ground had been cleared of snow right up to the barn. Around the house the snow had been shoveled up against the walls to provide insulation against the cold.
Who’s done the shoveling? Rebecka wondered. Could it be Sivving Fjällborg? Is he still clearing the snow for Grandmother, even though she’s gone? He must be around seventy now.
She tried to peer through the darkness at Sivving’s house on the opposite side of the road. When it was lighter she would look to see if it still said “Fjällborg” on the mailbox.
She wandered along beside the wall of the barn. The outside light glittered on the roses of rime frost on the barred windows. At the other end was her grandmother’s greenhouse. Several broken panes stared hollow-eyed and accusing at Rebecka.
You ought to be here, they said. You ought to look after the house and the garden. Look how the putty has given up. Just imagine what the roof tiles must look like under the snow. They’ve cracked and come loose. And your grandmother was so particular. So hardworking.
As if Virku could read her gloomy thoughts, she came scampering across the garden behind Rebecka through the darkness and barked happily.
“Hush,” laughed Rebecka. “You’ll wake up the whole village.”
Immediately a couple of answering barks came from far away. The black dog listened carefully.
"Don’t even think about it," warned Rebecka.
Maybe she should have brought a lead.
Virku looked at her happily and decided Rebecka would do very well as a companion for a dog in the mood for a game. She burrowed playfully down into the feather-light snow with her nose, came back up again and shook her head. Then she invited Rebecka to join in by plonking her front paws on the ground and sticking her bottom up in the air.
Come on, then, said her shiny black eyes.
“Right, then!” shouted Rebecka cheerfully, and lunged at the dog.
She immediately fell over. Virku flew at her like an arrow, jumped over her like a performing dog in a circus, spun around and half a second later was standing in front of Rebecka, her pink tongue lolling out of her laughing mouth and demanding that Rebecka get up and try again. Rebecka laughed and set off after the dog again. Virku hurtled over the piled-up snow and Rebecka clambered after her. They both sank into the untouched snow behind, a meter deep.
“I give up,” panted Rebecka after ten minutes.
She was sitting on her bottom in a snowdrift. Her cheeks were glowing red, and she was covered in snow.
When they got back in, Sanna was up and had put the coffee on. Rebecka pulled off her clothes. The outer layers soon got wet from the melting snow, and the clothes nearest her skin were already soaked in sweat. She found a Helly Hansen T-shirt and a pair of Uncle Affe’s long johns in a drawer.
“Nice outfit,” sniggered Sanna. “It’s good to see you’ve adapted to the classic look up here so quickly.”
“The baggy Gällivare look suits any figure,” replied Rebecka, wiggling her bottom so that the loose seat of the long johns flapped about.
“God, you’re thin,” exclaimed Sanna.
Rebecka straightened up at once and poured herself a cup of coffee in silence, her back toward Sanna.
“And you look so sort of dried-up,” Sanna went on. “You ought to take more care what you eat and drink.”
Her voice was gentle and concerned.
“Still,” she sighed when Rebecka didn’t respond, “it’s lucky for the rest of us that most men like a girl with something to get hold of. Although of course I think it’s really attractive to be flat-chested like you.”
Well, lucky me, thought Rebecka sarcastically. At least you think I look good.
Her silence made Sanna babble nervously.
“Just listen to me,” she said. “I sound like a real mother hen. I’ll be asking you next if you’re getting your vitamins.”
“Do you mind if I put the news on?” asked Rebecka.
Without waiting for a reply she went over to the television and switched it on. The picture was grainy. There was probably snow on the aerial.
An item about the embezzlement of some EU funds was followed by the murder of Viktor Strandgård. The voice of the reporter explained that the police were following the usual procedures in their hunt for the murderer, and as yet there was no obvious suspect. Pictures followed one another in rapid succession. Police and dogs searching the area outside the Crystal Church as they looked for the murder weapon. Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post talking about