the summer. In the end he had to force them to go outside and play. ‘You can only stay inside if it pours down in the summer,’ he said to them. And they went outside. But they hadn’t got a clue how to play-just stood there in the garden, completely lost. After a while Manfred noticed they were standing in a circle with their hands clasped in front of them. When he asked them what they were doing, they said they were praying to God to make it pour with rain.”
He took the pan off the stove.
“Okay, everybody, food!”
He put the meat, mashed potato and tub of ice cream with jam on the table.
“Those kids,” he laughed. “Manfred didn’t know what to say.”
Mans Wenngren was sitting on a stool in the hallway of his flat, listening to a message on the answering machine. It was from Rebecka. He was still wearing his coat, and hadn’t even switched on the light. He played the message three times. Listened to her voice. It sounded different. As if she wasn’t quite in control. At work her voice was always very obedient, walking to heel. It was never allowed to go scampering off after her feelings, giving away what was really going on inside her head.
“Thanks for sorting out that business with the reporter,” she said. “It can’t have taken you long to find a horse’s head, or did you come up with something else? I’m keeping my phone switched off all the time, because so many journalists are ringing. But I keep checking my voice mail and e-mail. Thanks again. Good night.”
He wondered if she looked different as well. Like the time he met her in reception at five o’clock in the morning. He’d been sitting in an all-night meeting, and she’d just arrived for work. She’d walked. Her hair was tousled, and one strand was stuck to her cheek. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold wind, and her eyes were sparkling and almost happy. He remembered how surprised she’d looked. And almost embarrassed. He’d tried to stop and chat, but she’d made some brief comment and slid past him into her office.
“Good night,” he said out loud, into the silent flat.
And evening came and morning came, the third day
At quarter past three in the morning it begins to snow. Just a few flakes at first, then more and more. Above the dense clouds the Aurora Borealis hurls herself recklessly across the heavens. Writhing like a snake. Opening herself up to the constellations.
Kristina Strandgard is sitting in her husband’s metallic gray Volvo in the garage beneath the house. It is dark in the garage. Only the map-reading light inside the car is lit. Kristina is wearing a shiny quilted dressing gown and slippers. Her left hand is resting on her knee, and her right hand is clutching the car keys. She has rolled up several rag rugs and stuffed them along the bottom of the garage door. The door leading into the house is closed and locked. The gaps between the door and the frame are covered with tape.
I ought to cry, she thinks. I ought to be like Rachel: “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation: Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, for they were no more.” But I don’t feel anything. It’s as if all I have inside is rustling white paper. I’m the one in this family who’s sick. I didn’t think that was the problem, but I’m the one who’s sick.
She puts the key in the ignition. But the tears won’t come now either.
Sanna Strandgard is standing in her cell, her forehead pressed against the cold steel bars in front of the reinforced glass window. She is looking out at the pavement in front of the green metal facades on Konduktorsgatan. In the glow of a street lamp, Viktor is standing in the snow. He is naked, apart from the enormous dove-gray wings that he has wrapped around his body in order to cover himself a little. The snowflakes fall around him like stardust. Sparkle in the light of the street lamp. They do not melt when they land on his naked skin. He raises his eyes and looks up at Sanna.
“I can’t forgive you,” she whispers, drawing on the window with her finger. “But forgiveness is a miracle that happens in the heart. So if you forgive me, then perhaps…”
She closes her eyes and sees Rebecka. Rebecka’s hands and arms are covered in blood, right up to her elbows. She stretches out her arms and places one hand protectively above Sara’s head, the other above Lova’s.
I’m so sorry, Rebecka, thinks Sanna. But you’re the one who has to do it.
When the town hall clock strikes five, Kristina Strandgard takes the key out of the ignition and gets out of the car. She takes the rugs away from the garage door. She rips the tape off the door to the house, screws it up and puts it in the pocket of her dressing gown. Then she goes up to the kitchen and begins to make bread. She adds some linseed to the flour; Olof’s stomach can be a little sluggish.
Wednesday, February 19
Early in the morning the telephone rang at Anna-Maria Mella’s house.
“Leave it,” said Robert hoarsely.
But with the conditioning of many years, Anna-Maria’s hand had already reached out and lifted the receiver.
It was Sven-Erik Stalnacke.
“It’s me,” he said tersely. “You sound out of breath.”
“I’ve just come upstairs.”
“Have you looked outside yet? It’s been snowing like mad all night.”
“Mmm.”
“We’ve had an answer from Linkoping,” said Sven-Erik. “No fingerprints on the knife. It’s been washed and dried. But it is the murder weapon. Traces of Viktor Strandgard’s blood were found at the base of the blade close to the handle. And traces of Viktor Strandgard’s blood were also found in Sanna Strandgard’s kitchen sink.”
Anna-Maria clicked her tongue thoughtfully.
“And von Post is going absolutely crazy. He knew, of course, that we were going to find absolute technical proof. He rang me at about half five, howling about motives and insisting we find the blunt instrument that was used on the back of the lad’s head.”
“Well, he’s right,” replied Anna-Maria.
“Do you think she did it?” asked Sven-Erik.
“It seems very odd if she did. But then, I’m no psychologist.”
“Von Pisspot is intending to have another go at her anyway.”
Anna-Maria inhaled sharply through her nose.
“What do you mean, ‘have another go’?”
“How should I know?” replied Sven-Erik. “I presume he’s going to interview her again. And he was talking about moving her to Lulea when she’s arrested.”
“Bloody hell,” Anna-Maria burst out. “Doesn’t he understand that frightening her won’t help at all. We ought to get somebody professional up here, somebody who can talk to her. And I’m going to talk to Sanna myself. It’s pointless just sitting in and listening to von Post interviewing her.”
“Just be careful,” Sven-Erik warned her. “Don’t start interrogating her behind his back, or the shit really will hit the fan.”
“I can make up some excuse. It’s better if I push the boundaries a bit than if you do.”
“When are you coming in?” asked Sven-Erik. “You’ve got a load of faxes from Linkoping to deal with as well. The office girls are running around here like lemmings. They’re wondering if everything’s supposed to be recorded officially, and they’re hacked off because the fax has been busy all morning.”
“It’s copies of pages from Viktor’s Bible. Tell them they don’t need to make a record of them.”
“So when are you coming in?” Sven-Erik asked again.
“It’ll be a while,” said Anna-Maria evasively. “Robert’s got to dig the car out and so on.”
“Okay,” said Sven-Erik. “See you when I see you.”
He put the phone down.
“Now, where were we?” smiled Anna-Maria, looking down at Robert.
“Here,” said Robert with laughter in his voice.
He was lying naked on his back underneath her, his hands caressing her enormous stomach and tracing a
