ASA LARSSON ~ THE SAVAGE ALTAR (15 page)

“I need to speak to my boss,” said Rebecka.

“Are you staying?” asked Sanna.

“For a while,” replied Rebecka in a strangled voice.

Sanna’s expression softened.

“That’s all I’m asking,” she said. “And how long can it take—after all, I’m innocent. You don’t believe I did it, do you?”

An image of Sanna walking along in the middle of the night, the bloodstained knife in her hand illuminated by the street lamps, formed in Rebecka’s head.

But then, why did she go back? she thought. Why would she have taken Lova and Sara to the church to “find” him?

“Of course not,” she said.

C
ase number, total hours. Case number, total hours. Case number, total hours.

Maria Taube sat in her office at the law firm Meijer & Ditzinger filling in her weekly time sheet. It looked good, she decided, when she added up the number of debited hours in the box at the bottom. Forty-two. It was impossible to make Måns happy, but at least he wouldn’t be unhappy. She’d worked more than seventy hours this week in order to be able to debit forty-two. She closed her eyes and flipped down the back of her chair. The waistband of her skirt was cutting into her stomach.

I must start doing some exercise, she thought. Not just sit on my backside in front of the computer, comfort eating. It’s Tuesday morning. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Four days left until Saturday. Then I’ll do some exercise. And sleep. Unplug the phone and go to bed early.

The rain pattered against the window, sending her to sleep. Just as her body had decided to give in and rest for a little while, just as her muscles relaxed, the telephone rang. It was like being woken up by a kick in the head. She sat bolt upright and grabbed the receiver. It was Rebecka Martinsson.

“Hi, kid!” exclaimed Maria cheerfully. “Hang on a minute.”

She rolled her chair away from the table and kicked the office door shut.

“At last!” she said when she picked up the phone again. “I’ve been trying to ring you like mad.”

“I know,” replied Rebecka. “I’ve got hundreds of messages on my phone, but I haven’t even started listening to them. It’s been locked in the car, and… no, I haven’t got the energy to tell you the whole miserable story. I assume one or two might be from Måns Wenngren, who’s presumably absolutely furious?”

“Mmm, well, I’m not going to lie to you. The partners have had a breakfast meeting about what was on the news. They’re not very happy about Channel 4 showing pictures of the office and talking about angry lawyers. They’re buzzing about like bees today.”

Rebecka leaned against the steering wheel and took a deep breath. There was a painful lump in her throat that made it difficult to say anything. Outside, Virku, Sara and Lova were playing with a rug that was hanging on the line. She hoped it belonged to Sanna and not one of the neighbors.

“Okay,” she said after a while. “Is there any point in speaking to Måns, or does he just want my resignation on his desk?”

“God, no. You’ve got to talk to him. As I understand it, most of the other partners wanted to talk about how to get rid of you, but that wasn’t on Måns’ agenda at all. So you’ve still got a job.”

“Cleaning the toilets and serving coffee?”

“Wearing nothing but a thong. No, seriously, Måns seems to have really stuck up for you. But it was just a misunderstanding, wasn’t it, you acting as lawyer for the Paradise Boy’s sister? You were just with her as a friend, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but something’s just happened and…”

The car window had misted up, and Rebecka rubbed at it with her hand. Sara and Lova were standing on top of a pile of snow talking to each other. There was no sign of Virku. Where had she got to?

“I need to discuss this with Måns,” she said, “because I can’t talk for much longer. Can you put me through?”

"Okay, but don’t let on you know anything about the meeting."

“No, no—how did you find all this out anyway?”

“Sonia told me. She was sitting in.”

Sonia Berg was one of the secretaries who had been at Meijer & Ditzinger the longest. Her finest attribute was the ability to remain as silent as the grave about the firm’s affairs. Plenty of people had tried to pump her for information, and had been met with her particular cocktail of unwillingness, irritation and well-simulated incomprehension as to what the person wanted. At secret meetings—for example, to do with mergers—it was always Sonia who took the minutes.

“You’re unbelievable,” said Rebecka, impressed. “Can you get water out of stones as well?”

“Getting water out of stones was the foundation course. Getting Sonia to talk is advanced plus. But don’t talk to me about impossible tricks. What have you done to Måns? Given a voodoo doll a lobotomy or something? If I’d been on TV flattening journalists, I’d be staked out in his torture chamber experiencing my last agonizing twenty-four hours in this life.”

