Sun Storm aka The Savage Altar

And evening came and morning came, the fourth day

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

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

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

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

It is still snowing in the mountains. In Kurravaara cars and houses are buried under a thick white blanket. In the sofa bed in her grandmother’s house, Rebecka lies awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, February 20

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

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

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

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With Sanna’s girls, then.”

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

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

Shit, he thought. Anything but that.

It was the pastors’ secretary Ann-Gull Kyrö who answered the office telephone at the church when Rebecka rang at quarter past eight in the morning. Rebecka had just dropped the children off and was on her way back to the car. When she asked for Thomas Söderberg, she heard the woman on the other end of the phone inhale sharply.

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

“Where’s Vesa Larsson?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rebecka clenched her hands.

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

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

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

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

Thomas Söderberg lived with his wife, Maja, and their two daughters in an apartment in the middle of town, above a clothes shop. Rebecka’s footsteps echoed on the stairs as she made her way up to the top floor. Shell-colored fossils were inlaid in the brown stone. The nameplates were all made of brass, and etched in the same neat, italic script. It was the kind of silent stairwell where you can just imagine the elderly residents inside their stuffy apartments, ears pressed to the door, wondering who’s there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rebecka placed her hand on the door frame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shall I make some tea?” asked Magdalena.

“No, thank you,” replied Maja.

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

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

Maja stared stonily at Rebecka.

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

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

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

Rebecka took a deep breath.

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

Maja snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rebecka leaned forward and fixed Maja Söderberg with her eyes.

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

Maja stared at Rebecka.

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

She stopped speaking and covered her mouth with her hand.

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

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

It made her feel like swearing again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas Söderberg goes right to the heart of the matter.

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

When Rebecka doesn’t respond, he goes on.

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

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

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

Maja glances at him.

“If it’s a boy, of course,” he adds.

After a while he asks:

“What’s your answer, Rebecka?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now the nausea suddenly floods through her body. Rebecka bangs her knee on the table as she leaps out of the wicker chair and runs to the bathroom. She brings up the contents of her stomach with such force that it hurts. When she hears them getting up in the lounge, she closes the door and locks it behind her.

The next moment all three of them are standing outside the door. They knock. Ask how she is, and beg her to open the door. It’s deafening. Her legs feel weak and she slumps down on the toilet seat.

At first the voices outside sound anxious, and they plead with her to come out. Even Maja is sent to the door.

“I’ve forgiven you, Rebecka,” she says. “We only want to help you.”

Rebecka doesn’t answer. She reaches out and turns the taps full-on. The water thunders into the bath, the pipes bang and drown out their voices. At first Thomas is merely irritated. Then he gets angry.

“Open this door!” he shouts, hammering on it. “It’s my child, Rebecka. You have no right, do you hear me? I have no intention of allowing you to murder my child. Open the door before I break it down!”

In the background she can hear Maja and Magdalena trying to calm him. They pull him away from the door. At last she hears the door to the flat close, and their footsteps disappearing down the stairs. Rebecka lowers herself into the bath and closes her eyes.

Much later the door of the flat opens again. Sanna is home. The bathwater has been cold for a long time. Rebecka climbs out and goes into the kitchen.

“You knew,” she says to Sanna.

Sanna looks guiltily at her.

“Can you forgive me?” she says. “I did it because I love you, you do understand that?”

“Why are you here?” asked Maja.

“I want to know why Viktor died,” said Rebecka harshly. “Sanna is a suspect, she’s being held for questioning and nobody seems to give a shit. The people in the church are dancing and singing hymns and refusing to cooperate with the police.”

“But I don’t know anything about it,” exclaimed Maja. “Do you think I killed him? Or Thomas? Chopped off his hands and gouged out his eyes? Have you gone mad?”

“How should I know?” replied Rebecka. “Was Thomas at home the night Viktor was murdered?”

“That’s enough, Rebecka,” Magdalena interjected.

“Something was going on with Viktor before he died,” said Rebecka. “He seemed to have fallen out with Sanna. Patrik Mattsson was angry with him. I want to know why. Was he having a relationship with somebody in the church? A man, perhaps? Is that why it’s so quiet you can hear a pin drop in the house of God?”

