The Black Path Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Do you remember…

  Extract from case notes…

  An early spring evening,…

  Inspector Anna-Maria Mella and…

  Rebecka Martinsson is discharged…

  It’s Tuesday. Every Tuesday,…

  Rebecka is celebrating New…

  It was fortunate that…

  The dead woman came…

  It was five past…

  Chief Prosecutor Alf Björnfot…

  That’s right, thought Rebecka…

  Rebecka Martinsson met Anna-Maria…

  The program lasts an…

  Rebecka Martinsson finished her…

  Is it okay if…

  Anna-Maria Mella sank down…

  The avenue of lime…

  Ester Kallis is conceived…

  My name is Ester…

  Morning briefing at Kiruna…

  Mauri Kallis was squatting…

  Yes, I do recall…

  Rebecka had her evening…

  As usual, Anna-Maria Mella…

  Anna-Maria Mella looked around…

  He wasn’t a particularly…

  Rebecka Martinsson got home…

  It snowed throughout Wednesday…

  Mauri Kallis was up…

  Anna-Maria Mella unlocked the…

  Mauri Kallis saw Ester…

  Ebba Kallis was woken…

  Anna-Maria Mella and Sven-Erik…

  When Inna and Mauri…

  Rebecka Martinsson was going…

  Ester Kallis was sitting…

  Mauri Kallis’s dinner guests…

  Anna-Maria Mella and Sven-Erik…

  Rebecka is lying in…

  Author’s Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Åsa Larsson

  Copyright

  Do you remember what happened?

  Rebecka Martinsson saw her dead friend lying there on the gravel in Poikkijärvi. And the world shattered. And they had to hold on to her to stop her walking into the river.

  This is the third book.

  Extract from case notes 12 September 2003 regarding patient Rebecka Martinsson

  Reason for contact: Patient admitted to Kiruna hospital with facial injuries after a fall & trauma to head. On admission found to be in acute state of psychosis. Surgical treatment of facial injuries necessary; patient therefore sedated. On waking, clear psychotic symptoms still present. Decision made to section patient under 3 § LPT. Transferred to psychiatric clinic at St. Göran’s hospital, Stockholm—secure unit. Preliminary diagnosis: psychosis UNS. Treatment: Risperdal mix 8 mg/day plus Sobril 50 mg/day.

  This is the last time.

  Behold, he comes with the clouds, and every eye shall see him.

  This is the final hour.

  This is the time of the fiery steed. She who comes with the long sword, so that men shall slay one another.

  And here! They seize me by the arms! They will not listen! Stubbornly they refuse to turn their eyes to the heavens, opening up before them.

  This is the time of the pale steed.

  And he paws the ground with his sharp hooves. He kicks earth out of his way.

  There came a huge earthquake, and the earth turned as black as ink, and the whole of the moon was the color of blood.

  And I remained behind. Many of us were left behind. We fall to our knees before our journey into the darkness, and we empty our bowels through fear. On the way to the lake burning with fire and sulfur, and this is the second death. Only a few minutes remain. We must grab hold of whatever we can. Hold fast to what is closest to us.

  I can hear the voice of the seven storms. At last the words are clear.

  It says. The time. Is up.

  But no one here will listen!

  Extract from case notes 27 September 2003 regarding patient Rebecka Martinsson

  Patient responsive, answers when spoken to, able to give an account of events which triggered depressive psychosis. Displays vital signs of depression: weight loss, listlessness, disturbed sleep pattern, waking early. High risk of suicide. ECT treatments to continue. Cipramil in tablet form 40 mg/day.

  One of the nurses (I have nurses, imagine that) is called Johan. Or is it Jonas? Jonny? He takes me out for a walk. I’m not allowed out on my own. We don’t go far. It still makes me incredibly tired. Perhaps he notices as we’re walking back. He doesn’t show it, though. Keeps talking the whole time. That’s good, it means I don’t have to bother.

  He’s talking about Muhammad Ali’s title fight against George Foreman in 1974 in Zaire.

