Stallo

by Stefan Spjut

  ‘For that reason,’ he continued, ‘it can be disastrous if the investigation is focused in the wrong direction. Even at this stage, after a few days.’

  With small nods of her head Susso indicated that she understood this too.

  ‘So before we go any further we want to be sure that this picture, the one you took with your camera, is not a hoax, or whatever you want to call it. That it’s not someone dressed up, that it doesn’t have anything to do with this website of yours in any way.’

  She kept quiet, waiting for the rest, which was about to come.

  ‘That is the most likely explanation we have,’ he said, inhaling deeply, ‘considering the person’s actual appearance.’

  He breathed out and gave her a meaningful look. His eyebrows were like cotton wool on a forehead crowded with lines.

  ‘It’s not a wind-up,’ Susso said. ‘Not as far as I know, anyway.’

  ‘You know,’ said the man by the window, craning his neck as if he had caught sight of something that interested him outside, ‘we could draw a line under all this today. But if at a later stage of our investigation it emerges that you have lied, or withheld information, you could be prosecuted. For impeding police investigations. It’s a crime that can result in a prison sentence. You need to be aware of that.’

  ‘Furthermore,’ interjected Kjell-Åke, crossing his arms and wrinkling his tie, ‘it could have significant consequences for the boy. Today he might be alive, but in a couple of days he might not be.’

  When Susso looked up she saw the detective in charge of investigations had tilted his head to one side.

  ‘Now you wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?’ he said kindly. ‘So it’s best you tell us straight away whether it’s an internet hoax or something.’

  ‘I can only tell you what I’ve done,’ Susso said, ‘and all I did was set up a camera at Edit’s house.’

  Wikström had picked up his mobile, and an unhappy look spread over Kjell-Åke’s face. It was as if he pitied her for not fully understanding the implication of what he had said.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know what else I can say,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it was a stupid thing to do. But all I did was set up the camera. I don’t know any more about the man in the photo than you do. Believe me, on my life.’

  ‘Right,’ said Wikström, snapping his mobile shut.

  ‘Yes, let’s give them that,’ said Kjell-Åke, pushing his fists into his thighs and straightening his back as if it was aching.

  ‘Give them that?’ she said. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Give it to the media.’

  Susso’s head started to spin.

  ‘But what if he hasn’t done anything?’ she said. ‘What if it’s just a coincidence that he was at Edit’s house. If he hasn’t done anything …’

  ‘Then of course we will want to know that,’ said Kjell-Åke.

  From a small packet he shook out a piece of chewing gum and slid it between his lips. Susso smelled the waft of mint that emerged from his mouth.

  ‘So we can exclude him from the investigation.’

  *

  Susso’s face took a direct hit from the cold as she came out of the police station. Darkness had settled over the white rooftops. It felt as if she had been sitting in Hannler’s office for hours. An elderly woman on a kick sledge loaded with shopping glided past on silent runners.

  The car’s windscreen had iced over, so she had to use the scraper. Her fingers were stinging with the cold because her gloves were on the seat inside the car, pressed together in prayer.

  Slowly she drove along the main road, uncertain which direction to take. She ought to eat but she wasn’t hungry. She didn’t feel sick but something was wrong. There were not many people out and few cars, the occasional pair of headlights driving past. Between the buildings hung strings of lights like bead necklaces against the frozen sky. She picked up her mobile and held it to her ear for a moment before ringing her mother.

  *

  ‘TV?’ said Gudrun.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Don’t know. As soon as possible, I guess. I don’t know when it’s on.’

  ‘But will they say anything? About Dad, I mean? And the website?’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. That can’t be relevant, surely.’

  ‘And the newspaper too. Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh Lord …’

  Gudrun went silent for a moment, but then she said:

  ‘What does Edit say?’

  Susso held the phone tight between her ear and her shoulder so that she could change gear without letting go of the steering wheel.

