. He says nothing at first, tries to catch the policewoman’s eye, but fails. He smiles scornfully at her colleagues instead and asks if they’d like to search his dustbin. Which they do. Tore’s wife says nothing. She doesn’t dare ask what they’re looking for. She has learnt not to wind Tore up.

The raven caws and clicks and clucks – it seems to be trying out different sounds to see if I’ll react to any of them. I can’t respond. Giving up, it flies off to Hjalmar’s house 150 metres away. Perches in the big birch tree and calls to me. In a flash I’m sitting beside it on a branch.

Hjalmar opens the door when the police ring the bell. He seems half asleep. His mop of hair resembles a spiky tuft of winter grass. His stubble is like a sooty shadow on his cheeks and neck. His belly sticks out like an overfed pig under his tent-like T-shirt. When the police officers ask him politely to wait outside until they’ve finished, he doesn’t put any trousers on, just steps outside in his underpants. The older officer, the one with the shaggy moustache, takes pity on him, and allows him to sit and wait in the police car.