Red Snow

by Will Dean

  ‘Hi, I’m Sebastian. Here for Lena?’ his voice perks up at the end of the sentence.

  I stand and lean over my desk and extend my hand over to shake his.

  ‘I’m Tuva.’

  Lars shuffles round his desk to greet Sebastian.

  ‘I’m Lars.’

  And then we just stand there near the filing cabinets. He’s about twenty-two years old, cheekbones rendered by Picasso, Cupid’s-bow lips about as full as can be, nine maybe ten centimetres taller than me, bronzed from some kind of holiday or solarium, American teeth, smells of Davidoff Cool Water.

  ‘So you’re the new guy,’ I say. ‘My replacement.’

  ‘That’s me,’ he says, pressing his thumb into his chest. And Lars looks delighted to be getting rid of me and my nail polish and my obsessive reporting style, and replacing me with Cheekbones here.

  ‘Ah, Sebastian, let’s walk and talk, shall we?’ says Lena, stepping out and pulling on her long, black coat and loose hat.

  Cheekbones is one of those athletic types who looks good even in late winter. Don’t know what it is really, the exercise making his skin so perfect, or the fact that he can wear a ski jacket and make it look like he’s actually off skiing. We walk onto Storgatan.

  ‘What’s that place?’ asks Cheekbones.

  ‘That, Sebastian,’ says Lena, ‘is the Grimberg Liquorice factory. ‘Biggest employer in town.’

  ‘Locals call it “the factory”,’ I say.

  We walk with me closest to the road and cheekbones in the middle and Lena closest to the wall, and there’s not quite enough room for all three of us so we keep bumping into each other.

  ‘Nice town,’ he says.

  I don’t say anything I just focus on not stepping on a snow-dusted dog turd. They’re like evil reverse baked-Alaskas this time of year: frozen on the outside, still warm and soft in the middle.

  ‘Shall we try the hotel?’ asks Lena.

  ‘Or McDonald’s?’ I suggest.

  ‘Let’s try the hotel,’ says Lena.

  The Hotel Gavrik sign is slightly off-centre. There are two garden candles burning by the entrance and star-shaped Christmas lights still light up some of the windows. There’s a snowball down by the outdoor candle. I take a closer look at it but there are no eye holes, no lingonberry blood, no toothpick teeth, no gaping mouth. It’s just a snowball, that’s all. We go inside.

  ‘Hej, could we get some coffee, please?’ says Lena to the receptionist.

  ‘Card machine’s broke,’ says the receptionist, a round box of Snus tobacco sticking out from the pocket of her apron. ‘You got change? Cos if you haven’t got change I can’t help you.’

  ‘We have change,’ says Lena.

  Cheekbones looks like he’s visiting a nursing home. We sit down in the corner next to the self-service coffee thermos and tea bags and UHT milk cartons and the untouched tourist information leaflets.

  ‘Coffee?’ Lena asks Cheekbones.

  ‘Peppermint tea, please,’ he says, and we both look at each other like what the fuck is wrong with this kid?

  We sit together and talk about his new role as the sole full-time reporter at Gavrik Posten. Lena explains how print media is still important out here in the middle of nowhere, how locals rely on us for news and how we join together a spread-out rural community. She explains how the relationship is reciprocal: Gavrik residents pay for subscriptions and they pay for advertising space that they know will get noticed, and in turn they get a well-written reliable community paper. She tells him how circulation has increased by over a thousand copies a week since I started work and how much of that was down to the Medusa murder investigations and my proactive reporting of incidents.

  ‘I read you found the Ferryman’s victim,’ says Cheekbones.

  ‘I did,’ I say.

  ‘Everyone’s saying it was an occult thing because of all the dog teeth left in his throat,’ he says. ‘Maybe an ex-con sociopath biker, you know?’

  ‘Delete that image,’ says Lena in a serious tone. ‘Delete it and restart your processor. I’m serious, Sebastian, if you’re going to be a good reporter, if you want to be half as good as Tuva and one day get offered a job at a highly regarded Skåne journal, then lose the preconceived ideas and the clichés and start treating every person you meet as an individual with their own unique story. First of all, it was one dog tooth. One. And the killer could just as easy be a kindergarten teacher in her 40s as some leather-clad biker. Give everyone their time and listen twice as much as you talk.’

