by Asa Larsson
“I thought you wanted to talk to us about Viktor Strandgård,” interrupted Thomas Söderberg.
“We’ll get to that, we’ll get to that,” Sven-Erik assured him, almost humming.
The young man with the Bible had stopped beside a chair, and he was praying in a loud voice and waving his hands at the empty seat. Sven-Erik looked confused.
“Could I just ask…?” he said, jerking his thumb toward the young man.
“He’s praying for this evening’s service,” explained Thomas Söderberg. “Speaking in tongues can seem a little strange when you’re not used to hearing it, but I can promise you it isn’t some kind of hocus-pocus.”
“It’s important that the church is prepared with the spirit world,” explained Pastor Gunnar Isaksson, stroking his thick, well-groomed beard.
“I understand,” said Sven-Erik again, looking helplessly at Anna-Maria.
His moustache was almost at a ninety-degree angle to his face.
“So, tell us about Viktor Strandgård,” said Anna-Maria. “What kind of person was he? What did you think of him, Pastor Larsson?”
Pastor Vesa Larsson looked troubled. He swallowed vigorously before answering.
“He was dedicated. Very humble. Loved by everyone in the church community. He simply allowed himself to be used by God. Despite his, how shall I put it, elevated status within our community, he wasn’t slow to serve, even when it came to practical matters. He was on the church cleaning rota, so you’d often see him dusting these chairs. He made posters for our services…”
"Looked after the children," added Gunnar Isaksson. "We have a rolling program so that parents with very young children can listen in a completely focused way to the word of God."
“Like yesterday, for example,” Vesa Larsson continued. “He didn’t join everyone for coffee after the service, instead he stayed here to tidy the chairs. That’s the disadvantage of not having pews, it can soon look a mess if you don’t put the chairs back into neat rows.”
“That must be a huge job,” said Anna-Maria. “There’s an awful lot of chairs in here. Nobody stayed behind to help him?”
“No, he said he wanted to be alone,” said Vesa Larsson. “Unfortunately we never lock the door when someone is in here, so some madman must have…”
He broke off and shook his head.
“Viktor Strandgård seems to have been a gentle soul,” said Anna-Maria.
"Yes, you could say that." Thomas Söderberg smiled sadly.
“Do you know if he had any enemies, or had fallen out with anyone?” asked Sven-Erik.
“No, no one,” replied Vesa Larsson.
“Did he seem worried about anything? Anxious?” Sven-Erik went on.
“No,” replied Vesa Larsson again.
“What kind of work did he do for the church? He was a full-time employee, wasn’t he?” asked Sven-Erik.
“He did the work of God,” replied Gunnar Isaksson pompously, with considerable emphasis on “God.”
“And by doing the work of God he brought some money into the church,” Anna-Maria commented in measured tones. “What happened to the money from his book? What will happen to it now that he’s dead?”
Gunnar Isaksson and Vesa Larsson turned to their colleague, Thomas Söderberg.
“I don’t quite see what any of this has to do with your murder investigation?” Thomas Söderberg inquired in a friendly tone.
“Just answer the question, please,” Sven-Erik replied amiably, but with an expression on his face that brooked no argument.
"Viktor Strandgård made over all royalties from his book to the church long ago. After his death any income will continue to go to the church. So nothing will change."
“How many copies of the book have been sold?” asked Anna-Maria.
“Over a million, including translations,” replied Pastor Söderberg dryly, “and I still don’t really see-”
“Have you sold anything else?” asked Sven-Erik. “Posters or anything?”
“This is a church, not Viktor Strandgård’s fan club,” said Thomas Söderberg sharply. “We don’t sell pictures of him, but a certain amount of income has been generated from other sources-for example, video sales.”
“What sort of videos?”
Anna-Maria adjusted her position on the chair. She needed a pee.
“We’ve taped sermons given by the three of us, or Viktor Strandgård, or guest preachers. Meetings and services have also been recorded,” replied Pastor Söderberg as he removed his glasses and took a spotless little handkerchief out of his trousers pocket.
