ASA LARSSON ~ THE SAVAGE ALTAR (30 page)
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Authors: Asa Larsson
“My grandchildren enjoyed doing that last summer,” said Sivving from the kitchen. “I thought it might be fun for Lova and Sara.”
From the kitchen Bella gave a warning bark.
“Quiet!” growled Sivving.
“I don’t know what’s the matter with her,” he said to Rebecka. “Half an hour ago she set off barking just like that. It must be a fox or something. She didn’t wake you?”
Rebecka shook her head.
“Look, Rebecka, I’m painting Virku!” shouted Lova.
“Mmm, lovely,” replied Rebecka absently. “You can take the stones and the paints with you, because we’re going off on the snowmobile tonight—we’re going to sleep in my grandmother’s cabin.”
A
t quarter past six in the evening Rebecka drove the snowmobile across the road from Sivving’s on her way down to the river. She was wearing a balaclava and a fur hat, but she still had to blink fiercely to keep out the snow that was being whipped up against her face. The headlights were reflected back at her by the whirling snow, and she couldn’t see more than a meter or so in front of her. Sara and Lova were tucked up in the sledge trailer under rugs and reindeer skins, along with all their packages. You could just about see the tips of their noses.
She crossed her grandmother’s yard and stopped outside the house. She really ought to run upstairs and fetch the children’s pajamas. But there was every chance Sanna’s parents would turn up at that very moment. No, it was best not to linger. If she could just keep the girls out of the way until the next day, then the psychiatrist would talk to them. Then Social Services could take over, or whoever the hell it might be. At least she would have done what she could for them.
She put her foot down and drove down toward the river. The darkness closed behind her like a curtain. And the wind immediately covered their tracks with snow.
C
urt Bäckström is standing like a shadow in her grandmother’s kitchen. He leans against the wall by the window and watches the headlights disappearing down toward the river. In his right hand he is holding a knife. He runs his forefinger cautiously along the blade to feel its sharpness. In one pocket of his snowsuit lie three black plastic sacks. In the other is the house key that he took out of Rebecka’s coat pocket. He has been standing here in the darkness for a long time, waiting. Now he allows his eyes to close for a little while. It feels good. His eyes are dry and burning.
The fox has her lair and the birds of the air have their nests, but the Son of Man has no place to rest his head.
A
nna-Maria Mella was driving along Österleden down toward Lombolo. It was quarter past ten at night. She was driving too fast. With a reflex action, Sven-Erik grabbed at the top of the glove compartment as the car skidded over the fresh snow on the road. His hand in its thick glove found nothing to hang on to.
The Obs department store on the right, a few pinpricks of light behind the curtain of snow. Stop at the roundabout, wheels spinning as she put her foot down. On the left the Space House, like a stranded silver alien spaceship. The signs glowing red. The residential area—Stenvägen, Klippvägen, Blockvägen, with their tenaciously cleared driveways and their well-stocked bird tables.
“His name is Curt Bäckström,” said Anna-Maria. “Convicted of murder twelve years ago, then sent to a secure psychiatric unit, as they used to call it. No notes since then.”
“Right. So tell me about the murder.”
“He stabbed his stepfather. Several times. His mother was watching and testified against her son. In the witness box she admitted she was scared of the boy.”
“Boy?”
“He was only nineteen. And he’s not here as a visitor at the conference. He lives here, down in Lompis. Tallplan 5B. Somebody down at the station in Gävle knew somebody in the court office. She went there after work and faxed everything over to me. Some people are easy to deal with.”
She pulled into the car park. Long rows of garages. Two-story wooden apartment blocks built in the late sixties. They got out of the car and started walking. Not a soul in sight, despite the fact that it was Friday night.
“The county court discharged him two years ago,” Anna-Maria went on. “He was still in contact with a community care unit in Gävle. Had regular shots, held down a job. But according to the records he moved to Kiruna in January last year. And according to the duty doctor at the psychiatric unit in Gällivare, he hasn’t had any contact with community care in Kiruna.”
“So…”
“So I don’t know, but presumably he hasn’t had the medication he needs for a year. And is that so odd? I mean, you’ve seen those tapes from the church. ‘Throw away your pills! God is your doctor!’ ”
They stood for a while outside the door. Two of the apartments were in darkness. Sven-Erik had his hand on the door handle. Anna-Maria lowered her voice.
“I asked the duty doctor what he thought might happen to a person who stopped their injections.”
