“Well, I wouldn’t say we fell out-she knew what I thought.”
“Magnus Lindmark said you’d have liked to put your shotgun in her mouth.”
Anna-Maria wondered for a moment whether she should have told him that. Then again, it would serve the bastard who chopped the heads off the kittens bloody well right.
Torbjorn Ylitalo didn’t seem bothered. He even smiled slightly for the first time. A tired, almost imperceptible smile.
“That’s probably more to do with Magnus’ own feelings,” he said. “But Magnus didn’t kill her. And neither did I.”
Anna-Maria didn’t answer.
“If I’d killed her, I would have shot her and buried her deep in some bog,” he said.
“Did you know she wanted to cancel the lease?”
“Yes, but nobody on the church council was on her side, so it didn’t mean a thing.”
Torbjorn Ylitalo stood up.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I really need to get on with the wood.”
Anna-Maria got up. She watched him place their cups on the draining board.
Then he took the coffee pot and placed it in the refrigerator, the coffee still warm.
She didn’t comment. And they parted amicably out in the yard.
Anna-Maria drove away from Torbjorn Ylitalo. She wanted to go and see Erik Nilsson again. Ask if he knew who’d sent the drawing to his wife.
She parked the car outside the gates to the priest’s house. The mailbox was overflowing with newspapers and letters, the lid jammed open. Soon it would be raining into the box. Bills, junk mail and newspapers would turn into one great big papier-mache lump. Anna-Maria had seen overflowing mailboxes like this before. The neighbors ring, the mailbox looks like that, the police go in, and there’s death in the house. One way or another.
She took a deep breath. She’d try the door first of all. If the priest’s husband was lying in there, it might well be unlocked. If it was locked she’d look in through the windows on the ground floor.
She went up onto the porch. It was decorated with pretty white carved wood, white wicker chairs and big blue glazed pots, the contents of which had dried to a solid cement containing the brown, withered remains of summer flowers.
Just as she touched the door handle, it was pressed downward and the door opened from the inside. Anna- Maria didn’t scream. Her expression probably didn’t even change. But inside she jumped. Her stomach tied itself in knots.
A woman came out onto the porch, almost collided with Anna-Maria, and gave a little scream of fear.
She was around forty, wide-open dark brown eyes with long, thick eyelashes. Not much taller than Anna-Maria, so quite short. But she was slimmer, more fine-boned. The hand that flew up to her breast had long, slender fingers, the wrist was small.
“Oh,” she smiled.
Anna-Maria Mella introduced herself.
“I’m looking for Erik Nilsson.”
“Ah,” said the woman. “He’s… he isn’t here.”
Her voice faded away.
“He’s moved away,” she said. “I mean, the house belongs to the church. Nobody actually forced him to go, but… I’m sorry, my name’s Kristin Wikstrom.”
She extended the delicate hand toward Anna-Maria. Then she seemed embarrassed, as if she felt the need to explain her presence.
“My husband, Stefan Wikstrom, is going to move in here now Mildred’s… Well, not just him. Me and the children too, of course.”
She gave a short laugh.
“Erik Nilsson hasn’t moved his furniture or his belongings and we don’t know where he is and… well, I came here to see how much there was to do.”
“So you don’t know where Erik Nilsson’s staying?”
Kristin Wikstrom shook her head.
“What about your husband?” asked Anna-Maria.
“He doesn’t know either.”
“No, but I’m wondering: where’s he at the moment?”
Small furrows appeared above Kristin Wikstrom’s upper lip.
“What do you want with him?”
“Just a few questions.”
Kristin Wikstrom shook her head slowly, her expression troubled.
“I’d really prefer it if he were left in peace,” she said. “He’s had a very difficult summer. No holiday. The police around all the time. Journalists, they even ring at night, you know, and we daren’t unplug the phone because my mother’s old and ill, what if she were trying to ring us? And we’re all afraid that it was some lunatic who… You daren’t let the children out on their own. I’m worried about Stefan all the time.”
But she didn’t mention the grief over a lost colleague, Anna-Maria noted coldly.
“Is he at home?” she asked mercilessly.
Kristin Wikstrom sighed. Looked at Anna-Maria as if she were a child who’d disappointed her. Disappointed her a great deal.
“I don’t actually know,” she said. “I’m not the kind of woman who has to keep tabs on my husband all the time.”
“Then I’ll try the priest’s house in Jukkasjarvi first, and if he’s not there I’ll go into town,” said Anna-Maria, resisting the urge to roll her eyes to heaven.
Kristin Wikstrom remains standing on the porch of the priest’s house in Poikkijarvi. She watches the departing red Ford Escort. She didn’t like that woman detective. She doesn’t like anyone. No, that isn’t true, of course. She loves Stefan. And the children. She loves her family.
In her head she has a film projector. She doesn’t think it’s very common. Sometimes it just shows rubbish. But now she is going to close her eyes and watch a film she likes very much. The autumn sun warms her face. It’s still late summer, it’s hard to believe this is Kiruna, when it’s as warm as this. It fits in very well. Because the film is from last spring.
The spring sun is shining in through the window and warming her face. The colors are muted. The picture is in soft focus, so it looks as if she has a halo around her hair. She is sitting on a chair in the kitchen. Stefan is sitting on the chair next to her. He is leaning forward, his head on her lap. Her hands are caressing his hair. She says: ssh. He is weeping. “Mildred,” he says. “I can’t cope much longer.” All he wants is peace and quiet. Peace at work. Peace at home. But with Mildred spreading her poison through the congregation… She strokes his soft hair. It’s a sacred moment. Stefan is so strong. He never seeks consolation from her. She enjoys being needed by him. Something makes her look up. In the doorway stands their eldest son Benjamin. What a mess he looks, with his long hair and his tight black ripped jeans. He stares at his parents. Doesn’t say a word. But his eyes look completely crazy. She indicates with her eyebrows that he should disappear. She knows Stefan won’t want the children to see him like this.
The film ends. Kristin grabs hold of the banister. This will be her and Stefan’s house. If Mildred’s husband thinks he can just leave all the furniture behind, and that nobody will dare to move it out, then he’s wrong. As she walks toward the car, she allows the film in her head to run once more. This time she edits out her son Benjamin.
Anna-Maria drove into the yard of the priest’s house at Jukkasjarvi. She rang the bell, but nobody answered.
When she turned, a boy was walking toward the house. He was about the same age as Marcus, maybe fifteen.
