path toward her breasts.
“We were just here,” he said, his fingers circling the brown nipples. “Just here.”
Rebecka Martinsson was standing in the yard outside her grandmother’s house brushing snow off the car with a broom. It had snowed heavily during the night, and clearing the car was hard work. She was sweating under her hat. It was still dark, and the snow was whirling down. There was a thick layer of fresh snow on the road, and zero vision. Driving into town wasn’t going to be much fun. That’s if she could actually get the car out. Sara and Lova were sitting at the kitchen window looking down at her. There was no point in letting them stand outside to get covered in snow, or sit in the car and freeze. Virku had raced off around the side of the house and was nowhere to be seen. Her cell phone rang; she pushed in her earpiece and answered impatiently:
“Rebecka.”
It was Maria Taube.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “You’re answering the phone, then. I thought I’d be talking to your voice mail.”
“I’ve just rung my neighbor and asked him to help me get the car out of the yard,” panted Rebecka. “I’ve got to get the kids to nursery and school, and it’s snowing like mad. I can’t get the car out.”
“ ‘I’ve got to get the kids to nursery,’ ” mimicked Maria. “Am I really talking to Rebecka Martinsson? It sounds more like a worn-out working mother to me. One foot in the nursery, the other at work, and thank God it’s nearly Friday so you can collapse with a packet of chips and a glass of wine in front of the TV.”
Rebecka laughed. Virku and Bella came hurtling toward her, snow spraying up all around them. Bella was in the lead. The deep snow was more of a handicap for Virku, who had shorter legs. Sivving must be on his way.
“I’ve got the information you wanted about the church,” said Maria. “And I promised Johan Dahlstrom a dinner to say thank you, so you owe me a night out or something. I could do with going to the Sturehof and getting a little bit of male attention.”
“Sounds like you’re coming out of this pretty well,” puffed Rebecka as she swept the bonnet of the car. “First of all, your Johan is bound to insist on paying for this thank-you-for-your-help dinner, and then I treat you to a night out so you can kick your heels up.”
“He isn’t ‘my’ Johan. Nice and grateful now, otherwise you won’t find out a thing.”
“I am nice and grateful,” said Rebecka meekly. “Tell me.”
“Okay, he said the church had only ticked the box to indicate that it’s a nonprofit-making organization.”
“Damn,” said Rebecka.
“I’ve never had anything to do with nonprofit-making organizations and foundations and that sort of stuff. What does it mean?” asked Maria.
“It means it’s a nonprofit-making organization that exists for the public good, so it isn’t liable for income or capital tax. So it doesn’t have to submit a tax declaration, nor a statement of accounts. It’s impossible to get any kind of access to its affairs.”
“With regard to Viktor Strandgard, he had a very modest salary from the church. Johan checked back two years. No other income. No capital. No property, and no shares.”
Sivving was coming across the yard. His fur hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and he was dragging a snow rake behind him. The dogs raced to meet him and scampered playfully around his feet. Rebecka waved, but he had his eyes fixed on the ground and didn’t see her.
“The pastors take forty-five thousand kronor a month.”
“That’s a damn good salary for a pastor,” said Rebecka.
“Thomas Soderberg has quite a large share portfolio, about half a million. And he owns some land out on Varmdo.”
“Varmdo Stockholm?” asked Rebecka.
“Yes, value for tax purposes four hundred and twenty. But it could be worth just about anything. The taxation value of Vesa Larsson’s house is one point two million. It’s quite new. The value was set last year in a specific property taxation arrangement. He’s got a loan of a million. Presumably on the house.”
“What about Gunnar Isaksson?” asked Rebecka.
“Nothing special. A few bonds, some savings in the bank.”
“Okay,” said Rebecka. “Anything else as far as the church goes? Does it own any companies or anything?”
Sivving appeared behind Rebecka.
“Hello there!” he boomed. “Talking to yourself?”
“Hang on a minute,” said Rebecka to Maria.
She turned to Sivving. Only a tiny part of his face was visible above his scarf. A little snowdrift had already formed on the top of his cap.
“I’m on the phone,” she said, pointing at the wire to her earpiece. “I can’t get the car out. The wheels were just spinning around when I tried to start it.”
“You’re on the phone on that wire thing?” he asked. “Good Lord, soon they’ll be operating to put a telephone inside your head the second you’re born. You carry on, I’ll start clearing.”
He started dragging the rake across the ground in front of the car.
“Hi,” said Rebecka into the phone.
“I’m still here,” replied Maria. “The church owns nothing, but I checked out the pastors and their families. The wives are part owners in a trading company. Victory Print.”
“Did you check it out?”
“No, but its tax records are in the public domain, so you can call the local tax office. I didn’t want to ask Johan again. He wasn’t that keen on asking for information from another tax authority’s transaction network.”
“Thanks a million,” said Rebecka. “I’ve got to give Sivving a hand now. I’ll call you.”
“Be careful,” said Maria, and hung up.
Slowly the night abandoned Sanna Strandgard. Slipped away. Out through the reinforced window and the heavy steel door, leaving room for the unforgiving day. It would be a while before it grew light outside. A faint glow from the street lamps outside pushed its way in through the window and hovered like a shadow beneath the ceiling. Sanna lay motionless on her bunk.
Just a little bit longer, she prayed, but merciful sleep was gone.
She felt as if her face was completely numb. Her hand crept out from under the blanket and she caressed her lips. Pretended her hand was Sara’s soft hair. Let her nose remember the scent of Lova. She still smelled like a child, although she was turning into a big girl. Her body relaxed and sank into her memories. The bedroom at home in the flat. All four of them in the bed. Lova, with her arms around Sanna’s neck. Sara, curled up behind her back. And Virku lying on Sara’s feet. The little black paws, galloping in her sleep. Every single thing was tattooed on her skin, imprinted on the insides of her hands and her lips. Whatever happened, her body would remember.
Rebecka, she thought. I won’t lose them. Rebecka will fix it. I won’t cry. There’s no point.
An hour later the cell door was tentatively pushed open a fraction. Light poured in through the gap, and someone whispered:
“Are you awake?”
It was Anna-Maria Mella. The policewoman with the long plait and the huge stomach.
Sanna answered, and Anna-Maria’s face appeared in the doorway.
“I just thought I’d see if you wanted some breakfast. Tea and a sandwich?”
Sanna said yes, and Anna-Maria disappeared. She left the cell door slightly ajar.
From the corridor Sanna heard the guard’s resigned voice:
“For God’s sake, Mella!”
Then she heard Anna-Maria’s reply:
“Oh, come on. What do you think she’s going to do? Come out here and blast her way through the security door?”
I’ll bet she’s a good mother, thought Sanna. The sort who leaves the door open a bit so the children can hear her moving about in the kitchen. The sort who leaves a light on by the bed if they’re scared of the dark.
After a while Anna-Maria Mella came back with two gherkin sandwiches in one hand and a mug of tea in the
