ASA LARSSON ~ THE SAVAGE ALTAR (8 page)

“No, not yet,” replied Sven-Erik.

“Just be careful when you do; she’s a very fragile person,” said Pastor Söderberg.

“And then I should include myself,” continued Thomas Söderberg.

“Were you his confessor?” asked Sven-Erik.

“Well,” said Thomas Söderberg, smiling once again, “we don’t call it that. Spiritual mentor, perhaps.”

“Do you know whether Viktor Strandgård was intending to make some kind of revelation before he died?” asked Anna-Maria. “Something about himself, perhaps? Or about the church?”

“No,” replied Thomas Söderberg after a second’s silence. “What could it have been?”

“Excuse me,” said Anna-Maria as she stood up. “But I must just pop to your bathroom.”

She left the men and went to the bathroom right at the back of the church. She had a pee, then sat for a while resting her gaze on the white-tiled walls. One thought was pounding in her head. During her years with the police she had learned to recognize the signs of stress. Everything from sweating to dizziness. People were usually nervous when they were talking to the police. But it was when they started trying to hide their stress that it became interesting to watch them.

And there was one particular sign of stress that you only got one chance to catch. It only happened once. And she’d just heard it. Immediately after she’d asked whether Viktor Strandgård was intending to reveal something before he died. One of the three pastors, she hadn’t managed to work out which one, had taken a deep breath. Just once. Caught his breath.

“Shit,” she said aloud, and was surprised at how good it felt to swear secretly in church.

It didn’t necessarily mean a damned thing. Someone breathing. It’s obvious there’s something going on. Show me the board of a large organization where there isn’t. Even in the police. And this lot aren’t as pure as the driven snow either.

“But that doesn’t make them murderers,” Anna-Maria continued her discussion with herself as she flushed the toilet.

But there were other inconsistencies. Why, for example, had Vesa Larsson said that nothing was troubling Viktor Strandgård if Thomas Söderberg was supposed to be his "spiritual mentor," and therefore must have been the one who knew him best?

When Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria left the church and were making their way down to the car park, the woman who had been vacuuming came running after them. She had only socks and clogs on her feet, and half ran, half slid down the slope to catch them.

“I heard you asking if he had any enemies,” she panted.

“Yes?” asked Sven-Erik.

“He did,” she said, seizing Sven-Erik’s arm in a viselike grip. “And now he’s dead, the enemy will be even stronger. I myself can feel how I am beset by the foe.”

She let go of Sven-Erik and flung her arms around herself in a vain attempt to keep out the bitter cold. She hadn’t put on any sort of coat or jacket. She bent her knees slightly to keep her balance on the slope. If she leaned backwards even slightly the clogs began to slip.

“Beset?” asked Anna-Maria.

“By demons,” said the woman. “They want to make me start smoking again. I used to be possessed by the tobacco demon, but Viktor Strandgård laid hands upon me and freed me.”

Anna-Maria looked at her, completely exhausted. She couldn’t cope with a mad person right now.

“We’ll make a note of it,” she said tersely, and started to walk toward the car.

Sven-Erik stayed where he was and took his notebook out of the inside pocket of his fleece.

“He was the one who killed Viktor,” said the woman.

“Who?” asked Sven-Erik.

“The Prince of Demons,” she whispered. “Satan. He is trying to force his way in.”

Sven-Erik shoved the notebook back in his pocket and took hold of the woman’s ice-cold hands.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, why don’t you go back inside, so you don’t freeze to death.”

“I just wanted to tell you about it,” the woman called after them.

I
nside the church the pastors were engaged in a loud discussion.

“We can’t do it like this!” shouted Gunnar Isaksson agitatedly, dogging Thomas Söderberg’s footsteps as he walked around the black bloodstain on the floor and moved the chairs so that the dark impression of Viktor Strandgård’s death ended up almost as if it were in the middle of a circus ring.

“Yes, we can,” said Thomas Söderberg calmly, and, turning toward the well-dressed woman, he went on:

“Take the rug away from the aisle. Leave the bloodstain as it is. Go and buy three roses and place them on the floor. I want the church rearranged completely. I shall stand beside the spot where he died and preach. I want the chairs in a circle.”

