Until Thy Wrath Be Past

by Asa Larsson

“Nothing. He probably thought you’d be furious with him if he said anything to us. We left none the wiser.”

  Martinsson looked at her mobile.

  “It’s 5.56. I confirm herewith that the police will search the houses of Tore and Hjalmar Krekula, both of whom we have good reason to suspect of the murder of Hjörleifur Arnarson.”

  She turned to Tore Krekula.

  “Take your clothes off. We’ll be taking them with us. You can keep your underpants on. We have some things in the car that we can lend you.”

  The police are searching the houses of Tore and Hjalmar Krekula. I’m sitting on the roof of Tore’s porch. There’s a raven perched next to me. It knows I’m there, I’m convinced of it. It leans its head to one side and studies me, even though there’s nothing for it to see. It moves a step closer, then steps away again. Tore’s wife Laura is standing outside the front door, shivering. When she arrived home from the garage the police were already here – the blonde policewoman with the long plait, and three uniformed colleagues. They wouldn’t allow Laura into the house. Then the policewoman’s mobile rang. It was a short call. She simply said “O.K.”, and they went inside.

  Now they’re taking Tore’s clothes away. I assume they’re hoping to find blood-stains from Hjörleifur.

  Tore arrives and stands watching them. He says nothing at first, tries to catch the policewoman’s eye, but fails. He smiles scornfully at her colleagues instead and asks if they’d like to search his dustbin. Which they do. Tore’s wife says nothing. She doesn’t dare ask what they’re looking for. She has learnt not to wind Tore up.

  The raven caws and clicks and clucks – it seems to be trying out different sounds to see if I’ll react to any of them. I can’t respond. Giving up, it flies off to Hjalmar’s house 150 metres away. Perches in the big birch tree and calls to me. In a flash I’m sitting beside it on a branch.

  Hjalmar opens the door when the police ring the bell. He seems half asleep. His mop of hair resembles a spiky tuft of winter grass. His stubble is like a sooty shadow on his cheeks and neck. His belly sticks out like an overfed pig under his tent-like T-shirt. When the police officers ask him politely to wait outside until they’ve finished, he doesn’t put any trousers on, just steps outside in his underpants. The older officer, the one with the shaggy moustache, takes pity on him, and allows him to sit and wait in the police car.

  I land in the prosecutor’s hair. I’m like a raven on the top of her head. I dig my claws into her dark locks. I turn her head to look at Hjalmar. She sees him sitting there in the police car, blinking. She opens the door and talks to him. I peck at her head. She must wake up now.

  Olsson, Rantakyrö and Stålnacke carried clothing out of Hjalmar Krekula’s house and searched through the garage looking for a murder weapon. An hour and a half later they announced that they had finished.

  Martinsson contemplated Hjalmar Krekula. She saw how he was leaning against the car window. It looked almost as if he were about to fall asleep. His eyelids were half-closed.

  Suddenly he felt her watching him. He turned his head slowly and looked at her through the car window.

  She felt as if she were being stabbed inside. His gaze dug into her just like a pike clamping its jaws round the bait. And her gaze dug into him. Like when the hook pierces the pike’s cheek.

  Fleeting images flitting through her consciousness.

  Nobody has touched him since he was a very little boy. Torture and pain are embedded in all that fat. This is something he can’t eat himself out of. He is at the end of the line.

  But I’ve touched him, she thought – although it wasn’t so much a thought as an insight. He was young. I was not that old either. Fifteen, perhaps. I held him under his arms and lifted him up towards the heavens. The sun at its zenith. Dry soil under my bare feet. He slept in my arms. Was he my little brother? My child? My little sister?

  Her heart felt as if it might burst with compassion. She wanted to place her hand on the car window. So he would place his hand against hers on the other side of the glass.

  “Hello,” Olsson said beside her. “I said we’re finished.”

  Following her gaze, he saw Hjalmar Krekula.

  “That bloody swine!” he said between gritted teeth. “Let him suffer. Did they think they could mess about with Mella and get away with it? Let him sit there and stew in his underwear.”