“And…”
“And you know what they’re like… can’t comment on this particular case… varies from one individual to another… but in the end he admitted that it was perhaps possibly likely that he might get worse. Bad, even. Do you know what he said when I told him there was a church that thought people should throw away all their medication?”
Sven-Erik shook his head.
“He said: ‘Weak people are often drawn to the church. And people who want power over weak people are also drawn there.’ ”
They stood in silence for a few seconds. Anna-Maria watched as the wind filled their footprints on the porch with snow.
“Shall we go in, then?” she said.
Sven-Erik opened the door and they went into the dark stairwell. Anna-Maria switched on the light. A small plaque on the right showed that Bäckström lived on the next floor. They went up the stairs. They had both been to these apartments on many occasions in the past, when the neighbors had phoned to complain about some disturbance. There was the same smell as there always was in these places. Piss under the stairs. The acrid smell of cleaning fluid. Concrete.
They rang the bell, but no one answered. Listened at the door, but the only sound was music from the apartment opposite. There had been no light in the window. Anna-Maria opened the letter box and tried to look in. The flat was in darkness.
“We’ll have to come back,” she said.
And evening came and morning came, the sixth day
I
t is twenty past four in the morning. Rebecka is sitting at the small kitchen table in the cabin in Jiekajärvi. She looks toward the window and looks straight into her own great big eyes. Anybody could be standing right outside and looking in at her, and she wouldn’t be able to see them. That person would suddenly press his face against the glass and the image of his face would melt into the reflection of her own.
Stop it, she says to herself. There’s nothing out there. Who’d go out in the dark in a storm like this?
The fire is crackling in the stove and the draught in the chimney makes a long, lonely sound that is accompanied by the howling wind outside and the soft hissing of the kerosene gas lamp. She gets up and pushes in two more logs. When there’s a storm like this it’s important to keep the fire going. Otherwise the cabin will be chilled through by tomorrow morning.
The strong wind finds its way through gaps in the walls and between the door frame and the old ocher yellow mirrored door. Once upon a time, before Rebecka was born, it had been the door of the pigsty. Her grandmother had told her that. And before that it had been somewhere else. It is much too beautiful and too solid a door to have been made for the pigsty. Presumably it used to be in a house somewhere that had been pulled down. And somebody had decided to find a home for the door.
On the floor there are several layers of Grandmother’s rag rugs. They insulate the house and keep the cold out. The snow that has been blown up against the walls insulates too. And the north-facing wall has a little extra protection from the stack of wood that has been covered with a tarpaulin to keep the snow off.
Next to the stove is the enamel water bucket with the ladle made of stainless steel, and a big basket of wood. Right beside it are Sara and Lova’s painted cat stones on top of a pile of old magazines. Although of course Lova’s stone represents a dog. It is curled up with its muzzle between its paws, gazing at Rebecka all the time. Just to be on the safe side Lova has written “Virku” on its painted black back. Both the girls are fast asleep in the same bed now, their fingers spattered with paint and a double layer of blankets right up to their ears. Before they went to bed all three of them worked together, rolling up the mattresses to press all the cold air out of them. Sara is sleeping with her mouth open, and Lova is curled up in the curve of her big sister’s arm. Their cheeks are rosy. Rebecka takes off one blanket and puts it up on the shelf.
It’s not my job to protect them, she tells herself. After tomorrow there will be nothing more I can do for them.
A
nna-Maria sits up in bed with the bedside lamp lit. Robert is sleeping beside her. She has two pillows behind her back, and is leaning against the headboard. On her knee she has Kristina Strandgård’s album of newspaper cuttings and pictures of Viktor Strandgård. The child moves in her stomach. She can feel a foot pressing against her.
“Hello, pest,” she says, rubbing the hard lump under her skin that is the foot. “You shouldn’t kick your old mum.”
She looks at a picture of Viktor Strandgård sitting on the steps in front of the Crystal Church in the middle of winter. He is wearing an indescribably ugly green crocheted hat. His long hair is lying over his left shoulder. He is holding his book up toward the camera,
Heaven and Back
. Laughing. Looks open and relaxed.
Did he do something to Sanna’s children? wonders Anna-Maria. He’s just a boy.
She is dreading tomorrow and the interview with Sanna Strandgård’s daughters.
At least you’re going to have a nice daddy, she tells the child in her belly.
All of a sudden she is deeply moved. Thinks of that small life. Capable of survival, perfect, with ten fingers and ten toes and a personality all its own. Why does she always get so tearful and over-the-top? Can’t even watch a Disney film without howling at the really sad part just before everything turns out all right in the end. Is it really fourteen years since Marcus was lying in her stomach? And Jenny and Petter, they’re so big too. Life goes so incredibly quickly. She is filled with a deep sense of gratitude.
