ASA LARSSON ~ THE SAVAGE ALTAR (20 page)
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Authors: Asa Larsson
He took the pan off the stove.
“Okay, everybody, food!”
He put the meat, mashed potato and tub of ice cream with jam on the table.
“Those kids,” he laughed. “Manfred didn’t know what to say.”
M
åns Wenngren was sitting on a stool in the hallway of his flat, listening to a message on the answering machine. It was from Rebecka. He was still wearing his coat, and hadn’t even switched on the light. He played the message three times. Listened to her voice. It sounded different. As if she wasn’t quite in control. At work her voice was always very obedient, walking to heel. It was never allowed to go scampering off after her feelings, giving away what was really going on inside her head.
“Thanks for sorting out that business with the reporter,” she said. “It can’t have taken you long to find a horse’s head, or did you come up with something else? I’m keeping my phone switched off all the time, because so many journalists are ringing. But I keep checking my voice mail and e-mail. Thanks again. Good night.”
He wondered if she looked different as well. Like the time he met her in reception at five o’clock in the morning. He’d been sitting in an all-night meeting, and she’d just arrived for work. She’d walked. Her hair was tousled, and one strand was stuck to her cheek. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold wind, and her eyes were sparkling and almost happy. He remembered how surprised she’d looked. And almost embarrassed. He’d tried to stop and chat, but she’d made some brief comment and slid past him into her office.
“Good night,” he said out loud, into the silent flat.
And evening came and morning came, the third day
A
t quarter past three in the morning it begins to snow. Just a few flakes at first, then more and more. Above the dense clouds the Aurora Borealis hurls herself recklessly across the heavens. Writhing like a snake. Opening herself up to the constellations.
Kristina Strandgård is sitting in her husband’s metallic gray Volvo in the garage beneath the house. It is dark in the garage. Only the map-reading light inside the car is lit. Kristina is wearing a shiny quilted dressing gown and slippers. Her left hand is resting on her knee, and her right hand is clutching the car keys. She has rolled up several rag rugs and stuffed them along the bottom of the garage door. The door leading into the house is closed and locked. The gaps between the door and the frame are covered with tape.
I ought to cry, she thinks. I ought to be like Rachel: “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation: Rachel weeping for her children; she refused to be comforted, for they were no more.” But I don’t feel anything. It’s as if all I have inside is rustling white paper. I’m the one in this family who’s sick. I didn’t think that was the problem, but I’m the one who’s sick.
She puts the key in the ignition. But the tears won’t come now either.
S
anna Strandgård is standing in her cell, her forehead pressed against the cold steel bars in front of the reinforced glass window. She is looking out at the pavement in front of the green metal façades on Konduktörsgatan. In the glow of a street lamp, Viktor is standing in the snow. He is naked, apart from the enormous dove-gray wings that he has wrapped around his body in order to cover himself a little. The snowflakes fall around him like stardust. Sparkle in the light of the street lamp. They do not melt when they land on his naked skin. He raises his eyes and looks up at Sanna.
“I can’t forgive you,” she whispers, drawing on the window with her finger. “But forgiveness is a miracle that happens in the heart. So if you forgive me, then perhaps…”
She closes her eyes and sees Rebecka. Rebecka’s hands and arms are covered in blood, right up to her elbows. She stretches out her arms and places one hand protectively above Sara’s head, the other above Lova’s.
I’m so sorry, Rebecka, thinks Sanna. But you’re the one who has to do it.
W
hen the town hall clock strikes five, Kristina Strandgård takes the key out of the ignition and gets out of the car. She takes the rugs away from the garage door. She rips the tape off the door to the house, screws it up and puts it in the pocket of her dressing gown. Then she goes up to the kitchen and begins to make bread. She adds some linseed to the flour; Olof’s stomach can be a little sluggish.
E
arly in the morning the telephone rang at Anna-Maria Mella’s house.
“Leave it,” said Robert hoarsely.
But with the conditioning of many years, Anna-Maria’s hand had already reached out and lifted the receiver.
It was Sven-Erik Stålnacke.
“It’s me,” he said tersely. “You sound out of breath.”
“I’ve just come upstairs.”
“Have you looked outside yet? It’s been snowing like mad all night.”
