she used to say with a smile. “Are you awake?”
Virku yelped impatiently.
“Yes, in a minute,” answered Rebecka. “I’m just going to light the stove.”
She had slept in woolen socks, and with the blanket still wrapped around her she went over to the old kitchen stove and opened the door. Virku sat down patiently and waited. From time to time she gave a tentative little whine, just to make sure she wasn’t forgotten.
Rebecka took a sharp Mora knife and with a practiced hand shaved sticks from one of the logs by the stove. She laid two logs on top of some birch bark and the sticks, and lit them. The fire quickly took hold. She pushed in a birch log that would burn a little longer than the pine, and closed the door.
I should spend more time thinking about my grandmother, she thought. Who was it who decided it was better to concentrate on the present? There are many places in my memory where grandmother lives. But I don’t spend any time there with her. And what does the present have to offer?
Virku was whimpering and doing a little pirouette by the door. Rebecka pulled on her clothes. They were ice cold, and made her movements rapid and jerky. She pushed her feet into a pair of Lapp boots that were standing in the hallway.
“You’ll have to be quick,” she said to Virku.
On her way out she switched on the lights outside the house and the barn.
It had turned a little milder. The thermometer was showing minus fifteen, and the sky was pressing down, shutting out the light of the stars. Virku squatted down a short way off and Rebecka looked around. The ground had been cleared of snow right up to the barn. Around the house the snow had been shoveled up against the walls to provide insulation against the cold.
Who’s done the shoveling? Rebecka wondered. Could it be Sivving Fjallborg? Is he still clearing the snow for Grandmother, even though she’s gone? He must be around seventy now.
She tried to peer through the darkness at Sivving’s house on the opposite side of the road. When it was lighter she would look to see if it still said “Fjallborg” on the mailbox.
She wandered along beside the wall of the barn. The outside light glittered on the roses of rime frost on the barred windows. At the other end was her grandmother’s greenhouse. Several broken panes stared hollow-eyed and accusing at Rebecka.
You ought to be here, they said. You ought to look after the house and the garden. Look how the putty has given up. Just imagine what the roof tiles must look like under the snow. They’ve cracked and come loose. And your grandmother was so particular. So hardworking.
As if Virku could read her gloomy thoughts, she came scampering across the garden behind Rebecka through the darkness and barked happily.
“Hush,” laughed Rebecka. “You’ll wake up the whole village.”
Immediately a couple of answering barks came from far away. The black dog listened carefully.
'Don’t even think about it,' warned Rebecka.
Maybe she should have brought a lead.
Virku looked at her happily and decided Rebecka would do very well as a companion for a dog in the mood for a game. She burrowed playfully down into the feather-light snow with her nose, came back up again and shook her head. Then she invited Rebecka to join in by plonking her front paws on the ground and sticking her bottom up in the air.
Come on, then, said her shiny black eyes.
“Right, then!” shouted Rebecka cheerfully, and lunged at the dog.
She immediately fell over. Virku flew at her like an arrow, jumped over her like a performing dog in a circus, spun around and half a second later was standing in front of Rebecka, her pink tongue lolling out of her laughing mouth and demanding that Rebecka get up and try again. Rebecka laughed and set off after the dog again. Virku hurtled over the piled-up snow and Rebecka clambered after her. They both sank into the untouched snow behind, a meter deep.
“I give up,” panted Rebecka after ten minutes.
She was sitting on her bottom in a snowdrift. Her cheeks were glowing red, and she was covered in snow.
When they got back in, Sanna was up and had put the coffee on. Rebecka pulled off her clothes. The outer layers soon got wet from the melting snow, and the clothes nearest her skin were already soaked in sweat. She found a Helly Hansen T-shirt and a pair of Uncle Affe’s long johns in a drawer.
“Nice outfit,” sniggered Sanna. “It’s good to see you’ve adapted to the classic look up here so quickly.”
“The baggy Gallivare look suits any figure,” replied Rebecka, wiggling her bottom so that the loose seat of the long johns flapped about.
“God, you’re thin,” exclaimed Sanna.
Rebecka straightened up at once and poured herself a cup of coffee in silence, her back toward Sanna.
“And you look so sort of dried-up,” Sanna went on. “You ought to take more care what you eat and drink.”
Her voice was gentle and concerned.
“Still,” she sighed when Rebecka didn’t respond, “it’s lucky for the rest of us that most men like a girl with something to get hold of. Although of course I think it’s really attractive to be flat-chested like you.”
Well, lucky me, thought Rebecka sarcastically. At least you think I look good.
Her silence made Sanna babble nervously.
“Just listen to me,” she said. “I sound like a real mother hen. I’ll be asking you next if you’re getting your vitamins.”
“Do you mind if I put the news on?” asked Rebecka.
Without waiting for a reply she went over to the television and switched it on. The picture was grainy. There was probably snow on the aerial.
An item about the embezzlement of some EU funds was followed by the murder of Viktor Strandgard. The voice of the reporter explained that the police were following the usual procedures in their hunt for the murderer, and as yet there was no obvious suspect. Pictures followed one another in rapid succession. Police and dogs searching the area outside the Crystal Church as they looked for the murder weapon. Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post talking about door-to-door inquiries, interviews with members of the church and those attending the service. Then Rebecka’s red Audi appeared on the screen.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Sanna, crashing her coffee cup down on the table.
“Viktor Strandgard’s sister, who found the dead man at the scene of the crime, also arrived under somewhat dramatic circumstances to be interviewed at the police station last night.”
The whole incident was shown, but on the morning news almost all the sound had been removed, except for Rebecka’s stifled “Get out of the way.” It emerged that the reporter had reported the lawyer for assault, before the anchorman in the studio exchanged a few words with the weatherman about the forecast that would follow the break.
“But you couldn’t see how aggressive and horrible that reporter was!” said Sanna in amazement.
Rebecka felt a burning pain in her midriff.
“What is it?” asked Sanna.
What do I say? thought Rebecka, and slumped down on a chair by the kitchen table. That I’m afraid of losing my job. That they’ll freeze me out until I’m forced to resign. When she’s lost her brother. I ought to ask her about Viktor again. Ask if she wants to talk about it. I just don’t want to get drawn into her life and her problems again. I want to go home. I want to sit at the computer writing an analysis of income tax set against pension contributions.
“What do you think happened, Sanna?” she asked. “To Viktor. You said he’d been mutilated. Who could have done something like that?”
Sanna squirmed uncomfortably.
“I don’t know. That’s what I told the police. I really don’t know.”
'Weren’t you scared when you found him?'
“I wasn’t thinking like that.”
