The Shapeshifters (27 page)

‘Abominable Snowmen and Big Foot are not trolls, of course, but if similar beings were observed here I would call them trolls. So it is quite simply a question of geography,' she says.

Unknown species

Sussie Myrén thinks in cryptozoological terms. She believes the beings we call trolls could, in fact, be animal species that have avoided scientific explanation.

‘I am fairly certain that Abominable Snowmen and Yeti exist or have existed. And Sweden has huge areas of forest. Remember, these creatures are more wary than lynx and considerably more intelligent.'

But why have troll skeletons never been found?

‘That's a good question. The answer is probably that these beings are extremely rare and can be similar to other animals, even humans. Have you ever seen a skinned bear, for example? It is uncannily like a human corpse.'

Mobile cameras

She believes that the explosive increase in the number of cameras in our society, such as those in mobile phones, will result in a flood of photographic evidence.

Now she hopes her picture will be able to assist the police.

‘It could be a troll, but not necessarily. The most important thing is for anyone with information about the person in the photograph to contact the police.'

My jaw dropped when I read that, and I had trouble catching my breath. That's what Roland told me anyway, when he came in with the newspaper and handed it to me with an inscrutable grin below his moustache. He had no idea why it made me so upset.

‘“Absorbed it with my mother's milk,”' I said. ‘What will people think!'

‘But that's true, isn't it?' he said.

I read our name in the paper with horror.

Myrén, Myrén, Myrén!

And they had spelled Susso's name wrong. Luckily Dad's name wasn't mentioned—it would hardly be good for business if the actual name of the company was linked to something as awful as child abduction. Although Cecilia said the connection didn't matter and that the publicity could only have a beneficial effect on business, if that's what I was worried about. But I was still thankful the reporter had not dug any deeper.

The police got nowhere with their investigation. Apart from the fact that they knew Mattias had been taken by two men in a brown Volvo estate, the photograph was their only lead, but such an elusive and doubtful lead that they had no idea how to follow it up, or even if there was any point in doing so. And because the boy had been missing for so long they were more or less certain he would never be found alive. You could read that between the lines. There were thirty investigators working on the case fulltime. Every dark-coloured Volvo estate registered in the province was being checked out, and it would be hard to find a more common make of car in Norrbotten, so they had their work cut out. It's a never-ending job, so Roland said, and judging by the look of Kjell-Åke Andersson, the detective in charge, he thought the
same. He was on TV: a short grey-haired bloke who spoke slowly and looked pretty pathetic standing in the wind outside that steel building in Luleå where the County Police have their headquarters, and which is so horribly ugly that people with an interest in architecture come from far and wide to visit the place, just to look at the awfulness of it.

‘It's a total mystery to us,' he explained.

When he was asked if they had any leads he shook his head. ‘Nothing new, anyway.'

And the man in the photograph? The Vaikijaur man?

‘We're not excluding anything from our enquiries. That means we are interested in any tips we receive. And we are entreating the general public to continue passing on tips, so if anyone has any information please phone 114 14 . . .'

Occasionally I asked Susso how she was getting on, and although I noticed she was a bit down—to be honest, she just wasn't herself—I never had the strength to break through that shell of indifference she had built around herself. When she said she was fine, I contented myself with that answer, which was of course cowardly of me because inside I knew it was a lie.

The same day she had been in the national newspaper she was phoned by the local papers
Norrländskan
and
Kuriren
. She had answered their questions politely and even agreed to be photographed. I suggested they take the picture outside our shop, and that's what they did. We had to make something positive out of all the fuss.

Susso thought the more that was written about Mattias, the better. The more often his picture appeared in the press, the greater the chance of him being recognised by someone who had happened to see him. But the local press was only interested in
Susso, the girl who believed in trolls and whose grandfather was famous in the county.

Susso was embarrassed about the way she was portrayed in the papers, and naturally people talked. The attention was too much, we all felt that. It made all of us feel bad. Business in the shop suffered too, and I could see no logic in that. And as for Roland, he just walked around with that grin on his face.

‘There are gremlins in the works,' he said.

 

 

Lennart sat with the open newspaper in front of him, staring at the greatly enlarged photograph of Jirvin's aged face. There was also a picture of Mattias, and one of a cryptozoologist named Sussie Myrén from Kiruna. Naturally Seved and Börje knew the article was disturbing, and they were waiting to hear what Lennart had to say about it. He sniffed and shifted his weight from one buttock to the other, making the old chair creak. The bag lay on one side of the paper and his bronzed right hand on the other. The creases on the knuckles of his fingers were deep crevices.

‘The other day,' he said at last, ‘when the police made their unannounced visit to Torsten, this person was here, nosing about. Patrik noticed a car on the other side of the barrier. A green Volvo 240, registered to Susso Maria Myrén.'

Lennart prodded his index finger on the cryptozoologist's face.

‘But how did she know he was there?' Seved asked. And how did she find the house?'

‘She found it,' said Lennart slowly, ‘because our friend here has been running around the village for some unknown reason. He has been to the boy's grandmother's house on at least two occasions. And he can't just have been there by chance. We have no idea at the moment why he did it, but it's important you keep an eye on him.'

‘What, you mean he was trying to warn her? Is that what you're saying?' said Börje.

A growl formed in the base of Lennart's throat.

‘I'm saying you've got to keep an eye on him! No one knows what goes on in his head.'

‘There's not much we can do,' Börje said. ‘Not if he starts causing trouble. Such an old . . .'

‘He won't dare cause any trouble,' said Lennart. ‘Not down here. Not with you. Because otherwise Karats would make a fox-fur collar out of him. And he knows it. That's another reason we moved him. With Karats and Skabram close by he won't be getting up to any mischief. But you've still got to keep an eye on him, understand? Make sure he doesn't slip away.'