  ‘I’m going to drive there now,’ she said. ‘So she doesn’t know anything yet.’

  *

  It felt hard tapping in the number: Susso had not spoken to Edit since she had phoned to say Mattias had disappeared. She had told Susso that he had come to see her even though he was not supposed to. When Mattias had knocked on the door she had phoned Per-Erik’s mobile and told him that the boy was with her. She had given him some juice and then he had left for home. But he never reached home.

  She rang Edit, who was at Carina and Per-Erik’s house. They said she was welcome to drop by if she wanted to. Even though she was scared at the thought of seeing Mattias’s parents, she said she would come. She could not pass Vaikijaur without looking in.

  The Mickelsson family lived in an ochre-painted house on the north side of the road, a few hundred metres from Edit’s house. A rope of lights circled a flagpole, making the pole itself invisible. All that could be seen was a glowing strand spiralling up into the twilight.

  Leaning against the garage wall was a metal snow shovel, and the driveway was scraped clean. When Susso had parked the car and slammed the door shut she thought she heard someone scream far away. She held her breath and stood completely still so that the soles of her shoes would not make the snow underfoot creak. A heat pump hummed behind the house, but otherwise there was not a sound in the white landscape. She looked along the road, mainly to see for herself where it must have happened. Somewhere behind those walls of ploughed snow.

  Per-Erik was not at home when Susso arrived, and she was grateful for that. She had not forgotten his behaviour. Or his hostile expression.

  Carina Mickelsson was sitting in a corner sofa next to Edit, who had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Susso had imagined that Carina’s face would be red and swollen from crying, but she looked composed. Her hair was almost black and she had scraped it back in an untidy ponytail at the nape of her neck. She looked as if she was concentrating intently on something – holding back the tears, perhaps. She was wearing a burgundy hooded sweatshirt with the cuffs pulled over her hands. Her arms were folded. She immediately began questioning Susso about the photo. Susso answered as best she could. She did not take off her outer clothes, not wanting to barge in on their grief.

  When she explained that the photo might be shown on television Edit broke out of her immobilised state and reached for her mug on the glass-topped table.

  ‘It might just be a coincidence that he was here a few days before … before it happened,’ said Susso. ‘But I don’t think they have anything else to go on. Not at present.’

  ‘It’s no coincidence,’ Carina said. ‘Of course it’s him.’

  Susso was quiet. She nodded guardedly and looked around the room. The television was on with the sound turned down.

  ‘I’m so glad you set up that camera,’ said Carina, looking at Susso. She had stern grey eyes and thin pencilled eyebrows. ‘Otherwise he would be lost without trace,’ she went on. ‘Disappeared into thin air. Now at least they’ve got something to go on. And that’s thanks to you.’

  ‘I’ve been feeling it must be my fault,’ said Susso softly, dropping onto the armrest of the sofa, which creaked under her weight.

  Carina was not listening. She was talking
continuously.

  ‘I simply cannot work out why that revolting little object has taken him,’ Carina said. It sounded as if she was about to start crying, but she held the tears back. ‘I don’t understand why. Why Mattias?’

  The wretchedness in Carina’s eyes receded suddenly, as if something had occurred to her.

  ‘Perhaps he hasn’t got any children of his own,’ she said, ‘and he wants Matti to be his child. There are people who do that, aren’t there? People who haven’t got any children of their own. Who take children. People who are kind. Who don’t mean to harm them.’

  She talked hurriedly, looking from Edit to Susso.

  Edit was looking down, her eyelids swollen, but Susso nodded in agreement. She tried giving an encouraging smile.

  Squashed behind the television was the Christmas tree, shining brightly. There were a few jagged cut-out paper decorations hanging on it, strewn with too many gold sequins. There was a framed photograph of Mattias standing on the wall unit, the same picture that had been in the newspaper.

