She took off her jacket and sat down.
“I just wanted to put you in the picture regarding the investigation into Wilma Persson’s death and Simon Kyrö’s disappearance. Wilma’s body was found in the River Torne just downstream from Tervaskoski. But when Pohjanen sent samples of water from her lungs to Rudbeck Laboratory, the D.N.A. pattern didn’t fit. She didn’t die in the river. Last summer a couple of kids canoeing in the lake at Vittangijärvi stopped for a coffee with Berit and Göran Sillfors – they own one of the summer cottages there. Wilma and Simon told the Sillforses that they were taking depth soundings for the M.H.I. But I phoned the M.H.I. and they hadn’t ordered soundings in Vittangijärvi. Wilma and Simon have never done any work for them. So what were the kids really doing there? And someone nicked the Sillforses’ shed door at some point during the winter. One side of it was painted green. Pohjanen found flakes of green paint under the fingernails of Wilma’s right hand – the few fingers that she had left, that is.”
“So you think they were diving in the lake, and someone placed a door over the hole in the ice?” Rantakyrö said.
“I don’t know, but I want to investigate further. There’s too much that doesn’t add up.”
“But don’t you wear gloves when you go diving in winter?” Rantakyrö said.
Mella shrugged.
“I’ve sent the paint samples from Wilma’s nails and from the door to the National Forensic Laboratory in Stockholm,” she said. “Today we’ll take some water samples from the lake and send them to Rudbeck Laboratory to see if they match the water in her lungs. I think they were diving in the lake.”
“Maybe it was the boyfriend who put the door over the hole?” Rantakyrö said.
“But why was her body moved?” Olsson said.
Mella said nothing. If Wilma had been murdered, one reason for moving the body could have been that the murderer lived nearby, or that it was widely known that he often visited the lake. Hjörleifur Arnarson lived not far from there. And he often visited it. But there was no point in mentioning him to her colleagues.
It’s not him, she thought. Those bloody Krekula brothers have something to do with this, I’m sure of it.
But she also needed to talk to Hjörleifur Arnarson. Preferably not on her own.
“How’s your daughter?” Olsson said.
“She’s O.K.,” Mella said. “It was mostly me who was scared.”
“What a pair of swine!” Rantakyrö said with feeling. “Have you had her number changed?”
“Of course.”
“They must be involved in some way or other,” Rantakyrö said vehemently. “We need to get them back for what they did to you, Mella.”
“I don’t know about that,” Stålnacke said. “I don’t think what they did necessarily has anything to do with the two kids. You went to see them. They took the opportunity to cause trouble. If you’d been from the Inland Revenue or the local council, or if you’d been a traffic warden or anybody else they have it in for, they’d have treated you just the same.”
“But it’s also possible that they tried to scare me off because they know something, or are mixed up in this business.”
Stålnacke’s tone of voice went up a notch.
“Or else your emotions are running ahead of your brain – and it wouldn’t be the first time.”
Mella stood up.
“You can go to hell,” she said calmly to Stålnacke. “Go home to Airi or do whatever the hell you please. I’m going to investigate the death of Wilma Persson and the disappearance of Simon Kyrö. I think he’s somewhere under the ice. If they were murdered, I’m going to find out who did it.”
She strode out of the room.
“What are you gawping at?” Stålnacke said after she had left.
His colleagues did not respond. They did not want a row. Olsson shook his head almost imperceptibly and pretended to concentrate on his Blackberry. Rantakyrö picked his nose conscientiously. Both were signalling: For God’s sake, that was wholly unnecessary.
Rebecka Martinsson was getting out of her car outside the police station as Mella came storming out of the door.
Then Mella had a brainwave. She could ask Martinsson to go with her to talk to Hjörleifur. Even if it was not a good idea to go out there on her own, she could keep her colleagues out of it for the time being.
“Hello,” she said. “Do you fancy coming into the forest and having a chat with the most eccentric character in Kiruna? I have…”
“Hang on a minute,” Martinsson said, fumbling for her mobile, which was ringing away inside her briefcase.
Måns. Rejecting the call, she switched off her phone. I’ll ring him later, she thought.
“Sorry,” she said to Mella. “What were you saying?”
“I’m going to talk to Hjörleifur Arnarson,” Mella said. “Do you know who he is? You don’t? It’s obvious you’ve been living in Stockholm for a while. He lives near Vittangijärvi, and I think that’s where Wilma and Simon were diving when they disappeared. I’d prefer not to go out there on my own. My colleagues are… er… busy with other things this morning. Would you like to come with me? Or do you have something important that needs doing?”
“No, I’ve nothing special on,” Martinsson said, thinking of the work piled up on her desk.
All being well, she should be able to deal with most of it that evening.
“So you’ve never heard of Hjörleifur Arnarson,” Mella said as they drove out to Kurravaara.
They had the police snow scooter in the trailer so they would be able to get to Vittangijärvi.
“Tell me about him.”
“I hardly know where to begin. When he first moved to Kiruna, he lived out at Fjällnäs. His mission was to raise a new breed of pig. The idea was that these pigs would be able to survive in the forest up here and tolerate the winter temperatures. So Hjörleifur crossed wild boar and Linderöd pigs. My God, those pigs! They had no intention of staying in the forest when they could rootle around in his neighbours’ potato fields. The whole village was in uproar! The neighbours were furious, rang us up, wanted us to drive out there and capture the pigs. Hjörleifur tried to fence them in, but they kept escaping. The pigs, that is – ha, ha! – not the neighbours. In the end someone in the village shot them all. My goodness, there was no end of a hullabaloo!”
Mella chuckled at the memory.
“And then a few years ago there was a big N.A.T.O. exercise in the forests north of Jukkasjärvi, Operation North Storm. Hjörleifur made a contribution to world peace by running around naked in the woods while they were on manoeuvres. They had to interrupt the exercise and go looking for him.”
“Naked?” Martinsson said.
“Yes.”
“But that North Storm exercise was in February, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“February. Twenty, thirty degrees below zero?”
“It was an unusually warm winter,” Mella said with a laugh. “Not much more than minus 10. He had a pair of boots and a blanket under his arm when they caught him. He’s a naturist. Only in the summer normally; his contribution to world peace was a special effort. He never wears clothes in summer. He believes that his skin absorbs solar energy, so he also hardly eats anything then.”
“How do you know all this?”
“When that neighbour shot his pigs…”
“Eh?”
“It led to a court case. Taking the law into his own hands or malicious damage, I can’t remember which; but the case went to court in the summer. You should have seen the judge and jury when Hjörleifur turned up as the plaintiff.”