Viktor is dead, she thought.
Tried to make it seem real.
Viktor is actually dead.
She caught sight of Karin and Maja. Maja was waving eagerly. No chance of escape. The only thing to do was to go over to them. They were wearing dark suits. She had rummaged in her wardrobe and tried things on for an hour. All her suits were red, pink or yellow. She had one dark suit. Navy blue. But she couldn’t zip up the skirt. Finally she settled on a long knitted cardigan that made her look thinner and disguised her hips and bottom. But looking at Karin and Maja, she felt like a mess. A sweaty mess.
“Where’s Vesa?” whispered Maja, before she’d even managed to sit down.
Friendly smile. Dangerous eyes.
“Ill,” she replied. “Flu.”
She could see they didn’t believe her. Maja closed her mouth and breathed in through her nose.
They were right. Her whole body was telling her that she didn’t want to sit there, but she sank down on the chair next to Maja.
Thomas had finished the prayer with the choir and was walking over to them.
So I shall have to answer to him as well, she thought.
She felt a pang as Thomas placed his hand on Maja’s arm and greeted her with a quick, warm smile. Then he asked about Vesa. Astrid replied again: ill; flu. He gazed at her sympathetically.
Poor me, having such a weak husband, she thought.
“If you’re worried about him, go home,” said Thomas.
She shook her head obediently.
“Worried.” She tried out the word.
No, she should have been worried several years ago. But at the time she’d been fully occupied with the children and the house being built. And by the time she discovered that she had reason to worry, it was already too late and time to begin grieving. To get over the grief of being abandoned in her marriage. Learn to live with the shame of not being good enough for Vesa.
It was the shame. That was what made her sit next to Maja, although she didn’t want to. Made her stand in front of the freezer with the door open, stuffing herself with frozen cakes when the children were at school.
They did still sleep with each other, although it was rare. But it happened in the dark. In silence.
And this morning. The kids had gone off to school. Vesa had been sleeping in the studio. When she brought in the coffee he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his flannel pajamas. Unshaven, eyes tired. Deep lines around the corners of his mouth. His long, fine artist’s hands resting on his knees. The floor around the bed littered with books. Expensive, beautifully bound art books with thick shiny pages. Several about icons. Thin paperbacks from their own publishing firm. In the beginning Vesa had designed the covers. Then he’d suddenly decided he didn’t have the time.
She had put the tray of coffee and sandwiches down on the floor. Then she had crept up behind him, kneeling on the bed. His hips between her thighs. She had let her dressing gown fall open and pressed her breasts and her cheek against his back while her hands caressed his firm shoulders.
“Astrid,” was all he said.
Troubled and suffering. Filled her name with apologies and feelings of guilt.
She had fled to the kitchen. Switched on the radio and the dishwasher. Picked up Baloo and wept into the dog’s fur.
Thomas Söderberg leaned down toward the three women and lowered his voice.
“Have you heard anything about Sanna?” he asked.
Astrid, Karin and Maja shook their heads.
“Ask Curt Bäckström,” said Astrid. “He’s forever trailing around after her.”
The pastors’ wives turned their heads like periscopes. It was Maja who first caught sight of Curt. She waved and pointed until he reluctantly got up and shambled over to them.
Karin looked at him. He always seemed so anxious. Walked a bit hesitantly. Almost sidling along. As if it might appear too aggressive to approach head-on. Looked at them out of the corner of his eyes, but always glanced away if you tried to meet his gaze.
“Do you know where Sanna is staying?” asked Thomas Söderberg.
Curt shook his head. Answered as well, just to be on the safe side:
“No.”
He was obviously lying. There was fear in his eyes. At the same time, they were resolute. He didn’t intend to reveal his secret.
Like a dog that’s found a bone in the woods, thought Karin.
Curt looked furtively at them. Almost crouching. As if Thomas might suddenly shout “Away” and hit him on the muzzle.
Thomas Söderberg looked disturbed. He twisted his body as if he were trying to shake off the pastors’ wives.
"I just want to know that she’s all right," he said. "Nothing must happen to her."
Curt nodded, and his gaze slid over the seats, which were beginning to fill up. He held up the Bible in his hands and pressed it to his chest.
