Until Thy Wrath Be Past

by Asa Larsson

  “But she was asking.”

  “Leave Hjörleifur out of this! He can’t cope with the authorities.”

  “Anyway,” Berit said, shaking the bucket with the dead mice as if to attract attention, “Hjörleifur Arnarson lives in a remote farmhouse about a kilometre from here. Do you know who he is?”

  Mella shook her head.

  “He bathes in the lake. Walks here through the forest, summer and winter alike. He usually cuts a hole in the ice by our jetty. He’s become very grumpy. You have to agree, Göran.”

  “Hjörleifur has nothing to do with this,” Göran said firmly. “He’s as crazy as a loon, but there’s no evil in him.”

  “I’m not suggesting that there’s any evil in him,” Berit said defensively. “But he’s become very grumpy.”

  “What do you mean, grumpy?” Mella said.

  “Well, for example, he doesn’t like intruders up here. He borrowed your shotgun without permission, didn’t he, Göran? And scared off some anglers. Was that two years ago?”

  Göran Sillfors gave his wife a dirty look that said, “Hold your tongue!”

  Mella said nothing. She was not going to go on about Göran Sillfors evidently not keeping his shotgun locked up in a gun safe.

  Unconcerned, Berit went on talking.“I sometimes call in on him to buy some of the anti-mosquito oil he concocts, and we have a little chat. Last summer when I went to see him, I found his billy goat hanging in a tree.”

  “Eh? How do you mean, hanging in a tree?”

  “I asked him: ‘What on earth’s been happening, Hjörleifur?’ He told me the goat had butted him, and he was so angry that he killed it and threw its body into the air with all his strength. The poor thing ended up in the birch tree outside Hjörleifur’s house, got stuck there with its horns. I helped him to get it down. If I hadn’t, the crows would have started pecking at it. Hjörleifur was so sorry. The billy goat had just been in rut – that makes them a bit excited.”

  Berit Sillfors turned to look at Mella.

  “But Hjörleifur would never do anything to people. I agree with Göran. He’s a bit potty, but there’s no evil in him. Just be careful how you handle him. Would you like us to go with you?”

  Mella checked her watch.

  “I have to go home now,” she said with a smile. “If I don’t, my husband will throw me up into the birch tree.”

  It’s Sunday evening at the haulage firm’s garage. I’m sitting on top of the cabin, watching Hjalmar. He’s opened up the hydraulic lift on the back of one of the lorries and is oiling the pistons. He attaches the greasing gun to the nipples and fills them. He doesn’t hear Tore come in. Suddenly Tore is standing by the lorry, yelling at him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Hjalmar glances at Tore, but continues working. Tore races to fetch some supports and jams them under the hydraulic platform.

  “You fucking idiot!’ he says. “You can’t work under the hydraulic platform without making it secure, surely you realize that?”

  Hjalmar says nothing. What is there to say?

  “I can’t run this firm on my own,” Tore says. “It’s bad enough having Father in bed and unable to help with the book-keeping. You’re no use to me as a cripple or a corpse. Is that clear?”

  Tore is upset. He spits as he talks.

  “Don’t you dare let me down!” he says, pointing a finger at Hjalmar.

  When Hjalmar doesn’t respond, Tore says, “You’re an idiot! A bloody idiot!”

  Turning on his heel, he leaves.

  No, Hjalmar thinks. I won’t let you down. Not again.

  They spend five days and nights looking for Tore. Volunteers from the old Emergency Service and the Mountain Rescue Service are out searching. Police officers and a company of soldiers from the I. 19 regiment in Boden are also taking part. An aeroplane makes two reconnaissance flights over the wooded areas north of Piilijärvi. No sign of Tore. The men from the village spend most of their time outside the Krekulas’ house. Drinking coffee. They are either on their way into the forest or on their way back from it. They want to talk to Hjalmar, ask him where he and his brother went, what the route looked like. What the swamp looked like. Hjalmar does not want to talk, tries to keep out of the way, but he is forced to answer questions. He is back at home now, having spent the first couple of nights with Elmina Salmi. On the morning of the second day, she took Hjalmar home and said to Kerttu Krekula, “You have a son here who is alive. Be grateful for that.”

  Kerttu gave him some porridge, but did not say anything. She still has not said anything to Hjalmar.

  When the men ask him questions, he turns himself inside out trying to answer them. But he does not know. Cannot remember. In the end he starts making things up and telling lies, just to have something to tell them. Did they see Hanhivaara mountain? Yes, maybe. Was the sun on their backs as they walked? Yes, he thought it was. Had the trees been thinned? No, they had not been.

  They search the forest to the north of the village. That is where he came from when he emerged onto the main road. And everything he says suggests that it is where the boys got lost.

  He has to get used to days like this. To people falling silent when he approaches. To comments such as: “May God forgive you” or “What the hell were you thinking of, boy?” To head-shakings and piercing looks. To his mother’s silence. Not that she ever had much to say for herself. But now she does not even look at him.

  Once he overhears his father say to one of the men from the village: “What I’d really like to do is kill the little shit, but that wouldn’t bring Tore back.”

  “Jumala on antanu anteeksi,” says the man, who is a believer. God has forgiven that sin.

  But Isak Krekula does not believe in God. He has nothing to console him. Nor can he do as Job did, wave his fist in the air and cry out to the Lord. He mutters something evasive and embarrassed in reply. But he clenches his fists whenever he looks at his son.

  On the sixth day, the search for Tore Krekula is called off. A six-year-old boy is incapable of surviving for five days and nights in the forest. He has probably been sucked into one of the bogs. Or perhaps he has drowned in the beck the brothers were standing by when they parted. Or he has been savaged by a bear. The house feels empty. Some of the villagers consider it their duty to spend an hour there in the evening on the sixth day. But all of them have their own lives to lead. What is the point of looking for someone who is already dead?

  That night Hjalmar Krekula lies awake in the little bedroom. He can hear his mother sobbing through the wall.

  “It’s our punishment,” she wails.

  He can hear the bed creaking and complaining as his father gets up.

  “That’s enough of that – shut up!” he says.

  Hjalmar listens to his mother crying, then suddenly the bedroom door is wrenched open. It is his father.

  “Get up,” he bellows. “Get up, and down with your trousers.”

  He lashes his son with his belt. As hard as he can. Hjalmar can hear his father grunting with the strain. At first the boy is determined that he is not going to cry. No, no. But in the end the pain is too much for him. His tears and screams just flow out of him, whether he wants them to or not.

  Not a sound from the big bedroom.

  Now she is the one lying silent, listening to him.

  The miracle occurs on the morning of 23 June, 1956. At about 5.00, before his mother has gone to the cowshed, before his father has even got up, Tore Krekula trudges up to the front door. Going into the kitchen, he shouts, “Paivää!” Hi there!

  His mother has been in the toilet, putting her hair up. She emerges and stares at Tore. Then she bursts into tears. Shouts, screams. Hugs him so tightly that he howls in pain and she has to let him go.

  He has been so badly bitten by mosquitoes, gnats and horseflies that his shirt collar is soaked in blood and appears to be stuck to his neck. His mother has to cut it loose with scissors. His feet are tender and s
wollen. For the last few days he has been carrying his boots – something people laughed about later, the fact that he did not want to lose his boots no matter what.

  All day, villagers keep popping in to watch Tore eating. Or to watch Tore lying asleep on the kitchen sofa. Or to watch Tore eating again.

  The story gets into the newspapers, and is repeated on the radio. The Krekulas receive letters from all over the country. People send presents – clothes, shoes, skis. People turn up from Kiruna and Gällivare to see Tore Krekula with their own eyes. Sweden’s most popular singer, Ulla Billquist, sends a telegram.

  Kerttu and Tore Krekula take the train down to Stockholm, and the boy is interviewed by the legendary Lennart Hylund on the children’s programme Roundabout.

  Hjalmar sits listening to it all. Thank God Tore did not say anything on the radio about his brother hitting him. But word has spread around the village. Hjalmar Krekula hit his little brother, three years younger than he is. And then abandoned him in the forest.