I really haven’t got anything to complain about, she thinks, turning to someone out there in the universe. A wonderful family and a good life. I’ve already had more than anyone has a right to ask for.
“Thank you,” she says out loud.
Robert changes position, turns onto his side, wraps himself in his blanket so that he looks like a stuffed cabbage roll.
“You’re welcome,” he answers in his sleep.
R
ebecka pours coffee from the thermos flask and puts it down on the kitchen table.
What if Viktor did something to Sanna’s girls, she thinks. Could Sanna have been so furious that she killed him? Maybe she went looking for him to confront him, and…
And what? she interrupts herself. And she lost the plot and whipped out a hunting knife from nowhere and stabbed him to death? And smashed him over the head as well, with something heavy she just happened to have in her pocket?
No, it didn’t make sense.
And who wrote that postcard to Viktor that was in his Bible? “What we have done is not wrong in the eyes of God.”
She gets the tins of paint the girls have been using and spreads an old newspaper out on the table. Then she paints a picture of Sanna. It looks more like the woman who lived in the gingerbread house than anything else, with long, curly hair. Underneath Sanna, she writes “Sara” and “Lova.” She draws Viktor beside them. She paints a halo around his head; it has slipped slightly. Then she joins the girls’ names to Viktor with a line. She draws a line between Viktor and Sanna as well.
But that relationship was broken, she thinks, and scribbles out the lines linking Viktor to Sanna and the girls.
She leans back in her chair and allows her gaze to range over the sparse furniture, the hand-carved green beds, the kitchen table with its four odd chairs, the sink with the red plastic bowl and the little stool that just fits into the corner by the door.
Once upon a time, when the cabin was used on hunting trips, Uncle Affe used to stand his rifle on the stool, leaning against the wall. She remembers her grandfather’s frown of displeasure. Her grandfather himself always placed his gun carefully in its case and pushed it under the bed.
Nowadays the axe for chopping wood stands on the stool, and the handsaw hangs above it on a hook.
Sanna, thinks Rebecka, and looks back at her painting.
She draws curly little spirals and stars above Sanna’s head.
Silly-billy Sanna. Who can’t manage anything by herself. All her life a series of idiots have leapt in and sorted things out for her. I’m one of them. She didn’t even have to ask me to come up here. I came scampering up anyway, like a damned puppy.
She makes Sanna’s arms and hands disappear by painting over them in black. There, now she can’t do anything. Then she paints herself and writes “IDIOT” above.
Comprehension rises out of the picture. The brush shakily traces the figures she has painted on the newspaper. Sanna can’t manage anything by herself. There she stands, no arms, no hands. When Sanna needs something, some idiot leaps in and sorts things out for her. Rebecka Martinsson is an example of such an idiot.
If Viktor is doing something to her children…
... and she gets so angry she wants to kill him, what happens then?
Then some idiot is going to kill Viktor for her.
Can that be what happened? It has to be what happened.
The Bible. The murderer put Viktor’s Bible in Sanna’s kitchen drawer.
Of course. Not to frame Sanna. It was a present for her. The message, the postcard with the sprawling handwriting, was written to Sanna, not to Viktor. “What we have done is not wrong in the eyes of God.” Killing Viktor was not wrong in the eyes of God.
"Who?" says Rebecka to herself, drawing an empty heart next to the picture of Sanna. Inside the heart she draws a question mark.
She listens. Tries to make out a sound through the storm. A sound that doesn’t belong here. And then suddenly she hears it, the noise of a snowmobile.
Curt. Curt Bäckström, who sat on his snowmobile under the window, gazing up at Sanna.
She gets up and looks around.
The axe, she thinks in a panic. I’ll get the axe.
But she can’t hear the noise of the engine anymore.
It was just your imagination, calm down, she reassures herself. Sit down. You’re stressed and scared and you imagined you heard something. There’s nothing out there.
She sits down, but can’t take her eyes off the doorknob. She ought to get up and lock it.
Don’t start, she thinks, like some kind of spell. There’s nothing out there.
The next moment the doorknob begins to turn. The door opens. The moaning of the storm bursts in, along with a rush of cold air, and a man dressed in a dark blue snowsuit steps quickly inside. Pushes the door shut behind him. At first she can’t make out who it is. Then he takes off his hood and balaclava.
It isn’t Curt Bäckström. It’s Vesa Larsson.