“I want to bear witness,” he said quietly. “God has something to say.”
Thomas Söderberg nodded.
“If you hear anything from Sanna, tell her I was asking about her,” he said.
Astrid looked at Thomas Söderberg.
And if you hear anything from God, she thought, tell Him I’m asking about Him all the time.
M
åns Wenngren, Rebecka Martinsson’s boss, got home late going on early. He’d spent the evening at Sophie’s, treating two young ladies to drinks, along with a representative for one of the law firm’s clients, a computer company specializing in industrial IT that had recently floated on the stock exchange. It was pleasant to deal with that kind of client. Grateful for every cent you managed to keep away from the tax collector. The clients who’d been accused of tax evasion or dubious book-keeping weren’t usually that keen on sitting in a bar with their lawyer. They sat and drank at home instead.
After Sophie’s had closed Måns had shown one of the young ladies, Marika, his nice office, then he had put little Marika in a cab with some money in her hand, and himself in another cab.
When he walked into the dark apartment on Floragatan he thought as usual that he ought to move to something smaller. It was hardly surprising that every time he came home he felt, well, however it was he felt when the apartment was so bloody desolate.
He threw his gray cashmere coat on a chair and flicked on every light on his way to the living room. As he was hardly ever home before eleven at night, the video timer was always set to record the news. He switched on the video, and as Channel 4’s news titles rolled he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Ritva had been shopping. Good. It must be her easiest job, cleaning his flat and making sure there was fresh food in. He never made a mess, except on the rare occasions he invited people back. The food Ritva bought was usually untouched when it was replaced with fresh. He presumed she took the old stuff home to her family before it went off. It was an arrangement that suited him perfectly. He ripped open some milk and drank straight from the carton, one ear on the news. The murder of Viktor Strandgård was the top story.
That’s why Rebecka went up to Kiruna, thought Måns Wenngren, heading back into the living room. He sank down on the sofa in front of the TV, the carton of milk in his hand.
“The religious celebrity Viktor Strandgård was found murdered this morning in the church of The Source of All Our Strength in Kiruna,” announced the newsreader.
She was a well-dressed middle-aged woman who used to be married to someone Måns knew.
“Hi there, Beate, how’s things?” said Måns, raising the milk carton to the screen in a toast and taking a deep draught.
“According to police sources, Viktor Strandgård was found by his sister, and those same sources report that the murder was extremely brutal,” continued the newsreader.
“Come on, Beate, we know all that,” said Måns.
He suddenly became aware of how drunk he was. He felt stupid, his head full of cotton wool. He decided to have a shower as soon as the news was finished.
They were showing a report on the murder now. A male voice was speaking over pictures. First of all, pale blue wintry pictures of the impressive Crystal Church up on the hill. Then shots of the police shoveling their way through the area around the church. They’d also used some clips from one of the church gatherings, everyone singing, and gave a short summary of who Viktor Strandgård was.
“There is no doubt that this incident has aroused strong feelings in Kiruna,” continued the reporter’s voice. “This was made very clear when Viktor Strandgård’s sister, Sanna Strandgård, arrived at the police station to be interviewed, accompanied by her lawyer.”
The picture was showing a snow-covered car park. A breathless young female reporter dashed up to two women who were climbing out of a red Audi. The reporter’s red hair stuck out from under her cap like a fox’s brush. She looked young and energetic. It was dark, but you could make out a boring redbrick building in the background. It couldn’t be anything other than a police station. One of the women getting out of the Audi had her head down, and all you could see of her was a long sheepskin coat and a sheepskin hat pulled well down over her eyes. The other woman was Rebecka Martinsson. Måns turned up the volume and leaned forward on the sofa.
“What the…?” he said to himself.
Rebecka had told him she was going up there because she knew the family, he thought. Saying she was the sister’s lawyer must be a mistake.
He looked at Rebecka’s set face as she walked quickly toward the police station, her arm firmly around the other woman, who must be Viktor Strandgård’s sister. With her free arm she tried to fend off the woman with the microphone who was trotting along after them.
“Is it true that his eyes had been gouged out?” asked the female reporter in a broad Luleå accent.
“How are you feeling, Sanna?” she went on when she got no reply. “Is it true the children were with you in the church when you found him?”