Maja Söderberg stood up.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Maja screamed. “I have no idea! Thomas was Viktor’s spiritual mentor. And Thomas would never pass on anything he was told in confidence in his capacity as pastor. Not to me, nor to the police.”

“But Viktor’s dead!” hissed Rebecka. “So I imagine he couldn’t give a shit whether Thomas breaks a confidence or not. I think you all know more than you’re prepared to say. And I’m ready to go to the police with what I know, then we’ll see what else comes out in a preliminary investigation.”

Maja stared at her.

“You’ve taken leave of your senses,” she exclaimed. “Why do you hate me? Did you think he’d leave me and the girls for you, is that what it is?”

“I don’t hate you,” said Rebecka tiredly, getting up. “I feel sorry for you. I never thought he’d leave you. I never imagined I was the only one, it was just bad luck that you found out. Am I the only one you know about, or were there…?”

Maja swayed slightly. Then she pointed her finger at Rebecka.

“You,” she said furiously. “You child murderer! Get out of here!”

Magdalena followed Rebecka to the door.

“Don’t do it, Rebecka,” she pleaded. “Don’t go to the police and stir things up. What’s the point? Think of the children.”

“Well, help me, then,” snapped Rebecka. “Sanna’s on her way to jail, and nobody will say a bloody word. And you want me to be nice.”

Magdalena pushed Rebecka out onto the landing in front of her, then closed the door behind them.

“You’re right,” she said. “There was something the matter with Viktor recently. He’d changed. Become aggressive.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rebecka, pressing the glowing red button so that the lights came on.

“Well, you know, his whole manner, how he prayed and spoke to the congregation. It’s hard to put your finger on it. He was restless, somehow. Often used to pray at night in the church, and didn’t want any company. He never used to be like that. He used to like other people to pray with him. He was fasting and he was always busy. I thought he looked haggard.”

She’s right, thought Rebecka, remembering how he’d looked on the video. Hollow-eyed. Strained.

“Why was he fasting?” she asked.

Magdalena shrugged her shoulders.

“How should I know,” she said. “It does say that certain demons can be driven out only by prayer and fasting. But I wonder if anyone knows what was wrong with him. I’m sure Thomas doesn’t know, they hadn’t been getting on very well recently.”

“What was the problem between them?” asked Rebecka.

“Well, nothing that was going to make Thomas murder Viktor, at any rate,” said Magdalena. “But seriously, Rebecka, you can’t really believe that? It seemed as if Viktor had withdrawn from everybody. Including Thomas. I just think you should leave this family in peace. Neither Thomas nor Maja has anything to tell you.”

“Who has, then?” asked Rebecka.

When Magdalena didn’t reply, she went on:

“Vesa Larsson, maybe?”

When Rebecka reached the street it occurred to her that she’d better let Virku out of the car for a pee, before she remembered that the dog had disappeared. What if something had happened to her? In her mind’s eye she could see Virku’s little body lying in the snow, frozen to death. Her eyes had been pecked out by crows or ravens, and a fox had eaten the tastiest parts of her stomach.

I’ll have to tell Sanna, she thought, and her heart felt heavy in her breast.

A couple pushing a pram passed by. The girl was young. Maybe not even twenty. Rebecka noticed her glance enviously at Rebecka’s boots. She was passing the old Palladium. Ice and snow sculptures still stood there, left over from the Snow Festival at the end of January. There were three half-meter-high concrete ptarmigans in the middle of Geologgatan to stop cars driving down it. They had little hoods of snow on their heads.

It was an unpleasant feeling, getting into the empty car. She realized she’d already got used to the children and the dog.

Pack it in, she told herself sharply.

She looked at her watch. It was already half past twelve. In two hours it would be time to pick up Sara and Lova. She’d promised them they’d go swimming this afternoon. She ought to get something to eat. This morning she’d given the girls sandwiches and hot chocolate, but she’d just gulped down two mugs of coffee. And she wanted to fit Vesa Larsson in as well. And she ought to try and do a bit of work. She could feel the pain in her midriff kick in when she thought about the memo on the new regulations for small companies that she still hadn’t finished.

She nipped into The Black Bear and grabbed a bar of chocolate, a banana and a Coke. An advertising board for one of the evening papers screamed, “Viktor Strandgård Murdered by Satanists.” Above the headline in almost illegible print it said, “Anonymous Member of the Church Claims.”

“What a cold hand,” said the woman who took her money.

