A tune plays in her pocket. She takes out her mobile. It is displaying Wenngren’s number.
Oh hell! she thinks.
“Answer it,” Hjalmar says. “I’m not bothered.”
“No,” Martinsson says. “Sorry, I should have switched it off.”
She lets the phone ring until Wenngren gives up, then turns it off.
“Sorry,” she says again. “Let’s hear it.”
“There’s not much to say. We got there. Mother cut the safety line. I fetched the door.”
“And you laid it over the hole in the ice?”
“Yes.”
They are driving through the forest in the four-wheeler. It is almost unbearably beautiful down by the lake. When they switch off the engine, it is totally silent. The sun is shining on the bare ice. It is glittering like a silver brooch in the middle of the forest.
And there is the hole in the ice. With a wooden cross over it.
They pause for a while and watch the bubbles of air plopping up through the hole.
“Give me the knife,” Kerttu says to Tore. He pulls it out of the sheath on his belt and hands it to her.
She says to Hjalmar: “Go and fetch a door from up there.”
She nods towards the farmhouse, which appears to be deserted. Hjalmar looks over at it. Kerttu becomes impatient.
“There’s bound to be a door to the outdoor toilet or something. Get a move on.”
He walks to the farmhouse, lifts the shed door off its hinges and carries it back to the frozen lake. When he gets to the hole in the ice, he sees that his mother has cut the line and removed the wooden cross.
“Put the door there,” she says, pointing at the hole.
He does as he is told. And when she tells him to stand on the door, that is what he does.
The light is dazzling. It is almost impossible to see. Hjalmar screws up his eyes and looks at the sky. Tore whistles a tune. A few minutes pass. Then someone appears beneath the ice. Scratches at the door. It is just someone. It could be anybody. Hjalmar does not think about Wilma and Simon.
Kerttu says nothing. Looks the other way. Hjalmar also looks away. Only Tore stares at the door with interest. It is as if he has suddenly come alive.
“What did Tore do?” Martinsson says.
“Nothing,” Hjalmar says. “It was me. I was the one who…”
The person beneath the ice swims away from the door. Tore, staring like a raptor at its prey, stops whistling.
“It’s her,” he says quietly. “She’s so little. It’s her.”
Hjalmar does not want to hear. It is not her. It is someone.
Now someone starts cutting a hole through the ice, stabbing and jabbing with a diving knife.
Tore seems amused.
“Bloody she-cat!” he says, seeming rather impressed. “She’s got spunk, you’ve got to give her that.”
He stands a couple of metres off and watches as the hole grows bigger and bigger. Eventually a hand sticks up through the ice.
Tore immediately runs over and grabs hold of it.
“Hi there, pleased to meet you!” he says, laughing as he pulls the hand back and forth.
He looks provocatively at Hjalmar. The same sort of look he used to give his brother when they were growing up. Stop me if you can, it says. Say something if you dare.
Hjalmar says nothing. He switches off his face, just as he always did. Lets Tore carry on.
Suddenly Tore is standing there with nothing but a diving glove in his hand. Someone has managed to shake off his grip.
“Oh, fuck!” he says in annoyance.
Then he sees someone swimming away beneath the ice. He runs behind, waving the diving glove.
“Wait!” he shouts, and starts laughing. “You’ve forgotten something! Hello!”
All the time he remains above the person swimming beneath the ice.
“Whore!” he shouts.
He sounds angry now. Keeping above her. Panting. He is not used to running. The ice is shiny and slippery, and she is swimming quite fast underneath it.
“Fucking Stockholm whore!”
She is back beneath the door now, scratching and hammering.
Then she swims off again. With Tore after her.
Then it is the end. She stops. So does Tore.
“Now,” he says, breathing heavily. “Now.”
He kneels down and presses his face against the ice.
“Let’s put an A.P.B. out on Tore Krekula,” Anna-Maria Mella says to Stalnacke, Rantakyro and Olsson.
They have assembled at the police station.
“Inform the duty officers in Gallivare, Boden, Lulea, Kalix and Haparanda for starters. Fax a list of all the vehicles owned by the haulage company and by members of the Krekula family.”
Her mobile pings; there is a voicemail message. She dials the number and listens.
“Oh, shit!” she says.
Her colleagues raise their eyebrows.
“Rebecka has driven off to Piilijarvi to talk to Hjalmar Krekula. Apparently he called her to say he wants to confess.”
She dials Martinsson’s number. No answer.
“Bloody inconsiderate,” she says.
Her colleagues say nothing. Mella looks at Stalnacke. She can see that he is thinking about Regla. If there is anyone who is inconsiderate, it is Mella.
Suddenly she feels exhausted and miserable. She tries to steel herself for anything Stalnacke might say, but she feels vulnerable and defenceless, does not have the strength to clench her fists, roll up her sleeves, put her guard up.
I’ll resign, she thinks. I can’t take any more. I’ll have another child.
A few seconds pass, but an awful lot can happen in a few seconds. Mella looks at Stalnacke. Stalnacke looks at her. Finally he says, “That’s over and done with. Let’s go to Piilijarvi.”
The burden falls from Mella’s shoulders. Like melting snow from a roof in the spring.
“That’s over and done with.” He means Regla.
