The Savage Altar (14 page)

T
he redbrick houses on Gasellvägen were neatly arranged along the street like pieces of Lego. Snow-covered hedges, piles of snow and kitchen curtains covering the lower part of the windows protected them from anybody who might look in.

And this family is going to need that, thought Anna-Maria Mella as she and Sven-Erik Stålnacke got out of the car outside Gasellvägen 35.

“You can actually feel the neighbors’ eyes on the back of your neck,” said Sven-Erik, as if he’d read her thoughts. “What do you think Sanna and Viktor Strandgård’s parents might have to tell us?”

“We’ll see. Yesterday they didn’t want to see us, but once they heard their daughter had been taken in for questioning they rang and asked us to come.”

They stamped the snow off their shoes and rang the doorbell.

Olof Strandgård opened the door. He was well groomed and articulate as he invited them in. Shook hands, took their coats and hung them up. Late middle age. But with no sign of middle-age spread.

He’s got a rowing machine and weights down in the cellar, thought Anna-Maria.

“No, no, please keep them on,” said Olof Strandgård to Sven-Erik, who had bent down to take off his shoes.

Anna-Maria noticed that Olof Strandgård himself was wearing well-polished indoor shoes.

He led them into the lounge. One end of the room was dominated by a Gustavian-style dining suite. Silver candlesticks and a vase by Ulrika Hydman-Vallien were reflected in the dark mahogany surface of the table. A small reproduction crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. At the other end of the lounge was a suite consisting of a pale, squashy corner sofa made of leather, and a matching armchair. The coffee table was made of smoky glass with metal legs. Everything was spotlessly clean and tidy.

Kristina Strandgård was slumped in the armchair. Her greeting to the two detectives who had turned up in her living room was distracted.

She had the same thick, pale blond hair as her children. But Kristina Strandgård’s hair was cut in a bob following the line of her jaw.

She must have been really pretty once upon a time, thought Anna-Maria. Before this absolute exhaustion got its claws into her. And that didn’t happen yesterday, it happened a long time ago.

Olof Strandgård leaned over his wife. His voice was gentle, but the smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes.

“Perhaps we should give Inspector Mella the comfortable chair,” he said.

Kristina Strandgård shot up out of the chair as if someone had stuck a pin into her.

“I’m so sorry, yes, of course.”

She gave Anna-Maria an embarrassed smile and stood there for a second as if she’d forgotten where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Then she suddenly seemed to come back to the present, and sank down on the sofa next to Sven-Erik.

Anna-Maria lowered herself laboriously into the proffered armchair. It was far too low and the back wasn’t sufficiently upright to be comfortable. She turned the corners of her mouth upward in an attempt at a grateful smile. The baby was pressing against her abdomen, and she immediately got heartburn and a pain in her lower back.

“Can we get you anything?” asked Olof Strandgård. “Coffee? Tea? Water?”

As if she had been given a signal, his wife shot up again.

“Yes, of course,” she said with a quick glance at her husband. “I should have asked.”

Both Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria waved dismissively. Kristina Strandgård sat down again, but this time she perched on the very edge of the sofa, ready to leap to her feet again if something came up.

Anna-Maria looked at her. She didn’t look like a woman who’d just lost her child. Her hair was newly washed and blow-dried. Her polo-neck sweater, cardigan and trousers were all in toning shades of sandy brown and beige. Her makeup wasn’t smudged around her eyes or mouth. She wasn’t wringing her hands in despair. No screwed-up tissues on the coffee table in front of her. Instead, it was as if she’d shut out the outside world.

No, actually, thought Anna-Maria, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. She isn’t shutting out the outside world. She’s shutting herself in.

“We appreciate the fact that you were able to come straightaway,” said Olof Strandgård. “We heard just a little while ago that you’d taken Sanna in for questioning. You must realize it’s a mistake. My wife and I are extremely concerned.”

“I understand,” said Sven-Erik. “But perhaps we could take one thing at a time. If we ask some questions regarding Viktor first, we can talk about your daughter afterward.”

“Of course,” said Olof Strandgård with a smile.

Well done, Sven-Erik, thought Anna-Maria. Take command now, otherwise the visit will be over before we’ve got an answer to anything.

