The Second Deadly Sin Page 15

  There are about thirty guests squashed together round the long table in the dining room. Among them are the chairmen of the Provincial Education Authority and the Poor Relief Board. The head of the Northern State Railways is discussing with the local pharmacist the pointless panic buying of groceries, smoked and salted goods, conserves and macaroni. And flour. Especially flour. People didn’t even act in such an idiotic fashion during the General Strike of 1909.

  District Police Superintendent Björnfot is there with his melancholy wife, whose silent hatred of Kiruna and everything connected with it grows inside her body like a cancerous tumour. Elina tries to talk to her, but soon gives up.

  The acting parish constable, a notorious ladies’ man, spends the whole evening flirting with Elina and passing on shells and crayfish heads to his dog, which duly throws up a pile of vomit on Lundbohm’s bearskin rug during dessert.

  Old Johan Tuuri, representing the Lappish population, laughs loudly and swears that he has never eaten anything like these crayfish, waves some claws around, and puts on a little act with two quarrelling crayfish in the leading roles.

  The vicar seems always to empty his schnapps glass in two gulps, and keeps refilling it, while the railway pastor complains about his stomach and sticks to beer.

  The District Medical Officer seems to be worn out and in danger of falling asleep on his chair, but after his fifth glass of schnapps he rises from the dead and turns out to be an enthusiast of Bellman’s drinking songs.

  The mining engineers find it difficult to talk about anything but the mine – it seems their preoccupation with the black gold increases with each glass they empty.

  Some businessmen and a haulier are also invited.

  Entertainment is provided by the Kiruna Orchestral Society, and they are treated to a schnapps in the kitchen before staggering out into the night.

  Manager-in-Chief Fasth, Hjalmar Lundbohm’s right-hand man, gives a speech of thanks to his boss. By this time his party hat has slid down to the back of his head and his colourful napkin has ended up among the crayfish shells.

  He is a corpulent man, herr Fasth. Fatty food and strong drink have shaped both his body and his temperament. He never smiles. His head and his body are a small sphere on top of a large one. He is not nervous like the police superintendent’s wife, but neither is he tired and dejected like the medical officer. No, the mine’s manager-in-chief is as forbidding as the creaking, squeaking, relentless midwinter. He is as hard as the iron in the mine. His private opinion of the police superintendent and Managing Director Lundbohm is that they are weak. He has no problem when it comes to treating people like dirt. He never hesitates to evict, dismiss, reject, lay off, punish or abandon anybody. The fear in the eyes of the poverty-stricken leaves him cold.

  Despite his small size he is physically strong. Few can beat him at arm-wrestling – of those present the only ones who have ever done so are the police superintendent and the acting parish constable.

  Now he churns out his thank-you speech while recalling resentfully that if it hadn’t been for him, the managing director would never have been here at all. A so-called philanthropist who prefers to mix with poncey painters and sodomites and women with hairs on their chests like Lagerlöf and Key – for Christ’s sake!

  And all those journeys! Lundbohm can travel all over the world and improve himself while he, Fasth, has to make sure that life in Kiruna runs smoothly, the workers are kept under control, and people know their place. And that iron is produced.

  And that little schoolteacher sitting opposite him. While he is talking, his gaze falls upon her breasts and her waist. She’s a nice bit of pussy, no doubt about that. Too many ideas in her head, though. Still, that wouldn’t be anything he couldn’t take care of, if only he had the chance. During the course of the party he has noticed the looks exchanged by Lundbohm and the teacher. So that’s the way it is, is it? What does she see in him? Money, of course. He’ll find out how much she gets paid first thing tomorrow.

  *

  Lizzie sends the girls out to clear the table, and then serves hot apple pie with whipped cream. Apples do not grow this far north, and so these were also sent to Lundbohm in wooden crates, every apple carefully wrapped in newspaper.

  Lizzie stands in the doorway and sees the way Fasth is looking at Elina. His eyes are listless, half-closed. His mouth is open. But there is something predatory in the background. Like a pike in the reeds in summer, ready to pounce.

