B
enny the locksmith unlocks the door to Curt Bäckström’s apartment and disappears. Sven-Erik Stålnacke and Anna-Maria Mella stand there on the dark staircase. Only the lights from outside shine in through the window facing the yard. Silence. They look at each other and nod. Anna-Maria has undone the safety catch on her pistol, a Sig Sauer.
Sven-Erik goes in. She hears his tentative hello. Anna-Maria stands guard outside the open door.
I must be out of my mind, she thinks.
The bottom of her back is aching. She leans against the wall and takes deep breaths. What if he’s in there in the dark. He might be dead. Or lying in wait somewhere. He could rush her from inside and knock her down the stairs.
Sven-Erik switches on the light in the hallway.
She peers in. It’s a one-room apartment. You can see straight into the combined living room and bedroom from the hall. It’s a peculiar place. Does someone really live here?
There isn’t a stick of furniture in the hall. No desk with bits and pieces and the mail. No mat. Nothing hanging on the coat stand below the hat pegs. The living room is empty too. Almost. There are some lamps standing on the floor, and a huge mirror hangs on the wall. The windows are covered with black sheets. Nothing on the windowsills. No curtains. A single pine bed up against the wall. The coverlet is pale blue machine-quilted nylon.
Sven-Erik comes out of the kitchen. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Their eyes meet. Full of questions and foreboding. He walks over to the bathroom door and opens it. The light switch is on the inside. He stretches out his hand. She hears the click, but the light doesn’t come on. Sven-Erik remains standing in the doorway. She can see him from the side. His hand taking out his key ring. He has a small torch on it. The narrow beam of light in through the door. The eyes narrowing so that they can see better.
Perhaps she makes a movement that he sees out of the corner of his eye, because his hand flies up to stop her. He takes one step into the room. One foot over the threshold. Her back is tense and aching again. She clenches her fist and presses it against her spine.
He comes out of the bathroom. Rapid steps. Mouth open. Pupils like black holes in a face made of ice.
“Ring,” he says hoarsely.
“Ring who?” she asks.
"Everybody! Wake up the whole bloody lot of them!"
R
ebecka opens her eyes. How much time has passed? Thomas Söderberg’s face is floating just below the ceiling. He looks like the eclipse of the sun. His face is in the shadows, and the kerosene lamp hanging behind his head forms a corona around his brown curls.
Her stomach is still hurting. Worse than before. And over and above the pain, outside the pain, is something warm and wet. Blood. She realizes with terror that Curt didn’t punch her.
He stabbed her with a knife.
“This isn’t exactly what we planned,” says Thomas Söderberg firmly. “We must reconsider.”
She turns her head. Sara and Lova are lying head to tail on the bed. Their hands are tied to the bedposts. Bits of white cloth are sticking out of their mouths. On the floor by the bed lies a torn-up sheet. That’s what they’ve got in their mouths. She can see their chests moving up and down rapidly as they fight to take in enough air through their noses.
Lova has a cold. But she’s breathing.
Keep calm, she’s breathing. Fuck, fuck.
“The idea was,” says Thomas Söderberg thoughtfully, “the idea was to set fire to the cabin. And we were going to give you the keys to your snowmobile so you could get away, just in your nightdress or a T-shirt. You’d take the chance, of course; who wouldn’t? With the storm and the windchill factor when you’re traveling by snowmobile, I reckon you’d have got about a hundred meters at the most. Then you’d have fallen off and frozen to death in a matter of minutes. It would have shown up as a simple accident on the police report. The cabin catches fire. You panic, leave the kids and rush out just as you are. You try to escape and freeze to death just a little distance away. No major investigation, no questions. Now it’s going to be more difficult.”
“Are you intending to let the children burn to death?”
Thomas bites his lip thoughtfully as if he hasn’t heard her.
“I think we’ll have to take you with us,” he says. “Even if your body burns, the mark of the stab wound might still be there. I can’t risk that.”
He breaks off and turns his head as Vesa Larsson comes in with a red plastic gasoline can in his hand.
"No gasoline," says Thomas angrily. "No accelerants and no chemicals. Anything like that will show up in a technical examination. We’ll set fire to the curtains and the bedclothes with matches."
He nods at Rebecka.
“We’ll take her with us,” he continues. “You two go and spread a tarpaulin over the trailer.”
Vesa Larsson and Curt disappear through the door. The storm roars, then falls silent as the door closes. Now she is alone with him. Her heart is pounding. She must hurry. She knows that. Otherwise her body will fail her.
Did Curt put the gun down by the door? Difficult to spread out a heavy tarpaulin in a storm with a gun slung on your back. Come closer.
“I can’t understand how you could do this,” says Rebecka. “Doesn’t it say ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
Thomas sighs. He is squatting by her side.