  The brown hair parted in the middle, flopping down each side; the big eyes with small folds underneath. There was a trace of gleaming mucus running from his little nose. They could have wiped his nose before taking the picture, Susso thought. He had an identity tag around his neck, a shining silver rectangle which lay outside his Spiderman sweatshirt. She was about to ask if Mattias was wearing the tag when he disappeared, but said nothing because she thought it might come out wrong.

  IS THIS THE MAN WHO TOOK MATTIAS?

  Seved recognised the little man immediately.

  He was the one who had been standing on the roof of Torsten’s barn and had stared at him from the digger bucket. The one Börje had called a nosy little bugger.

  ‘What’s this …?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise him?’ asked Börje. ‘It’s Jirvin. We saw him.’

  ‘But why is his picture here? What’s he done?’

  He skimmed through the article. It described how the police suspected the person in the photograph of being connected with the kidnapping of four-year-old Mattias Mickelsson. Anyone with information about the identity of the man was requested to contact the police without delay.

  ‘But where does that picture come from? Who’s taken it? Why?’

  Börje shrugged.

  ‘It was probably taken outside the boy’s house.’

  ‘But what was he doing there?’

  ‘They don’t know.’

  ‘And what does Torsten say? Have you asked him?’

  ‘Asked?’

  Börje sneered and raised his voice as he repeated:

  ‘Asked? Do you think you can get any kind of information out of that man?’

  ‘Yes, but this is serious,’ said Seved. ‘What if someone has seen him up at Torsten’s? Or in the area? It’s not completely out of the question, all the years he’s lived there.’

  Börje nodded.

  ‘You’re telling me it’s serious. Damned serious.’

  He dropped into a chair and after a short silence said:

  ‘Lennart wants us to move him.’

  Seved looked up from the newspaper.

  ‘Mattias?’

  ‘No, the little old man. We’ve got to drive up there and fetch him. He’ll have to live here for a while until all this fuss about the boy has died down.’

  ‘But why? There’s no chance …’

  ‘He doesn’t know people are looking for him,’ Börje said in a low voice. ‘Someone might catch sight of him up there. If we’re really unlucky, the police will get wind of it. Torsten doesn’t want a visit from the cops.’

  He cleared his throat before continuing:

  ‘We’ll have to try and get hold of as many of those little shapeshifters as we can today because Torsten wants them back. He goes on about it non-stop, so I thought the boy could help out. It’ll be quicker that way. And it’s good if he stays in there. Let him keep that little one if he wants to, but all the others have got to go back. You can drive up with them. I don’t feel up to it. You’ll have to go.’

  Seved nodded.

  ‘I haven’t repaired the window on the Isuzu yet, so you’ll have to take Lennart’s car. He’s coming here this evening.’

  Torbjörn stood holding the coffee-filled glasses, glaring at the sofa. Three girls had taken the place where he and Susso always sat. Between them glowed the display of a mobile phone. Their hair fell into the fur-trimmed hoods of their jackets in glossy coils. They seemed to pick up on Torbjörn’s expression, though, because all of a sudden they gathered together their belongings and stood up.

  When they had left Torbjörn put the glasses down on the table, removed his jacket, threw it onto the sofa and unwound his military-green knitted scarf.

  Susso checked her pockets for her mobile before hanging her jacket on the back of a chair and pulling the phone out. She sat down and brought the hot coffee to her lips.

  As Torbjörn settled into the sofa, moving to the corner where he always sat, where the dip in the seat cushion was shaped to fit his bony backside precisely, he knocked against the unsteady table with his knee, spilling some coffee.

  ‘Do you know who Mattias Alkberg is?’ he asked, lifting up the glass that was dripping brown milky froth. ‘You know, the singer in the Bear Quartet?’

  Susso nodded and then shrugged.

  ‘Well, I know his name, but I don’t know who he is,’ she said.