She wrapped her warm, dry hand around Rebecka’s fingers and squeezed them briefly before she let go.

Rebecka smiled at her in surprise.

I’m not used to it anymore, she thought, chatting to strangers.

The car was icy cold. She ripped off the skin and gobbled the banana. Her fingers were getting colder and colder. She thought about the woman in the newsagent’s. She was around sixty. Powerful arms and plump bust in a pink mohair cardigan. Home-permed hair, cut short in a style that was fashionable in the eighties. She’d had kind eyes. Then she thought about Sara and Lova. About how warm their bodies were when they slept. And about Virku. Virku with her velvety eyes and her soft woolly coat. Misery suddenly overwhelmed her. She turned her face up to the roof of the car and wiped the tears from her eyelashes with her index finger so that she wouldn’t get mascara under her eyes.

Pull yourself together, she told herself, and turned the ignition key.

Virku is lying in darkness. Then the lid above her is opened and the light of a torch dazzles her. Her heart shrinks with fear, but she does not try to resist when two rough hands reach in and lift her up. Dehydration has made her passive and obedient. But she still turns her face up toward the man who is lifting her out of the trunk of his car. Shows him as much submission as she can, with silver tape bound tightly around her muzzle and paws. In vain she exposes her throat and presses her tail between her back legs. For there is no mercy to be had.

Pastor Vesa Larsson’s newly built modern villa was behind the Folk High School. Rebecka parked the car and looked up at the impressive building. The white geometric blocks of stone blended in with the white landscape all around. In snowy weather it would have been easy to drive straight past without realizing there was a house here, if it hadn’t been for the connecting sections, which glowed in glorious bright red, yellow and blue. It was obvious the architect had been thinking of the white mountains and the colors of the Sami people.

Vesa Larsson’s wife, Astrid, opened the door.

Behind her stood a small Shetland sheepdog, barking frantically at Rebecka. Astrid’s eyes narrowed and the corners of her mouth curved downward in a grimace of distaste when she saw who was at the door.

“And what do you want?” she asked.

She must have put on thirty pounds since Rebecka last saw her. Her hair was tied back messily, and she was wearing Adidas tracksuit bottoms and a washed-out sweatshirt. In an instant she had registered Rebecka’s long camel coat, the soft Max Mara scarf and the new Audi parked outside. A hint of uncertainty flickered across her face.

I knew it, thought Rebecka nastily. I knew she’d lose the plot as soon as they had their first child.

In those days Astrid had been a little on the plump side, but pretty. Like a chubby little cherub on a fluffy cloud. And Vesa Larsson was the unmarried pastor, fought over by all the prettiest girls in the Pentecostal church who were desperate to get married.

It’s very liberating not to have to try to love everybody, thought Rebecka. I never did like her.

“I’ve come to see Vesa,” said Rebecka, walking into the house before Astrid had time to reply.

The dog backed away, but was now barking so hysterically that it was making itself hoarse with the effort. It sounded as if it had a hacking cough.

There was no hallway and no porch. The whole of the ground floor was open plan, and from her position in the doorway Rebecka could see the kitchen, the dining area, the seating around the big open fireplace and the impressive picture windows looking out at the snow. On a clear day you would have been able to see Vittangivaara, Luossavaara and the Crystal Church up on Sandstensberget through those windows.

“Is he in?” asked Rebecka, trying to speak over the sound of the dog without shouting.

Astrid snapped back: “Yes, he is. Will you shut up!”

This last remark was directed at the furiously barking dog. She rummaged in her pocket and found a handful of reddish brown dog treats, which she threw onto the floor. The dog stopped yapping and scurried after them.

Rebecka hung her coat on a hook and pushed her hat and gloves into her pocket. They’d be soaking wet when it was time to put them on again, but that couldn’t be helped. Astrid opened her mouth as if to protest, but closed it again.

“I don’t know if he’ll see you,” she said sourly. “He’s got the flu.”

“Well, I’m not leaving here until I’ve spoken to him,” said Rebecka calmly. “It’s important.”

The dog had now eaten all its treats and come back to its mistress, grabbed her leg and started rubbing itself against her, once again yapping excitedly.

“Don’t do that, Baloo,” Astrid protested halfheartedly. “I’m not a bitch.”