  “He took so much punishment! Leaned against the ropes and just let Foreman keep hitting him. Foreman, well, he was cruel. We’re talking heavyweights here, and most people have probably forgotten, but people were worried about Ali before the match. Thought Foreman might actually kill him. And then Ali just stood there like a bloody…stone! And took the punishment for seven rounds. Completely psyched Foreman out. In the seventh he leaned against Foreman’s shoulder and whispered, “Is that all you got, George?” And it was! Then in the eighth, Foreman could hardly keep his guard up any longer, and then the opening came. Ali just went: bam! (he made a right hook in the air). Foreman goes down like a pine tree! Crrrash!”

  I walk in silence. Notice that the trees are starting to smell of autumn. And he’s talking Rumble in the Jungle. I am the greatest. Thrilla in Manila.

  Or he talks about the Second World War (is he supposed to do that with me, I wonder quietly to myself, aren’t I sensitive, sort of fragile, what would the consultant say?).

  “The Japanese, now they’re real warriors. You know, when their fighter pilots ran out of juice in the middle of the Pacific, if there was an American aircraft carrier within range they flew straight into it. Pow! Or they did an elegant belly landing on the surface of the water, just to show what incredibly skillful fliers they were. Then when they were sitting there having survived, they jumped in the water and stabbed themselves. Wouldn’t let themselves be taken alive by the enemy. Same thing when they were fighting at Guadalcanal. They jumped off the cliffs like lemmings when they realized they were beaten. The Americans were standing there with their megaphones telling them to give themselves up.”

  When we get back to the ward I’m suddenly afraid that he’ll ask me if I enjoyed the walk. If I liked it? If I’d like to do it again tomorrow?

  I can’t manage to answer “yes” or “that would be nice.” It feels like it did when I was little. When some of the older ladies in the village bought you an ice cream or a drink. They always had to ask: “Was that nice?” Despite the fact that they could see. You were sitting there devouring it, in silent bliss. But you had to give them something. Pay the price. “Yes,” and preferably “thank you” from the little girl, the poor little soul with the crazy mother. I have nothing to give now. Not even a squeak. If he asks me I’ll have to say no. Although it was so good to breathe the air. The ward smells of medication sweated out through every pore, smoke, dirt, hospital, the cleaning fluid they use on the vinyl floor.

  But he doesn’t ask. Takes me for a stroll the following day too.

  Extract from epicrisis October 30 re patient Rebecka Martinsson

  Patient has responded well to treatment. Suicide risk no longer regarded as likely. For the past two weeks has been nursed according to HSL. Low, but not seriously depressed. Transfer to residence in Kurravaara, village outside Kiruna, where patient grew up. To keep in contact with clinic in Kiruna. Continued medication Cipramil 40 mg/day.

  The consultant asks me how I’m feeling. I reply: fine.

  He looks at me in silence. Almost smiling. Knowing. He can keep quiet for as long as it takes. He’s an expert a
t it. Silences don’t provoke him. In the end I say: not too bad. That’s the right answer. He nods.

  I’m not allowed to stay here. I’ve taken up a place for long enough. There are women who need it more than me. The kind who set fire to their hair. Who come onto the ward and swallow pieces of broken mirror in the toilets, and have to be rushed into the emergency department all the time. I can talk, answer questions, get up in the mornings and brush my teeth.

  I hate him because he won’t force me to stay here forever and ever. Because he isn’t God.

  Then I’m sitting on the train traveling north. The landscape hurtles past in a series of snapshots. First there are the big deciduous trees in tones of red and yellow. Autumn sunshine and lots of houses. People living their lives in every single one. Getting by somehow.

  After Bastuträsk there’s snow. And then at last: forest, forest, forest. I’m on the way home. The birch trees shrink, standing black and spindly against the white background.

  I press my forehead and my nose against the window.

  I feel fine, I say to myself. This is what it’s like to feel fine.

