Sun Storm aka The Savage Altar

When Viktor Strandgård dies it is not, in fact, for the first time. He lies on his back in the church called The Source of All Our Strength and looks up through the enormous windows in its roof. It’s as if there is nothing between him and the dark winter sky up above.

You can’t get any closer than this, he thinks. When you come to the church on the mountain at the end of the world, the sky will be so close that you can reach out and touch it.

The Aurora Borealis twists and turns like a dragon in the night sky. Stars and planets are compelled to give way to her, this great miracle of shimmering light, as she makes her unhurried way across the vault of heaven.

Viktor Strandgård follows her progress with his eyes.

I wonder if she sings? he thinks. Like a lonely whale beneath the sea?

And as if his thoughts have touched her, she stops for a second. Breaks her endless journey. Contemplates Viktor Strandgård with her cold winter eyes. Because he is as beautiful as an icon lying there, to tell the truth, with the dark blood like a halo round his long, fair, St. Lucia hair. He can’t feel his legs anymore. He is getting drowsy. There is no pain.

Curiously enough it is his previous death he is thinking of as he lies there looking into the eye of the dragon. That time in the late winter when he came cycling down the long bank toward the crossroads at Adolf Hedinsvägen and Hjalmar Lundbohmsvägen. Happy and redeemed, his guitar on his back. He remembers how the wheels of his bicycle skidded helplessly on the ice as he tried desperately to brake. How he saw the woman in the red Fiat Uno coming from the right. How they stared at each other, the realization in the other’s eyes; now it’s happening, the icy slide toward death.

With that picture in his mind’s eye Viktor Strandgård dies for the second time in his life. Footsteps approach, but he doesn’t hear them. His eyes do not have to see the gleam of the knife once again. His body lies like an empty shell on the floor of the church; it is stabbed over and over again. And the dragon resumes her journey across the heavens, unmoved.

Monday, February 17

Rebecka Martinsson was woken by her own sharp intake of breath as fear stabbed through her body. She opened her eyes to darkness. Just between the dream and the waking, she had the strong feeling that there was someone in the flat. She lay still and listened, but all she could hear was the sound of her own heart thumping in her chest like a frightened hare. Her fingers fumbled for the alarm clock on the bedside table and found the little button to light up the face. Quarter to four. She had gone to bed four hours ago and this was the second time she had woken up.

It’s the job, she thought. I work too hard. That’s why my thoughts go round and round at night, like a hamster on a squeaking wheel.

Her head and the back of her neck were aching. She must have been grinding her teeth in her sleep. Might as well get up. She wound the duvet around her and went into the kitchen. Her feet knew the way without her needing to switch on. the light. She put on the coffee machine and the radio. Bellman’s music played over and over as the water ran through the filter and Rebecka showered.

Her long hair could dry in its own time. She drank her coffee while she was getting dressed. Over the weekend she had ironed her clothes for the week and hung them up in the wardrobe. Now it was Monday. On Monday’s hanger was an ivory blouse and a navy blue Marella suit. She sniffed at the tights she’d been wearing the previous day; they’d do. They’d gone a bit wrinkly around the ankles, but if she stretched them and tucked them under her feet it wouldn’t show. She’d just have to make sure she didn’t kick her shoes off during the day. It didn’t bother her; it was only worth spending time worrying about your underwear and your tights if you thought somebody was going to be watching you get undressed. Her underwear had seen better days and was turning gray.

An hour later she was sitting at her computer in the office. The words flowed through her mind like a clear mountain stream, down her arms and out through her fingers, flying over the keyboard. Work soothed her mind. It was as if the morning’s unpleasantness had been blown away.

It’s strange, she thought. I moan and complain like all the other young lawyers about how unhappy the job makes me. But I feel a sense of peace when I’m working. Happiness, almost. It’s when I’m not working I feel uneasy.

The light from the street below forced its way with difficulty through the tall barred windows. You could still make out the sound of individual cars among the noise below, but soon the street would become a single dull roar of traffic. Rebecka leaned back in her chair and clicked on “print.” Out in the dark corridor the printer woke up and got on with the first task of the day. Then the door into reception banged. She sighed and looked at the clock. Ten to six. That was the end of her peace and quiet.

She couldn’t hear who had come in. The thick carpets in the corridor deadened the sound of footsteps, but after a while the door of her room opened.

“Am I disturbing you?” It was Maria Taube. She pushed the door open with her hip, balancing a mug of coffee in each hand. Rebecka’s copy was jammed under her right arm.

Both women were newly qualified lawyers with special responsibility for tax laws, working for Meijer & Ditzinger. The office was at the very top of a beautiful turn-of-the-century building on Birger Jarlsgatan. Semi-antique Persian carpets ran the length of the corridors, and here and there stood imposing sofas and armchairs in attractively worn leather. Everything exuded an air of experience, influence, money and competence. It was an office that filled clients with an appropriate mixture of security and reverence.

“By the time you die you must be so tired you hope there won’t be any sort of afterlife,” said Maria, and put a mug of coffee on Rebecka’s desk. “But of course that won’t apply to you, Maggie Thatcher. What time did you get here this morning? Or haven’t you been home at all?”

They’d both worked in the office on Sunday evening. Maria had gone home first.

"I’ve only just got here," lied Rebecka, and took her copy out of Maria’s hand.

Maria sank down into the armchair provided for visitors, kicked off her ridiculously expensive leather shoes and drew her legs up under her body.

“Terrible weather,” she said.

Rebecka looked out the window with surprise. Icy rain was hammering against the glass. She hadn’t noticed earlier. She couldn’t remember if it had been raining when she came into work. In fact, she couldn’t actually remember whether she’d walked or taken the Underground. She gazed in a trance at the rain pouring down the glass as it beat an icy tattoo.

Winter in Stockholm, she thought. It’s hardly surprising that you shut down your brain when you’re outside. It’s different up at home, the blue shining midwinter twilight, the snow crunching under your feet. Or the early spring, when you’ve skied along the river from Grandmother’s house in Kurravaara to the cabin in Jiekajärvi, and you sit down and rest on the first patch of clear ground where the snow has melted under a pine tree. The tree bark glows like red copper in the sun. The snow sighs with exhaustion, collapsing in the warmth. Coffee, an orange, sandwiches in your rucksack.

The sound of Maria’s voice drew her back. Her thoughts scrabbled and tried to escape, but she pulled herself together and met her colleague’s raised eyebrows.

“Hello! I asked if you were going to listen to the news.”

“Yes, of course.”

Rebecka leaned back in her chair and stretched out her arm to the radio on the windowsill.

Lord, she’s thin, thought Maria, looking at her colleague’s rib cage as it protruded from under her jacket. You could play a tune on those ribs.

Rebecka turned the radio up and both women sat with their coffee cups cradled between their hands, heads bowed as if in prayer.

Maria blinked. It felt as if something were scratching her tired eyes. Today she had to finish the appeal for the county court in the Stenman case. Måns would kill her if she asked him for more time. She felt a burning pain in her midriff. No more coffee before lunch. You sat here like a princess in a tower, day and night, evenings and weekends, in this oh-so-charming office with all its bloody traditions that could go to hell, and all the pissed-up partners looking straight through your blouse while outside, life just carried on without you. You didn’t know whether you wanted to cry or start a revolution but all you could actually manage was to drag yourself home to the TV and pass out in front of its soothing, flickering screen.

It’s six o’clock and here are the morning headlines. A well-known religious leader around the age of thirty was found murdered early this morning in the church of The Source of All Our Strength in Kiruna. The police in Kiruna are not prepared to make a statement about the murder at this stage, but during the morning they have revealed that no one has been detained so far, and the murder weapon has not yet been found… A new study shows that more and more communities are ignoring their obligations, according to Social Services…

Rebecka swung her chair round so quickly that she banged her hand on the windowsill. She turned the radio off with a crash and at the same time managed to spill coffee on her knee.

“Viktor,” she exclaimed. “It has to be him.”

Maria looked at her with surprise.

“Viktor Strandgård? The Paradise Boy? Did you know him?”

Rebecka avoided Maria’s gaze. Ended up staring at the coffee stain on her skirt, her expression closed and blank. Thin lips, pressed together.

“Of course I knew of him. But I haven’t been home to Kiruna for years. I don’t know anybody up there anymore.”

Maria got up from the armchair, went over to Rebecka and pried the coffee cup from her colleague’s stiff hands.

“If you say you didn’t know him, that’s fine by me, but you’re going to faint in about thirty seconds. You’re as white as a sheet. Bend over and put your head between your knees.”

Like a child Rebecka did as she was told. Maria went to the bathroom and fetched paper towels to try to save Rebecka’s suit from the coffee stain. When she came back Rebecka was leaning back in her chair.

“Are you okay?” asked Maria.

“Yes,” answered Rebecka absently, and looked on helplessly as Maria started to dab at her skirt with a damp towel. “I did know him,” she said.

“Well, I didn’t exactly need a lie detector,” said Maria without looking up. “Are you upset?”

“Upset? I don’t know. Frightened, maybe.”

Maria stopped her frantic dabbing.

“Frightened of what?”

“I don’t know. That somebody will-”

The telephone burst in with its shrill signal before Rebecka could finish. She jumped and stared at it, but didn’t pick it up. After the third ring Maria answered. She put her hand over the receiver so that the person on the other end couldn’t hear her, and whispered:

“It’s for you and it must be from Kiruna, because there’s a Moomintroll on the other end.”

When Inspector Anna-Maria Mella’s telephone rang, she was already awake. The winter moon filled the room with its chilly white light. The birch trees outside the window drew blue shadow pictures on the walls with their bent and aching limbs. As soon as the phone started to ring, she picked it up.

“It’s Sven-Erik-were you awake?”

“Yes, but I’m in bed. What is it?”

She heard Robert sigh and glanced in his direction. Had he woken up? No, his breathing became deep and regular again. Good.

“Suspected murder in The Source of All Our Strength church,” said Sven-Erik.

“So? I’m on desk duty since Friday, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I know”-Sven-Erik’s voice sounded troubled-“but bloody hell, Anna-Maria, this is something else. You could just come and have a look. The forensic team will be finished soon, and we can go in. I’ve got Viktor Strandgård lying here, and it looks like a slaughterhouse. I’d guess we’ve got about an hour before every bloody TV station is here with cameras and the whole circus.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

There’s a turn-up, she thought. Sven-Erik ringing to ask me for help. He’s changed.

Sven-Erik didn’t answer, but Anna-Maria heard his suppressed sigh of relief just before he put the phone down.

She turned to Robert and gazed at his sleeping face. His cheek was resting on the back of his hand and his red lips were parted slightly. She found it irresistibly sexy that a few strands of gray had started to appear in his straggling moustache and at his temples. Robert himself used to stand in front of the bathroom mirror looking anxiously at his receding hairline.

“The desert is spreading,” he would say ruefully.

She kissed him on the mouth. Her stomach got in the way, but she managed it. Twice.

“I love you,” he assured her, still asleep. His hand fumbled under the sheet to draw her close, but by then she had already managed to sit upright on the edge of the bed. All of a sudden she was desperate for a pee. Her bladder was bursting all the time. She’d already been to the bathroom twice during the night.

Quarter of an hour later Anna-Maria climbed out of her Ford Escort in the car park below The Source of All Our Strength church. It was still bitterly cold. The air pinched and nipped at her cheeks. If she breathed through her mouth her throat and lungs hurt. If she breathed through her nose the fine hairs in her nostrils froze when she inhaled. She wound her scarf around to cover her mouth and looked at her watch. Half an hour max; any longer and the car wouldn’t start. It was a big parking lot with spaces for at least four hundred cars. Her light-red Escort looked small and insignificant beside Sven-Erik Stålnacke’s Volvo 740. A radio car was parked next to Sven-Erik’s Volvo. Apart from that there were only a dozen or so cars, completely covered in snow. The forensic team must have gone already. She started to walk up the narrow path to the church on Sandstensberget. The frost lay like icing on the birch trees, and right at the top of the hill the mighty Crystal Church soared up into the night sky, surrounded by stars and planets. It stood there like a gigantic illuminated ice cube, shimmering with the Aurora Borealis.

All bloody show, she thought as she struggled up the bank. This lot are rolling in money; they ought to be giving some of their cash to Save the Children instead. But I suppose it’s more fun to sing gospel songs in a huge church than to dig wells in Africa.

