ASA LARSSON ~ THE SAVAGE ALTAR (28 page)

S
anna Strandgård was arrested on Friday, February 21, at 10:25, on the basis that there was sufficient reason to suspect her of the murder of Viktor Strandgård. The press and television gobbled up the decision like a pack of hungry foxes. The corridor outside the courtroom was illuminated by camera flashes and film lights as Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post addressed the media.

Rebecka Martinsson stood with Sanna in the arrest room just inside the court. Two guards were waiting to escort Sanna to the car and back to the station.

“We’ll appeal, of course,” said Rebecka.

Sanna twirled a lock of her hair absentmindedly between her thumb and forefinger.

“That young lad who was taking the minutes was really staring at me. Did you notice?”

“You do want me to lodge an appeal, don’t you?”

“He was looking at me as if we knew each other, but I didn’t know him.”

Rebecka slammed her briefcase shut.

“Sanna, you’re a murder suspect. Every single person in the courtroom was looking at you. Shall I file an appeal on your behalf, or not?”

“Yes, of course,” said Sanna, and looked at the guards. “Shall we go?”

When they had gone Rebecka stood there staring at the door leading out to the car park. The door of the courtroom behind her opened. When she turned round she met Anna-Maria Mella’s inquiring gaze.

“How are things?”

“So-so,” said Rebecka with a grimace. “What about you?”

“Oh, you know… so-so.”

Anna-Maria flopped down on a chair. She unzipped her thick padded jacket and let her stomach out. Then she pulled off her grayish white woolly hat without bothering to tidy her hair afterward.

“I can honestly say that I’m dying to be a real person again.”

“ ‘To be a real person,’ what does that mean?” asked Rebecka with a little smile.

“To be able to sneeze and drink coffee like ordinary people,” laughed Anna-Maria.

A young lad in his twenties appeared in the doorway with a notebook in his hand.

“Rebecka Martinsson?” he asked. “Have you got a minute?”

“In a while,” said Anna-Maria pleasantly.

She got up and closed the door.

“We’re going to interview Sanna’s girls,” said Anna-Maria without preamble when she had sat down again.

“No, you… you’re joking,” groaned Rebecka. “They don’t know anything. They were asleep in bed when he was murdered. Is that… Is von Post going to practice his macho interrogation technique on two little girls of eleven and four? Who’s going to take care of them afterward? You?”

Anna-Maria leaned back in her chair and pressed her right hand just below her ribs.

“I can understand your reaction to the way he spoke to Sanna…”

“Well, be fair, didn’t you feel the same?”

“… but I’ll make sure the interview with the girls goes as smoothly as possible. A doctor from the Child Psych team will be there.”

“Why?” asked Rebecka. “Why are they being interviewed?”

“You have to understand that we don’t have a choice. One murder weapon has been found in Sanna’s apartment, but technically it can’t be linked directly to her. We haven’t found the other one. So we have only circumstantial evidence. Sanna has told us that Sara was with her when she found Viktor, and that Lova was asleep in her sledge. The girls might have seen something important.”

“Seen their mother murder Viktor, you mean?”

“At the very least we have to be able to rule them out of our inquiries,” said Anna-Maria dryly.

“I want to be there,” said Rebecka.

“Of course,” said Anna-Maria courteously. “I’ll tell Sanna, I’m going to the station now anyway. She looked very calm, I thought.”

“She wasn’t even here,” said Rebecka with a heavy heart.

“It’s difficult to imagine what she’s going through. To be facing jail.”

“Yes,” said Rebecka.

T
hey have gathered at Gunnar Isaksson’s house. The pastors, the church elders and Rebecka. Rebecka is the last to arrive, although she is ten minutes early. She hears how the conversation in the living room comes to an abrupt stop when Gunnar opens the door
.

Neither Gunnar’s wife, Karin, nor the children are at home, but in the kitchen there are two large thermos flasks on the round table. One of coffee, one of hot water for tea. On a round silver-colored dish there are cakes and buns covered with a small white-and-yellow-checked cloth. Karin has left
out cups, saucers and spoons. There is even milk in a little jug. But they will eat and drink later. First they are going to talk.

“You’ll be wondering why we’ve asked you to come here, of course.”

