already dead?

That night Hjalmar Krekula lies awake in the little bedroom. He can hear his mother sobbing through the wall.

“It’s our punishment,” she wails.

He can hear the bed creaking and complaining as his father gets up.

“That’s enough of that – shut up!” he says.

Hjalmar listens to his mother crying, then suddenly the bedroom door is wrenched open. It is his father.

“Get up,” he bellows. “Get up, and down with your trousers.”

He lashes his son with his belt. As hard as he can. Hjalmar can hear his father grunting with the strain. At first the boy is determined that he is not going to cry. No, no. But in the end the pain is too much for him. His tears and screams just flow out of him, whether he wants them to or not.

Not a sound from the big bedroom.

Now she is the one lying silent, listening to him.

The miracle occurs on the morning of 23 June, 1956. At about 5.00, before his mother has gone to the cowshed, before his father has even got up, Tore Krekula trudges up to the front door. Going into the kitchen, he shouts, “Paivaa!” Hi there!

His mother has been in the toilet, putting her hair up. She emerges and stares at Tore. Then she bursts into tears. Shouts, screams. Hugs him so tightly that he howls in pain and she has to let him go.

He has been so badly bitten by mosquitoes, gnats and horseflies that his shirt collar is soaked in blood and appears to be stuck to his neck. His mother has to cut it loose with scissors. His feet are tender and swollen. For the last few days he has been carrying his boots – something people laughed about later, the fact that he did not want to lose his boots no matter what.

All day, villagers keep popping in to watch Tore eating. Or to watch Tore lying asleep on the kitchen sofa. Or to watch Tore eating again.

The story gets into the newspapers, and is repeated on the radio. The Krekulas receive letters from all over the country. People send presents – clothes, shoes, skis. People turn up from Kiruna and Gallivare to see Tore Krekula with their own eyes. Sweden’s most popular singer, Ulla Billquist, sends a telegram.

Kerttu and Tore Krekula take the train down to Stockholm, and the boy is interviewed by the legendary Lennart Hylund on the children’s programme Roundabout.

Hjalmar sits listening to it all. Thank God Tore did not say anything on the radio about his brother hitting him. But word has spread around the village. Hjalmar Krekula hit his little brother, three years younger than he is. And then abandoned him in the forest.

MONDAY, 27 APRIL

Morning meeting in the conference room at Kiruna police station. Inspectors Sven-Erik Stalnacke, Fred Olsson and Tommy Rantakyro were waiting for Anna-Maria Mella.

Stalnacke’s moustache dipped into his coffee mug as he drank. It had hung down beneath his nose like a dead grey squirrel until his steady relationship with Airi Bylund had begun, since when he had kept it tidily trimmed.

More like an angry hedgehog nowadays, was Rantakyro’s comment. Stalnacke also trimmed his nasal hair and had lost weight, despite being an enthusiastic consumer of Airi’s cooking.

Olsson was playing with his Blackberry. Rantakyro had already asked his usual “But can you make telephone calls with it?” and was listening with half an ear while Olsson went on about push functions and gigabytes.

Mella strode into the room, ruddy-faced, still in her street clothes. She pulled off her woolly hat. Her hair was neither plaited nor brushed. She looked totally untamed.

“Lousy morning, eh?” Olsson said.

“Sorry I’m late,” Mella said, trying to sound calm. “You don’t want to know. I’ve spent so much energy on my four-year-old today… First I had to force him into his snowsuit while he fought and screamed the house down. Then I had to wrestle with him to get it off again. With the nursery staff watching patiently the entire time. I expect Social Services will take him away from me before the day’s out.”

She took off her jacket and sat down.

“I just wanted to put you in the picture regarding the investigation into Wilma Persson’s death and Simon Kyro’s disappearance. Wilma’s body was found in the River Torne just downstream from Tervaskoski. But when Pohjanen sent samples of water from her lungs to Rudbeck Laboratory, the D.N.A. pattern didn’t fit. She didn’t die in the river. Last summer a couple of kids canoeing in the lake at Vittangijarvi stopped for a coffee with Berit and Goran Sillfors – they own one of the summer cottages there. Wilma and Simon told the Sillforses that they were taking depth soundings for the M.H.I. But I phoned the M.H.I. and they hadn’t ordered soundings in Vittangijarvi. Wilma and Simon have never done any work for them. So what were the kids really doing there? And someone nicked the Sillforses’ shed door at some point during the winter. One side of it was painted green. Pohjanen found flakes of green paint under the fingernails of Wilma’s right hand – the few fingers that she had left, that is.”

“So you think they were diving in the lake, and someone placed a door over the hole in the ice?” Rantakyro said.

“I don’t know, but I want to investigate further. There’s too much that doesn’t add up.”

“But don’t you wear gloves when you go diving in winter?” Rantakyro said.

Mella shrugged.

“I’ve sent the paint samples from Wilma’s nails and from the door to the National Forensic Laboratory in Stockholm,” she said. “Today we’ll take some water samples from the lake and send them to Rudbeck Laboratory to see if they match the water in her lungs. I think they were diving in the lake.”

“Maybe it was the boyfriend who put the door over the hole?” Rantakyro said.

“But why was her body moved?” Olsson said.

Mella said nothing. If Wilma had been murdered, one reason for moving the body could have been that the murderer lived nearby, or that it was widely known that he often visited the lake. Hjorleifur Arnarson lived not far from there. And he often visited it. But there was no point in mentioning him to her colleagues.

It’s not him, she thought. Those bloody Krekula brothers have something to do with this, I’m sure of it.

But she also needed to talk to Hjorleifur Arnarson. Preferably not on her own.

“How’s your daughter?” Olsson said.

“She’s O.K.,” Mella said. “It was mostly me who was scared.”

“What a pair of swine!” Rantakyro said with feeling. “Have you had her number changed?”

“Of course.”

“They must be involved in some way or other,” Rantakyro said vehemently. “We need to get them back for what they did to you, Mella.”

“I don’t know about that,” Stalnacke said. “I don’t think what they did necessarily has anything to do with the two kids. You went to see them. They took the opportunity to cause trouble. If you’d been from the Inland Revenue or the local council, or if you’d been a traffic warden or anybody else they have it in

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