  I think back to Lena looking after me when Mum died. How she gave me the time and the space and the silence to manage. How she fed me and how she never asked when I’d be back at work or whether it’s time to move on and get back to normal.

  ‘She’s right,’ I say, sipping my stewed, black coffee. ‘Listen more than you talk. Lena knows.’

  ‘I will,’ he says, suddenly all back-foot defensive keen.

  We both nod and I notice the pinkie ring on his little finger, some kind of crest showing an elk head with antlers.

  ‘I learnt how to talk to people during my studies at university,’ he says, his tone higher at the end of the sentence again. Almost a hint of an Australian accent. ‘And then in my Masters in Karlstad. We learnt a lot of practical skills.’

  Lena and I stifle our eye-rolls.

  ‘You ever lived in a town like Gavrik, Sebastian?’ she asks. ‘Where do you holiday each year?’

  ‘My family had a summerhouse in Gotland, but in winter we used to go to Thailand.’

  Here’s a kid who’s slid through life on a greased non-friction surface of Teflon privilege and Mamma’s kronor.

  ‘Well,’ says Lena. ‘Welcome to reality, population nine thousand. Tuva, tell him.’

  I look at her and then I look around the room for a minute. They’re preparing for Valentine’s so there are red plastic roses, dusty, on the reception desk. The Ikea tea lights in the Ikea lanterns are blood-red and waiting to be lit. There’s a bunch of scrunched red ribbon on top of the menu board but no menu inside yet. Out behind the reception desk there’s some kind of eBay fibreglass cherub with a bow and arrow still half-shrouded in bubble wrap.

  I wipe my nose on my sleeve. ‘Gavrik is cut-off, Sebastian. We’re surrounded by dense, elk forests and marginal farmland. It’s not as geographically isolated as many places in Sweden, but it’s isolated by its attitude. There are no tourist attractions here, not real ones, and the cross-country ski trails are better in a dozen other Värmland towns. Businesses scrape by and most are desperate for some outside investment, some boost. Which never comes. This place keeps going because of the factory and the SPT Pulp Mill just up the E16, you’ll visit it soon enough. People who grow up here can’t imagine moving anywhere else and, aside from the three of us, most people don’t move here by choice. But it’s ripe with stories and interesting people and I’d say it’s as good a town as any to start your journalism career.’

  ‘My family are in Karlstad so I’ll go back at weekends, it’s not like I’ll be here all the time.’

  Seriously? This is what he chooses to say to me?

  ‘Most weekends you’ll be talking to sources or eavesdropping in ICA Maxi or writing up headlines for Lena or else photographing some school play production,’ I say with a little too much acid. ‘You’ll need to get stuck in from day one. Locals need to see you and trust you. You’ll have to develop some reliable sources in the Kommun offices and the schools and the police station and the big employers.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ he says.

  He has that pretty-boy confidence like he’s never been turned down by a girl and I envy him and pity him and resent him all at the same time.

  ‘Tuva’s right,’ says Lena. ‘You might think the news here is exciting, the talk of The Ferryman and all, but mostly it’s Kommun meetings and writing about new cycle paths. Week one I’ll cover your ass like a second shadow. We’ll interview together and drive around together and write up y
our first stories together. Don’t worry, you’ll get the by-lines. I’ll do what I did with Tuva. I’ll introduce you to people and tell them to keep you in the loop, and I’ll do my best to explain the local ways.’

  We pay and leave and the kid has a look on his face as we pass the cop shop and head down Storgatan like he’s having regrets, but by the look of the BMW parked in the Posten car park I reckon Mummy and Daddy will see him good if he runs home in tears cos Benny Björnmossen called him a college-boy prick, or if he realises there aren’t really any restaurants in Gavrik.

  Cheekbones and Lena talk in her office and I head off to the Toyota dealership outside town. I drive past the ice hockey rink and the fire station. My dash says minus three.

  There’s a mist rising slowly from the sewage treatment plant as I pass and the electricity substation right next to it is buzzing. I see the dealership, all glass walls and beautiful gleaming, brand new fresh-out-the-box estates and pick-ups, and behind it I see the old dealership, the brick ruin, the condemned black warehouse now shuttered up and boarded up and locked up. I wrote an article about it last year. A group of locals think it’s unsafe and they want it pulled down.

  The door bleeps as I walk in and the room reeks of new car smell. I breathe it in and then I see a teenager in the office with some kind of twisted white-boy half-ass gel-assisted dreadlocks which stick straight up out of his head.

  ‘So, you decided to turn up.’

  I turn toward the voice and see Jan-Östnäs walking to me wearing blue jeans a size too small, and a huge belt buckle the size of an iPhone and a suede leather jacket.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, work stuff. I did call.’

  ‘You got the keys?’ he asks. ‘Any problems with the Hilux, anything I need to know about before we sign off the paperwork?’

  ‘You didn’t get my message?’ I say. ‘I need to extend the rental until Monday, please. Need the truck till Monday.’

  He shakes his head and starts probing his gums with a toothpick.

  ‘You think it’s one rule for you and another for the rest of us?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I just want six more days, please.’

  ‘You think your time’s more important than mine, is that it?’

  Got a dickhead deluxe here.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late. Can I please extend the rental for a few days? You’d be doing me a huge favour. I’ll pay, of course.’

  He points back to his office, at Mr Potato Head sitting at the computer. There’s an unzipped hold-all next to the desk and I can see one of those long, heavy American-style torches sitting inside with a plastic bag secured to the end with an elastic band. Behind him is a rack of spray paints for retouching bodywork, in colours like Black Pearl and Metallic Bronze and Satin Aquamarine and Sailcloth White and Matt Champagne.

  ‘My boy’s taking your Hilux. I promised it to him. You want another Hilux I got six but you’ll need to buy it. They’re not for rent.’

  I feel a rage burn rising from my guts.

  ‘Please, Jan-Östnäs, is there any way I can rent my truck, the one I’ve had for three years, no accidents, no late payments, for six more days?’

  ‘Not up to me, up to my boy now.’

  I sigh and then I wave at the kid and he walks over with jeans that fit but the family must have got a volume deal on those belts.

  ‘Lady here wants to know if she can rent your Hilux for a few days?’

  Potato Head just grins and shakes his head. ‘My truck now,’ he says with a voice that hasn’t broken the way it should’ve. ‘Taking it ice fishing with mates.’

  ‘Is there anything else I can rent?’

  ‘Not really,’ says Jan-Östnäs. He licks his freshly-picked teeth. ‘Suppose I could let you take the Tacoma but you gotta be real careful with her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Ninety-eight Tacoma, runs like a dream but she’s an old bird and she’s kind of special to me.’

  We walk out to the back lot, past shiny new cars with summer tyres stored in their boots. Jan-Östnäs pulls on his gloves. There are discarded toothpicks everywhere out here and they look like pine needles, like matchsticks, like old reptile bones left out in the sun. He points to a white pick-up, one of those old types that look smaller than a modern family-hatchback. The wheel arches are about seventy per cent rust and it has no hubcaps. On the roof sits a thick white blanket of old snow and I can see jump-lead cables hanging down from the bonnet which is never a good sign.

  ‘Why don’t you start her up,’ says Jan-Östnäs to his son.

  Potato Head pulls on a jacket with a mountaineering cabana attached to the zip. It has a range of knives and car logo keyrings and multi-tools dangling from it. He opens the truck door the old-fashioned way, with the key in the keyhole. How quaint. A ton of snow falls on him from the roof. He swears and moans and then tries to start the engine but it just tells him to go to hell.

  ‘We’ll jump it and then you’ll need to drive it about an hour to get a decent charge. You wanna take it?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘You can hitch-hike back to town. We have about ten cars pass by this way each day so you might get lucky.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Taxi? I can call Viggo Svensson?’

  I shake my head more vigorously.

