Tommy wrinkled his brow in concentration. Suddenly he brightened up and asked eagerly, “Did you find any kind of disk or CD containing formatting software at the cottage?”
“No.”
Tommy turned toward Svante Malm. “Did you find such a disk at the rectory?”
The technician shook his head.
“So the murderer must have stayed with his victims for an hour or two, running the formatting program.”
“Or maybe he had time to run it before the murders. Jacob Schyttelius was shot when he came home in the evening. The murderer could have gotten into the house during the day, and then he would have had plenty of time,” Fredrik Stridh objected.
“And he may have downloaded the program directly from the Internet rather than carrying it around with him,” Ahlen put in.
“So all we know is that the murderer effectively destroyed the computers at both crime scenes,” Irene thought out loud.
“And marked them with the Devil’s face,” Tommy added.
“The Devil’s. .!” Andersson exclaimed, irritated. “That is just a dead end. A pastor wouldn’t have anything to do with Satanists!”
“Don’t say that. The summer church at Norssjon was burned down by Satanists. And Schyttelius had a house by the lake,” said Irene.
“Do you mean that Schyttelius himself was a Satanist and burned down that church?” Jonny Blom asked.
“Of course not. I just think it’s strange that the church was located in the vicinity of the Schyttelius family, and that the symbol which had been painted on the church doors was also on the computer monitors.”
“Except that it was written in hamster blood, not human blood,” the superintendent muttered.
“The question is whether there is any relationship. According to Svante, pentagrams are commonly drawn during different rituals. It’s possible that the person who drew the pentagrams on the computer screens didn’t know about the symbol on the church door,” Irene continued thinking out loud.
“I say it’s a dead end! To hell with the computers and the bloody symbols and that crap, and concentrate on the murders!” Andersson exclaimed.
Irene became worried when she saw how red his face was. She knew how much he hated not having even the smallest definite lead to start with. Here, everything was just a guess. In certain complicated cases like the Schyttelius murders, there were no obvious leads or motives and it gave the investigators the feeling that the murderer was playing games with them. Irene wasn’t sure that that was the case with this investigation. Maybe the murderer was trying to say something? But that was contradicted by the fact that the murderer had silenced the only witnesses who could have provided any clues: the computers.
Andersson took a deep breath in order to regain his composure and get his blood pressure under control. “It’s been settled with the police in Boras that we will undertake the investigation of the murders. Most of the parish lies within our jurisdiction, not to mention that it’s a large complicated case. Irene, Tommy, and Fredrik will drive out to Kullahult and question the church personnel and the neighbors. Jonny and Hannu will speak with the people who live in the vicinity of the cottage. It will go faster out at the cottage, and when you are done you can join the others at Kullahult. Canvassing the neighborhood has apparently not given rise to anything concrete yet, but you’ll have to speak with the officers who have been making inquiries.
“We’ll meet here at the station around five o’clock. Personally, I’m going to speak with the press in an hour. After that, I’m going to contact Georg. . the principal at the school where Jacob Schyttelius worked. Then it would probably be a good idea to pull out the reports from the Purple Murder and the fire at the church by Norssjon. And I’m going to try and get ahold of Yvonne Stridner.”
A heavy sigh escaped him with the last sentence. The others nodded in understanding. Professor Yvonne Stridner, the head of Pathology, was not easy to deal with.
Chapter 5
THE SLUSHY SNOW FROM the day before had transformed itself into an annoying freezing drizzle. The temperature during the night had risen to seven degrees above zero, Celsius, but it was premature to start feeling giddy about spring warmth. Veils of rainy haze obscured Landvetter Lake and erased the division between air and water. Everything was obscured by a single wet gray mist.
The unmarked police car turned toward Kullahult. The streets were noticeably empty. It seemed as though everything and everyone huddled indoors because of the tragedy that had befallen the small community. After driving around the church hill, they found a sign reading “Fellowship Hall.” It pointed at a low yellow brick house with a flat roof in the style of buildings from the late 1960s.
Irene had called the Kullahult Church Association before they left. Deaconess Rut Borjesson had answered. She seemed articulate and efficient, despite the fact that her voice shook with suppressed tears. She promised to gather all the association’s employees in the Fellowship Hall to make things easier for the officers. Irene had informed her that three investigators would arrive, so the questioning would go quickly. She imagined that there could hardly be very many people employed by the church; therefore, she was surprised when they entered the hall and counted ten people waiting.
A small, thin woman dressed in mourning clothes came forward. Her thin gray hair was cut in a short bob, untouched by dye or a permanent. Her eyes, behind thick glasses, were red-rimmed and tear-filled. The woman stretched out her ice-cold hand to the officers one by one and told them that she was Rut Borjesson, the deaconess. Then she introduced her colleagues.
First was a tall woman with mahogany-colored hair. She was probably over fifty, but her figure was slender and her face still beautiful. “Well-preserved” was a good adjective for her. Rut Borjesson introduced her as the church accountant, Louise Maardh.
“With two ‘a’s.” Louise smiled and held out her cool hand.
Irene was one hundred and eighty centimeters2 tall in her stocking feet, and Louise Maardh was almost as tall. She was surprised to meet a woman who could have once been a photographer’s model working as a church accountant in a country parish. This was explained when a dark man in a pastor’s shirt next to her introduced himself as Bengt Maardh, the assistant rector of Ledkulla parish. Still, Louise Maardh didn’t look like a clergyman’s wife to her. My assumptions are probably at fault, thought Irene. She’d pictured a round and happy woman who smelled of newly baked rolls, smiling, serving the women in the church sewing circle. Louise Maardh looked as if she spent her spare time on the golf course rather than in front of an oven.
The same could have been said for her husband. He was tall and slender, with clean-cut features. His dark hair, just beginning to be streaked with gray, contrasted nicely with his tanned skin. After a glance at Louise’s face, Irene concluded that the Maardh family had recently been on a ski trip and had had good weather.
The look in Bengt Maardh’s brown eyes was sad and serious. He took Irene’s hand in both of his, and for a confused second Irene had the impression that he was planning on extending his condolences to her. Instead, he mumbled a few words about how incomprehensible it was that Mr. and Mrs. Schyttelius were no longer with them. Not to mention their son. . the assistant rector’s voice broke as he shook his head without letting go of Irene’s hand. She had begun to extract it from his grip when he released it with a mumbled apology.
Jonas Burman stood next to Bengt Maardh. They greeted each other briefly. Irene noted that the young assistant rector looked pale but resolute.
The short, dark-skinned woman at his side was Rosa Marques. She was not quite middle-aged and spoke very good Swedish, though with a distinct accent. The deaconess explained that she cleaned both the Fellowship Hall and the rectory.
There was yet another married couple in the room. They looked to be in their sixties and introduced themselves as the church sextons, Siv and Orjan Svensson. They took care of the custodial duties in Kullahult and Ledkulla parishes. He was short and slender; she was also short, but plump. There we have the cinnamon roll maker, Irene thought.