  MONDAY, 27 APRIL

  Morning meeting in the conference room at Kiruna police station. Inspectors Sven-Erik Stålnacke, Fred Olsson and Tommy Rantakyrö were waiting for Anna-Maria Mella.

  Stålnacke’s moustache dipped into his coffee mug as he drank. It had hung down beneath his nose like a dead grey squirrel until his steady relationship with Airi Bylund had begun, since when he had kept it tidily trimmed.

  More like an angry hedgehog nowadays, was Rantakyrö’s comment. Stålnacke also trimmed his nasal hair and had lost weight, despite being an enthusiastic consumer of Airi’s cooking.

  Olsson was playing with his Blackberry. Rantakyrö had already asked his usual “But can you make telephone calls with it?” and was listening with half an ear while Olsson went on about push functions and gigabytes.

  Mella strode into the room, ruddy-faced, still in her street clothes. She pulled off her woolly hat. Her hair was neither plaited nor brushed. She looked totally untamed.

  “Lousy morning, eh?” Olsson said.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Mella said, trying to sound calm. “You don’t want to know. I’ve spent so much energy on my four-year-old today . . . First I had to force him into his snowsuit while he fought and screamed the house down. Then I had to wrestle with him to get it off again. With the nursery staff watching patiently the entire time. I expect Social Services will take him away from me before the day’s out.”

  She took off her jacket and sat down.

  “I just wanted to put you in the picture regarding the investigation into Wilma Persson’s death and Simon Kyrö’s disappearance. Wilma’s body was found in the River Torne just downstream from Tervaskoski. But when Pohjanen sent samples of water from her lungs to Rudbeck Laboratory, the D.N.A. pattern didn’t fit. She didn’t die in the river. Last summer a couple of kids canoeing in the lake at Vittangijärvi stopped for a coffee with Berit and Göran Sillfors – they own one of the summer cottages there. Wilma and Simon told the Sillforses that they were taking depth soundings for the M.H.I. But I phoned the M.H.I. and they hadn’t ordered soundings in Vittangijärvi. Wilma and Simon have never done any work for them. So what were the kids really doing there? And someone nicked the Sillforses’ shed door at some point during the winter. One side of it was painted green. Pohjanen found flakes of green paint under the fingernails of Wilma’s right hand – the few fingers that she had left, that is.”

  “So you think they were diving in the lake, and someone placed a door over the hole in the ice?” Rantakyrö said.

  “I don’t know, but I want to investigate further. There’s too much that doesn’t add up.”

  “But don’t you wear gloves when you go diving in winter?” Rantakyrö said.

  Mella shrugged.

  “I’ve sent the paint samples from Wilma’s nails and from the door to the National Forensic Laboratory in Stockholm,” she said. “Today we’ll take some water samples from the lake and send them to Rudbeck Laboratory to see if they match the water in her lungs. I think they were diving in the lake.”

  “Maybe it was the boyfriend who put the door over the hole?” Rantakyrö said.

  “But why was her body moved?” Olsson said.

  Mella said nothing. If Wilma had been murdered, one reason for moving the body could have been that the murderer lived nearby, or that it was widely known that he often visited the lake. Hjörleifur Arnarson lived not far from there. And he often visited it. But there was no point in mentioning him to her colleagues.

  It’s not him, she thought. Those bloody Krekula brothers have something to do with this, I’m sure of it.

  But she also needed to talk to Hjörleifur Arnarson. Preferably not on her own.

  “How’s your daughter?” Olsson said.

  “She’s O.K.,” Mella said. “It was mostly me who was scared.”

  “What a pair of swine!” Rantakyrö said with feeling. “Have you had her number changed?”

  “Of course.”

  “They must be involved in some way or other,” Rantakyrö said vehemently. “We need to get them back for what they did to you, Mella.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Stålnacke said. “I don’t think what they did necessarily has anything to do with the two kids. You went to see them. They took the opportunity to cause trouble. If you’d been from the Inland Revenue or the local council, or if you’d been a traffic warden or anybody else they have it in for, they’d have treated you just the same.”

