Sun Storm aka The Savage Altar

And evening came and morning came, the third day

At quarter past three in the morning it begins to snow. Just a few flakes at first, then more and more. Above the dense clouds the Aurora Borealis hurls herself recklessly across the heavens. Writhing like a snake. Opening herself up to the constellations.

Kristina Strandgård is sitting in her husband’s metallic gray Volvo in the garage beneath the house. It is dark in the garage. Only the map-reading light inside the car is lit. Kristina is wearing a shiny quilted dressing gown and slippers. Her left hand is resting on her knee, and her right hand is clutching the car keys. She has rolled up several rag rugs and stuffed them along the bottom of the garage door. The door leading into the house is closed and locked. The gaps between the door and the frame are covered with tape.

I ought to cry, she thinks. I ought to be like Rachel: “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation: Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, for they were no more.” But I don’t feel anything. It’s as if all I have inside is rustling white paper. I’m the one in this family who’s sick. I didn’t think that was the problem, but I’m the one who’s sick.

She puts the key in the ignition. But the tears won’t come now either.

Sanna Strandgård is standing in her cell, her forehead pressed against the cold steel bars in front of the reinforced glass window. She is looking out at the pavement in front of the green metal façades on Konduktörsgatan. In the glow of a street lamp, Viktor is standing in the snow. He is naked, apart from the enormous dove-gray wings that he has wrapped around his body in order to cover himself a little. The snowflakes fall around him like stardust. Sparkle in the light of the street lamp. They do not melt when they land on his naked skin. He raises his eyes and looks up at Sanna.

“I can’t forgive you,” she whispers, drawing on the window with her finger. “But forgiveness is a miracle that happens in the heart. So if you forgive me, then perhaps…”

She closes her eyes and sees Rebecka. Rebecka’s hands and arms are covered in blood, right up to her elbows. She stretches out her arms and places one hand protectively above Sara’s head, the other above Lova’s.

I’m so sorry, Rebecka, thinks Sanna. But you’re the one who has to do it.

When the town hall clock strikes five, Kristina Strandgård takes the key out of the ignition and gets out of the car. She takes the rugs away from the garage door. She rips the tape off the door to the house, screws it up and puts it in the pocket of her dressing gown. Then she goes up to the kitchen and begins to make bread. She adds some linseed to the flour; Olof’s stomach can be a little sluggish.

Wednesday, February 19

Early in the morning the telephone rang at Anna-Maria Mella’s house.

“Leave it,” said Robert hoarsely.

But with the conditioning of many years, Anna-Maria’s hand had already reached out and lifted the receiver.

It was Sven-Erik Stålnacke.

“It’s me,” he said tersely. “You sound out of breath.”

“I’ve just come upstairs.”

“Have you looked outside yet? It’s been snowing like mad all night.”

“Mmm.”

“We’ve had an answer from Linköping,” said Sven-Erik. “No fingerprints on the knife. It’s been washed and dried. But it is the murder weapon. Traces of Viktor Strandgård’s blood were found at the base of the blade close to the handle. And traces of Viktor Strandgård’s blood were also found in Sanna Strandgård’s kitchen sink.”

Anna-Maria clicked her tongue thoughtfully.

“And von Post is going absolutely crazy. He knew, of course, that we were going to find absolute technical proof. He rang me at about half five, howling about motives and insisting we find the blunt instrument that was used on the back of the lad’s head.”

“Well, he’s right,” replied Anna-Maria.

“Do you think she did it?” asked Sven-Erik.

“It seems very odd if she did. But then, I’m no psychologist.”

“Von Pisspot is intending to have another go at her anyway.”

Anna-Maria inhaled sharply through her nose.

“What do you mean, ‘have another go’?”

“How should I know?” replied Sven-Erik. “I presume he’s going to interview her again. And he was talking about moving her to Luleå when she’s arrested.”

“Bloody hell,” Anna-Maria burst out. “Doesn’t he understand that frightening her won’t help at all. We ought to get somebody professional up here, somebody who can talk to her. And I’m going to talk to Sanna myself. It’s pointless just sitting in and listening to von Post interviewing her.”

“Just be careful,” Sven-Erik warned her. “Don’t start interrogating her behind his back, or the shit really will hit the fan.”

“I can make up some excuse. It’s better if I push the boundaries a bit than if you do.”

“When are you coming in?” asked Sven-Erik. “You’ve got a load of faxes from Linköping to deal with as well. The office girls are running around here like lemmings. They’re wondering if everything’s supposed to be recorded officially, and they’re hacked off because the fax has been busy all morning.”

“It’s copies of pages from Viktor’s Bible. Tell them they don’t need to make a record of them.”

“So when are you coming in?” Sven-Erik asked again.

“It’ll be a while,” said Anna-Maria evasively. “Robert’s got to dig the car out and so on.”

“Okay,” said Sven-Erik. “See you when I see you.”

He put the phone down.

“Now, where were we?” smiled Anna-Maria, looking down at Robert.

“Here,” said Robert with laughter in his voice.

He was lying naked on his back underneath her, his hands caressing her enormous stomach and tracing a path toward her breasts.

“We were just here,” he said, his fingers circling the brown nipples. “Just here.”

Rebecka Martinsson was standing in the yard outside her grandmother’s house brushing snow off the car with a broom. It had snowed heavily during the night, and clearing the car was hard work. She was sweating under her hat. It was still dark, and the snow was whirling down. There was a thick layer of fresh snow on the road, and zero vision. Driving into town wasn’t going to be much fun. That’s if she could actually get the car out. Sara and Lova were sitting at the kitchen window looking down at her. There was no point in letting them stand outside to get covered in snow, or sit in the car and freeze. Virku had raced off around the side of the house and was nowhere to be seen. Her cell phone rang; she pushed in her earpiece and answered impatiently:

“Rebecka.”

