The Second Deadly Sin Page 13

  The people in Kiruna are not used to seeing the managing director around so often. He travels a lot. He spends most of his time in Stockholm. But he goes abroad as well. To Germany, America and Canada.

  He is never normally to be seen in Kiruna during the summer, for instance. He could no doubt face up to it snowing at midsummer, but he would have problems with all the mosquitoes and gnats, those blood-sucking pests.

  But in the summer of 1914 he astonishes the citizens of Kiruna by staying at home all the time. People think this is because of the war. On June 28 Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his consort are murdered in broad daylight in Sarajevo. That sparks off a whole series of declarations of war. It means business for the mine in Kiruna. The King of Lapland is in excellent spirits.

  But that is not because money is rolling in. He is in love. That is why.

  Martinsson walked home through the dark. She was thinking about what Sivving had told her about Sol-Britt’s family. Her father had been mauled and eaten by a bear. Her son had been run over. Her paternal grandmother, the schoolteacher who had an affair with the one and only Hjalmar Lundbohm, had been murdered. And Sol-Britt herself had been stabbed to death with a hayfork.

  She collected her mobile phone from her car. She had missed a call from Måns. He had left a message: Hi there, it’s me. Ring if you have time.

  That was all.

  What do you mean, “ring if you have time”? she thought, and was filled with a mixture of guilt and anger, and a need to defend herself against an accusation he would deny he had made.

  She could write a whole essay on that message.

  He seems to be trying to get his own back, she thought as she walked up the steps.

  The Brat ran up the steps in front of her. Stood wagging his tail outside the door to the suite of rooms on the upper floor. Just as pleased and expectant at the thought of coming home as of going out.

  Getting his own back for what? she thought as she listened to the crackling sound from the dry birch bark as she lit a fire in the stove in the bedroom.

  She washed her face and wiped away her make-up. The Brat had already settled down in her bed.

  Because she hadn’t rung. Because she hadn’t answered her phone. She ought to ring him now. But she didn’t want to. “If you have time” squeezed all the positive feelings out of her.

  Damn it all, she thought. Why can’t he simply write “I’m longing to be with you”?

  She sent him a text message: Tired worked all eve bed time now g.n.

  Then she changed “g.n” to “goodnight”. She wondered if she ought to add “love you”, but decided not to. She sent the text then switched off her mobile. Disconnected the landline as well.

  And she did not set the alarm clock either – she was not going to go to work the next morning.

  Her thoughts turned to von Post and her boss, Björnfot. It was dereliction of duty not to take on the cases she was supposed to do.

  But they can go to hell, she thought angrily.

  She closed her eyes, but couldn’t go to sleep. The Brat was too warm, jumped off the bed and lay down under the kitchen table.

  Sol-Britt’s family. Rather too much bad luck, too many accidents.

  After a while she felt for her mobile and phoned Sivving.

  “What actually happened in that hit-and-run case?” she said.

  “What?” Sivving said, half asleep. “Has something happened?”

  “Sol-Britt’s son. That hit-and-run case. What actually happened?”

  “Good God! What time is it? Nobody knows. As I said, they never caught whoever did it. One of those bastards … Just left him to die at the side of the road. It was some time before they found him. He’d been flung behind some osier bushes.”

  I hate coincidence, Martinsson thought again.

  “Now listen here, young lady,” Sivving said brusquely. “Think about that tomorrow. Goodnight!”

  Martinsson had barely registered that he had hung up when the mobile rang again, and she answered.

  It was Måns.

  “Hello,” she said in her most seductive voice. Her irritation was all gone now.

  “Hello,” he responded. His voice was teddy bears, warm blankets, a cup of tea and foot massage.

  Silence ensued.

  Who was going to start? It was as if they were proceeding with caution now, a reluctance to make the first move. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to”, or “Why is it always me who has to?” Perhaps also a worry that the other one would not respond with the same degree of vulnerable affection.

  It was Måns who played his cards first.

  “How are you, my diddle-diddle darling? I’ve been following the news today – but it wasn’t somebody you knew, was it?”

  No complaints because she hadn’t phoned him. Just affectionate solicitude.

  “No, but I’ve had an … interesting day. I don’t know where to start.”

  “Come on, tell Daddy all about it.”

  “Huh,” she said, pretending to be reluctant as always.

  Then she told him. About the murder. About how she had been swept aside from the investigation. About her row with Björnfot.

  He laughed at the thought of her quarrelling with her boss.

  “That’s my girl,” he said.

  Måns said nothing about how he would happily wipe his arse with documents lying on the desk of a chief prosecutor in the far north of Sweden. He said nothing at all.

  Martinsson melted. She was well aware that if she had continued working for Måns at Meijer & Ditzinger, one of the biggest firms of solicitors in Sweden, she would have been earning three times as much as she was making now. She knew that Måns thought she was wasting her talents as a prosecutor in the far north of the country, that she might just as well be working on the checkout at a local supermarket, and that he very much wanted her to go back and be with him in Stockholm. She knew that. But she was pleased that he hadn’t raised the matter.

