by Asa Larsson
“Everything will work out okay,” he said.
“Don’t say everything will work out okay.”
“We’ll move, then. You and me and the baby. We’ll leave this untidy house. The kids’ll be all right for a while. And then I’m sure society will intervene and find them some decent foster parents.”
Anna-Maria laughed out loud, then blew her nose loudly on a rough piece of kitchen roll.
“Or we could ask my mother to move in here,” said Robert.
“Never.”
“She’d do the cleaning.”
Anna-Maria laughed.
“Never in a million years.”
“Empty the dishwasher. Iron my socks. Give you good advice.”
Robert got up and threw the apple peel in the sink.
Why can’t he just throw it straight in the bin? she thought tiredly.
“Come on, let’s take the kids and go for a pizza. We can drop you at the station afterward and you can go through the Miracle lot this evening.”
When Sara and Rebecka walked into Sivving’s kitchen on Friday afternoon, he and Lova were busy waxing skis. Sivving was holding a white cake of paraffin wax up against a little travel iron, letting it drip onto the skis, which were held in a waxing clamp. Then he carefully spread the paraffin the whole length of the ski with the iron. He put the iron down and held his hand out to Lova without looking at her. Like a surgeon looking down at his patient.
“Scraper,” he said.
Lova passed him the scraper.
“We’re waxing skis,” Lova explained to her older sister as Sivving shaved away the excess paraffin in white curly flakes.
“I can see that,” said Sara, bending down to pat Bella, who was lying on the rag rug in front of the window and playing a tune on the radiator behind her as she wagged her tail.
“So,” Rebecka said to Sivving, “you’ve moved into the kitchen.”
“Well,” he said, “this particular job takes up a lot of space. It might be an idea if you say hello to Bella as well before she wriggles out of her skin. I’ve told her to stay put, so she doesn’t knock the skis over or run around among the flakes of paraffin. Okay, Lova, now you can pass me the glide wax.”
He picked up the iron from the draining board and melted more paraffin onto the skis.
“Right, chicken, now you can take your skis and put on one layer of blue kick wax.”
Rebecka stooped down to Bella and scratched under her chin.
“Are you hungry?” asked Sivving. “There’s cinnamon buns and milk.”
Rebecka and Sara sat on the wooden sofa with a glass of milk each, waiting for the microwave to ping.
“Are you going skiing?” asked Rebecka.
“No,” said Sivving, “you are. The wind’s going to drop tomorrow. I thought we could take the snowmobile and follow the river up to the cabin in Jiekajärvi. Then you can do a bit of skiing. You haven’t been up there for years and years.”
Rebecka took the cinnamon buns out of the microwave and placed them straight on the pine table in a pile. They were much too hot, but she and Sara tore off chunks and dunked them in the cold milk. Lova was rubbing away at her skis.
“I’d love to go up to Jiekajärvi, but I’ve got to do some work tomorrow as well,” said Rebecka, blinking.
The headache was like being stabbed behind the eyes with a chisel. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. Sivving glanced at her. Looked at the half-eaten bun next to her glass of milk. He passed Lova the cork and showed her how to smooth out the wax under her skis.
“Listen,” he said to Rebecka, “you go upstairs and lie down for a bit. The girls and I will go out with Bella, then I’ll sort out some food.”
Rebecka went up to the bedroom. Sivving and Maj-Lis’s double bed stood there in the silent room, neatly made and empty. The big rounded knobs on the pine headboard had grown dark and shiny with many years’ use. She had the urge to place her hand on one of them. The gray sky was shutting out most of the daylight, and the room was dark. She lay down on top of the bed and pulled the woolen rug that was folded up at the bottom of the bed over her. She was tired and frozen and her head was pounding. Restlessly she fumbled for her cell phone and checked her messages. The first was from Måns Wenngren.
“I didn’t need a horse’s head,” he drawled. “But I did promise that journalist first pop at the story if she dropped the complaint.”