In the distance she could see her colleagues Sven-Erik Stålnacke, Sergeant Tommy Rantakyrö and Inspector Fred Olsson outside the church door. Sven-Erik, bareheaded as usual, was standing quite still, leaning slightly backwards with his hands deep in the warm pockets of his fleece. The two younger men were bounding about like excited puppies. She couldn’t hear them, but she could see Rantakyrö’s and Olsson’s eager chatter coming out of their mouths like white bubbles. The puppies barked happily in greeting as soon as they caught sight of her.

“Hi,” yapped Tommy Rantakyrö, “how’s it going?”

“Fine,” she called back cheerfully.

“Soon we’ll be saying hello to your stomach first, then you’ll turn up quarter of an hour later,” said Fred Olsson.

Anna-Maria laughed.

She met Sven-Erik’s serious gaze. Small icicles had formed in his walrus moustache.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I hope you’ve had breakfast, because what’s in there won’t exactly give you an appetite. Shall we go in?”

“Do you want us to wait for you?”

Fred Olsson was stamping his feet up and down in the snow. He was looking from Sven-Erik to Anna-Maria and back again. Sven-Erik was supposed to be taking over during Anna-Maria’s leave, so technically he was in charge now. But since Anna-Maria was here as well it was a bit difficult to know who was making the decisions.

Anna-Maria kept quiet and looked at Sven-Erik. She was only there to keep him company.

“It would be good if you could hang on,” said Sven-Erik, “so we don’t suddenly get somebody coming along who has no business here before the body has been collected. But by all means come and stand inside the door if you’re cold.”

“Hell no, we can stand outside, I just wondered, that’s all,” Fred Olsson assured them.

“No problem.” Tommy Rantakyrö grinned with blue lips. “We’re men after all. Men don’t feel the cold.”

Sven-Erik went into the church right behind Anna-Maria and pulled the heavy door shut behind them. They walked slowly through the cloakroom, slumbering in the twilight. Long ranks of empty coat hangers rattled like an out-of-tune glockenspiel, set in motion by the draught as the cold air outside met the warmth inside. Two swing doors led into the main body of the church. Sven-Erik instinctively lowered his voice as they went in.

“It was Viktor Strandgård’s sister who rang the main office around three. She’d found him dead and she used the phone in the pastor’s office.”

“Where is she? At the station?”

“Well, no. We don’t know where she is. I left instructions to get somebody out there looking for her. There was nobody in the church when Tommy and Freddy got here.”

“What did the technicians say?”

“Look but don’t touch.”

The body was lying in the middle of the central aisle. Anna-Maria stopped a little way from it.

“Fucking hell,” she burst out.

“I did tell you,” said Sven-Erik, who was standing just behind her.

Anna-Maria pulled a little tape recorder from the inside pocket of her jacket. She hesitated for a moment. She usually spoke into it rather than making notes. But this wasn’t really her case. Maybe she ought to keep quiet and just sort of go along with Sven-Erik?

Don’t go making everything so complicated, she told herself, and switched on the tape recorder without even looking at her colleague.

“The time is five thirty-five,” she said into the microphone. “It’s the sixteenth, no seventeenth, of February. I’m standing in The Source of All Our Strength church and looking at someone who, as far as we know at the moment, is Viktor Strandgård, generally known as the Paradise Boy. The dead man is lying in the middle of the aisle. He appears to have been well and truly slit open, because he absolutely stinks and the carpet beneath the body is wet. This wetness is presumably blood, but it’s a little difficult to tell because he is lying on a red carpet. His clothes are also covered in blood and it isn’t possible to see very much of the wound in his stomach; it does seem, however, that some of his intestines are protruding, but the doctor can confirm that later. He’s wearing jeans and a jumper. The soles of his shoes are dry and the carpet under his shoes is not wet. His eyes have been gouged out…”

Anna-Maria broke off and switched off the tape recorder. She moved round the body and bent over the face. She had been about to say that he made a beautiful corpse, but there were limits to what she could think aloud in front of Sven-Erik. The dead man’s face made her think of King Oedipus. She had seen the play on video at school. At the time she hadn’t been particularly affected by the scene where he put out his own eyes, but now the image came back to her with remarkable clarity. She needed to pee again. And she mustn’t forget about the car. Best get going. She switched on the tape recorder again.

“The eyes have been gouged out and the long hair is covered in blood. There must be a wound to the back of the head. There is a cut on the right of the neck, but no bleeding, and the hands are missing…”

Anna-Maria turned inquiringly to Sven-Erik, who was pointing toward the rows of chairs. She bent down with difficulty and looked along the floor among the chairs.

“Oh, I see, one hand is lying three meters away under the chairs. But where’s the other?”

Sven-Erik shrugged.

“None of the chairs has been overturned,” she continued. “There are no indications of a struggle; what do you think, Sven-Erik?”

“No,” replied Sven-Erik, who disliked speaking into the tape recorder.

“Who took the photos?”

“Simon Larsson.”

Good, she thought. That meant they would have good pictures.

“Otherwise the church is tidy,” she went on. “This is the first time I’ve been in here. There are hundreds of frosted lamps along those sections of the walls that are not made of glass bricks. How high would it be? Must be more than ten meters. Huge windows in the roof. Blue chairs in rows, straight as a die. How many people would fit in here? Two thousand?”

“Plus the pulpit,” said Sven-Erik.

He wandered round and allowed his gaze to sweep over every surface like a vacuum cleaner.

Anna-Maria turned and looked at the pulpit towering behind her. The organ pipes soared upward and met their own reflection in the windows in the roof. It was an impressive sight.

“There isn’t really very much more to add,” said Anna-Maria hesitantly, as if some idea might work its way up from her subconscious and creep out through a gap in the syllables as she spoke. “There’s something… something that makes me feel frustrated when I look at all this. Besides the fact that this corpse is in the worst state I’ve ever seen-”

“Hey, you two! His lordship the assistant chief prosecutor is on his way up the hill.”

Tommy Rantakyrö had stuck his head in through the doorway.

“Who the hell rang him?” asked Sven-Erik, but Tommy had already disappeared.

Anna-Maria looked at him. Four years ago when she became team leader Sven-Erik had hardly spoken to her for the first six months. He had been deeply hurt because she had got the job he wanted. And now that he’d found his feet as her second in command, he didn’t want to take that extra step forward. She made a mental note to give him a pep talk later. But now he’d just have to manage by himself. Just as Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post stormed in through the door, she gave Sven-Erik an encouraging look.

“What the fuck is going on here?” yelled von Post.

He yanked off his fur hat and his hand went up to his mane of curly hair from sheer force of habit. He stamped his feet. The short walk up from the car park was enough to turn his feet to ice in his smart shoes from Church’s. He strode up to Anna-Maria and Sven-Erik but recoiled when he caught sight of the body on the floor.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he burst out, and looked anxiously down at his shoes to check whether he might have got them dirty.

“Why didn’t somebody ring me?” he went on, turning to Sven-Erik. “From now on I’m taking over the investigation, and you can expect a serious talk with the chief if you’ve been keeping me in the dark.”

“Nobody’s been keeping you in the dark, we didn’t know what had happened and we still don’t really know anything,” ventured Sven-Erik.

“Crap!” snapped the prosecutor. “And what the hell are you doing here?”

This was directed at Anna-Maria, who was standing in silence gazing at Viktor Strandgård’s mutilated arms.

“I rang her,” explained Sven-Erik.

“I see,” said von Post through clenched teeth. “So you rang her, but not me.”

Sven-Erik said nothing, and Carl von Post looked at Anna-Maria, who raised her eyes and met his gaze calmly.

Carl von Post clamped his teeth together so hard that his jaws ached. He’d always had a problem with this midget of a policewoman. She seemed to have her male colleagues on the Investigation squad by the balls, and he couldn’t work out why. And just look at her. One meter fifty at the most in her stocking feet, with a long horse’s face which more or less covered half her body. At the moment she was ready for a circus freak show with her enormous belly. Like a grotesque cube, she was as broad as she was tall. It just had to be the inevitable result of generations of inbreeding in those little isolated Lapp villages.

He waved his hand in the air as if to waft away his sharp words and started on a new tack.

“How are you feeling, Anna-Maria?” he asked, pasting on a gentle and sympathetic smile.

“Fine,” she answered without expression. “And you?”

“I reckon we’ll have the press round our ears in maybe an hour or so. It’ll be all hell let loose, so tell me what you know so far about the murder and the dead man; all I know is that he was a religious celebrity.”

Carl von Post sat down on one of the blue chairs and pulled off his gloves.

“I’ll let Sven-Erik tell you,” said Anna-Maria in a laconic but not unfriendly tone. “I’m supposed to be on desk duty until my time comes. I came along with Sven-Erik because he asked me to, and because two pairs of eyes see more than… well, you know all that. And now I need to pee. If you’ll excuse me.”

She noticed with satisfaction the pained smile on von Post’s face as she went off to the bathroom. To think that the word “pee” could offend his ears quite so much. She wouldn’t mind betting that his wife made sure she directed the stream of liquid onto the porcelain when she peed so his delicate little ears wouldn’t be troubled by the sound of piddling. Bloody man.

“Well,” said Sven-Erik when Anna-Maria had disappeared, “you can see things for yourself, and we don’t know much more. Somebody has killed him. And they’ve done it very thoroughly, I must say. The dead man is Viktor Strandgård, or the Paradise Boy as he’s known. He’s the main attraction in this huge church community. Nine years ago he was involved in a terrible car accident. He died at the hospital. His heart stopped and everything, but they got him back, and he could tell them all about what had happened during the operation and when they were trying to resuscitate him, that the doctor had dropped his glasses and so on. And then he said he’d been in heaven. He met angels, and Jesus. Anyway, one of the nurses who’d been involved in the operation was saved, and the woman who ran into him, and suddenly the whole of Kiruna was one big revivalist meeting. The three biggest free churches joined together to make one new church, The Source of All Our Strength. The congregation grew and in recent years they’ve built this church, started their own school and their own nursery, and held huge revivalist meetings. Tons of money is pouring in, and people come here from all over the world. Viktor Strandgård is-or was, I should say-employed by the church full-time, and he’s written a best seller…”

“Himlen Tur och Retur, Heaven and Back.”

“That’s the one. He’s their golden calf, he’s been in all the papers, even Expressen and Aftonbladet, so there’s bound to be a lot written now. And the TV cameras will be up here.”

“Exactly,” said von Post, and stood up, looking impatient. “I don’t want anyone leaking information to the press. I’ll take over all contact with the media and I want you to report to me on a regular basis; anything that emerges during interrogation and so on, is that clear? Everything is to be passed on to me. When the journalists start asking questions you can say I’ll be holding a press conference on the steps of the church at twelve midday today. What’s your next move?”

“We need to get hold of the sister, she was the one who found the body; then we need to speak to the three pastors. The medical examiner is on his way from Luleå; he should be here any minute now.”

“Good. I want a report on the cause of death and a credible version of the course of events leading up to it at eleven-thirty, so be by the phone then. That’s all. If you’re done here I’ll just take a look around on my own for a bit.”

“Oh, come on,” said Anna-Maria to Sven-Erik Stålnacke. “This has got to be better than sitting around interviewing pissed-up snowmobile riders.”

Her Ford Escort wouldn’t start, and Sven-Erik was giving her a lift home.

It was just as well, she thought; he needed encouragement so that he didn’t get fed up with the job.

“It’s that bastard von Pisspot,” Sven-Erik replied with a grimace. “As soon as I have anything to do with him I just feel like saying sod the lot of it, and just going through the motions every day until it’s time to go home.”

“Well, don’t think about him now. Think about Viktor Strandgård instead. The lunatic who killed him is out there somewhere, and you’re going to find him. Let that pompous old fool scream and shout and talk to the newspapers. The rest of us know who actually does all the work.”

“How can I not think about him? He’s watching me like a hawk all the time.”

“I know.”

She looked out through the car window. The houses still lay sleeping in the darkness of the streets, with just an occasional light in a window. The orange paper Advent stars were still hanging here and there. This year nobody had burned to death. There had been fights and the usual dose of misery, but no worse than usual. She felt slightly sick. Hardly surprising. She’d been up for a good hour and had eaten nothing. She realized she wasn’t concentrating on what Sven-Erik was saying, and rewound her memory to catch up. He’d asked how she’d managed to work with von Post.

“We never actually had that much to do with each other,” she said.

“Look, I could really do with your help, Anna-Maria. There’s going to be a hell of a lot of pressure on those of us working on this case, without that bully on top of everything else. I could do with a colleague’s support right now.”

“That sounds like blackmail to me.” Anna-Maria couldn’t help laughing.