  “That’s great,” he said instead, in his sexiest voice. “You can come here and lie in my bed waiting for me to come home from work. At last we can get our relationship back on track.”

  “I can take a holiday,” he said after a moment’s thought. “How about a trip to somewhere exciting? The West Indies? South Africa? I have a mate who sells fantastic themed holidays in China and India – I could have a word with him. Shall I do that?”

  “Yes, do that,” Martinsson said.

  She didn’t want to travel anywhere at all, but she didn’t have the strength to argue with Måns as well. One major row a day was quite enough.

  She knew what Måns was like. He did things so quickly. He was quite capable of booking a holiday for the pair of them in the West Indies while they were still talking on the telephone. But if he was going to have a chat with his friend, that gave her a little respite. Her mind was in turmoil. She would have to pack a suitcase. Otherwise: ahoy, Captain, stand by for a major storm. Only a few seconds ago she had felt so good, talking to him: but now she found herself trapped in a corner.

  “I love you,” she said, although that was not how she was feeling just now. “I must go to bed.”

  I’m out of my mind, she thought. One moment I’m in love, the next I’m running away. How on earth does he put up with me?

  “Goodnight,” he said. His voice was different now.

  He didn’t tell her he loved her. She could hear him thinking: I’m certainly not going to. Why am I the one who always has to?

  They hung up.

  *

  Måns Wenngren concluded his call to Rebecka Martinsson. He felt restless, not in the least tired. If only he’d had somebody to go out with, he’d have gone to Riche and ordered a vodka martini or two.

  He regretted having made the call.

  I ought to hold back, he thought. Trying to love her is like trying to squeeze a handful of sand.

  Bloody woman, he thought, examining himself in the mirror.

  Handsome top dog? Old man?
He would go to Riche anyway, and have a glass or two. Just sit there, observing beautiful women. Much better than gaping at “Mad Men” on the telly, all alone in his flat.

  *

  Martinsson looked dejectedly at her mobile.

  Take no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself, as it said in the Good Book.

  Her mobile ting-a-linged yet again. She thought it would be a text message from Måns, but it was from Eriksson.

  The Wild Dog, Roy and, believe it or not, Vera are racing around here for all they are worth, making deep scratches in the parquet floor. Tintin thinks animal welfare should take all the others into custody. I hope the Wild Dog will soon be domesticated.

  All her depression faded away in a flash.

  She could see in her mind’s eye how Vera and Marcus and Roy were chasing each other round the living room table, while Tintin sat in the kitchen, staring accusingly at Eriksson.

  Marcus is really enjoying himself. Eriksson is doing a great job. Kind and playful and …

  She fell asleep with her mobile in her hand.

  District Prosecutor von Post and Inspectors Mella, Stålnacke, Olsson and Rantakyrö drove to Kurravaara to interview Maja Larsson.

  Von Post had explained why it was necessary for there to be so many of them. It was not to scare her. But Larsson should not assume that she could get away with keeping quiet or telling lies this time. That was why there had to be several of them. That was why the interrogation would take place in her home.

  What a load of bollocks, Mella thought. Of course he wants to frighten her, and he likes to have an audience. That’s his personality reduced to its basic characteristics. A real bastard.

  The type who takes the credit for work done by others. Trims his sails to every wind and saves his own skin. If he praises you, you’d better watch out because you know he wants something from you. But he considers himself to be socially competent.

  He had gone out of his way to learn the names of her children, and always asked after them. She hated responding to his faked interest and squirmed in embarrassment when she told him about Jenny’s pony-riding or about Petter’s progress at school.

  Now he had decided to make use of the fifteen-kilometre journey to Kurravaara where Larsson was staying by giving his fellow passengers a crash course in interrogation techniques.

  “It is absolutely essential to gain the trust of the witness. She must have confidence in the interrogator.”

  You don’t say, Mella thought.

  “An experienced interrogator interprets all the signs – body language, for instance.”

  Somebody in the back seat grunted. Stålnacke blew his nose.

  “An uninhibited conversation. That’s what we try to achieve. What we are working towards. We don’t ask any direct questions. We simply talk about things. In that way an experienced interrogator can … can get to know absolutely everything.”

  Now Olsson seemed to have something stuck in his throat.

  Thank God it’s dark inside the car, Mella thought. She joined in the grunting.

  *

  Maja Larsson opened the door with her arms full of dirty washing.

  The thousand silver plaits were dangling down over her neck.

  Incredibly beautiful, thought Mella, who had been living for almost half a century without a man ever turning his head to look at her.

  And she didn’t seem put out in the least by the prosecutor and his crew.

  “Will it take long?” she asked wearily. “Can I sling this stuff in the machine?”

  “Well,” von Post began – but by then she had already turned on her heel and disappeared into the bathroom. After a while they heard the washing machine starting to turn.

  Mella noted the look of irritation on von Post’s face as she and her colleagues took their shoes off in the hall. He kept his shoes on.

  Only country yokels walk around in their stockinged feet, Mella thought. The upper classes always have a servant to clean up after them.

  “Örjan!” Larsson shouted to somebody at the top of the stairs.