“Could you tell us about Viktor,” said Sven-Erik. “What kind of person was he?”

“In what way is this information likely to be of assistance in your investigation?” asked Olof Strandgård.

“It’s a question we always ask,” said Sven-Erik, not allowing himself to be provoked. “We have to try and build a picture of him, since we didn’t know him when he was alive.”

“He was gifted,” said his father seriously. “Extremely gifted. I suppose that’s what any parent would say about their child, but if you ask his teachers they’ll confirm what I say. He got top grades in every subject, and he was highly musical. He had the ability to focus. On his schoolwork. On guitar lessons. And after the accident he focused one hundred percent on God.”

He leaned back on the sofa and pulled his right trouser leg up a fraction before crossing his right leg over the left.

“It was no easy calling God laid upon the boy,” he went on. “He put everything else to one side. Left school, and gave up his music. He preached and prayed. And he had a burning conviction that the revival would come to Kiruna, but he was also convinced that this could only happen if the free churches joined together. United we stand, divided we fall, as they say. At that time there was no sense of community between the Pentecostal church, the Mission church and the Baptist church, but he was determined. Only seventeen when he got the call. He more or less forced the pastors to start meeting and praying together: Thomas Söderberg from the Mission church, Vesa Larsson from the Pentecostal church and Gunnar Isaksson from the Baptist church.”

Anna-Maria squirmed in the armchair. She was uncomfortable, and the baby was boxing with her bladder.

“He got his calling in connection with his accident?” she asked.

“Yes. The boy was riding his bike in the middle of winter, and he was hit by a car. Well, you’re from Kiruna, you know the rest. The church just kept on growing, and we were able to build the Crystal Church. It’s just as well known as the lad himself. We had some really famous singers at the Christmas concert there in December.”

“How was your relationship with him?” asked Sven-Erik. “Were you close?”

Anna-Maria could see how Sven-Erik was making a real effort to draw Kristina Strandgård in with his questions, but she was staring blankly at the pattern on the wallpaper.

“Our family is very close,” said Olof Strandgård.

“Was he going out with anybody? Did he have other interests outside the church?”

“No, as I said, he decided to put everything else in life to one side for the time being, and to work only for God.”

“But didn’t that worry you? Not having anything to do with girls, or any hobbies?”

“No, not at all.” Viktor’s father laughed, as if he found what Sven-Erik had just said utterly ridiculous.

“Who were his closest friends?”

Sven-Erik looked at the photographs on the walls. Above the television hung a large photograph of Sanna and Viktor. Two children with long, silvery blond hair. Sanna’s in ringlets. Viktor’s straight as a waterfall. Sanna must have been in her early teens. It was quite clear that she was refusing to smile for the photographer. There was something defiant in the turned-down corners of her mouth. Viktor’s expression was also serious, but natural. As if he was sitting and thinking about something else altogether, and had forgotten where he was.

“Sanna was thirteen and the boy was ten,” said Olof, who had noticed Sven-Erik looking at the photograph. “It’s obvious how much he looked up to his sister. Wanted to have long hair just like hers from when he was little, and screamed like a stuck pig if his mother ever came near him with the scissors. At first he got teased in school, but he wanted it long.”

“His friends?” prompted Anna-Maria.

“I’d like to think the family were his closest friends. He and Sanna were very close. And he idolized the girls.”

“Sanna’s daughters?”

“Yes.”

"Kristina," said Sven-Erik.

Kristina Strandgård jumped.

“Is there anything you’d like to add? About Viktor,” he explained when she looked at him questioningly.

“What can I say,” she said uncertainly, glancing at her husband. “I haven’t really got anything to add. I think Olof described him perfectly.”

“Have you got an album of clippings about Viktor?” asked Anna-Maria. “I mean, he was in the papers quite a bit.”

“There,” said Kristina Strandgård, pointing. “That big brown album on the bottom shelf.”

“May I borrow it?” asked Anna-Maria, getting up and taking it off the shelf. “You’ll have it back as soon as possible.”

She held on to the album for a moment before putting it on the table in front of her. She was desperate to get another image of Viktor into her head, instead of the white lacerated body with its eyes gouged out.