  As she serves a slice of apple pie to Elina, she whispers into her friend’s ear.

  “Make an excuse to leave the table, and come to the kitchen.”

  She intends to advise Elina to go home straight away. Fasth is a nasty sort at the best of times, and now he has had too much to drink. He’s a danger to women.

  But Elina doesn’t come out to the kitchen. The schnapps has made her tipsy and talkative. Maybe she didn’t even hear Lizzie – the party has become rather noisy.

  When it is time for cognac in the drawing room, most of the women go home: but Elina stays behind. Fasth barely says goodnight to his wife when she thanks Lundbohm for an enjoyable evening and takes her leave. Fru Fasth makes no effort to take her husband home with her. Perhaps she thinks it will be good not to have to put up with him. Perhaps she will be relieved if he can find an outlet for his needs between the legs of some other woman.

  Lizzie washes up, and races around like a madwoman with towels and cloths, in order to be finished by the time the last of the guests go home.

  But when Elina is ready to leave, Lizzie hasn’t finished her work.

  The cognac glasses and the dishes of goodies are still in the drawing room, and must be taken care of and washed as the last of the guests stand around in the hall, thanking their host for such an enjoyable evening.

  Lizzie watches as Fasth takes Elina by the arm and assures Lundbohm that he will personally make sure that she gets home safely. He leads her off into the night before any of the other guests has time to say a word.

  Elina feels distinctly uncomfortable. Her arm is being held in a vice-like grip, and Fasth barely seems to notice when she stumbles as he strides out at what seems like breakneck speed.

  The light nights of summer are no more, and she is alone with a man who stinks of strong drink, and is more or less dragging her along.

  When they have passed Silferbrand’s general store, he suddenly stops and pulls her into the back yard. It’s as dark as a sack of coal next to the wall, while further away pale moonlight hints at the outline of barrels and wheelbarrows, a cart and some empty crates.

  Fasth pushes her up against the wall of the woodshed.

  “So,” he grunts as she tries to protest. “Don’t be difficult, now …”

  He grabs hold of her breasts.

  “No messing about, now. You give yourself to Lundbohm … And no doubt lots of others …”

  His mouth slithers over her face as she tries to turn it away. He tightens his grip on her breast. The weight of his body forces her up against the wall.

  “Once you’ve had a taste of a real man, you won’t want anything else.”

  He takes hold of her chin and forces her mouth over his own, then thrusts his fat tongue inside it.

  She bites his lip so that the taste of blood explodes inside her mouth.

  He curses, and the hand that was making mincemeat of her breast moves up to his mouth.

  She gasps for breath and shouts for all she is worth.

  “Let me go!”

  She shouts so loudly that everybody round about must have been woken up.

  And her shout infuses her with unexpected strength. She thrusts Fasth to one side.

  He is drunk, and perhaps that is why she is able to evade him before he has recovered his balance.

  She runs out of the back yard like a fox pursued by hounds. She hears his voice behind her.

  “Whore!”

  Krister Eriksson woke up early. It was cold in the tent. Wild Dog Marcus had taken ov
er his winter sleeping bag, and he was using the summer version. Tintin was lying beside him. She woke up when he stretched himself, and licked his face. By Christ, but it was cold. He simply couldn’t lie here any longer. He would have to get up.

  And he was dying for a wad of chewing tobacco.

  Roy was lying over his feet. When he started moving, both dogs stood up and began walking around the little tent. They squeezed out through the opening and disappeared – no doubt having a morning pee somewhere in the garden.

  Eriksson stuck his head out through the tent opening. He was pleased to note that the first snow had not yet fallen. He crawled out and peeped into the dog kennel. Roy and Tintin went for a stroll around it, sniffing away.

  It was a simple little hut with no heating: he had made it himself in a single day. Hanging in front of the door opening were three plastic sheets. They did not keep the cold out, but they prevented it from drifting straight in. And the dogs could get in and out without any problems.