Frans Zachrisson starts the discussion. He is one of the elders. In normal circumstances he hardly looks at her. He doesn’t like Sanna or Rebecka. But now his gaze is troubled and gentle. His voice is full of warmth and consideration. It terrifies Rebecka. She doesn’t answer, just sits down when he asks her to.

Some of the other elders are looking at her seriously. They are all middle-aged or older. Vesa Larsson and Thomas Söderberg are the youngest, barely thirty.

Vesa Larsson is looking down at the table. Thomas Söderberg is leaning forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. His forehead is resting on his clasped hands and his eyes are closed.

“Thomas has handed in his resignation,” says Frans Zachrisson. “After what’s happened he doesn’t feel that he can continue as pastor in the same church as you, Rebecka.”

The elders nod supportively, and Frans Zachrisson continues:

“I regard what’s happened with the utmost seriousness. But I also believe in forgiveness. Forgiveness from both God and man. I know that God has forgiven Thomas, and I myself have forgiven him. We all have.”

He falls silent. Wonders for a moment whether he ought to speak of forgiveness in connection with her, Rebecka, perhaps. But it’s a tricky business. She went through with the abortion despite Thomas Söderberg’s unselfish appeal. And she shows no sign of repentance. Can there be forgiveness without repentance?

Rebecka tries to force herself to look up and meet Frans Zachrisson’s eyes. But she can’t. There are too many of them. They overpower her.

“We have tried to persuade Thomas to withdraw his resignation, but he has not done so. It is difficult for him to move on here, because he would always be reminded of his mistake….”

He stops speaking again and Pastor Gunnar Isaksson takes the opportunity to say a few words. Rebecka sneaks a glance in his direction. Gunnar is leaning back on the leather sofa. His expression is, well, almost greedy. He
looks as if he might stretch out his fat little hand at any second, grab hold of her and eat her all up. She realizes that he’s glad Thomas Söderberg is in trouble. Thomas is far too intellectual for his taste. Speaks Greek, and is always pointing out what the original text says. Read theology at university. Gunnar only went to high school. He must have been like the cat that’s got the cream recently, being able to discuss Thomas Söderberg’s “weakness” with his brothers.

Gunnar Isaksson points out that he too has been tempted, but it is in these circumstances that one’s relationship with God is tested. He says that when he was asked by the elders whether he still had faith in Thomas Söderberg, he asked for a day to think about it before he said yes. He wanted his decision to be firmly anchored in God. He hoped Rebecka understood that it was.

“We believe God has great plans for Kiruna,” Alf Hedman, another of the elders, interrupts, “and we believe Thomas has a key role to play in those plans.”

Rebecka understands exactly why they have asked her to come. Thomas cannot remain in the church if she is a member of the congregation, for then he will be constantly reminded of his sin. And everybody wants Thomas to stay. She immediately does what they want.

“He doesn’t need to move,” she says. “I’m going to ask to be released from the church, in any case, because I’m moving to Uppsala to study.”

They congratulate her on her decision. And besides, there is a very good church in Uppsala that she will be able to join.

Now they want to pray for her. Rebecka and Thomas have to sit on two chairs beside each other and the rest stand in a circle around them and place their hands upon them in prayer. Soon the sound of speaking in tongues is pouring out through the windows and up to heaven.

Their hands are like insects crawling all over her body. Everywhere. No, they’re like red-hot stones burning holes right through her clothes and her skin. Her soul pours out through the holes. She feels ill. She wants to be sick. But she can’t. She’s trapped beneath all these men who have laid their hands upon her body. One thing she does do. She refuses to close her eyes. You’re supposed to close your eyes when receiving intercession. Open yourself.
Inward and upward. But she keeps her eyes open. Clings to reality by staring at her knees. At an almost invisible mark on her skirt.

“You’ll stay for coffee,” says Gunnar Isaksson when they’ve finished.

And she stays, obediently. The pastors and the elders munch on Karin’s homemade cakes with sensual enjoyment. Except for Thomas, who disappears immediately after the intercession. The others talk about the weather and about the services to come during the Easter season.