Rebecka laughed mirthlessly.

“Working for him in the near future is going to be a bit like that. Can you put me through?”

“Sure, but I’m warning you, he might have stuck up for you, but he’s not happy.”

Rebecka wound up the window and shouted to Sara and Lova, “Where’s Virku? Sara, go and find her and stay where I can see you. We’re going soon.

“Is he ever happy?” she said into the phone.

“Is who ever happy?”

Måns Wenngren’s chilly voice could be heard at the other end.

“Oh, hi,” said Rebecka, trying to pull herself together. “Er, it’s Rebecka.”

“I see” was all he said.

She could hear him breathing hard through his nose. He had no intention of making it easy for her, that much was clear.

“I just wanted to explain that it was a misunderstanding, this idea that I was acting for Sanna Strandgård.”

Silence.

“I see,” drawled Måns after a while. “Is that all?”

“No…”

Come on, thought Rebecka, giving herself a pep talk. Don’t get upset. Just say what has to be said and hang up. Things can’t get any worse.

“The police have found a knife and Viktor Strandgård’s Bible in Sanna Strandgård’s flat,” she said. “They’ve detained Sanna as a murder suspect; they’ve just driven off with her. I’m standing outside her flat at the moment. They’re just sealing it off. I’m going to take her daughters to school and day care.”

The irritated breathing at the other end of the phone stopped, and Rebecka permitted herself a pause before she went on.

“She wants me to defend her, refuses to have anybody else, and I can’t say no. So I’ll be staying up here for the time being.”

“You’ve got a bloody nerve,” exclaimed Måns Wenngren. “You go behind my back. Embarrass the firm on television and all over the papers. And now you’re intending to take on a case outside the terms of your employment. It’s a competitive act, and grounds for dismissal, you do know that?”

“Måns, don’t you understand, I want to take the case as a member of the firm,” said Rebecka agitatedly. “But I’m not asking for permission. I can’t back out of this. And I can do it—I mean, how difficult can it be? I’ll sit in on a few interviews, there probably won’t be too many. She doesn’t know anything and she can’t remember anything. They’ve found the murder weapon—if it was the knife—and Viktor’s Bible in her flat. She was in the church just after it happened. There isn’t a hope in hell of anybody getting her off if it gets to court. If they do decide to prosecute, which is not what I expect, I hope somebody who specializes in criminal law would back me up—Bengt-Olov Falk or Göran Carlström. There’ll be a lot of press interest, and some publicity on the criminal side would be good for the firm—you know that. It might be company law and tax cases that bring in the big money, but it’s the big crime cases that make a firm well known in the papers and on TV.”

“Thank you,” said Måns deliberately. “You’ve already made a start on publicity for the firm. Why the hell didn’t you get in touch with me when you flattened that journalist?”

“I didn’t flatten her,” Rebecka defended herself. “I was trying to get past her and she slipped—”

“I haven’t finished!” hissed Mans. “I’ve wasted an hour and a half this morning sitting in a meeting about you. If I’d had my way, I’d be asking for your resignation. Fortunately for you, other people were in a more forgiving frame of mind.”

Rebecka pretended she hadn’t heard. “I need some help with that journalist. Can you get in touch with the news team and get her to withdraw her complaint?”

Måns gave an astonished laugh. “Who the hell do you think I am? Don Corleone?”

Rebecka scrubbed at the car window again.

“I was only asking,” she said. “I’ve got to go. I’m looking after Sanna’s two kids, and the youngest is taking all her clothes off.”

“Well, let her get on with it,” said Måns crossly. “We’re not finished yet.”

“I’ll ring or send you an e-mail later. The kids are outside and it’s bitter. A four-year-old with double pneumonia is the last thing I need right now. Bye.”

She hung up before he managed to say anything else.

He didn’t tell me I couldn’t do it, she thought with relief. He didn’t tell me I couldn’t carry on, and I haven’t lost my job. How come it was so easy?

Then she remembered the children and hurled herself out of the car.

“What on earth are you doing?” she screamed at Sara and Lova.

Lova had taken off her jacket, gloves and both jumpers. She was standing there in the snow with her hat on her head, her upper body bare except for a tiny white cotton vest. Tears were pouring down her face. Virku was looking anxiously at her.