She tried to push the dog off, but it clung frantically to her leg with its front paws.

Good God, you can see who’s in charge in this house, thought Rebecka.

“I mean it,” said Rebecka. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. You’ll have to call the police to get rid of me.”

Astrid gave up. The combination of the dog and Rebecka was just too much for her.

“He’s in the studio,” she said. “Up the stairs, first on the left.”

Rebecka took the stairs in five long strides

“Knock first,” Astrid called after her.

Vesa Larsson was sitting in front of the big white-tiled stove on a sheepskin-covered stool. On one of the tiles “The Lord Is My Shepherd” was written in elegant letters the color of birch leaves. It was pretty. Presumably Vesa Larsson had written it himself. He wasn’t dressed, but was wearing a thick toweling dressing gown over flannelette pajamas. His tired eyes looked at Rebecka from two gray hollows above his stubble.

He feels bad, all right, thought Rebecka, but it’s not the flu.

“So you’ve come to threaten me,” he said. “Go home, Rebecka. Leave all of this alone.”

Aha, thought Rebecka. They didn’t waste any time ringing to warn you.

"Nice studio," she said, instead of answering.

“Mmm,” he said. “The architect nearly had a stroke when I said I wanted an untreated wooden floor in here. He said it would be ruined in no time by paint and ink and all the rest of it. But that was the idea. I wanted the floor to have a patina, from everything I’d created.”

Rebecka looked around. The studio was large. Despite the gloomy snowy weather outside, the daylight flooded in through the huge windows. Everything was tidy. On an easel in front of the picture window stood a covered canvas. There wasn’t the least speck of color on the floor as far as she could see. It had been a bit different in the days when he used to work in the cellar of the Pentecostal church. There were sheets of drawings all over the floor, and you could hardly move for fear of knocking over one of the many jars of turpentine and brushes. The smell of turpentine gave you a slight headache after a while. In this room there was just the faint smell of smoke from the stove. Vesa Larsson saw her inquiring look and gave a crooked smile.

“I know,” he said. “When you finally get the studio other people can only dream about, you…”

He finished the sentence with a shrug of his shoulders.

“My father used to paint in oils, you know,” he went on. “The Aurora Borealis, Lapporten, the cottage in Merasjärvi. He never grew tired of it. Refused to take an ordinary job, sat drinking with his mates instead. Then he’d pat me on the head and say: ‘The lad thinks he’s going to be a truck driver and all sorts of things, but I’ve told him, you can’t get away from art.’ But I don’t know, these days it just seems pathetic, sitting here with my dreams of being a painter. It wasn’t so hard to get away from art after all.”

They looked at each other in silence. Without knowing it, they were both thinking about the other one’s hair. That it used to look better. When it was allowed to grow more freely, go its own way. When it was obvious it was friends who were wielding the scissors.

“Nice view,” said Rebecka, and added: “Although maybe not just at the moment.”

All you could see outside was a curtain of falling snow.

“Why not?” said Vesa Larsson. “Maybe this is the best view of all. It’s beautiful, the winter and the snow. Everything’s simpler. Less to take in. Fewer colors. Fewer smells. Shorter days. Your head can have a rest.”

“What was going on with Viktor?” asked Rebecka.

Vesa Larsson shook his head.

“What’s Sanna told you?” he asked.

“Nothing,” replied Rebecka.

“What do you mean, nothing?” said Vesa Larsson suspiciously.

“Nobody’s telling me a damned thing,” said Rebecka angrily. “But I don’t believe she did it. She’s on another planet sometimes, but she can’t have done this.”

Vesa Larsson sat in silence, gazing at the falling snow.

“Why did Patrik Mattsson say I should ask you about Viktor’s sexual inclinations?” asked Rebecka.

When Vesa Larsson didn’t answer, she went on:

“Did you have a relationship with him? Did you send him a card?”

Did you put a threatening note on my car? she thought.

Vesa Larsson replied without meeting her eyes.

“I’m not even going to comment on that.”

“Right,” she said harshly. “Soon I’ll be thinking it was you three pastors who killed him. Because he wanted to blow the whistle on your dubious financial dealings. Or maybe because he was threatening to tell your wife about the two of you.”

Vesa Larsson hid his face in his hands.

“I didn’t do it,” he mumbled. “I didn’t kill him.”

