Åsa Larsson - Until Thy Wrath Be Past

“She’ll burn in hell,” he says. “You probably think that’s what will happen to me. But she’ll be a few levels further down. So there.”

His tone of voice changes. He becomes self-absorbed.

“So there, so there,” he says over and over again.

Then he falls silent. Seems to regret having said too much.

“Huh,” he says petulantly. “It wasn’t all that hot in here. You didn’t make the fire hot enough. There’s still too much of a chill in the walls.”

He clambers down from the bench and goes out into the cooling room. Hjalmar can hear him splashing away in the wash basin. Then the outside door closes with a bang.

“What about Hjörleifur Arnarson?” Martinsson says. “What happened to him?”

“That was Tore,” Hjalmar says. “He hit him with a piece of firewood. We couldn’t risk him having seen something. We moved him. Knocked the kitchen stool over. Opened the cupboard and put one of the rucksacks inside it. It was supposed to look like an accident.” Closing his eyes, he recalls his brother telling him to hold up Hjörleifur’s blood-covered head so that it would not leave a trail on the floor when Tore dragged him along by his legs.

Thank you, God, Martinsson thinks. That means we can put Tore behind bars. The spots of blood on his jacket plus Hjalmar’s testimony. A watertight case.

“What are you intending to do now?” she says. “You’re not thinking of shooting yourself, I hope?”

“No.”

She starts talking more quickly.

“Because if you did…” she says, “I couldn’t cope. Not after Lars-Gunnar Vinsa. I was there when he shot himself and Nalle. He’d locked me in the cellar.”

“I know. I read about it. But I’m not going to.”

Looking down at his mug of coffee, he shakes his head.

“Mind you, I did think about it.”

He looks up at her.

“You told me to go out into the forest. And I did. Something happened that I can’t explain. A bear looked at me. It came really close.”

“And?”

“It was as if there was something bigger than me. And I don’t mean the bear. Afterwards I just knew that I had to confess. I had to get it all out of me. All the lies.”

She looks at him doubtfully.

“So why did you come out here?”

“I thought I’d better come here and wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“I don’t know. For whatever was going to happen. For everything that had to happen.”

Tore Krekula stops the snow scooter beside Hjalmar’s car. There is another car parked there as well. But smoke is only coming from Hjalmar’s chimney. So who is there with Hjalmar? Tore texts the Road Licensing Authorities, asking who owns a car with that registration number. The reply comes immediately. Rebecka Martinsson, Kurravaara. Prosecutor. Her being there is not a problem. He will finish her off. And then his brother.

The death of Hjalmar Krekula will have to look like suicide. Given the state he seems to be in at the moment, he might well kill himself anyway. Maybe he just needs a bit of persuasion. Tore will fix that. Hjalmar killed Wilma and Simon. And as for Hjörleifur, let’s see… Hjalmar borrowed Tore’s jacket… No, that’s no good: Hjalmar’s so bloody fat, he would never fit into his brother’s jacket. No, here we go: Tore was standing next to Hjörleifur, they were only going to talk to him – but suddenly, without warning, Hjalmar lashed out with the lump of firewood. A splash of blood landed on Tore’s jacket. Yes, that’ll do the trick. Hjalmar murders the prosecutor, then kills himself. Somehow. Tore will have to improvise a bit, but it will be alright. It will all turn out O.K. No problem.

That bloody Hjalmar! What the hell does he think he’s playing at? There’s not a grain of sense in that flabby skull of his. He lets himself crumble under pressure. But not Tore. He has a family to think about. Laura. His sons. Even if they are grown up now. And Mother and Father. Tore has been running the firm more or less on his own ever since he was fifteen. He has never had a week’s holiday in the whole of his adult life. He has worked and taken on more responsibility. Worked and taken on more responsibility. And for what? So that his brother can take it all away from him? No.

Tintin is the first to hear the scooter. She raises her head and listens. At which point Vera barks. Only then do Martinsson and Hjalmar hear the sound of an engine coming closer. Hjalmar gets up and looks out of the window.

“Bad news,” he says. “It’s my brother.”

Martinsson jumps up – but where can she go? Out the door? What would happen then?

“There’s no time for that,” Hjalmar says. “He’s here.”

Martinsson hears the snow scooter’s engine being switched off.

Now he’s getting off the scooter, she thinks. Now he’s going to come in.

Hjalmar turns to Martinsson and speaks. The words come tumbling out of his mouth faster than they have ever done in his life.

“Get into the bathroom,” he says. “Lock the door. There’s a window. Climb out. Run down to the river and across it. Stick to the scooter tracks. They’ll have frozen over and with luck will take your weight. It’s your only chance. I’ll try to slow him down. But I can only talk to him. I can’t lay a hand on him. I simply can’t lay a hand on Tore.”

The bathroom door locks from the inside. Martinsson fumbles with the hasp: she has to lift up the handle in order to thread the the hasp through the metal ring. The window is tiny, high up in the wall above the toilet. Martinsson stands on the toilet lid and releases the window catches. Using both hands, she opens the window. There are bottles of shampoo and detergent on the window ledge. She tosses them out into the snow. Then she grabs hold of the window frame and heaves herself up onto her elbows until she is hanging halfway out of the window. She wriggles through it until her hips are resting on the ledge. It is further up from the ground than she expected. She will have to do her best to avoid breaking her neck when she tumbles out.

This is going to be disastrous, she thinks, as she thrusts herself head first through the window.

At that same moment Tore Krekula flings open the door of the cottage.

“Where is she?” Tore says to his brother.

Hjalmar says nothing. Vera stands up and starts barking. As does Tintin.

“In there?” Tore says, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. Marching over to the door, he tugs at it.

“Come out of there!” he shouts, banging on the door so hard that it rattles against the frame.

“What the hell have you told her?” he says to his brother. “Tell me!”

“The truth,” Hjalmar says.

He is still sitting on the the sofa.

“The truth!” Tore says, mimicking his brother’s voice. “You thick, bloated arsehole!”

He kicks the bathroom door in. It flies open instantly. Thuds against the washbasin.

Tore peers inside. Empty. But the window is wide open.

Martinsson falls headlong out of the window. Lands on her back like a beetle. The snow is wet and soft, so she is unhurt; but it is nearly impossible to get up. She struggles in vain to stand.

Manages in the end. Her head is at the top of her body, and her feet at the bottom. But with every step, she sinks into the snow up to her waist. The river had seemed very close, but now it seems far, far away. She fights her way through the deep snow. Sinks down after every step. Her muscles tremble with the strain. The sun is broiling. Sweat pours off her. If only she can get as far as the snow-scooter tracks. The frost has hardened them. They will support her and she will be able to run across the river to the other side.

Tore looks out of the window. Down towards the river. Sees the prosecutor wading through the snow. She manages to crawl up onto the icy snow-scooter tracks, and is heading for the river. What is she thinking? That she can get away?