Part 17 (1/2)

”Thanks for your help today, that's all for now,” he says.

Svarvare looks a bit surprised. He had expected several more gla.s.ses of vodka while he fitted the engine back together. That was the usual pattern.

But he has spent his entire life in the village and had dealings with Isak Krekula since childhood. He knows it is prudent to pay attention when Isak says, ”Time to go.”

He says thank you, staggers unsteadily out of the house and heads for home.

Kerttu remains standing absolutely still, her back to her family and her hands resting on the countertop. n.o.body says a word.

”Is Father alright?” Tore says.

Isak has tried to stand up from his chair by the kitchen table. His face is white as a sheet. Then he falls. Makes no attempt to break his fall with his hands. Hits his head on the table as he collapses onto the floor.

Tore puts the fancy envelope with the rental payment into his pocket. As always, Hjalmar thinks that there is a lot of money around of which he never sees a trace. He does not know what the firm's turnover is. He does not know how much of the forest they own, and what income it brings in. But then, Tore is the one with a family to look after.

There is a clattering of crockery as Kerttu nonchalantly drops plates, cutlery and mugs into the sink.

”Two sons he's got,” she says without looking at them. ”And what good do they do him?”

Hjalmar notices how Tore reacts badly to what she says. The words stab him like knives. Hjalmar has been used to such rebukes ever since he was a little boy. All the abuse. Useless, thick as three planks, fat, idiot. Actually, most of it has come from Tore and Isak. Kerttu has not said much. But she never looks him in the eye.

Things are going downhill, Hjalmar thinks.

There is something almost comforting about that thought. He thinks about the prosecutor, Rebecka Martinsson. Who saw Wilma after she had died.

Tore looks at Hjalmar. Thinks that he is keeping silent as usual. There is something the matter with him.

”Are you ill?” he says brusquely.

Oh yes, Hjalmar thinks. I'm ill.

He stands up, walks out of the kitchen, leaves the house, crosses the road. Trudges home to his sad little house full of furniture, curtains, cloths, you name it, none of which he has bought himself.

And then we spoke to Johannes Svarvare, he thinks. Father was in intensive care.

In his mind, Tore flings open Svarvare's front door. Marches into the kitchen.

”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d,” Tore says, taking his knife from its sheath on his belt.

Hjalmar remains in the doorway. Svarvare is scared stiff, nearly s.h.i.+tting himself. He is lying on the kitchen sofa, still suffering from yesterday's hangover, from when he sat in the Krekulas' house, taking their outboard motor to pieces. He sits up now.

Tore stabs his knife into Svarvare's kitchen table. He had better realize that this is serious.

”What the h.e.l.l . . . ?” Svarvare splutters.

”That aeroplane that disappeared,” Tore says. ”And all that was going on in those days. You've blabbed on about it like a silly old woman. Stuff that everyone's forgotten about, that ought to be forgotten. And now Father's in hospital thanks to you. If he doesn't make it or I hear that you've squeaked one more b.l.o.o.d.y word . . .”

He wrenches the knife loose and points it at Svarvare's eye.

”Have you been gossiping to anybody else?” he says.

Svarvare shakes his head. Stares squint-eyed at the knife point.

Then they leave.

”At least he'll keep his trap shut now,” Tore says.

”Wilma and Simon?” Hjalmar says.

Tore shakes his head.

”They'll never find anything anyway. Let them think of it as an old man's ravings. We'll keep our eye on 'em. Make sure they don't go diving there.”

Hjalmar Krekula stands outside his house. Suppresses all thoughts of Svarvare, Wilma, Simon Kyro and all the rest of it. He has no desire at all to go into his own house. But what alternative does he have? Sleep in the woodshed?

Sven-Erik Stlnacke and Airi Bylund drive to Airi's cottage in Puoltsa. They are only going to check on things besides, it is such a lovely evening.

In the course of the journey, Stlnacke tells Airi how he and Martinsson lured Tore Krekula into a trap.

Airi listens, albeit absent-mindedly, and says, ”Good for you.”

Stlnacke lapses into a bad mood. For no obvious reason. He says, ”It's a good job I can do something right, I suppose.”

He tries not to think about how he trampled all over the evidence in Hjorleifur Arnarson's house and pontificated about the cause of death without knowing what he was talking about.

He wants Airi to say something along the lines of ”You always do the right thing, bless you”, but she does not say a word.

Stlnacke is overcome by the feeling that he is not good enough for anybody. He becomes downhearted and surly and silent.

Airi does not say anything either.

And it certainly is not the sort of silence to make the most of. Usually it is uplifting for the two of them to share silence. Silence full of glances and smiles and sheer joy at having found one another. Silence occasionally broken by Airi chatting to the cats or the flowers, to herself or to Stlnacke.

But this particular silence is filled with the echo of Stlnacke's thought: She's going to leave me. There's no point any more.

He can sense how fed up she has become with his dissatisfaction with his job. She thinks he goes on and on about Mella, about the shooting at Regla, about goodness only knows what else. But Airi was not there. She cannot possibly understand.

They arrive at their destination. Getting out of the car, she says, ”I'll make some coffee. Would you like some?”

All Stlnacke can manage to say is: ”Yes, alright, if you're making some anyway . . .”

She goes inside and he stands outside, at a loss, not knowing what to do next.

He trudges round the house. At the back Airi has made a cat cemetery. All the cats she has ever owned are buried there, and also some that belonged to her friends. Hidden under the snow are small wooden crosses and beautiful stones. Last summer when he was off sick, he helped her to plant a Siberian rose. He wonders if it has survived the winter. He likes to sit on the veranda with Airi and listen to her stories about all the cats lying there in her garden.

As he stands there thinking, Airi turns up at his side. She hands him a mug of coffee.

He does not want her to go back inside, so he says, ”Tell me about Tigge-Tiger again.”

Like a little child, he wants to hear his favourite fairy story.