It was Maria Taube.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “You’re answering the phone, then. I thought I’d be talking to your voice mail.”

“I’ve just rung my neighbor and asked him to help me get the car out of the yard,” panted Rebecka. “I’ve got to get the kids to nursery and school, and it’s snowing like mad. I can’t get the car out.”

“ ‘I’ve got to get the kids to nursery,’ ” mimicked Maria. “Am I really talking to Rebecka Martinsson? It sounds more like a worn-out working mother to me. One foot in the nursery, the other at work, and thank God it’s nearly Friday so you can collapse with a packet of chips and a glass of wine in front of the TV.”

Rebecka laughed. Virku and Bella came hurtling toward her, snow spraying up all around them. Bella was in the lead. The deep snow was more of a handicap for Virku, who had shorter legs. Sivving must be on his way.

“I’ve got the information you wanted about the church,” said Maria. “And I promised Johan Dahlström a dinner to say thank you, so you owe me a night out or something. I could do with going to the Sturehof and getting a little bit of male attention.”

“Sounds like you’re coming out of this pretty well,” puffed Rebecka as she swept the bonnet of the car. “First of all, your Johan is bound to insist on paying for this thank-you-for-your-help dinner, and then I treat you to a night out so you can kick your heels up.”

“He isn’t ‘my’ Johan. Nice and grateful now, otherwise you won’t find out a thing.”

“I am nice and grateful,” said Rebecka meekly. “Tell me.”

“Okay, he said the church had only ticked the box to indicate that it’s a nonprofit-making organization.”

“Damn,” said Rebecka.

“I’ve never had anything to do with nonprofit-making organizations and foundations and that sort of stuff. What does it mean?” asked Maria.

“It means it’s a nonprofit-making organization that exists for the public good, so it isn’t liable for income or capital tax. So it doesn’t have to submit a tax declaration, nor a statement of accounts. It’s impossible to get any kind of access to its affairs.”

“With regard to Viktor Strandgård, he had a very modest salary from the church. Johan checked back two years. No other income. No capital. No property, and no shares.”

Sivving was coming across the yard. His fur hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and he was dragging a snow rake behind him. The dogs raced to meet him and scampered playfully around his feet. Rebecka waved, but he had his eyes fixed on the ground and didn’t see her.

“The pastors take forty-five thousand kronor a month.”

“That’s a damn good salary for a pastor,” said Rebecka.

“Thomas Söderberg has quite a large share portfolio, about half a million. And he owns some land out on Värmdö.”

“Värmdö Stockholm?” asked Rebecka.

“Yes, value for tax purposes four hundred and twenty. But it could be worth just about anything. The taxation value of Vesa Larsson’s house is one point two million. It’s quite new. The value was set last year in a specific property taxation arrangement. He’s got a loan of a million. Presumably on the house.”

“What about Gunnar Isaksson?” asked Rebecka.

“Nothing special. A few bonds, some savings in the bank.”

“Okay,” said Rebecka. “Anything else as far as the church goes? Does it own any companies or anything?”

Sivving appeared behind Rebecka.

“Hello there!” he boomed. “Talking to yourself?”

“Hang on a minute,” said Rebecka to Maria.

She turned to Sivving. Only a tiny part of his face was visible above his scarf. A little snowdrift had already formed on the top of his cap.

“I’m on the phone,” she said, pointing at the wire to her earpiece. “I can’t get the car out. The wheels were just spinning around when I tried to start it.”

“You’re on the phone on that wire thing?” he asked. “Good Lord, soon they’ll be operating to put a telephone inside your head the second you’re born. You carry on, I’ll start clearing.”

He started dragging the rake across the ground in front of the car.

“Hi,” said Rebecka into the phone.

“I’m still here,” replied Maria. “The church owns nothing, but I checked out the pastors and their families. The wives are part owners in a trading company. Victory Print.”

“Did you check it out?”

“No, but its tax records are in the public domain, so you can call the local tax office. I didn’t want to ask Johan again. He wasn’t that keen on asking for information from another tax authority’s transaction network.”

“Thanks a million,” said Rebecka. “I’ve got to give Sivving a hand now. I’ll call you.”

“Be careful,” said Maria, and hung up.

Slowly the night abandoned Sanna Strandgård. Slipped away. Out through the reinforced window and the heavy steel door, leaving room for the unforgiving day. It would be a while before it grew light outside. A faint glow from the street lamps outside pushed its way in through the window and hovered like a shadow beneath the ceiling. Sanna lay motionless on her bunk.

Just a little bit longer, she prayed, but merciful sleep was gone.

She felt as if her face was completely numb. Her hand crept out from under the blanket and she caressed her lips. Pretended her hand was Sara’s soft hair. Let her nose remember the scent of Lova. She still smelled like a child, although she was turning into a big girl. Her body relaxed and sank into her memories. The bedroom at home in the flat. All four of them in the bed. Lova, with her arms around Sanna’s neck. Sara, curled up behind her back. And Virku lying on Sara’s feet. The little black paws, galloping in her sleep. Every single thing was tattooed on her skin, imprinted on the insides of her hands and her lips. Whatever happened, her body would remember.

Rebecka, she thought. I won’t lose them. Rebecka will fix it. I won’t cry. There’s no point.

An hour later the cell door was tentatively pushed open a fraction. Light poured in through the gap, and someone whispered:

“Are you awake?”

It was Anna-Maria Mella. The policewoman with the long plait and the huge stomach.

Sanna answered, and Anna-Maria’s face appeared in the doorway.

