They are down at the jetty now. By the hole in the ice from which Hjalmar extracted a few buckets of water less than an hour ago.
Isak pulls off his son’s woolly hat and throws it onto the shore. Hjalmar struggles, but the grip on his coat collar has grown tighter. His father forces him down onto his knees at the edge of the hole, and the next thing he knows, his head is underwater.
He struggles with his arms. The cold threatens to explode his head. He is strong, and manages to raise himself up and gasp for air, but his father soon subdues him again.
I’m going to die now, he thinks.
And he does. Sunshine flows into his head. It is a warm summer’s day. He is walking barefoot through the forest; cones and needles stick into his feet, but his soles are hardened. His task is to bring home the horses from their summer pasture. There they are, in among the pine trees, rubbing their necks against each other. Flicking away troublesome flies with their tails. There is a smell of wild rosemary and soil warmed by the sun. Bark, moss, resin. Ants are marching across the path in front of him. The horses whinny a greeting when they see him.
When he comes to his senses, he is lying on the floor of the dressing room in the sauna. The fire is burning in the grate. He raises himself on all fours and sicks up the lake water. Then he lies down on his back.
Isak Krekula is standing over him, smoking a cigarette.
“In our family we stick together,” he says. “Remember that next time.”
Rebecka Martinsson opened the heavy doors of the town hall. She enjoyed the feel of the attractive handles, carved in the shape of shamans’ drums.
Once inside she admired the spacious hall with its high ceiling, its beautiful brick walls and the
She reported to the reception desk.
“I need to consult the town archives,” she said to the young duty officer.
She was asked to wait a moment. After a while a man appeared, dressed in black jeans and a black jacket. His shoes were highly polished brown leather. His hair dark and combed back from his face.
“Jan Viinikainen. I’m in charge of the archives,” he said, shaking hands Swedish-style. “What can I do to be of assistance to the police?”
Martinsson raised an eyebrow.
“Oh,” Viinikainen said, “you’re a celebrity here in Kiruna. There was a lot written about you when you killed those pastors. Self-defence, I know.”
Martinsson overcame her instinct to turn on her heel and leave.
He doesn’t understand, she thought. People don’t understand; they think they can say whatever they like without hurting my feelings.
“I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” she said hesitantly. “I want to know everything about an old firm in Piilijarvi, Krekula’s Haulage Contractors.”
Viinikainen shrugged, stretching out his hands in a gesture suggesting helplessness.
“How old?” he said.
“They started in the ’40s or thereabouts. I need everything you’ve got.”
Viinikainen stood there and thought for a while. Then he beckoned to Martinsson to follow him. Descending a spiral staircase to the basement, they passed what must have been Viinikainen’s office just outside the white-painted wrought-iron gate into the archives. Unlocking the entrance to the holy of holies and making a sweeping gesture, he invited Martinsson to precede him through the gate.
They passed by row after row of archive shelves made of grey steel. Wherever Martinsson looked there were files of different shapes and sizes with cloth, plastic or metal binding. Paperback books, hard-bound books, old manuscripts neatly and prettily packaged using string and wax seals which hung down over the edges of the shelves. On top of heavy oak document cupboards were old-fashioned typewriters made by Triumph and Facit. Card-index files were crammed alongside archival boxes made of brown cardboard. Here and there were paper scrolls in every imaginable size. In one of the interior rooms there were sliding archive shelves made of steel. Viinikainen switched on the mechanism that controlled their movements.
“You can slide the shelves apart like this,” he said, pulling at a long black lever with a knob on the end and making the shelf he was standing by slide slowly to one side. “If I were you I’d start with the trade register, or possibly the
Martinsson took off her coat and hung it up. Viinikainen withdrew to his desk.
Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack, she thought. I’ve no idea what I’m after. She wandered around, examining the shelves, glancing at the articles on phrenology from the ’30s and ’40s, payment records from Jukkasjarvi’s Poor Relief Board, handicraft diaries from the Kiruna School Archives.
Stop whingeing, she told herself. Roll up your sleeves.
Seventy minutes later she found Krekula’s Haulage Contractors in a register of hauliers in Kiruna municipality, listing how many and what kind of vehicles they had, persons authorized to sign on the firm’s behalf, addresses and so on.
She searched assiduously, untied bundles that hadn’t been opened for sixty years, opened archival boxes that had been closed for just as long, turned up her nose when little clouds of dust wafted up from the documents. In the end she had a splitting headache from all the dust and cellulose she’d been breathing in.
Viinikainen appeared and asked how she was getting on.
“Quite well,” she said. “I’ve found a few things, at least.”
Vera was waiting in the car. She stood up in her cage, wagging her tail affectionately when Martinsson got in.
“Thank you for being patient,” Martinsson said. “Let’s go for a spin.”
She drove up Mt Luossavaara and let Vera out. The dog sat down immediately.
“I’m sorry, old girl,” Martinsson said guiltily.
“Bad conscience, eh?” a voice said behind her.
It was Krister Eriksson. He was in his jogging clothes. An orange windcheater clashed with the pink parchment-like texture of his face.
When he smiled at Martinsson, she noticed his teeth. They were white and even. The only aspect of his face that was not damaged by fire.
“Well, well, who’s this then?” he said, looking at Vera. “Tintin’s going to be jealous.”
“It’s Hjorleifur Arnarson’s dog. I had to take her on, otherwise she’d have been given a one-way ticket to canine heaven.”
Eriksson nodded solemnly.
“And you’ve taken over the investigation, I gather. Wilma Persson will be pleased.”
“I don’t believe in all that stuff,” Martinsson said embarrassed.
He shook his head and winked.
“Have you been out jogging?” she said, changing the subject.
“Yep. I generally exercise my back by running up the hill to the old pithead. I’ve just finished.”
Martinsson looked up at the abandoned structure at the top of the mountain, grey and hollow-eyed.
If buildings can be ghosts, then that one certainly is, she thought. No doubt it