“Sara said I looked like an idiot in the jumper I borrowed from you,” sobbed Lova. “She said I’d get teased at nursery.”

"Put your clothes on at once," said Rebecka impatiently.

She grabbed hold of Lova’s arm and forced her into the jumpers. The child sobbed inconsolably.

“It’s true,” said Sara mercilessly. “She looks ridiculous. There was a girl at our school who had on a jumper like that one day. The boys got hold of her and pushed her head down the toilet and flushed it till she nearly drowned.”

“Leave me alone!” bawled Lova as Rebecka dressed her by sheer force.

“Get in the car,” said Rebecka in a tight voice. “You are going to nursery and to school.”

“You can’t force us,” screamed Sara. “You’re not our mother!”

“You want to bet?” growled Rebecka, lifting the two screaming children into the backseat. Virku hopped in after them, turning round and round anxiously on the seat.

“And I’m hungry,” wailed Lova.

“Exactly,” yelled Sara. “We haven’t had any breakfast, and that’s neglect. Give me your cell phone, I’m going to ring Granddad.”

She grabbed Rebecka’s phone.

“Like hell you are,” snapped Rebecka as she snatched back the phone.

She leapt out of the car and flung open the back door.

“Out!” she ordered, dragging Sara and Lova out of the car and throwing them down on the snow.

Both children fell silent immediately, and stared at her with big eyes.

“It’s true,” said Rebecka, trying to control her voice. “I’m not your mother. But Sanna has asked me to look after you, so neither you nor I has any choice. We’ll make a deal. First we’ll drive to the café in the bus station and have breakfast. Because it’s been such a terrible morning, you can order anything you want. Then we’ll go buy some new clothes for Lova. And for Sanna too. You can help me choose something nice for her. Now get in the car.”

Sara didn’t speak, just looked down at her feet. Then she shrugged and got in the car. Lova climbed in after her and the older girl helped her little sister with the seat belt. Virku licked the salty tears off Lova’s face.

Rebecka Martinsson started the car and reversed out of Sanna’s yard.

Please, God, she thought for the first time in many years. Please help me, God.

T
he redbrick houses on Gasellvägen were neatly arranged along the street like pieces of Lego. Snow-covered hedges, piles of snow and kitchen curtains covering the lower part of the windows protected them from anybody who might look in.

And this family is going to need that, thought Anna-Maria Mella as she and Sven-Erik Stålnacke got out of the car outside Gasellvägen 35.

“You can actually feel the neighbors’ eyes on the back of your neck,” said Sven-Erik, as if he’d read her thoughts. “What do you think Sanna and Viktor Strandgård’s parents might have to tell us?”

“We’ll see. Yesterday they didn’t want to see us, but once they heard their daughter had been taken in for questioning they rang and asked us to come.”

They stamped the snow off their shoes and rang the doorbell.

Olof Strandgård opened the door. He was well groomed and articulate as he invited them in. Shook hands, took their coats and hung them up. Late middle age. But with no sign of middle-age spread.

He’s got a rowing machine and weights down in the cellar, thought Anna-Maria.

“No, no, please keep them on,” said Olof Strandgård to Sven-Erik, who had bent down to take off his shoes.

Anna-Maria noticed that Olof Strandgård himself was wearing well-polished indoor shoes.

He led them into the lounge. One end of the room was dominated by a Gustavian-style dining suite. Silver candlesticks and a vase by Ulrika Hydman-Vallien were reflected in the dark mahogany surface of the table. A small reproduction crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. At the other end of the lounge was a suite consisting of a pale, squashy corner sofa made of leather, and a matching armchair. The coffee table was made of smoky glass with metal legs. Everything was spotlessly clean and tidy.

Kristina Strandgård was slumped in the armchair. Her greeting to the two detectives who had turned up in her living room was distracted.

She had the same thick, pale blond hair as her children. But Kristina Strandgård’s hair was cut in a bob following the line of her jaw.

She must have been really pretty once upon a time, thought Anna-Maria. Before this absolute exhaustion got its claws into her. And that didn’t happen yesterday, it happened a long time ago.

Olof Strandgård leaned over his wife. His voice was gentle, but the smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes.