Mella was a different person from when Martinsson had seen her last, exuding energy now. The alpha bitch once more, enthusiasm for the hunt obvious in her every movement. She had not even taken her hat off, nor had she sat down. Olsson and Rantakyro were wagging their tails eagerly; their tongues were hanging out expectantly, and they were straining at their leads. Only Stalnacke sat listlessly on Martinsson’s extra chair, staring out of the window at nothing.
“We’ve had a response from the National Forensic Laboratory regarding the flakes of paint under Wilma Persson’s fingernails. They match the paint on the door at the Sillfors’ summer cottage. And Goran Sillfors used the same paint on the shed door that was stolen. So we can now be sure that someone placed that door over the hole in the ice when Wilma and Simon Kyro were diving. They were murdered.”
“Kyro hasn’t been found yet,” Martinsson said.
“That’s correct. And now Hjorleifur Arnarson. I’d like permission to conduct searches at Hjalmar and Tore Krekula’s places.”
Martinsson sighed.
“There needs to be reasonable suspicion,” she said.
“So what?” Mella said. “That’s the least thing required by law. Come on, Martinsson. It’s not as if I want to go and arrest them – but ‘reasonable suspicion’… Let’s face it, that could apply to someone who, say, shopped at the same supermarket as the victim. Come on. This would never have been a problem for Alf Bjornfot.”
Chief Prosecutor Alf Bjornfot was Martinsson’s boss. These days he worked mostly in Lulea and let Martinsson take care of Kiruna district.
“That may be, but you’re dealing with me now, not him,” Martinsson said slowly.
Olsson’s and Rantakyro’s tails stopped wagging. The hunt had been called off.
“They’ve threatened me and tried to scare me off the case,” Mella said.
“There’s no proof of that,” Martinsson said.
“I rang Goran Sillfors. He told me that he’d mentioned to someone who lives in Piilijarvi that we’d paid a visit to Hjorleifur. Piilijarvi’s a village! If one person knows something, everyone knows it! Tore and Hjalmar must have heard that we had been talking to Hjorleifur. They no doubt went straight to his place after they’d spoken to us in the car park.”
“But we don’t know that for sure,” Martinsson said. “If you can prove it – if someone has seen them near or even in Kurravaara, you’ll get your permission.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake…” Mella groaned.
The whole pack, apart from Stalnacke, looked imploringly at Martinsson.
“We’d be reported to the Parliamentary Ombudsman,” she said. “The Krekula brothers would just love that.”
“We’ll never catch them,” Mella said dejectedly. “It will be another Peter Snell case.”
Fifteen years earlier, a thirteen-year-old girl, Ronja Larsson, had gone missing one Saturday evening after visiting some friends. Peter Snell was an acquaintance of the family. One of the girl’s friends had said that he had made advances, and that Ronja had thought he was “creepy”. The morning after her disappearance, Snell had poured petrol into the boot of his car and set fire to it in the forest. When interrogated, he had denied committing a crime, but could not give a satisfactory explanation for burning his car.
“He doesn’t need to,” Chief Prosecutor Alf Bjornfot had said to Mella. “There’s no law to stop you burning your own car if that’s what you want to do. It proves nothing.”
There had been vain attempts to find D.N.A. traces in the burnt-out wreck. The girl’s body was never found. The case was written off, closed as far as the police were concerned. They knew who the murderer was, but couldn’t produce enough evidence to charge him. Snell owned a break-down firm. Before the Ronja Larsson case, the police had frequently used his break-down lorries in connection with traffic accidents and similar situations. Following the case, they cut him off. He threatened to sue.
Martinsson said nothing for a few seconds. Then she smiled mischievously at the Kiruna police officers.
“It’ll be O.K.,” she said. “We’ll establish a link between them and the crime scene. Then we’ll be able to turn their houses inside out.”
“And how will we do that?” Mella said doubtfully.
“They’ll tell me of their own accord,” Martinsson said. “SvenErik?”
Stalnacke looked up in surprise.
“Have you got my direct line on your mobile?”
Stalnacke and Martinsson pulled up outside Tore Krekula’s house at 5.15 on April 28. His wife answered the door.
“Tore’s not at home,” she said. “I think he’s at the garage. I can phone him.”
“No, we’ll go over there,” Stalnacke said with a good-natured smile. “You can come with us and show us the way.”
“You can’t miss it. You just need to drive back through the village and…”
“You can come with us,” Stalnacke said in a friendly voice that clearly expected to be obeyed.
“I’ll just go and get my jacket.”
“No need for that,” Stalnacke said, ushering her gently along. “It’s nice and warm in the car.”
They drove in silence.
“I apologize for the smell,” Martinsson said. “It’s the dog. I’ll give her a good wash this evening.”
Laura Krekula glanced casually at Vera, who was lying in the luggage space.
Martinsson keyed a text message into her mobile. It was to Mella. It said:
The garage was built out of breeze blocks. Standing outside it were several buses, snowploughs and a brand-new Mercedes combi E270.
“In there – the office is on your right as you go in,” Laura Krekula said, pointing to a door remarkably high up in the wall. “Can I walk back? It’s not all that cold.”
Martinsson checked her mobile. A text from Mella.
“Yes, that’ll be O.K.,” Stalnacke said.
Laura Krekula set off. Stalnacke and Martinsson stepped over the high threshold of the staff entrance. There was a faint smell of diesel, rubber and oil.
The office was on the right. The door was open. It was barely more than a cupboard. Just enough room for a desk and chair. Tore Krekula was sitting at the computer. When Martinsson and Stalnacke came in, he swung round to face them.
“Tore Krekula?” Martinsson said.
He nodded. Stalnacke seemed to be embarrassed and was staring at the floor. He had his hands in his jacket pockets. Martinsson was doing the talking.
“I’m District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson, and this is Inspector Sven-Erik Stalnacke.”
Stalnacke nodded a greeting, his hands still in his pockets.
“We met yesterday,” Krekula said to Martinsson. “You’re a bit of a celeb here in Kiruna, not someone we’d forget easily.”
“I’m investigating the death of Hjorleifur Arnarson,” Martinsson said. “We have
