The Blood Spilt (34 page)

One of Benjamin’s friends was confirmed by Mildred. And through his friend he and Mildred got to know one another.

The Gate
is lying on Mildred’s desk. She’s finished reading it.

“So what did you think?”

It’s a thick book. Really thick. Lots of writing, in English. Lots of colored pictures too.

It’s about “the gate” to the unbuilt house, to the world you create. It’s encouraging you to create the world you want to live in for all eternity, through various rites and in your head. It’s about the way you get there. Suicide. Collectively or alone. The English publisher has been sued by a group of parents. Four young people took their lives together in the spring of 1998.

“I like the idea that you create your own heaven,” she says.

Then she listens. Passes him tissues when he weeps. He does that when he’s talking to Mildred. It’s the feeling that she cares that starts him off.

“He hates me,” he says. “And it doesn’t make any difference. If I cut my hair and went around in a shirt and smart trousers and worked hard at school and became chairman of the school council, he still wouldn’t be satisfied. I know that.”

There’s a knock on the door. Mildred frowns in annoyance. When the red light’s showing…

The door opens and Stefan Wikström walks in. It’s actually his day off.

“So this is where you are,” he says to Benjamin. “Get your jacket and go and sit in the car. Now.”

To Mildred he says:

“And you can stay out of my family’s business. He’s wasting his time at school. The way he dresses is enough to make you throw up. He does everything he can to embarrass the family. With every encouragement from you, I can see that. Giving him tea when he’s truanting from school. Did you hear what I said? Jacket, car.”

He taps his watch.

“You’ve got Swedish now, I’ll give you a lift.”

Benjamin stays where he is.

“Your mother’s sitting at home crying. Your form tutor rang and wondered where you were. You’re making your mother ill. Is that what you want?”

“Benjamin wanted to talk,” says Mildred. “Sometimes…”

“You should talk to your family!” says Stefan.

“Yeah, right!” shouts Benjamin. “But you just refuse to answer. Like yesterday, when I asked if I could go along with Kevin’s family up to the Riksgränsen ski center. ‘Get your hair cut and dress like a normal person, then I’ll talk to you like a normal person.’ ”

Benjamin stands up and picks up his jacket.

“I’ll cycle to school. You don’t need to give me a lift.”

He rushes out.

“This is your fault,” says Stefan, pointing at Mildred as she sits there, still holding her teacup.

“I feel sorry for you, Stefan,” she replies. “The landscape around you must be very desolate.”

* * *

“We’re letting him go,” said Anna-Maria to the prosecutor and her colleagues. She went out to the rest area and asked the woman from social services to take mother and son home.

Then she went into her office.

She felt tired and dispirited.

Sven-Erik called in to see if she wanted to go out for lunch.

“But it’s three o’clock,” she said.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Get your jacket. I’ll drive.”

She grinned.

“Why?”

Tommy Rantakyrö materialized behind Sven-Erik.

“You need to come,” he said.

Sven-Erik looked at him grimly.

“I’m not even speaking to you,” he said.

“Because of that business about the cat? I was only kidding. But you need to hear this.”

* * *

They followed Tommy to interview room two. A woman and a man were sitting there. They were both dressed for the forest. The man was quite tall; he was holding a khaki cap from the army surplus store in his fist, and he was wiping the sweat from his brow. The woman was unnaturally skinny. Had those deep furrows above her lips and in her face that you get from smoking for many years. Bandana on her head, berry stains on her jeans. Both of them stank of smoke and mosquito repellent.

“Please could I have a glass of water,” said the man as the three detectives entered the room.

“Just leave it!” said the woman, in a tone that indicated that nothing the man could say or do would be right.

“Could you just tell us again what you told me?” asked Tommy Rantakyrö.

“Oh, you tell them!” the woman snapped at her husband.

She was clearly stressed; her eyes flickered from one detective to the other.

“Well, we were north of Lower Vuolusjärvi picking berries,” said the man. “My brother-in-law’s got a cabin out there. Amazing cloudberries when the time’s right, but at the moment it’s lingon…”

He glanced up at Tommy Rantakyrö who was gesturing to indicate that the man really ought to get to the point.

“Anyway, we heard a noise during the night,” said the man.

