“Rebecka Martinsson,” it said, far too loudly. “It’s been a long time.”
When she swung around Pastor Gunnar Isaksson was right next to her. He was deliberately standing too close. His stomach was almost touching her.
It’s a magnificent and serviceable stomach, thought Rebecka.
It protruded above his belt like an advance guard, able to penetrate other people’s territory while Gunnar Isaksson himself sheltered behind it at a safe distance. She quelled the impulse to take a step backwards.
I tolerated your hands on my body when you prayed for me, she thought. So I can bloody well put up with you standing too close.
“Hi, Gunnar,” she said casually.
“I’ve been waiting for you to show up,' he said. 'I thought you would have come to our evening services while you’re in town.”
Rebecka kept quiet. From a poster on the wall, Viktor Strandgard gazed down on them.
“What do you think of the bookshop?” Gunnar Isaksson went on, looking around proudly. “We did it up last year. Opened it up right through to the cafe, so you can sit and flick through a book while you’re having coffee. You can hang your coat in there if you want to. I said we should put a sign above the coat hooks: ‘Leave your common sense here.’ ”
Rebecka looked at him. He bore the marks of the halcyon days. Bigger stomach. Expensive shirt, expensive tie. His beard and hair were well groomed.
“What do I think of the bookshop?” she said. “I think the church should be digging wells and putting street children into school, instead of leaving them to work as prostitutes.”
Gunnar Isaksson looked at her with a supercilious expression.
“God does not concern himself with artificial irrigation,” he said loudly, with the emphasis on “God.” “In this church community He has opened a spring of His abundance. Through our prayers such springs will open up all over the world.”
He glanced at the girl behind the counter and noted with satisfaction that he had her full attention. It was more amusing to put Rebecka in her place when there was an audience.
“This,” he said with a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the Crystal Church and all the success the church had enjoyed, “this is only the beginning.”
“Absolute crap,” said Rebecka dryly. “The poor can pray their own way to wealth, is that what you mean? Doesn’t Jesus say: ‘Truly, whatever you have done for the least of my children, you have done for me.’ And what was it that was supposed to happen to those who left the little ones without help? ‘They shall go forward to eternal damnation, but the righteous shall go forward to eternal life.’ ”
Gunnar Isaksson’s cheeks were turning red. He leaned toward her and his breath thudded against her face. It smelled of menthol and oranges.
“And you think you belong to the righteous?” he whispered scornfully.
“No,” Rebecka whispered back. “But maybe you should prepare yourself to keep me company in hell.”
Before he could answer, she went on:
“I see that Victory Print Ltd. prints a lot of the things you sell here. Your wife is a partner in the firm.”
“Yes,” said Gunnar Isaksson suspiciously.
“I checked at the tax office. The company has reclaimed a huge amount of VAT from the state. I can’t see any reason for that other than that enormous investments have been made in the company. How could you afford that? Does she earn a lot, your wife? She used to be a primary school teacher, didn’t she?”
“You’ve no right to go snooping in Victory Print’s affairs,” hissed Gunnar Isaksson angrily.
“The tax records are in the public domain,” replied Rebecka loudly. “I’d like you to answer some questions. Where does the money for the investments in Victory Print come from? Was anything in particular bothering Viktor before he died? Was he having a relationship with anyone? For example, one of the men in the church?”
Gunnar Isaksson took a step back and looked at her with disgust. Then he raised his index finger and pointed at the door.
“Out!” he yelled.
The girl behind the counter jumped and gave them a frightened look. Virku stood up and barked.
Gunnar Isaksson stepped menacingly toward Rebecka so that she was forced backwards.
“Don’t you come here trying to threaten the work of God and the people of God,” he roared. “In the name of Jesus and by the power of prayer I condemn thy evil plans. Do you hear what I say? Out!”
Rebecka turned on her heel and quickly left the bookshop. Her heart was in her mouth. Virku was right behind her.
The dark blue shades of evening were settling over Rebecka’s grandmother’s garden. Rebecka was sitting on a kick sledge watching Lova and Virku playing in the snow. Sara was reading on her bed upstairs. She hadn’t even bothered to say no when Rebecka asked if they wanted to go outside, she’d just shut the door behind her and thrown herself on the bed.
“Rebecka, look at me!” shouted Lova. She was standing on the ridge on top of the cold store roof. She turned around and let herself fall backwards into the snow. It wasn’t particularly high. She lay there in the snow, flapping her arms and legs to make the outline of an angel in the snow.
They’d been playing outside for almost an hour, building an obstacle course. It went along a tunnel through the bank of snow toward the barn, three times around the big birch tree, up on to the roof of the cold store, walk along the ridge without falling off, jump down into the snow, then back to the start. You had to run backwards in the snow for the last bit, Lova had decided. She was busy marking out the track with pine branches. She had a problem with Virku, who felt it was her job to steal all the branches and take them off to secret places where the outdoor lights didn’t reach.
“Stop it, I said!” Lova shouted breathlessly to Virku, who was just scampering off happily with another find in her mouth.
“Come on, what about some hot chocolate and a sandwich?” Rebecka tried for the third time.
She’d worn herself out tunneling through the snow. Now she’d stopped sweating and started to shiver. She wanted to go inside. It was still snowing.
But Lova protested furiously. Rebecka had to time her as she did the obstacle course.
“All right, but let’s do it now,” said Rebecka. “You can manage without the branches-you know the route.”
It was difficult to run in the snow. Lova only managed twice around the birch tree, and she didn’t run the last bit backwards. When she got to the end she collapsed in Rebecka’s arms, exhausted.
“A new world record!” shouted Rebecka.
“Now it’s your turn.”
“In your dreams. Maybe tomorrow. Inside!”
“Virku!” called Lova as they walked toward the house.
But there was no sign of the dog.
“You go in,” said Rebecka. “I’ll give her a shout.
“And put your pajamas and socks on,” she called after Lova as she disappeared up the stairs.
She closed the outside door and called again. Out into the darkness.
“Virku!”
It felt as if her voice reached only a few meters. The falling snow muffled every sound, and when she listened out into the darkness there was an eerie silence. She had to steel herself to shout again. It felt creepy, standing there exposed by the porch light, shouting into the silent, pitch-black forest all around her.
“Virku, here girl! Virku!”
Bloody dog. She took a step down from the porch to take a walk around the garden, but stopped herself.
Stop being so childish, she scolded herself, but still couldn’t bring herself to leave the porch or to call out again. She couldn’t get the image of the note on her car out of her head. The word “BLOOD” written in sprawling letters. She thought about Viktor. And about the children inside the house. She went backwards up the steps to the porch. Couldn’t make herself turn her back on the unknown things that might be lurking out there. When she got inside she locked the door and ran upstairs.
She stopped in the hallway and rang Sivving. He turned up after five minutes.
“She’s probably in heat,” he said. “She won’t come to any harm. Probably just the opposite.”
“But it’s so cold,” said Rebecka.