“You record your services on video?” asked Anna-Maria, altering her position on the chair yet again.
“Yes,” answered Vesa Larsson, since Thomas Söderberg appeared to be too busy polishing his glasses to reply.
“There was a service here yesterday,” said Anna-Maria, “and Viktor Strandgård was there. Was that recorded on video?”
“Yes,” replied Pastor Larsson.
“Right, we want that tape,” Sven-Erik said firmly. “And if there’s a service tonight, we’d like that tape as well. In fact, we’ll have all the tapes for the last month-what do you think, Anna-Maria?”
“Good idea," she answered briefly.
They looked up as the noise of the vacuum cleaner stopped. The woman who was cleaning had switched it off and gone over to the well-dressed woman; they were whispering to each other and looking over toward the pastors. The young man had sat down on one of the chairs and was leafing through his Bible. His lips were moving constantly. The well-dressed woman noticed that the conversation between the pastors and the police had ground to a halt, and seized the opportunity to come over.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said politely, and when no one stopped her she went on, facing the pastors. “Before this evening’s service, what shall we do about…”
She fell silent and gestured with her right hand toward the bloodstained spot where Viktor Strandgård had lain.
“As the floor isn’t varnished, I don’t think we’ll be able to scrub away every single trace… Perhaps we could roll up the rug and put something else over the spot until we get a new one.”
“That will be fine,” answered Pastor Gunnar Isaksson.
“Just leave it, Ann-Gull, my dear,” interrupted Pastor Söderberg, glancing almost imperceptibly at Gunnar Isaksson at the same time. “I’ll deal with all that shortly. Just leave it for now. The police will soon be finished with us, I imagine?”
This last remark was directed at Anna-Maria and Sven-Erik. When they didn’t reply, Thomas Söderberg gave the woman a smile that seemed to indicate that their conversation was at an end for the time being. She disappeared like a willing handmaiden and went back to the other woman. Soon the vacuum cleaner was droning again.
The pastors and the detectives sat in silence, staring at one another.
Typical, thought Anna-Maria angrily. Untreated wooden floor, thick handwoven rug, chairs instead of pews. It all looks lovely, but it’s got to be damned difficult to keep clean. Good job they have so many obedient women who clean for God for free.
“There is a limit to how much time we can spare,” said Thomas Söderberg.
His voice had lost all trace of warmth.
“We have a service here this evening and I’m sure you will understand that we have a considerable amount of preparation to do,” he said when there was no reply from the two detectives.
“So,” said Sven-Erik thoughtfully, as if they had all the time in the world, “if Viktor Strandgård didn’t have enemies, I’m sure he must have had friends. Who was closest to Viktor Strandgård?”
“God,” replied Pastor Isaksson with a triumphant smile.
“His family, of course, his mother and father,” said Thomas Söderberg, ignoring his colleague’s comment. “Viktor’s father, Olof Strandgård, is chairman of the Christian Democrats and a local councillor. The church has a significant number of representatives on the local council, principally thro
ugh the Christian Democrats, the largest party among the middle classes in Kiruna. Our influence throughout the whole community is growing steadily, and we expect to have a majority at the next election. We are also relying on the police not to do anything that might damage the trust we have built up among the electorate. And then there’s Viktor’s sister, Sanna Strandgård-have you spoken to her?”
“No, not yet,” replied Sven-Erik.
“Just be careful when you do; she’s a very fragile person,” said Pastor Söderberg.
“And then I should include myself,” continued Thomas Söderberg.
“Were you his confessor?” asked Sven-Erik.
“Well,” said Thomas Söderberg, smiling once again, “we don’t call it that. Spiritual mentor, perhaps.”
“Do you know whether Viktor Strandgård was intending to make some kind of revelation before he died?” asked Anna-Maria. “Something about himself, perhaps? Or about the church?”
“No,” replied Thomas Söderberg after a second’s silence. “What could it have been?”