  SATURDAY MARCH 15

  An early spring evening, Torneträsk. The ice was thick, more than a meter. All along the lake, some seventy kilometers long, lay arks, small cabins on runners, four square meters in size. At this time of year the inhabitants of Kiruna made their pilgrimage up to Torneträsk. They came up on snowmobiles, towing the ark behind them.

  Inside the ark there was a hole in the floor. You drilled a hole through the thick ice. A plastic pipe linked the hole in the ice to the hole in the floor, and that prevented the icy wind from getting into the ark from below. And then you sat inside fishing through the hole in the ice.

  Leif Pudas was sitting in his ark in just his pants, fishing. It was eight-thirty in the evening. He’d cracked open a few beers, it was Saturday night after all. The Calor gas stove was hissing and whistling. It was lovely and warm, almost eighty degrees. And he’d caught some fish too, fifteen mountain char, only small, but still. And he’d saved a few sprats for his sister’s cat.

  When it was time for a pee it felt like a kind of liberation, he was much too hot, it would be nice to get outside and cool down a bit. He pulled on his boots and clambered out into the cold and dark in just his pants.

  As soon as he opened the door, the wind seized hold of it.

  During the day it had been sunny and calm, with no wind. But in the mountains the weather changes constantly. Now the storm was tugging and snapping at the door like a rabid dog. One moment there was hardly any wind at all, it was as if it were lying there growling and gathering its strength, then it was pulling at the door for all it was worth. Would the hinges hold? Leif Pudas got hold of the door with both hands and closed it behind him. Maybe he should have put some clothes on. Oh, what the hell, it only took a minute to have a pee.

  The gusts of wind carried loose snow with them. Not soft, fine fresh snow, but sharp diamond slivers of compacted snow. It whirled across the ground like a white cat-o’-nine-tails, flaying his skin with a slow, evil rhythm.

  Leif Pudas ran around the ark to shelter from the wind and got ready to pee. He might be sheltered from the wind, but it was cold so far up north. His scrotum contracted to a rock-hard ball. But at least he managed to pee. He almost expected it to freeze on its way through the air. To be transformed into a yellow arc of ice.

  Just as he finished, he heard a kind of bellowing through the wind, and all of a sudden the ark was at his back. It almost knocked him over, and the next second it was gone.

  It took a little while for him to understand. The storm had taken the ark. He could see the window, the square of warm light in the darkness, traveling away from him.

  He ran a little way in the darkness, but now its mooring had come loose, the ark was gathering speed. He hadn’t a chance of catching up with it, it was hurtling away on its runners.

  First of all he thought only about the ark. He’d built it himself of plywood, then insulated it and covered it with aluminum. Tomorrow morning when he found it, it would be firewood. All he could do was hope it didn’t cause any damage. That could lead to difficulties.

  All of a sudden there came a powerful squall. It almost knocked him to the ground. Then he realized he was in danger. And he had all that beer inside him, it was as if his blood was just beneath the surface of the skin. If he didn’t manage to get inside somewhere very soon, he’d freeze to death in no time.

  He looked around. It had to be at least a kilometer up to Abisko tourist station, he’d never make it, it was a question of minutes now. Where was the closest ark? The whirling snow and the storm meant he couldn’t see the lights of any other arks.

  Think, he said to himself. You don’t take one single bloody step until you’ve used your head. Which direction are you facing now?

  He used his head for three seconds, felt his hands starting to stiffen, and tucked them under his arms. He took four steps from where he was standing and managed to walk straight into the snowmobile. The key was in the disappearing ark, but he had a little toolbox under the seat, and he got it out.

  Then he prayed to someone up there that he was going the right way, and set off in the direction of his closest neighboring ark. It was no more than twenty meters, but he wanted to weep with every step. He was so afraid of missing it. And if he did, he was a dead man.

  He searched for Persson’s fiberglass ark. The wet snow covered his eyes; he tried to peer through, but it was as if a slush kept forming over his eyes and he had to wipe it away. It was impossible to see anything, darkness and snow.

