We Know You Remember (51)

She was in the middle of the Sand? Bridge when her phone rang again, Bosse Ring this time. He was already in Kungsg?rden, where they had arranged to meet. To “go another round with the wife,” as GG had put it.

To convince Mejan Nydalen to take them through what had happened that morning, minute by minute, in the hope that they might spot the cracks in her stubborn defense of her husband.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” said Eira, stepping on the accelerator.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s no one home. I managed to get hold of the son on the phone, she’s gone to visit a cousin in ?rnsk?ldsvik.”

“Should we drive up there?”

He hesitated for a moment before answering.

“I said we just wanted a chat, in my usual friendly way. We’re not chasing her; we can do it tomorrow morning.”

Eira turned off by a disused campsite, pulling over to think about where she would be most useful. She could drive back to the station and sit down at a computer with access to the full investigation—or was there anyone she should talk to?

The little wooden cabins were lopsided, their yellow paint peeling. Several had actually collapsed. The place had the charm of a bygone era, early sixties in all likelihood, back when people used to tour campsites—despite their less-than-appealing location at the foot of a concrete bridge, tucked among the exits of the former E4 highway.

She checked her mobile, saw the two calls she had missed while she was talking to her mother about how pretty the roses were.

One was from August, the other from a number she didn’t recognize.

She called it.

“Rolle here.”

Hagstr?m’s old workmate from the timber yard, Rolle Mattsson from Sandsl?n.

“Have you caught the bastard yet?” he asked. “Heard the house burnt down, too. Sven must be turning in his grave, poor sod. It was his parents’ place, you know, he took over after them. Not that he’s been buried yet. You know he wasn’t a religious bloke, don’t you?”

“It’ll probably be a while before any funeral,” said Eira. “Is that why you called?”

“Not at all. You were trying to get hold of the chair of the local hunting party, but he had a stroke back in May. His wife asked me to get in touch with you, in case it was urgent. Usually is when the police come calling.”

“Are you a member of the same hunting group?”

“It’ll probably be me who ends up taking over. If it turns out it’s a bad stroke, that is.”

Eira opened the car door and climbed out. The grass in the campsite had been cut recently. The owners often took care of that kind of thing even if they neglected the buildings. Letting the grass go wild was seen as the final step, the death blow.

“I had a few general questions,” she began. “About the equipment you use in the hunt.”

“Go for it.”

“The knives, for example.”

“Yes?”

They hadn’t released any details about the murder weapon, but as ever there were likely people who knew, rumors swirling. And if not then, he certainly knew now.

“Does everyone have roughly the same kind of knife?” Eira knew how stupid the question sounded, but he said yes, that most people stuck to a handful of manufacturers, typically the ones available from the local ironmonger.

“And let’s say your knife starts to get a little blunt, do you buy a new, identical one?”

“No, for God’s sake, I sharpen it.”

“Yourself?”

“Either that or I take it to Harry at Nylands J?rn.”

Of course.

“And everyone involved in the hunt uses their own knife, is that how it works?” Another particularly dumb question. It went without saying. You didn’t need to have grown up in the forests to know that, but Eira got away with it purely because she was a woman.

“Yes, yes,” he replied, still patient. “You don’t want to be stuck there in the woods, unable to gut an elk. You need to be able to skin it. Some people like having one knife for that and another for small game, plus one for cutting sausages by the fire later, but I always say there’s no need; it’s not the tools that make a hunter.”

“So you need to be good with a knife?”

“As important as being able to shoot. Out of respect for the animal. You can’t be fumbling about, making mistakes.”

“Is Tryggve Nydalen a member of your hunting group?”

A few seconds’ pause. He had been referred to as “a fifty-nine-year-old man” in the press, but he also had a custody hearing the next day, and his name would hardly remain a secret for long. Assuming it hadn’t already leaked.

Assuming he was remanded in custody.

“Yes, yes,” said Rolle Mattsson. “They both are.”

“Both?”

“Yeah, him and the wife.”

“Mejan?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. We let women in too. There was a bit of resistance at first, obviously, but it’s like I always say: They can be a pretty good shot if you just get them to shut up for long enough.”

He chuckled at his own joke. Eira breathed in, could smell grass. The breeze was soft and mild, but it still made her shiver.

“Do you remember,” she continued, “whether either of them took down an elk last autumn?”