“It was a scream,” his wife stated firmly.

“Yes, yes. Anyway, then we heard a shot.”

“And then another shot,” supplied his wife.

“Oh, you tell them, then!” snapped the husband.

“I said, didn’t I, I said you’re going to have to talk to the police! I said that.”

The woman pursed her lips.

“That’s about it, really,” concluded the husband.

Sven-Erik gazed at them in amazement.

“When was this?” he asked.

“Friday night,” said the man.

“And it’s Monday now,” said Sven-Erik slowly. “Why have you only just come in?”

“I told you, didn’t I…” the woman began.

“Just shut up, will you,” the man cut her off.

“I said we ought to come in straightaway,” the woman said to Sven-Erik. “And when I saw the headlines about that priest… do you think it’s him?”

“Did you see anything?” said Sven-Erik.

“No, we’d gone to bed,” said the man. “We just heard what I told you. Well, we heard a car as well. But that was much later. There’s a road that runs from Laxforsen out there.”

“Didn’t you realize this might be something serious?” asked Sven-Erik quietly.

“How should I know,” said the man sullenly. “It’s the elk hunting season, so it’s hardly surprising if people are shooting in the forest.”

Sven-Erik’s voice was unnaturally patient.

“It was the middle of the night. During the hunting season no shooting is permitted from one hour before sunset. And who screamed? The elk, was it?”

“I did say…” the woman began.

“Look, noises can sound very strange in the forest,” said the man, looking uncooperative. “It might have been a fox. Or a rutting stag, barking. Have you ever heard that? Anyway, we’ve told you all about it now. So perhaps we can go home.”

Sven-Erik was staring at the man as if he’d taken leave of his senses.

“Go home!” he yelled. “Go home? You’re staying right here! We’ll get a map and take a look at the area. You’re going to tell me where the shot came from. We’ll work out if it was a bullet or shot. You’re going to think about what sort of scream it was, whether you could make out any words. And we’re going to talk about the car you heard as well. Where it came from, how far away it was, the whole lot. I want exact times of when this all happened. And we’re going to go over this very carefully. Several times. Got it?”

The wife looked appealingly at Sven-Erik.

“I told him we ought to go straight to the police, but once he’s got started on the berry picking…”

“Yes, and now look what’s happened,” said her husband. “I’ve got three thousand kronors’ worth of lingonberries in the car. Whatever happens I’ll have to phone the lad to come and collect them. I’m not having the bloody berries ruined.”

Sven-Erik’s chest was heaving up and down.

“But the car was a diesel, anyway,” said the man.

“Are you taking the piss?” asked Sven-Erik.

“No, it’s not bloody difficult to recognize a diesel, is it. The cabin’s some distance from the road, but even so. But like I said, that was much later. Might not have had anything to do with the shot.”

A
t quarter past four in the afternoon Anna-Maria and Sven-Erik were flying north by helicopter. The river Torne meandered below them like a silver ribbon. A few isolated clouds were casting their shadows on the mountainsides, but otherwise the sun was shining down on the golden yellow terrain.

“You can see why they’d want to stay out here picking berries instead of coming in and ruining their trip,” said Anna-Maria.

Sven-Erik had to agree, and laughed.

“What is it with people?”

They looked down at the map.

“If the cabin’s here at the northern end of the lake, and the shot came from the south…” said Anna-Maria, pointing.

“He thought it sounded really close.”

“That’s right, and further down you’ve got some cottages right on the shoreline. And they heard a car. It can’t be more than one, at the most two kilometers, starting from the cabin.”

They’d circled an area on the map. The following day the police would start searching the area, along with the local military.

The helicopter began to drop. Followed the long oval shape of the lake, Lower Vuolusjärvi, northward. They located the cabin where the berry pickers had been staying.

“Go lower and we’ll check it out as best we can,” Anna-Maria yelled to the pilot.

Sven-Erik had the telescope. Anna-Maria thought it was easier without. Birch trees, lots of marshy ground. The forest road, following the edge of the lake almost to its northern point. The odd reindeer gazing stupidly at them, and a female elk with a calf, galloping off into the undergrowth.

But still, thought Anna-Maria as she squinted, trying to see something other than mountain birches and brushwood. You can’t bury somebody without leaving some kind of trace. Roots, shit like that.