“I just thought I’d see if you wanted some breakfast. Tea and a sandwich?”

Sanna said yes, and Anna-Maria disappeared. She left the cell door slightly ajar.

From the corridor Sanna heard the guard’s resigned voice:

“For God’s sake, Mella!”

Then she heard Anna-Maria’s reply:

“Oh, come on. What do you think she’s going to do? Come out here and blast her way through the security door?”

I’ll bet she’s a good mother, thought Sanna. The sort who leaves the door open a bit so the children can hear her moving about in the kitchen. The sort who leaves a light on by the bed if they’re scared of the dark.

After a while Anna-Maria Mella came back with two gherkin sandwiches in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. She had a file clamped under one arm, and pushed the door shut with her foot. The mug was chipped, and once upon a time had belonged to “The Best Grandmother in the World.”

“Wow,” said Sanna gratefully, sitting up. “I thought it was just bread and water in jail.”

“This is bread and water,” laughed Anna-Maria. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Sanna gestured invitingly toward the foot of the bunk, and Anna-Maria sat down. She placed the file on the floor.

“It’s dropped,” said Sanna between mouthfuls of tea, nodding at Anna-Maria’s stomach. “It’s nearly time.”

“Yes.” Anna-Maria smiled.

There was a comfortable silence between them. Sanna took small bites of her sandwich. The gherkin crunched between her teeth. Anna-Maria gazed out of the window at the heavy snow.

“The murder of your brother was so-how shall I put it-religious,” said Anna-Maria thoughtfully. “Ritualistic, somehow.”

Sanna stopped chewing. The piece of sandwich stuck in her mouth like a huge lump.

“The gouged-out eyes, the severed hands, all the stab wounds,” Anna-Maria went on. “The place where the body was lying. Right in the middle of the aisle, in front of the altar. And no sign of struggle or violence.”

“Like a sacrificial lamb,” said Sanna quietly.

“Exactly,” agreed Anna-Maria. “It made me think of a place in the Bible, ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ ”

“It’s in one of the Books of Moses,” said Sanna, reaching for her Bible, which was on the floor next to her bunk.

She searched for a moment, then she read out loud:

“ ‘And if any harm follow, then thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth…’ ”

She paused and read silently to herself before continuing:

“ ‘…hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.’ ”

“Who had a reason to take revenge on him?” asked Anna-Maria.

Sanna didn’t reply, but flicked through the Bible, apparently aimlessly.

“They often put out people’s eyes in the Old Testament,” she said. “The Philistines put out Samson’s eyes. The Ammonites offered the besieged people of Rabbah peace, on condition that they were allowed to put out the right eye of every single one.”

She fell silent as the door was pushed wide open and the guard appeared with Rebecka Martinsson behind him. Rebecka’s hair was lying on her shoulders in wet clumps. Her mascara had run into two black circles under her eyes. Her nose was an angry red dripping tap.

“Good morning,” she said, glaring at the two smiling women on the bunk. “Don’t ask!”

The guard disappeared and Rebecka remained standing in the doorway.

“What’s this, morning prayers?” she asked.

“We were talking about eyes being put out in the Bible,” said Sanna.

“ ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ for example,” added Anna-Maria.

“Mmm,” said Rebecka. “And then there’s that place in one of the gospels: ‘if thine eye offend thee’ and so on-where was it?”

Sanna flicked through the Bible.

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

“Good grief!” said Anna-Maria with feeling.

“What made you start talking about this?” asked Rebecka, struggling out of her coat.

Sanna put the Bible down.

“Anna-Maria said she thought Viktor’s murder seemed so ritualistic,” she replied.

A tense silence filled the little room. Rebecka looked grimly at Anna-Maria.

“I don’t want you to talk to Sanna about the murder when I’m not present,” she said sharply.

Anna-Maria leaned forward with difficulty and picked the file up off the floor. She stood up and looked steadily at Rebecka.

“I hadn’t planned it,” she said. “It just happened. I’ll take you to a room where you can talk. Rebecka, can you ask the guard to take Sanna along to the shower when you’ve finished, then we’ll all meet in the interview room in forty minutes.”

She held the file out to Rebecka.

“Here,” she said with a conciliatory smile. “The copies of Viktor’s Bible you wanted. I really hope we can work well together.”

No points to you, thought Rebecka as Anna-Maria walked ahead of them.

When they were alone Rebecka sank down on a chair and looked resolutely at Sanna, who was standing by the window looking out at the falling snow.

“Who could have put the murder weapon in your flat?” asked Rebecka.

“I can’t think of anybody,” said Sanna. “I don’t know any more now than I did before. I was asleep. Viktor was standing by my bed. I put Lova in the sledge and took Sara by the hand and we went to the church. He was lying there.”

They fell silent. Rebecka opened the file Anna-Maria had given her. The first sheet was a copy of the back of a postcard. There was no stamp. Rebecka stared at the handwriting. A chill went though her body. It was the same writing as the message on her car. Sprawling. As if the person who had written it had been wearing gloves, or had written it with the wrong hand. She read:

What we have done is not wrong in the eyes of God. I love you.

“What is it?” asked Sanna, terrified, as she watched the color drain from Rebecka’s face.

I can’t say anything about the note on the car, thought Rebecka. She’ll go mad. She’ll be terrified something will happen to the girls.

"Nothing," she replied, “but listen to this.”

She read the postcard out loud.

“Who loved him, Sanna?” she asked.

Sanna looked down.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Loads of people.”

“You really don’t know a thing,” said Rebecka crossly.

She felt upset. Something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t work out what it was.

“Had you fallen out with Viktor when he died?” she asked. “Why weren’t he and your parents allowed to pick up the girls?”

"I’ve explained all that," said Sanna impatiently. "Viktor would just have given them to my parents."