  “But it’s also possible that they tried to scare me off because they know something, or are mixed up in this business.”

  Stålnacke’s tone of voice went up a notch.

  “Or else your emotions are running ahead of your brain – and it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Mella stood up.

  “You can go to hell,” she said calmly to Stålnacke. “Go home to Airi or do whatever the hell you please. I’m going to investigate the death of Wilma Persson and the disappearance of Simon Kyrö. I think he’s somewhere under the ice. If they were murdered, I’m going to find out who did it.”

  She strode out of the room.

  “What are you gawping at?” Stålnacke said after she had left.

  His colleagues did not respond. They did not want a row. Olsson shook his head almost imperceptibly and pretended to concentrate on his Blackberry. Rantakyrö picked his nose conscientiously. Both were signalling: For God’s sake, that was wholly unnecessary.

  Rebecka Martinsson was getting out of her car outside the police station as Mella came storming out of the door.

  Then Mella had a brainwave. She could ask Martinsson to go with her to talk to Hjörleifur. Even if it was not a good idea to go out there on her own, she could keep her colleagues out of it for the time being.

  “Hello,” she said. “Do you fancy coming into the forest and having a chat with the most eccentric character in Kiruna? I have . . .”

  “Hang on a minute,” Martinsson said, fumbling for her mobile, which was ringing away inside her briefcase.

  Måns. Rejecting the call, she switched off her phone. I’ll ring him later, she thought.

  “Sorry,” she said to Mella. “What were you saying?”

  “I’m going to talk to Hjörleifur Arnarson,” Mella said. “Do you know who he is? You don’t? It’s obvious you’ve been living in Stockholm for a while. He lives near Vittangijärvi, and I think that’s where Wilma and Simon were diving when they disappeared. I’d prefer not to go out there on my own. My colleagues are . . . er . . . busy with other things this morning. Would you like to come with me? Or do you have something important that needs doing?”

  “No, I’ve nothing special on,” Martinsson said, thinking of the work piled up on her desk.

  All being well, she should be able to deal with most of it that evening.

  “So you’ve never heard of Hjörleifur Arnarson,” Mella said as they drove out to Kurravaara.

  They had the police snow scooter in the trailer so they would be able to ge
t to Vittangijärvi.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “I hardly know where to begin. When he first moved to Kiruna, he lived out at Fjällnäs. His mission was to raise a new breed of pig. The idea was that these pigs would be able to survive in the forest up here and tolerate the winter temperatures. So Hjörleifur crossed wild boar and Linderöd pigs. My God, those pigs! They had no intention of staying in the forest when they could rootle around in his neighbours’ potato fields. The whole village was in uproar! The neighbours were furious, rang us up, wanted us to drive out there and capture the pigs. Hjörleifur tried to fence them in, but they kept escaping. The pigs, that is – ha, ha! – not the neighbours. In the end someone in the village shot them all. My goodness, there was no end of a hullabaloo!”

  Mella chuckled at the memory.

  “And then a few years ago there was a big N.A.T.O. exercise in the forests north of Jukkasjärvi, Operation North Storm. Hjörleifur made a contribution to world peace by running around naked in the woods while they were on manoeuvres. They had to interrupt the exercise and go looking for him.”

  “Naked?” Martinsson said.

  “Yes.”

  “But that North Storm exercise was in February, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “February. Twenty, thirty degrees below zero?”

  “It was an unusually warm winter,” Mella said with a laugh. “Not much more than minus 10. He had a pair of boots and a blanket under his arm when they caught him. He’s a naturist. Only in the summer normally; his contribution to world peace was a special effort. He never wears clothes in summer. He believes that his skin absorbs solar energy, so he also hardly eats anything then.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “When that neighbour shot his pigs . . .”

  “Eh?”

  “It led to a court case. Taking the law into his own hands or malicious damage, I can’t remember which; but the case went to court in the summer. You should have seen the judge and jury when Hjörleifur turned up as the plaintiff.”