I’m losing it, thought Rebecka. Running around accusing people.

She rubbed her fist across her forehead in an attempt to force a sensible thought out of her brain.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t understand why you’re all keeping quiet. I don’t understand why somebody put the knife in Sanna’s kitchen drawer.”

Vesa Larsson turned and looked at her in horror.

“What do you mean?” he said. “What knife?”

Rebecka could have bitten off her tongue.

“The police haven’t told the press yet,” she said. “But they found the murder weapon in Sanna’s kitchen. In the drawer under the sofa bed.”

Vesa Larsson stared at her.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “Oh, God!”

“What is it?”

Vesa Larsson’s face changed to a stiff mask.

“I’ve broken the vow of silence once too often,” he said.

“Fuck the vow of silence,” exclaimed Rebecka. “Viktor’s dead. He couldn’t give a shit if you break the vow of silence as far as he’s concerned.”

“I have a vow of silence toward Sanna.”

"Fine!" Rebecka exploded. "Don’t bother talking to me, then! But I’m prepared to turn over every last stone to see what crawls out. And I’m starting with the church and your financial affairs. Then I’m going to find out who loved Viktor. And I’m going to get the truth out of Sanna this afternoon."

Vesa Larsson looked at her, his expression tortured.

“Can’t you just leave it, Rebecka? Go home. Don’t let yourself be used.”

“What do you mean by that?”

He shook his head with an air of resignation.

“Do what you think you have to do,” he said. “But you can’t take anything from me that I haven’t already lost.”

“Screw the lot of you,” said Rebecka, but she hadn’t the strength to inject any emotion into the words.

“ ‘Let he who is without sin…’ ” said Vesa Larsson.

Oh, yes, thought Rebecka. I’m a murderer after all. A child killer.

Rebecka is standing in her grandmother’s woodshed chopping wood. No, “chopping” isn’t the right word. She has picked out the thickest and heaviest logs and is splitting them in a kind of feverish frenzy. Brings the axe down onto the reluctant wood with every ounce of her strength. Lifts the axe with the log hanging from its blade and slams the back of it down onto the chopping block with all her might. The weight and the force drive the axe in like a wedge. Now she must pry it apart and work at it. At last the log is split in two. She splits the halves in two again, then places the next log on the chopping block. Sweat is pouring down her back. Her shoulders and arms are aching from the effort, but she doesn’t spare herself. If she’s lucky the child will come out. Nobody has said that she shouldn’t chop wood. Perhaps then Thomas will say that it was not God’s will that she should be born.

It, Rebecka corrects herself. That it was not meant to be born. The child. And yet, she knows deep within herself that it’s a girl. Johanna.

When she hears Viktor’s voice behind her, the tape inside her head rewinds and she realizes that he has been standing behind her for some while and has said her name several times without her hearing him.

It feels strange to see him sitting there on the broken wooden chair that never quite makes it to the fire. The back of the chair is missing, and there are holes at the back of the seat where the wooden staves used to be. It’s been standing there for years, waiting to be turned into firewood.

“Who told you?” asks Rebecka.

"Sanna," he replies. "She said you’d be furious."

Rebecka shrugs her shoulders. She hasn’t the strength to be angry.

“Who else knows?” she asks.

Now it’s Viktor’s turn to shrug his shoulders. The news has got around, then. Of course. What did she expect? He’s wearing his secondhand leather jacket and a long scarf that some girl has knitted for him. His hair is neatly parted in the center, and is tucked into his scarf.

"Marry me," he says.

Rebecka looks at him in amazement.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“I love you,” he says. “I love the child.”

The air smells of sawdust and wood. Outside she can hear water dripping from the roof. The tears are stuck in her throat, and it hurts.

“Just like you love all your brothers and sisters, friends and enemies?” she says.

Like the love of God. The same for everyone. Prepacked and issued to everyone who joins the queue. Maybe that’s the kind of love for her. Maybe she should take what she can get.

He looks so tired.

Where have you gone, Viktor? she thinks. After your journey to God, there are so very many people queueing up for a little bit of you.

“I’d never abandon you,” he says. “You know that.”

“You don’t understand anything,” says Rebecka; tears and snot are pouring down her face, and she can’t stop herself. “As soon as I answer, I’ve already been abandoned.”

At half past six in the evening Rebecka arrived at the police station with Sara and Lova. They had spent the afternoon at the swimming baths.