“What story?” snapped Rebecka.
She waited for him to say something else, but the message was over, and an expressionless voice in her ear was telling her the time of the next message.
What were you expecting? she sneered at herself. That he was going to whisper sweet nothings and make small talk?
The next message was from Sanna.
“Hi,” said Sanna tersely. “I’ve just heard from Anna-Maria that the girls are going to be interviewed. And they’re dragging somebody from the Child Psych team in. I don’t want it to happen, and I’m surprised you haven’t spoken to me about it. Unfortunately things don’t seem to be working out with you and me, so I’ve decided that Mum and Dad can look after the girls for the time being.”
Rebecka switched off the phone without listening to her other messages. There was a knock on the door, and Sivving popped his head round. He looked at her lying there, and stared at the telephone in her hand.
“I think we need to swap that for a proper teddy bear,” he said. “It’ll do you good to come out to Jiekajärvi. There’s no reception there, so you might as well leave it at home. I was just going to say the food will be ready in an hour, and I’ll come and wake you. Now get some sleep.”
Rebecka looked at him.
“Don’t go,” she said. “Talk to me about my grandmother.”
Sivving went over to the wardrobe, took out another woolen blanket and spread it over Rebecka. Then he took the telephone off her and placed it on the bedside table.
“People round here never used to think that Albert, your grandfather, would get married,” he said. “He always used to sit in the corner with his cap in his hand when he went visiting, never said a word. He was the only one of the brothers that stayed on the farm with his father. And his father, your grandfather’s father, Emil, he was a real hard man. We lads were terrified of him. Hell, one time when he caught us playing poker in the sandpit, I thought he was going to pull my ear clean off my head. He was a really strict Laestadian. But anyway, Albert went off to a funeral in Junosuando, and when he came back there was something different about him. He still didn’t say anything, just like before. But it was as if he was sitting there smiling to himself, although his mouth never moved, if you see what I mean. He’d met your grandmother. And that summer he went off several times to visit relatives in Kuoksu. Emil was furious when Albert disappeared right in the middle of the harvest. In the end she came to visit. And you know what Theresia was like. When it came to work, there was nobody to beat her. Anyway, I don’t know how it came about, but suddenly she and Emil were out there cutting one half each of the old sheep pasture, you know, the meadow between the potato field and the river. It was like a competition. I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was quite late in the summer, the blackflies had arrived and it was just before supper, so they were biting well. We lads stood there watching. And Isak, Emil’s brother, he was there too. You never got to meet him. Pity. They worked in silence, Emil and Theresia, each with their own scythe. The rest of us kept quiet too. All you could hear were the insects and the evening cry of the swallows.”
“Did she win?” asked Rebecka.
“No, but in a way, neither did Emil. He finished first, but your grandmother wasn’t far behind. And Isak ran his hand over the stubble on his chin and said, ‘Well, Emil, we’d better put the ram out on your half.’ Emil had rushed ahead with his scythe like a fury, but he hadn’t made a very good job of it. But your grandmother’s half looked as if she’d crawled over the meadow on her knees with a pair of nail sciss
ors. So, now you know how she won the respect of your grandfather’s father.”
“Tell me some more,” begged Rebecka.
“Another time.” Sivving smiled. “Now you need to sleep for a while.”
He closed the door behind him.
How am I supposed to sleep? thought Rebecka.
She had the distinct impression that Anna-Maria Mella had lied to her. Or maybe not lied, but kept something back. And why was Sanna lashing out now that the girls were going to be interviewed? Was it for the same reason as Rebecka, that she had no confidence in von Post? Or was it because a child psychologist was going to be involved? Why had somebody sent a card to Viktor saying that what they’d done wasn’t wrong in the eyes of God? Why had the same person threatened Rebecka? Or maybe it wasn’t a threat, maybe it was a warning? She tried to remember exactly what it had said on the note.
