began. “But obviously, nobody bloody…”
He broke off, glanced sheepishly at the clergyman, received a smile as an indication that his sin was forgiven, and went on:
“…nobody had the nerve to speak to you about it. Maybe you’d like to wait outside? Or would you like a glass of water?”
Rebecka was on the verge of smiling. Then she changed her mind, couldn’t decide which expression to adopt.
“It’s fine. But I would like to wait outside.”
She left the men inside the church and went out. Stopped on the steps.
I ought to feel something, of course, she thought. Maybe I ought to faint.
The afternoon sun was warming the walls of the bell tower. She had the urge to lean against it, but didn’t because of her clothes. The smell of warm asphalt mingled with the smell of the newly tarred roof.
She wondered if Torsten was telling Stefan Wikström that she was the one who’d shot Viktor Strandgård’s murderer. Maybe he was making something up. No doubt he’d do whatever he thought was best for business. At the moment she was in the social goody bag. Among the salted anecdotes and the sweet gossip. If Stefan Wikström had been a lawyer, Torsten would have told him how things were. Taken out the bag and offered him a Rebecka Martinsson. But maybe the clergy weren’t quite so keen on gossip as the legal profession.
They came out to join her after ten minutes. The clergyman shook hands with them both. It felt as if he didn’t really want to let go of their hands.
“It was unfortunate that Bertil had to go out. It was a car accident, and you can’t say no. Hang on a minute and I’ll try his cell phone.”
While Stefan Wikström tried to ring the parish priest, Rebecka and Torsten exchanged a look. So he was genuinely busy. Rebecka wondered why Stefan Wikström was so keen for them to meet him before the meeting the following day.
He wants something, she thought. But what?
Stefan Wikström pushed the phone into his back pocket with an apologetic smile.
“No luck,” he said. “Just voicemail. But we’ll meet tomorrow.”
Brief, casual farewells since it was only one night until they were due to meet again. Torsten asked Rebecka for a pen and made a note of the title of a book the clergyman had recommended. Showed genuine interest.
* * *
Rebecka and Torsten drove back into town. Rebecka talked about Jukkasjärvi. What the village had been like before the big tourist boom. Dozing by the river. The population trickling silently away like the sand in an hourglass. The Konsum shop looking like some sort of antiquated emporium. The odd tourist at the folk museum, burnt coffee and a chocolate eclair with the white bloom that suggests it’s been around for a long time. It had been impossible to sell houses. They had stood there, silent and hollow-eyed, with leaking roofs and moss growing on the walls. The meadows overgrown with weeds.
And now: tourists came from all over the world to sleep between reindeer skins in the ice hotel, drive a snowmobile at minus thirty degrees, drive a dog team and get married in the ice church. And when it wasn’t winter they came for saunas on board a boat or rode the rapids.
“Stop!” yelled Torsten all of a sudden. “We can eat there!”
He pointed to a sign by the side of the road. It consisted of two hand-painted planks of wood nailed together. They were sawn into the shape of arrows, and were pointing to the left. Green letters on a white background proclaimed “ROOMS” and “Food till 11 p.m.”
“No, we can’t,” said Rebecka. “That’s the road down to Poikkijärvi. There’s nothing there.”
“Oh, come on, Martinsson,” said Torsten, looking expectantly along the road. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Rebecka sighed like somebody’s mother and turned on to the road to Poikkijärvi.
“There’s nothing here,” she said. “A
He broke off, glanced sheepishly at the clergyman, received a smile as an indication that his sin was forgiven, and went on:
“…nobody had the nerve to speak to you about it. Maybe you’d like to wait outside? Or would you like a glass of water?”
Rebecka was on the verge of smiling. Then she changed her mind, couldn’t decide which expression to adopt.
“It’s fine. But I would like to wait outside.”
She left the men inside the church and went out. Stopped on the steps.
I ought to feel something, of course, she thought. Maybe I ought to faint.
The afternoon sun was warming the walls of the bell tower. She had the urge to lean against it, but didn’t because of her clothes. The smell of warm asphalt mingled with the smell of the newly tarred roof.
She wondered if Torsten was telling Stefan Wikström that she was the one who’d shot Viktor Strandgård’s murderer. Maybe he was making something up. No doubt he’d do whatever he thought was best for business. At the moment she was in the social goody bag. Among the salted anecdotes and the sweet gossip. If Stefan Wikström had been a lawyer, Torsten would have told him how things were. Taken out the bag and offered him a Rebecka Martinsson. But maybe the clergy weren’t quite so keen on gossip as the legal profession.
They came out to join her after ten minutes. The clergyman shook hands with them both. It felt as if he didn’t really want to let go of their hands.
“It was unfortunate that Bertil had to go out. It was a car accident, and you can’t say no. Hang on a minute and I’ll try his cell phone.”
While Stefan Wikström tried to ring the parish priest, Rebecka and Torsten exchanged a look. So he was genuinely busy. Rebecka wondered why Stefan Wikström was so keen for them to meet him before the meeting the following day.
He wants something, she thought. But what?
Stefan Wikström pushed the phone into his back pocket with an apologetic smile.
“No luck,” he said. “Just voicemail. But we’ll meet tomorrow.”
Brief, casual farewells since it was only one night until they were due to meet again. Torsten asked Rebecka for a pen and made a note of the title of a book the clergyman had recommended. Showed genuine interest.
* * *
Rebecka and Torsten drove back into town. Rebecka talked about Jukkasjärvi. What the village had been like before the big tourist boom. Dozing by the river. The population trickling silently away like the sand in an hourglass. The Konsum shop looking like some sort of antiquated emporium. The odd tourist at the folk museum, burnt coffee and a chocolate eclair with the white bloom that suggests it’s been around for a long time. It had been impossible to sell houses. They had stood there, silent and hollow-eyed, with leaking roofs and moss growing on the walls. The meadows overgrown with weeds.
And now: tourists came from all over the world to sleep between reindeer skins in the ice hotel, drive a snowmobile at minus thirty degrees, drive a dog team and get married in the ice church. And when it wasn’t winter they came for saunas on board a boat or rode the rapids.
“Stop!” yelled Torsten all of a sudden. “We can eat there!”
He pointed to a sign by the side of the road. It consisted of two hand-painted planks of wood nailed together. They were sawn into the shape of arrows, and were pointing to the left. Green letters on a white background proclaimed “ROOMS” and “Food till 11 p.m.”
“No, we can’t,” said Rebecka. “That’s the road down to Poikkijärvi. There’s nothing there.”
“Oh, come on, Martinsson,” said Torsten, looking expectantly along the road. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Rebecka sighed like somebody’s mother and turned on to the road to Poikkijärvi.
“There’s nothing here,” she said. “A
Similar Books
