Stallo

by Stefan Spjut

  ‘How many people live here?’ he asked. He turned round, running his eyes over the barn, the garage, the dog enclosure, the house and the outhouses among the pines.

  ‘Me and my wife, and our two children.’

  ‘No one else?’

  Torsten shook his head.

  Wikström unfolded the piece of paper, which he showed first to Torsten and then to Bodil, who craned her neck in curiosity.

  ‘See him?’ he said. ‘Do you know who it is?’

  Seved could not see what was on the paper, but he knew only too well. Once again the saliva welled up in his mouth and he made an effort not to swallow in case the uniformed constable standing next to him heard. He looked down at the snow, blinked and raised his eyes slightly, only to see the policeman’s heavily weighted belt: radio, a small torch, handcuffs and the butt of a revolver, black and shiny inside its holster.

  ‘Don’t recognise him,’ Torsten said convincingly.

  ‘Isn’t that him?’ asked Bodil in an unassuming voice. She tucked in the lock of hair that had fallen from her hood. ‘The one in the paper?’

  ‘So you read the papers, do you?’ said Wikström.

  Bodil looked quickly at her father, whose expression did not change.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I do. Sometimes.’

  ‘And why wouldn’t we read the papers?’ said Torsten loudly.

  Wikström shrugged his shoulders and folded the sheet of paper.

  ‘I was only thinking of the isolation. Your self-imposed isolation. That you avoid keeping up with the news.’

  ‘We don’t,’ Torsten replied. ‘We keep up as well as we can.’

  After saying this he gave a yellow smile.

  ‘And I see you have curtains,’ said Wikström, nodding towards the window.

  ‘Are you harassing us?’ said Bodil, glaring at him. The fierceness of her question and her hostility made her eyes glitter, and Wikström raised his eyebrows. The words came like pistol shots from her mouth:

  ‘We haven’t seen him. We don’t know who he is. So you can leave now.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious about why we’re looking for him?’ he asked.

  Torsten was quiet for a long time, thinking.

  ‘We know why,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ve read about it in the newspaper. He’s taken some lad.’

  ‘You didn’t recognise him, you said.’

  ‘That’s not what I said. I said I didn’t know who it was.’

  ‘No,’ answered Wikström, smiling. ‘You said: “Don’t recognise him.”’

  ‘But that’s what I meant!’

  Wikström nodded. He took in a deep breath and puffed out his mouth. Then he turned suddenly, released the air and held up the photograph for Seved to see.

  ‘Do you know who this is then, Jola?’

  Seved knew that he should go closer in order to give a plausible answer, but he dared not move from the car window that he was obscuring with his body, so he bent forwards slightly and squinted, and then he shook his head.

  ‘I’ve also seen him in the paper. And I don’t know who he is either.’

  Clearly he leaned too far forwards because a second later he heard the police constable’s voice behind him.

  ‘Ivan …’

  Tony Kunosson was leaning forwards with his hand on his belt, looking through the rear window, and when he made eye contact with DCI Wikström he nodded towards the car. This took place directly in front of Seved, and there was nothing he could do except step aside. He wanted to run but realised that would be pathetic.

  *

  With his head to one side and a deep line etched between his eyebrows, Ivan Wikström walked towards the car, and when he saw who was sitting inside he stroked his moustache with his thumb, reflectively. He showed no sign of surprise.

  He thought for a while before grabbing hold of the handle and slowly opening the car door. The little man was sitting stock still inside, staring straight ahead. Seved looked at Torsten, but he seemed to be lost in thought. He was standing with a blank look on his face.

  With one hand on the car roof Wikström leaned inside the car and almost shouted:

  ‘Hello. Can I have a chat with you?’

  There was no answer, obviously. Jirvin gave no indication whatsoever that the policeman was even talking to him.

  ‘Hello?’