Sanna came into the meeting room and looked at Rebecka as if she had stolen something from her.

"Oh, so here you are," she said. "I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me."

The girls took off their outdoor clothes and each climbed up onto a chair. Lova was laughing, because a piece of her hair that had been sticking out from under her hat was frozen solid.

“Look, Mummy,” she said, shaking her head so that the clumps of ice in her hair made a tinkling noise.

“We had sausage and mash after swimming,” she went on. “And ice cream. Ida and me are meeting up on Saturday, aren’t we, Rebecka?”

“Ida was a little girl about the same age that she met in the small pool,” Rebecka explained.

Sanna gave Rebecka an odd look, and Rebecka didn’t bother to add that Ida’s mother was a former classmate of hers.

Why do I feel as if I have to apologize and explain? she thought angrily. I haven’t done anything wrong.

“I dived from the three-meter board,” said Sara, creeping onto Sanna’s knee. “Rebecka showed me how.”

“Oh, yes,” said Sanna indifferently.

She had already disappeared. It was as if just the shell of her remained there on the chair. She didn’t even seem to react when they told her Virku had vanished. The girls noticed and started babbling. Rebecka squirmed uncomfortably. After a while Lova stood up and started to jump up and down on her chair, shouting:

"Ida on Saturday, Ida on Saturday."

Up and down, up and down she jumped. Sometimes she came dangerously close to falling. Rebecka got very anxious. If she fell, she could easily hit her head on the concrete windowsill. Then she’d really hurt herself. Sanna didn’t seem to notice.

I’m not going to interfere, Rebecka told herself.

Finally Sara grabbed her younger sister’s arm and snapped:

“Will you pack that in!”

But Lova just pulled her arm away and carried on blithely jumping up and down.

“Are you sad, Mummy?” asked Sara anxiously, putting her arms around Sanna’s neck.

Sanna avoided looking Sara in the eye when she replied. She stroked her daughter’s blond, shining hair. Tidied up the parting with her fingers, tucked her hair behind her ears.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I am sad. You know that I might have to go to jail, and not be your mummy anymore. I’m sad about that.”

Sara’s face turned ashen. Her eyes enormous with fear.

“But you’re coming home soon,” she said.

Sanna put her hand under Sara’s chin and looked into her eyes.

“Not if I’m convicted, Sara. Then I’ll get life, and I won’t come out until you’re grown up and don’t need a mummy anymore. Or I’ll get sick and die in jail, and then I’ll never come out.”

The last sentence was added with a laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all.

Sara’s lips were a thin, strained line.

“But who’s going to look after us?” she whispered.

Then she suddenly yelled at Lova, who was still bouncing up and down on the chair like a lunatic.

“I told you to pack that in!”

Lova stopped at once and slumped down on the chair. She pushed half of her hand into her mouth.

Rebecka’s eyes were shooting flashes of lightning at Sanna.

“Sanna’s upset,” she said to Lova, who was sitting there like a little mouse, watching her older sister and her mother.

She turned to Sara and went on:

“That’s why she’s saying those things. I promise you she’s not going to jail. She’ll soon be back home.”

She regretted it the moment she opened her mouth. How the hell could she promise something like that?

When it was time to leave, Rebecka asked the girls to go out and wait by the car. She was grinding her teeth with suppressed rage.

“How could you,” she hissed. “They’d been out and been swimming and had a nice time for a little while, but you…”

She shook her head, unable to find the right words.

“I’ve spoken to Maja, Magdalena and Vesa today. I know there was something going on with Viktor. And I know that you know what it was. Come on, Sanna. You have to tell me.”

Sanna didn’t say a word. She leaned against the mint green concrete wall and chewed on her thumbnail, already bitten down to the quick. Her face was closed.

“You’ve got to tell me, for Christ’s sake,” said Rebecka threateningly. “What was going on with Viktor? Vesa said he couldn’t break his vow of silence to you.”

Sanna remained silent. She gnawed and gnawed at her thumbnail. Bit the skin at the side and pulled it off so that it started to bleed. Rebecka started to sweat. She had the urge to grab hold of Sanna by the hair and bang her head against the concrete wall. More or less like Ronny Björnström, Sara’s father, had done. Until in the end he got fed up of that as well, and cleared off.

