reason to believe that it wasn’t accidental. I’d like to ask you if…”
She was interrupted by her mobile ringing, and looked at it.
“Excuse me,” she said to Krekula. “I have to take this call.”
He shrugged to indicate that it did not matter to him.
“Hello,” Martinsson said into the phone as she walked out through the door. “Yes, I sent you the material yesterday…”
The door closed with a click, and they could no longer hear her.
Stalnacke smiled apologetically at Krekula. Neither spoke for a moment.
“So Hjorleifur Arnarson is dead, is he?” Krekula said. “What did she mean, it wasn’t an accident?”
“Huh, it was a nasty business,” Stalnacke said. “It seems that someone killed him. I don’t really know what we’re doing here, but my boss is in league with the prosecutor…”
He nodded in the direction of the door through which Martinsson had disappeared.
“And you seem to have annoyed my boss,” Stalnacke continued. “I don’t know how much of what she’s told me is true, but she has a talent for rubbing people up the wrong way.”
Krekula said nothing.
“Anyway,” Stalnacke said with a sigh, “I assume you know about that bloody shooting at Regla.”
“Of course,” Krekula said. “There was a lot about it in the papers.”
“It was all her fault,” Stalnacke said vehemently. “She exposes her staff to danger without a moment’s thought. I had to take sick leave afterwards…”
He broke off and seemed to be lost in thought.
“And now she can’t wait for the forensic boys to complete their job. If in fact someone has been out at Hjorleifur’s place, we’ll soon know all about it. My God, it’s amazing what the tech wizards can do nowadays. If someone has left a strand of hair behind, you can bet your life they’ll find it. They’re going through Hjorleifur’s house with a fine-tooth comb.”
Tore Krekula ran his hand over his head. His hair had not thinned with age.
“Not that it proves anything even if someone has been there,” Stalnacke said, looking up at the ceiling and speaking as if he had forgotten that Krekula was there. “I mean, you can have paid someone a visit, but that doesn’t mean you killed them.”
At that moment the door opened and Martinsson came back into the office.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “As I was saying, Hjorleifur Arnarson has been found dead in his home. Have you been out there? You and your brother?”
Tore Krekula looked at her slyly.
“I won’t deny that we were there,” he said after a while. “But we didn’t kill him. We simply wanted to know what he’d seen. I mean, the police don’t tell any of us in the village a damned thing. But that was where they lived, after all. My aunt Anni was Wilma’s great-grandmother. You’d have thought they would have given her a bit of information.”
“So you were there,” Martinsson said. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. He probably thought you’d be furious with him if he said anything to us. We left none the wiser.”
Martinsson looked at her mobile.
“It’s 5.56. I confirm herewith that the police will search the houses of Tore and Hjalmar Krekula, both of whom we have good reason to suspect of the murder of Hjorleifur Arnarson.”
She turned to Tore Krekula.
“Take your clothes off. We’ll be taking them with us. You can keep your underpants on. We have some things in the car that we can lend you.”
The police are searching the houses of Tore and Hjalmar Krekula. I’m sitting on the roof of Tore’s porch. There’s a raven perched next to me. It knows I’m there, I’m convinced of it. It leans its head to one side and studies me, even though there’s nothing for it to see. It moves a step closer, then steps away again. Tore’s wife Laura is standing outside the front door, shivering. When she arrived home from the garage the police were already here – the blonde policewoman with the long plait, and three uniformed colleagues. They wouldn’t allow Laura into the house. Then the policewoman’s mobile rang. It was a short call. She simply said “O.K.”, and they went inside.
Now they’re taking Tore’s clothes away. I assume they’re hoping to find blood- stains from Hjorleifur.
Tore arrives and stands watching them. He says nothing at first, tries to catch the policewoman’s eye, but fails. He smiles scornfully at her colleagues instead and asks if they’d like to search his dustbin. Which they do. Tore’s wife says nothing. She doesn’t dare ask what they’re looking for. She has learnt not to wind Tore up.
The raven caws and clicks and clucks – it seems to be trying out different sounds to see if I’ll react to any of them. I can’t respond. Giving up, it flies off to Hjalmar’s house 150 metres away. Perches in the big birch tree and calls to me. In a flash I’m sitting beside it on a branch.
Hjalmar opens the door when the police ring the bell. He seems half asleep. His mop of hair resembles a spiky tuft of winter grass. His stubble is like a sooty shadow on his cheeks and neck. His belly sticks out like an overfed pig under his tent-like T-shirt. When the police officers ask him politely to wait outside until they’ve finished, he doesn’t put any trousers on, just steps outside in his underpants. The older officer, the one with the shaggy moustache, takes pity on him, and allows him to sit and wait in the police car.
I land in the prosecutor’s hair. I’m like a raven on the top of her head. I dig my claws into her dark locks. I turn her head to look at Hjalmar. She sees him sitting there in the police car, blinking. She opens the door and talks to him. I peck at her head. She must wake up now.
Olsson, Rantakyro and Stalnacke carried clothing out of Hjalmar Krekula’s house and searched through the garage looking for a murder weapon. An hour and a half later they announced that they had finished.
Martinsson contemplated Hjalmar Krekula. She saw how he was leaning against the car window. It looked almost as if he were about to fall asleep. His eyelids were half-closed.
Suddenly he felt her watching him. He turned his head slowly and looked at her through the car window.
She felt as if she were being stabbed inside. His gaze dug into her just like a pike clamping its jaws round the bait. And her gaze dug into him. Like when the hook pierces the pike’s cheek.
Fleeting images flitting through her consciousness.
Nobody has touched him since he was a very little boy. Torture and pain are embedded in all that fat. This is something he can’t eat himself out of. He is at the end of the line.
But I’ve touched him, she thought – although it wasn’t so much a thought as an insight. He was young. I was not that old either. Fifteen, perhaps. I held him under his arms and lifted him up towards the heavens. The sun at its zenith. Dry soil under my bare feet. He slept in my arms. Was he my little brother? My child? My little sister?
Her heart felt as if it might burst with compassion. She wanted to place her hand on the car window. So he would place his hand against hers on the other side of the glass.
“Hello,” Olsson said beside her. “I said we’re finished.”
Following her gaze, he saw Hjalmar Krekula.
“That bloody swine!” he said between gritted teeth. “Let him suffer. Did they think they could mess about with Mella and get away with it? Let him sit there and stew in his underwear.”
Martinsson nodded absent-mindedly. Then she went over to Stalnacke’s car and opened the back door.
“We’ve finished,” she said to Hjalmar.
He was sitting there like a lump of lard, looking at her. Stalnacke had draped a