Rebecka didn’t speak, she just gazed out of the window. She was thinking about Patrik Mattsson. On the video from the church service he’d grabbed at Viktor’s hands. And Viktor had snatched them away.

“I need to go for a shower now if I’m going to fit it in before the interview,” said Sanna.

Rebecka nodded absently.

I’ll talk to Patrik Mattsson, she thought.

She was jerked back to the present by Sanna running her hand quickly over Rebecka’s hair.

“I love you, Rebecka,” she said softly. “My dearest, dearest sister.”

It’s just amazing how everybody loves me, thought Rebecka. They lie, deceive and eat you up for breakfast, all out of love.

R ebecka and Sanna are sitting at the kitchen table. Sara is lying on a beanbag in the living room listening to Jojje Wadenius. It’s her morning routine. Porridge and Jojje on the beanbag. In the kitchen the radio is turned to P1. The orange Advent star is still hanging in the window, although it’s February. But you need to hang on to a little bit of Christmas, its decorations and its light, just to keep you going until the spring arrives. Sanna is standing by the stove making sandwiches. The coffee percolator gurgles one last time, then falls silent. She pours two mugs and places them on the kitchen table.

Nausea floods through Rebecka like an enormous wave. She jumps up from the table and rushes into the bathroom. She doesn’t even manage to lift the lid properly. Most of the vomit ends up all over the lid and the floor.

Sanna follows her. She stands in the doorway in her tatty green fluffy dressing gown, looking at Rebecka with anxious eyes. Rebecka wipes away a strand of mucus and vomit from her mouth with the back of her hand. When she turns her face up toward Sanna, she can see that Sanna has realized.

“Who?” asks Sanna. “Is it Viktor?”

“ H e has the right to know,” says Sanna.

They are sitting at the kitchen table again. The coffee has been thrown away.

“Why?” says Rebecka harshly.

She feels as if she is trapped inside thick glass. It’s been like this for a while now. Her body wakes long before she does in the mornings. Her mouth opens for the toothbrush. Her hands make the bed. Her legs make their way to the Hjalmar Lundbohm school. Sometimes she stops dead in the middle of the street, wondering whether it’s Saturday. If she has to go to school at all. But it’s remarkable. Her legs are always right. She arrives in the right room on the right day at the right time. Her body can manage perfectly well without her. She’s avoided going to church. Blamed schoolwork and the flu and gone to visit her grandmother in Kurravaara. And Thomas Söderberg hasn’t asked about her, or phoned.

“Because it’s his child,” says Sanna. “He’s bound to realize, in any case. I mean, it’ll show in a few months.”

“No,” says Rebecka tonelessly. “It won’t.”

She sees how the meaning of what she has just said sinks in.

“No, Rebecka,” says Sanna, shaking her head.

Tears well up in her eyes and she reaches for Rebecka’s hand, but Rebecka gets up and puts on her shoes and padded jacket.

“I love you, Rebecka,” pleads Sanna. “Don’t you understand that it’s a gift? I’ll help you to…”

She stops speaking as Rebecka looks at her with contempt.

“I know,” she says quietly. “You don’t think I’m even capable of looking after myself and Sara.”

Sanna buries her head in her hands and begins to weep inconsolably.

Rebecka leaves the flat. Rage is pounding through her body. Her fists are clenched inside her gloves. It feels as if she could kill someone. Anyone.

When Rebecka has gone, Sanna picks up the telephone and dials. It is Thomas Söderberg’s wife, Maja, who answers.

Patrik Mattsson was woken at quarter past eleven in the morning by the sound of a key being turned in the outside door of his flat. Then his mother’s voice. Fragile as ice in the autumn. Full of anxiety. She called his name, and he heard her go through the hall and past the bathroom where he was lying. She stopped at the door of the living room and called again. After a while she knocked on the bathroom door.

“Hello! Patrik!”

I ought to answer, he thought.

He moved slightly, and the tiles on the floor laid their coolness against his face. He must have fallen asleep in the end. On the bathroom floor. Curled up like a fetus. He still had his clothes on.

His mother’s voice again. Determined hammering on the door.

“Hello, Patrik, open the door, there’s a good boy. Are you all right?”

No, I’m not all right, he thought. I’ll never be all right again.

His lips formed the name. But no sound was allowed to pass his lips.

Viktor. Viktor. Viktor.

Now she was rattling the door handle.

“Patrik, either you open this door right now or I’m ringing the police and they can kick it in.”

Oh, God. He managed to get to his knees. His head was pounding like a pneumatic drill. The hip that had been resting on the hard tiled floor was aching.

“I’m coming,” he croaked. “I’ve… not been too well. Hang on.”

She backed away as he opened the door.

“You look terrible,” she burst out. “Are you ill?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“Shall I ring up and say you’re not coming in?”

“No, I’ve got to go now.”

He looked at the clock.

She followed him into the lounge. Flowerpots lay smashed on the floor. The rug had ended up in one corner. One of the armchairs had been tipped upside down.

“What’s been going on here?” she asked weakly.

He turned and put his arm around her shoulders.

“I did it myself, Mum. But it’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m feeling better now.”

She nodded in reply, but he could see that tears weren’t far away. He turned away from her.

“I must get off to the mushroom farm,” he said.

“I’ll stay here and clean up for you,” his mother said from behind him, bending down to pick up a glass from the floor.

Patrik Mattsson defended himself against her submissive concern.

“No, honestly, Mum, you don’t need to do that,” he said.

“For my sake,” she whispered, trying to catch his eye.

She bit her lower lip in an attempt to keep the tears at bay.

“I know you don’t want to confide in me,” she went on. “But if you’d just let me tidy up, then…”

She swallowed once.

