The Second Deadly Sin Read online

  He congratulated himself on having suggested so elegantly that if the boss did not give her an official warning it would be interpreted as favouritism. And an official warning was necessary before anybody could be sacked. Not that Björnfot would sack her. He was too daft for that. But it wouldn’t be necessary. If she received an official warning, she would resign – he was almost certain of that.

  “I’ve granted her leave,” Björnfot said curtly. “And personally I’ll be pleased if she forgives me and doesn’t resign. Meijer & Ditzinger would be thrilled to bits and make her a partner if she went back to them.”

  Björnfot was looking pale, von Post thought. Ill. Sickly.

  “Just say the word if there’s anything I can do,” he said with a smile.

  That very second Olsson and Mella appeared in the corridor, red-cheeked and exhilarated.

  But when they saw von Post, they fell silent.

  Von Post beckoned them to come to him.

  “We’ve nearly got him,” Olsson said, handing over a sheet of paper.

  They greeted Björnfot, but their hearts were not in it. Mella glared at him. Björnfot acknowledged them somewhat awkwardly.

  “I’ve gone through the text messages from Sol-Britt Uusitalo’s secret lover,” Olsson said. “Her latest pay-as-you-go card was activated two weeks ago. The text messages sent during the day come from a transmitter in Kiruna, and those sent in the evening are from a transmitter in Kurravaara. Last Saturday there was one sent from Abisko.”

  “She was murdered on Saturday night,” von Post said.

  “But it’s only an hour’s journey from there.”

  “Maja Larsson, Sol-Britt’s cousin, told Sven-Erik that Sol-Britt was having an affair with a married man who lived in Kurravaara,” Mella said. She was still avoiding looking at von Post. “I can check that with Martinsson’s neighbour, Sivving. He knows the village inside out. He’ll know if there’s anybody who fits that description, and might have a cottage or a flat in the Abisko region.”

  “Do that,” Björnfot said. “Without delay.”

  He smiled at Mella. She turned on her heel, walked away a few paces, then made the call.

  A bit of excitement won’t do any harm, thought von Post, feeling pleased. Just think – that little dwarf might have an attack of hysterics. Could one hope for anything more exciting?

  Björnfot turned to Olsson.

  “I don’t suppose you know where the card was bought?”

  “Oh yes, of course. A so-called convenience store called Be-We’s Provisions.”

  “Go and ask them if there’s anybody from Kurravaara who’s in the habit of buying mobile pay-as-you-go cards there,” Björnfot said.

  He stood up, put on his jacket and prepared to deal with Martinsson’s petty crime cases – to lead the battle being fought by the citizenry at large against people who urinated in public places and rode mopeds without safety helmets, against shoplifters, drink-drivers and moonshiners.

  “People round here keep an eye on what others are up to,” he said.

  Nobody spoke. They could hear Mella out in the corridor saying “yes” and “hmm” and “thank you, but now I really must …”. Those phrases were repeated several times before she managed to put an end to the call.

  When she came back into the room, everybody was looking expectantly at her.

  Come on, out with it, thought von Post.

  “Jocke Häggroth,” she said. “Not somebody I know. An ordinary sort of bloke, according to Sivving. With a wife and two kids of school age. Works as a welder at Nybergs Mekaniska. And Sivving seemed to recall that this Häggroth’s brother has a holiday cottage out at Träsket, which is just outside Abisko. And there were a couple more he knew who have fishing boats up there. They also have children, although they are grown up now. I made a note of their names: Tore Mäki and Sam Wahlund.”

  “But at this time of year surely the fishing boats will be beached and unusable,” von Post said.

  “Get passport photos of all three and take them to Be-We’s,” Björnfot said. “They might recognise one of them. Do that, and bring this Häggroth bloke in for interrogation.”

  Mella nodded.

  “So we’ve got him,” she muttered. “That was quick.”

  *

  That was almost too quick, von Post thought. But still … Hip, hip, hooray!

  He would be able to arrange a press conference that very afternoon. March into the room, sit down. The introductory words would be important. “I took over this case yesterday and it has been conducted very efficiently – which has produced results.” No, not “which has produced results”. Maybe “that’s the way to produce results”. More subtly devastating.

  He hoped the secret lover was the father of small children. The newspapers always like that. It would produce good headlines.

  Mella’s mobile rang. The display said Krister Eriksson. She answered.

  “Yes … yes … what the hell are you saying?”

  “The children?” whispered Björnfot to von Post and Olsson.

  Nobody spoke.

  She hung up. Still holding the mobile in her hand, she turned to look at Björnfot.

  “That was Eriksson,” she said eventually. “He says somebody has tried to kill Marcus.”

  “Rebecka Martinsson said that I should talk to you.”

  Eriksson had come to the police station. Marcus was playing at wild dogs with Vera in the corridor, and von Post, Eriksson and Mella were talking quietly in Mella’s office.

  “I don’t understand why you rang Martinsson at all,” snapped von Post. “I’m in charge of this investigation.”

  “Here is the torch in any case,” Eriksson said, handing it over in a paper bag. “I thought you might want to test it for fingerprints …”

  “It could just as well have been the boy himself who took the torch into the kennel and lit it,” von Post said.

  He took the paper bag somewhat reluctantly.

  “I don’t have any torches at home. Where could he have got it from? And what has happened to the matches? Somebody placed it in the dog kennel while I was in the house.”

  “That was also brilliant – letting him sleep in the dog kennel,” von Post said sarcastically. “Half an hour from now we’ll be able to read about it in the newspapers as well: ‘The Police in Kiruna keep a traumatised boy in a kennel’.”

  Eriksson said nothing.

  “The lad must have seen something,” Mella said, taking the paper bag from von Post. “Why else would anybody want to kill him? This is important. I’ll be driving to the airport to pick up a colleague from Umeå, the one who’s a specialist in interrogating children. She’s due in at twenty past one this afternoon.”

  “Excellent,” von Post said, wiping the palm of his hand on his trouser leg. “Will you look after him until then?” He looked at Eriksson and gestured in the direction of the corridor, where Marcus was crawling around in circles.

  Eriksson nodded.

  He left his colleagues and went out into the corridor. There was no sign of Vera or Marcus. A twinge of unrest deep down inside him made him increase his speed, but in one of the empty offices he found the boy sitting underneath a desk. Vera lay stretched out on the carpet.

  Eriksson bent down.

  “Hi there,” he said softly. “How are things?”

  Marcus said nothing. And avoided looking him in the eye.

  “How’s the Wild Dog?” he said. “Is he hungry or thirsty?”

  “The Wild Dog is very frightened,” Marcus said in a near whisper.

  “He’s in hiding.”

  “Oh dear,” Eriksson whispered, appealing to the gods to help him act wisely and cautiously. “Why is he afraid?”

  “All the other dogs in his family are dead. Hunters came to chase after them and shoot them and dig holes for them to fall into and impale themselves, and there were other traps as well, they …”

  “What did they do?”

  Marcus said nothing.r />
  “O.K.,” said Eriksson after a while. “Is there anywhere where the Wild Dog can feel safe and secure?”

  Marcus nodded.

  “He’s not so frightened when he’s together with you and Vera.”

  “It’s a good job I’m here, then,” Eriksson whispered, edging a little closer. “Do you think the Wild Dog would like to jump up into my lap?”

  The boy leaned towards Eriksson.

  What on earth can I do? Eriksson thought, lifting Marcus up. The boy wrapped his thin arms round Eriksson’s neck as the police officer stood up.

  What can one do with a little lad like this who has no adult left in his life? He tried to suppress his anger at the boy’s mother who wanted nothing to do with him. But I know nothing about her. There’s no point in my getting angry.

  He sat down on the desk chair with the boy on his knee, and immediately felt his thighs becoming wet. There was a wet stain on the carpet under the desk.

  “I’m sorry,” Marcus said.