  He thought about his sister. And he thought about his ex-partner, about the fact that things had been good between them in many ways.

  He’d almost walked straight into Persson’s ark before he saw it. Nobody home, the windows dark. He took the hammer out of his toolbox, had to use his left hand, the right one was completely useless, pain shooting through it after holding the cold steel of the toolbox handle. He fumbled his way through the darkness to the small Plexiglas window and smashed it.

  The fear made him strong, and he heaved his entire bulk of over two hundred pounds in through the window. Swore when he scraped his stomach on the sharp metal frame. But what did that matter. Death had never been quite so close before, breathing down his neck.

  Once he was inside, he had to do something about getting some heat going. Even if he was protected from the wind, it was bitterly cold inside the ark.

  He rummaged in the drawers and found some matches. How can you hold something so small when the cold has made your hands completely useless? He pushed his fingers into his mouth to warm them until they were working well enough to allow him to light the lamp and the stove. His entire body wanted to do nothing but shiver and shake, never in his life had he felt this cold. Frozen through to his bones.

  “Bloody hell it’s cold, fuck me it’s cold,” he kept saying to himself over and over again. He spoke out loud, it somehow kept the panic at bay, as if he were keeping himself company.

  The wind howled through the window like a malevolent god; he grabbed a big cushion that was leaning against the wall and managed to wedge it fast between the curtain pole and the wall.

  He looked around and found a red padded jacket, probably one of Mrs. Persson’s. He also found a drawer full of underwear, pulled on two pairs of long johns, one on his legs and one on his head.

  The warmth came slowly, he held his limbs out toward the stove, pain shooting through his body; it was agonizing. He had no feeling at all in one cheek and ear, which wasn’t a good sign.

  There was a heap of blankets on the bunk bed. They were ice cold, of course, but he could wrap himself up in them anyway, they’d provide some sort of insulation.

  I’ve survived, he said to himself. What does it matter if I lose an ear?

  He yanked a blanket off the bed. It was covered in big flowers in different shades of blue, a relic of the seventies.

  And un
derneath it lay a woman. Her eyes were open and had frozen to ice, so they were completely white, like frosted glass. Something that looked like porridge, or maybe it was vomit, on her chin and hands. She was wearing sports clothes. There was a red mark on her top.

  He didn’t scream. He didn’t even feel surprised. It was as if his emotions had been completely wiped out by what he’d been through.

  “What the fuck” was all he said.

  And the feeling that washed over him was like the feeling you get when your new puppy pees in the house for the hundredth time. Exhaustion in the face of how crap everything is.

  He resisted the impulse to simply put the blanket back and forget about her.

  Then he sat down to think. What on earth should he do now? He had to get to the tourist station, of course. He wasn’t too keen on going up there in the dark. But he had no choice, did he? And he didn’t much like the idea of sitting here thawing out with her.

  But he needed to sit here for a little while longer. Until he wasn’t so damned cold.

  It was like a kind of companionship between them. She kept him company as he sat there for an hour, tortured by the pain in various parts of his body as the warmth brought the feeling back. He held his hands out to the stove.

  He didn’t say a word. And neither did she.

  Inspector Anna-Maria Mella and her colleague Sven-Erik Stålnacke reached the scene at quarter to midnight on Saturday. The police had borrowed two snowmobiles from Abisko tourist station. One of them had a sledge. One of the mountain guides had offered to help out, and he drove them both down. Storms and darkness.

  Leif Pudas, who had found the body, was sitting in Abisko tourist station and had already been questioned by the squad car unit who had been first on the scene.

  When Leif Pudas arrived at the tourist station, the reception desk was closed. It had taken a while before the staff in the bar took him seriously. It was Saturday night after all, and they were more than used to unconventional dress at the tourist station; people would take off their snowmobile overalls and sit there drinking beer in their underwear and all sorts. But Leif Pudas had come stumbling in dressed in a ladies’ padded jacket that only reached just below his navel, with a pair of long johns wound round his head like a turban.