"You’ll have the congregation all around you," squeaked Gunnar Isaksson. "Do you expect people to sit and look at your back?"

Thomas Söderberg went over to the pudgy little man and placed his hands on his shoulders.

You little shit, he thought. You’re not a gifted enough orator to speak in an arena. A theater. A marketplace. You have to have everybody sitting right there in front of you, and a lectern to hang on to if it gets tricky. But I can’t let your inadequacy get in my way.

“Remember what we said, brother,” said Thomas Söderberg to Gunnar Isaksson. “We must hold fast now. I promise you this will work. People will be allowed to weep, to call out to God, and we—God—will triumph tonight. Tell your wife to bring a flower to place on the spot where his body lay.”

The atmosphere will be incredible, thought Thomas Söderberg.

He made a mental note to get several more people to bring flowers and lay them on the floor. It would be just like the spot where Olof Palme was murdered.

Pastor Vesa Larsson was still sitting in exactly the same spot as during the conversation with the police, leaning forward. He took no part in the heated discussion, but sat there with his face buried in his hands. He might possibly have been crying, it was difficult to see.

R
ebecka and Sanna were sitting in the car on the way into town. Gray pine trees, weighed down with snow, swept past in the beam of the headlights. The uncomfortable silence was like a shrinking room. The walls and the ceiling were moving inward and downward. With each passing minute it became more difficult to breathe properly. Rebecka was driving. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the speedometer and the road. The intense cold meant that the road wasn’t slippery at all, despite being covered with packed snow.

Sanna sat with her cheek resting on the cold window, winding a lock of her hair tightly around her finger.

“Can’t you just say something,” she said after a while.

“I’m not used to driving on roads like this,” said Rebecka. “I find it difficult to talk and drive at the same time.”

She could hear how obvious the lie was, as clear as a reef just below the surface of the water. But it didn’t matter. Perhaps that’s what she wanted. She looked at the clock. Quarter to eight.

Don’t start anything, she told herself firmly. You’ve rescued Sanna. Now you have to row her to the shore.

“Do you think the girls will be all right?” she asked.

“They’ll have to be,” replied Sanna, straightening up in her seat. “And we won’t be long, will we? I daren’t ring anybody to ask for help; the fewer people who know where I am, the better.”

“Why?”

“I’m frightened of journalists. I know what they can be like. And then there’s Mum and Dad… but let’s talk about something else.”

“Do you want to talk about Viktor? About what happened?”

“No. I’ll be telling the police soon anyway. We’ll talk about you, that’ll calm me down. How are things with you? Is it really seven years since we saw each other?”

“Mmm,” replied Rebecka. “But we’ve had the odd chat on the phone.”

“To think you’ve still got the house in Kurravaara.”

“Well, Uncle Affe and Inga-Lill don’t think they can afford to buy me out. I think they’re annoyed because they’re the only ones putting work and money into the house. But on the other hand, they’re the only ones getting any pleasure out of it as well. I’d like to sell it really. To them or to somebody else, it’s all the same to me.”

She wondered whether what she had just said was true. Did she really get no pleasure from her grandmother’s house, or from the cottage in Jiekajärvi? Just because she was never there? Just the thought of the cottage, the idea that there was somewhere that belonged to her, far away from civilization, deep in the wilderness, beyond marsh and forest, wasn’t that a kind of pleasure in itself?

“You look, how shall I put it, really smart,” said Sanna. “And sure of yourself, somehow. Of course, I always thought you were pretty. But now you look as if you’ve come straight out of one of those TV series. Your hair looks great too. I just let mine grow wild, then cut it myself.”

Sanna ran her fingers through her thick, pale curls with an air of self-assurance.

I know, Sanna, thought Rebecka angrily. I know that you’re the fairest in all the land. And that’s without spending a fortune on haircuts and clothes.

"Can’t you just chat a bit," whined Sanna. "I feel absolutely terrible, but I did say sorry. And I’m just rigid with fear. Feel my hands, they’re freezing."

She took one hand out of its sheepskin glove and reached toward Rebecka.

She’s not right in the head, thought Rebecka furiously, keeping her hands firmly clamped on the wheel. She’s totally fucking crazy.

Feel my hand, Rebecka, it’s shaking. It’s really cold. I love you so much, Rebecka. If you were a boy I’d fall in love with you, did you know that?

“That’s a nice dog you’ve got,” said Rebecka, making an effort to keep her voice calm.

Sanna drew back her hand.

“Yes,” she said. “Virku. The girls love her. We got her from a Sami lad we know. His father wasn’t looking after her properly. Not when he was drinking, at any rate. But he didn’t manage to ruin her. She’s such a happy dog, and so obedient. And she really loves Sara, did you notice that? How she keeps putting her head on Sara’s knee. It’s really nice, because the girls have been so unlucky with pets over the last year or so.”

“Oh?”

“Yes—well, I don’t know if ‘unlucky’ is the right word. Sometimes they’re just so irresponsible. I don’t know what it is with them. Last spring the rabbit escaped because Sara hadn’t shut the cage door properly. And she just refused to admit it was her fault. Then we got a cat. And in the autumn that disappeared. Although that was nothing to do with Sara, of course. That’s just the way it is with cats that live outside. It probably got run over or something. We’ve had gerbils that have disappeared as well. I daren’t think where they’ve gone. They’re probably living in the walls and under the floor, slowly but surely chewing the house to bits. But Sara and Lova, they drive me mad. Like before, when Lova got soap and washing-up liquid all over herself and the dog. And Sara just sits there watching, not taking any responsibility. I just can’t cope. Lova’s always making a mess. Anyway, let’s talk about something less depressing.”

“Just look at the Aurora Borealis,” said Rebecka, leaning forward over the steering wheel and glancing up at the sky.

“It’s been amazing this winter. It’s because there are storms on the sun, I’m sure that’s why. Doesn’t it make you want to move back up here?”

“No, maybe—oh, I don’t know!”

Rebecka laughed.

The Crystal Church could be seen in the distance. It looked like a spaceship, hovering in the sky above the streetlights. Soon the houses were much closer together as the country road turned into an urban street. Rebecka dipped her headlights.

“Are you happy down there?” asked Sanna.

“I’m nearly always working,” answered Rebecka.

“What about the people, though?”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel at home with them, if that’s what you’re asking. It feels as if I’m moving away from simple relationships all the time. You learn to look in the right direction when you drink a toast, and to write and say thank you for inviting me within the accepted time limit, but you can’t hide who you are. So you feel just a little bit like an outsider all the time. And you always feel a little bit resentful of society people, the ones with money. You never really know what they think of you. They’re so bloody nice to everybody, whether they like a person or not. At least up here you know where you are with people.”

“Do you?” asked Sanna.

They fell silent, each lost in her own thoughts. They passed the churchyard and approached a garage with a snack bar.

“Shall we get something to drink?” suggested Rebecka.

Sanna nodded and Rebecka pulled in. They sat in the car without saying a word. Neither of them made a move to get out and buy something, and neither of them looked at the other.

“You should never have moved,” said Sanna unhappily.

“You know why I moved,” said Rebecka, turning her head away so that Sanna couldn’t see her face.

“I think you were the only person Viktor really ever loved, did you know that?” Sanna burst out. “I don’t think he ever got over you. If you’d stayed…”

Rebecka spun around. Rage flared up in her like a burning torch. She was trembling and shaking, and the words that came out of her mouth were broken and jerky. But they came out. She couldn’t stop them.

“Just stop right there,” she screamed. “Just shut the fuck up and we’ll get this sorted out once and for all.”

A woman with an overweight Labrador retriever on a lead stopped dead when she heard Rebecka’s scream, and she peered curiously into the car.

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Rebecka went on, without lowering her voice. “Viktor was never in love with me, he was never even keen on me. I never want to hear a single word about it again. I don’t intend to take any responsibility for the fact that he and I didn’t end up together. And I certainly don’t intend to take responsibility for the fact that he was murdered. You’re not fucking right in the head if that’s what you’ve come up with. Please feel free to carry on living in your parallel universe, but leave me out of it.”

She fell silent and pounded on the side window. Then she banged her head with both hands. The woman with the dog looked alarmed, took a step backwards and disappeared.