Sun Storm aka The Savage Altar

by Asa Larsson

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Where is she? At the station?”

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

  “What did the technicians say?”

  “Look but don’t touch.”

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

  “Fucking hell,” she burst out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Sven-Erik shrugged.

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

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

  “Who took the photos?”

  “Simon Larsson.”

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

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

  “Plus the pulpit,” said Sven-Erik.

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

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

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

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

  Tommy Rantakyrö had stuck his head in through the doorway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I rang her,” explained Sven-Erik.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Himlen Tur och Retur, Heaven and Back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Rebecka Martinsson.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No?” asked Rebecka.

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

  Rebecka could feel her stomach tying itself in knots.

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

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

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