  When the little man continued to ignore him, Wikström climbed into the car and sat down on the back seat, but in a flash the little man reached out, took hold of the handle on his side and after a moment’s fumbling got the door open and slipped out.

  He headed towards the barn, but Tony Kunosson had already rounded the car and blocked his path, so the old man hurried off to the garage instead. He slithered about in his cumbersome boots. The policeman ran so fast his equipment rattled, but by the time he reached the garage the old man had opened the door, shut it and locked it behind him. Kunosson tugged at the handle and battered on the door with his fist.

  ‘Open up!’ he shouted.

  Wikström had been calmly watching the chase from inside the car, but now he stepped out.

  ‘Give me the key to the garage,’ he said, reaching out his hand to Torsten, who began searching his fur coat.

  ‘I’m not sure exactly where it is …’

  This was too much for the detective chief inspector. Without waiting a second longer he walked over to the patrol car, opened the boot, took out a crowbar and walked briskly off towards the garage.

  There was a crash from the direction of the garage as Wikström started to break open the door. The noise was immediately picked up by the dogs and they started leaping around inside the wire netting. A small brown Spitz barked crazily as it backed away, as if afraid of its own barking, but the other dogs kept quiet. The largest, a shaggy grey Siberian with heavy paws and clear shining eyes, lay down with its tongue hanging out, seemingly watching the policeman with interest. Wikström worked steadily and methodically. From time to time he threw broken shards of wood aside.

  Moments after he had broken open the door and entered the garage with the crowbar in his hands, something red slipped out into the yard. Seved glanced at Tony Kunosson as he caught sight of the fox running towards the barn, where it sat down outside the door, elegantly sweeping its bushy tail over its paws, concealing them. The policeman’s eyebrows creased and thickened, but that was all.

  There was a clatter from the garage. It sounded as if a metal can had fallen to the floor, but it took almost a minute for Wikström to reappear. He was still holding the crowbar.

  ‘I can’t find him!’ he shouted loudly, and it was clear from his voice that he could not help finding it comical in some way. ‘There was only a blasted fox in there!’

  *

  Kunosson jogged across the yard and took over the search while Wikström stood thinking, the crowbar resting on his shoulder. He was keen to get round to the far side of the garage but the snow was almost up to the guttering, which made things difficult for him. He tested the snowdrift by stepping upon it but regretted it almost immediately and took a few paces back instead, to see what it looked like on the roof. Then he walked to the other side, but the snow was just as deep there.

  Torsten was holding his gloves under his arm as he got out his snus tin and rapped it with his knuckles. He twisted off the lid, inserted a pouch under his lip, then snapped the lid back on and glanced sideways at Seved. He had pulled his hat so far down that his eyes were shaded, but Seved could see the trace of a grin among the wrinkles.

  Seved felt momentarily relieved. Torsten had experienced this before. But then he remembered that the policemen had actually seen the little man in his car, and a knot formed in his stomach again. There was no way out.

  Wikström came walking towards him, but then he stopped and pointed over his shoulder with the crowbar.

  ‘Is the fox tame?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Torsten. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘You know it can in
fect the dogs if it’s got scabies?’

  ‘That’s kind of why we keep it in there. In the garage.’

  It was clear from Wikström’s expression that he knew this was a lie, and a contemptuous lie at that, but he kept quiet and carried on walking to the patrol car. He replaced the crowbar in the boot and slammed it shut.

  On his way back he took out his mobile, and when Torsten saw the phone in his hand he turned away quickly to face the house. Then he approached the police officer, holding up the palms of his hand in a gesture to suggest there was no hurry.

  ‘No need for you to phone until we have discussed this properly,’ he said. ‘To make sure we understand each other.’

  ‘I’m waiting,’ Wikström said, lowering the hand holding the mobile.

  ‘It was unfortunate’, said Torsten, ‘that he was photographed, and he had no business being near that old lady. But he’s not quite right in the head and we wanted to protect him. That’s why we … we were less than truthful when you asked us about him. Because we didn’t want him to get into any trouble. But I can guarantee he had nothing to do with the disappearance of that lad. It’s all an unfortunate coincidence.’

