narrow, winding road leading from the E10 to the village.
And things were not getting any better. She rarely asked the others if they wanted to grab lunch somewhere as a group. Often she just drove home and forced down some yogurt and muesli on her own. She had started calling her husband from work. In the middle of the day. To talk about nothing at all. Or she would invent errands: “Did you remember Gustav’s extra pair of gloves when you took him to day care?” “Can you pick up some shopping on the way home?”
Anni Autio lived in a pink paneled house in the middle of the village, by the lake. The wooden steps up to the front door were stained brown, carefully looked after, and generously sanded to prevent falls. The handrail was black-painted iron. A handwritten note inside a plastic pocket, attached to the front door with a thumbtack, read:
RING and WAIT.
It takes ages for me to get to the door.
I AM at home.
Mella rang the bell. And waited. A few ravens were frolicking in the thermals above the lake. Black and majestic against the blue sky. Their cries filled the air. One of them was wheeling around and around in concentric circles. Without a care in the world.
Mella waited. Could feel every nerve in her body itching to hurry back to her car and drive away. Anything to avoid coming face-to-face with another person’s sorrow.
A cat came strolling across the parking area, caught sight of Mella, and quickened its pace. Stålnacke was a cat person. Mella’s thoughts turned back to him. He was good at this kind of thing. Telling people what they least wanted to hear. Hugging and consoling them.
Damn him, she thought.
“Damn,” she said out loud, in an attempt to banish her depressing thoughts.
At that same moment the door opened. A thin, stooped woman in her eighties was clinging onto the handle with bothhands. Her white hair hung down her back in a string-like plait. She was wearing a simple blue dress buttoned up to her neck and a man’s cardigan. Her legs were encased in thick nylon stockings, and her pointed shoes were made of reindeer skin.
“Sorry,” Mella said. “I was lost in my thoughts.”
“Never mind,” the woman said in a friendly tone. “I’m pleased that you’re still here. You wouldn’t believe how many people don’t have the patience to wait, despite the note I pinned to the door. I struggle this far only to see them driving away. I’m always tempted to shoot them. I look forward to a nice little chat, then find myself cheated. Mind you, the Jehovah’s Witnesses always wait.”
She laughed.
“I’m not so particular nowadays. They’re welcome to stay for a chat. But you’re not religious, are you? Are you selling raffle tickets?”
“Anna-Maria Mella, Kiruna police,” Mella said, showing her ID. “Are you Anni Autio?”
The smile disappeared from the woman’s face.
“You’ve found Wilma,” she said.
Anni Autio supported herself against the walls and held onto strategically placed chairs as she shuffled to the kitchen. Mella took off her winter boots and left them in the vestibule, which was almost completely filled by a large, humming freezer. She accepted Autio’s offer of coffee. The kitchen gave the impression of having been untouched since the 1950s. The tap shook and the pipes shuddered as Autio filled the coffee pot. The conifer-green cupboards reached all the way to the ceiling. The walls were crammed with photographs, poems by Edith Södergran and Nils Ferlin, children’s watercolors nowso faded that it was impossible to see what they were meant to represent, miniature prints of birds, framed pages torn out of old flower books.
“We haven’t managed to find her mother,” Mella said. “According to the electoral register, Wilma lived with you, and the police report on her disappearance names you as next of kin. She was your granddaughter—”
“My great-granddaughter, in fact.”
Autio hunched over the stove as she waited for the water to
And things were not getting any better. She rarely asked the others if they wanted to grab lunch somewhere as a group. Often she just drove home and forced down some yogurt and muesli on her own. She had started calling her husband from work. In the middle of the day. To talk about nothing at all. Or she would invent errands: “Did you remember Gustav’s extra pair of gloves when you took him to day care?” “Can you pick up some shopping on the way home?”
Anni Autio lived in a pink paneled house in the middle of the village, by the lake. The wooden steps up to the front door were stained brown, carefully looked after, and generously sanded to prevent falls. The handrail was black-painted iron. A handwritten note inside a plastic pocket, attached to the front door with a thumbtack, read:
RING and WAIT.
It takes ages for me to get to the door.
I AM at home.
Mella rang the bell. And waited. A few ravens were frolicking in the thermals above the lake. Black and majestic against the blue sky. Their cries filled the air. One of them was wheeling around and around in concentric circles. Without a care in the world.
Mella waited. Could feel every nerve in her body itching to hurry back to her car and drive away. Anything to avoid coming face-to-face with another person’s sorrow.
A cat came strolling across the parking area, caught sight of Mella, and quickened its pace. Stålnacke was a cat person. Mella’s thoughts turned back to him. He was good at this kind of thing. Telling people what they least wanted to hear. Hugging and consoling them.
Damn him, she thought.
“Damn,” she said out loud, in an attempt to banish her depressing thoughts.
At that same moment the door opened. A thin, stooped woman in her eighties was clinging onto the handle with bothhands. Her white hair hung down her back in a string-like plait. She was wearing a simple blue dress buttoned up to her neck and a man’s cardigan. Her legs were encased in thick nylon stockings, and her pointed shoes were made of reindeer skin.
“Sorry,” Mella said. “I was lost in my thoughts.”
“Never mind,” the woman said in a friendly tone. “I’m pleased that you’re still here. You wouldn’t believe how many people don’t have the patience to wait, despite the note I pinned to the door. I struggle this far only to see them driving away. I’m always tempted to shoot them. I look forward to a nice little chat, then find myself cheated. Mind you, the Jehovah’s Witnesses always wait.”
She laughed.
“I’m not so particular nowadays. They’re welcome to stay for a chat. But you’re not religious, are you? Are you selling raffle tickets?”
“Anna-Maria Mella, Kiruna police,” Mella said, showing her ID. “Are you Anni Autio?”
The smile disappeared from the woman’s face.
“You’ve found Wilma,” she said.
Anni Autio supported herself against the walls and held onto strategically placed chairs as she shuffled to the kitchen. Mella took off her winter boots and left them in the vestibule, which was almost completely filled by a large, humming freezer. She accepted Autio’s offer of coffee. The kitchen gave the impression of having been untouched since the 1950s. The tap shook and the pipes shuddered as Autio filled the coffee pot. The conifer-green cupboards reached all the way to the ceiling. The walls were crammed with photographs, poems by Edith Södergran and Nils Ferlin, children’s watercolors nowso faded that it was impossible to see what they were meant to represent, miniature prints of birds, framed pages torn out of old flower books.
“We haven’t managed to find her mother,” Mella said. “According to the electoral register, Wilma lived with you, and the police report on her disappearance names you as next of kin. She was your granddaughter—”
“My great-granddaughter, in fact.”
Autio hunched over the stove as she waited for the water to
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