“I’ll do whatever it takes. Blackmail, threats. In any case, it’s good for you to get a bit of exercise. You could at least be there and talk to the sister when we find her. Just help me get started.”

“Fine, ring me when you’ve found her.”

Sven-Erik bent forward over the steering wheel and looked up at the night sky.

“Just look at the moon,” he said with a smile. “I should be out there hunting foxes.”

In Meijer & Ditzinger’s offices Rebecka Martinsson took the telephone from Maria Taube.

A Moomin troll, Maria had said. But there was only one Moomintroll. The image of a snub-nosed face suddenly materialized on the inside of her eyelids.

“Rebecka Martinsson.”

“It’s Sanna. I don’t know if you’ve heard it on the news already, but Viktor’s dead.”

“Yes, I heard it just now. I’m sorry.”

Without thinking, Rebecka picked up a pen from the table and wrote, “Say no! NO!” on a yellow Post-it note.

On the other end of the phone Sanna Strandgård took a deep breath.

“I know we haven’t kept in touch lately, but you’re still my closest friend. I didn’t know who to call. I was the one who found Viktor in the church, and I… but perhaps you’re busy?”

Busy? thought Rebecka, and felt confusion rising in her like mercury in a hot thermometer. What kind of question is that? Did Sanna seriously think that anybody could answer that question?

“Of course I’m not busy when it involves something like this,” she answered gently, pressing her hand to her eyes. “Did you say you found him?”

“It was terrible.” Sanna’s voice was quiet and flat. “I got to the church at about three in the morning. He was supposed to have come over to me and the girls for a meal in the evening, but he never turned up. I just thought he’d forgotten. You know what he’s like when he’s alone in the church, praying; he forgets what time it is and where he is. I often tell him, ‘You can be that sort of Christian when you’re a young guy, and you’re not responsible for any kids. I have to take the chance when I can, and say a prayer sitting on the toilet.’ ”

She was quiet for a moment, and Rebecka wondered whether she had realized that she was talking about Viktor as if he were still alive.

“But then I woke up in the middle of the night,” said Sanna, “and I had the feeling that something had happened.”

She broke off and began to hum a psalm. The Lord is My Shepherd.

Rebecka fixed her eyes on the flickering text on the screen in front of her. But the letters jumped out of their places, regrouped and formed a picture of Viktor Strandgård’s angelic face covered in blood.

Sanna Strandgård was talking again. Her voice was like thin September ice. Rebecka recognized that voice. Cold black water swirled under the shining surface.

"They’d cut off his hands. And his eyes were, well, it was all so strange. When I turned him over the back of his head was completely… I think I’m going mad. And the police are looking for me. They came to the house early this morning, but I told the girls to be as quiet as mice, and we didn’t open the door. The police probably believe I murdered my own brother. Then I took the girls and left. I’m so scared of cracking up. But that’s not the worst thing."

“No?” asked Rebecka.

“Sara was with me when I found him. Well, Lova was too, but she was sleeping in the sledge outside the church. And Sara is in total shock. She won’t speak. I’ve tried to reach her, but she just sits and stares out through the window and tucks her hair behind her ears.”

Rebecka could feel her stomach tying itself in knots.

“For God’s sake, Sanna. Get some help. Ring the Psychiatric Service and tell them it’s an emergency. Both you and the girls could do with some support at the moment. I know it sounds dramatic, but-”

“I can’t, you know I can’t,” wailed Sanna. “Mum and Dad will say I’ve gone mad and they’ll try to take the girls away from me. You know what they’re like. And the church is totally against psychologists and hospitals and all that. They’d never understand. I daren’t talk to the police, they’ll just make everything worse. And I daren’t answer the phone in case it’s some reporter; it was difficult enough when the revival first started, with everybody ringing up and saying he was hallucinating and he was crazy.”

“But you do understand that you can’t just stay away,” pleaded Rebecka.

“I can’t cope with this, I can’t cope with this,” said Sanna as if she were talking to herself. “I’m very sorry I rang and disturbed you, Rebecka. You get on with your work now.”

Rebecka swore to herself. Shit, shit, shit.

“I’ll come,” she sighed. “You have to let the police interview you. I’ll come up and go with you, okay?”

“Okay,” whispered Sanna.

“Can you manage to drive the car? Can you get to my grandmother’s house in Kurravaara?”

“I can ask someone to give me a lift.”

“Good. There’s never anyone there in the winter. Take Sara and Lova. You remember where the key is. Get the fire going. I’ll be there this afternoon. Can you manage until then?”

Rebecka stared at the telephone when she had put the receiver down. She felt empty and confused.

“Unbelievable,” she said to Maria Taube in an exhausted voice. “She didn’t even have to ask me.”

Rebecka looked down at her watch. Then she closed her eyes, breathed in through her nose and straightened her head at the same time, then breathed out through her mouth and let her shoulders drop. Maria had seen her do it many times. Before negotiations and important meetings. Or when she was sitting working in the middle of the night with a deadline hanging over her.

“How do you feel?” asked Maria.

“I don’t think I want to find out.”

Rebecka shook her head and let her gaze fly out through the window to avoid Maria’s troubled eyes. She bit her lips hard from the inside. It had stopped raining.

“Listen, kid, you shouldn’t work so bloody hard,” said Maria gently. “Sometimes it’s a good idea just to let go and scream a bit.”

Rebecka clasped her hands on her lap.

Let go, she thought. What happens if you find out you keep on falling? And what happens if you can’t stop screaming. Suddenly you’re fifty. Pumped full of drugs. Shut up in some mental hospital. With the scream that never stops inside your head.

“That was Viktor Strandgård’s sister,” she said, and was surprised at how calm she sounded. “Evidently she found him in the church. It seems as if she and her two daughters could do with some help right now, so I’m going to take some time off and go up there for a few days. I’ll take my laptop and work from up there.”

“This Viktor Strandgård, he was something big up there?” asked Maria.

Rebecka nodded.

“He had a near-death experience, and then there was a kind of religious explosion in Kiruna.”

“I remember,” said Maria. “It was in the evening papers. He’d been to heaven, and he said that if you fell over, it didn’t hurt; the ground just sort of received you into its embrace. I thought it sounded lovely.”

“Mmm.” Rebecka went on, “And he said he’d been sent back to this earthly life to tell everyone that God had great plans for Christianity in Kiruna. A great revival was coming, and it would spread from the north over the whole world. Wonders and miracles would happen if the churches would only unite and believe.”

“Believe in what?”

“In the power of God. In the vision. In the end all those who believed in everything joined together to form a new church, The Source of All Our Strength. And then the whole of copper red Kiruna turned into one big revivalist meeting. Viktor wrote a book that was translated into loads of languages. He stopped studying and started preaching. They built a new church, the Crystal Church; it was supposed to make people think of the ice church and the ice sculptures they build in Jukkasjärvi every winter. Above all, it wasn’t meant to remind anyone of the Kiruna church, which is really dark inside.”

“And what about you? Were you part of all this?”

“I was already a member of the Mission church before Viktor’s accident. So I was there from the start.”

“And now?” asked Maria.

“Now I’m a heathen,” said Rebecka with a mirthless smile. “The pastors and the elders requested that I leave the church.”

“But why?”

“It’s a long story; some other time.”

“Okay,” said Maria hesitantly. “What do you think Måns is going to say when you tell him you’re taking some leave at such short notice?”

“Nothing. He’s just going to kill me, tear me limb from limb and feed my body to the fish in Nybroviken. I’ll have to talk to him as soon as he gets in, but first I’ll ring the police in Kiruna so they don’t pull Sanna in for questioning; she won’t be able to cope with that.”

Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post stood at the door of the Crystal Church and stared at the people who were getting on with the business of packing up Viktor Strandgård’s body. The police surgeon, Senior Medical Examiner Lars Pohjanen, was drawing heavily on a cigarette as usual, mumbling orders to Anna Granlund, the autopsy technician, and two burly men with a stretcher.

“Try and loop his hair up so it doesn’t get caught in the zip. Pull the plastic round the whole thing and try to keep the intestines inside the body when you lift it. Anna, can you sort out a paper bag for the hand?”

A murder, thought von Post. And a sodding awful murder. Not some miserable bloody tale of an alky who finally kills the old woman more or less by mistake after a week on the booze. A terrible murder. Worse than that-the terrible murder of a celebrity.

And it was all his. It belonged to him. All he had to do was take the helm, let the whole world switch on the spotlights and sail straight into fame. And then he could get away from this pit. He had never meant to stay here, but his qualifications had only been good enough to get a place with the court in Gällivare. Then he’d got a job with the prosecutor’s office. He’d applied for plenty of jobs in Stockholm, but without success. All of a sudden the years had gone by.

He stepped to one side to let the men carrying the stretcher, with its well-sealed gray plastic body bag, pass by. Senior Medical Examiner Lars Pohjanen came limping behind, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were cold, eyes fixed on the ground. The cigarette was still dangling from the corner of his mouth. His hair was usually plastered over his shiny bald head; now it was hanging tiredly down over his ears. Anna Granlund was just behind him. She was carrying a paper bag containing Viktor Strandgård’s hand. When she caught sight of von Post her lips tightened. He stopped them on their way out.

“So?” he said challengingly.

Pohjanen looked uncomprehending.

“What can you tell me at this stage?” asked von Post impatiently.

Pohjanen took his cigarette between his thumb and his index finger and drew heavily on it before he allowed it to leave his thin lips.

“Well, I haven’t actually performed the autopsy yet,” he answered slowly.

Carl von Post could feel his pulse rate rising. He wasn’t going to stand for anybody being obstructive or awkward.

“But surely you must have noticed something already? I want ongoing reports and detailed information at all times.”

He snapped his fingers as if to illustrate the speed with which all this information was to be passed on.

Anna Granlund looked at the snapping fingers; it occurred to her that she used exactly the same gesture to her dogs.

Pohjanen stood in silence, looking at the floor. The sound of his breathing, slightly too fast, quietened only when he raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled with great concentration. Carl von Post met Anna Granlund’s fierce gaze.

You can stare, he thought. A year ago at the police Christmas party you were giving me a very different look. For God’s sake, I’m surrounded by spastics and morons. Pohjanen looked worse now than before the operation and his sick leave.

“Well, then?” he said challengingly, when he thought the doctor had been silent for long enough.

Lars Pohjanen looked up and met the prosecutor’s raised eyebrows.

“What I know at this moment,” he said in his rasping voice, which was not much more than a loud whisper, “is that first of all he’s dead, and that secondly death was probably due to externally applied force. That’s all, so you can let us pass now, sonny.”

The prosecutor saw how the corners of Anna Granlund’s mouth twitched downward in an attempt to suppress a smile as they walked past him.

“When will I get the autopsy report?” snapped von Post as he followed them to the door.

“When we’ve finished,” replied Pohjanen, and let the church door slam shut in the assistant chief prosecutor’s face.

Von Post raised his right hand and caught the swinging door; at the same time he was forced to root in his inside pocket with his left hand because his cell phone had started to vibrate.

It was the girl from the police switchboard.

“I’ve got a Rebecka Martinsson on the line saying she knows where Viktor Strandgård’s sister is and she wants to arrange a time for an interview. Tommy Rantakyrö and Fred Olsson have gone to look for the sister, so I didn’t know whether to put her through to them or to you.”

“You did exactly the right thing; put her through to me.”

Von Post allowed his gaze to wander up the aisle of the church as he waited for the call to be connected. It was evident that the architect had had a clear vision in mind: the long red handwoven carpet ran along the nave right up to the choir stalls, and on either side stood rows of blue chairs with wavy contours on the back. It made you think immediately of the Bible story of the parting of the Red Sea. He began to stroll up the aisle.

“Hello,” said a woman’s voice on the telephone.

He answered with his name and title, and she went on.

“My name is Rebecka Martinsson. I’m calling on behalf of Sanna Strandgård; I understand that you wish to speak to her with regard to the murder.”

“Yes; you have information about where we can find her.”

“Well, not exactly,” continued the polite and almost too well-spoken voice. “Since Sanna Strandgård wishes me to accompany her to the interview, and since I am in Stockholm at the moment, I wanted to check with whoever is in charge of the investigation to see if it would be more convenient for us to come in this evening, or if tomorrow would be better.”

