She had fled to the kitchen. Switched on the radio and the dishwasher. Picked up Baloo and wept into the dog’s fur.
Thomas Soderberg leaned down toward the three women and lowered his voice.
“Have you heard anything about Sanna?” he asked.
Astrid, Karin and Maja shook their heads.
“Ask Curt Backstrom,” said Astrid. “He’s forever trailing around after her.”
The pastors’ wives turned their heads like periscopes. It was Maja who first caught sight of Curt. She waved and pointed until he reluctantly got up and shambled over to them.
Karin looked at him. He always seemed so anxious. Walked a bit hesitantly. Almost sidling along. As if it might appear too aggressive to approach head-on. Looked at them out of the corner of his eyes, but always glanced away if you tried to meet his gaze.
“Do you know where Sanna is staying?” asked Thomas Soderberg.
Curt shook his head. Answered as well, just to be on the safe side:
“No.”
He was obviously lying. There was fear in his eyes. At the same time, they were resolute. He didn’t intend to reveal his secret.
Like a dog that’s found a bone in the woods, thought Karin.
Curt looked furtively at them. Almost crouching. As if Thomas might suddenly shout “Away” and hit him on the muzzle.
Thomas Soderberg looked disturbed. He twisted his body as if he were trying to shake off the pastors’ wives.
'I just want to know that she’s all right,' he said. 'Nothing must happen to her.'
Curt nodded, and his gaze slid over the seats, which were beginning to fill up. He held up the Bible in his hands and pressed it to his chest.
“I want to bear witness,” he said quietly. “God has something to say.”
Thomas Soderberg nodded.
“If you hear anything from Sanna, tell her I was asking about her,” he said.
Astrid looked at Thomas Soderberg.
And if you hear anything from God, she thought, tell Him I’m asking about Him all the time.
Mans Wenngren, Rebecka Martinsson’s boss, got home late going on early. He’d spent the evening at Sophie’s, treating two young ladies to drinks, along with a representative for one of the law firm’s clients, a computer company specializing in industrial IT that had recently floated on the stock exchange. It was pleasant to deal with that kind of client. Grateful for every cent you managed to keep away from the tax collector. The clients who’d been accused of tax evasion or dubious book-keeping weren’t usually that keen on sitting in a bar with their lawyer. They sat and drank at home instead.
After Sophie’s had closed Mans had shown one of the young ladies, Marika, his nice office, then he had put little Marika in a cab with some money in her hand, and himself in another cab.
When he walked into the dark apartment on Floragatan he thought as usual that he ought to move to something smaller. It was hardly surprising that every time he came home he felt, well, however it was he felt when the apartment was so bloody desolate.
He threw his gray cashmere coat on a chair and flicked on every light on his way to the living room. As he was hardly ever home before eleven at night, the video timer was always set to record the news. He switched on the video, and as Channel 4’s news titles rolled he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Ritva had been shopping. Good. It must be her easiest job, cleaning his flat and making sure there was fresh food in. He never made a mess, except on the rare occasions he invited people back. The food Ritva bought was usually untouched when it was replaced with fresh. He presumed she took the old stuff home to her family before it went off. It was an arrangement that suited him perfectly. He ripped open some milk and drank straight from the carton, one ear on the news. The murder of Viktor Strandgard was the top story.
That’s why Rebecka went up to Kiruna, thought Mans Wenngren, heading back into the living room. He sank down on the sofa in front of the TV, the carton of milk in his hand.
“The religious celebrity Viktor Strandgard was found murdered this morning in the church of The Source of All Our Strength in Kiruna,” announced the newsreader.
She was a well-dressed middle-aged woman who used to be married to someone Mans knew.
“Hi there, Beate, how’s things?” said Mans, raising the milk carton to the screen in a toast and taking a deep draught.
“According to police sources, Viktor Strandgard was found by his sister, and those same sources report that the murder was extremely brutal,” continued the newsreader.
“Come on, Beate, we know all that,” said Mans.
He suddenly became aware of how drunk he was. He felt stupid, his head full of cotton wool. He decided to have a shower as soon as the news was finished.
They were showing a report on the murder now. A male voice was speaking over pictures. First of all, pale blue wintry pictures of the impressive Crystal Church up on the hill. Then shots of the police shoveling their way through the area around the church. They’d also used some clips from one of the church gatherings, everyone singing, and gave a short summary of who Viktor Strandgard was.
“There is no doubt that this incident has aroused strong feelings in Kiruna,” continued the reporter’s voice. “This was made very clear when Viktor Strandgard’s sister, Sanna Strandgard, arrived at the police station to be interviewed, accompanied by her lawyer.”
The picture was showing a snow-covered car park. A breathless young female reporter dashed up to two women who were climbing out of a red Audi. The reporter’s red hair stuck out from under her cap like a fox’s brush. She looked young and energetic. It was dark, but you could make out a boring redbrick building in the background. It couldn’t be anything other than a police station. One of the women getting out of the Audi had her head down, and all you could see of her was a long sheepskin coat and a sheepskin hat pulled well down over her eyes. The other woman was Rebecka Martinsson. Mans turned up the volume and leaned forward on the sofa.
“What the…?” he said to himself.
Rebecka had told him she was going up there because she knew the family, he thought. Saying she was the sister’s lawyer must be a mistake.
He looked at Rebecka’s set face as she walked quickly toward the police station, her arm firmly around the other woman, who must be Viktor Strandgard’s sister. With her free arm she tried to fend off the woman with the microphone who was trotting along after them.
“Is it true that his eyes had been gouged out?” asked the female reporter in a broad Lulea accent.
“How are you feeling, Sanna?” she went on when she got no reply. “Is it true the children were with you in the church when you found him?”
When they got to the entrance of the police station, the fox placed herself resolutely in front of them.
“My God, girl,” sighed Mans. “What’s going on here? Hard-hitting American journalism a la Lapland?”
“Do you think it might have been a ritual killing?” asked the reporter.
The camera zoomed in on her glowing, agitated cheeks, then there was a close-up of Rebecka’s and the other woman’s faces in profile. Sanna Strandgard was holding her hands up to her face like blinkers. Rebecka’s gray eyes glared straight into the camera first of all, and then she looked straight at the reporter.
“Get out of the way,” she said sternly.
The words and the expression on Rebecka’s face stirred an unpleasant memory in Mans’ head. It had been at the firm’s Christmas party the previous year. He’d been trying to chat and be pleasant, and she’d looked at him as if he were something you might find while cleaning out the urinals. If he remembered rightly, that was exactly what she’d said to him as well. In the same stern voice.
“Get out of the way.”
After that he’d kept his distance. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel embarrassed and resign. And he didn’t want her getting any ideas either. If she wasn’t interested, that was fine.
All at once things were happening very quickly on the screen. Mans paid closer attention, kept his finger poised over the pause button on the remote control. Rebecka raised her arm to get past, and suddenly the
