Stalker

81

They go together in Margot’s comfortable Lincoln. To make room for her stomach she’s had to move the seat so far back that she can barely reach the pedals with her feet.

Only two of the three names are left. It turns out that Sven Hugo Andersson was in Danderyd Hospital for a bypass operation when Sandra Lundgren was murdered.

Once they’re past Södertälje they head along the 225 motorway, through fields of yellow rape, past a large industrial area dominated by Astra Zeneca’s pale grey facility. They pass beneath some tall electricity pylons, then head into a forested area.

Margot puts a biscuit in her mouth, chews, tasting the crumbly mixture of sugar and butter, then the chewy, tart jam.

‘Are those Petter’s biscuits?’ Adam asks.

‘He gave them to me,’ she says, popping the next biscuit in her mouth.

‘He wouldn’t even offer one to his wife.’

‘But he was very insistent that you have a couple,’ she says, passing him the packet.

Adam takes a biscuit and eats it with a smile, holding one hand under his mouth so as not to drop crumbs in Margot’s car.

The road gets narrower, grit flies up behind them and Margot has to slow down. They can make out the occasional cottage down by the lake.

Pasi Jokala was convicted of aggravated assault, rape and attempted rape.

Margot hasn’t been on operational duty since she got pregnant, but she’s choosing to see this as an extension of office work, given that Pasi Jokala has no listed phone number.

‘Do you think he’s dangerous?’ Adam asks.

The two of them know that they shouldn’t have come out here without the National Task Force if they really believe they’ve found the unclean preacher. But, just to be on the safe side, Margot has brought her Glock and four extra magazines.

‘He has problems with aggression and a lack of impulse control,’ she says. ‘But who the hell hasn’t?’

Pasi Jokala is registered as living at the same address as the Gärtuna Revivalist Church.

Margot turns off onto a narrow gravel road through sparse forest, and can see the lake again. Some fifty cars are parked along the side of the road, but she drives all the way to the fence before stopping.

‘We don’t have to do this now,’ Adam says.

‘I’m just going to take a look,’ Margot says, checking her gun before putting it back in its holster and struggling out of the car.

They’re standing in front of a rust-red cottage with a white cross made of LED lights covering the gable end. The light inside looks like it’s filtering out of the building through narrow gaps in the wood. Behind the house a wild meadow stretches down towards the lake.

The windows are covered on the inside.

A loud voice can be heard through the walls.

A man shouts something and Margot feels a sudden pang of unease.

She keeps walking, her holster rubbing against her. It’s sitting too high, now that her stomach has grown. They walk past a water-butt, thistles a metre tall, and a rusty lawnmower. Dozens of slugs lurk in the shadowy grass beside the wall.

‘Maybe we should wait here until they’ve finished?’ Adam wonders.

‘I’m going in,’ Margot says curtly.

They open the door and walk into the hall, but now everything is completely silent, as if everyone were waiting for them to arrive.

On the wall is a poster about meetings beside the lake, and a group trip to Alabama. On a table is a bundle of printouts about fundraising for the Gärtuna Revivalists’ new church, next to a buckled cashbox and twenty copies of the Redemption Hymnal.

Adam is hesitant, but she waves him towards her. It may be a church, but she still wants him in the right position if there’s going to be any gunfire.

Margot holds her stomach with one hand as she walks through the next door.

She can hear the sound of murmuring voices.

The rest of the building is a single white church hall. The beams of the roof are held up by pillars, and everything is painted brilliant white.

There are rows of white chairs on the white floor, and up at the front is a small stage.

A couple of dozen people have stood up from their seats. Their eyes are fixed on the man on the stage.

Margot realises that the man in front of them is Pasi Jokala. He’s wearing a blood-red shirt with open cuffs that are hanging down over his hands. His hair is sticking up from one side of his head, and his face is sweaty. His chair is lying on its side behind him. The members of the small choir are silent, looking at him with their mouths open. Pasi raises his head wearily and gazes out across the congregation.

‘I was the mud beneath His feet, the dust in His eye, the dirt under His nails,’ he says. ‘I sinned, and I sinned on purpose… You know what I have done to myself, and to others, you know what I said to my own parents, to my mother and father.’

The congregation sighs and shuffles uncomfortably.

‘The sickness of sin was raging in me…’

‘Pasi,’ a woman whimpers, looking at him with moist eyes.

They all start to mutter prayers.

‘You know that I mugged a man, and beat him with a rock,’ Pasi goes on with growing intensity. ‘You know what I did to Emma… and when she forgave me, I left her and Mikko, you know that I drank so much that I ended up in hospital…’

The congregation is moving agitatedly now, chairs scrape the floor, some topple over, and one man falls to his knees.

The atmosphere grows more tense, and Pasi’s voice is hoarse from chanting. The meeting seems to be reaching a crescendo. Margot retreats towards the door, as she sees two women holding each other’s hands and speaking a strange language, incomprehensible, repetitive words, faster and faster.

‘But I put my life in the Lord’s hands and was baptised in the Holy Spirit,’ Pasi goes on. ‘Now I am the drop of blood running down Christ’s cheek, I am the drop of blood…’

The congregation cheers and applauds.

The little choir starts to sing with full force: ‘The chains of sin are broken, I am free, I am free, I am delivered of my sin, I am free, saved and free, hallelujah, hallelujah, Jesus died for me! Hallelujah, hallelujah, I am free, I am free…’

The congregation joins in, clapping along, and Pasi Jokala stands there with his eyes closed, sweat running down his face.