SUNDAY SEPTEMBER 10
It is Sunday evening. Rebecka Martinsson is sitting on the floor in her grandmother’s house in Kurravaara. She’s lit a fire in the stove. A blanket over her shoulders, her arms around her knees. From time to time she takes a log out of the wooden box from the Swedish Sugar Company. She is gazing into the fire. Her muscles are tired. During the day she has carried rugs, blankets, quilts, mattresses and cushions outside. She’s beaten them and left them hanging out there. She has scrubbed the floor with yellow soap and cleaned the windows. Washed all the china and wiped out the kitchen cupboards. She’s left the ground floor at that. She’s had the windows wide open all day to air the place, get rid of all the old, stale air. Now she’s lit a fire in both the kitchen stove and the other room to drive out the last of the damp. She has kept the Sabbath day holy. Her mind has rested. Now it is resting in the fire. In the age-old way.
Inspector Sven-Erik Stalnacke is sitting in his living room. The television is on, but with no sound. Just in case there might be a cat miaowing outside. It doesn’t matter, he’s seen this film before. It’s Tom Hanks, falling in love with a mermaid.
The whole house feels empty without the cat. He’s walked along the side of the road, looking in the ditch and calling quietly. Now he feels very tired. Not from walking, but from listening so hard all the time. From keeping going. Although he knows there’s no point.
And no sign of life from the priest who’s vanished. Both evening papers had got hold of it on Saturday. Center page spread on the disappearance. A comment from the national police profiling team, but nothing from the female psychiatrist who did actually help them with a profile. One of the evening papers had found some old case from the seventies, where some lunatic in Florida had murdered two revivalist preachers. The murderer had been killed himself by a fellow prisoner while he was cleaning the toilets, but during his time in jail he’d boasted that he’d committed other murders he hadn’t gone down for. Big picture of Stefan Wikstrom. The words “priest,” “father of four,” “despairing wife” appeared in the text under the picture. Not a word about possible embezzlement, thank the Lord. Sven-Erik also noticed that it didn’t say anything about Stefan Wikstrom being opposed to women priests.
There were, of course, no resources for the protection of priests and pastors in general. His colleagues had felt their hearts sink when one of the papers wrote: “Police Admit: We Cannot Protect Them!” The
It was a madman, of course. The sort who would just carry on until his luck ran out. Sven-Erik thinks about Manne. In a way, his disappearance was worse than if he’d died. You couldn’t grieve. You were just tormented by not knowing. Your head like a cesspit, full of horrible speculation about what might have happened.
But good God, Manne was just a cat. If it had been his daughter. That idea is too big. Impossible to grasp.
Bertil Stensson is sitting on the sofa in his living room. A glass of Cognac stands on the windowsill behind him. His right arm is resting along the back of the sofa, behind his wife’s neck. With his left hand he is caressing her breast. She doesn’t take her eyes off the TV, it’s some old film with Tom Hanks, but the corners of her mouth turn up approvingly. He caresses one breast and one scar. He remembers how upset she was four years ago, when they took it off. “A woman still wants to be desired even though she’s turned sixty,” she said. But he’s come to love the scar more than the breast that was there before. As a reminder that life is short. Before your pots can feel the thorns, he shall take them away as with a whirlwind, both living, and in his wrath. That scar puts everything into perspective. Helps him to maintain a balance between work and leisure, duty and love. Sometimes he’s thought he’d like to preach a sermon about the scar. But of course that isn’t really an option. Besides, it would feel as if he were overstepping the mark in some inexplicable way. It would lose its power in his life if he put it into words. It is the scar that preaches to Bertil. He has no right to take over that sermon and pass it on to others.
It was Mildred he spoke to, four years ago. Not Stefan. Not the bishop, although they’ve been friends for many years. He remembers that he wept. That Mildred was a good listener. That he felt he could rely on her.
She drove him mad. But as he sits here now, his wife’s scar beneath his left forefinger, he can’t really remember what it was that used to provoke him so. Even if she was a bluestocking who didn’t really appreciate what did and didn’t fall within the remit of the church.
She disqualified him from his role as her boss. That bothered him. Never asked for permission. Never asked for advice. Found it very difficult to keep in line.
He almost gives a start at his own choice of words, keep in line. He really isn’t that kind of boss. He prides himself on giving his employees freedom and responsibilities of their own. But he’s still their boss.
Sometimes he’d had to point that out to Mildred. Like that business with the funeral. It was a man who’d left the church. But he’d been attending Mildred’s services the year before he got ill. Then he died. And he’d made it known that he wanted Mildred to officiate. And she’d conducted a civil funeral. Of course, he could have turned a blind eye to that little infringement of the rules, but he’d reported her to the cathedral chapter, and she’d had to go and see the bishop. At the time he’d thought it was the right thing to do. What was the point of having rules and regulations if they weren’t followed?
She came back to work and behaved exactly as she always had. Didn’t even mention the interview with the bishop. Didn’t seem upset, didn’t sulk, didn’t seem to feel she’d been treated unfairly. This gave Bertil a sneaking feeling that the bishop might have been on her side. That he might have said he had to speak to her and rap her knuckles because Bertil had insisted, something along those lines. That they’d been in silent agreement that Bertil was easily offended, insecure in his position and perhaps even slightly jealous. Because he hadn’t been asked to officiate at the funeral.
It isn’t often people really take a close look at themselves. But now he’s sitting before the scar, as if he were in the confessional.
It was true. He had been a bit jealous. A bit irritated by that simple love she drew from so many people.
“I miss her,” Bertil says to his wife.
He misses her, and he will grieve for her for a long time to come.
His wife doesn’t ask who he means. She abandons the film and turns the sound down.
“I didn’t support her as I should have done when she worked here,” he goes on.
“That’s not true,” says his wife. “You gave her the freedom to work in her own way. Managed to keep both her and Stefan in the church, that was quite an achievement.”
The two troublesome priests.
Bertil shakes his head.
“Support her now, then,” says his wife. “She’s left so much behind. She used to be able to take care of it all herself, but maybe now she needs your support more than ever.”
“How?” he laughs. “Most of the women in Magdalena regard me as their greatest enemy.”
His wife smiles at him.
“Then you must help and support without receiving either thanks or love in return. You can have a little love from me instead.”
“Maybe we should go to bed,” suggests the priest.
The wolf, he thinks as he sits down to pee. That’s what Mildred would have wanted. Use the money in the foundation to pay for her to be protected this winter.
As soon as the idea occurs to him, it’s as if the whole bathroom is almost electrified. His wife is already in bed, calling out to him.
“Won’t be a minute,” he answers. Almost afraid to shout out loud. Her presence is so tangible. But