  By this time Torsten had come so close to the officer that his palms were almost touching him, and the policeman took a small step backwards.

  Wikström nodded at Torsten’s explanation. It looked as if he actually believed it.

  ‘But where is he now?’ he asked. Torsten stroked the stubble on his chin.

  ‘Oh, he has his hiding places, that one, so I don’t actually know.’

  ‘He ran into the garage and he’s not there now. I want you to tell me where he went.’

  ‘He’s little, you know. And a genius at hiding.’

  There was the sound of rapid footsteps in the snow and Kunosson came running up. In his hand he was holding a bundle, which he held out to Wikström. It consisted of the old man’s anorak, hat and boots, and the constable said he had found them shoved in a box just inside the door.

  Wikström studied the clothes carefully. He straightened his glasses and looked at his colleague and then back at the clothes, before lifting his eyes to the garage.

  ‘Now would you please do us a favour and tell us where he went,’ he said.

  Torsten burst out laughing, and it was so unexpected and so loud that Tony Kunosson instantly took a step backwards and put his hand to his hip where the pistol was hanging.

  But all Torsten could do was shake his head.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, still laughing. ‘I’ll show you something.’

  Elna had come out onto the veranda, holding the wooden box in her outstretched arms. The lower edge rested against her thigh to help her bear the weight. She had not put on any old-fashioned clothes, and Seved could not understand why. Did she want no part in Torsten’s Laestadian performance? Did she think it was unnecessary?

  Torsten took the box and carried it over to the policemen. He put it down gently in the snow at their feet.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘let me show you what we have here.’ And with that he opened the lid.

  After Magnus and his mother had left, Susso and Torbjörn stayed a while longer at the table in the flashing glow of the Christmas-tree lights. The map was spread out, and Susso looked at it as she ate the remains of the pizza.

  ‘They must have been there, don’t you think?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, you’d think so,’ replied Torbjörn. ‘If it’s as well known as Anette says.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why Edit and Mattias’s parents haven’t heard anything about it. They ought to be told, if anyone.’

  ‘Have you spoken to them then?’

  Susso shook her head and leaned back.

  ‘Not for a while,’ she sighed. ‘But I think Edit would phone me straight away if they found out anything. Even before Mattias disappeared she was asking people if they knew who was running about on her land. And no one knew anything. Weird, isn’t it?’

  Torbjörn nodded into his coffee cup.

  ‘Perhaps you should talk to her?’

  ‘We could drop in on our way past,’ said Susso quietly.

  ‘Is it difficult?’ he asked. ‘Talking to her?’

  She shrugged her shoulders, and Torbjörn went on:

  ‘You know he’s dead, don’t you?’

  She looked up.

  ‘No one knows that for sure!’

  ‘No kid goes missing for this long and comes back alive.’

  ‘It’s happened before.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘Steven Stayner,’ she said. ‘He was kidnapped in the States in the early seventies, and he came back after seven years. Fusako Sano was a Japanese girl who was trapped in a flat for ten years with a psycho. And what about Dutroux, that Belgian – two of those girls he kidnapped came out of it alive. And there are even more children who have come back.’

  ‘But it’s bloody unusual,’ Torbjörn said.

  ‘It’s also bloody unusual for a child to be kidnapped by a person completely unknown to them.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Though you don’t even know if this is a kidnapping. Maybe he’s just been murdered and his body hidden. Maybe he’s lying under the snow somewhere.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, getting up. ‘And maybe not.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Ivan Wikström put the small bundle of clothes on the bonnet of the patrol car and stood with his hands in his pockets, studying the elderly man who was kneeling in front of the opened wooden box, talking to it in whispers. Strange whispers. The constable had positioned himself behind Wikström, his thumbs once again hooked into his belt.