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“No,” said von Post, not bothering to hide his irritation, “it isn’t convenient this evening and it isn’t convenient tomorrow. I don’t know whether you’ve quite grasped this, Rebecka Whatever-your-name-is, but this is actually an ongoing murder investigation, for which I am responsible, and I want to talk to Sanna Strandgård right now. I think you should advise your friend not to stay in hiding, because I’m quite prepared to issue a warrant for her arrest in her absence and to post her as wanted by the police straightaway. As for you, there is a crime called obstructing the police in the course of their duty. If you’re convicted you can end up in prison. So now I would like you to tell me where Sanna Strandgård is.”

For a few seconds there was silence. Then the young woman’s voice could be heard again. She spoke extremely slowly, almost drawling, and she was clearly exercising considerable self-control.

“I’m afraid there has been a slight misunderstanding. I am not ringing to ask your permission to come in for an interview with Sanna Strandgård at a later stage, but to inform you that she intends to cooperate fully with the police and that an interview cannot take place before this evening at the earliest. Sanna Strandgård and I are not friends. I am a lawyer with Meijer & Ditzinger; I don’t know whether you are familiar with the name up there-”

“Well, actually, I was born in-”

“And I’d think twice about making threats,” the woman interrupted von Post’s attempt to pass a comment. “Any attempt to frighten me into telling you where Sanna Strandgård is seems to me to be bordering on professional misconduct, and if you issue her name as wanted by the police without her being an actual suspect, simply because she is waiting to be interviewed until her legal representative can be present, I can guarantee that a notice from the Justice Department will be heading your way.”

Before von Post could answer, Rebecka Martinsson continued, her tone of voice suddenly friendly.

“Meijer & Ditzinger doesn’t wish to cause any difficulties. We normally have a very good working relationship with the Prosecution Service; at least that is our experience in the Stockholm area. I hope you will permit me to guarantee that Sanna Strandgård will present herself for an interview as agreed. Let’s say eight o’clock this evening at the police station.”

She put the phone down.

“Shit,” exclaimed Carl von Post as he realized that he had trodden in some blood and something sticky; he didn’t want to think about what that might be.

He rubbed his shoes along the carpet on the way to the door, feeling slightly sick. He’d deal with that stuck-up cow when she turned up tonight. Now, however, it was time to get ready for the press conference. He rubbed his hand over his face. He needed a shave. In three days he would meet the press with just a little stubble, looking for all the world like an exhausted man giving his all in the hunt for a murderer. But today he needed to be clean shaven, hair just a little tousled. They’d love him. They just wouldn’t be able to help themselves.

Måns Wenngren, a lawyer and a partner with Meijer & Ditzinger, sat behind his desk and looked at Rebecka Martinsson with a sour expression. Her whole attitude annoyed him. She didn’t look defensive, with her arms folded over her chest. Instead her arms were hanging straight down by her sides as if she were standing in the ice-cream queue. She had explained the situation and was waiting for an answer. Her expressionless gaze rested on the erotic Japanese woodcut on the wall. A young man, so young that he still had long hair, was kneeling in front of a woman, a prostitute, both with their sexual organs exposed. Other women usually tried to avoid looking at the graphic representation, nearly two hundred years old. Måns Wenngren could often see how their eyes were instinctively drawn to the picture, like curious dogs sniffing the air. But they never sniffed for long. They dropped their eyes straightaway, or forced themselves to look somewhere else in the room.

“How many days will you be away?” he asked. “You’re entitled to two days off with pay for family circumstances, will that be enough?”

“No,” replied Rebecka Martinsson. “And it isn’t my family; I’m what you might call an old friend of the family.”

Something in the way she spoke gave Måns Wenngren the feeling that she was lying.

“Unfortunately I can’t say for sure how long I’ll be away,” said Rebecka, looking him calmly in the eye. “I’ve got quite a bit of holiday owing and-”

She broke off.

“And what?” continued her boss. “I hope you’re not about to start talking to me about overtime, Rebecka, because I’d be very disappointed in you. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if you lot feel you can’t cope with the work during normal hours, then by all means resign. Any overtime is voluntary and unpaid. Otherwise I might just as well let you disappear on a year’s sabbatical with pay.”

He added the last sentence with a conciliatory laugh, but quickly resumed his censorious expression when she didn’t even give a hint of a smile in return.

Rebecka regarded her boss in silence before she replied. He had started to read some papers lying in front of him, but in a preoccupied manner, as if to indicate that her audience was now at an end. The day’s post lay in a neat pile. A few bits and pieces from Georg Jensen stood to attention along the edge of the desk. No photos. She knew that he had been married and had two grown-up sons. But that was all. He never mentioned them. No one else talked about them either. You found out about things slowly in the office. The senior partners loved to gossip, it was true, but they were sensible enough to gossip only with each other, not with the juniors or associates. The secretaries were far too timid to dare to reveal any secrets. But now and again somebody got a bit too drunk at a party and said something they shouldn’t, and gradually you became one of those in the know. She knew that Måns drank too much, but then practically everybody who met him in the street knew that. He actually looked quite good, with his dark curly hair and his blue husky-dog eyes. Although he was starting to look a bit frayed at the edges. Bags under his eyes and a bit overweight. He was still one of the very best in the country when it came to taxation cases, both criminal and civil. And as long as he brought in the cash, his colleagues were happy to let him drink in peace. It was the money that mattered. Presumably it would be too expensive for the firm to help somebody to stop drinking. A rehab clinic and sick pay, that would cost money, then on top of that there was the loss of income for the firm. His situation was probably the same as many others’. When you drank, your private life was the first thing to fall apart.

She still felt the prickle of humiliation when she thought about last year’s office Christmas party. Måns had danced and flirted with all the other female lawyers during the evening. Toward the end of the party he had come over to her. Crumpled, drunk and full of self-pity, he had put his hand round the back of her neck and made a rambling speech that had ended in a pathetic attempt to get her to go home with him, or maybe just into his. office, who knows. After that she was at least clear about what she was in his eyes. The last resort. The one you have a go at when you’ve tried everybody else and you’re half a millimeter from unconsciousness. Since then relations between Rebecka and Måns had been frosty. He never laughed or chatted in a natural way with her as he did with the others. She communicated with him mostly via e-mail and notes placed on his desk when he wasn’t in. This year she hadn’t gone to the Christmas party.

“We’ll call it holiday, then,” she said without a hint of a smile. “And I’ll take the laptop and do some work from up there.”

“Fine, it’s all the same to me,” said Måns, his voice heavy with regret. “After all, it’s your colleagues who’ll have a heavier workload. I’ll give Wickman’s to somebody else.”

Rebecka forced herself not to clench her fists. Bastard. He was punishing her. Wickman’s was her client. She had brought in the business, she had developed an excellent relationship with them, and as soon as the tax arrears assessment was out of the way, they were going to start preparing the legal transfer of the small company to the younger members of the family. Besides which, they liked her.

“Do whatever you think is appropriate,” she answered with an almost imperceptible shrug, and allowed her eyes to wander along the fringes of the Persian rug. “You can reach me via my e-mail address if anything comes up.”

Måns Wenngren felt the urge to go up to her, grab hold of her hair, yank her head backwards and force her to look him in the eye. Or just give her a slap.

She turned to leave the room.

“So how are you getting up there?” he asked before she got through the door. “Do they have flights all the way up to Kiruna, or will you have to catch the reindeer caravan in Umeå?”

“There are flights,” she replied neutrally.

Just as if she had taken his question completely seriously.

Inspector Anna-Maria Mella leaned back in her office chair and looked listlessly at the documents spread out in front of her. Stale and old. Investigations that had ground to a halt. Unsolved cases: robberies from shops, stolen cars-all several years old. She picked up the folder nearest to her. Domestic violence, a nasty one, but the woman had later withdrawn the charge and insisted that she’d fallen down the stairs.

That was a bloody awful case, thought Anna-Maria, remembering the unpleasant photographs taken at the hospital.

She picked up another file. Stolen tires from a firm down on the industrial estate. A witness had seen someone cutting the wire fence and loading the tires onto his Toyota Hilux, but during a later interview the witness was suddenly unable to remember a single thing. It was as clear as daylight that he’d been threatened.

Anna-Maria sighed. There was no money for witness protection or anything else when it came to a few poxy tires being nicked. She typed “Toyota Hilux” into the computer and made a note of the owner’s name. Petty criminals, little tyrants who take whatever they want. It was more than likely that she would come across him in some other context in the future. She ran a multiple query on the owner. Convictions for assault and illegal possession of a firearm. He was also listed as a suspect several times.

Pull yourself together, she told herself. Don’t just sit here opening and closing files and surfing databases.

She put the tire theft to one side. They weren’t going to get anywhere with that one. The prosecutor might as well drop it. From the coffee machine outside her door she could hear the sound of a plastic cup dropping down and the loud whine as it was filled with that wretched instant machine coffee. For a while she hoped it might be Sven-Erik, and that he might come in with some news about Viktor Strandgård. But then she heard the steps disappearing down the corridor; it must be somebody else.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said half out loud, and reached for another folder from the pile.

Her gaze immediately strayed away from the text and wandered aimlessly over the desk. She looked sadly at the mug of cold tea. The very thought of coffee almost made her throw up at the moment. But she’d never been a tea drinker either. It just stood there and went cold, every time. And Coke made her stomach too gassy.

When the phone rang she snatched up the receiver. She thought it would be Sven-Erik, but it was Lars Pohjanen, the medical examiner.

“I’ve finished the initial autopsy report,” he said in his rasping coffee percolator voice. “Do you want to come down?”

“Well, Sven-Erik’s in charge of this one,” she said hesitantly. “And von Post.”

Pohjanen’s voice became irritated.

“I’ve no intention of hunting all over town for Sven-Erik, and his lordship the prosecutor can read the report. I’ll pack up and get back to Luleå, then.”

“No, damn it. I’ll come,” said Anna-Maria, just as she heard the conversation at the other end being cut off with a click.

I hope the old bastard heard that, she thought as she pulled on her leather boots. He’ll probably have gone by the time I get to the hospital.

She found Lars Pohjanen in the hospital security guards’ smoking room. He was slumped on a sturdy green seventies sofa. His eyes were closed, and only the glowing cigarette in his hand gave any indication that he might be awake, or even alive.

“So,” he said without opening his eyes, “aren’t you interested in Viktor Strandgård, deceased? I would have thought this was just up your street, Mella.”

“I’m supposed to be pushing paper until I have the baby,” she said, standing in the doorway. “But it’s better if I talk to you before you go, rather than nobody doing it.”

He gave a croaky laugh that turned into a feeble cough, opened his eyes and fixed her with his piercing blue gaze.

“You’re going to dream about him at night, Mella. Come and talk it through, otherwise you’re going to be running round with the pram interrogating suspects while you’re on maternity leave. Shall we?”

He made an exaggerated gesture, inviting her into the autopsy room.

The room where the autopsies were held was very neat. A clean stone floor, three stainless-steel tables, red plastic boxes stacked according to size under the sink, two hand basins where Anna Granlund made sure there was a constant supply of spotlessly clean hand towels. The dissection table had been sluiced down and dried off. Out in the sluice room the dishwasher was running. The only thing that made you think of death was a long line of ID-marked transparent plastic jars containing gray or light brown bits of brain or internal organs, preserved in formalin so that tests could be carried out on them at a later stage. And Viktor Strandgård’s body. He was lying on his back on one of the tables. An incision ran across the back of his head from one ear to the other, and the whole of his scalp had been drawn away from his skull up over the forehead to expose his cranium. Two long wounds ran across his stomach and were held together with rough sutures. One had been made by the autopsy technician in order to allow an examination of the internal organs. There were also several short wounds on the body; Anna-Maria had seen marks like these before. Knife wounds. He was clean, stitched up and sluiced down, pale under the fluorescent lights. It bothered Anna-Maria to see his slender body lying naked on the cold steel table. She had kept her fleecy jacket on.

Lars Pohjanen pulled on a green surgical gown, shoved his feet into his worn old clogs, which bore only vestiges of the white they had once been, and slipped on his thin, supple rubber gloves.

“How are the kids?” he asked.

“Jenny and Petter are fine. Marcus is suffering from a broken heart and is mostly just lying on his bed with his headphones on, developing tinnitus.”

“Poor kid,” said Pohjanen with genuine sympathy, and turned to Viktor Strandgård.

Anna-Maria wondered whether he meant Marcus or Viktor Strandgård.

“Do you mind?” she asked, and took her tape recorder out of her pocket. “So the others can listen later.”

Pohjanen shrugged his shoulders in agreement. Anna-Maria switched on the tape recorder.

“Chronologically,” he said. “First a blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument. You and I are not really in a position to try and turn him over, but you can see it on here.”