When they got to the entrance of the police station, the fox placed herself resolutely in front of them.
“My God, girl,” sighed Måns. “What’s going on here? Hard-hitting American journalism á la Lapland?”
“Do you think it might have been a ritual killing?” asked the reporter.
The camera zoomed in on her glowing, agitated cheeks, then there was a close-up of Rebecka’s and the other woman’s faces in profile. Sanna Strandgård was holding her hands up to her face like blinkers. Rebecka’s gray eyes glared straight into the camera first of all, and then she looked straight at the reporter.
“Get out of the way,” she said sternly.
The words and the expression on Rebecka’s face stirred an unpleasant memory in Måns’ head. It had been at the firm’s Christmas party the previous year. He’d been trying to chat and be pleasant, and she’d looked at him as if he were something you might find while cleaning out the urinals. If he remembered rightly, that was exactly what she’d said to him as well. In the same stern voice.
“Get out of the way.”
After that he’d kept his distance. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel embarrassed and resign. And he didn’t want her getting any ideas either. If she wasn’t interested, that was fine.
All at once things were happening very quickly on the screen. Måns paid closer attention, kept his finger poised over the pause button on the remote control. Rebecka raised her arm to get past, and suddenly the reporter had vanished out of the picture. Rebecka and Sanna Strandgård more or less climbed over her and went into the police station. The camera followed them, and the reporter’s furious voice could be heard over the clip.
"Ow, my arm. Christ, did you get that on film?"
The voice of the male reporter from Channel 4 could be heard once again.
“The lawyer is with the well-known firm of Meijer & Ditzinger, but no one at the office was prepared to comment on this evening’s events.”
Måns was shocked to see an archive picture of the company’s offices. He pressed the pause button.
“Too fucking right,” he swore, getting up from the sofa in such a rush that he spilt milk all over his shirt and trousers.
What the hell was she up to? he thought. Was she really acting as this Sanna Strandgård’s lawyer without telling the firm? There must have been some sort of misunderstanding. Her judgment couldn’t be that poor.
He grabbed his cell phone and keyed in a number. No reply. He pressed the bridge of his nose with his right index finger and thumb and tried to think straight. As he was walking into the hall to fetch his laptop he tried another number. No reply there either. He felt sweaty and out of breath. He opened up the computer on the table in the living room and started the video again. Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post was speaking outside The Source of All Our Strength.
“Damn it,” swore Måns, trying to start up the computer and holding his cell phone clamped between his shoulder and his ear at the same time.
His hands felt clumsy and agitated.
Måns found the earpiece and was able to make calls and start up the computer at the same time. Every number rang without anyone picking up the receiver. No doubt the phones had been red hot after the evening news. The other partners were no doubt wondering how the hell one of his tax lawyers could be up there flattening journalists one after the other. He checked his phone and found that he had fifteen messages. Fifteen.
Carl von Post was looking straight at Måns from the television screen and explaining how the investigation was proceeding. It was the usual stuff about how the search was in full swing, door-to-door inquiries, interviewing members of the congregation, looking for the murder weapon. The prosecutor was elegantly dressed in a gray wool coat with matching gloves and scarf.
“Bloody clotheshorse,” commented Måns Wenngren, failing to grasp that von Post was wearing virtually the same as he was.
Finally someone picked up the phone. It was the husband of one of the female partners, and he wasn’t happy. She had remarried the much younger man, who lived well off his successful lawyer wife while he pretended to be studying, or whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing.
He doesn’t need to sound quite so miserable, thought Måns.
When his colleague came on the line the conversation was very short.
“We can meet right away, can’t we?” said Mans crossly. “What do you mean, the middle of the night?”
He looked at his Breitling. Quarter past four.
“Okay, then,” he said. “We’ll meet at seven instead. Early breakfast meeting. We’ll need to try and get hold of the others as well.”
When he had finished the conversation he sent an e-mail to Rebecka Martinsson. She hadn’t answered the phone either. He shut down the computer, and as he stood up he could feel his trousers sticking to his legs. He looked down and discovered the milk he’d spilt all over himself.
“That bloody girl,” he growled as he pulled his trousers off. “That bloody girl.”