The Blood Spilt (35 page)

Forty minutes passed. Tommy Rantakyrö scratched his head. Tintin was lying down. The boat moved to and fro across the lake. Working north to south. The detectives moved along the shoreline.

“Bloody mosquitoes,” said Tommy Rantakyrö.

“Men with dogs. That’s your sort of thing, isn’t it?” Sven-Erik said to Anna-Maria.

“Pack it in,” growled Anna-Maria warningly. “It wasn’t even his dog, anyway.”

“What’s this?” wondered Fred Olsson.

“Nothing!” said Anna-Maria.

“But if you’ve started…” said Tommy Rantakyrö.

“It was Sven-Erik who started,” said Anna-Maria. “Go on then, tell them. You carry on and humiliate me.”

“Well, it was when you were living in Stockholm, wasn’t it?” began Sven-Erik.

“When I was at the police training college.”

“Anna-Maria moved in with this guy. And it hadn’t been going on for very long.”

“We’d been living together for two months, and we hadn’t been going out for that much longer.”

“And one day when she got home, correct me if I’m wrong, there was a leather thong on the bedroom floor.”

“And it was just like the ones you see in porn movies. It even had a hole at the front. It wasn’t too difficult to work out what was meant to be sticking out of that.”

She paused and looked at Fred Olsson and Tommy Rantakyrö. She’d never seen them looking so happy and expectant in her life.

“And,” she said, “there was a sanitary towel on the floor as well.”

“Get away!” said Tommy Rantakyrö attentively.

“I was really shocked,” Anna-Maria went on. “I mean, what do we really know about another person? So when Max got home and called out in the hallway, I was just sitting there in the bedroom. He just said ‘How’s things?’ And I pointed at the leather underwear and said ‘We need to talk. About that.’

“And he didn’t even react. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it must have fallen off the wardrobe.’ And he put the thong and the sanitary towel back on top of the wardrobe. He was completely blasé about the whole thing.”

Then she grinned.

“It was a pair of dog’s underpants. His mother had a boxer bitch that he used to look after sometimes. And when they went out she used to wear the underpants with the towel in, and the hole was for her tail. It was that simple.”

The laughter of the three men echoed across the lake.

They went on giggling for a long time afterward.

“Bloody hell,” said Tommy Rantakyrö, wiping his eyes.

Then Tintin got to her feet in the boat.

“Look,” said Sven-Erik Stålnacke.

“As if any of us would even consider not looking at this particular moment,” said Tommy Rantakyrö, stretching his neck.

Tintin had positioned herself. Her body was completely rigid. Her nose was pointing in toward the lake like the needle of a compass. Krister Eriksson slowed the boat so that it was barely moving, and steered in the direction indicated by Tintin’s nose. The dog began to whimper and bark, walking round and round on the platform and scratching. Her barking became more and more agitated until the front part of her body was hanging down over the water. When Krister Eriksson picked up the lead-weighted buoy to mark the spot, Tintin couldn’t control herself. She jumped into the water and swam around the buoy, barking and sneezing from the water.

Krister Eriksson called her, grabbed the handle on the life jacket and pulled her out. For a while it looked as if he might end up in the water himself. In the boat Tintin carried on whining and whimpering with pleasure. They could hear Krister Eriksson’s voice above the noise of the engine and the dog’s yelping.

“Well done, girl. Good girl.”

When Tintin leapt ashore she was as wet as a sponge. She shook herself vigorously, making sure everybody had a good shower.

Krister Eriksson praised her and stroked her head. She was only still for a second. Then she shot off into the forest, shouting out loud how bloody wonderful she was. They could hear her bark coming from different directions.

“Was she supposed to jump in?” asked Tommy Rantakyrö.

Krister Eriksson shook his head.

“She just got so excited,” he said. “But when she’s successful and finds something she’s looking for, it has to be an entirely positive experience for her, so you can’t tell her off for jumping in, but…”

He gazed in the direction of the barking with a mixture of immeasurable pride and thoughtfulness.

“She’s bloody amazing,” said Tommy, impressed.