No one speaks to Rebecka. It’s as if she isn’t there. She chews on a chocolate marshmallow. It’s dry and turns to dust in her mouth, and she takes great gulps of coffee to try and sluice it down. When she has eaten the cake she puts down her cup, mumbles a good-bye and sneaks out through the front door. Like a thief.

A
nna-Maria Mella plodded up to her house. A snowdrift had covered the drive, and the car had got stuck just inside the gate.

She kicked away the snow that had collected in front of the door and yanked it open. Yelled into the house.

“Robert!”

No answer. From Marcus’s room upstairs she could hear music. No point in asking him to go out and clear the snow. That would just mean half an hour’s discussion, in which case she might as well do it herself. But she couldn’t manage it. The snow had wedged itself in the door frame and she had to slam the door to shut it. Robert had probably gone off somewhere with Jenny and Petter. To his mother’s, perhaps.

Marcus had friends round. Presumably some of the hockey team. His sports bag was lying on the hall floor swimming in melted snow from his outdoor shoes, along with two bags she didn’t recognize. She climbed over their indoor hockey sticks and carried the wet sports bags into the bathroom. Took Marcus’s sports gear out of his bag. Dried the hall floor and placed the shoes and sticks in a neat row by the door.

On the way to the laundry room with her arms full of wet sports kit she passed the kitchen. On the table stood a carton of milk and a tin of O’boy chocolate. From this morning? Or Marcus and his mates? She shook the milk carton carefully and sniffed at it. It was okay. She put it in the fridge. Just looking at the overloaded draining board made her feel tired, and she went down to the cellar. Two banana boxes full of Christmas decorations were just inside the door to the cellar stairs. Robert was supposed to be carrying them downstairs to put away.

She went down to the cellar. Kicked dirty clothes chucked down the stairs by the family in front of her as she went, carried them into the laundry room and sighed. It felt like a lifetime since she’d had the strength to stand there ironing and folding everything. The mountain of clean laundry as high as Tolpagorni in front of the workbench. Dirty laundry in stale heaps on the floor in front of the washing machine. Fluff in every corner. Well established, perfectly happy there. Wet, black, grubby suds around the drain.

When I’m on maternity leave, she thought. Then I’ll have time.

She stuffed a load of white kneesocks, underclothes, some sheets and hand towels into the machine. Turned it to sixty degrees, program B. The washing machine began to hum with exertion, and Anna-Maria waited for the usual click, like a short burst of Morse code, as the program started up, followed by the sound of the water gushing into the drum, but nothing happened. The machine kept up its monotonous hum.

“Oh, come on!” she said, banging the top of it with her fist.

Not a new washing machine. That would cost thousands.

The machine hummed painfully. Anna-Maria switched it off and then back on again. Tried a different program. In the end, she kicked it. Then the tears came.

When Robert went down to the laundry room an hour later she was sitting in front of the workbench. Folding clothes like a mad thing, tears pouring down her face.

His gentle hands moving over her back and her hair.

“What’s wrong, Mia-Mia?”

“Leave me alone!” she snapped.

But then, when he put his arms around her, she sobbed into his shoulder and told him about the washing machine.

“And everything’s such a bloody tip,” she sniveled. “As soon as I get through the door all I can see is things that need doing. And now this…” She fished a pair of blue-and-white-striped rompers out of the pile of clean washing. The blue had faded and frequent washing had made the fabric bobbly.

“Poor kid. He’s going to be wearing faded hand-me-downs for the rest of his life. He’ll get bullied at school.”

Robert smiled into her hair. After all, there hadn’t been too many storms this time around. When she’d been expecting Petter things had been worse.

“And then there’s this case,” she went on. “We’ve got a list of everyone who’s involved in the Miracle Conference. The idea was to blitz them all. But Sanna Strandgård was arrested today, and now von Post wants all resources concentrated on her. So I’ve promised Sven-Erik I’ll go through the list, because officially I’m not part of the investigation. I just don’t know when I’m going to get it done.”

“Come on,” said Robert. “Let’s go up to the kitchen and I’ll make some tea.”

They sat opposite each other at the kitchen table. Anna-Maria moved her spoon around listlessly in her mug, watching the honey dissolve in the chamomile tea. Robert peeled an apple, cut it into small pieces and passed them to her. She pushed them in her mouth without even noticing.