“… then at least I’ll have done something for you,” she finished.

He dropped his shoulders and forced himself to give her a quick hug.

“Okay,” he said. “That would be really kind.”

Then he shot out through the door.

He got into his Golf and turned the key in the ignition. Let the engine race with the clutch down to drown out his thoughts.

No crying now, he told himself sternly.

He twisted the rearview mirror and looked at his face. His eyes were swollen. His lank hair was plastered to his head. He gave a short, joyless bark of laughter. It sounded more like a cough. Then he turned the mirror back sharply.

I’m never going to think about him again, he thought. Never again.

He screeched out onto Gruvvägen and accelerated down the hill toward Lappgatan. He was almost driving from memory, couldn’t see a thing through the falling snow. The snowplow had been along the road in the morning, but since then more snow had fallen, and the fresh snow gave way treacherously beneath his tires. He increased the pressure on the accelerator. From time to time one of the wheels went into a spin and the car slid over to the opposite side of the road. It didn’t matter.

At the crossroads with Lappgatan he didn’t stand a chance, the car skidded helplessly straight across the road. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a woman with a kick sledge and a small child. She pushed the sledge over the mound of snow left by the plow, and raised her arm at him. Presumably she was giving him the finger. As he drove past the Laestadian chapel, the road surface altered. The snow had become packed together under the weight of the cars, but it was rutted, and the Golf wanted to go its own way. Afterward he couldn’t remember how he’d got over the crossroads at Gruvvägen and Hjalmar Lundbohmsvägen. Had he stopped at the traffic lights?

Down by the mine he drove past the sentry box with a wave. The guard was buried in his newspaper and didn’t even look up. He stopped by the barrier in front of the tunnel opening that led down into the mine. His whole body was shaking. His fingers wouldn’t cooperate when he fumbled for a cigarette in his jacket pocket. He felt empty inside. That was good. For the last five minutes he hadn’t thought about Viktor Strandgård once. He took a long pull on the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

Keep calm, he whispered reassuringly, just keep calm.

Maybe he should have stayed at home. But shut in the flat all day, he’d have jumped off the balcony, for sure.

Oh, who are you kidding, he sneered at himself. As if you’d dare. Smashing teacups and chucking flowerpots on the floor, that’s all you can manage.

He wound down the window and stretched out his hand to insert his pass card into the machine.

A hand grabbed his wrist and he jumped, the hot ash from the cigarette falling on his knee. At first he couldn’t see who it was, and his stomach cramped with fear. Then a familiar face appeared.

“Rebecka Martinsson,” he said.

The snow was falling on her dark hair, the flakes melting against her nose.

“I want to talk to you,” she said.

He nodded toward the passenger seat. “Hop in, then.”

Rebecka hesitated. She was thinking about the message someone had left on her car. “You will surely die,” “You have been warned.”

“It’s now or never, as The King says,” said Patrik Mattsson, leaning over the seat and opening the car door.

Rebecka looked at the mine entrance in front of her. A black hole, down into the underworld.

“Okay, but I’ve got the dog in the car, I’ll have to be back in an hour.”

She walked around the car, got in and shut the door.

Nobody knows where I am, she thought as Patrik Mattsson stuck his card into the machine and the barrier that barred the way down into the mine slowly lifted.

He slipped the car into gear and they drove down into the mine.

Ahead of them they could see the reflectors shining on the walls; behind them a dense darkness descended like a black velvet curtain.

Rebecka tried to talk. It was like dragging a reluctant dog along on its lead.

“My ears are popping, why does that happen?”

“The difference in altitude.”

“How far down are we going?”

“Five hundred forty meters.”

“So you’ve started growing mushrooms, then?”

No reply.

“Shiitake, I’ve never actually tried those. Is it just you?”

“No.”

“So there are a few of you, then? Anybody else there at the moment?”

No answer, driving fast, downward.

Patrik Mattsson parked the car in front of an underground workshop. There was no door, just a large opening in the side of the mine. Inside Rebecka could see men in overalls and helmets. They were holding tools. Huge drills from Atlas Copco were lined up ready for repair.

“This way,” said Patrik Mattsson, and set off.

Rebecka followed him, looking at the men in the workshop and wishing one of them would turn around and see her.

Black primitive rock rose up on both sides of them. Here and there water was running out of the rocks and turning the walls green.

“It’s the copper, the water turns it green,” explained Patrik when she asked.

He stubbed out his cigarette under his foot and unlocked a heavy steel door in the wall.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to smoke down here,” said Rebecka.

“Why not?” asked Patrik. “There aren’t any explosive gases or anything like that.”

She laughed out loud.

“Brilliant. You can hide away down here, five hundred meters under the surface, and have a secret smoke!”

He held open the heavy door and held out his other hand, palm upward, indicating that she should go in ahead of him.

“I’ve never understood the list of commandments in the free church,” she said, turning toward him so that she wouldn’t have her back to him as they went in. “Thou shalt not smoke. Thou shalt not drink alcohol. Thou shalt not go to the disco. Where did they get it from? Gluttony, and not sharing what you have with those in need, sins that are actually mentioned in the Bible, they haven’t got a word to say about those.”

The door closed behind them. Patrick switched on the light. The room looked like a huge bunker. Steel shelves hung from the ceiling on bars. Something that looked like great big vacuum-packed sausages, or round logs, was lying on the shelves.

Rebecka asked, and Patrik Mattsson explained.

“Blocks of alder packed in plastic. They’ve been injected with spores. When they’ve been there for a certain amount of time, you can take off the plastic and just tap the wood with your hand. Then they start to grow, and after five days you harvest them.”

