Read Online Until Thy Wrath Be Past by Åsa Larsson - Free Book Online

damage, as in this case. The skin of Persson’s left thumb had come away just as he was about to press it onto the paper. Such things happen, and he did what he usually did, sliding his own finger inside the pocket of Persson’s skin and pressing it down on the paper. As he did so he heard someone in the doorway. Assuming it was Inspector Mella, he did not turn around but said, “Right, Anna-Maria. All done here. You’ll be able to read the autopsy report as soon as it’s written. Assuming it ever gets written.”
    “Sorry to interrupt,” said a voice that was not Mella’s.
    When Pohjanen finally turned around, he saw that his visitor was district prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson. He had met Martinsson once before, when he had been called in to advise on one of her cases having to do with domestic violence. The husband and wife had given different explanations for the woman’s injuries. But Pohjanen and Martinsson had never spoken outside the courtroom. He could see that she was staring at the thimble of dead skin he was wearing on his index finger.
    Introducing herself, she reminded him that they had already met. He said he recalled the circumstances clearly, and asked what she wanted.
    “Is that Wilma Persson?” she said.
    “Yes, I was just taking her fingerprints. You have to get everything done as quickly as possible—things change very rapidly when you take a body out of the water.”
    “I was just wondering if there was any way of establishing whether she actually died at the place where she was found.”
    “What makes you think she might not have?”
    Martinsson appeared to steady herself. He noticed how she pursed her lips, shook her head as if to clear it of unwanted thoughts, and then looked at him as if begging his indulgence.
    “I had a dream about her,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “In the dream she said that she had been moved. That she had died somewhere else.”
    Pohjanen looked long and hard at Martinsson without speaking. There was not a sound, apart from his own wheezing and the hum from the air-conditioning.
    “As far as I’m aware, the cause of death was accidental drowning. Is it your intention to turn the case into something more elaborate?”
    “No, er, well . . .”
    “Is there something I ought to know? How the hell am I supposed to do my job if nobody tells me anything? If you say there’s no suspicion of a crime having been committed, that’s the basis on which I will conduct my examination. I don’t want to be told later on that I’ve missed something. Is that clear?”
    “I’m not here to—”
    “But you’re here, just the same.”
    She held up her hands.
    “Forget it,” she said. “Pay no attention. I should never have come. I was being silly.”
    “Yes, I’ve heard that you often are,” Pohjanen said unkindly.
    Turning on her heel, she left the room. His comment hung in the air. Rang through the autopsy lab like a church bell.
    The silly bitch should stop poking her nose in, Pojhanen said to himself defensively.
    But his guilty conscience gnawed away at him. The dead spirits surrounding him were unusually silent.
    They can go to hell, the whole lot of ’em, he said to himself.
    A week passes. Snow crashes down from the trees. Sighs deeply as it collapses into the sunny warmth. Bare patches appear. The southern sides of anthills heat up in the sun. The snow buntings return. Martinsson’s neighbor Fjällborg finds bear tracks in the forest. The big sleep of winter is over.
    “Have they found the boy yet?” Fjällborg asks her.
    Martinsson has invited Fjällborg and Bella over for supper. She has served sushi, which Fjällborg is forcing down with a skeptical expression on his face. He pronounces it sishu , making it sound like a sneeze. Having settled on the sofabed, Bella is lying on her back, hind legs apart, fast asleep. Her front paws keep twitching.
    Martinsson says they have not.
    “Piilijärvi,” Fjällborg says. “That’s the last