Part 15 (1/2)
Chief Prosecutor Alf Bjornfot was Martinsson's boss. These days he worked mostly in Lule and let Martinsson take care of Kiruna district.
”That may be, but you're dealing with me now, not him,” Martinsson said slowly.
Olsson's and Rantakyro's tails stopped wagging. The hunt had been called off.
”They've threatened me and tried to scare me off the case,” Mella said.
”There's no proof of that,” Martinsson said.
”I rang Goran Sillfors. He told me that he'd mentioned to someone who lives in Piilijarvi that we'd paid a visit to Hjorleifur. Piilijarvi's a village! If one person knows something, everyone knows it! Tore and Hjalmar must have heard that we had been talking to Hjorleifur. They no doubt went straight to his place after they'd spoken to us in the car park.”
”But we don't know that for sure,” Martinsson said. ”If you can prove it if someone has seen them near or even in Kurravaara, you'll get your permission.”
”Oh, for Christ's sake . . .” Mella groaned.
The whole pack, apart from Stlnacke, looked imploringly at Martinsson.
”We'd be reported to the Parliamentary Ombudsman,” she said. ”The Krekula brothers would just love that.”
”We'll never catch them,” Mella said dejectedly. ”It will be another Peter Snell case.”
Fifteen years earlier, a thirteen-year-old girl, Ronja Larsson, had gone missing one Sat.u.r.day evening after visiting some friends. Peter Snell was an acquaintance of the family. One of the girl's friends had said that he had made advances, and that Ronja had thought he was ”creepy”. The morning after her disappearance, Snell had poured petrol into the boot of his car and set fire to it in the forest. When interrogated, he had denied committing a crime, but could not give a satisfactory explanation for burning his car.
”He doesn't need to,” Chief Prosecutor Alf Bjornfot had said to Mella. ”There's no law to stop you burning your own car if that's what you want to do. It proves nothing.”
There had been vain attempts to find D.N.A. traces in the burnt-out wreck. The girl's body was never found. The case was written off, closed as far as the police were concerned. They knew who the murderer was, but couldn't produce enough evidence to charge him. Snell owned a break-down firm. Before the Ronja Larsson case, the police had frequently used his break-down lorries in connection with traffic accidents and similar situations. Following the case, they cut him off. He threatened to sue.
Martinsson said nothing for a few seconds. Then she smiled mischievously at the Kiruna police officers.
”It'll be O.K.,” she said. ”We'll establish a link between them and the crime scene. Then we'll be able to turn their houses inside out.”
”And how will we do that?” Mella said doubtfully.
”They'll tell me of their own accord,” Martinsson said. ”SvenErik?”
Stlnacke looked up in surprise.
”Have you got my direct line on your mobile?”
Stlnacke and Martinsson pulled up outside Tore Krekula's house at 5.15 on April 28. His wife answered the door.
”Tore's not at home,” she said. ”I think he's at the garage. I can phone him.”
”No, we'll go over there,” Stlnacke said with a good-natured smile. ”You can come with us and show us the way.”
”You can't miss it. You just need to drive back through the village and . . .”
”You can come with us,” Stlnacke said in a friendly voice that clearly expected to be obeyed.
”I'll just go and get my jacket.”
”No need for that,” Stlnacke said, ushering her gently along. ”It's nice and warm in the car.”
They drove in silence.
”I apologize for the smell,” Martinsson said. ”It's the dog. I'll give her a good wash this evening.”
Laura Krekula glanced casually at Vera, who was lying in the luggage s.p.a.ce.
Martinsson keyed a text message into her mobile. It was to Mella. It said: Laura Krekula out of the house.
The garage was built out of breeze blocks. Standing outside it were several buses, snowploughs and a brand-new Mercedes combi E270.
”In there the office is on your right as you go in,” Laura Krekula said, pointing to a door remarkably high up in the wall. ”Can I walk back? It's not all that cold.”
Martinsson checked her mobile. A text from Mella. We're outside now, it said. Martinsson nodded almost imperceptibly.
”Yes, that'll be O.K.,” Stlnacke said.
Laura Krekula set off. Stlnacke and Martinsson stepped over the high threshold of the staff entrance. There was a faint smell of diesel, rubber and oil.
The office was on the right. The door was open. It was barely more than a cupboard. Just enough room for a desk and chair. Tore Krekula was sitting at the computer. When Martinsson and Stlnacke came in, he swung round to face them.
”Tore Krekula?” Martinsson said.
He nodded. Stlnacke seemed to be embarra.s.sed and was staring at the floor. He had his hands in his jacket pockets. Martinsson was doing the talking.
”I'm District Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson, and this is Inspector Sven-Erik Stlnacke.”
Stlnacke nodded a greeting, his hands still in his pockets.
”We met yesterday,” Krekula said to Martinsson. ”You're a bit of a celeb here in Kiruna, not someone we'd forget easily.”
”I'm investigating the death of Hjorleifur Arnarson,” Martinsson said. ”We have reason to believe that it wasn't accidental. I'd like to ask you if . . .”
She was interrupted by her mobile ringing, and looked at it.
”Excuse me,” she said to Krekula. ”I have to take this call.”
He shrugged to indicate that it did not matter to him.
”h.e.l.lo,” Martinsson said into the phone as she walked out through the door. ”Yes, I sent you the material yesterday . . .”
The door closed with a click, and they could no longer hear her.
Stlnacke smiled apologetically at Krekula. Neither spoke for a moment.
”So Hjorleifur Arnarson is dead, is he?” Krekula said. ”What did she mean, it wasn't an accident?”
”Huh, it was a nasty business,” Stlnacke said. ”It seems that someone killed him. I don't really know what we're doing here, but my boss is in league with the prosecutor . . .”