thumbing and leafing. A variety of bookmarks protruded from everywhere: postcards, plaited laces, newspaper clippings.
With a whimper Sanna sank down helplessly and sat there in the snow.
“It says Viktor Strandgard inside the cover,” von Post continued mercilessly. “Could you tell us whether it’s his Bible, and what it was doing in your kitchen? Isn’t it true that he had it with him everywhere he went, and that he had it in the church on the last night of his life?”
“No,” whispered Sanna. “No.”
She pressed her hands against the sides of her face.
Lova tried to push Sanna’s hands away so that she could look into her mother’s eyes. When she couldn’t do it, she burst into tears, inconsolable.
“Mummy, I want to go,” she sobbed.
“Get up,” said von Post harshly. “You’re under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Viktor Strandgard.”
Sara turned on the prosecutor. “Leave her alone,” she screamed.
“Get these children away from here,” von Post said impatiently to Tommy Rantakyro.
Tommy Rantakyro took a hesitant step toward Sanna. Then Virku rushed forward and placed herself in front of her mistress. She lowered her head, flattened her ears and bared her sharp teeth with a low growl. Tommy Rantakyro backed off.
“Right, I’ve had just about enough of this,” said Rebecka to Carl von Post. “I want to make a complaint.”
Her last remark was directed to Anna-Maria Mella, who was standing beside her and gazing up at the surrounding buildings. At every window the curtains were twitching inquisitively.
“You want to make a-” said von Post, interrupting himself with a shake of the head. “As far as I’m concerned, you can come along to the station for questioning with regard to a complaint of assault made against you by a television reporter from Channel 4’s Norrbotten news.”
Anna-Maria Mella touched von Post lightly on the arm.
“We’re starting to get an audience,” she said. “It wouldn’t look very good if one of the neighbors rang the press and starting talking about police brutality and all the rest of it. I might be mistaken, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the old guy in the flat up there to the left was filming us with a video camera.”
She pointed up at one of the windows.
“It might be best if Sven-Erik and I leave, so it doesn’t look as if there’s a whole army of us here,” she went on. “We can go and ring forensics. I assume you want them to go over the flat?”
Von Post’s upper lip was twitching with displeasure. He tried to look in through the window Anna-Maria Mella had pointed at, but the flat was completely dark. Then he realized he might be staring straight into the lens of a camera, and hastily looked away. The last thing he wanted was to be linked to police brutality, or to be censured in the press.
“No, I want to talk to the forensics guys myself,” he replied. “You and Sven-Erik can take Sanna Strandgard in. Make sure the flat’s sealed.
“We’ll speak again,” he said to Sanna before jumping into his Volvo Cross Country.
Rebecka noticed the look on Anna-Maria Mella’s face as the prosecutor’s car disappeared.
Well, I’ll be damned, she thought. Horse face tricked him. She wanted him out of here, and… Hell, she’s smart.
As soon as Carl von Post had left, silence reigned. Tommy Rantakyro stood there uncertainly waiting for a sign from Anna-Maria or Sven-Erik. Sara and Lova were on their knees in the snow with their arms around their mother, who was still sitting on the ground. Virku lay down by their side and chomped on lumps of snow. When Rebecka bent down to stroke her, she thumped her tail just to show that everything was all right. Sven-Erik gave Anna-Maria a questioning look.
“Tommy,” said Anna-Maria, breaking the silence, “can you and Olsson seal the flat? Mark the kitchen tap so nobody uses it until the forensics team has been in.”
“Hi,” Sven-Erik said gently to Sanna. “We’re really sorry about all this. But we’re stuck with the situation now. You have to come with us to the station.”
“Can we drop the children off somewhere?” asked Anna-Maria.
“No,” said Sanna, raising her head. “I want to speak to my lawyer, Rebecka Martinsson.”
Rebecka sighed.
“Sanna, I’m not your lawyer.”
“I want to talk to you anyway.”
Sven-Erik Stalnacke glanced uncertainly at his colleague.
“I don’t know-” he began.
“Oh, please!” snapped Rebecka. “She’s being detained for questioning. Not arrested with limited access. She has every right to speak to me. Stand here and listen, we’re not going to be talking about any secrets.”
Lova whimpered in Sanna’s ear.
'What did you say, honey?'
“I’ve wet my knickers,” howled Lova.
Every gaze was turned on the little girl. It was quite true, a dark stain had appeared on her old jeans.
“Lova needs dry trousers,” said Rebecka to Anna-Maria Mella.
“Listen to me, girls,” said Anna-Maria to Sara and Lova. “Why don’t you come upstairs with me and we’ll find some dry trousers for Lova, then we’ll come back down to your mum. She won’t go anywhere till we come back. I promise.”
“Go on, do what she says,” said Sanna. “My precious little girls. Fetch some clothes for me too. And Virku’s food.”
“I’m sorry,” said Anna-Maria to Sanna. “Not your clothes. And the prosecutor will want to send everything you’re wearing to Linkoping.”
“That’s okay,” said Rebecka quickly. “I’ll sort some new clothes out for you, Sanna. All right?”
The girls disappeared inside with Anna-Maria. Sven-Erik Stalnacke squatted down a little way from Sanna and Rebecka and talked to Virku. They seemed to have a lot in common.
“I can’t help you, Sanna,” said Rebecka. “I’m a tax specialist. I don’t deal with criminal cases. If you need a public defender, I can help you get hold of someone good.”
“Don’t you understand?” mumbled Sanna. “It has to be you. If you won’t help me, I don’t want anybody. God can look after me.”
“Just stop it, please,” begged Rebecka.
“No, you stop it,” said Sanna angrily. “I need you, Rebecka. And my children need you. I don’t care what you think of me, but now I’m begging you. What do you want me to do? Get down on my knees? Say you’ve got to do it for old times’ sake? It has to be you.”
“What do you mean, the children need me?”
Sanna grabbed hold of Rebecka’s jacket with both hands.
“Mum and Dad will take them away from me,” she said, pain in her voice. “That mustn’t happen. Do you understand? I don’t want Sara and Lova to spend even five minutes with my parents. And now I can’t stop it. But you can. For Sara’s sake.”
Her parents. Images and thoughts fought their way to the surface of Rebecka’s mind. Sanna’s father. Well dressed. Perfect manners. With his soft, sympathetic manner. He’d gained considerable popularity as a local politician. Rebecka had even seen him on national television from time to time. In the next election he would probably be on the list of parliamentary candidates for the Christian Democrats. But underneath the warm facade was a pack leader, hard as nails. Even Pastor Thomas Soderberg had deferred to him and shown him respect over many issues within the church. And Rebecka remembered with distaste how Sanna had told her-with a lightness of tone, as if the whole thing had happened to someone else-how he had always killed her animals. Always without warning. Dogs, cats, birds. She hadn’t even been allowed to keep an aquarium her primary-school teacher had given her. Sometimes her mother, who was completely under his thumb, had explained that it was because Sanna was allergic. Another time it might be because she hadn’t been working hard enough at school. Most of the time she got no explanation at all. The silence was such that it was not possible even to form the question. And Rebecka remembered Sanna sitting with Sara on her knee when she was small and didn’t want to go to sleep. “I’m not going to be like them,” she’d said. “They used to lock my bedroom door from the outside.”
