The Blood Spilt

12

Inspector Anna-Maria Mella woke up in the middle of the night. It was the coffee. Whenever she drank coffee late in the evening, she always woke up in the middle of the night and lay there tossing and turning for an hour before she could get back to sleep. Sometimes she’d get up. It was quite a nice time, really. The whole family was asleep, and she could listen to the radio with a cup of camomile tea in the kitchen, or fold laundry, or whatever, and lose herself in her thoughts.
She went down to the cellar and switched on the iron. Let the conversation with the husband of the murdered woman replay in her head.
ERIK NILSSON: We’ll sit here in the kitchen so we can keep an eye on your car.
ANNA-MARIA: Oh yes?
ERIK NILSSON: Our friends usually park down by the bar or a little distance away. Otherwise there’s the risk that you might get your tires slashed or the paint scratched or something.
ANNA-MARIA: I see.
ERIK NILSSON: Oh, it’s not too bad. But a year ago there was a lot of that sort of thing going on.
ANNA-MARIA: Did you report it to the police?
ERIK NILSSON: They can’t do anything. Even if you know who it is, there’s never any proof. Nobody’s ever seen anything. And people are scared. It might be their shed on fire next time.
ANNA-MARIA: Did somebody set fire to your shed?
ERIK NILSSON: Yes, it was a man in the village… At least we think it was him. His wife left him and stayed here with us for a while.
That was nice, thought Anna-Maria. Erik Nilsson had his chance to have a go at her then, but he let it go. He could have let bitterness creep into his voice, talked about how the police didn’t do anything and ended up blaming them for his wife’s death.
She was ironing one of Robert’s shirts, God, the cuffs were really worn. The shirt steamed beneath the iron. There was a good smell of freshly ironed cotton.
And he was well used to talking to women, that was obvious. Sometimes she forgot herself and answered his questions, not to gain his trust, but because he’d managed to gain hers. Like when he asked about her children. He knew just what was typical at their ages. Asked if Gustav had learned the word no yet.
ANNA-MARIA: It depends. If it’s me saying no, he doesn’t understand. But if it’s him…
Erik Nilsson laughs, but all at once becomes serious.
ANNA-MARIA: Big house.
ERIK NILSSON: (sighs) It’s never really been a home. It’s half priest’s house and half hotel.
ANNA-MARIA: But now it’s empty.
ERIK NILSSON: Yes, the women’s group, Magdalena, thought there’d be too much talk. You know, the priest’s widower consoling himself with assorted vulnerable women. They’re probably right, I suppose.
ANNA-MARIA: I have to ask, how were things between you and your wife?
ERIK NILSSON: Must you?
ANNA-MARIA:—
ERIK NILSSON: Fine. I had an enormous amount of respect for Mildred.
ANNA-MARIA:—
ERIK NILSSON: She wasn’t the sort of woman who’s a dime a dozen. Not that sort of priest either. She was so incredibly… passionate about everything she did. She really felt she had a calling here in Kiruna and in the village.
ANNA-MARIA: Where did she come from originally?
ERIK NILSSON: She was born and bred in Uppsala. Daughter of a parish priest. We met when I was studying physics. She used to say she was fighting against moderation. “As soon as you feel too strongly about something, the church sets up a crisis group.” She talked too much, too quickly and too loudly. And she was almost manic once she got an idea in her head. It could drive you mad. I wished a thousand times that she was a bit more moderate. But… [gestures with his hand]… when a person like that is snatched away… it isn’t only my loss.
She’d looked around the house. There was nothing next to Mildred’s side of the double bed. No books. No alarm clock. No Bible.
Suddenly Erik Nilsson was standing behind her.
“She had her own room,” he said.
It was a little room under the eaves. There were no flowers in the window, just a lamp and some ceramic birds. The narrow bed was still unmade, just as she must have left it. A red fleecy dressing gown lay carelessly tossed across it. On the floor beside the bed, a tower of books. Anna-Maria had looked at the titles: Beyond the Bible, Language for an Adult Belief, a biblical reference book, some children’s books and books for teenagers. Anna-Maria recognized Winnie-the-Pooh, Anne of Green Gables, and underneath the whole lot an untidy pile of torn out newspaper articles.
“There’s nothing to see here,” said Erik Nilsson tiredly. “There’s nothing more for you to see.”
* * *

It was odd, thought Anna-Maria, folding the children’s clothes. It was as if he was hanging on to his dead wife. Her mail lay unopened in a big pile on the table. Her glass of water was still on the bedside table, and beside it her reading glasses. The rest of the house was so clean and tidy, he just couldn’t bring himself to tidy her away. And it was a lovely home. Just like something out of one of those interior design magazines. And yet he’d said it wasn’t a home, but “half priest’s house, half hotel.” And then he also said he “respected her.” Strange.