“Mmm.”
“We’ve had an answer from Linköping,” said Sven-Erik. “No fingerprints on the knife. It’s been washed and dried. But it is the murder weapon. Traces of Viktor Strandgård’s blood were found at the base of the blade close to the handle. And traces of Viktor Strandgård’s blood were also found in Sanna Strandgård’s kitchen sink.”
Anna-Maria clicked her tongue thoughtfully.
“And von Post is going absolutely crazy. He knew, of course, that we were going to find absolute technical proof. He rang me at about half five, howling about motives and insisting we find the blunt instrument that was used on the back of the lad’s head.”
“Well, he’s right,” replied Anna-Maria.
“Do you think she did it?” asked Sven-Erik.
“It seems very odd if she did. But then, I’m no psychologist.”
“Von Pisspot is intending to have another go at her anyway.”
Anna-Maria inhaled sharply through her nose.
“What do you mean, ‘have another go’?”
“How should I know?” replied Sven-Erik. “I presume he’s going to interview her again. And he was talking about moving her to Luleå when she’s arrested.”
“Bloody hell,” Anna-Maria burst out. “Doesn’t he understand that frightening her won’t help at all. We ought to get somebody professional up here, somebody who can talk to her. And I’m going to talk to Sanna myself. It’s pointless just sitting in and listening to von Post interviewing her.”
“Just be careful,” Sven-Erik warned her. “Don’t start interrogating her behind his back, or the shit really will hit the fan.”
“I can make up some excuse. It’s better if I push the boundaries a bit than if you do.”
“When are you coming in?” asked Sven-Erik. “You’ve got a load of faxes from Linköping to deal with as well. The office girls are running around here like lemmings. They’re wondering if everything’s supposed to be recorded officially, and they’re hacked off because the fax has been busy all morning.”
“It’s copies of pages from Viktor’s Bible. Tell them they don’t need to make a record of them.”
“So when are you coming in?” Sven-Erik asked again.
“It’ll be a while,” said Anna-Maria evasively. “Robert’s got to dig the car out and so on.”
“Okay,” said Sven-Erik. “See you when I see you.”
He put the phone down.
“Now, where were we?” smiled Anna-Maria, looking down at Robert.
“Here,” said Robert with laughter in his voice.
He was lying naked on his back underneath her, his hands caressing her enormous stomach and tracing a path toward her breasts.
“We were just here,” he said, his fingers circling the brown nipples. “Just here.”
R
ebecka Martinsson was standing in the yard outside her grandmother’s house brushing snow off the car with a broom. It had snowed heavily during the night, and clearing the car was hard work. She was sweating under her hat. It was still dark, and the snow was whirling down. There was a thick layer of fresh snow on the road, and zero vision. Driving into town wasn’t going to be much fun. That’s if she could actually get the car out. Sara and Lova were sitting at the kitchen window looking down at her. There was no point in letting them stand outside to get covered in snow, or sit in the car and freeze. Virku had raced off around the side of the house and was nowhere to be seen. Her cell phone rang; she pushed in her earpiece and answered impatiently:
“Rebecka.”
It was Maria Taube.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “You’re answering the phone, then. I thought I’d be talking to your voice mail.”
“I’ve just rung my neighbor and asked him to help me get the car out of the yard,” panted Rebecka. “I’ve got to get the kids to nursery and school, and it’s snowing like mad. I can’t get the car out.”
“ ‘I’ve got to get the kids to nursery,’ ” mimicked Maria. “Am I really talking to Rebecka Martinsson? It sounds more like a worn-out working mother to me. One foot in the nursery, the other at work, and thank God it’s nearly Friday so you can collapse with a packet of chips and a glass of wine in front of the TV.”
Rebecka laughed. Virku and Bella came hurtling toward her, snow spraying up all around them. Bella was in the lead. The deep snow was more of a handicap for Virku, who had shorter legs. Sivving must be on his way.
“I’ve got the information you wanted about the church,” said Maria. “And I promised Johan Dahlström a dinner to say thank you, so you owe me a night out or something. I could do with going to the Sturehof and getting a little bit of male attention.”
“Sounds like you’re coming out of this pretty well,” puffed Rebecka as she swept the bonnet of the car. “First of all, your Johan is bound to insist on paying for this thank-you-for-your-help dinner, and then I treat you to a night out so you can kick your heels up.”