He disappeared behind a large plastic curtain at the far end of the room. After a while he came back with several blocks of wood full of shiitake mushrooms. He placed the blocks on a table and began to pick the mushrooms with a practiced hand. As he picked, he dropped them into a box. The smell of mushrooms and damp wood permeated the room.

“It’s the right climate for them down here,” he said. “And the lights change automatically to give them very short nights and days. Enough of the small talk, Rebecka-what do you want?”

“I wanted to talk about Viktor.”

He looked at her expressionlessly. Rebecka had the feeling that she should have dressed more simply. They were standing here on different planets, trying to talk. She had that damned coat on, and her fine, expensive gloves.

“When I used to live here, you were very close,” she said.

“Yes.”

“How was he? After I left, I mean.”

Behind the curtain the watering system sprang to life with a muted hiss. Moisture sprayed from the roof and trickled down the stiff, transparent plastic.

“He was perfect. Handsome. Devoted. A gifted speaker. But he had a tough God. If he’d lived in the Middle Ages he’d have whipped himself with a scourge and walked to holy places in his bare, wounded feet.”

He picked the mushrooms from the last block of wood and spread them evenly in the box.

"In what way did he punish himself?" she asked.

Patrik Mattsson carried on rearranging the mushrooms; it was as if he was talking to them rather than to her.

“You know. Strip away anything that doesn’t come from God. No listening to anything other than Christian music, because then you’d expose yourself to the influence of evil spirits. He was really keen to get a dog once, but a dog takes up time, and that time belongs to God, so nothing came of it.”

He shook his head.

“He should have got that dog,” he said.

“But how was he?” asked Rebecka.

“I told you. Perfect. Everybody loved him.”

“And you?”

Patrik Mattsson didn’t answer her.

I didn’t come here to learn about growing mushrooms, thought Rebecka.

“I think you loved him too,” she said.

Patrik breathed in sharply through his nose, clamped his lips tightly together and gazed up at the ceiling.

“He was just a sham,” he said violently. “Nothing matters anymore. And I’m glad he’s dead.”

“What do you mean? What sort of sham?”

“Leave it,” he said. “Just leave it, Rebecka.”

“Did you write him a card telling him you loved him, and that what you were doing wasn’t wrong?”

Patrik Mattsson buried his face in his hands and shook his head.

“Did you have a relationship, or not?”

He started to cry.

“Ask Vesa Larsson,” he sniveled. “Ask him about Viktor’s sex life.”

He broke off and fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief. When he didn’t find one, he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweater. Rebecka took a step toward him.

“Don’t touch me!” he snapped.

She froze on the spot.

"Do you know what you’re asking? You, who just ran away when things got difficult."

“Yes,” she whispered.

He lifted his hands.

“Do you understand, I can raze the whole temple to the ground! There will be nothing but ash left of The Source of All Our Strength and the movement and the school and-all of it! The town will be able to turn the Crystal Church into an ice hockey rink.”

“ ‘The truth shall set you free,’ it says.”

He fell silent.

“Free!” he spat. “Is that what you are?”

He looked around, seemed to be looking for something.

A knife-the thought went through Rebecka’s head.

He made a gesture with his hand, the fingers together, palm facing her, which seemed to indicate that he wanted her to wait. Then he disappeared through a door farther down the room. There was a heavy click as it closed behind him, then silence. Just the sound of dripping from behind the plastic curtain. The electricity humming through the light cables.

A minute passed. She thought about the man who had disappeared in the mine in the 1960s. He’d gone down, but never came up again. His car was in the parking lot, but he was gone. Without a trace. No body. Nothing. Never found.

And Virku in the car in the big parking lot, how long would she cope if Rebecka didn’t come back? Would she start barking, and be found by somebody passing by? Or just lie down and go to sleep in the snow-covered car?

She went to the door that led out to the road into the mine, and pushed it. To her relief, it wasn’t locked. She had to control herself to stop herself from running toward the workshop. As soon as she saw the people inside and heard the noise of their tools and the sound of steel being bent and shaped, her fear started to ebb away.

A man came out of the workshop. He took off his helmet and went over to one of the cars parked outside.

“Are you going up?” asked Rebecka.

“Why?” He smiled. “Want a lift?”

She drove back up with the lad from the workshop. She could feel him looking at her from the side, amused and curious. Although of course he couldn’t see much in the darkness.

“So,” he said, “do you come here often?”

Virku was full of reproaches when Rebecka got back to the car in the parking lot at the mine.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” said Rebecka, with a pang of guilt. “We’re going to pick up Sara and Lova soon, then we’ll play outside for a long time, I promise. We’re just going to pop into the tax office first and check something on their computers, okay?”

She drove through the falling snow to the local tax office.

“I hope this is over soon,” she said to Virku. “Although it’s not looking too good. I can’t make any sense of it.”

Virku sat beside her on the front seat, listening carefully. She tilted her head anxiously to one side, and looked as if she understood every single word Rebecka said.

She’s like Jussi, Grandmother’s dog, thought Rebecka. The same clever expression.

She remembered how the men in the village used to sit and talk to Jussi, who was allowed to come and go as he pleased. “The only thing he can’t do is talk,” they used to sigh.

“Your mistress didn’t feel too good during the interrogation today,” Rebecka went on. “She sort of curls up and disappears through the window when they push her. Sounds far away, as if she doesn’t care. She drives the prosecutor mad.”

The tax office was in the same building as the police station. Rebecka looked around as she parked outside. The bad feeling from the previous day when she’d found the note on the car just wouldn’t go away.

“Five minutes,” she said to Virku, locking the car door behind her.

Ten minutes later she was back. She placed four computer printouts in the glove compartment and scratched the top of Virku’s head.

“Right, that’s it,” she said triumphantly. “This time they’d better answer me when I start asking questions. We can fit in one more thing before we pick up the girls.”

She drove up to the Crystal Church on Sandstensberget and let Virku jump out of the car in front of her.

I might need somebody who’s on my side, she thought.

Her heart was pounding as she walked up the hill toward the café and the bookshop. The risk of bumping into somebody she knew was relatively high. Just as long as it wasn’t one of the pastors or the elders.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. It might as well happen now as later.

Virku raced from one lamppost to the next, reading and replying to messages. A lot of male dogs had been along here, ones Virku didn’t already know.

There wasn’t a soul inside the bookshop, apart from the girl behind the counter. Rebecka had never met her before. She had short curly hair and a large cross covered in glass beads on a short chain around her neck. She smiled at Rebecka.

“Just let me know if you need any help,” she trilled.

It was obvious that she vaguely recognized Rebecka, but couldn’t place her.

She’s seen me on television, thought Rebecka. She nodded at the girl, told Virku to stay by the door, brushed the snow off her coat and set off toward the nearest shelf.

Christian pop poured out of the loudspeakers, the volume low. Glass lights from IKEA hung from the ceiling, and spotlights illuminated the shelves on the walls, filled with books and CDs. The shelves in the middle of the shop were so low you couldn’t hide behind them. Rebecka could see straight through the big glass doors leading into the café. The wooden floor was almost dry. Not many people with snowy shoes had come in here today.

“Isn’t it quiet?” she said to the girl behind the counter.

“Everyone’s at seminars,” replied the girl. “The Miracle Conference is on at the moment.”

“You decided to go ahead with it, even though Viktor Strandgård…”

“Yes,” the girl answered quickly. “It’s what he would have wanted. And God wanted it too. Yesterday and the day before there were loads of journalists in here, asking questions and buying tapes and books, but today it’s quiet.”

There it was. Rebecka found the shelf with Viktor’s book. Heaven and Back. It was available in English, German and French. She turned it over. “Printed by Victory Print Ltd.” She turned over some of the other books and pamphlets. They had also been printed by Victory Print Ltd. And on the videotapes: “Copyright Victory Print Ltd.” Bingo.

At that moment she heard a voice right behind her.

“Rebecka Martinsson,” it said, far too loudly. “It’s been a long time.”

When she swung around Pastor Gunnar Isaksson was right next to her. He was deliberately standing too close. His stomach was almost touching her.

It’s a magnificent and serviceable stomach, thought Rebecka.

It protruded above his belt like an advance guard, able to penetrate other people’s territory while Gunnar Isaksson himself sheltered behind it at a safe distance. She quelled the impulse to take a step backwards.

I tolerated your hands on my body when you prayed for me, she thought. So I can bloody well put up with you standing too close.

“Hi, Gunnar,” she said casually.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up," he said. "I thought you would have come to our evening services while you’re in town.”

Rebecka kept quiet. From a poster on the wall, Viktor Strandgård gazed down on them.

“What do you think of the bookshop?” Gunnar Isaksson went on, looking around proudly. “We did it up last year. Opened it up right through to the café, so you can sit and flick through a book while you’re having coffee. You can hang your coat in there if you want to. I said we should put a sign above the coat hooks: ‘Leave your common sense here.’ ”

Rebecka looked at him. He bore the marks of the halcyon days. Bigger stomach. Expensive shirt, expensive tie. His beard and hair were well groomed.

“What do I think of the bookshop?” she said. “I think the church should be digging wells and putting street children into school, instead of leaving them to work as prostitutes.”

Gunnar Isaksson looked at her with a supercilious expression.

“God does not concern himself with artificial irrigation,” he said loudly, with the emphasis on “God.” “In this church community He has opened a spring of His abundance. Through our prayers such springs will open up all over the world.”

He glanced at the girl behind the counter and noted with satisfaction that he had her full attention. It was more amusing to put Rebecka in her place when there was an audience.

“This,” he said with a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the Crystal Church and all the success the church had enjoyed, “this is only the beginning.”

“Absolute crap,” said Rebecka dryly. “The poor can pray their own way to wealth, is that what you mean? Doesn’t Jesus say: ‘Truly, whatever you have done for the least of my children, you have done for me.’ And what was it that was supposed to happen to those who left the little ones without help? ‘They shall go forward to eternal damnation, but the righteous shall go forward to eternal life.’ ”

Gunnar Isaksson’s cheeks were turning red. He leaned toward her and his breath thudded against her face. It smelled of menthol and oranges.

“And you think you belong to the righteous?” he whispered scornfully.

“No,” Rebecka whispered back. “But maybe you should prepare yourself to keep me company in hell.”

Before he could answer, she went on:

“I see that Victory Print Ltd. prints a lot of the things you sell here. Your wife is a partner in the firm.”

“Yes,” said Gunnar Isaksson suspiciously.

“I checked at the tax office. The company has reclaimed a huge amount of VAT from the state. I can’t see any reason for that other than that enormous investments have been made in the company. How could you afford that? Does she earn a lot, your wife? She used to be a primary school teacher, didn’t she?”

“You’ve no right to go snooping in Victory Print’s affairs,” hissed Gunnar Isaksson angrily.

“The tax records are in the public domain,” replied Rebecka loudly. “I’d like you to answer some questions. Where does the money for the investments in Victory Print come from? Was anything in particular bothering Viktor before he died? Was he having a relationship with anyone? For example, one of the men in the church?”

Gunnar Isaksson took a step back and looked at her with disgust. Then he raised his index finger and pointed at the door.

“Out!” he yelled.

The girl behind the counter jumped and gave them a frightened look. Virku stood up and barked.