  “No problem.” Eriksson swallowed. “These things happen. You can lean against me if you like. We’ll sit here for a while. Then we’ll go and get some clean clothes for you. I’ll carry you to the car if you like.”

  Eriksson leaned his cheek on Marcus’s hair.

  You don’t need to be afraid, you little dog, he thought. I promise you that.

  “You are strong, you can carry me,” Marcus whispered. “Then the hunters won’t be able to see me.”

  “No, they won’t see anything at all.”

  Eriksson’s eyes misted over.

  “You can trust me. You don’t need to be afraid. I’m incredibly strong.”

  Martinsson sat at her kitchen table, scribbling on the back of a brown paper envelope lying among the heap of unsorted mail in front of her. She had spoken to Eriksson on the telephone. He was convinced that Marcus had not produced and lit the torch himself.

  “Do you want to know why?” he had asked. “It’s obvious – where could he possibly have got the torch and matches from? But even more significantly: I’d put a blanket over him while he was asleep. He’s such a little lad – they can never really snuggle down into the sleeping bag as far as they should and then arrange the blanket over the top of the bag. So I put the blanket over him and tucked it in carefully on all sides. That blanket was still tucked in just as I’d left it when I stuck my head into the dog kennel and pulled him out.”

  Never believe in coincidences, Martinsson thought. It was meant to look like an accident. Yet another accident.

  She scribbled away on the envelope, drew rings, wrote in names, put crosses against the names of the dead.

  Hjalmar Lundbohm was Sol-Britt’s paternal grandfather. Her paternal grandmother, the schoolteacher, was murdered. Sol-Britt’s dad was mauled and eaten by a bear a few months ago. She herself was murdered. Her son was run over – a hit-and-run incident three years ago. And now it seemed that somebody had tried to kill her grandson, Marcus.

  The obvious conclusion to draw was that whoever murdered Sol-Britt knew that the boy had seen something. Something he had not yet told them about. That was the kind of situation that gave rise to rumours. But the fact that Sol-Britt’s father had been killed and her son run over – those events had nothing to do with this business. Why should they?

  People do die, she thought. We all die sooner or later.

  Martinsson placed the tip of her finger on the circle in which she had written the name of Sol-Britt’s son.

  I’m going to check up on that hit-and-run. I’ve got nothing else to do, after all.

  It is October 1914. The war is ravenous for iron and steel. The cold of autumn is biting deep into the mountain. The leaves on the hunchbacked birch trees are turning into gold coins, and the bogs are taking on a reddish tint.

  The school day is over and Elina is hurrying to Lundbohm’s house. He has been away on his travels for a long time, but now he is back in Kiruna. She tries not to run along Iggesundsgatan.

  She has been longing and longing for him, but he has not even written to her.

  The human heart is a remarkable thing, she thinks.

  Then it dawns on her that she has forgotten her cardigan in the classroom. You scatterbrain! she tells herself.

  Two hearts are searching for love. They find it. Abandon themselves to love. Make love. Almost die in ecstasy. But she cannot cope with her next thought. That he has found somebody else. Had his fill of her love, fallen asleep, woken up and wandered off, keen to find somebody different.

  That doesn’t have to be the case, she assures herself. There can be no end of different explanations.

  The whole world is arming itself. Managing Director Hjalmar Lundbohm exports iron ore to the U.S.A. and Canada. And of course also to the biggest armoury in Europe: Krupps, in Germany. Sweden is neutral, and sells goods to anybody who is able to pay for them. No doubt he has been working day and night. He has been away since August 14. That day church bells rang in Kiruna non-stop, just as they did in every other Swedish town. A message of defiance, to announce that Sweden was ready to defend itself against any possible attack. The sirens at the mine also sounded from morning till night. Several conscripts climbed aboard the train together with Lundbohm. The sobs of women and children mingled with the tolling and the laughter. Elina went down to the railway station to say goodbye. He was in high spirits. He said that he was likely to be away for a long time. But when he saw the look on her face, he promised to write. He promised.