  He folded the plastic sheets to one side. Marcus was lying there asleep, with Vera beside him. No doubt he wasn’t freezing to death: Eriksson had placed a reindeer skin on the floor, and an extra blanket over the winter sleeping bag.

  Vera woke up straight away and went out.

  “Sorry about this, but it must be done,” he said to the dogs.

  Then he walked over to the rubbish bin and opened it. He reached down into it and dug out yesterday’s rubbish bag. The dogs gathered around him, watching with interest.

  “I know,” he said as he unfastened the bag and took out the less than clean tobacco tin. “It’s disgraceful.”

  The dogs accompanied him into the house for their breakfast. Eriksson inserted a large wad of chewing tobacco inside his lip, and started to make his morning coffee, even though it was only a quarter to five.

  He took the cloudberries he had collected this year out of the fridge. He hoped Marcus liked cloudberries. To be on the safe side he took out a packet of blueberries as well. If he made some pancakes, jam would be good to have with them. He would invite Sivving and Martinsson to eat with them.

  Assuming Marcus stays here with me today, he reminded himself.

  He did his usual exercises: pull-ups, sit-ups, press-ups and kneebends. Then he paid his various bills online and vacuumed the whole house – as he did every morning. The dogs shed vast amounts of hair.

  Vera was sitting by the door, scratching at it: she wanted to go out. Eriksson checked the time: ideally the boy ought to sleep until he woke up. No doubt Vera would go and wake him. On the other hand, that would be the best way for him to regain consciousness.

  Roy and Tintin were lying on the living-room sofa: they had no plans to go anywhere at all.

  Vera wagged her tail and looked at him. He had the feeling that she understood. That this dog, who had watched her master being murdered, somehow sensed what the boy had been through. That she had taken it upon herself to help him recover.

  “And I need your help as well,” Eriksson said, letting her out.

  He walked over to the kitchen window, from where he could see the dog kennel. Vera appeared from round the corner of the house and made her way towards the kennel.

  Then she stopped dead at the entrance.

  Why doesn’t she go in? Eriksson wondered.

  Vera barked. It was shrill and seemed full of alarm. Then she poked her head into the kennel and backed out again. Barked once more.

  Something was amiss. Eriksson ran out into the garden in his stockinged feet. He knelt down in front of the entrance and folded aside the plastic sheets.

  Marcus was lying inside, fast asleep. Just inside the door was a flaming torch.

  Eriksson’s stomach churned in horror. A flaming torch! Where on earth had the boy got that from?

  He removed it immediately, turned it upside down and laid it on the lawn. It extinguished itself with a sort of sizzling noise. Then he pulled Marcus out of the kennel, sleeping bag and all.

  He shook the boy.

  “Marcus! Wake up, Marcus!”

  His head was swimming. Good God! What if he had tossed and turned in his sleep and the sleeping bag had caught fire … ?

  He didn’t manage to think that thought through – he had been set on fire himself. When he was only a couple of years older than Marcus.

  Why hadn’t he woken up? Burning flames in a confined space can be lethal. He knew that. Every year campers died from that very cause. They lit candles in their caravans or bivouacs, or used minibarbecues in their little tents and then succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning.

  “Marcus!”

  The boy was lying limply in his arms. But then he suddenly opened his eyes and looked at him without speaking.

  Eriksson was so relieved that he almost burst into tears.

  He was pleased to see that Vera licked him good morning without a care in the world. Marcus tried in vain to lick her back.

  “You must never have burning candles or flaming torches in a dog kennel,” said Eriksson sternly. “You can set the place on fire! All the air can be burnt up! Where did you get it from?”

  Marcus looked at him in bewilderment.

  “Wuff?”

  “This!”

  He lifted up the extinguished torch and showed it to Marcus.

  The boy shook his head

  Eriksson suddenly broke out in goose pimples. He looked around.