  Martinsson nodded absent-mindedly. Then she went over to Stålnacke’s car and opened the back door.

  “We’ve finished,” she said to Hjalmar.

  He was sitting there like a lump of lard, looking at her. Stålnacke had draped a red-and-black synthetic blanket over his bare legs.

  They had slashed Mella’s tyres, Martinsson reminded herself. Nicked her mobile and lured Jenny to Järnvägsparken to scare the shit out of her. I must get a grip.

  “We’re taking you to the station for questioning,” she said. “You’re not under arrest, so I’ll give you a lift home when we’ve finished.”

  She controlled any feelings of sympathy. Made sure they were not noticeable. She caught sight of a raven perched on the porch roof.

  “We’ll fetch you a pair of trousers.”

  Transcript of the Interrogation of Tore Krekula.

  Place: Kiruna police station.

  Date and time: April 28, 19.35.

  Present: Inspectors Anna-Maria Mella and Sven-Erik Stålnacke, and

  District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson.

  A.-M.M.: Interrogation begun at 19.35. Can you tell us your name, please?

  T.K.: Tore Krekula.

  A.-M.M.: You have told the police that you and your brother Hjalmar Krekula paid a visit to Hjörleifur Arnarson yesterday.

  Why did you do that?

  T.K.: We heard that the police had been there and asked questions about Wilma Persson and Simon Kyrö. We were relatives of Wilma’s. She lived with her great-grandmother Anni Autio. And Anni and our mother are sisters. But the police never tell us a bloody thing. So we wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  A.-M.M.: Can you tell us about your visit to Hjörleifur Arnarson?

  T.K.: What do you want to know?

  A.-M.M.: Just tell us what happened.

  T.K.: We asked what he’d spoken to the police about. He said, nothing in particular. He said you’d asked about Wilma and Simon, but he knew nothing.

  A.-M.M.: Who did the asking? You or your brother?

  T.K.: Me. I asked the questions. Hjalmar isn’t much of a one for talking.

  A.-M.M.: And what happened then?

  T.K.: What do you mean, what happened then? Nothing happened then. We went home. He didn’t know anything.

  A.-M.M.: Did you touch anything while you were in his house?

  T.K.: It’s possible. I don’t remember.

  A.-M.M.: Think hard.

  T.K.: As I said, I don’t remember. Is that all? Some of us need to earn enough money to pay your wages, you know.

  A.-M.M.: Interrogation concluded at 19.42.

  Transcript of the Interrogation of Hjalmar Krekula.

  Place: Kiruna police station.

  Date and time: April 28, 19.45.

  Present: Inspectors Anna-Maria Mella and Sven-Erik Stålnacke, and

  District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson.

  A.-M.M.: Interrogation begun at 19.45. Can you tell us your name, please?

  H.K.: –

  A.-M.M.: Your name, please.

  H.K.: Hjalmar Krekula.

  A.-M.M.: You and your brother visited Hjörleifur Arnarson yesterday. Can you tell us about the visit?

  H.K.: –

  A.-M.M.: Can you tell us about that visit?

  H.K.: –

  A.-M.M.: Should I interpret your silence as meaning that you . . .

  H.K.: He didn’t say anything. Can I go now?

  A.-M.M.: No, you can’t go now, we have only just . . . Sit down!

  R.M.: Can I have a word, please?

  A.-M.M.: It’s 19.47. We are taking a short
break.

  “We have to let him go,” Martinsson said to Mella and Stålnacke. “We’ve got their clothes. We have to hope that the forensic examination gives us some results.”

  They were standing in the corridor outside the interrogation room.

  “But they haven’t said anything!” Mella said. “We can’t just let them go!”

  “They are not under arrest. They’ve said what they’re going to say.”

  “Nevertheless we have the right to keep them here and interrogate them for six hours. Those bastards can sit in there for six hours.”

