Åsa Larsson - Until Thy Wrath Be Past

In the end she understands how to solve “those bloody quadratic equations”.

They are both utterly exhausted. Washed out. Hjalmar warms up some Russian pasty, which they eat with ice cream.

“My God, but you’re a clever bastard,” she says. “Why are you driving lorries? You ought to be a professor.”

He laughs.

“Professor of class-nine maths!”

How could she possibly understand? Ever since he finished reading the maths books he stole from Herr Fernström’s car, he has been doing his sums. He has ordered books from university book-shops and antiquarian booksellers. In algebra he is busy with Lagrange’s theorem and groups of permutations. He has been taking correspondence courses for years, and not just in maths. Driven down to Stockholm in order to take the exams at Hermod’s Correspondence College. Pretended that he was going to Finland to do some shopping. Or to Luleå to collect an engine. When he was twenty-five he took the high-school leaving examination at Hermod’s. He drove out to his summer cottage the following weekend. He had bought a bottle of wine. Not that he was much of a drinker, and especially not of wine. But he sat there with a Duralex glass of red. It tasted foul. Hjalmar smiles at the memory.

They work for a bit longer, but eventually it is time for Wilma to go home. She puts on her jacket.

“Don’t tell anybody about this,” he says before she leaves. “You know. Not Tore… Not anybody. Don’t tell them I’m good at maths and all that.”

“Of course not,” she says with a smile.

She is already elsewhere in her thoughts. Presumably with Simon Kyrö. She thanks Hjalmar for his help, and leaves.

Rebecka Martinsson and Hjalmar Krekula are standing in the cemetery. Martinsson has the feeling that she is sitting in a boat and Hjalmar has fallen into the water. He’s clinging on to the rail, but she doesn’t have the strength to pull him into the boat. He will soon be dangerously close to hypothermia. He will lose his grip on the rail. He will sink. There’s nothing she can do.

“How are you?” she says.

She regrets it the moment she’s said it. She doesn’t want to know how he is. He’s not her responsibility.

“I’ve got heartburn or something,” he says, thumping his chest with his fist.

“Really?”

“I have to go,” he says. But he shows no sign of moving.

“I see.”

She has the dog in her car. She ought to go too.

“I can’t stop wondering what I should do,” he says. His face is twitching.

She looks away in the direction of the trees. Avoids looking him in the eye.

“When I felt at rock bottom, I used to go out for a walk in the country. Sometimes that helps.”

He trudges off.

Impotence weighs her down.

Martinsson arrived back at the police station at 2.15 in the afternoon. In the entrance she bumped into Anna-Maria Mella. Vera, overcome with joy, jumped up to greet Mella. Left wet paw marks on her jeans.

Mella’s eyes were shining and full of life. Her cheeks were red. Her hair seemed to be longing to be free; strands were working their way loose from her plait and looked as if they wanted to fly away.

“Have you heard?” she said. “We’ve had a report from the lab. There was blood from Hjörleifur Arnarson on Tore Krekula’s jacket.”

“Wow,” Martinsson said, feeling as if she had been jerked violently out of a dream. Her thoughts had been totally immersed in the meeting with Hjalmar Krekula at the cemetery. “What are you…”

“We’re going to arrest Tore Krekula, of course. We’re about to set off for his house right now.”

Mella paused. She looked guilty.

“I ought to have rung you. But you’ve been busy with proceedings all morning, haven’t you? Do you want to come with us and help nail him?”

Martinsson shook her head.

“Before you go,” she said, placing a hand on Mella’s arm to hold her back, “I was at the cemetery.”

Mella made a heroic effort to hide her impatience.

“And?” she said, pretending to be interested.

“Hjalmar Krekula was there as well. To visit Wilma’s grave. I think he was on the brink of… well, I don’t know what. He’s not well. I had the feeling he wanted to tell me something.”

Mella became a little more attentive.

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know. It was mainly a feeling I had.”

“Don’t be angry,” Mella said, “but don’t you think your imagination might be running away with you? All this business might have triggered memories of your own experience. How you felt bad when you… you know.”

Martinsson could feel her emotions tying themselves in knots.

“That’s a possibility, of course,” she said stiffly.

“We can talk more about it when I get back,” Mella said. “But keep away from Hjalmar Krekula, O.K.? He’s a dangerous swine, remember that.”

Martinsson shook her head thoughtfully.

“He would never hurt me,” she said.

“Famous last words,” Mella said with a wry smile. “I’m serious, Rebecka. Suicide and homicide have a lot in common. We had a bloke last year who ran amok in his cottage out at Laxforsen, releasing first his wife and then his children aged seven and eleven from the sufferings of this world. Then he succeeded in taking his own life with an overdose of ordinary iron tablets. His kidneys and liver gave up the ghost. Mind you, it took more than two months for him to die. He was in hospital in Umeå with tubes wherever you looked, under arrest for murder.”

Neither of them spoke. Mella wanted to bite her tongue off. She thought about when Martinsson had shot those men at Jiekajärvi. The circumstances had been quite different, of course. And how she had lost the plot and wanted to kill herself. But those circumstances had also been quite different. Why was everything always so complicated? The ground around Martinsson was a minefield. Why the hell did she have to bump into her in the doorway?

Rantakyrö and Olsson came charging down the corridor. Greeting Martinsson hurriedly, they looked questioningly at Mella.

“Right, we’re off to pick up Tore Krekula,” Mella said. “I expect you’ll want to be present at the interrogation?”

Martinsson nodded and the pack raced out of the door, baying and howling, sniffing the ground.

She remained where she was, feeling left out.

Oh dear, she said to herself, how little and insignificant you are.

Vera suddenly started barking. Krister Eriksson had just parked his car and let out Tintin and Roy. His face lit up when he caught sight of Martinsson. He went over to her.

“I was looking for you,” he said with a smile so big that his pink skin seemed tightly stretched. “Do you think you could look after Tintin for a while? I’m going to put Roy through his paces, and Tintin is always so miserable when she’s left behind in the car.”

Vera stood submissively still, wagging her tail in a friendly greeting, as Tintin and Roy sniffed at her, under her stomach and around her rump.

“I’d love to,” Martinsson said.

“How are things?” he said. Martinsson had the feeling he could see right through her.

“Fine,” she lied.

She told him about Tore Krekula’s jacket, about how he was about to be arrested.

Eriksson said nothing, just stood there and waited. Looked sympathetically at her.

You’re a right one for standing there and waiting, Martinsson thought. Wait on.

She had no intention of telling him about Hjalmar Krekula and their meeting in the cemetery.

Then he smiled suddenly. Tapped her gently on the arm. As if he simply could not keep his hands off her.

“So long, then. I’ll collect her this evening.”

He instructed Tintin to stay with Martinsson, went back out to his car and drove off with Roy.