She fell silent and gestured with her right hand toward the bloodstained spot where Viktor Strandgard had lain.
“As the floor isn’t varnished, I don’t think we’ll be able to scrub away every single trace… Perhaps we could roll up the rug and put something else over the spot until we get a new one.”
“That will be fine,” answered Pastor Gunnar Isaksson.
“Just leave it, Ann-Gull, my dear,” interrupted Pastor Soderberg, glancing almost imperceptibly at Gunnar Isaksson at the same time. “I’ll deal with all that shortly. Just leave it for now. The police will soon be finished with us, I imagine?”
This last remark was directed at Anna-Maria and Sven-Erik. When they didn’t reply, Thomas Soderberg gave the woman a smile that seemed to indicate that their conversation was at an end for the time being. She disappeared like a willing handmaiden and went back to the other woman. Soon the vacuum cleaner was droning again.
The pastors and the detectives sat in silence, staring at one another.
Typical, thought Anna-Maria angrily. Untreated wooden floor, thick handwoven rug, chairs instead of pews. It all looks lovely, but it’s got to be damned difficult to keep clean. Good job they have so many obedient women who clean for God for free.
“There is a limit to how much time we can spare,” said Thomas Soderberg.
His voice had lost all trace of warmth.
“We have a service here this evening and I’m sure you will understand that we have a considerable amount of preparation to do,” he said when there was no reply from the two detectives.
“So,” said Sven-Erik thoughtfully, as if they had all the time in the world, “if Viktor Strandgard didn’t have enemies, I’m sure he must have had friends. Who was closest to Viktor Strandgard?”
“God,” replied Pastor Isaksson with a triumphant smile.
“His family, of course, his mother and father,” said Thomas Soderberg, ignoring his colleague’s comment. “Viktor’s father, Olof Strandgard, is chairman of the Christian Democrats and a local councillor. The church has a significant number of representatives on the local council, principally through the Christian Democrats, the largest party among the middle classes in Kiruna. Our influence throughout the whole community is growing steadily, and we expect to have a majority at the next election. We are also relying on the police not to do anything that might damage the trust we have built up among the electorate. And then there’s Viktor’s sister, Sanna Strandgard-have you spoken to her?”
“No, not yet,” replied Sven-Erik.
“Just be careful when you do; she’s a very fragile person,” said Pastor Soderberg.
“And then I should include myself,” continued Thomas Soderberg.
“Were you his confessor?” asked Sven-Erik.
“Well,” said Thomas Soderberg, smiling once again, “we don’t call it that. Spiritual mentor, perhaps.”
“Do you know whether Viktor Strandgard was intending to make some kind of revelation before he died?” asked Anna-Maria. “Something about himself, perhaps? Or about the church?”
“No,” replied Thomas Soderberg after a second’s silence. “What could it have been?”
“Excuse me,” said Anna-Maria as she stood up. “But I must just pop to your bathroom.”
She left the men and went to the bathroom right at the back of the church. She had a pee, then sat for a while resting her gaze on the white-tiled walls. One thought was pounding in her head. During her years with the police she had learned to recognize the signs of stress. Everything from sweating to dizziness. People were usually nervous when they were talking to the police. But it was when they started trying to hide their stress that it became interesting to watch them.
And there was one particular sign of stress that you only got one chance to catch. It only happened once. And she’d just heard it. Immediately after she’d asked whether Viktor Strandgard was intending to reveal something before he died. One of the three pastors, she hadn’t managed to work out which one, had taken a deep breath. Just once. Caught his breath.
“Shit,” she said aloud, and was surprised at how good it felt to swear secretly in church.
It didn’t necessarily mean a damned thing. Someone breathing. It’s obvious there’s something going on. Show me the board of a large organization where there isn’t. Even in the police. And this lot aren’t as pure as the driven snow either.
“But that doesn’t make them murderers,” Anna-Maria continued her discussion with herself as she flushed the toilet.
But there were other inconsistencies. Why, for example, had Vesa Larsson said that nothing was troubling Viktor Strandgard if Thomas Soderberg was supposed to be his 'spiritual mentor,' and therefore must have been the one who knew him best?
When Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria left the church and were making their way down to the car park, the woman who had been vacuuming came running after them. She had only socks and clogs on her feet, and half ran, half slid down the slope to catch them.
“I heard you asking if he had any enemies,” she panted.
“Yes?” asked Sven-Erik.
“He did,” she said, seizing Sven-Erik’s arm in a viselike grip. “And now he’s dead, the enemy will be even stronger. I myself can feel how I am beset by the foe.”
She let go of Sven-Erik and flung her arms around herself in a vain attempt to keep out the bitter cold. She hadn’t put on any sort of coat or jacket. She bent her knees slightly to keep her balance on the slope. If she leaned backwards even slightly the clogs began to slip.
“Beset?” asked Anna-Maria.
“By demons,” said the woman. “They want to make me start smoking again. I used to be possessed by the tobacco demon, but Viktor Strandgard laid hands upon me and freed me.”
Anna-Maria looked at her, completely exhausted. She couldn’t cope with a mad person right now.
“We’ll make a note of it,” she said tersely, and started to walk toward the car.
Sven-Erik stayed where he was and took his notebook out of the inside pocket of his fleece.
“He was the one who killed Viktor,” said the woman.
“Who?” asked Sven-Erik.
“The Prince of Demons,” she whispered. “Satan. He is trying to force his way in.”
Sven-Erik shoved the notebook back in his pocket and took hold of the woman’s ice-cold hands.
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, why don’t you go back inside, so you don’t freeze to death.”
“I just wanted to tell you about it,” the woman called after them.
Inside the church the pastors were engaged in a loud discussion.
“We can’t do it like this!” shouted Gunnar Isaksson agitatedly, dogging Thomas Soderberg’s footsteps as he walked around the black bloodstain on the floor and moved the chairs so that the dark impression of Viktor Strandgard’s death ended up almost as if it were in the middle of a circus ring.
“Yes, we can,” said Thomas Soderberg calmly, and, turning toward the well-dressed woman, he went on:
“Take the rug away from the aisle. Leave the bloodstain as it is. Go and buy three roses and place them on the floor. I want the church rearranged completely. I shall stand beside the spot where he died and preach. I want the chairs in a circle.”
'You’ll have the congregation all around you,' squeaked Gunnar Isaksson. 'Do you expect people to sit and look at your back?'
Thomas Soderberg went over to the pudgy little man and placed his hands on his shoulders.
You little shit, he thought. You’re not a gifted enough orator to speak in an arena. A theater. A marketplace. You have to have everybody sitting right there in front of you, and a lectern to hang on to if it gets tricky. But I can’t let your inadequacy get in my way.
“Remember what we said, brother,” said Thomas Soderberg to Gunnar Isaksson. “We must hold fast now. I promise you this will work. People will be allowed to weep, to call out to God, and we-God-will triumph tonight. Tell your wife to bring a flower to place on the spot where his body lay.”
The atmosphere will be incredible, thought Thomas Soderberg.
He made a mental note to get several more people to bring flowers and lay them on the floor. It would be just