The girls were waiting by the car. Rebecka thought of Lova, who didn’t have any gloves with her.

“Fuck you, then,” she said in the end, turned on her heel and left.

Sanna is no longer in her cell. She has disappeared through the concrete ceiling. Forced her way through atoms and molecules and floated out into the firmament above the snow clouds. She has already forgotten the visit. She has no children. She is just a little girl. And God is her Great Mother, who lifts her up under the arms, raising her up to the light so that she has butterflies in her tummy. But She doesn’t let go. God doesn’t let go of Her little girl. There is no need for Sanna to be afraid. She isn’t going to fall.

Curt Bäckström is standing in front of the long mirror on the living room wall, carefully examining his naked body. Light floods over him from a number of small lamps that he has covered with pieces of transparent red fabric, and from dozens of candles. He has pinned black sheets over the windows so that no one can see in.

The room is sparsely furnished. There is no television in the apartment, no radio, no microwave. The radiation and the signals they emitted used to make him ill. He used to be woken in the middle of the night by voices from the electrical equipment, although it was switched off. Nowadays nothing like that can harm him, and he has plugged in the refrigerator and the freezer again. But he has no need of television or radio. They only broadcast godless rubbish, in any case. Messages from Satan, day in and day out.

He can see that he has changed. In the last few days he has become a decimeter taller. And his hair has grown very quickly; soon he’ll be able to tie it back. He has parted it in the center, and leans toward the mirror. He looks frighteningly like Viktor Strandgård.

For a moment he tries to see if he can find himself in the mirror. His old self. Perhaps there is a glimpse of something in the eyes, but then it’s gone. The image in the mirror disperses and grows blurred. He is completely transformed.

He turns his hands and holds them up to the mirror. In the red glow he can see blood and oil seeping from the wounds on his palms.

Sanna Strandgård should be here. She should be kneeling naked before him, gathering the oil that runs from his palms in a small glass bottle.

He can see her in front of him. How she slowly screws the cork into the shimmering green bottle. Her eyes are fixed on his the whole time, and her lips form the word “rabbuni.”

True, he has sometimes doubted. Doubted that he is really chosen. Or his ability to contain all of God’s might. The last communion service was almost impossible to endure. People all around him, cackling and dancing like chickens. While he was becoming more and more a part of God. The words came thundering toward him: “This is my BODY; this is my BLOOD.” He had staggered back to his seat, hearing nothing. Didn’t hear the choir. His hands were filled with such strength that they grew thicker. The skin covering his fingers stretched like a balloon, became completely smooth and shiny. He was afraid his fingers would split, like sausages in a frying pan.

The next day he bought some gloves in the biggest size available. He will have to wear them indoors now and again. Until the time comes for people to see.

When he paid for the gloves he suddenly had a feeling of intense distaste. The woman behind the counter smiled at him. For a long time he had had the ability to distinguish between souls, and as he took his change she was transformed before his eyes. Her teeth went yellow, her eyes were turned inside out and became opaque, like frosted glass. The red nails on the fingers handing over the coins grew into long claws.

He waited behind the shop for several hours. But then he received a message telling him that he need not kill her, but must save his strength for something more important.

Curt goes into the bathroom. In the glow of the candles the steam rising from the bath curls upward and forms a dripping layer of moisture on the white tiles. The air is thick with the coppery stench of blood and the harsh smell of damp wool.

On a white plastic clothes drier above him hangs Virku’s lifeless body. Her back paws are tied to the clothesline. Blood is dripping slowly into the water. Her head lies on the floor beside the bath. Her muzzle is still bound with silver tape.

As he sinks down into the crimson water, he can immediately feel how his body is suffused with the qualities of the dog. His legs become agile and quick. They twitch restlessly as he lies there. He could jump out and set a world record in the hundred meters.

And he can feel Sanna. Can feel her lips against the dog’s ear. Now it is his ear they are touching. She whispers, “I love you.”

He has already taken her rabbit, her cat and even two gerbils. And all the time her love for him has grown.

He drinks the crimson bathwater in great gulps. His hands begin to shake. He loses all control over them when God takes over.

Then God takes his hand and lifts it. Dips the fingers in blood as if it were ink, and writes on the tiles in sprawling letters. The letters spell out a name. And then:

THE WHORE SHALL DIE.