The Historians by Cecilia Ekbäck

Author:Cecilia Ekbäck
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2020-09-18T00:00:00+00:00

27.

Blackåsen Mountain

Sandler was tired; he hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d been robbed. By a kid. A Sami kid. He grumbled at the thought. On seeing the boy, black hair falling over eyes as scared as a rabbit’s, two things had gone through his head: first, if this boy had dared to come, he must really need the money; second, the director had realized he didn’t know who to call upon. I’m being robbed by a . . . child? He couldn’t see himself do it. He should have, of course. He could only hope that this wouldn’t unleash a whole series of robberies, with people saying that stealing from the director was like taking candy from a baby.

And then there was his overarching worry about Notholm’s visit and the sheer insolence of the man when he came with his payment. The director bristled at the thought. Notholm was up to something; Sandler could feel it in every fiber of his being. And, regardless of what his superior said, he could not leave it be. He was in charge. If something happened, it would be his neck on the line.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose. He pulled on his trousers and put his head in his shirt, buttoning it as he trotted downstairs. His office was empty. He noticed that the boy had pushed the window shut upon leaving.

The director opened it and shouted out, “Saddle my horse!”

The stable boy undid the door to the stables and waved.

“Breakfast, sir?” the housekeeper asked.

“Not today.”

He walked out. His dog was sitting by the stairs, wagging its tail.

“You worthless piece of . . .” he mumbled then relented and patted the beast on its head. “I couldn’t be mean to him, either,” he admitted to the animal.

HE FOUND THE foreman in his office. Hallberg wrinkled his forehead upon seeing him but nodded to the chair opposite his.

“How are things?” the director asked.

The foreman raised his brows. He tapped a finger on the file in front of him. Not one for small talk.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” Sandler said.

“Yes?”

“Notholm . . . He rents land from us—land on the mountain itself. What do you know about it?”

Hallberg clasped his fingers and leaned back in his chair. His hands were large and calloused, the rims of the nails black.

“The land’s been rented out for a long time,” he said. “Maybe fifteen years.”

“But Notholm hasn’t been here that long?” The director remembered hearing he came a few years ago and took over the hotel.

“Before him there was someone called Ivarsson.”

Somebody else? What kind of project could be handed over? Did this Ivarsson sell the project to Notholm?

“Who is with Notholm in this?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do they need the land for?”

The foreman puckered his lips. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t.” They had raised their voices. Then they fell silent, staring at each other. Sandler took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He just couldn’t get through to this pigheaded, small-minded .

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