“He isn’t ‘my’ Johan. Nice and grateful now, otherwise you won’t find out a thing.”
“I am nice and grateful,” said Rebecka meekly. “Tell me.”
“Okay, he said the church had only ticked the box to indicate that it’s a nonprofit-making organization.”
“Damn,” said Rebecka.
“I’ve never had anything to do with nonprofit-making organizations and foundations and that sort of stuff. What does it mean?” asked Maria.
“It means it’s a nonprofit-making organization that exists for the public good, so it isn’t liable for income or capital tax. So it doesn’t have to submit a tax declaration, nor a statement of accounts. It’s impossible to get any kind of access to its affairs.”
“With regard to Viktor Strandgård, he had a very modest salary from the church. Johan checked back two years. No other income. No capital. No property, and no shares.”
Sivving was coming across the yard. His fur hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and he was dragging a snow rake behind him. The dogs raced to meet him and scampered playfully around his feet. Rebecka waved, but he had his eyes fixed on the ground and didn’t see her.
“The pastors take forty-five thousand kronor a month.”
“That’s a damn good salary for a pastor,” said Rebecka.
“Thomas Söderberg has quite a large share portfolio, about half a million. And he owns some land out on Värmdö.”
“Värmdö Stockholm?” asked Rebecka.
“Yes, value for tax purposes four hundred and twenty. But it could be worth just about anything. The taxation value of Vesa Larsson’s house is one point two million. It’s quite new. The value was set last year in a specific property taxation arrangement. He’s got a loan of a million. Presumably on the house.”
“What about Gunnar Isaksson?” asked Rebecka.
“Nothing special. A few bonds, some savings in the bank.”
“Okay,” said Rebecka. “Anything else as far as the church goes? Does it own any companies or anything?”
Sivving appeared behind Rebecka.
“Hello there!” he boomed. “Talking to yourself?”
“Hang on a minute,” said Rebecka to Maria.
She turned to Sivving. Only a tiny part of his face was visible above his scarf. A little snowdrift had already formed on the top of his cap.
“I’m on the phone,” she said, pointing at the wire to her earpiece. “I can’t get the car out. The wheels were just spinning around when I tried to start it.”
“You’re on the phone on that wire thing?” he asked. “Good Lord, soon they’ll be operating to put a telephone inside your head the second you’re born. You carry on, I’ll start clearing.”
He started dragging the rake across the ground in front of the car.
“Hi,” said Rebecka into the phone.
“I’m still here,” replied Maria. “The church owns nothing, but I checked out the pastors and their families. The wives are part owners in a trading company. Victory Print.”
“Did you check it out?”
“No, but its tax records are in the public domain, so you can call the local tax office. I didn’t want to ask Johan again. He wasn’t that keen on asking for information from another tax authority’s transaction network.”
“Thanks a million,” said Rebecka. “I’ve got to give Sivving a hand now. I’ll call you.”
“Be careful,” said Maria, and hung up.
S
lowly the night abandoned Sanna Strandgård. Slipped away. Out through the reinforced window and the heavy steel door, leaving room for the unforgiving day. It would be a while before it grew light outside. A faint glow from the street lamps outside pushed its way in through the window and hovered like a shadow beneath the ceiling. Sanna lay motionless on her bunk.
Just a little bit longer, she prayed, but merciful sleep was gone.
She felt as if her face was completely numb. Her hand crept out from under the blanket and she caressed her lips. Pretended her hand was Sara’s soft hair. Let her nose remember the scent of Lova. She still smelled like a child, although she was turning into a big girl. Her body relaxed and sank into her memories. The bedroom at home in the flat. All four of them in the bed. Lova, with her arms around Sanna’s neck. Sara, curled up behind her back. And Virku lying on Sara’s feet. The little black paws, galloping in her sleep. Every single thing was tattooed on her skin, imprinted on the insides of her hands and her lips. Whatever happened, her body would remember.
Rebecka, she thought. I won’t lose them. Rebecka will fix it. I won’t cry. There’s no point.
A
n hour later the cell door was tentatively pushed open a fraction. Light poured in through the gap, and someone whispered:
