The Savage Altar (21 page)

And evening came and morning came, the fourth day

M
åns Wenngren wakes with a start. His heart is pounding like a clenched fist. His lungs are gasping for air. He gropes for the bedside light and switches it on; it’s twenty past three. How the hell is he supposed to sleep when his brain is running a nonstop festival of horror films. First of all it was a car that went straight through the ice on the lake outside the summer cottage. He was standing on the shore watching, but couldn’t do anything. In the rear window he saw Rebecka’s pale, terrified face. And the last time he’d managed to go back to sleep, Rebecka had come to him in his dream and put her arms around him. When his hands moved over her back and up toward her hair, they had become wet and warm. The whole of the back of her head had been shot away.

He wriggles backwards in the bed and sits up, leaning against the headboard. It used to be different, once upon a time. The boys and the job took it out of him. You didn’t get enough sleep, but at least it was proper sleep. These days it’s hardly ever sleep that’s waiting for him when he goes to bed in the small hours. Instead he falls into a deep, dreamless state of unconsciousness. And look what happens when he goes to bed sober. Keeps waking up with panic racing through his body, sweating like a pig.

The apartment is as silent as the grave. The only sound is his own breathing and the low drone of the air-conditioning. Apart from that, every other sound is outside. The humming of the electricity meter out in the stairwell. The practiced tread of the paperboy on the stairs. Every other step going up, every third step going down. The cars and people still out for the night down on the street. When the boys were little, their room used to be filled with the sounds they made. Little Johan’s short, rapid breathing. Calle, snuffling under a mountain of cuddly toys. And Madelene, of course, who started snoring as soon as she had even a hint of a cold. Then it became quieter and quieter. The boys moved into their own room. Madelene lay quiet as a mouse, pretending to be asleep when he got home late.

No, that’s it. He’ll stick an old Clint movie in the video and pour himself a Macallan. Maybe he’ll doze off in the armchair.

I
t is still snowing in the mountains. In Kurravaara cars and houses are buried under a thick white blanket. In the sofa bed in her grandmother’s house, Rebecka lies awake.

I ought to get up and see if the dog’s here, she thinks. She might be standing out there in the snow freezing her paws off.

It’s impossible to get back to sleep. She closes her eyes and alters her position, shifts onto her side. But her brain is wide-awake inside her tired body.

There is something peculiar about the knife. Why had it been washed? If someone wanted to put the blame on Sanna, and put the knife in her drawer, then why did that person wash the blade? Surely it would have been better to clean the handle to get rid of any possible prints, and to leave the blade covered in blood. There was a risk they might not be able to tie the weapon to the murder. There is something she isn’t seeing. Like one of those pictures that is made up of a jumble of dots. All of a sudden the image appears. That’s how it feels now. All the little dots are there. It’s just a question of finding the pattern that links them together.

She switches on the bedside light and gets up carefully. The bed creaks by way of an answer. She listens to make sure the children haven’t woken up. Slides her feet into ice-cold shoes and goes out to shout for Virku.

She stands there in the falling snow, shouting for a dog that doesn’t come.

W
hen Rebecka comes back inside, Sara is standing in the middle of the kitchen. She turns stiffly toward Rebecka. Her thin body is swamped by the big woolly sweater and baggy pants.

“What’s the matter?” asks Rebecka. “Have you been dreaming?”

At the same time she realizes Sara is crying. It is a terrible cry. Dry and hacking. Her lower jaw is working up and down, like a clattering puppet made of wood.

“What’s the matter?" Rebecka asks again, kicking her shoes off quickly. "Is it because Virku’s gone?”

There is no answer. Her face is still distorted by the strange crying. But her arms move forward slightly, as if she would have held them out to Rebecka, if only she could.

Rebecka picks her up. Sara doesn’t resist. It is a small child Rebecka holds in her arms. Not someone who is almost a teenager. Just a little girl. And she is so light. Rebecka lays her down on the bed and crawls in behind her. She puts her arms around Sara’s body, feeling it tense as if she is aching with tears that won’t come. At last they fall asleep.

At around five Rebecka is woken by Lova, who comes tiptoeing in. She creeps into bed behind Rebecka, cuddles into her back, slips her arm under Rebecka’s sweater and falls asleep.

It is as warm as toast under all the blankets, but Rebecka lies there wide-awake, as still as stone.

Thursday, February 20

A
t half past five in the morning Manne the cat decided to wake Sven-Erik Stålnacke. He padded to and fro across Sven-Erik’s sleeping body, emitting a plaintive cry from time to time. When that didn’t work, he made his way up to Sven-Erik’s face and laid a tentative paw against his cheek. But Sven-Erik was in a deep sleep. Manne moved the paw to his hairline and unsheathed his claws just enough to catch the skin and scratch his master’s scalp very gently. Sven-Erik opened his eyes at once and detached the claws from his head. He stroked the cat’s gray striped back affectionately.

“Bloody cat,” he said cheerfully. “Do you think it’s time to get up, then?”

Manne meowed accusingly, jumped down from the bed and disappeared through the bedroom door. Sven-Erik heard him run to the outside door and position himself there, wailing.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

He’d taken over Manne from his daughter when she and her partner had moved to Luleå. “He’s used to his freedom,” she’d said, “you know how miserable he’d be in an apartment in the middle of town. He’s like you, Dad. Needs the forest around him to be able to live.”

Sven-Erik got up and opened the outside door for the cat. But Manne just poked his nose out into the snow, then turned and padded back into the hall. As soon as Sven-Erik closed the door, the cat let out another long, drawn-out howl.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” asked Sven-Erik. “I can’t help it if it’s snowing and you don’t like it. Either you go out, or you stay in and keep quiet.”

He went into the kitchen and got out a tin of cat food. Manne made encouraging noises, winding himself around Sven-Erik’s legs until the food was safely in the bowl. Then he put the coffee percolator on, and it gurgled into action. When Anna-Maria Mella rang he’d just taken his first bite of a sandwich.

“Listen to this,” she said, her voice crackling with energy. “I was talking to Sanna Strandgård yesterday morning and we were discussing the fact that the murder seemed so ritualistic and about passages in the Bible where it talks about hands being cut off and eyes put out and all that sort of thing.”

Sven-Erik grunted between mouthfuls, and Anna-Maria went on:

“Sanna quoted Mark 9:43: ‘And if your hand causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life maimed than with two hands to go into hell, where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched. And if your foot causes you to sin, cut it off. It is better for you to enter life crippled than to have two feet and be thrown into hell, where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched. And if your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out. It is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into hell, where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched.’ ”

“And?” said Sven-Erik, with the feeling that he was being rather slow.

“But she didn’t read the beginning of the text!” Anna-Maria went on excitedly. “This is what it says in Mark 9:42: ‘And if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a millstone around his neck.’ ”

Sven-Erik clamped the receiver between his shoulder and his ear and picked up Manne, who was rubbing against his legs.

“There are parallel passages in the gospels of both Luke and Matthew,” said Anna-Maria. “In Matthew it says that a child’s angels in heaven always see the face of God. And when I checked in my confirmation Bible, there was a note explaining that this was a very clear expression of the fact that children are under God’s special protection. According to Hebrew belief at that time, each individual has their own angel who speaks for them before God, and only the most elevated angels were believed to have access to the throne of God.”

"So you mean somebody killed him because he caused one of these little ones to sin," said Sven-Erik thoughtfully. "Do you mean he…?"

He broke off, feeling distaste wash over him before he went on.

“With Sanna’s girls, then.”

“Why did she miss the beginning?” said Anna-Maria. “Von Post is right, in any case. We have to talk to Sanna Strandgård’s children. She might have had a damned good reason to hate her brother. We need to get in touch with the child protection unit. They can help us talk to the girls.”

When they’d hung up, Sven-Erik stayed at the kitchen table with the cat on his knee.

Shit, he thought. Anything but that.

I
t was the pastors’ secretary Ann-Gull Kyrö who answered the office telephone at the church when Rebecka rang at quarter past eight in the morning. Rebecka had just dropped the children off and was on her way back to the car. When she asked for Thomas Söderberg, she heard the woman on the other end of the phone inhale sharply.

“Unfortunately,” said Ann-Gull, “he and Gunnar Isaksson are busy with the morning service and cannot be disturbed.”

“Where’s Vesa Larsson?”

“He’s not well today, he’s not to be disturbed either.”

“Perhaps I could leave a message for Thomas Söderberg. I’d like him to ring me; the number is—”

“I’m sorry,” Ann-Gull interrupted her politely. “But during the Miracle Conference the pastors are extremely busy and won’t have time to ring people who are trying to get hold of them.”

“But if I could just explain,” said Rebecka, “I’m representing Sanna Strandgård and—”

The woman on the other end of the line interrupted her again. This time there was a certain element of sharpness beneath the polite tones.

“I know exactly who you are, Rebecka Martinsson,” she said. “But as I said, the pastors have no time during the conference.”

Rebecka clenched her hands.

“You can tell the pastors that I’m not going to disappear just because they’re ignoring me,” she said furiously. “I—”

“I have no intention of telling them anything,” Ann-Gull Kyrö interjected. “And there’s no point in threatening me. This conversation is over. Good-bye.”

Rebecka pulled out her earpiece and pushed it into her coat pocket. She had reached the car. She turned her face up to the sky and let the snowflakes land on her cheeks. After a few seconds she was wet and cold.

You bastards, she thought. I’m not about to slink away like a dog that’s afraid of being beaten. You will talk to me about Viktor. You say I’ve got nothing to threaten you with. We’ll see about that.

T
homas Söderberg lived with his wife, Maja, and their two daughters in an apartment in the middle of town, above a clothes shop. Rebecka’s footsteps echoed on the stairs as she made her way up to the top floor. Shell-colored fossils were inlaid in the brown stone. The nameplates were all made of brass, and etched in the same neat, italic script. It was the kind of silent stairwell where you can just imagine the elderly residents inside their stuffy apartments, ears pressed to the door, wondering who’s there.

Pull yourself together, Rebecka said to herself. There’s no point in wondering whether you want to do this or not. You’ve just got to get it over with. Like a visit to the dentist. Open wide and it’ll soon be over. She pressed the bell on the door marked “Söderberg.” For a split second she thought that Thomas might open the door, and suppressed the urge to turn tail and run down the stairs.

It was Maja Söderberg’s sister, Magdalena, who opened the door.

“Rebecka” was all she said. She didn’t look surprised. Rebecka got the feeling she was expected. Perhaps Thomas had asked his sister-in-law to take some time off work, and installed her as a guard dog to protect his little family. Magdalena hadn’t changed. Her hair was cut in the same practical pageboy bob as it had been ten years ago. She was wearing unfashionable jeans tucked into a pair of hand-knitted woolen kneesocks.

She’s sticking to her own special style, thought Rebecka. If there’s anyone who isn’t about to fall for the idea of dressing for success and slipping on a pair of high heels, it’s Magdalena. If she’d been born in the nineteenth century she’d have worn her well-starched nurse’s uniform all the time and paddled her own canoe along the rivers to the godforsaken villages with her super-size syringe in her bag.

“I’ve come to talk to Maja,” said Rebecka.

“I don’t think you’ve got anything to talk about,” said Magdalena, holding firmly onto the door handle with one hand and resting the other on the doorjamb so that Rebecka wouldn’t be able to get past her.

Rebecka raised her voice so that it could be heard in the flat.

“Tell Maja I want to talk to her about Victory Print. I want to give her the chance to persuade me not to go to the police.”

“Right, I’m closing the door,” said Magdalena angrily.

Rebecka placed her hand on the door frame.

“You’ll break my fingers if you do,” she said so loudly that it bounced off the walls of the stairwell. “Come on, Magdalena. See if Maja wants to talk to me. Tell her it’s about her holdings in the company.”

“I’m closing it,” said Magdalena threateningly, pulling the door back slightly as if she were going to slam it. “If your hand’s still there, you’ve only yourself to blame.”

You won’t do it, thought Rebecka. You’re a nurse.

R
ebecka sits down and flicks through a magazine. It’s from last year. It doesn’t matter. She isn’t reading it anyway. After a while the nurse who first saw her comes back and closes the door behind her. Rosita is her name.

“You’re pregnant, Rebecka,” says Rosita. “If you’ve decided to have an abortion, we need to book you in for a D & C.”

D & C. That means they’re going to scrape Johanna out of her womb.

It’s when Rebecka is on her way out that it happens. Before she manages to get past reception, she bumps into Magdalena. Magdalena stops in the corridor to say hello. Rebecka stops and returns her greeting. Magdalena asks if Rebecka is coming to choir practice on Thursday, and Rebecka looks uncomfortable, makes excuses.

Magdalena doesn’t ask what Rebecka is doing at the hospital. That’s how Rebecka realizes that Magdalena knows. It’s the things you don’t say. That’s what always gives a person away.

“L
et her in. The neighbors must be wondering what the hell’s going on.”

Maja appeared behind Magdalena. The years had etched two hard lines around the corners of her mouth. They grew even deeper as she contemplated Rebecka.

“You can keep your coat on,” said Maja. “You won’t be staying long.”

They sat down in the kitchen. It was spacious, with new white cupboards and a central island. Rebecka wondered whether the children were in school. Rakel must be in her early teens, and Anna should be at high school by now. Time had passed here too.

“Shall I make some tea?” asked Magdalena.

“No, thank you,” replied Maja.

Magdalena sank back onto her chair. Her hands moved to the cloth and brushed away nonexistent crumbs.

You poor thing, thought Rebecka, looking at Magdalena. You ought to get your own life, instead of being one of this family’s possessions.

Maja stared stonily at Rebecka.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

“I want to ask you about Viktor,” said Rebecka. “He—”

“Just now you were standing out there showing us up in front of the neighbors and playing hell about Victory Print. What did you want to say about it?”

Rebecka took a deep breath.

“I’ll tell you what I think I know. And then you can tell me if I’m right.”

Maja snorted.

“According to the tax records I’ve seen, Victory Print has reclaimed VAT from the state,” said Rebecka. “A great deal of VAT. That indicates that considerable investments have been made in the company.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” snapped Maja.

Rebecka’s gaze was icy as she looked at the two sisters.

“The church of The Source of All Our Strength has informed the tax authorities that it is a nonprofit-making organization that is therefore exempt from income tax and VAT. That’s brilliant for the church, because it presumably rakes in a ton of money. The profit from the sales of books, pamphlets and videos alone must be huge. No translation costs, people do it as a service to God. No royalties to the author, at least not to Viktor, so the whole of the profit must have gone to the church.”

Rebecka paused briefly. Maja didn’t take her eyes off her. Her face was set, like a mask. Magdalena was gazing out through the window. In a tree just outside, a great tit was pecking eagerly at a bit of bacon rind. Rebecka went on:

“The only problem is that when the church is exempt from tax, it isn’t allowed to make deductions for its costs either. Nor can you reclaim VAT on those costs. So what do you do? Well, the smart solution is to set up a company and put all the costs and expenses that can give you back your VAT into that company. So when the church decides it’s a good idea to print books and pamphlets and copy videotapes itself, it sets up a trading company. The wives of the pastors are designated the owners of the company. The company buys all the necessary equipment. And it costs a lot of money. You get twenty percent of your outgoings back from the state. That’s a tidy sum in the pockets of the pastors’ families. The company sells services, printing and so on, cheaply to the church, and runs at a loss. That’s good, because then there’s no profit to be taxed. And there’s another good thing. The partners can claim up to a hundred thousand kronor each of those losses against their earned income for the first five years. I noticed that you, Maja, were paying zero tax this year and last year. Vesa Larsson’s wife and Gunnar Isaksson’s wife had minimal taxed income from employment. I think you’ve used the company’s losses to make your wages disappear, to avoid paying tax on them.”

“Yes, what about it?” said Maja crossly. “It’s perfectly legal. I don’t understand what you want, Rebecka. You of all people ought to know that tax management—”

“I haven’t finished,” Rebecka cut her off sharply. “I think the company has been selling its services to the church below the market price, and has therefore deliberately created losses. I’m also wondering where the money to invest in the company has come from. As far as I know, none of the partners has a fortune hidden away. Perhaps you took out a massive bank loan, but I don’t think so. I didn’t actually see any deficit in capital earnings for any of you. I think the money to buy the printing works and other things comes from the church, but it isn’t on record. And that means it isn’t a matter of tax management. That means we’re talking about tax fraud. If the tax authorities and the Economic Crimes prosecutor start poking about in all this, then this is what will happen: If the partners can’t account for where the investment money has come from, you will be taxed on that money at the business rate. The church has made an advance payment, which should have been recorded as revenue.”

