by Unknown
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 d
idn’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.
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 Vi
rku.
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?”
