Part 3 (1/2)

I belong here, she thinks. Perhaps I do belong, irrespective of what I want or feel.

Unlocking the door, she goes up the stairs.

The feeling of reverence remains with her. Brus.h.i.+ng her teeth and was.h.i.+ng her face are a sacred ritual. Her thoughts remain still; nothing is bustling inside her head, just the sound of the toothbrush scrubbing and water running from the tap. She puts on her pyjamas like a christening suit. Takes the time to put clean sheets on the bed. The television and radio remain blind and silent. Mns calls her mobile, but she doesn't answer.

She lies down between the sheets, which have that unused, slightly crisp feel: they smell clean.

Thank you, she thinks.

Her hands are tingling; they are as hot as the stones in a sauna. But it is not an unpleasant feeling.

She falls asleep.

She wakes up at about 4.00 in the morning. It is light outside; the snow must have moved on. A young girl is sitting on her bed. She is naked. She has two rings in one eyebrow. Freckles. Her red hair is wet. Water is running from her hair down her spine, like a little stream. When she speaks, water dribbles constantly from her mouth and nose.

It wasn't an accident, she tells Martinsson.

No, Martinsson says, sitting up in bed. I know.

He moved me. I didn't die in the river. Look at my hand.

She holds up a hand to show Martinsson. The skin has been torn away. The knuckles are sticking out through the grey flesh. The little finger and thumb are missing.

The girl looks sorrowfully at her hand.

I broke my nails on the ice when I was trying to scratch my way out, she says.

Martinsson gets the feeling that she is about to disappear.

Wait, she says.

She goes after the girl, who is running among the pine trees in a forest. Martinsson tries to follow her, but in the forest the snow is deep and wet, and she sinks up to her knees.

Then Martinsson is standing at the side of her bed. She hears her mother's voice in her head: That's enough now, Rebecka. Relax.

It was just a dream, Martinsson tells herself. She gets back into bed and drifts off into different dreams. Open sky above her head. Black birds flying up from the tops of the pine trees.

I go to visit the prosecutor. She's the first person to see me since I died. She's wide awake. Sees me clearly when I sit down on her bed. Her farmor is standing in the bedroom as well. She is the first dead person I've seen since I died myself. The first dead person I've ever seen, in fact. The grandmother eyes me up and down. You can't just come and go as you like here, stirring up trouble. The prosecutor has a stern protector. I ask permission to speak to her granddaughter.

I've no desire to frighten or upset anybody. All I want is for them to find Simon. I don't know where to turn. I can't bear to see them. Anni is at home in her house with the pink Eternit cladding, gazing out of the window in the direction of the road. She sometimes goes for days without speaking. Occasionally she takes her kick-sledge and wanders through the village. Now and then she struggles up the stairs to my room and looks at my bed.

Simon's mother stares at his father with hatred in her eyes as he wolfs down his food and then rushes out of the house. Their relations.h.i.+p is sterile; they have nothing to say to each other. He can't stand the sight of her. She tried to talk when it first happened. Wept and woke him in the night. But she's stopped now. He'd simply take his pillow and go to sleep on the sofa in the living room. When she begged him to say something, he merely said he had to get up and go to work the next day. She has run out of accusations and pleas. She needs to be able to bury her son.

She tells the other women that her husband doesn't seem to be bothered. But I can see him when he's driving, overtaking in the most dangerous circ.u.mstances imaginable. Last winter long-distance lorry drivers kept sounding their horns at him as he overtook them when it was impossible to see anything through the swirling snow. He'll soon kill himself, driving like that.

I pa.s.s over the village. It's night, but as light as day. Fresh snow has covered the thick blanket of old snow that had become dirty, as it does at this time of year, stained brown by soil and grit.

Hjalmar Krekula is awake. He's standing outside his house like a bear, fat after a summer spent feeding. Wearing only a T-s.h.i.+rt and long johns. Two ravens have landed on his roof, making their grating calls. Hjalmar tries to chase them away. He fetches some firewood from the shed and throws it at them. He doesn't dare to shout and bawl at them; the village is asleep after all. He can't sleep, but in his mind he blames the black birds and the light night, and perhaps something he's eaten.

The ravens fly off and perch in a tall pine tree instead.

He's not going to get rid of them. And my body was discovered last night. Maybe people will start talking in the village. At last.

FRIDAY, 17 APRIL.

”h.e.l.l's accursed s.h.i.+t!”

Inspector Krister Eriksson, dog handler, slammed the car door and cursed into the cold, dry winter air.

His black Alsatian b.i.t.c.h Tintin was sniffing around in the fresh snow in the police-station car park.

”Are you alright?” someone said behind him.

It was Martinsson, the prosecutor. Her long brown hair hung down beneath her woolly hat. She wore jeans, no make-up. Not in court today, then.

”It's the car,” Eriksson said with a smile, embarra.s.sed by his swearing. ”It won't start. They've found Wilma Persson, the girl who disappeared last autumn.”

Martinsson shook her head, not recognizing the name.

”She and her boyfriend disappeared at the beginning of October,” Eriksson said. ”They were both only young. People thought they had gone off to do a winter dive, but n.o.body knew where.”

”Ah yes, I remember now,” Martinsson said. ”So they've found them, have they?”

”Not them, just the girl. In the River Torne, upstream from Vittangi. It was a diving accident, just as people thought. Anna-Maria's phoned and asked me to go up there with Tintin and see if there's any trace of the boy.”

Inspector Anna-Maria Mella was Eriksson's boss.

”How is Anna-Maria?” Martinsson said. ”It's ages since I spoke to her, even though we work in the same building.”

”She's O.K., I think, but you know what it's like with a house full of kids. She's always on the go, like most people, I suppose.”

Martinsson was sure he was not telling the truth. All was not well with Mella, in fact.

”The atmosphere between her and her colleagues isn't as good as it used to be,” he said. ”Anyway, I told her that Tintin isn't really working at the moment. Her puppies are due soon, but I can let her have a quick look round. I was thinking of taking the new dog as well. Let him have a sniff. It won't do any harm. If we don't find anything, they can send for another dog, but the nearest one is in Sundsvall, so that would take ages . . .”

He nodded towards the back of his car. There were two dog cages in the luggage s.p.a.ce. In one of them was a chocolate-brown Alsatian.

”He's lovely,” Martinsson said. ”What's his name?”

”Roy. Yes, he's certainly handsome. It remains to be seen if he's going to be any good as a police dog. I can't let him out at the same time as Tintin. He chases after her and winds her up. And Tintin needs to take things easy until she whelps.”

Martinsson looked over at Tintin.

”She's good, from what I've heard,” she said. ”She found the vicar in Vuolusjarvi, and tracked down Inna Wattrang. Amazing.”

”Oh yes, she certainly is good,” Eriksson said, turning away to hide his proud smile. ”I always compare them with my previous dog, Zack. It was a privilege to work with him. He taught me all I know. I just followed him. I was so young in those days, didn't have a clue. But I've trained Tintin.”

The b.i.t.c.h looked up when she heard her name and came trotting over to them. Sat down next to the boot of Eriksson's car as if to say, ”Shall we get moving?”

”She knows we're going out on a job,” Eriksson said. ”She thinks it's great fun.”