“It would be very helpful if you could write down the names of people who knew him,” said Sven-Erik. “We’d like to talk to them.”

"It’ll be a very long list," said Olof Strandgård. "The entire population of Sweden knew him. And more."

"I mean those who knew him personally," said Sven-Erik patiently. "We’ll send somebody to pick up the list this evening. When was the last time you saw your son alive?"

“On Sunday evening, at the Songs of Praise Service in the church.”

“That would be the Sunday evening preceding the murder, then. Did you speak to him?”

Olof Strandgård shook his head sorrowfully.

“No, he was part of the intercession group, so he was busy all the time.”

“When was the last time you met and had time to talk?”

“On Friday afternoon, just about two days before—” Viktor’s father broke off and looked at his wife.

“—You’d cooked some food for him, Kristina; it was Friday, wasn’t it?”

“Definitely,” she replied. “The Miracle Conference was just starting. And I know he forgets to eat, always puts others before himself. So we went round to his house and filled up the freezer. He thought I was being a mother hen.”

“Did he seem worried about anything?” asked Sven-Erik. “Was anything bothering him?”

“No,” answered Olof.

“He obviously hadn’t eaten for some considerable time when he died,” said Anna-Maria. “Do you have any idea why that might be? Could it have been because he’d just forgotten to eat?”

“Presumably he was fasting,” replied his father.

I’ll need to find the bathroom in a minute, thought Anna-Maria.

“Fasting?” she asked, concentrating on not wanting to go. “Why?”

“Well,” said Olof Strandgård, “it says in the Bible that Jesus fasted for forty days in the desert and was tempted by the devil before He appeared in Galilee and chose the first disciples. And it says that the apostles prayed and fasted when they were choosing the elders for the first churches and handing them over to God. In the Old Testament, Moses and Elijah fasted before they received God’s revelations. Presumably Viktor felt that he had an important role during the Miracle Conference, and wanted to sharpen his concentration beforehand through fasting and prayer.”

“What is this Miracle Conference?” asked Sven-Erik.

“It started on Friday evening and finishes next Sunday evening. Seminars during the day, and services in the evenings. It’s all about miracles. Faith healing, wonders, prayers being answered, various spiritual gifts of grace. Wait a minute.”

Olof Strandgård got up and went out into the hall. After a while he came back with a shiny colorful folder in his hand. He passed it to Sven-Erik, who leaned toward Anna-Maria so that she could look at it.

It was an invitation in folded A4 format. The soft-focus pictures showed happy people with their hands raised. In one picture a laughing woman was holding up her child. In another, Viktor Strandgård was praying for a man who was on his knees, his hands raised toward heaven. Viktor’s index and middle fingers rested on the man’s forehead, and his eyes were closed. The text explained that the seminars would be dealing with topics including “You Have the Power to Demand That Your Prayers Are Answered,” “God Has Already Conquered Your Illness,” and “Release Your Spiritual Gifts of Grace.” There was also information about the evening services, where you could dance in the spirit, sing in the spirit, laugh in the spirit and see God work miracles in your own life and the lives of others. And all for four thousand two hundred kronor, excluding board and lodging.

"How many participants are there in the conference?" wondered Sven-Erik.

“I can’t tell you exactly,” said Olof, betraying a hint of pride, “but somewhere around two thousand.”

Anna-Maria could see Sven-Erik calculating how much the church had made from the conference.

“We need a list of participants,” said Anna-Maria. “Who should we get in touch with?”

Olof Strandgård gave her a name, and she made a note of it. Sven-Erik could get somebody to check it against police records.

“How was his relationship with Sanna?” asked Anna-Maria.

“I’m sorry?” said Olof Strandgård.

“Could you describe their relationship?”

"They were brother and sister."

"But that doesn’t necessarily mean that they had a good relationship," Anna-Maria persisted.

Olof took a deep breath.

“They were the best of friends. But Sanna is a fragile person. Sensitive. Both my wife and I, and our son, have had to take care of her and the girls on many occasions.”

There’s a hell of a lot of talk about how fragile she is, thought Anna-Maria.