“Excuse me,” said Anna-Maria as she stood up. “But I must just pop to your bathroom.”
She left the men and went to the bathroom right at the back of the church. She had a pee, then sat for a while resting her gaze on the white-tiled walls. One thought was pounding in her head. During her years with the police she had learned to recognize the signs of stress. Everything from sweating to dizziness. People were usually nervous when they were talking to the police. But it was when they started trying to hide their stress that it became interesting to watch them.
And there was one particular sign of stress that you only got one chance to catch. It only happened once. And she’d just heard it. Immediately after she’d asked whether Viktor Strandgård was intending to reveal something before he died. One of the three pastors, she hadn’t managed to work out which one, had taken a deep breath. Just once. Caught his breath.
“Shit,” she said aloud, and was surprised at how good it felt to swear secretly in church.
It didn’t necessarily mean a damned thing. Someone breathing. It’s obvious there’s something going on. Show me the board of a large organization where there isn’t. Even in the police. And this lot aren’t as pure as the driven snow either.
“But that doesn’t make them murderers,” Anna-Maria continued her discussion with herself as she flushed the toilet.
But there were other inconsistencies. Why, for example, had Vesa Larsson said that nothing was troubling Viktor Strandgård if Thomas Söderberg was supposed to be his "spiritual mentor," and therefore must have been the one who knew him best?
When Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria left the church and were making their way down to the car park, the woman who had been vacuuming came running after them. She had only socks and clogs on her feet, and half ran, half slid down the slope to catch them.
“I heard you asking if he had any enemies,” she panted.
“Yes?” asked Sven-Erik.
“He did,” she said, seizing Sven-Erik’s arm in a viselike grip. “And now he’s dead, the enemy will be even stronger. I myself can feel how I am beset by the foe.”
She let go of Sven-Erik and flung her arms around herself in a vain attempt to keep out the bitter cold. She hadn’t put on any sort of coat or jacket. She bent her knees slightly to keep her balance on the slope. If she leaned backwards even slightly the clogs began to slip.
“Beset?” asked Anna-Maria.
“By demons,” said the woman. “They want to make me start smoking again. I used to be possessed by the tobacco demon, but Viktor Strandgård laid hands upon me and freed me.”
Anna-Maria looked at her, completely exhausted. She couldn’t cope with a mad person right now.
“We’ll make a note of it,” she said tersely, and started to walk toward the car.
Sven-Erik stayed where he was and took his notebook out of the inside pocket of his fleece.
“He was the one who killed Viktor,” said the woman.
“Who?” asked Sven-Erik.
“The Prince of Demons,” she whispered. “Satan. He is trying to force his way in.”
Sven-Erik shoved the notebook back in his pocket and took hold of the woman’s ice-cold hands.
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, why don’t you go back inside, so you don’t freeze to death.”
“I just wanted to tell you about it,” the woman called after them.
Inside the church the pastors were engaged in a loud discussion.
“We can’t do it like this!” shouted Gunnar Isaksson agitatedly, dogging Thomas Söderberg’s footsteps as he walked around the black bloodstain on the floor and moved the chairs so that the dark impression of Viktor Strandgård’s death ended up almost as if it were in the middle of a circus ring.
“Yes, we can,” said Thomas Söderberg calmly, and, turning toward the well-dressed woman, he went on:
“Take the rug away from the aisle. Leave the bloodstain as it is. Go and buy three roses and place them on the floor. I want the church rearranged completely. I shall stand beside the spot where he died and preach. I want the chairs in a circle.”
"You’ll have the congregation all around you," squeaked Gunnar Isaksson. "Do you expect people to sit and look at your back?"
Thomas Söderberg went over to the pudgy little man and placed his hands on his shoulders.
You little shit, he thought. You’re not a gifted enough orator to speak in an arena. A theater. A marketplace. You have to have everybody sitting right there in front of you, and a lectern to hang on to if it gets tricky. But I can’t let your inadequacy get in my way.
