The Blood Spilt

21

FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 8

Inspector Sven-Erik St?lnacke woke up at half past four in the morning.
Bloody cat, was his first thought.
It was usually his cat Manne who woke him up around this time. The cat would leap up from the floor, landing with a surprisingly heavy thud on Sven-Erik’s stomach. If Sven-Erik just grunted and turned on his side, Manne would stalk up and down the side of Sven-Erik’s body like a mountain climber on top of a high ridge. Sometimes the cat would let out a terrible wail, which meant that he either wanted food, or to be let out. Usually both. Straightaway.
Sometimes Sven-Erik tried refusing to get up, muttered “it’s the middle of the night you stupid bloody cat,” and wrapped himself in the bedclothes. Then the promenade up and down his body was carried out with the claws extended further and further each time. In the end Manne would scratch Sven-Erik’s head.
Pushing the cat onto the floor or shutting him out of the bedroom didn’t really help. Then Manne started on the soft furnishings and curtains with all his might.
“That cat’s too bloody crafty,” Sven-Erik always said. “He knows I’ll put him outside when he does that. And that’s exactly what he wanted all along.”
He was a man who commanded respect. Strong upper arms, broad hands. Something in his face and bearing bore witness to years of dealing with most things, human misery, fired-up troublemakers. And he found pleasure in being ruled by a cat.
But this morning it wasn’t Manne who’d woken him. He woke up anyway. Out of habit. Maybe because he was missing that stripy young man who constantly terrorized him with his demands and whims.
He sat up heavily on the edge of the bed. He wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. This was the fourth night the bloody cat had been missing. He’d gone missing before for one night, occasionally two. That was nothing to worry about. But four.
He went downstairs and opened the outside door. The night was like gray wool, on the way toward the day. He gave a long whistle, went into the kitchen, fetched a tin of cat food and stood on the steps banging the tin with a spoon. No cat. In the end he had to give up, he was getting cold in just his underpants.
That’s the way it is, he thought. That’s the price of freedom. The risk of getting run over or taken by the fox. Sooner or later.
He spooned coffee into the percolator.
Still, it’s better that way, he thought. Better than Manne getting weak and ill, and having to be taken to the vet. That would have been bloody awful.
The percolator got going with a gurgle, and Sven-Erik went up to the bedroom to get dressed.
Maybe Manne had made himself at home somewhere else. That had happened before. He’d come home after two or three days and hadn’t been the least bit hungry. Obviously well fed and well rested. It was probably some old dear who’d felt sorry for him and taken him in. Some pensioner who had nothing else to do but cook him salmon and give him the cream off the top of the milk.
Sven-Erik was suddenly filled with an unreasoning anger against this unknown individual who took in and adopted a cat that didn’t belong to the person in question. Didn’t this person realize that there was somebody worrying and wondering where the cat had gone? You could tell Manne wasn’t homeless, with his shiny coat and affectionate ways. He’d get him a collar. Should have done it a long time ago. It was just that he was afraid he’d get caught up somewhere. That’s what had stopped him, the thought of Manne caught in some undergrowth starving to death, or hanging in a tree.
He ate a good breakfast. The first few years after Hj?rdis had left him, breakfast had usually consisted of a cup of coffee, drunk standing up. But he’d mended his ways since then. He shoveled down spoonfuls of low fat yogurt and muesli without really tasting it. The percolator had fallen silent, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen.
He’d taken over Manne from his daughter when she moved to Lule?. He should never have done it. He realized that now. It was nothing but bloody trouble, that’s all it was, bloody trouble.
* * *

