Sun Storm aka The Savage Altar

characters on the front. Virku was sitting at their feet waiting patiently for her share. The wood in the stove crackled and sparked.

Rebecka glanced at the clock. Seven already. And she and Sanna had to go to the police station. The stress gnawed at her stomach.

Sara sniffed at Lova’s top.

“You smell disgusting,” she said.

“No she doesn’t,” said Rebecka with a sigh. “The clothes smell a bit funny because they’ve been folded up in a drawer for such a long time. But her own are even worse, so we’ll just have to put up with it. Give Virku your leftover sausage.”

She left the girls in the kitchen, went into the other room and closed the door.

“Sanna,” she said.

Sanna didn’t move. She lay in exactly the same position as before, her face turned to the wall.

Rebecka went over to the bed and stood there with her arms folded.

'I know you can hear me,' she said harshly. 'I’m not the same person I used to be, Sanna. I’ve become nastier and more impatient since then. I have no intention of sitting by you, stroking your hair and asking you what’s wrong. You can get up right now and get some clothes on. Otherwise I shall take your daughters straight to Social Services and tell them that you’re unable to look after them at present. Then I’ll get the next plane back to Stockholm.'

Still no answer. Not a movement.

“Okay,” said Rebecka after a while.

She took a deep breath as if to indicate that she had finished waiting around. Then she turned and walked toward the kitchen door.

That’s it, then, she thought. I’ll ring the police and tell them where she is. They can carry her out of the house.

Just as she placed her hand on the door handle she heard Sanna sit up on the bed behind her.

“Rebecka” was all she said.

Rebecka hesitated for half a second. Then she turned round and leaned on the door. She folded her arms again. Like somebody’s mother: Now let’s get this sorted out once and for all.

And Sanna was like a little girl, chewing on her lower lip, pleading with her eyes.

“Sorry,” she mumbled in her husky voice. “I know I’m the worst mother in the world and an even worse friend. Do you hate me?”

“You’ve got three minutes to put your clothes on and get yourself out here to eat something,” ordered Rebecka, and marched out.

Sven-Erik Stalnacke had parked outside the hospital Emergency department. Anna-Maria leaned on the car door when he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the keys. It wasn’t that easy to take deep breaths when the air was so cold it actually took your breath away, but she had to try and relax. Her stomach had grown as hard as a snowball on the short walk from the autopsy out to the car.

“The Church of All Our Strength has three pastors,” said Sven-Erik, groping in his other pocket. “They have informed us that they are available to receive the police for the purpose of interrogation. They are setting aside one hour, no more. And they have no intention of being interrogated individually; all three of them will talk to us together. They say they wish to cooperate, but-”

“But they have no intention of cooperating,” supplied Anna-Maria.

“What the hell do you do?” wondered Sven-Erik. “Go in hard, or what?”

“No, because then the whole community will just shut up like a giant clam. But you have to wonder why they’re not prepared to speak to us one-on-one.”

“No idea. One of them did explain. Gunnar Isaksson, his name was. But I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. Maybe you can ask when we meet them. Bloody hell, Anna-Maria, I should have had them dragged out of bed first thing this morning.”

“No,” replied Anna-Maria, shaking her head thoughtfully. “You couldn’t have done anything differently.”

The Aurora Borealis was still swirling its veils of white and green across the sky.

“It’s just unbelievable,” she said, tipping her head backwards. “It’s been like this all winter. Have you ever known anything like it?”

“No, but it’s these sun storms,” replied Sven-Erik. “It looks fantastic, but any day now they’re bound to decide it causes cancer. We should probably be walking around with a silver parasol to protect us from the radiation.”

“Now, that would really suit you,” laughed Anna-Maria.

They got into the car.

“On that particular subject,” Sven-Erik went on, “how are things with Pohjanen?”

“I don’t know, it wasn’t really the right time to ask.”

“No, of course not.”

He can ask Pohjanen himself, thought Anna-Maria crossly.

Sven-Erik parked below the church and they began to walk up the hill. The piles of snow by the side of the path had disappeared, and the tracks of both people and dogs crisscrossed the snow all around the church. The whole area had been searched for the murder weapon, in the hope that whoever had murdered Viktor Strandgard would have thrown away the weapon outside the church, or perhaps buried it in a mound of snow But nothing had been found.

“What if we don’t find a weapon,” said Sven-Erik, slowing down as he noticed that Anna-Maria was out of breath. “Can you get a conviction for murder these days if there’s no technical proof?”

“Just remember what happened to the guy everybody said had murdered Olof Palme,” puffed Anna- Maria.

Sven-Erik gave a hollow laugh.

“Oh, that’s made me feel so much better.”

“Have you found the sister yet?”

“No, but von Post says he’s arranged for her to come in at eight o’clock this evening to be interviewed, so we’ll see what comes of that.”

Anna-Maria Mella and Sven-Erik Stalnacke entered the church of The Source of All Our Strength at ten minutes past five in the afternoon. The three pastors were sitting in a row right at the front of the church, their faces turned toward the altar. There were also three other people in the church. A middle-aged woman was dragging an unwieldy vacuum cleaner as it droned and roared over the carpets. Anna- Maria thought she looked skinny in her old-fashioned tights and a pale lilac knitted cotton sweater that almost came down to her knees. From time to time the woman had to switch off the vacuum cleaner and get down on her hands and knees to pick up bits of rubbish that were too big for the hose. Then there was another middle-aged woman, much more elegant, in a smart skirt, well-pressed blouse and matching cardigan. She was walking up and down the rows of chairs and placing a photocopied sheet on each seat. The third person was a young man. He appeared to be wandering aimlessly around, talking to himself. He held a Bible in his hand. Every so often he stopped in front of a chair, reached out his hand and seemed to be talking to it in an agitated manner, but no sound came from his lips. Or he stopped dead, raised the Bible up toward the ceiling and gabbled out loud a series of phrases that were completely incomprehensible to Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria. When they walked past him, he gave them a filthy look. The blood-soaked rug was still lying in the aisle, but someone had moved the chairs so that it was easy to get by without walking where the body had been.

“So, this is the Holy Trinity, then,” said Sven-Erik in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere as the three pastors rose to greet them, their faces serious.

None of them gave the slightest hint of a smile.

When they were seated Anna-Maria jotted down their names with a short description in her notebook so that she’d remember afterward who was who and who said what. A tape recorder was out of the question. It was probably going to be difficult enough to get anything out of them as it was.

“Thomas Soderberg,” she wrote, “dark, good-looking, trendy glasses. Forty-something. Vesa Larsson, forty- something, the only one who isn’t wearing a suit and tie. Flannel shirt and leather waistcoat. Gunnar Isaksson.