God, I can’t possibly sleep, she thought, gazing up at the ceiling.
But the next minute she had fallen into a deep sleep.
She was woken by a thought, opened her eyes to the darkness be-neath the ceiling and lay completely still so as not to frighten it away.
It was something Anna-Maria Mella had said. "We have only circumstantial evidence."
"If you only have circumstantial evidence, what is it you need?" she whispered to the ceiling.
Motive. And what kind of motive could you uncover by interviewing Sanna’s daughters?
The realization dropped into her brain like a coin in a wishing well. It floated down through the water and settled on the bottom. The ripples on the surface died away, and the picture was crystal clear.
Viktor and the girls. Rebecka pushed the thought away. It just wasn’t possible. And yet, it was horribly possible.
She remembered how things had been when she arrived in Kurravaara. Lova dousing herself and the dog with soap. And hadn’t Sanna said she always carried on like that? Didn’t that seem like a typical thing to do for children who…
She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.
She suddenly thought of Sanna. Sanna, with her provocative clothes. And her heavy-handed, dangerous daddy.
How could I not have seen it, she thought. The family. The family secret. It can’t be true. It must be true.
But still, Sanna couldn’t have killed Viktor on her own. Sanna couldn’t have managed it, even if she’d wanted to.
She remembered the time Sanna had bought a toaster that didn’t work.
She couldn’t bring herself to take it back, she thought. If I hadn’t taken it she would have just kept quiet and held on to it.
She sat up on the bed, thinking. If Sanna didn’t want the children interviewed, then her parents were probably on the way here already. Presumably they’d already been to her grandmother’s house, rattling the door handle. And they were bound to be back any minute.
She picked up her cell phone and rang Anna-Maria Mella. She answered on her direct line at work. Sounded tired.
“I can’t explain,” said Rebecka, “but if you do want to interview the children, I can come in with them tomorrow. After that it’s going to be difficult for you.”
Anna-Maria kept her questions to herself.
“Fine” was all she said. “I’ll sort it out.”
They arranged a time for the following day, and Rebecka promised to bring the children in.
That’s it, then, thought Rebecka as she got up. Sorry, Sanna, but I won’t be checking my messages till tomorrow afternoon. So I still don’t know that you want your parents to take the girls.
She had to keep out of the way until the following day. She couldn’t stay here with the girls. Sanna had been to Sivving’s house.
At the police station Anna-Maria Mella was sitting in front of the computer, going through the matches for the participants in the conference. The corridor outside her room was in darkness. Next to her on the desk lay a half-eaten tuna pizza in its greasy box. There were matches for a surprising number of those involved in the Miracle Conference on the criminal records register, the register of suspects and the antisocial-behavior records. Most were drug-related offenses linked to theft and violence.
Reformed junkies and thugs, thought Anna-Maria.
She had written down the names and ID numbers of a few people she thought were worth following up.
Just when she had decided to ring Robert, her eye caught a note on a murder case. The verdict had been returned by the court in Gävle. Twelve years ago. Sentence: placed in a secure psychiatric unit. Nothing since then.
I wonder, she thought. Is he out on parole, or has he been discharged? I must check up on him.
She picked up the phone and rang home. Marcus answered. Sounded disappointed when it was only his mother.
“Tell Dad I’ll be late,” she said.
Rebecka went down to the kitchen. Sivving was just laying the table for dinner. He was putting out the same Duralex glasses, the cutlery with the black Bakelite handles and the everyday china with the yellow flowers that she remembered from when she was little. She’d often sat here in the kitchen talking to Maj-Lis and Sivving.
“It’s meatballs,” he said.
“I’m absolutely starving,” said Rebecka. “It smells terrific.”
“Two-thirds elk mince and one-third beef.”
“Where are the girls?”
He nodded toward the big room.
“Sivving,” said Rebecka, “can I borrow your snowmobile and the sledge trailer? I’m going up to the cabin in Jiekajärvi with the girls this evening.”