Gunnar Isaksson stepped menacingly toward Rebecka so that she was forced backwards.

“Don’t you come here trying to threaten the work of God and the people of God,” he roared. “In the name of Jesus and by the power of prayer I condemn thy evil plans. Do you hear what I say? Out!”

Rebecka turned on her heel and quickly left the bookshop. Her heart was in her mouth. Virku was right behind her.

The dark blue shades of evening were settling over Rebecka’s grandmother’s garden. Rebecka was sitting on a kick sledge watching Lova and Virku playing in the snow. Sara was reading on her bed upstairs. She hadn’t even bothered to say no when Rebecka asked if they wanted to go outside, she’d just shut the door behind her and thrown herself on the bed.

“Rebecka, look at me!” shouted Lova. She was standing on the ridge on top of the cold store roof. She turned around and let herself fall backwards into the snow. It wasn’t particularly high. She lay there in the snow, flapping her arms and legs to make the outline of an angel in the snow.

They’d been playing outside for almost an hour, building an obstacle course. It went along a tunnel through the bank of snow toward the barn, three times around the big birch tree, up on to the roof of the cold store, walk along the ridge without falling off, jump down into the snow, then back to the start. You had to run backwards in the snow for the last bit, Lova had decided. She was busy marking out the track with pine branches. She had a problem with Virku, who felt it was her job to steal all the branches and take them off to secret places where the outdoor lights didn’t reach.

“Stop it, I said!” Lova shouted breathlessly to Virku, who was just scampering off happily with another find in her mouth.

“Come on, what about some hot chocolate and a sandwich?” Rebecka tried for the third time.

She’d worn herself out tunneling through the snow. Now she’d stopped sweating and started to shiver. She wanted to go inside. It was still snowing.

But Lova protested furiously. Rebecka had to time her as she did the obstacle course.

“All right, but let’s do it now,” said Rebecka. “You can manage without the branches-you know the route.”

It was difficult to run in the snow. Lova only managed twice around the birch tree, and she didn’t run the last bit backwards. When she got to the end she collapsed in Rebecka’s arms, exhausted.

“A new world record!” shouted Rebecka.

“Now it’s your turn.”

“In your dreams. Maybe tomorrow. Inside!”

“Virku!” called Lova as they walked toward the house.

But there was no sign of the dog.

“You go in,” said Rebecka. “I’ll give her a shout.

“And put your pajamas and socks on,” she called after Lova as she disappeared up the stairs.

She closed the outside door and called again. Out into the darkness.

“Virku!”

It felt as if her voice reached only a few meters. The falling snow muffled every sound, and when she listened out into the darkness there was an eerie silence. She had to steel herself to shout again. It felt creepy, standing there exposed by the porch light, shouting into the silent, pitch-black forest all around her.

“Virku, here girl! Virku!”

Bloody dog. She took a step down from the porch to take a walk around the garden, but stopped herself.

Stop being so childish, she scolded herself, but still couldn’t bring herself to leave the porch or to call out again. She couldn’t get the image of the note on her car out of her head. The word “BLOOD” written in sprawling letters. She thought about Viktor. And about the children inside the house. She went backwards up the steps to the porch. Couldn’t make herself turn her back on the unknown things that might be lurking out there. When she got inside she locked the door and ran upstairs.

She stopped in the hallway and rang Sivving. He turned up after five minutes.

“She’s probably in heat,” he said. “She won’t come to any harm. Probably just the opposite.”

“But it’s so cold,” said Rebecka.

“If it’s too cold, she’ll come home.”

“You’re probably right,” sighed Rebecka. “It just feels a bit funny without her.”

She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I want to show you something. Wait here, I don’t want the girls to see it.”

She ran out to the car and fetched the note that had been on the windscreen.

Sivving read it, a deep frown creasing his forehead.

“Have you shown this to the police?” he asked.

“No, what can they do?”

“How should I know-give you protection or something.”

Rebecka laughed dryly.

“For this? No way, they don’t have the resources to do that. But there’s something else as well.”

She told him about the postcard in Viktor’s Bible.

“What if the person who wrote the postcard was somebody who loved him?”

“Well?”

“ ‘What we have done is not wrong in the eyes of God.’ I don’t know, but Viktor never had a girlfriend. I’m just thinking that maybe… well, it just occurred to me that there might be somebody who loved him, but who wasn’t allowed to. And maybe it’s that person who’s threatening me, because he feels threatened himself.”

“A man?”

“Exactly. That would never be accepted within the church. He’d be out on his ear. And if that’s the case, and Viktor wanted to keep it secret, I don’t want to go running to the police and broadcasting it unnecessarily. You can just imagine the headlines.”

Sivving grunted and ran his hand anxiously over his head.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “What if something happens to you?”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me. But I’m worried about Virku.”

“Do you want me and Bella to come and stay the night?”

Rebecka shook her head.

“She’ll be back soon,” said Sivving reassuringly. “I’m going to take Bella fora walk. I’ll give her a shout.”

But Sivving is wrong. Virku isn’t coming back. She is lying on a rag rug in the trunk of a car. There is silver tape wound around her muzzle. And around her back and front paws. Her heart is pounding in her little chest and her eyes are staring out into the black darkness. She scrabbles around in the cramped trunk and pushes her face against the floor in a desperate attempt to get rid of the tape around her muzzle. One tooth has been partly knocked out, and bits of tooth and blood are in her throat. How can this dog be such an easy victim? A dog who was mistreated by her previous owner over and over again. Why doesn’t she recognize evil when she runs straight into its arms? Because she has the ability to forget. Just like her mistress. She forgets. Burrows down into the feathery snow and is pleased to see anyone who stretches out a hand to her. And now she is lying here.