  They jump the old truck from a brand-new navy blue 4x4, one of the muscular American ones that’s about twice as tall and twice as broad as my new vehicle. I sign a rental agreement and pay for six days and get in the jumped truck and look back ruefully at my beautiful Hilux, four years old, eighty-thousand kilometres on the clock. I release the handbrake of the Tacoma and pull away.

  ‘She got two decent tyres,’ yells Jan-Östnäs from outside. I can read him. ‘You look after each other now.’

  The truck is a wreck, a corpse, a disaster. No thermometer on the dash, the rev counter won’t work; it’s automatic but the gears grind like hell, the acceleration doesn’t exist and the blower works fine but the seats aren’t heated. Kill me now.

  22

  The rusty pick-up rattles and the brakes are pretty much unresponsive. Twenty kph crunching down a poorly-ploughed country road with the blower on full and my hands gripping the wheel like I’m cresting the top of a rollercoaster.

  You might think I go on about trucks too much and you’d probably be right. But in any northern place where the winters are long and there aren’t many people around, a truck is like a family member. It’s a thing you rely on, like our ancestors relied on their dogs and horses. I need a good truck and this one isn’t it.

  The sewage-treatment plant steams quietly to my left and I pull into its car park and keep the engine running. If I switch it off I’ll be left truckless on the shit farm.

  At least the heater works. But as the cab of the truck warms up it starts to smell like oil rags and overalls, all stale sweat and grease and cigarette smoke. There’s an open pack of razor blades on the passenger seat – the kind that come in small paper envelopes. I feel around the steering column so I can work out where all the levers are because I don’t want to be stuck guessing out on the E16 at ninety kph. More likely sixty in the slow lane. The cigarette lighter is missing and the stereo’s been ripped out and the windows are wind-down ones and there is no back seat at all, just a window to the rear flatbed.

  Ahead of me is a representative sample of Gavrik’s faecal matter. A swirling, steaming soup of poop made up from the business of Benny Björnmossen from the gun store and Fredrik the shoe salesman and Anna-Britta Grimberg and Janitor Andersson. The snow has melted all around from the manure heat. It’s a warm shit pond being stirred like those stainless steel vats of coal-black liquorice in the factory. It’s melted all the white around and it’s created a noxious fog of its own rising slowly into the cold still air above.

  I call Thord.

  ‘Gavrik Police.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Just in time,’ he says. ‘Forensics got back to us.’<
br />
  ‘And?’

  ‘I can tell you ninety per cent. No fingerprints on the body or the liquorice coins. Killer was wearing gloves, they reckon. No fibres of any use, no DNA. They checked for prints in the old part of the factory, but it was a slushy mess and there’s nothing clear. The tooth . . .’

  ‘Dog?’ I ask.

  ‘Big dog,’ he says. ‘Big, German shepherd. The cut to the neck was made by a scalpel or whatnot, and the tooth was pushed in after the victim had died, so they reckon. Told me if the tooth had been pushed in before Gunnarsson bled out then, according to the rocket scientists down in Linköping, the tooth would have been pushed out by the blood flow.’

  ‘Shit,’ I say.

  ‘I reckon,’ he says. ‘Oh, and the head injury. Blunt trauma to the back of the head, happened before the neck attack, most likely a bat or a metal bar.’

  I see the janitor’s metal piping in my head. The heavy length of piping near his blowtorch and his duct tape down in the basement. But he found the body with me? We were together?

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks for keeping me in the loop.’

  ‘Chief wants to make an appeal for information in your next paper. Anonymous helpline to call and all sorts.’

  ‘Anonymous?’ I say. ‘In this town?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘What’s the other ten per cent?’ I ask.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘You said you could tell me ninety per cent. But what I really want to know is the other ten.’

  Silence on the line. I stare out at the shit cloud rising from the sewage works.

  ‘Did you notice a wet patch on Gunnarsson’s chest when you found him?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘You see anything else on his chest? Anything strange?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Gotta go, Tuvs. Maybe I can tell you more tomorrow. I’ll get Noora to send over the appeal details for your paper.’

  I drive away and check the brakes and I reckon the pads need an upgrade because this thing judders when it slows down. I need to stay on guard.