here?’
‘Just follow the Lompolovaara road,’ he says, pointing. ‘Up to the bend at Silmäjärvi …’
Saga leaves the shop and heads in the direction he indicated. Tractor-tyres have furrowed the ground and the verge is virtually non-existent. There’s a beer can in the grass. The wind in the trees sounds like a distant sea.
She eats some of the crisps as she walks, then puts the rest in her bag and wipes her hands on her trousers.
Saga has walked six kilometres by the time she sees a rust-red house at a point where the road bends round a broad tarn. There’s no car in sight, but there’s smoke coming out of the chimney. The garden around the house consists of tall meadow grass.
She stops and hears the insects in the ditch.
A man comes out of the house. She watches his figure move through the trees.
It’s Joona Linna.
It’s him, but he’s lost weight, and he’s leaning on a stick. He’s got a curly blond beard and strands of hair are sticking out from his black woolly hat.
Saga walks towards him. The grit crunches beneath her boots.
She sees Joona stop beside a woodshed, lean his stick against the wall, pick up an axe and split a large log, then he picks up another one and splits that, then rests for a moment before picking up the pieces and carries on chopping.
She doesn’t call out because she knows he’s already seen her, probably long before she saw him.
He’s wearing a moss-green fleece beneath an aviator’s jacket made of coarse leather. The folds have cracked and the sheepskin lining of the collar has turned yellow.
She walks over and stops five metres away from him. He stretches his back, turns round and looks at her with eyes as grey as pale fire.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he says quietly.
‘Jurek’s dead,’ she says breathlessly.
‘Yes,’ he replies, and goes on chopping.
He picks up a new log and places it on the chopping block.
‘I found his body,’ Saga says.
His swing goes wrong, the axe catches and he loses his grip. He stands for a while with his head lowered. Saga looks down into the large wood-basket and sees that there’s a sawn-off shotgun taped to one side of it.
23
Joona leads her through a dark entrance hall. He doesn’t say anything, but holds a door opens and ushers her into a little kitchen with copper saucepans on the walls.
An elk-hunting rifle with telescopic sights is hanging under the windowsill, and on the floor are at least thirty boxes of ammunition.
The sun is shining through the drawn curtains. On the table is a coffee pot and two cups.
‘Summa died last spring,’ he explains.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says quietly.
He puts the wood-basket down on the floor and slowly straightens his back. There’s a faint smell of smoke in the kitchen, and she can hear the pine logs crackling behind the closed hatch of the iron stove.
‘So you found the body?’ he says, looking at her.
‘I wouldn’t have come otherwise,’ she replies seriously. ‘Call Åhlén if you want confirmation.’
‘I believe you,’ he says.
‘Call him anyway.’
He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything, then, leaning on the draining board, he makes his way to the other door, nudges it open and says something quietly into the gloom in Finnish.
‘This is my daughter, Lumi,’ Joona says as a girl comes into the kitchen.
‘Hello,’ Saga says.
Lumi has straight brown hair, a friendly, curious smile, but her eyes are as grey as ice. She’s tall and thin, dressed in a simple blue cotton shirt and a pair of faded jeans.
‘Are you hungry?’ Joona asks.
‘Yes,’ Saga replies.
‘Sit yourself down.’
She sits down on a chair and Joona gets out bread, butter and cheese, then starts chopping tomatoes, olives and peppers. Lumi heats some water and grinds coffee beans in a manually operated mill. Saga looks at the dimly lit room behind them, and sees a sofa and a stack of books on a table. Hanging from a drip-stand is a night-vision sight and a
‘Just follow the Lompolovaara road,’ he says, pointing. ‘Up to the bend at Silmäjärvi …’
Saga leaves the shop and heads in the direction he indicated. Tractor-tyres have furrowed the ground and the verge is virtually non-existent. There’s a beer can in the grass. The wind in the trees sounds like a distant sea.
She eats some of the crisps as she walks, then puts the rest in her bag and wipes her hands on her trousers.
Saga has walked six kilometres by the time she sees a rust-red house at a point where the road bends round a broad tarn. There’s no car in sight, but there’s smoke coming out of the chimney. The garden around the house consists of tall meadow grass.
She stops and hears the insects in the ditch.
A man comes out of the house. She watches his figure move through the trees.
It’s Joona Linna.
It’s him, but he’s lost weight, and he’s leaning on a stick. He’s got a curly blond beard and strands of hair are sticking out from his black woolly hat.
Saga walks towards him. The grit crunches beneath her boots.
She sees Joona stop beside a woodshed, lean his stick against the wall, pick up an axe and split a large log, then he picks up another one and splits that, then rests for a moment before picking up the pieces and carries on chopping.
She doesn’t call out because she knows he’s already seen her, probably long before she saw him.
He’s wearing a moss-green fleece beneath an aviator’s jacket made of coarse leather. The folds have cracked and the sheepskin lining of the collar has turned yellow.
She walks over and stops five metres away from him. He stretches his back, turns round and looks at her with eyes as grey as pale fire.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he says quietly.
‘Jurek’s dead,’ she says breathlessly.
‘Yes,’ he replies, and goes on chopping.
He picks up a new log and places it on the chopping block.
‘I found his body,’ Saga says.
His swing goes wrong, the axe catches and he loses his grip. He stands for a while with his head lowered. Saga looks down into the large wood-basket and sees that there’s a sawn-off shotgun taped to one side of it.
23
Joona leads her through a dark entrance hall. He doesn’t say anything, but holds a door opens and ushers her into a little kitchen with copper saucepans on the walls.
An elk-hunting rifle with telescopic sights is hanging under the windowsill, and on the floor are at least thirty boxes of ammunition.
The sun is shining through the drawn curtains. On the table is a coffee pot and two cups.
‘Summa died last spring,’ he explains.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says quietly.
He puts the wood-basket down on the floor and slowly straightens his back. There’s a faint smell of smoke in the kitchen, and she can hear the pine logs crackling behind the closed hatch of the iron stove.
‘So you found the body?’ he says, looking at her.
‘I wouldn’t have come otherwise,’ she replies seriously. ‘Call Åhlén if you want confirmation.’
‘I believe you,’ he says.
‘Call him anyway.’
He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything, then, leaning on the draining board, he makes his way to the other door, nudges it open and says something quietly into the gloom in Finnish.
‘This is my daughter, Lumi,’ Joona says as a girl comes into the kitchen.
‘Hello,’ Saga says.
Lumi has straight brown hair, a friendly, curious smile, but her eyes are as grey as ice. She’s tall and thin, dressed in a simple blue cotton shirt and a pair of faded jeans.
‘Are you hungry?’ Joona asks.
‘Yes,’ Saga replies.
‘Sit yourself down.’
She sits down on a chair and Joona gets out bread, butter and cheese, then starts chopping tomatoes, olives and peppers. Lumi heats some water and grinds coffee beans in a manually operated mill. Saga looks at the dimly lit room behind them, and sees a sofa and a stack of books on a table. Hanging from a drip-stand is a night-vision sight and a
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