He took out a computer slide and clipped it on to the X-ray light box. Anna-Maria looked at the images in silence, thinking of the black-and-white ultrasound pictures of her baby.

“You can see the split in the skull here. And the subdural bleed. Just here.”

The doctor’s finger traced a dark area on the pictures.

“It might have been possible to save his life if he had suffered only the blow to the head, but probably not,” he said.

“Your murderer is most likely right-handed,” continued Pohjanen. “Then, after the blow to his head, he receives these two stab wounds to the stomach and the chest.”

He pointed to two of the wounds on Viktor Strandgård’s body.

“It’s impossible to speculate about the height of the perpetrator from the blow to the back of the head, and unfortunately there are no clues from the stab wounds either. They were delivered from above, so it’s my guess that Viktor Strandgård was on his knees when he received those wounds. Either that, or the perpetrator is immensely tall, like an American basketball player. But I would presume that Strandgård suffered the blow to his head first. Bang.”

The doctor smacked his own bald head to illustrate the blow.

“The blow makes him fall to his knees-there are no grazes or hematomas on the knees, but the carpet was quite soft-and then the killer stabs him twice. That’s why the angle of entry is sloping from above. So it’s difficult to say anything about his height.”

“So he died from the blow and the two stab wounds?” asked Anna-Maria.

“Yes,” continued Pohjanen, suppressing a cough. “This stab wound through the wall of the rib cage splits the seventh rib bone on the left-hand side, opens the pericardium-”

“The peri-?”

“The heart sac, the right ventricle, the heart chamber. This causes a bleed into the heart and the right lung. With the second blow the knife cut through the liver and caused a bleed into the abdominal cavity and the peritoneum.”

“Did he die immediately?”

Pohjanen shrugged his shoulders.

“What about the rest of his injuries?” asked Anna-Maria.

“He sustained those after death. All this damage to the torso and belly with a sharp object. These blows came from directly in front and were delivered after the moment of death. I would guess that Viktor Strandgård was lying on his back at the time. There’s also this long gash which opened up the stomach.”

He pointed at the long reddish blue wound in the stomach, which was now held together with rough stitches.

“And the eyes?” asked Anna-Maria, gazing at the gaping holes in Viktor Strandgård’s face.

“Look at this,” said Pohjanen, slotting in another X-ray plate. “Just here! Can you see this splinter that’s come away from the cranium right inside the eye socket? And here! I hardly noticed it at first, but then I rinsed out the socket and looked at the skull itself. There are marks where something has scraped against the skull on the edge of the eye sockets. The murderer pushed the knife into the eyes and twisted it. Gouged them out, you could say.”

“What the hell was he trying to do?” exclaimed Anna-Maria with feeling. “And the hands?”

“They were also removed after death. One was still at the scene.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Maybe on the wrist stumps, but it’s up to the forensic lab in Linköping to sort that out. I don’t hold out much hope, though. There are a couple of decent marks around the wrists where somebody has gripped them hard, but as far as I can see, there aren’t any prints. I think Linköping will say that the person who cut off the hands was wearing gloves.”

Anna-Maria felt her courage fail. She was seized by a strong desire to catch the murderer. All of a sudden she felt as if she couldn’t bear it if the investigation was just shelved in some archive in a few years’ time. Pohjanen was right. She would probably dream about Viktor Strandgård.

“What kind of knife was it?” she asked.

“Some kind of biggish hunting knife. Too broad for a kitchen knife. It wasn’t double-edged.”

“What about the blunt object that hit him on the back of the head?”

“Could have been anything at all,” said Pohjanen. “A spade, a large stone…”

“Isn’t it odd that he was hit from behind with a weapon and then stabbed from the front?” asked Anna-Maria.

“You’re the detective,” said Lars Pohjanen.

“Maybe there was more than one person,” wondered Anna-Maria out loud. “Anything else?”

“Not at the moment. No drugs. No alcohol. And he hadn’t eaten for several days.”

“What? Several days?”

Anna-Maria herself found it necessary to eat every two hours.

“He wasn’t dehydrated, so it wasn’t some kind of stomach bug or anorexia or anything like that. But he seems to have ingested only liquids. The lab will be able to tell you what else was in his stomach. You can switch off the tape recorder.”

He passed over a copy of the preliminary autopsy report. Anna-Maria clicked off the tape recorder.

“I don’t like guessing,” said Pohjanen, clearing his throat. “At least not when there’s a record.”

He nodded in the direction of the tape recorder, which disappeared into Anna-Maria’s pocket.

“But the cuts on the wrists were very neat,” he went on. “You’re looking for a hunter, Mella.”

“So this is where you are,” came a voice from the doorway.

It was Sven-Erik Stålnacke.

“Yes,” replied Anna-Maria, and realized she was embarrassed in case her colleague thought she’d gone behind his back. “Pohjanen rang and he was just about to leave and…”

She stopped, angry that she’d tried to explain herself and to make excuses.

“That’s fine,” said Sven-Erik cheerfully. “You can tell me all about it in the car. We’ve got problems with our pastors. Hell, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. In the end I asked Sonja on the switchboard who’d phoned you. We need to go now.”

Anna-Maria glanced questioningly at Pohjanen; he shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows at the same time, as if to say that their business was finished.

“I see Luleå got hammered by Färjestad.” Sven-Erik smirked as a parting shot to the doctor, at the same time hustling Anna-Maria along with him.

“Go on, rub it in,” sighed Lars Pohjanen, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette.

The plane to Kiruna was almost full. Hordes of foreign tourists off to drive a dog team and spend the night on reindeer skins in the ice hotel at Jukkasjärvi jostled for space with rumpled businessmen returning home clutching their free fruit and newspapers.

Rebecka sank down and fastened her seat belt. The murmur of voices, the synthetic ping as the signs lit up and went off overhead and the humming of the engines lulled her into a restless sleep. She slept for the whole journey.

In her dream she is running across a cloudberry bog. It is a hot August day. The heat of the sun is making the moisture rise from the bog. Sweat and midge repellent are pouring down her forehead and into her eyes. It stings. There are tears in her eyes. A black cloud of midges creeps into her nostrils and ears. She can’t see. Someone is chasing her. They’re right behind her. And as always in her dreams, her legs won’t carry her weight. They have no strength and the bog is waterlogged. Her feet sink deeper and deeper into the peat moss and someone, or something, is chasing her. Now she can’t lift her foot. She’s sinking into the bog. She tries to shout for her mummy, but only a faint sound comes from her throat. Then she feels a hand, heavy on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, did I frighten you?”

Rebecka opened her eyes and saw a flight attendant bending over her. The woman smiled a little uncertainly and took her hand from Rebecka’s shoulder.

“We’re preparing to land in Kiruna; I’ll have to ask you to put the back of your seat into the upright position.”

Rebecka’s hand flew up to her mouth. Had she been dribbling? Or worse, screaming? She didn’t dare look at her neighbor, but turned to look out into the darkness. It was down there. The town. It shone like a jewel glittering at the bottom of a well, its lights surrounded by the darkness of the mountains. It felt like a blow to the stomach and the heart.

My town, she thought, the melancholy of seeing it again blending with happiness, rage and fear in a strange mixture.

Twenty minutes later she was sitting in the rented Audi on the way down to Kurravaara. The village lay fifteen kilometers outside Kiruna. As a child she had often traveled the whole way from Kiruna down to the village on her kick sledge. It was a happy memory. Especially in the late winter when the road was covered with a wonderful layer of thick, shining ice, and nobody spoiled it with sand, salt or grit.

The moon lit up the snow-covered forest around her. The snowdrifts along the sides of the road formed a frame.

It’s not right, she thought, I shouldn’t have let them take this away from me. Before I go back I’m going to bloody well get the kick sledge out and have a go.

From when should I have started to handle things differently? she thought as the car swept through the forest. If I could go back in time, would I have to go right back to the first summer? Or even further back? In that case it would have to be that spring. When I first met Thomas Söderberg. When he visited my class at the Hjalmar Lundbohm School. Even then I should have behaved differently. I should have seen through him. Not been so bloody naïve. The others in the class must have been much smarter than me. Why weren’t they tempted?

“H i, everyone, may I introduce Thomas Söderberg. He’s the new pastor at the Mission church. I’ve invited him along as a representative of the free churches.”

It is Margareta Fransson who is speaking, the Religious Studies teacher.

She’s smiling all the time, thinks Rebecka, why is she doing that? It isn’t a happy smile, it’s just submissive and conciliatory. And she buys all her clothes from A Helping Hand, an ideologically run boutique that sells products made by a women’s collective in the Third World.

“You’ve already met Evert Aronsson, a priest from the Church of Sweden, and Andreas Gault from the Catholic Church,” continues Margareta Fransson.

“I think we should be allowed to meet a Buddhist or a Muslim or something,” says Nina Eriksson. “Why do we only get to meet a load of Christians?”

Nina Eriksson is the class spokeswoman and chief busybody. Loud and clear, her voice echoes round the classroom. Many support her statement and murmur in agreement.

“There isn’t such a wide choice in Kiruna,” Margareta Fransson apologizes halfheartedly.

Then she hands over to Thomas Söderberg.

He looks good, you have to admit. Dark brown curly hair, and long black eyelashes. He laughs and jokes, but from time to time he becomes totally serious. He’s young to be a priest-or pastor, as he says. And he’s wearing jeans and a shirt. He draws on the board. The picture of the bridge. It’s all about how Jesus gave up his life for them. Built a bridge to God. Because God so loved the world that he gave up his only son. He addresses the class with the friendly “du” form, although he is talking to twenty-four people at the same time. He wants them to choose life. Say yes. And he answers all the questions they put to him at the end. At some of the questions he falls silent for a while. He frowns and nods thoughtfully. As if it’s the first time anyone has asked these questions. As if they have given him something to think about. Much later Rebecka realizes that it was far from the first time he’d heard those questions. That the answers had been prepared a long time ago. But the person who asks the questions is made to feel special.

He ends the visit with an invitation to the Mission church summer gathering in Gällivare. Three weeks’ work and Bible studies, no pay but free board and lodging.

“Dare to be curious,” he urges them. “You can’t be sure the Christian faith isn’t for you unless you’ve found out what it really stands for.”

Rebecka thinks he’s looking straight at her as he speaks. She looks straight back at him. And she can feel the fire.

The snowplow had cleared the road right up to her grandmother’s gray cottage. There was a light upstairs. Rebecka lifted out her suitcase and the supermarket carrier bag of food. She had shopped on the way. Maybe they wouldn’t need it, but you never know. She locked the car.

That’s the sort of person I am now, she thought. The sort of person who locks things.

“Hello!” she called when she got inside.

There was no answer, but presumably Sanna and the children had closed the upstairs door leading to the staircase, so they wouldn’t have heard her.

She put down what she was carrying and took a walk around downstairs without switching on the lights. It had the characteristic smell of an old house. Lino and dampness. Musty. The furniture stood there like a collection of tired ghosts, pressing themselves against the walls in the darkness, covered with grandmother’s hand-stitched linen sheets.

She went upstairs carefully, afraid of falling; the melted snow under the soles of her boots had made them slippery.

“Hello,” she shouted up the stairs, but there was no reply this time either.

Rebecka opened the door to the upstairs flat and went into the narrow, dark hallway. When she bent down to unzip her boots something black came flying at her face. She screamed and tumbled backwards. Two cheerful yelps and the black thing turned out to be a lovely little dog. A pink tongue took the opportunity to acquaint itself with her face. Two more encouraging yaps and then the dog licked her again.

“Virku, come here!”

A girl of about four appeared in the open doorway. The dog did a little pirouette on Rebecka’s stomach, danced over to the girl, gave her a lick, then pranced back to Rebecka. But by then Rebecka had managed to get to her feet. The dog shoved its nose into the bag of groceries instead.

“You must be Lova,” said Rebecka, switching on the hall light and edging the dog away from the carrier bag with her foot at the same time.

The light fell on the girl. She had a blanket wrapped around her, and Rebecka realized it was cold in the house.

“Who are you?” asked Lova.

“My name’s Rebecka,” she replied briefly. “Let’s go in the kitchen.”

She stopped at the door and looked at the kitchen, dumbstruck. The chairs had been turned over. Grandmother’s rag rug was screwed up under the kitchen table. Virku scampered up to a pile of sheets that had presumably been covering the furniture. She growled and shook them playfully. There was a powerful smell of Ajax and soap. When Rebecka looked more closely, she could see that the floor was smeared with cleaning fluid.

“What on earth!” she exclaimed. “Whatever has been going on here? Where are your mother and your big sister?”