“Wait,” she suddenly shouted. “Look over there.”

She pulled at Sven-Erik’s arm.

“See?” she said. “There’s a boat just there, down by the reindeer pen. We’ll check it out.”

* * *

The lake was over six kilometers long. A track led down to the lake from the road through the forest. There were planks over the last section. The white plastic skiff had been pulled ashore. Turned neatly upside down so it wouldn’t get filled with water.

They turned it over together.

“Nice and clean,” said Sven-Erik.

“Very nice and clean indeed,” said Anna-Maria.

She bent down and examined the bottom of the boat carefully. Looked up at Sven-Erik and nodded. He bent down too.

“That’s definitely blood,” he said.

They looked out across the lake. It was smooth and calm. A ripple on the surface. Somewhere a black-throated diver was calling.

Down there, thought Anna-Maria. He’s in the lake.

“We’ll go back,” said Sven-Erik. “No point trampling around and annoying the scene of crime team. We’ll get Krister Eriksson and Tintin here. If they find anything, we’ll send for a diver. We won’t use the track, there could be traces or something.”

Anna-Maria Mella checked the time.

“We can do it before it gets dark,” she said.

* * *

It was half past four in the afternoon by the time they gathered at the lake again, Anna-Maria Mella, Sven-Erik Stålnacke, Tommy Rantakyrö and Fred Olsson. They were waiting for Krister Eriksson and Tintin.

“If he’s anywhere round here, Tintin will find him,” said Fred Olsson.

“Although she’s not as good as Zack,” said Tommy.

Tintin was a black Alsatian bitch. She belonged to Inspector Krister Olsson. When he’d moved up to Kiruna five years ago, he’d brought Zack with him. A male Alsatian with a thick coat, black and tan. Broad head. Not exactly a show dog. A one man dog. It was only Krister who mattered to him. If anyone else tried to say hello or pat him, he turned his head away indifferently.

“It’s an honor to be allowed to work with him,” Krister himself had said about the dog.

The mountain rescue team had also sung his praises, loud and long. Zack was the best avalanche dog they’d ever seen. He’d been good at searching as well. The only time Krister Eriksson was to be seen in the staff room at the station was when Zack was treating everyone to cakes. Or to put it more accurately, when some grateful relative or somebody who’s life he’d saved was buying the cakes. Otherwise Krister Eriksson spent his coffee breaks walking the dog or training.

He just wasn’t the sociable type. Maybe it was because of the way he looked. According to what Anna-Maria had heard, his injuries had been caused by a house fire when he was a teenager. She’d never dared to ask, he just wasn’t the type. His face was like bright pink parchment. His ears were two holes that just went straight into his head. He had no hair at all, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, nothing.

There wasn’t much left of his nose either. Two oblong holes right through his skull. Anna-Maria knew his colleagues called him Michael Jackson.

When Zack was alive, people had joked about the dog and his master. Said they sat together in the evenings, sharing a beer and watching the sport. That it was Zack who picked most of the winners.

Since Krister had got Tintin, she’d heard nothing. Presumably the jokes were still going on, but as Tintin was a bitch they were probably too coarse to repeat when Anna-Maria was around. “She’ll be fine,” Krister always said about Tintin. “She’s a bit too overenthusiastic at the moment. Too young in the head, but it’ll sort itself out.”

Krister Eriksson arrived at the scene ten minutes after the others. Tintin was sitting in the front seat, fastened in with her own seat belt. He let her out.

“Has the boat arrived?” he asked.

The others nodded. A helicopter had dropped it at the northern end of the lake. It was orange, made for the shallows, equipped with spotlights and an echo sounder.

Krister Eriksson put on Tintin’s life jacket. She knew exactly what that meant. A job. An exciting job. She sniffed eagerly round his legs. Her mouth was open and expectant. Her nostrils were twitching in all directions.

They walked down to the boat. Krister Eriksson positioned Tintin on the small platform and pushed off. His colleagues stayed where they were, watching them glide away. They heard Krister start up the engine. They were searching in a headwind. At first Tintin was moving her feet up and down in excitement, whimpering and dancing. At last she settled. Sat in the prow, seemed to be thinking of something else.