“Remember what we said, brother,” said Thomas Söderberg to Gunnar Isaksson. “We must hold fast now. I promise you this will work. People will be allowed to weep, to call out to God, and we-God-will triumph tonight. Tell your wife to bring a flower to place on the spot where his body lay.”
The atmosphere will be incredible, thought Thomas Söderberg.
He made a mental note to get several more people to bring flowers and lay them on the floor. It would be just like the spot where Olof Palme was murdered.
Pastor Vesa Larsson was still sitting in exactly the same spot as during the conversation with the police, leaning forward. He took no part in the heated discussion, but sat there with his face buried in his hands. He might possibly have been crying, it was difficult to see.
Rebecka and Sanna were sitting in the car on the way into town. Gray pine trees, weighed down with snow, swept past in the beam of the headlights. The uncomfortable silence was like a shrinking room. The walls and the ceiling were moving inward and downward. With each passing minute it became more difficult to breathe properly. Rebecka was driving. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the speedometer and the road. The intense cold meant that the road wasn’t slippery at all, despite being covered with packed snow.
Sanna sat with her cheek resting on the cold window, winding a lock of her hair tightly around her finger.
“Can’t you just say something,” she said after a while.
“I’m not used to driving on roads like this,” said Rebecka. “I find it difficult to talk and drive at the same time.”
She could hear how obvious the lie was, as clear as a reef just below the surface of the water. But it didn’t matter. Perhaps that’s what she wanted. She looked at the clock. Quarter to eight.
Don’t start anything, she told herself firmly. You’ve rescued Sanna. Now you have to row her to the shore.
“Do you think the girls will be all right?” she asked.
“They’ll have to be,” replied Sanna, straightening up in her seat. “And we won’t be long, will we? I daren’t ring anybody to ask for help; the fewer people who know where I am, the better.”
“Why?”
“I’m frightened of journalists. I know what they can be like. And then there’s Mum and Dad… but let’s talk about something else.”
“Do you want to talk about Viktor? A
bout what happened?”
“No. I’ll be telling the police soon anyway. We’ll talk about you, that’ll calm me down. How are things with you? Is it really seven years since we saw each other?”
“Mmm,” replied Rebecka. “But we’ve had the odd chat on the phone.”
“To think you’ve still got the house in Kurravaara.”
“Well, Uncle Affe and Inga-Lill don’t think they can afford to buy me out. I think they’re annoyed because they’re the only ones putting work and money into the house. But on the other hand, they’re the only ones getting any pleasure out of it as well. I’d like to sell it really. To them or to somebody else, it’s all the same to me.”
She wondered whether what she had just said was true. Did she really get no pleasure from her grandmother’s house, or from the cottage in Jiekajärvi? Just because she was never there? Just the thought of the cottage, the idea that there was somewhere that belonged to her, far away from civilization, deep in the wilderness, beyond marsh and forest, wasn’t that a kind of pleasure in itself?
“You look, how shall I put it, really smart,” said Sanna. “And sure of yourself, somehow. Of course, I always thought you were pretty. But now you look as if you’ve come straight out of one of those TV series. Your hair looks great too. I just let mine grow wild, then cut it myself.”
Sanna ran her fingers through her thick, pale curls with an air of self-assurance.
I know, Sanna, thought Rebecka angrily. I know that you’re the fairest in all the land. And that’s without spending a fortune on haircuts and clothes.
"Can’t you just chat a bit," whined Sanna. "I feel absolutely terrible, but I did say sorry. And I’m just rigid with fear. Feel my hands, they’re freezing."
She took one hand out of its sheepskin glove and reached toward Rebecka.
She’s not right in the head, thought Rebecka furiously, keeping her hands firmly clamped on the wheel. She’s totally fucking crazy.
Feel my hand, Rebecka, it’s shaking. It’s really cold. I love you so much, Rebecka. If you were a boy I’d fall in love with you, did you know that?