good, I just can’t do it.”
Martinsson looked at him. He met her gaze without a trace of embarrassment or shyness. Held her gaze.
She knew he was a lone wolf.
And it’s not just because of how he looks, she thought.
Eriksson’s face was badly scarred by severe burns. A house fire when he was a teenager, she had heard. His skin was shiny with patches of pink, his ears two newly opened, crinkled birch leaves, no hair, no eyebrows or lashes, his nose just two holes in the middle of his face.
“I’ll drive you,” she said finally.
She expected him to protest. To start going on about how she was supposed to be at work. That she no doubt had all kinds of other things to do.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling mischievously to show that he had learnt his lesson.
It suddenly turned warm as they were driving. The sun’s hot breath. Melting snow dripped from spindly pine trees and from the branches of birches already taking on a violet tone. Patches of open water had begun to appear round the stones in the river. The ice was beginning to recede from the riverbanks. But the cold would return when night fell. It had not surrendered yet.
Martinsson and Eriksson followed the forest tracks north of the Torne. The police had marked the route with strips of red plastic tape. If they had not done so, it would have been virtually impossible to find the right place out here in the wild. There were tracks running off in all directions.
The barrier across the track leading to the summer cottages on the promontory at Pirttilahti was standing open. The site was covered with all kinds of huts and chalets made out of spare bits of timber, wooden cottages and several outside toilets. Everything appeared rather higgledy-piggledy; people seemed to have built wherever they could find room. There was also an old red-painted wooden hut on wheels with dark green window frames. It was propped up on railway sleepers, and there were flounced flowery curtains at the windows. It made Martinsson think of small, tired travelling circus troupes. Here and there lengths of wood had been nailed up between pine trees. Hanging from them were swings with greying ropes, or tatty fishing nets weighed down by fragments of ice that had not yet melted in the spring sunshine. Along the walls of the cottages were stacks of rotting wood, unlikely to be much good for burning. Lying all over the place were things that might come in handy one of these days: part of an old porch, a pretty but broken wooden gate leaning against a tree, stacks of timber only just adequately covered by tarpaulins, piles of old bricks and paving stones, grindstones, a street lamp, an old tractor, rolls of fibreglass insulation, an iron bed.
And lots of rowing boats in among the trees. Upside down and covered in snow. Made of wood and plastic, in varying states of repair.
By the side of a permanent landing pier was a floating jetty that had been dragged up onto the riverbank. The police and forensic teams were gathered there.
“What a place!” Martinsson said with delight, switching off the engine.
Tintin and Roy immediately started howling and barking with excitement.
“Some of us can’t wait to start work,” Eriksson said, laughing.
They got out of the car quickly.
Inspector Mella came over to them.
“What a row!” she said with a chuckle.
“They just go mad, they’re so desperate to get to work,” Eriksson said. “I don’t want to shush them up as I want this to be a positive experience. But I’m not at all sure that it’s good for Tintin. She shouldn’t get this excited in her condition. She needs to get to work, then she’ll calm down. Where do you want us to search?”
Mella looked over towards the river.
“The forensic team have just arrived. They’re working down by the jetty, but I thought you and Tintin could check along the riverbank. The girl was out diving with her boyfriend, so he must be here somewhere. Maybe his body has floated ashore nearby, who knows? It would be helpful if you could search a little way upstream and downstream from here, and then we can go up to the rapids. Some people dive in the rapids to retrieve lost fishing tackle – a decent Rapala can set you back 150 kronor after all. So they go looking for a few of those… As I said, I’ve no idea. But young people are always short of money. Such a tragic accident. A damned shame if ever there was one. They had the whole of their lives to look forward to. It would be nice for the relatives if we could find both of them.”
Eriksson nodded.
“Tintin can make a start,” he said. “But she’s not going to walk 3 kilometres. I’ll take Roy out later.”
“O.K. Maybe we can let her search the promontory here, and then up by the rapids. It’s open water there, and we can cross over to the far side later. I’ve got some officers out looking for the car, but they’re keeping away from the riverbank. A hundred metres, I told them.”
Eriksson nodded his approval. Letting Tintin out of the car, he strapped her into her work coat.
She stopped barking and scuttled excitedly around his legs; he had to disentangle himself from the lead.
When he had disappeared, being dragged down towards the promontory by an excited, whimpering Alsatian, Mella turned to Martinsson.
“What brought you out here?”
“I’m just the chauffeur,” Martinsson said. “Krister’s car wouldn’t start.”
They eyed each other for a long moment. Then both said at the same time, “How are things?”
Mella answered first. “Fine, just fine.” Martinsson looked her over. Inspector Mella was short, barely 1.5 metres tall. But it had never registered with Martinsson that Mella was small. Until now. The inspector was almost swallowed up by her black leather jacket. Her long, light blonde hair hung down her back in a thick plait as usual. It struck Martinsson that she had seen very little of Mella recently – for the last year or so, in fact. Time really did fly. It was obvious from Mella’s eyes that things were not fine at all. Just over a year ago, she and her colleague Sven-Erik Stalnacke had been involved in a gunfight; both of them had been forced to shoot to kill. Mella had been responsible for getting them into that situation. She hadn’t wanted to wait for back-up.
Of course Stalnacke’s angry, Martinsson thought. No doubt he feels bad, thinks it was all her fault.
And he’s right, really, she reasoned. Mella had put both her own life and his at risk. There had been a wild horse in this mother of four. But now that horse’s spirit had been crushed.
“I’m fine,” Martinsson replied to Mella’s question.
Mella looked hard at Martinsson. She did seem to be in good shape. A hell of a lot better than she had been. Still thin, but not nearly so pale and wretched. She was doing a good job as district prosecutor. Had some kind of relationship with her old boss from Stockholm. Not that he was much to write home about. One of those well-heeled types who sail through life, getting by on charm and good looks. He drank too much, anybody could see that. But if he made Martinsson feel good, so be it…
One of the forensic officers shouted to Mella. They were going to take the body away. Did Mella want to see it before they did? Shouting “I’m coming,” she turned back to Martinsson.
“I want to have a look at her,” she said. “It will feel better, somehow, if I’ve seen her when I talk to her next-of-kin. They usually want to view the deceased, to reassure themselves that it really is their relative we’ve found. So it’s good to know what state the body is in. I can well imagine. She’s been in the water since last autumn.”
Mella suddenly bit her tongue. For Christ’s sake, she shouldn’t be babbling on about dead bodies to Martinsson. Martinsson had killed in self-defence. Three men. Smashed the skull of one and shot the other two. She had been on sick leave for a long time. Nearly two years later, when Lars-Gunnar Vinsa killed his son and took his own life, it had all been too much for her. Martinsson had ended up in a psychiatric