The others agreed. The last time they’d met Tintin they were looking for a seventy-six-year-old woman with senile dementia who’d gone missing; Tintin found her in the forest up beyond Kaalasjärvi. It had been a huge area to search, and Krister Eriksson had driven a jeep very slowly along old logging tracks. He’d fixed a bath mat on the bonnet for Tintin so she wouldn’t slip. She’d sat there like a sphinx, her nose in the air. An impressive performance.

You didn’t often get to have such long conversations with Krister Eriksson. Tintin came back from her victory lap, and even she was affected by the sudden feeling of group solidarity. She even went so far as to scamper among the detectives and have a quick sniff at Sven-Erik’s trousers.

Then the moment had passed.

“Right, well, that’s us done, then,” said Krister almost crossly, called the dog and took off her life jacket.

It was getting dark.

“All we can do now is ring the technicians and the divers,” said Sven-Erik. “They can get up here as soon as it’s light tomorrow morning.”

He felt both happy and sad. The worst had happened. Another priest had been murdered, they could be more or less certain of that now. But on the other hand, there was a body down there. There were traces of blood in the skiff, and there were bound to be some on the track as well. They knew it had been a diesel car. They had something to work with again.

He looked at his colleagues. He could see the same electricity in them all.

“They can get themselves up here tonight,” said Anna-Maria.

“They can at least make an attempt in the dark. I want him out of there now.”

M
åns Wenngren was sitting in the Grodan club looking at his cell phone. All day he’d been telling himself not to call Rebecka Martinsson, but now he couldn’t actually remember why not.

He’d call her and just ask casually how her job on the side was going.

He was thinking the kind of thoughts he’d had when he was fifteen. What her face would look like at the exact moment he pushed inside her.

Embarrassing old fool! he said to himself as he keyed in the number.

She answered after three rings. Sounded tired. He asked casually about the job on the side, just as he’d planned.

“It didn’t work out very well,” she said.

Then the whole story came pouring out, how she’d been accused of snooping by Nalle’s father.

“It was really nice, not being ‘the woman who killed three men,’ ” she said. “I wasn’t keeping it a secret, but there was no reason to tell anybody either. The worst thing is I left without paying the bill.”

“You can probably pay it by account transfer or something,” said Måns.

Rebecka laughed.

“I don’t think so.”

“Do you want me to sort it out for you?”

“No.”

No, of course not, he thought. Can do it herself.

“Then you’ll just have to go back there and pay it,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, you don’t need to go crawling.”

“No.”

“Even if you have done something wrong, you shouldn’t crawl,” Måns went on.

Silence at the other end of the phone.

“This is turning into hard work, Martinsson,” said Måns.

“Sorry,” she said.

“Forget about it now,” said Måns. “I’ll ring you first thing tomorrow and give you a bit of a pep talk. Going to pay a bill in some godforsaken little place, you can do that. Remember the time you had to deal with Axling Import all by yourself?”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He won’t call, she thought when they’d rung off. Why should he?

* * *

The divers found Stefan Wikström’s body in the lake at five past ten that evening. They managed to get him up with a stretcher made from a net, but he was heavy. An iron chain had been wound around his body. His skin was completely white and porous, as if it had been steeped in the water and faded. There were half centimeter wide entry holes in his forehead and chest.

YELLOW LEGS

It’s the beginning of May. The leaves that have been lying beneath the snow have been compacted to form a brown shell over the ground. Here and there something green is tentatively emerging. Warm breezes from the south. Birds flying overhead.

The she-wolf is still on the move. Sometimes she is overwhelmed by her great loneliness. Then she stretches her throat up to the sky and lets everything out.

Fifty kilometers south of Sodankylä there is a village with an open garbage tip. She roots around there for a while, finds some discarded food and digs out fat, terrified rats. Fills her stomach well.

A little way outside the village there is a Karelian elkhound on a chain. When the she-wolf emerges from the edge of the forest, he doesn’t start barking like a thing possessed. Nor does he feel afraid and try to get away. He stands there in silence, waiting for her.