  ‘I got to know him when I lived in Luleå and we keep in touch. I spoke to him yesterday and he said he knows a guy in Jokkmokk called Magnus. Magnus Ekelund. And he told Mattias that his mum knows who that dwarf is – or at least where he lives. That everyone down there knows.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Torbjörn nodded.

  ‘They reckon there’s some place down there that’s completely bloody mental. Some sect or whatever.’

  ‘And the Vaikijaur man lives there?’

  ‘That’s what they’re saying,’ he replied, drinking his coffee.

  ‘Well then, surely someone’s phoned the police and told them?’

  Torbjörn shook his head.

  ‘That’s the thing. It doesn’t look as if anyone has. Mattias said that when things like this happen – you know, something nasty like this – people in general always assume that someone else has already done what they should be doing themselves. And I think he’s right. But he didn’t know for sure.’

  ‘What else did he say? How far from Vaikijaur is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Torbjörn. ‘But we could drive down there, if you want, and talk to Magnus’s mum, because she’s the one who knows. I need to go to Gällivare anyway, so we can do it at the same time.’

  Susso stared blankly ahead for a few moments before nodding.

  ‘Have you heard any more?’ Torbjörn asked. ‘From the police?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know any more than anyone else.’

  ‘I mean, because it’s your photo.’

  She leaned forwards, stirring with the long spoon.

  ‘I haven’t spoken to them since I was there for questioning. Or whatever you want to call it.’

  She sighed before continuing:

  ‘I’m torn, really. If he is mixed up in it, then it’s good I got a picture of him, no question. But if he isn’t involved, then the picture has only made things harder for the police. They might be spending time looking for him when they should be looking elsewhere.’

  ‘Of course he’s involved,’ Torbjörn said. ‘He has to be.’

  Susso shrugged.

  ‘It’s just such a massive responsibility. It feels like it all depends on me.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ said Torbjörn. ‘They were the ones who wanted to have the photo, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I know, but … everything got so serious all of a sudden.’

  ‘Do you regret going down there? Putting up the camera?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. �
��At times I do.’

  ‘Then don’t think like that. Think instead that if it wasn’t for you and your photo, then the police would have sod all to go on.’

  *

  They stayed until the place closed, and afterwards stood in their creaking boots under a street light outside the cafe. Light streamed down from a couple of globe-shaped lamps suspended from iron hooks at the top of the post. Wreaths of fragile icicles had formed around the metal fittings.

  The swishing sound of ski trousers came down the hill. A man and a woman strode past, their arms swinging. The woman was wearing a zigzag-patterned ski hat, and the man a fleece headband. Through the cloud that billowed from her mouth Susso watched as the couple disappeared beyond the town hall. She was freezing cold and moved reluctantly. In the icy air her face had set to a mask. Her cheeks felt stretched tight.

  ‘It’s so cold,’ she said, rocking up and down on her heels.

  Torbjörn sniffed and nodded.

  They began to walk. Neither of them wanted to be the one to lead, or perhaps neither of them wanted to decide how fast they should walk. Slowly they moved towards Meschplan and the shops that surrounded it. As they crossed the square Susso threw a melancholy look at her own dark shop window. It was as if the grouse and the dolls and the moose and the bears behind the glass were watching her pass. She always felt like that.

  *

  ‘What do you want to do?’ asked Torbjörn, as they reached Susso’s front entrance and stood there in the darkness. ‘Shall we go tomorrow?’

  ‘To Jokkmokk?’

  He had tucked his chin into his scarf, and he nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What time will you be here?’

  ‘Can we take your car?’

  ‘Sure. If you pay for the petrol.’

  He tugged at the padlock a couple of times before returning to the car and slumping down behind the wheel. He gazed at the dashboard, stupefied. Why the hell had they not told him the barrier would be locked? It had to be at least two kilometres up to the farmhouse from the barrier, and the surface was icy. Worse than that, it was cold out. He couldn’t very well slither all the way up carrying the box of shapeshifters and then drag the little man back behind him – what would that look like?