Lova pointed at the sofa bed in the alcove. A girl of about eleven sat there, wearing a long gray sheepskin coat, maybe Sanna’s. She looked up from her magazine with narrowed eyes, her mouth a thin compressed line. Rebecka felt a stab in her heart.

Sara, she thought. She’s got so big. And so like Sanna. The same blond hair, but hers is straight like Viktor’s.

“Hi,” said Rebecka to Sara. “What’s Lova been up to? Where’s Sanna?”

Sara shrugged her shoulders, making it clear that it wasn’t her job to keep an eye on her little sister or tabs on her mother.

“Mummy got cross,” said Lova, tugging at Rebecka’s sleeve. “She’s in the bubble. She’s lying down in there.”

She pointed at the bedroom door.

“Who are you?” asked Sara suspiciously.

“My name’s Rebecka, and this is my house. Partly mine anyway.”

She turned to Lova.

“What do you mean, ‘in the bubble’?”

“When she’s in the bubble she doesn’t speak and she doesn’t look at us,” explained Lova, and couldn’t help tugging at Rebecka’s buttons again.

“Oh, God,” sighed Rebecka, shrugging off her coat and hanging it on a hook in the hall.

It really was freezing in the house. She must get the fire going.

“I know your mummy,” said Rebecka, starting to pick up the chairs. “My grandparents lived here when they were alive. Have you got soap in your hair as well?”

She looked at Lova’s hair, hanging in sticky clumps. The dog sat down and tried to reach round and lick its back. Rebecka crouched down and called to the dog in the same way as her grandmother used to call the dogs at home.

“Here, girl!”

The dog came straight over to her and showed her submissiveness by attempting to lick Rebecka’s mouth. Rebecka could see now that she was some sort of spitz crossbreed. The thick black coat stood out like a woolly frame round the narrow feminine head. Her eyes were black, shining with happiness. Rebecka ran her hands through the fur and sniffed at her fingers. They smelled of carbolic.

“Nice dog,” she said to Sara. “Is she yours?”

Sara didn’t answer.

“Two-thirds belong to Sara and one-third belongs to me,” said Lova, as if she had learned it by heart.

“I want to talk to Sanna,” said Rebecka, and stood up.

Lova took her hand and led her into the other room. The accommodation on the upper floor consisted of the big kitchen with the alcove for the sofa bed, and another room. This had been the children’s bedroom. Grandmother and Grandfather had slept in the alcove in the kitchen. Sanna was lying on her side on one of the beds, her knees drawn up so that they were almost touching her chin. Her face was turned to the wall, and she was wearing only a T-shirt and a pair of flowery cotton knickers. Her long blond angel hair was spread over the pillow.

“Hello, Sanna,” said Rebecka carefully.

The woman on the bed didn’t reply, but Rebecka could see that she was breathing.

Lova picked up a blanket that was lying folded at the foot of the bed and spread it over her mother.

“She’s in the bubble,” she whispered.

“I understand,” said Rebecka through clenched teeth.

She poked Sanna hard in the back with her forefinger.

“Come with me,” said Rebecka, and took Lova back into the kitchen.

Virku trotted after them once she had checked that her mistress, lying immobile and silent on the bed, was in no danger.

“Have you had anything to eat?” asked Rebecka.

“No,” replied Lova.

“You and I used to know each other when you were little,” said Rebecka to Sara.

“I’m not little,” shouted Lova. “I’m four!”

“Now, this is what we’re going to do,” decided Rebecka. “We’re going to tidy up in the kitchen, I’ll cook us a meal, then we’ll heat up some water on the stove and we’ll wash Lova and Virku.”

“And I need a new top,” said Lova. “Look!”

She opened the blanket and revealed a soap-smeared T-shirt.

“And you need a new top,” sighed Rebecka, exhausted.

An hour later Lova and Sara were sitting eating sausage and mashed potato. Lova was wearing a pair of jeans belonging to one of Rebecka’s cousins and a washed-out pale red top with cartoon characters on the front. Virku was sitting at their feet waiting patiently for her share. The wood in the stove crackled and sparked.

Rebecka glanced at the clock. Seven already. And she and Sanna had to go to the police station. The stress gnawed at her stomach.

Sara sniffed at Lova’s top.

“You smell disgusting,” she said.

“No she doesn’t,” said Rebecka with a sigh. “The clothes smell a bit funny because they’ve been folded up in a drawer for such a long time. But her own are even worse, so we’ll just have to put up with it. Give Virku your leftover sausage.”

She left the girls in the kitchen, went into the other room and closed the door.

“Sanna,” she said.

Sanna didn’t move. She lay in exactly the same position as before, her face turned to the wall.

Rebecka went over to the bed and stood there with her arms folded.

"I know you can hear me," she said harshly. "I’m not the same person I used to be, Sanna. I’ve become nastier and more impatient since then. I have no intention of sitting by you, stroking your hair and asking you what’s wrong. You can get up right now and get some clothes on. Otherwise I shall take your daughters straight to Social Services and tell them that you’re unable to look after them at present. Then I’ll get the next plane back to Stockholm."

Still no answer. Not a movement.

“Okay,” said Rebecka after a while.

She took a deep breath as if to indicate that she had finished waiting around. Then she turned and walked toward the kitchen door.

That’s it, then, she thought. I’ll ring the police and tell them where she is. They can carry her out of the house.

Just as she placed her hand on the door handle she heard Sanna sit up on the bed behind her.

“Rebecka” was all she said.

Rebecka hesitated for half a second. Then she turned round and leaned on the door. She folded her arms again. Like somebody’s mother: Now let’s get this sorted out once and for all.

And Sanna was like a little girl, chewing on her lower lip, pleading with her eyes.

“Sorry,” she mumbled in her husky voice. “I know I’m the worst mother in the world and an even worse friend. Do you hate me?”

“You’ve got three minutes to put your clothes on and get yourself out here to eat something,” ordered Rebecka, and marched out.

Sven-Erik Stålnacke had parked outside the hospital Emergency department. Anna-Maria leaned on the car door when he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the keys. It wasn’t that easy to take deep breaths when the air was so cold it actually took your breath away, but she had to try and relax. Her stomach had grown as hard as a snowball on the short walk from the autopsy out to the car.

“The Church of All Our Strength has three pastors,” said Sven-Erik, groping in his other pocket. “They have informed us that they are available to receive the police for the purpose of interrogation. They are setting aside one hour, no more. And they have no intention of being interrogated individually; all three of them will talk to us together. They say they wish to cooperate, but-”

“But they have no intention of cooperating,” supplied Anna-Maria.

“What the hell do you do?” wondered Sven-Erik. “Go in hard, or what?”

“No, because then the whole community will just shut up like a giant clam. But you have to wonder why they’re not prepared to speak to us one-on-one.”

“No idea. One of them did explain. Gunnar Isaksson, his name was. But I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. Maybe you can ask when we meet them. Bloody hell, Anna-Maria, I should have had them dragged out of bed first thing this morning.”

“No,” replied Anna-Maria, shaking her head thoughtfully. “You couldn’t have done anything differently.”

The Aurora Borealis was still swirling its veils of white and green across the sky.

“It’s just unbelievable,” she said, tipping her head backwards. “It’s been like this all winter. Have you ever known anything like it?”

“No, but it’s these sun storms,” replied Sven-Erik. “It looks fantastic, but any day now they’re bound to decide it causes cancer. We should probably be walking around with a silver parasol to protect us from the radiation.”

“Now, that would really suit you,” laughed Anna-Maria.

They got into the car.

“On that particular subject,” Sven-Erik went on, “how are things with Pohjanen?”

“I don’t know, it wasn’t really the right time to ask.”

“No, of course not.”

He can ask Pohjanen himself, thought Anna-Maria crossly.

Sven-Erik parked below the church and they began to walk up the hill. The piles of snow by the side of the path had disappeared, and the tracks of both people and dogs crisscrossed the snow all around the church. The whole area had been searched for the murder weapon, in the hope that whoever had murdered Viktor Strandgård would have thrown away the weapon outside the church, or perhaps buried it in a mound of snow But nothing had been found.

“What if we don’t find a weapon,” said Sven-Erik, slowing down as he noticed that Anna-Maria was out of breath. “Can you get a conviction for murder these days if there’s no technical proof?”

“Just remember what happened to the guy everybody said had murdered Olof Palme,” puffed Anna-Maria.

Sven-Erik gave a hollow laugh.

“Oh, that’s made me feel so much better.”

“Have you found the sister yet?”

“No, but von Post says he’s arranged for her to come in at eight o’clock this evening to be interviewed, so we’ll see what comes of that.”

Anna-Maria Mella and Sven-Erik Stålnacke entered the church of The Source of All Our Strength at ten minutes past five in the afternoon. The three pastors were sitting in a row right at the front of the church, their faces turned toward the altar. There were also three other people in the church. A middle-aged woman was dragging an unwieldy vacuum cleaner as it droned and roared over the carpets. Anna-Maria thought she looked skinny in her old-fashioned tights and a pale lilac knitted cotton sweater that almost came down to her knees. From time to time the woman had to switch off the vacuum cleaner and get down on her hands and knees to pick up bits of rubbish that were too big for the hose. Then there was another middle-aged woman, much more elegant, in a smart skirt, well-pressed blouse and matching cardigan. She was walking up and down the rows of chairs and placing a photocopied sheet on each seat. The third person was a young man. He appeared to be wandering aimlessly around, talking to himself. He held a Bible in his hand. Every so often he stopped in front of a chair, reached out his hand and seemed to be talking to it in an agitated manner, but no sound came from his lips. Or he stopped dead, raised the Bible up toward the ceiling and gabbled out loud a series of phrases that were completely incomprehensible to Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria. When they walked past him, he gave them a filthy look. The blood-soaked rug was still lying in the aisle, but someone had moved the chairs so that it was easy to get by without walking where the body had been.

“So, this is the Holy Trinity, then,” said Sven-Erik in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere as the three pastors rose to greet them, their faces serious.

None of them gave the slightest hint of a smile.

When they were seated Anna-Maria jotted down their names with a short description in her notebook so that she’d remember afterward who was who and who said what. A tape recorder was out of the question. It was probably going to be difficult enough to get anything out of them as it was.

“Thomas Söderberg,” she wrote, “dark, good-looking, trendy glasses. Forty-something. Vesa Larsson, forty-something, the only one who isn’t wearing a suit and tie. Flannel shirt and leather waistcoat. Gunnar Isaksson. Pudgy, beard. About fifty.”

She thought about their handshakes. Thomas Söderberg had pressed her hand firmly, met her eyes steadily and held on for a moment. He was used to inspiring trust. She wondered how he would react if the police indicated that they didn’t quite believe something he said. His suit looked expensive.

Vesa Larsson’s handshake was flaccid. He wasn’t used to shaking hands. When their hands met he had actually made his greeting through a brief nod that preceded the handshake, and he was already looking at Sven-Erik.

Gunnar Isaksson had nearly crushed her hand in his. And it wasn’t the unconscious strength you sometimes find in men.

He’s just afraid of seeming weak, thought Anna-Maria.

“Before we start I’d like to know why you wish to be interviewed together,” asked Anna-Maria by way of introduction.

“This thing that’s happened is just terrible,” said Vesa Larsson after a short silence, “but we feel very strongly that the church must stand together in the days to come. This applies to us, the three pastors, most of all. There are powerful forces that will attempt to sow discord, and we intend to give these forces as few openings as possible.”

“I quite understand,” said Sven-Erik in a tone of voice that conveyed quite clearly that he didn’t understand in the slightest.

Anna-Maria looked at Sven-Erik as he pushed his lips forward, his moustache protruding like a big scrubbing brush beneath his nose.

Vesa Larsson fiddled with a button on his leather waistcoat and glanced sideways at Thomas Söderberg. Thomas Söderberg didn’t look at him, but nodded thoughtfully at what had just been said.

Aha, thought Anna-Maria, Pastor Söderberg approves of Vesa’s reply. It isn’t difficult to see who’s pulling the strings in this particular setup.

“Can you explain how the church is actually organized?” asked Anna-Maria.

“God is at the top,” replied Gunnar Isaksson in a loud voice full of faith, pointing upward. “The church has three pastors, that’s us, and five elders. If we were to compare it with a company, you could say that God is the owner, we three are the managing directors and the elders form the board.”

“I thought you wanted to talk to us about Viktor Strandgård,” interrupted Thomas Söderberg.