  “Do you want to be charged with professional misconduct?” Martinsson said calmly. “We have no justification for holding them.”

  Olsson and Rantakyrö came out into the corridor, attracted by the sound of raised voices.

  “Rebecka says we have to let them go,” Mella said.

  “We’ll nail them regardless,” Olsson said by way of consolation.

  Mella nodded.

  We simply have to, she thought. I won’t be able to cope otherwise. Please God, let them find something on their clothes.

  “We managed to search the houses after all,” Rantakyrö said. “Well done, Svempa.”

  Stålnacke looked at the floor. Cleared his throat to show that he had noted the compliment.

  “By God, we did!” Rantakyrö said, making a manful effort to transform the gloomy atmosphere. “I’d have given anything to have been there.”

  “Yes, it was perfect timing with the telephone,” Martinsson said, giving Stålnacke a congratulatory look. “Anyway, let’s say goodbye to the Krekula brothers for now. Anna-Maria, do you have the documentation for Wilma, Simon and Hjörleifur?”

  “Of course,” Mella said.

  “O.K. Since I’m taking over the investigation, I’ll need to read all the material. I thought I’d do that this evening.”

  No-one spoke. Everyone was looking at Martinsson.

  “Having made the decision to search the Krekulas’ houses, I’ll be taking over the preliminary investigation,” Martinsson said.

  The three male officers turned to look at Mella.

  “Of course,” she said in an unnaturally offhand tone of voice. “But we’re not used to being so formal. With Alf Björnfot it was business as usual. We simply kept reporting to him as work progressed.”

  “As I mentioned earlier today,” Martinsson said, and now the words came flowing smoothly out of her mouth, “you’re no longer working with Alf Björnfot, but with me. I want to read all the material. And I naturally expect you to report to me as soon as anything happens.”

  “‘Expect’,” said Mella before she could stop herself. Then she darted into her office and fetched the documents lying on her desk to hand them over to Martinsson.

  Having followed on her heels, Martinsson collected them in Mella’s doorway, the other officers trailing after her like a tail.

  “They’re probably not in the right order,” Mella said.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Martinsson said.

  She glanced at the noticeboard in Mella’s office. Pinned up were photographs of Wilma Persson, Simon Kyrö and Hjörleifur Arnarson, with the dates when the first two had disappeared and when Hjörleifur had been murdered. There were maps of the area where Wilma had been found dead, and of Vittangijärvi. The names of the Krekula brothers were also posted.

  “All that stuff,” Martinsson said, pointing, “we’ll move into the conference room tomorrow. So we have everything in one place. When shall we meet tomorrow? Eight o’clock?”

  I don’t care what they think, Martinsson said to herself as she walked off with the documentation under her arm. I’m responsible now, and everything will be done by the book. It’s not my style to watch from the sidelines. If I’m in charge of the investigation, I’m the one who makes the decisions.

  “Wow,” Mella said when Martinsson had left. “Do you think we’ll have to line up before the meeting tomorrow? In alphabetical order? Like at school?”

  “But she did a bloody brilliant job today with Tore Krekula,” Stålnacke said. “Without her . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” Mella said impatiently. “I just think a little humility wouldn’t go amiss.”

  The silence between them seemed to last for eternity. Stålnacke looked hard at Mella. Mella stared back at him, ready to fight her corner.

  “Looks like it’s time to go home,” Olsson said, and was seconded by Rantakyrö, who explained that his girlfriend was getting annoyed – she’d phoned him about supper an hour ago now, and he had promised to call in and rent a film on the way home.

  Word soon gets around in a little town like Kiruna. Pathologist Lars Pohjanen tells his technical assistant Anna Granlund that Rebecka Martinsson saw Wilma Persson in a dream after she died and told him that Wilma did not die in the river. That was why he took samples of the water in her lungs.

  Granlund says she believes in that kind of thing – her sister’s grandfather’s cousin was able to staunch blood by the laying on of hands.

  Granlund’s work is covered by hospital confidentiality rules, but she cannot resist telling her sister about this phenomenon over a pizza lunch at Laguna.