  Not a line. Her first reaction was Good Lord, this was not surprising. Some people were already calling the war a world war. But then she thought that if he was longing for her, if he really loved her, he would not be able to prevent himself from writing – he would spend the nights writing to her instead of sleeping. Then she thought that he could go to hell. Who did he think he was? And why should she wait? There were others. Almost every day she found letters outside the door of her and Lizzie’s flat. All kinds of prospective boyfriends inviting her for coffee and walks.

  The next time he comes back to Kiruna he will find her walking arm in arm with somebody else! And if he wants to meet her, she will be busy preparing her lessons so he can sit at home and mope.

  She has tried not to worry about it, attended various clubs, and read a lot, of course. Lizzie often wants her to read aloud. “Please read something to me while I do the washing up,” she says. She has even accompanied Lizzie to the Domestic Servants’ Club, and to Salvation Army meetings to listen to the band.

  Lizzie is glad of the company. Her fiancé, Johan-Albin, adores Lizzie, but he refuses to accompany her to the Domestic Servants’ Club or to church. There are limits, he says.

  *

  But so much for all her intentions. Here she is, almost running along the street without a cardigan.

  It is like what it says in the Bible. She is like the woman in the Song of Solomon. The woman who wanders around the city searching for her beloved, despite the fact that the watchmen beat her and mock her. “I will rise now and go about the city in the streets and in the broad ways. I will seek him whom my soul loveth.” Over and over again she says: “I am sick with love.”

  That’s the way it is. That’s love. A sickness in the blood.

  She slows down as she approaches Lundbohm’s house. A pulse shoots through her when she catches sight of him. Like when a salmon trout prepares to pounce: a shooting pain that passes through her whole body. It is that treacherous love which resides inside her, that is what makes her heart beat faster. Then comes another pulse, but this time of fear: Manager-in-Chief Fasth is standing there as well, talking to Lundbohm. She hasn’t seen Fasth since the crayfish party. Afterwards she had told Lizzie about what happened, and was duly warned: “Keep well away from him, I beg of you; he’s dangerous.” Standing a few paces away is Johansson, principal of the children’s home, waiting his turn to talk to Lundbohm.

  Fasth is the first to see her, as Lundbohm is standing with his back towards her. She wal
ks towards them as slowly as she can, and only when she is up close does she acknowledge them with a slight nod of the head.

  Lundbohm exclaims: “fröken Pettersson!”, and all three touch the brim of their hats – well, not Johansson as he happens to be wearing a grey knitted cap, which he tugs at slightly awkwardly. But in any case, she has already passed them with her aching heart, which is pounding and thumping with both love and fear.

  Now she has to restrain herself from running away.

  Don’t run, she says sternly to her body, and she can feel their eyes on her back. Don’t run. Don’t run.

  *

  Fasth alternates his gaze between Elina and Lundbohm. So that’s how it is. She parades past like a streetwalker without a cardigan or a jacket in order to display her slim waist and ample breasts. And that mop of blonde hair. But Lundbohm – he just stands there in front of Fasth, waiting for him to continue talking. Does this mean the little affair is over? If so, the field is clear. Now that the wolf and the bear have eaten their fill, it’s the turn of the raven and the fox.

  Run, rabbit, run, he thinks, contemplating the swinging of her waist and bottom. Run, run, run.

  *

  That evening a messenger boy comes with a note to Elina.

  My dearest Elina,

  You hurried past so quickly that I didn’t even have time to say hello. Perhaps the war has taken you from me. Perhaps your feelings have cooled, and perhaps you have even found somebody else. Even if that is the case, I would still like to remain your friend, and as a friend, invite you round for dinner this evening. Can you? Would you like to?

  Your H.

  She only sees the words “dearest Elina”. Reads the word “dearest” over and over again. Then she hurries off to his apartment. Yes. She is sick with love. Even before dessert they find themselves in bed.

  And she asks no questions. Do you love me? Are you fond of me? What is to become of us?