  ‘What have you got there?’ asked Wikström.

  When there was no answer he leaned forwards.

  ‘I said, what is it?’

  Torsten did not appear to have heard him. His head had almost disappeared inside the box. There was a rustling as he moved his hand carefully through the straw. The fox also came up to have a look. Seved flinched as it padded past, just like a dog. He was about to shoo the animal away when he realised it no longer mattered. It would all be over soon.

  They got to the constable first.

  He suddenly took a step backwards, raising his fingertips to his forehead, which had become deeply lined. Then his left hand gripped his head as he sank to one knee. He looked stunned and scared. His cheeks had turned ashen.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Wikström asked.

  After a couple of unsuccessful attempts to get to his feet, Kunosson sat down, breathing heavily and loudly. He knocked off the cap of his uniform.

  ‘I don’t feel very well,’ he said, looking at the lining of his cap.

  ‘I think I’ll just sleep for a while.’

  Then he rested his gloved hand on the ground and stayed like that for a moment, panting, before sinking down onto his elbow and rolling into a foetal position.

  ‘Wake me up before you go, Ivan,’ he said, his lips slurring against the snow. ‘I’m just not feeling so good, that’s all.’

  Wikström had been walking forwards to help his colleague, but he came to a halt, looking at him with complete indifference.

  And there he stayed.

  Eventually Torsten stood up and brushed the snow from his knees. He walked over and gave the detective chief inspector a shove in the back. Wikström took a small step forwards but did not even turn round.

  *

  Even Seved had been affected. He leaned against the car and swallowed repeatedly. It felt as if his head had been filled with ice-cold meltwater.

  He could have cried. Not just because of the whisperings from the shapeshifters but from the tension as well, which was receding now that the policemen had been disabled.

  Torsten watched him with interest. He had closed the box and handed it to Bodil, who had put it in the hall. Seved felt the old man’s searching gaze.

  ‘I’m not used to it,’ he explained. ‘That’s all.’

  Elna h
ad walked over to Tony Kunosson to see if there were any signs of life. With her arms folded she prodded his body with her foot. It moved involuntarily. He was completely gone. His eyes were open but he saw nothing. She bent down, undid the buckle of his belt and wrenched it off him with such force that he rolled over and remained lying on his back with his face to the sky, from where occasional snowflakes were fluttering down. They settled on his cheeks and even on his eyes, which did not even blink.

  By this time Patrik had come out. The narrow barrel of a rifle was resting on his arm, and Seved realised that he had been standing inside all the time, hidden by the curtain, ready to shoot if anything went wrong.

  Torsten walked over to Wikström and searched inside his jacket. Seved knew he was looking for a weapon. It was attached to his belt and he had to turn the detective over to get at the holster with its metal clip at the back. When he had worked the holster free from the belt he opened the door of the patrol car and dropped both Kunosson’s belt and Wikström’s weapon on the seat.

  ‘Fetch the snowmobile,’ Torsten said. ‘And attach the sledge.’

  Patrik strode off and disappeared into the barn, and shortly afterwards an engine roared to life inside.

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’ Seved asked, watching the snowmobile driving slowly towards them. Patrik was standing up behind the windscreen with both boots on one footplate. The rifle was in the sledge.

  ‘Luttak is going to have a few words with them,’ said Torsten, and holding his cupped hand under his chin he spat out his snus, hurled it away from him and added:

  ‘After that they won’t even know their own names.’

  Enveloped in exhaust fumes from the snowmobile, they loaded Kunosson onto the sledge. It took a while because he was such a weight, over a hundred kilos at least. When he was finally in place he lay there like a slaughtered ox, staring vacantly. Seved tried not to look at his face.

  Wikström was even more difficult.

  When they pushed him towards the sledge he tried to resist. A whimpering sound came from his lips.

  ‘Pack it in!’ grunted Patrik, tugging at the detective’s jacket.