“We’ll get to that, we’ll get to that,” Sven-Erik assured him, almost humming.

The young man with the Bible had stopped beside a chair, and he was praying in a loud voice and waving his hands at the empty seat. Sven-Erik looked confused.

“Could I just ask…?” he said, jerking his thumb toward the young man.

“He’s praying for this evening’s service,” explained Thomas Söderberg. “Speaking in tongues can seem a little strange when you’re not used to hearing it, but I can promise you it isn’t some kind of hocus-pocus.”

“It’s important that the church is prepared with the spirit world,” explained Pastor Gunnar Isaksson, stroking his thick, well-groomed beard.

“I understand,” said Sven-Erik again, looking helplessly at Anna-Maria.

His moustache was almost at a ninety-degree angle to his face.

“So, tell us about Viktor Strandgård,” said Anna-Maria. “What kind of person was he? What did you think of him, Pastor Larsson?”

Pastor Vesa Larsson looked troubled. He swallowed vigorously before answering.

“He was dedicated. Very humble. Loved by everyone in the church community. He simply allowed himself to be used by God. Despite his, how shall I put it, elevated status within our community, he wasn’t slow to serve, even when it came to practical matters. He was on the church cleaning rota, so you’d often see him dusting these chairs. He made posters for our services…”

"Looked after the children," added Gunnar Isaksson. "We have a rolling program so that parents with very young children can listen in a completely focused way to the word of God."

“Like yesterday, for example,” Vesa Larsson continued. “He didn’t join everyone for coffee after the service, instead he stayed here to tidy the chairs. That’s the disadvantage of not having pews, it can soon look a mess if you don’t put the chairs back into neat rows.”

“That must be a huge job,” said Anna-Maria. “There’s an awful lot of chairs in here. Nobody stayed behind to help him?”

“No, he said he wanted to be alone,” said Vesa Larsson. “Unfortunately we never lock the door when someone is in here, so some madman must have…”

He broke off and shook his head.

“Viktor Strandgård seems to have been a gentle soul,” said Anna-Maria.

"Yes, you could say that." Thomas Söderberg smiled sadly.

“Do you know if he had any enemies, or had fallen out with anyone?” asked Sven-Erik.

“No, no one,” replied Vesa Larsson.

“Did he seem worried about anything? Anxious?” Sven-Erik went on.

“No,” replied Vesa Larsson again.

“What kind of work did he do for the church? He was a full-time employee, wasn’t he?” asked Sven-Erik.

“He did the work of God,” replied Gunnar Isaksson pompously, with considerable emphasis on “God.”

“And by doing the work of God he brought some money into the church,” Anna-Maria commented in measured tones. “What happened to the money from his book? What will happen to it now that he’s dead?”

Gunnar Isaksson and Vesa Larsson turned to their colleague, Thomas Söderberg.

“I don’t quite see what any of this has to do with your murder investigation?” Thomas Söderberg inquired in a friendly tone.

“Just answer the question, please,” Sven-Erik replied amiably, but with an expression on his face that brooked no argument.

"Viktor Strandgård made over all royalties from his book to the church long ago. After his death any income will continue to go to the church. So nothing will change."

“How many copies of the book have been sold?” asked Anna-Maria.

“Over a million, including translations,” replied Pastor Söderberg dryly, “and I still don’t really see-”

“Have you sold anything else?” asked Sven-Erik. “Posters or anything?”

“This is a church, not Viktor Strandgård’s fan club,” said Thomas Söderberg sharply. “We don’t sell pictures of him, but a certain amount of income has been generated from other sources-for example, video sales.”

“What sort of videos?”

Anna-Maria adjusted her position on the chair. She needed a pee.

“We’ve taped sermons given by the three of us, or Viktor Strandgård, or guest preachers. Meetings and services have also been recorded,” replied Pastor Söderberg as he removed his glasses and took a spotless little handkerchief out of his trousers pocket.

“You record your services on video?” asked Anna-Maria, altering her position on the chair yet again.

“Yes,” answered Vesa Larsson, since Thomas Söderberg appeared to be too busy polishing his glasses to reply.

“There was a service here yesterday,” said Anna-Maria, “and Viktor Strandgård was there. Was that recorded on video?”

“Yes,” replied Pastor Larsson.

“Right, we want that tape,” Sven-Erik said firmly. “And if there’s a service tonight, we’d like that tape as well. In fact, we’ll have all the tapes for the last month-what do you think, Anna-Maria?”

“Good idea," she answered briefly.

They looked up as the noise of the vacuum cleaner stopped. The woman who was cleaning had switched it off and gone over to the well-dressed woman; they were whispering to each other and looking over toward the pastors. The young man had sat down on one of the chairs and was leafing through his Bible. His lips were moving constantly. The well-dressed woman noticed that the conversation between the pastors and the police had ground to a halt, and seized the opportunity to come over.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said politely, and when no one stopped her she went on, facing the pastors. “Before this evening’s service, what shall we do about…”

She fell silent and gestured with her right hand toward the bloodstained spot where Viktor Strandgård had lain.

“As the floor isn’t varnished, I don’t think we’ll be able to scrub away every single trace… Perhaps we could roll up the rug and put something else over the spot until we get a new one.”

“That will be fine,” answered Pastor Gunnar Isaksson.

“Just leave it, Ann-Gull, my dear,” interrupted Pastor Söderberg, glancing almost imperceptibly at Gunnar Isaksson at the same time. “I’ll deal with all that shortly. Just leave it for now. The police will soon be finished with us, I imagine?”

This last remark was directed at Anna-Maria and Sven-Erik. When they didn’t reply, Thomas Söderberg gave the woman a smile that seemed to indicate that their conversation was at an end for the time being. She disappeared like a willing handmaiden and went back to the other woman. Soon the vacuum cleaner was droning again.

The pastors and the detectives sat in silence, staring at one another.

Typical, thought Anna-Maria angrily. Untreated wooden floor, thick handwoven rug, chairs instead of pews. It all looks lovely, but it’s got to be damned difficult to keep clean. Good job they have so many obedient women who clean for God for free.

“There is a limit to how much time we can spare,” said Thomas Söderberg.

His voice had lost all trace of warmth.

“We have a service here this evening and I’m sure you will understand that we have a considerable amount of preparation to do,” he said when there was no reply from the two detectives.

“So,” said Sven-Erik thoughtfully, as if they had all the time in the world, “if Viktor Strandgård didn’t have enemies, I’m sure he must have had friends. Who was closest to Viktor Strandgård?”

“God,” replied Pastor Isaksson with a triumphant smile.

“His family, of course, his mother and father,” said Thomas Söderberg, ignoring his colleague’s comment. “Viktor’s father, Olof Strandgård, is chairman of the Christian Democrats and a local councillor. The church has a significant number of representatives on the local council, principally through the Christian Democrats, the largest party among the middle classes in Kiruna. Our influence throughout the whole community is growing steadily, and we expect to have a majority at the next election. We are also relying on the police not to do anything that might damage the trust we have built up among the electorate. And then there’s Viktor’s sister, Sanna Strandgård-have you spoken to her?”

“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.

Inside 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.

Rebecka 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.

For God’s sake. I must calm down, thought Rebecka. I’m in no fit state to drive the car. I’ll have us off the road.

“That’s not what I meant,” whined Sanna. “I’ve never blamed you for anything. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

“What for? Viktor’s murder?”

Something inside Rebecka stopped and pricked up its ears.

“Everything,” mumbled Sanna. “The fact that you were forced to move away. Everything!”

“Pack it in!” spat Rebecka, filled with a new rage that swept away the shaking and turned her legs to ice and iron. “I have no intention of sitting here, patting you on the shoulder and telling you none of it was your fault. I’ve done that a hundred times already. I was an adult. I made my choice and I took the consequences.”

“Yes,” said Sanna obediently.

Rebecka started the car and screeched out onto Malmvägen. Sanna raised her hands to her mouth as an oncoming car tooted angrily at them. From Hjalmar Lundbohmsvägen they could see the mining company’s offices glowing in front of the mine. Rebecka was struck by the fact that they no longer seemed so big. When she used to live in the town, the offices had always been massive. They passed the town hall with its stiff tiled façade, its remarkable clock tower outlined against the sky like a black steel skeleton.

What I said was true, thought Rebecka. He was never in love with me. Although I can understand everybody thinking he was. That’s what we let them think, Viktor and me. It began that very first summer. During the summer church with Thomas Söderberg in Gällivare.

I n the end there are eleven young people attending the summer church. They are to live, work and study the Bible together for three weeks. Pastor Thomas Söderberg and his wife, Maja, are leading the group. Maja is pregnant. She has long, shiny hair, doesn’t wear makeup and always looks so sweet and cheerful. But sometimes Rebecka sees her move to one side and press her fist into the small of her back. And sometimes Thomas puts his arms around her and says:

“We can manage without you. Go and lie down and have a little rest.”

She usually looks at him with relief and gratitude. It’s hard work, being the unpaid wife of a pastor.

Maja’s sister, Magdalena, is there too, helping out. She does everything quickly, like a cheerful mouse. She can play the guitar, and teaches them hymns.

Viktor and Sanna are among the eleven. Everyone notices them straightaway. They are very much alike. They both have long, fair hair. Sanna’s is naturally curly. Her snub nose and big eyes give her face a doll-like expression.

She’ll still look like a child when she’s eighty, thinks Rebecka, and forces herself not to stare.

Sanna is the only one of the young people who is a committed Christian. She’s only seventeen, and has a small child with her. Sara, who is three months old.

“Jesus and I have an exciting, loving relationship,” says Sanna with a crooked smile.

They have different kinds of belief, Sanna and Thomas Söderberg. Thomas demonstrates his belief in several different ways.

“The word ‘belief,’ ” he says, “means the same as to rely on, to be convinced of. If I say ‘I believe in you, Rebecka,’ then I mean that I’m convinced you will fulfill my expectations of you.”

“I don’t know,” Sanna protests. “I think that to believe is simply to believe. Not to know. To have doubts, sometimes. But still to invest in your relationship with God. To listen for his whisper in the forest.”

Viktor leans forward and ruffles his big sister’s hair.

“The whispering and sighing is all in your head, Sanna,” he says, and laughs.

He doesn’t believe. But he likes to discuss things. He often wears his long fair hair in a knot on top of his head. His skin is so fair it almost tips over into pale blue. The other girls look at him, but he soon finds a way of keeping them at bay. He plays a game with Rebecka.

Rebecka isn’t stupid. She soon realizes that the way he looks at her doesn’t mean anything, and that she isn’t allowed to reciprocate the quick caresses of her hair or her hand. She learns to sit still and pretend to be the object of his unrequited longing. She doesn’t come out of the game empty-handed. Viktor’s admiration gives her a higher status among the other girls in the group. She has outplayed them, and that brings respect.

During their Bible study the views of Thomas and the participants are quite different at the beginning. The young people don’t understand. Why is homosexuality a sin? How can it be that the Christian faith is the only true faith? What will happen to all the Muslims, for example-will they all go to hell? Why is it wrong to have sex before marriage?

Thomas listens and explains. You have to choose, he explains. Either you believe in the whole of the Bible, or you can pick out different bits and just believe those, but what kind of faith would that be? Insipid and toothless, that’s what.

They sit on the jetty by the lake during the light summer nights and swat the mosquitoes that land on their arms and legs. They discuss and consider. Sanna is secure in her God. Rebecka feels as if she is standing in the middle of a raging torrent.

“It’s because you have been called,” says Sanna. “He wants you. If you don’t say yes now, you could be lost forever. You can’t postpone your decision until later, because you might never feel this longing again.”

When the three weeks are up, all except two of the participants have given themselves to God. Among those newly saved are Viktor and Rebecka.

“W hat about you and Viktor, then?” Thomas asks Rebecka when the summer church is almost over. “What’s going on between you two?”

He and Rebecka are walking to the local supermarket to buy some milk. Rebecka breathes in the wonderful aroma of warm, dusty asphalt. She’s pleased that Thomas wanted to come with her. Most of the time she has to share him with everyone else.

“I don’t know,” says Rebecka hesitantly as she decides not to tell the truth. “He might be interested, but I haven’t time for anyone but God in my life right now. I want to invest one hundred percent in Him for a while.”

She breaks a thin twig from a birch tree as they walk by. The fragile green leaves smell like a happy summer. She puts a leaf in her mouth and chews.

Thomas grabs a leaf as well and pops it in his mouth. He smiles.

“You’re a sensible girl, Rebecka. I know that God has great plans for you. It’s a wonderful time when you’ve just fallen in love with God. It’s good that you’re making the most of it.”