Börje nodded, and Seved noticed a layer of perspiration had formed on his forehead. He had never seen him look so tense before.

‘Jola and I have had a closer look at that website Susso Myrén has set up,' Lennart continued, his fingers scratching inside the bag. ‘And I can tell you this much: it needs to be got rid of.'

When he had said this he looked at Börje challengingly.

‘But what does it say, this website?' Börje asked.

Without taking his eyes off him, Lennart said:

‘It's got to go.'

Börje pursed his lips and swallowed hard.

‘Do you understand what I'm saying?'

‘I'm a bit out of touch . . .'

‘Jola can help you,' muttered Lennart, folding the paper. ‘You travel up to Kiruna next week. We're taking a trip to Östersund, but after that you'd better see to it. Right away.'

 

 

One evening at the beginning of the new year I was sitting in the shop, holed up in the darkness like a little owl. I had closed long ago but it was savagely cold outside and I was putting off going out in it, just sitting there in my jacket and staring into space. I was vaguely thinking about whether I should improve the Christmas decorations or simply take them down, even though there were several days left until the thirteenth of January, St Knut's Day.

There was a sudden sharp rap on the shop window, and there outside stood Susso. She was wearing her Inca hat and the large, light-blue down coat that reaches to her knees, and she was holding her mobile in her gloved hand. She had used it to rap on the glass.

‘I'm just leaving!' I called through the window, waving my gloves as proof, but she pointed to the door, so I had to go and open up for her.

She held up the phone and said in an eager voice that she had just been speaking to a man who knew who the Vaikijaur man was.

The man who had phoned was called Mats. He didn't know the exact identity of the Vaikijaur man but apparently he had lived in his loft for over a year at the beginning of the eighties. He was not a hundred per cent sure, but he was so similar that he had contacted the police. They had not been particularly interested,
however. On the other hand, he couldn't offer them much information: he didn't know what the man was called, not even his first name or where he came from—in fact, he knew practically nothing about him at all.

I pursed my lips and pulled on my gloves, studying the leather that shone over my knuckles when I curled my fingers.

‘Anyway, he's going to send a photo,' Susso said.

‘A photo?'

She lifted up her mobile and the display lit up, but the picture had not arrived yet. She pulled off her hat, ran her fingers through her hair and sat down on the chair at the end of the counter. You could tell she was excited because she kept repeating herself.

‘He said he had met him at the end of the seventies and that he had lived in their storehouse. For almost a year.'

‘In their storehouse?' I said. ‘What kind of storehouse?'

‘I don't know, but he also said he had saved their son's life and that he seemed extremely interested in the boy. And he was four years old, just like Mattias.'

‘But what do the police say?' I said.

‘They kind of didn't care. I'll phone Andersson because it seems weird they don't want to take a closer look at it at least. Seeing as they don't have any other tip-offs.'

‘Perhaps tip-offs are all they have,' I said.

‘Leads, then. If they don't have any leads.'

The mobile gave a signal, and Susso held it up as I walked round to look. I can't deny I was curious. With her stubby thumb she tapped a few keys to access the image.

It took a few moments for the picture to materialise, but when it did we were hugely disappointed. The only thing you could see was a little person in green clothes standing on a slope in a forest.
It was impossible to tell whether or not it was the same person the press had christened the Vaikijaur man.

I took the phone out of Susso's hands, pushed my glasses up onto my forehead and looked closely at the display.

‘It looks like a juniper bush covered in moss.'

‘He's got him on film too. Thirty-five millimetre.'

‘I see,' I said, handing back the phone. ‘Can't he send that then?'

Susso shook her head.

‘It's on a reel. He hasn't digitised it.'

She took a deep breath and turned to face the shop window, where long shadows reached out from the souvenirs that had been caught in the headlights of a car outside in the parking lot.

‘I ought to go there and take a look at it,' she said. ‘But I'll have to take your car to Dalarna.'

‘Dalarna!'

‘He lives outside Avesta.'

‘Do you know what I think, Susso?' I said, rooting around in my bag for my lip balm. ‘I think you should leave it alone. He could easily be some kind of lunatic. I think the police ignore tips like this for a very good reason.'

‘But I want to help him. I can't just sit here doing nothing.'

‘Help him? Who?'

‘Mattias!'

I couldn't help sighing.

‘You've helped enough already. If it hadn't been for your picture, the police would have had nothing to go on. You don't have to do more.'

‘What if he's got nothing to do with the case? Then it is my fault that they wasted masses of time looking for him. And Granddad's fault.' She pointed to the wall, at a framed photograph of
mountain flora showing colourful clumps of berries.

‘All right, all right,' I said, trying to calm her down. ‘But I still think you ought to let the police take care of this. They know what they're doing, don't you agree?'

She shook her head.

‘If it's a troll, they'll never find him.'

‘But, Susso . . .'

‘Trolls don't exist in any kind of register. They don't have fingerprints. They can't be found by using criminal sodding profiling. I've spent the best part of my life searching for them and even I don't have the faintest idea where they keep themselves hidden or what they look like.'

After sighing again I reached for the tin of ginger biscuits, found a heart-shaped one and bit off the pointed end.

‘I think you should phone the police and talk to them. Ask them how it's progressing and what they think about this latest tip about the old man in the loft. In Avesta.'

‘It drives me mad,' she said. ‘They're so slow following it up.'

‘Let's go home now,' I said. ‘We can pick up some Thai food on the way. And then we can watch a DVD. That'll take your mind off it for a while.'

That was my way of trying to look after her. In all honesty I was probably afraid to give her too much encouragement. I was worried about what all this publicity in the press would lead to in the long run. What if she was never able to get a job because of it? Who wants to employ someone who spends all their time looking for trolls?