Sivving put the cast-iron pan on the table. He used a folded tea towel with Maj-Lis’s initials embroidered on it in red cross-stitch as a table mat.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
Rebecka nodded.
“We’re not in any danger,” she said. “But we can’t stay here. If Sanna’s parents come here asking for us, you don’t know where we are.”
“I see,” said Sivving. “There are padded scooter overalls here for both you and the children. And I’ll give you some food and dry wood to take with you. Bella and I will follow you up early tomorrow morning. But I’m not letting you go without some food inside you.”
Rebecka went into the other room. Lova and Sara had spread a newspaper out on the folding table and were painting stones with intense concentration. In the middle of the table lay a finished stone as an example. It was slightly bigger than a man’s clenched fist, and on it was painted a curled-up cat with big turquoise eyes.
“My grandchildren enjoyed doing that last summer,” said Sivving from the kitchen. “I thought it might be fun for Lova and Sara.”
From the kitchen Bella gave a warning bark.
“Quiet!” growled Sivving.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with her,” he said to Rebecka. “Half an hour ago she set off barking just like that. It must be a fox or something. She didn’t wake you?”
Rebecka shook her head.
“Look, Rebecka, I’m painting Virku!” shouted Lova.
“Mmm, lovely,” replied Rebecka absently. “You can take the stones and the paints with you, because we’re going off on the snowmobile tonight-we’re going to sleep in my grandmother’s cabin.”
At quarter past six in the evening Rebecka drove the snowmobile across the road from Sivving’s on her way down to the river. She was wearing a balaclava and a fur hat, but she still had to blink fiercely to keep out the snow that was being whipped up against her face. The headlights were reflected back at her by the whirling snow, and she couldn’t see more than a meter or so in front of her. Sara and Lova were tucked up in the sledge trailer under rugs and reindeer skins, along with all their packages. You could just about see the tips of their noses.
She crossed her grandmother’s yard and stopped outside the house. She really ought to run upstairs and fetch the children’s pajamas. But there was every chance Sanna’s parents would turn up at that very moment. No, it was best not to linger. If she could jus
t keep the girls out of the way until the next day, then the psychiatrist would talk to them. Then Social Services could take over, or whoever the hell it might be. At least she would have done what she could for them.
She put her foot down and drove down toward the river. The darkness closed behind her like a curtain. And the wind immediately covered their tracks with snow.
Curt Bäckström is standing like a shadow in her grandmother’s kitchen. He leans against the wall by the window and watches the headlights disappearing down toward the river. In his right hand he is holding a knife. He runs his forefinger cautiously along the blade to feel its sharpness. In one pocket of his snowsuit lie three black plastic sacks. In the other is the house key that he took out of Rebecka’s coat pocket. He has been standing here in the darkness for a long time, waiting. Now he allows his eyes to close for a little while. It feels good. His eyes are dry and burning.
The fox has her lair and the birds of the air have their nests, but the Son of Man has no place to rest his head.
Anna-Maria Mella was driving along Österleden down toward Lombolo. It was quarter past ten at night. She was driving too fast. With a reflex action, Sven-Erik grabbed at the top of the glove compartment as the car skidded over the fresh snow on the road. His hand in its thick glove found nothing to hang on to.
The Obs department store on the right, a few pinpricks of light behind the curtain of snow. Stop at the roundabout, wheels spinning as she put her foot down. On the left the Space House, like a stranded silver alien spaceship. The signs glowing red. The residential area-Stenvägen, Klippvägen, Blockvägen, with their tenaciously cleared driveways and their well-stocked bird tables.
“His name is Curt Bäckström,” said Anna-Maria. “Convicted of murder twelve years ago, then sent to a secure psychiatric unit, as they used to call it. No notes since then.”
“Right. So tell me about the murder.”
“He stabbed his stepfather. Several times. His mother was watching and testified against her son. In the witness box she admitted she was scared of the boy.”