Rebecka leaned forward and fixed Maja Söderberg with her eyes.

“Do you understand, Maja,” she said. “About half of the money you have received from the church has to be paid in taxes. Then there’s national insurance and supplementary tax. You personally will be declared bankrupt, and you’ll have the authorities after you for the rest of your life. On top of which you’ll end up in jail for quite some time. Society takes dubious financial dealings very seriously. And if the pastors are behind the whole thing, as I believe they are, then Thomas is guilty of both fraud and a breach of trust against his principals, and God knows what else. Siphoned money from the church into his wife’s company. If he’s sent to jail as well, who’s going to look after the children? They’ll be able to come and visit you. Some depressing visitors’ room for a few hours at the weekend. And when you get out, where are you going to find a job?”

Maja stared at Rebecka.

“What is it you want? You come here, into my home, with your speculation and your threats. Threatening me. The whole family. The children.”

She stopped speaking and covered her mouth with her hand.

“If you want revenge, Rebecka, then take it out on me,” said Magdalena.

“Shut the fuck up!” snapped Rebecka, and saw how the sisters jumped when she swore.

It made her feel like swearing again.

“Too fucking right I want revenge,” she went on, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

R
ebecka is at home alone when the doorbell rings. Thomas Söderberg is standing outside. Maja and Magdalena are with him.

Now Rebecka understands why Sanna was in such a hurry to go out. And why she insisted Rebecka should stay at home and study. Sanna knew they were coming.

Afterward Rebecka thinks that she should never have let them in. That she should have slammed the door in their well-meaning faces. She knows why they’re here. Can see it in their faces. In Thomas’s serious and concerned expression. In Maja’s pursed lips. And in Magdalena, who can’t quite bring herself to meet Rebecka’s eyes.

They don’t want anything to drink. But then Thomas changes his mind
and asks for a glass of water. During the ensuing conversation he pauses from time to time to drink from the glass.

When they sit down in the living room Thomas takes control. He asks Rebecka to sit on the wicker chair, and steers his wife and sister-in-law to opposite ends of the L-shaped sofa. He places himself in the corner of the sofa. This enables him to maintain eye contact with all three of them at the same time. Rebecka has to keep turning her head to look at Maja and Magdalena.

Thomas Söderberg goes right to the heart of the matter.

“Magdalena told us she met you at the hospital,” he says, looking into Rebecka’s eyes. “She’s also told us why you were there. We’ve come here to persuade you not to go through with it.”

When Rebecka doesn’t respond, he goes on.

“I understand that things are difficult for you, but you really have to think of the child. You have a life inside you, Rebecka. You have no right to snuff it out. Maja and I have talked about this, and she has forgiven me.”

He pauses, gazing at Maja with his eyes full of love and gratitude.

“We want to look after the child,” he says. “Adopt it. Do you understand, Rebecka? It would have the same status in our family as Rakel and Anna. A little brother.”

Maja glances at him.

“If it’s a boy, of course,” he adds.

After a while he asks:

“What’s your answer, Rebecka?”

Rebecka looks up from the table and stares hard at Maja.

“What’s my answer,” she says, shaking her head slowly.

“I looked at your notes and broke confidentiality,” says Magdalena. “You’re perfectly entitled to report me to the authorities.”

“Sometimes we have to choose whether to follow the laws of Caesar or of God,” says Thomas. “I’ve told Magdalena that you’ll understand. Isn’t that right, Rebecka? Or are you going to report her?”

Rebecka shakes her head. Magdalena looks relieved. She is almost smiling. Maja isn’t smiling. Her eyes are black when she looks at Rebecka. Rebecka feels the nausea welling up. She ought to eat something, it usually eases off then.

They want her to bring up my child? thinks Rebecka.

“So what do you say, Rebecka?” Thomas persists. “Can I leave here with your promise to cancel that hospital appointment?”