Anna-Maria Mella was sitting at the kitchen table with her morning coffee. It was seven o’clock. Jenny, Petter and Marcus were still asleep. Gustav was awake. He was bouncing around in the bedroom upstairs, clambering all over Robert.
In front of her on the table lay a copy of the horrific drawing of the hanged Mildred. Rebecka Martinsson had made copies of a number of papers as well, but Anna-Maria didn’t understand a bloody word. She hated numbers and maths and that sort of thing.
“Morning!”
Her son Marcus ambled into the kitchen. Dressed! He opened the door of the refrigerator. Marcus was sixteen.
“So,” said Anna-Maria, looking at the clock. “Is there a fire upstairs, or something?”
He grinned. Picked up milk and cereal and sat down opposite Anna-Maria.
“I’ve got an exam,” he said, spooning down milk and cornflakes. “You can’t just jump out of bed and dash in at the last minute. You have to prime your body.”
“Who are you?” said Anna-Maria. “And what have you done with my son?”
It’s Hanna, she thought. God bless her.
Hanna was Marcus’ girlfriend. Her keen attitude toward schoolwork was catching.
“Cool,” said Marcus, sliding the drawing of Mildred toward him. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” answered Anna-Maria, taking the drawing off him and turning it upside down.
“No, seriously. Let me have a look!”
He took the picture back.
“What does this mean?” he said, pointing at the grave mound visible behind the dangling body.
“Well, maybe that she’s going to die and be buried.”
“Yes, but what does it mean? Can’t you see it?”
Anna-Maria looked at the picture.
“No.”
“It’s a symbol,” said Marcus.
“It’s a grave mound with a cross on top.”
“Look! The outlines are twice as thick as in the rest of the picture. And the cross carries on down into the ground and ends in a hook.”
Anna-Maria looked. He was right.
She got up and shuffled the papers together. Resisted the urge to give her son a kiss, ruffled his hair instead.
“Good luck in the exam,” she said.
In the car she rang Sven-Erik.
“Yes,” he said when he’d fetched his copy of the picture. “It’s a cross that goes through a semicircle and ends in a hook.”
“We need to find out what it means. Who’ll know the answer to something like that?”
“What did they say at the lab?”
“They’ll probably get the picture today. If there are clear prints they’ll get them off this afternoon, otherwise it takes longer.”
“There must be some professor of religion who knows about the symbol,” said Sven-Erik thoughtfully.
“You’re a clever boy!” said Anna-Maria. “Fred Olsson can sort somebody out, then we can fax it to them. Go and get dressed and I’ll pick you up.”
“Oh yes?”
“You can come to Poikkij?rvi with me. I want to talk to Rebecka Martinsson, if she’s still there.”
* * *

Anna-Maria pointed her light red Ford Escort in the direction of Poikkij?rvi. Sven-Erik sat beside her, pushing his foot down to the floor in a reflex action. Why did she always have to drive like a boy racer?
“Rebecka Martinsson gave me copies too,” she said. “I don’t understand any of it. I mean, it’s something financial, but…”
“Shouldn’t we ask the economic crimes team to have a look at it?”
“They’re always so busy. You ask a question, and you get the answer a month later. It’s just as well to ask her. I mean, she’s already seen it. And she knows why she gave it to us.”
“Is this really a good idea?”
“Have you got a better idea?”
“But will she really want to get dragged into all this?”
Anna-Maria shook her plait impatiently.
“She was the one who gave me the copies and the letters! And she’s not going to get dragged into anything. How long can it take? Ten minutes of her holiday.”
Anna-Maria braked sharply and turned left on to Jukkasj?rviv?gen, accelerated up to ninety, braked again and turned right down toward Poikkij?rvi. Sven-Erik clung to the door handle, thinking that maybe he should have taken a travel sickness pill; from there his thoughts turned spontaneously to the cat, who hated travelling by car.
“Manne’s disappeared,” he said, gazing out at the pine trees, sparkling in the sunshine as they swept by.
“Oh no,” said Anna-Maria. “How long’s he been gone?”
“Four days. He’s never been away this long.”
“He’ll come back,” she said. “It’s still warm out, it’s natural for him to want to be outside.”
“No,” said Sven-Erik firmly. “He’s been run over. I’ll never see that cat again.”
He longed for her to contradict him. To protest and reassure. He would stick to his conviction that the cat was gone for good. So he could express a little of his anxiety and sorrow. So she could give him a little hope and consolation. But she changed the subject.
“We won’t drive all the way up,” she said. “I don’t think she wants to attract attention.”
“What’s she actually doing here?” asked Sven-Erik.
“No idea.”
Anna-Maria was on the point of saying she didn’t think Rebecka was all that well, but she didn’t. Sven-Erik was bound to insist they cancel the visit. He was always softer than she was when it came to that sort of thing. Maybe it was because she had children living at home. Most of her protective instincts and consideration for others were used up at home.