  At that very moment a young man appeared from nowhere. His hair was gathered up in a sort of bun at the back of his head, and his black spectacles were reminiscent of the sixties. He was wearing a white shirt and much too thin a jacket. Trotting behind him was a similarly young woman. She was wearing a hooded jacket and baggy jeans. They looked like the types who squat houses and throw paving stones at mounted police, Eriksson thought. Instinctively he hugged Marcus even more tightly. Got up, stood Marcus on his feet, still in the sleeping bag.

  “Krister Eriksson!” shouted the young man. “Why is Marcus sleeping in the dog kennel? Is he a security risk? Don’t you dare let him sleep inside the house?”

  “Eh?”

  The woman had produced a camera and was taking pictures.

  Journalists.

  “Get off my premises!” Eriksson said.

  He turned Marcus’s face towards himself as he shooed the intruders away

  The man and woman retreated as far as the letter box by the garden gate. They knew their legal rights. It would take much more than a police officer who looked like a alien from outer space to frighten them off. The woman continued taking pictures while the man shouted out a series of questions.

  “Is he dangerous? Do you think he was the one who killed his grandmother? Is it true that he’s going to be cross-examined by a forensic psychiatrist today?”

  Eriksson was shaking with suppressed fury.

  “Are you out of your minds? Get out of here NOW!”

  He picked Marcus up in his arms, and shouted for Vera, who was circling round the visitors with unconcerned interest.

  “Come here! Here, at once!”

  Couldn’t Martinsson teach her dog to obey the simplest of commands?

  Marcus was kicking about in his arms, didn’t want to be carried. He barked at the journalists as Eriksson carried him into the house.

  “Wuff!” he yelled. “Wuff, wuff, wuff!”

  *

  Von Post had slept badly. He had dreamt that he had strangled his wife with a thin steel wire. She had been blue in the face, which was swollen up like a balloon about to burst. The wire had cut her skin, and blood had been trickling out. He had woken up abruptly, and was unsure if he had shouted out, possibly even disturbed the neighbours.

  He could not understand why he'd had such a horrific dream. It must have been something he’d eaten. Or perhaps he was falling ill? In any case, it had nothing to do with that Maja Larsson, and what she had said about his father and his wife. Certainly not. Larsson was a totally insignificant person.

  Now von Post was st
anding in the doorway of Martinsson’s office. Alf Björnfot was sitting at her desk with all the documentation for today’s criminal proceedings spread out in front of him. Ten fairly straightforward criminal cases, one after another. Each of them was reckoned to last about half an hour.

  This is marvellous, von Post thought as he felt the uneasiness that had possessed him in the aftermath of the dream ebbing away.

  Martinsson had reacted better – that is to say, worse – than he had dared to hope. She had created a scene worthy of an hysterical old crone, quarrelled with her boss and then refused to come to work.

  And now the outcome was that he had taken over the investigation, and she had passed the audition for the role as a shit, a quitter and a neurotic. He found himself struggling not to sing and dance. No, he must keep a straight face.

  “A lot on your plate, eh?” he asked his boss in a sympathetic tone of voice.

  Björnfot looked up at him in annoyance.

  “It was such a bloody shame that she took it so personally,” said von Post, who by now was in a mood reminiscent of his childhood Christmases. “It’s disgraceful that you should have to drive up from Luleå and leave all—”

  His boss interrupted him with a dismissive gesture.

  “Pfuh, I could wind up a clockwork soldier and send him in to do what’s needed. She has prepared everything so damned well – spelled out details of the procedures, prepared lists of questions, and even written a draft of the pleas. I only need to learn it all off by heart.”

  The machinery inside von Post’s head ground to a halt. The Christmas carols stopped. He should have checked up and thrown her bloody notes into the shredder. Shuffled the documents around.

  “I think it’s disgusting,” he said with feeling. “It’s dereliction of duty and grounds for dismissal. Anybody who does anything like this should be given an official warning.”