  “The police are here.”

  They all looked up and saw a man in his sixties looking down at them. Mella couldn’t see much more of him than his hair. No deforestation there. He stared down at the gathering in the hall below.

  “What the hell have you been doing? Robbing a bank?”

  Larsson shrugged.

  So much for trust in the interrogator and uninhibited conversation, Mella thought, the whole of her body gripped with squirming embarrassment.

  Her colleagues traipsed into the kitchen after von Post. It took some considerable time. Everyone was trying to be last, hoping that there wouldn’t be enough room for all of them so that the luckiest could wait outside. Back to their schooldays …

  When they had all ended up in the kitchen, they looked at each other. Von Post and Larsson had sat down on either side of a tape recorder that he had placed between them.

  I can’t possibly join them in there, Mella thought from the doorway. I’d be much too close. How big can a kitchen be? In the end she decided to join her colleagues. They were lined up, leaning against the sink. They stood there, shuffling from one foot to the other, clearing their throats, contemplating the decorative fringes of the rugs, wondering what on earth to do with their hands.

  “Anyway, fru Larsson,” said von Post loudly and clearly, “when Rebecka Martinsson spoke to you, you didn’t mention the fact that your cousin Sol-Britt was in a relationship. Can you tell us about that now?”

  Larsson sat there for a few seconds that felt like an eternity. Then she lit a cigarette and inhaled twice before answering.

  “I thought she was the prosecutor in charge of the investigation?”

  “Not any more she isn’t. I thought you said you were prepared to cooperate with us. Your cousin has been murdered. I don’t know, but isn’t it a bit odd that you don’t seem to be prepared to help the police?”

  God help us all, Mella thought.

  “You look young,” Larsson said. “How old are you?”

  “Forty-five. We’re just trying to do our job, as I’m sure you understand.”

  Von Post leaned forward and placed his hand on Larsson’s side of the table. She leaned back.

  “Who was she having a relationship with?”

  “You look younger. Much younger.”

  Larsson moved her head back and forth, in a figure-of-eight shape, staring hard at his face.

  “You haven’t had an operation, but you must be using Restylane – right?”

  Von Post withdrew his hand. He glanced sideways at the row of police officers.

  “Certainly not, but …”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. Looking after your appearance. Why shouldn’t a man … ? Especially if you’re keen to make a good impression in the media. And your fingernails are shit hot – if I could afford it I’d have mine looked after by manicure professionals as well.”

  Von Post opened his mouth, then closed it again. In the end he said, “Why did you lie?”

  “Have I lied?”

  “You didn’t say that Sol-Britt had a lover. Martinsson must have asked you about that, surely?”

  Mella gasped for breath. It had dawned on her what von Post was after. He wanted Larsson to say that she hadn’t lied, and that Martinsson had never asked. He wanted to have Martinsson’s error in black and white. She realised now why von Post had insisted on recording the interview, and having a transcript. He wanted everybody to know that Martinsson had boobed.

  Larsson said nothing.

  “Huh,” she said eventually.

  Von Post raised an eyebrow.

  “You really are driven by all the wrong motives, aren’t you? My cousin is dead. She has been stabbed to death. You want to become a celebrity and put your colleague in the shit. You want me to say …”

  She turned to look at Mella and her colleagues.

  “How did he man
age to get Martinsson sacked from the investigation? I’d like to know that.”

  Nobody spoke. Von Post leaned back on his chair and crossed his arms. As if to signal that he wasn’t going to allow himself to be provoked. That he had all the time in the world. That they could remain sitting here until sunrise tomorrow if necessary.

  “You’re wearing expensive clothes as well,” she said. “Just look at those shoes that you didn’t condescend to take off before stamping around on my mother’s woven carpets. You couldn’t afford those on a prosecutor’s wage. So you must have a wife who earns more than you do. I can see that it can’t be easy to cope with that. Given the way you are. My guess is that you either beat her up or screw somebody else in your office because you hate her and are so het up about the injustice of life.”

  It was now so silent in the kitchen that the ticking of the wall clock sounded like thunder. Everybody knew that von Post’s wife worked in a bank and earned much more than he did. It was also common knowledge that he bedded young would-be prosecutors, district court clerks and the occasional witness. Olsson contemplated his cuticles and Stålnacke was stroking his moustache.

  Larsson was now going for the kill.

  “I’ll bet you anything you like that your dad had the same job as you. But that he was more successful. A lawyer, I expect? Or was he a senior doctor?”

  Von Post was looking pale. His father was a Justice of the Supreme Administrative Court.

  “Are you refusing to answer my question?”

  “I don’t know who she was having an affair with, O.K.? We didn’t know each other all that well. There was a lot of crap talked about her. But I don’t know any more than that. Have I annoyed you so much that you’re going to arrest me on those grounds?”

  “You haven’t annoyed me,” von Post said. His voice had become a little muffled.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I hope that means you will now clear off and leave me in peace. I have to make breakfast for my dying mother in the morning: she has difficulty in swallowing now. It takes an age. The carers don’t have time …”

  *