Postcard killers

Chapter 129

The old man's eyes twinkled. He cast a quick, approving look at Jacob, straightened up in his armchair, and regarded Dessie with new interest.

"Vo hava ja djart?"

"What language is that?" Jacob asked, bewildered. "It doesn't sound like any Swedish I've heard."

"Pitemal," Dessie said. "It's an almost extinct dialect from where he grew up. It's further from Swedish than either Danish or Norwegian. This farm belonged to my maternal grandmother's family. No one around here real y understands him."

She turned to her grandfather again.

"No," she said, "we haven't done anything bad. Not yet, anyway. I'm just 172 wondering, purely hypothetical y."

"Sko ja hava nalta a ita?"

"Yes, please," Dessie said. "Coffee would be good, and a sandwich, if you've got any cheese."

The old man stood up and staggered off toward the kitchen. Dessie took the opportunity to go out into the gloom of the hal and crawl in under the stairs, where the only toilet in the house was situated.

When she got back, the old man had prepared some bread and cheese and had boiled water for instant coffee. He was sitting with his hands clasped on the wax tablecloth, his eyes squinting as he mul ed over Dessie's question.

"A djoom sa i Finland," he said. "Ha ga et…"

Dessie nodded and took a bite of the sweet bread and Port Salut.

Then she interpreted simultaneously for Jacob so he could fol ow.

Hiding in Finland wouldn't work. The Finnish police were far more effective, and brutal, than the Swedes. Any Finns on the run came over to Sweden as quickly as they could.

But if you absolutely had to get to Finland, that was no problem, as long as you had a freshly stolen car, of course.

Anyone could cross the Torne River wherever they liked. There were bridges in Haparanda, Overtornea, Pel o, Kolari, Muonio, and Karesuando.

Each had its advantages and disadvantages. Haparanda was the biggest and slowest, but the guards there were the laziest, so you might not get questioned.

Kolari was the least used and fastest, but you were more likely to be noticed there. You had to choose your route in Morjarv – north toward Overkalix or south to Haparanda. Then you just had to aim straight for Russia as quickly as you could.

"Russia?" Jacob said. "How far away is that?"

"Ja nogges tjoor over Kuusamo, ha jar som rattjest…"

"Three hundred kilometers," Dessie said.

"Christ," Jacob said. "That's nothing. Manhattan to the end of Long Island."

According to Dessie's grandfather, it was hard to get into Russia, and it always had been.

In his day, the no-man's-land along the border had been mined with explosives, but they were al gone now. Nowadays it was the most remote boundary of the European Union. It was tricky but not impossible.

The biggest problem wasn't getting out of the EU, but into Russia. You had to leave the car and then walk across, maybe just north of Tammela. There was a main road on the other side of the border that would take you to Petrozavodsk, and from there to St. Petersburg.

Dessie and Jacob sat in silence until the old man had finished.

Then he stood up, put the coffee cups on the draining board, and wandered off toward the television again.

"Stang ata dorn for moija da ja ga," he said.

"We have to shut the door to stop the midges from getting in when we leave," Dessie said. "I think he likes you."