True, the smell of human beings frightens her, but she has been alone for a long time now, and this unafraid dog will do her very well. For three days she returns to him as darkness falls. Dares to come right up to him. Sniffs, allows herself to be sniffed. They court one another. Then she returns to the edge of the forest. Stops and looks at him. Waits for him to follow her.

And the dog pulls at his chain. During the day, he stops eating.

When the she-wolf returns on the fourth evening, he is no longer there. She stands at the edge of the forest for a little while. Then she trots off into the forest once again. And continues her journey.

* * *

The snow has completely gone. The ground is steaming, quivering with longing for life. Everywhere things are crawling, chirruping, crackling and playing. Leaves burst open on the aching trees. Summer is coming from below like a green, unstoppable wave.

She moves twenty kilometers northward along the river Torne. Crosses the bridge made by humans in Muonio.

Shortly afterward a man kneels before her for the second time in her life. She is lying in the birch woods with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. Her legs don’t exist. The trees above her a vague blur.

The man on his knees is a researcher in wolf behavior from the Nature Conservancy Council.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, stroking her flanks, her long yellow legs.

“Yes, she’s very pretty,” the vet agrees.

She gives her a vitamin injection, checks her teeth, flexes her limbs carefully.

“Three, maybe four years old,” she guesses. “Excellent condition, no scabies, nothing.”

“A real princess,” says the researcher, screwing the radio transmitter together around her neck, “a special piece of jewelry for a royal lady.”

The helicopter’s engine is still going. The ground is so soft the pilot daren’t turn it off, because the helicopter might sink down and be unable to lift off.

The vet gives the she-wolf another injection and then it’s time to leave her.

The researcher stands up. Still touching her. The thick, healthy coat. Wool next to the skin. Coarse, long hairs on the outer layer. The heavy paws.

When they have lifted off they can see her getting to her feet. A little bit wobbly.

“Tough lady,” the vet comments.

The researcher sends a thought to the powers that be. A prayer for protection.

T
UESDAY
S
EPTEMBER
12

It’s all in the morning papers. And they’re talking about it on the news on the radio. The missing priest has been found in a lake with chains around his body. Shot twice. Once in the chest. Once in the head. An execution, according to a police source, describing the fact that the body was found as more luck than skill.

Lisa is sitting at the kitchen table. She’s folded up the newspaper and turned off the radio. She’s trying to sit completely still. As soon as she moves, it’s as if there’s a wave inside her, a wave that surges through her body, getting her up on her feet, making her walk round and round in her empty house. Into the living room with the gaping bookshelves and the empty windowsills. Into the kitchen. The dishes have been washed. The cupboards wiped out. All the drawers full of rubbish have been emptied. No papers or unpaid bills lying around. Into the bedroom. Last night she slept without any bed linen, just pulled her quilted coat over her, fell asleep, much to her surprise. The cover is folded up at the foot of the bed, the pillows placed on top of it. Her clothes are gone.

By sitting completely still she can curb her longing. Her longing to scream and cry. Or her longing for pain. To place her hand on the burning hotplate. It will soon be time to go. She’s had a shower and put on clean underwear. Her bra is chafing under her arms; it doesn’t usually do that.

It’s not so easy to fool the dogs. They come up to her, wagging their tails. The sound of their claws on the floor, clickety-clickety-click. They don’t take any notice of her stiff body, rejecting them. They push their noses against her stomach and between her legs, wriggle their heads under her hands and demand to be patted. She pats them. It takes an enormous effort. To shut everything off to the extent that she can manage to stroke them, feel their soft fur, the warmth of the living blood flowing beneath it.

“In your baskets,” she says in a voice which is not her own.

And they go to their baskets. Then they come straight back and start walking around her again.

When it’s half past seven, she gets up. Rinses out her coffee mug and places it on the draining board. It looks strangely abandoned.

Out in the yard the dogs start playing up. Normally they just jump straight into the car, knowing it means a long day in the forest. But now they’re messing about. Karelin scampers off and pees on the currant bushes. The German sits down and stares at her as she stands there ordering them into the car through the open tailgate. Majken is the first to give in. Scuttles across the yard, crouching, tail pressed down between her legs. Karelin and the German jump in after her.