“And yet, the Bible is full of examples of when God has taken life,” he says. “Don’t you understand, Rebecka? He is allowed to break his own laws. And I couldn’t do it. I told him that. Then he sent me Curt. It was more than a sign. I had to obey him.”
He stops to wipe away the snot running from his nose. His face is beginning to redden in the heat from the stove. It must be warm in that suit.
“I don’t have the right to allow you to destroy God’s work. The media would have blown these financial difficulties up into a full-scale scandal, and then it would all have been over. What has happened in Kiruna is something great. And yet, God has made me understand that this is only the beginning.”
“Did Viktor threaten you?”
“In the end he was a threat to everyone. Not least to himself. But I know that he is with God.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Thomas shakes his head impatiently.
“There is neither the time nor any reason to do so, Rebecka.”
“And what about the girls?”
“They can tell people things about their uncle that… We still need Viktor. His name must not be dragged through the dirt. Do you know how many people we help to come off drugs every year? Do you know how many children are reunited with their lost mummies and daddies? Do you know how many find faith? Job opportunities? A decent life? Marriages saved? In the night God has talked to me about all this again and again.”
He breaks off and stretches out his hand to her. Lets his fingers trail over her mouth and down to her throat.
“I loved you just as much as I love my own daughter. And you…”
“I know,” she squeaks. “Forgive me.”
Come closer.
“But what about now?" she sobs. "Do you love me now?”
His face becomes as hard as stone.
“You killed my child.”
The man who has only daughters. Who wanted a son.
“I know. I think about him every day. But it wasn’t…”
She turns her head to the side and coughs and presses her hand against her stomach. Then she looks up at him again.
There it was. She could see it. Thirty centimeters from her head. The stone Lova had painted Virku on. When he’s close enough. Grab it and hit him. Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Grab it and hit him.
“There was someone else as well. It wasn’t…”
Her voice tails away in an exhausted whisper. He leans toward her. Like a fox listening for voles under the snow.
Her lips form words he cannot hear.
Finally he bends over her. Don’t hesitate, count to three.
“Pray for me…” she whispers in his ear.
One
…
“… you weren’t the only one I…”
Two
…
“… it wasn’t your child.”
Three!
He stiffens for a second and it’s enough. Her arm shoots out like a striking cobra, grabs the stone. She shuts her eyes and hits him with every ounce of strength she has. On the temple. In her mind’s eye she sees the stone shooting like a missile straight through his skull and out through the wall. But when she opens her eyes the stone is still in her hand. Thomas is lying on his side next to her. Perhaps his hands are making an attempt to shield his head. She doesn’t really know. She is already up on her knees and she hits him again. And again. On the head every time.
That’s enough. Now she’s in a hurry.
She drops the stone and tries to get to her feet, but her legs won’t bear her weight. She crawls across the floor to the corner by the door. Curt’s shotgun is next to the axe. She drags herself along on her knees, using her right hand. She keeps her left hand pressed against her stomach.
If she can only manage it in time. If they come in now it’s all over.
She grabs hold of the weapon. Gets to her knees. Fumbles. Her hands are shaky and clumsy. Slips the bolt. Breaks the gun. It’s loaded. Snaps it shut and releases the safety catch. Scrabbles backwards toward the middle of the floor. The rag rugs are spattered with blood. Drops of her own blood as big as a one-krona coin. Blurred prints from her right hand, the hand that held the stone.
If they go around the house they’ll be able to see her through the window. They won’t do that. Why would they go tramping off round there? She feels ill. Mustn’t throw up. How is she going to manage to hold on to the gun?
She shuffles farther back in a half-sitting position, one hand pressed against her stomach. Moves the other hand toward the table and pushes with her legs. Gets hold of the gun and drags it along with her. Sits with the table leg supporting her back. Legs slightly drawn up. Lays the gun along her thighs so that it is pointing upward at the door. And waits.
“Keep calm,” she says to Lova and Sara without taking her eyes off the door. “Shut your eyes and keep calm.”
Curt is the first to come in through the door. Just behind him she can see Vesa. Curt catches sight of her with the gun. Registers the two black holes pointing at him. For a fraction of a second his face alters. From irritation with the cold, the wind and the stiff tarpaulin into—not fear, but something else. First of all, the realization that he can’t get to her in time. Then his gaze becomes dull. Empty and expressionless.
She doesn’t lift the gun high enough and the recoil cracks her lower rib when she blasts a hole in Curt’s stomach. He falls back against the door. The snow comes whirling in through the opening.
Vesa stands frozen to the spot. His whole body is a single scream.
“In!” she snaps, and points the gun at him. “And bring him with you. Sit down!”
He does as she says and squats on his haunches by the door.
“On your backside!” she orders.
He slumps down. His suit is bulky. He can’t easily get to his feet from that position. Without her telling him to, he links his hands behind his head. Curt is lying between them. In the silence that follows when the door has closed against the storm, they can hear Curt’s labored breathing: short, panting whistles.