She heard Sanna’s voice, at first from a long way off, then close by. Sanna’s hand on her upper arm.

“Look,” squeaked Sanna. “Oh, no.”

They had arrived at the police station. Rebecka had parked the car. At first she couldn’t see what Sanna was looking at. Then she saw the reporter running toward their car with a microphone at the ready. A man was standing behind the reporter. He lifted the video camera toward them like a black weapon.

In the Crystal Church, Pastor Gunnar Isaksson’s wife, Karin, sat with her eyes half closed, pretending to pray. There was an hour to go before the evening’s meeting. On the stage at the front, the gospel choir was warming up. Thirty young men and women. Black trousers. Lilac sweatshirts with an explosion of yellow and orange and the word “Joy” on the front.

Once she had been so in love with this church that it almost hurt. The divine acoustics. Like now. Long, drawn-out notes swirling up toward the ceiling, then cascading down to a depth only the bass voices could reach. The warm light. The polar night outside the immense glass windows. A bubble of God’s strength amid the darkness and the cold.

The musicians on the electric and bass guitars were tuning their instruments. There was a dull thud as the lighting technician switched on the spotlights on the stage. The boys who were looking after the sound were struggling with a microphone that was refusing to work. They were talking into it, but you couldn’t hear anything, and then all of a sudden it gave a piercing whistle.

Her arms itched. This morning the rash had been angry and red. She wondered if it could be psoriasis. Just as long as Gunnar didn’t catch sight of it. She didn’t want his intercession.

They had rearranged the furniture in the church. The chairs had been placed around the spot where Viktor had been lying. It looked just like the circus. She looked at her husband, sitting in the front row. His thick neck bulging over the white shirt collar. Next to him sat Thomas Söderberg, trying to concentrate before the evening’s sermon. She saw how Gunnar was forcing himself to look down at the Bible, determined not to distract the other man, only to forget himself and start babbling. His right hand shot out and started to paint pictures in the air with great sweeping strokes.

After Christmas he had decided to lose some weight. This afternoon he had skipped lunch. She had sat at the kitchen table twirling spaghetti around her fork, while he stood at the sink eating three pears. His broad back bending over the draining board. Slurping and gobbling. The sound of the pear juice dripping into the sink. His left hand pressing his tie against his stomach.

She looked at the clock. In a quarter of an hour he would leave his place at Thomas Söderberg’s side, sneak off to the car, drive into town and eat a hamburger in secret. Come back with his mouth full of spearmint gum.

Lie to somebody who cares, she thought. I don’t.

In the beginning he had been a different man. He’d been filling in as caretaker at Berga School, where she’d been working as a teacher. And she’d been to college, he thought that was wonderful. It was an energetic and very obvious courtship. Made-up errands to the staff room when she had a free lesson. Fun and laughter and an endless stream of bad jokes. And beneath all this, an insecurity that moved her. The delighted comments of her colleagues. How he clapped his hands with pleasure when she’d had her hair cut, or bought a new blouse. She watched him with the children in the playground. They liked him. A kind caretaker. It didn’t bother her then that he didn’t read books.

It was later, when he found himself in the shadow of Thomas Söderberg and Vesa Larsson, that the urge to assert himself was aroused.

But then she started to go with him to the Baptist church. At the time it was a church threatened with extinction. No, that was wrong, it was doomed to extinction. The members of the congregation looked as though they’d just dropped in for a rest on the way to the grave. Signe Persson, his gossamer-fine transparent hair carefully waved. His scalp shining through, pink with brown patches. Arvid Kall, once a loader for the LKAB mining company. Now half asleep in a pew, his huge hands lying powerless on his knees.

Naturally they hadn’t been able to afford a pastor; there was hardly enough money to heat the church. Gunnar Isaksson ran the church community like a one-man business. Mended and maintained what they could afford. Sighed over the rest. For example, the damage caused by the damp in the cloakroom. The wall that bellied out like a swollen corpse. The wallpaper that kept peeling off. The idea was that members of the congregation should take it in turns to preach; services were held every other Sunday. Since nobody else volunteered, Gunnar Isaksson stepped in.

There was no kind of thread to be found in his sermons. He drove here and there at random through the landscape of the free church he’d known since his youth. But still the routine was always very similar, with obligatory stops in well-known places, such as "the Spirit of God descending like a dove," "Behold, I am making all things new" and "Those who drink of the water that I will give them." Without exception the journey always ended with a revivalist call to the cooperative souls sitting there, saved long ago.

One consolation was that things weren’t much better in the other churches around the town. God’s temple in Kiruna: a dilapidated hovel where the stale air stood completely still.

Gunnar stood up and came toward the exit. Slowed down to show respect as he passed the place where Viktor Strandgård’s body had lain. A pile of flowers and cards was already lying there. He gave her a brief smile and a wink. A sign that appeared to mean he was just going to the bathroom, or to have a quick word with someone in the cloakroom.

He wasn’t stupid. Not in the least. The very fact that he’d managed to get where he was today. Right at the top of the church, along with Thomas Söderberg and Vesa Larsson. Without any formal training as a pastor. Without any talent as a fisher of men. That very fact demanded a certain talent.

She remembered when Gunnar had told her that the Mission had a new pastor. A young married couple.

A week or so later Thomas Söderberg came to a service in the Baptist church. Sat in the second row nodding in agreement throughout Gunnar’s sermon. Encouraging smiles. Serious consideration. His wife, Maja, like a model pupil by his side.

They stayed for coffee afterward. Gray winter darkness outside. Clouds full of snow. The day dwindling before it had even arrived properly.

Maja talked loudly and slowly into Arvid Kalla’s ear. Asked Edit Svonni for her recipe for sugar biscuits.

Thomas Söderberg and Gunnar having an animated conversation with two of the church elders. Switching between serious nodding of heads and loud laughter, like a well-rehearsed, perfectly coordinated dance. United in brotherhood.

And the obligatory question to the southerners: How do you like it up here? The darkness and the cold? They answered as one: They absolutely loved it. They certainly weren’t missing the slush and the rain. They’d be celebrating the next family Christmas in Kiruna.

That was all it took. The fact that they didn’t feel they’d been banished to a distant place beyond the bounds of tolerance. No whining or complaining about the biting wind or the darkness that creeps into your soul. The answers made the congregation’s faces soften.

When they’d gone, Gunnar said to her: “Nice people. He’s got lots of ideas, that boy.”

That was the last time he called Thomas Söderberg, ten years younger than him, “that boy.”

Two weeks later she met Thomas Söderberg in town. She was pushing the pram through a blizzard. Andreas was two and a half months old, and would only sleep in the pram. She pushed him up and down the streets of Kiruna. Dragging the two-year-old, Anna, like a fretful bundle. Hands and feet freezing.

She felt dreadful. Exhaustion filled her like a gray, rising dough. At any moment she might just burst and go under. She hated Gunnar. Kept losing her temper with Anna. Just wanted to cry all the time.

Thomas came walking up behind her. Laid his left hand on her left shoulder. Caught up with her at the same time. For a second, just as he drew level with her, it was as if he had his arm around her. Half an embrace for a fraction of a second too long. When she turned her head he was smiling broadly. Greeted her as if they were old friends. Said hi to Anna, who clung fast to Karin’s legs and refused to answer. Peeped at Andreas, who was sleeping like an angel from God in his warm outfit.

“I keep trying to convince Maja that we ought to have children,” he confessed, “but…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Sighed deeply and let the smile fade away. Then he regained his good humor. “I do understand her,” he said. “It’s you women who bear the heaviest load. It’ll happen when it’s meant to happen.”

Andreas moved in the pram. It was time to go home and feed him. She wanted to invite Thomas back for lunch, but didn’t dare ask. He walked part of the way with her. It was so easy to talk. New topics of conversation just popped up by themselves, attaching themselves to the old ones like the links of a chain. At last they were standing by the crossroads where they had to part company.

"I would like to do more for God," she said. “But the children. They take all the strength I have, and a little bit more.”

The snow was whirling around them like a hail of sharp arrows. Made him blink. An archangel with dark curly hair wearing a blue padded jacket made of some kind of synthetic crackling material that looked cheap. Jeans tucked into high-heeled leather boots. Knitted cap, homemade, with an Inca pattern. She wondered if it was Maja who was so creative. Maja, who didn’t want children.

“But, Karin,” he said, “don’t you understand that you are doing exactly what God wants? Looking after the children. That’s the most important thing of all right now. He has plans for you, but right now… right now you must be with Anna and Andreas.”

Six months later he had held the first summer church. A little flock of newly saved children waddled behind him like ducklings. Imprinting him as their spiritual parent. One of them was Viktor Strandgård.

She, Gunnar, Vesa Larsson and his wife, Astrid, were invited to share in the happiness when they held a baptism for the believers. Gunnar swallowed his bitter jealousy and went along. He knew how to join the winning team. At the same time he started the endless comparisons. The desire to try to shine himself. His face took on a cunning expression.

She wasn’t without blame herself. Hadn’t she said to her husband a thousand times: “Don’t let Thomas walk all over you. He can’t be allowed to decide everything.”

She had convinced herself that she was supporting her husband. But wasn’t the truth that she’d actually wanted him to be someone else?

Thomas Söderberg got up and walked over to the gospel choir. He was wearing a black suit. Normally his ties were colorful, verging on bold. This evening it was a discreet gray. An upside-down exclamation mark inside his jacket.

He carried his wealth as easily as he had once carried his-not poverty, she thought, his lack of money. Two people living on a pastor’s wage. But it never seemed to bother them. Not even when they had children.

Then things changed. He stood there now in his fine wool suit, talking to the choir. Said what had happened was terrible. One of the girls began to sob loudly. Those standing closest to her put their arms around her.

It was okay to cry, said Thomas. It was all right to grieve. But-and here he took a deep breath and uttered each word separately, with a short pause in between-it was not okay to lose. Not okay to go backwards. Not okay to sound the retreat.

She couldn’t face listening to the rest. Knew more or less how it would sound.

“Hi, Karin. Where’s Gunnar?”

Maja, Thomas Söderberg’s wife, sat down beside her. Long, shiny, sandy-colored hair. A little discreet makeup. No lipstick. No eye-shadow. Just a little bit of mascara and blusher. Not that Thomas had anything against women wearing makeup, but Karin guessed that he preferred to see his own wife without. A few years ago Maja had wanted to have her hair cut short, but Thomas had put his foot down.

“He was here a minute ago. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”

Maja nodded.

“And where are Vesa and Astrid?” she asked.

Taking a tough line on attendance tonight. Karin raised her eyebrows and shook her head in reply.

"It’s really important that everyone sticks together at a time like this," said Maja quietly.

Karin looked at the red rose lying on Maja’s knee.

“Are you going to put that with the others?”

Maja nodded.

“Yes, but I’ll wait until the meeting is under way. I can’t grasp what’s happened. It’s just so unreal.”

Yes, it is unreal, thought Karin. What’s going to happen without Viktor?

Viktor, who refused to cut his hair or wear a suit. Who turned down a pay raise and made Thomas give the money to Médecins Sans Frontières instead. She remembered seven years ago, when she’d gone to a conference in Stockholm. How surprised she’d been when she saw so many young men who looked exactly like Viktor. On the underground and in cafés. Ugly knitted or crocheted hats. Soft shoulder bags. Jeans slung low on narrow hips. Suede jackets from the sixties. The slow, nonchalant walk. A kind of anti-fashion reserved for the good-looking and the confident.

Viktor had belonged to the court surrounding Thomas Söderberg, but he had never become a copy of Thomas. More his opposite. Without possessions, without ambition. Abstemious. Although the latter was perhaps because Rebecka Martinsson had crushed him in her madness. It was hard to know.

Maja leaned toward her. Hot breath hissing in her ear.

“Aha, here comes Astrid. But where’s Vesa?”

Pastor Vesa Larsson’s wife, Astrid, pushed her way in through the door of the Crystal Church. On the stage, Thomas Söderberg was leading the gospel choir in prayer before the evening service.

The trek up the hill from the car park had made her blouse wet and sticky under her arms. Just as well she had a cardigan over the top. She hastily wiped under her eyes with her index finger just in case her mascara had run. She’d once seen herself on one of the church video recordings. It had been snowing when she’d walked to the church, and on the film she had been going around with the collection bag like a trained panda. Since then she always checked in the mirror. But now the cloakroom was full of people and she was so stressed.

A pile of flowers and cards lay in the central circle.

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.

Måns 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.”