  Her sister promises not to say anything about it, but close family does not count, of course, so she tells her husband that evening.

  The husband does not believe in that kind of thing, however. That is precisely why he tells one of his mates about it while they are sitting in the sauna after a body-building session. Perhaps he feels the need to test the credibility of Martinsson’s claim. Could it really be possible? He wants to see how his friend reacts.

  His mate does not say much at all. Just pours more water onto the hot stones.

  His mate often goes hunting with an old Piilijärvi resident, Stig Rautio. They bump into each other outside the Co-op. He repeats the story to Rautio. Asks if he knew Wilma Persson. She was murdered, it seems. It was that District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson – the one who killed those pastors a few years ago – she was the one who . . .

  Stig Rautio. He hunts on land owned by Tore and Hjalmar Krekula. He calls on Isak and Kerttu Krekula with the rent he owes Tore Krekula – Tore’s wife has told him her husband is visiting his parents. There is no urgency regarding the rent payment, but Rautio is curious. Everyone in the village, indeed in the whole of Kiruna, knows that the police have searched the Krekula brothers’ houses in connection with the murders of Wilma Persson and Hjörleifur Arnarson. Isak Krekula is in bed in the little room off the kitchen, as he always is nowadays. Kerttu Krekula is frying sausages and has made some mashed turnips for her boys. Hjalmar is eating, but Tore is only drinking coffee: he’s already eaten at home – after all, he has a wife who cooks for him.

  Kerttu Krekula does not ask if Rautio would like a mug of coffee. They realize that he is only nosing around, but they cannot tell him anything. He hands over the envelope with the rent. He had used the first envelope he could lay hands on, and it happened to be one of his wife’s special ones, bought at Kiruna market. It looked as if dried flowers had been pressed into the hand-made paper. Taking the envelope, Tore gives it a quizzical look. Aha, says the look, someone is trying to give the impression of being posh and remarkable.

  Rautio regrets not having looked for a different envelope: a used one with a window would have been better, but so what! He says he has heard that the police have been round – what a gang of idiots, halfwits! What the hell do they think they’re doing? Next thing we know they will be knocking on his door as well. Then he tells them about that business concerning District Prosecutor Martinsson and Pathologist Pohjanen. That she had dreamt about Wilma Persson, and gone to the pathologist as a result.

  “Before long they’ll be buying crystal balls instead of chasing after thieves,” he jokes.

  Nobody reacts, of course. The joke hangs in the air, awkward and heavy-handed. The Krekulas carry on as if nothing had happened. Hjalmar eats his mashed turnip and pork sausages, Tore taps on his coffee
cup with his fingernail and gets a refill from his mother.

  It is as if nothing unusual has happened. They make no comment on what Rautio says about the police. The kitchen is as silent as the grave for what seems like an eternity. Then Tore checks the notes in the envelope and asks if there is anything else Rautio wants to discuss. No, there is nothing else. He leaves without any gossip to pass on.

  When Rautio is gone, Tore Krekula says, “What a bloody load of rubbish! Claiming that the prosecutor dreamt about her.”

  Kerttu Krekula says, “This will be the last straw for your father. It’ll be the death of him.”

  “People talk,” Tore says. “They always have done. Let ’em.”

  Kerttu slams her palm down on the table. Shouts, “That’s easy for you to say!”

  She starts clearing the table. Despite the fact that Hjalmar has not finished eating yet. A clear signal that there is nothing more to be said.

  There never is anything more to be said, Hjalmar thinks. It was the same then. Last autumn, when Father had his heart attack. When Johannes Svarvare got drunk and started blabbing. There was nothing more to be said almost before they started speaking.

  It is late September. The sun is setting on the other side of the lake. Hjalmar Krekula has carried the outboard motor indoors for his father. It is lying on the kitchen table, on a layer of newspapers. Johannes Svarvare usually dismantles it and gives it a service for Isak Krekula. The carburettor is blocked as usual.