She leans her head back. Tired. Very tired.
“Now,” she says to Vesa Larsson, “you are going to tell me everything. And as long as you keep talking and keep telling the truth, you can stay alive.”
“Sanna Strandgård came to me,” says Vesa hoarsely. “She was… in floods of tears. I know that’s a ridiculous expression, but you should have seen her.”
Oh, I can see her, all right, thinks Rebecka. Hair all fluffed out like a dandelion clock. Nobody suits snot and tears better than Sanna.
“She said Viktor had interfered with her girls.”
Rebecka steals a glance at the girls; they are still tied to the bed with rags in their mouths. She’s afraid she’ll faint if she crawls over to them. And if she tells Vesa to untie them, he can kick the gun out of her hand in a second. She must wait a little while.
They’re breathing. They’re alive. She’ll soon work out what to do.
“What do you mean, ‘interfered with’?”
“I don’t know, it was something Sara had said that made her realize. I didn’t really get a clear idea of what had happened. But I promised to speak to Viktor. I…”
He breaks off in confusion.
She does confuse people, thinks Rebecka. Lures them into the forest and steals their compass.
“Yes?”
“I was such a fool,” he whines. “I asked her not to go to the police or the authorities. She’d spoken to Patrik Mattsson. I rang him and said Sanna had made a mistake. Threatened to throw him out of the church if he spread the rumor around.”
“Get on with it,” said Rebecka impatiently. “Did you speak to Viktor?”
The gun resting on her legs is getting heavier and heavier.
“He wouldn’t listen to me. It wasn’t even a conversation. He leaned across my desk and threatened me—said my days as a pastor in this church were numbered. Said he had no intention of putting up with the fact that the pastors were lining their own pockets through the business.”
"The trading company?"
“Yes. When we started Victory Print, I thought it was all aboveboard. Or maybe it was just that I didn’t think too hard about it. A member of the church who owned his own company gave us the idea. He said it was all perfectly legal. We put the costs down to the company, and reclaimed the VAT from the state. Of course, the church gave us money to make the investments on the quiet, but in our eyes everything in the company belonged to our church anyway. As I saw it, we weren’t deceiving anybody. It wasn’t until I broke the vow of confidentiality and told Thomas about Sanna’s suspicions, and that Viktor had threatened me, that I realized we were in trouble. Thomas got scared. Do you understand? Within the space of three hours, the whole world began to shake. Viktor was aggressive and a danger to children. Viktor, who had always loved children. Used to help out in Sunday school and so on… It made me feel sick. And Thomas was afraid. Thomas, who’d always been as solid as a rock. And I was a criminal. Can I take my hands down from my neck? My head and shoulders are aching.”
She nods.
“We decided to speak to him together,” he goes on. “Thomas said Viktor needed help, and he would get that help within the church. So that evening…”
He stops speaking and they both look at Curt, lying on the floor between them. The rug has turned red beneath him. His breathing changes from a whistling rattle to a quiet wheezing. And then he stops breathing. Silence.
Vesa Larsson stares at him, his pupils dilated with fear. Then he looks at Rebecka and at the shotgun on her knee.
Rebecka blinks. She is beginning to feel listless and uninterested. It is as if Vesa’s story no longer has anything to do with her. But now he needs no encouragement to keep talking. Suddenly he is babbling at top speed.
“Viktor wouldn’t listen to us. He said he had fasted and prayed, and that it was time for the church to be cleansed. All of a sudden we were the ones standing there being accused. He said we were hawkers who should be driven from the temple. That this was God’s work, yet we were prepared to hand it over to Mammon. And then… oh, God… then all at once Curt was there. I don’t know if he’d been standing there listening all the time, or if he’d just come into the church.”
Vesa screws up his eyes and his mouth contorts into a grimace.
“Viktor pointed at Thomas and screamed, I don’t remember what. Curt had an unopened wine bottle in his hand. We had celebrated communion during the service. He hit Viktor on the back of the head. Viktor fell to his knees. Curt was wearing a big padded jacket. He slipped the bottle into his inside pocket. Then he took the knife out of his belt and stabbed him. Two or three blows. Viktor fell backwards and stayed still, lying on his back.”
“And you stood there watching,” whispers Rebecka.
“I tried to intervene, but Thomas stopped me.”
He pushes his fists against his eyes.
“No, that isn’t true,” he goes on. “I think I took a step forward. But Thomas just made a small movement with his hand. And I stopped. Just like a well-trained dog. Then Curt turned and came over to us. Suddenly I was terrified that he was going to kill me too. Thomas stood completely still with no expression on his face. I remember looking at him and thinking I’d read that’s what you’re meant to do if you’re attacked by a rabid dog. Don’t run, don’t scream, just stay calm and stand still. We stood there. Curt didn’t say anything either, just looked at us with the knife in his hand. Then he turned on his heel and went back to Viktor. He…”