The Savage Altar (6 page)

Still no answer. Not a movement.

“Okay,” said Rebecka after a while.

She took a deep breath as if to indicate that she had finished waiting around. Then she turned and walked toward the kitchen door.

That’s it, then, she thought. I’ll ring the police and tell them where she is. They can carry her out of the house.

Just as she placed her hand on the door handle she heard Sanna sit up on the bed behind her.

“Rebecka” was all she said.

Rebecka hesitated for half a second. Then she turned round and leaned on the door. She folded her arms again. Like somebody’s mother: Now let’s get this sorted out once and for all.

And Sanna was like a little girl, chewing on her lower lip, pleading with her eyes.

“Sorry,” she mumbled in her husky voice. “I know I’m the worst mother in the world and an even worse friend. Do you hate me?”

“You’ve got three minutes to put your clothes on and get yourself out here to eat something,” ordered Rebecka, and marched out.

S
ven-Erik Stålnacke had parked outside the hospital Emergency department. Anna-Maria leaned on the car door when he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the keys. It wasn’t that easy to take deep breaths when the air was so cold it actually took your breath away, but she had to try and relax. Her stomach had grown as hard as a snowball on the short walk from the autopsy out to the car.

“The Church of All Our Strength has three pastors,” said Sven-Erik, groping in his other pocket. “They have informed us that they are available to receive the police for the purpose of interrogation. They are setting aside one hour, no more. And they have no intention of being interrogated individually; all three of them will talk to us together. They say they wish to cooperate, but—”

“But they have no intention of cooperating,” supplied Anna-Maria.

“What the hell do you do?” wondered Sven-Erik. “Go in hard, or what?”

“No, because then the whole community will just shut up like a giant clam. But you have to wonder why they’re not prepared to speak to us one-on-one.”

“No idea. One of them did explain. Gunnar Isaksson, his name was. But I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. Maybe you can ask when we meet them. Bloody hell, Anna-Maria, I should have had them dragged out of bed first thing this morning.”

“No,” replied Anna-Maria, shaking her head thoughtfully. “You couldn’t have done anything differently.”

The Aurora Borealis was still swirling its veils of white and green across the sky.

“It’s just unbelievable,” she said, tipping her head backwards. “It’s been like this all winter. Have you ever known anything like it?”

“No, but it’s these sun storms,” replied Sven-Erik. “It looks fantastic, but any day now they’re bound to decide it causes cancer. We should probably be walking around with a silver parasol to protect us from the radiation.”

“Now, that would really suit you,” laughed Anna-Maria.

They got into the car.

“On that particular subject,” Sven-Erik went on, “how are things with Pohjanen?”

“I don’t know, it wasn’t really the right time to ask.”

“No, of course not.”

He can ask Pohjanen himself, thought Anna-Maria crossly.

Sven-Erik parked below the church and they began to walk up the hill. The piles of snow by the side of the path had disappeared, and the tracks of both people and dogs crisscrossed the snow all around the church. The whole area had been searched for the murder weapon, in the hope that whoever had murdered Viktor Strandgård would have thrown away the weapon outside the church, or perhaps buried it in a mound of snow But nothing had been found.

“What if we don’t find a weapon,” said Sven-Erik, slowing down as he noticed that Anna-Maria was out of breath. “Can you get a conviction for murder these days if there’s no technical proof?”

“Just remember what happened to the guy everybody said had murdered Olof Palme,” puffed Anna-Maria.

Sven-Erik gave a hollow laugh.

“Oh, that’s made me feel so much better.”

“Have you found the sister yet?”

“No, but von Post says he’s arranged for her to come in at eight o’clock this evening to be interviewed, so we’ll see what comes of that.”

A
nna-Maria Mella and Sven-Erik Stålnacke entered the church of The Source of All Our Strength at ten minutes past five in the afternoon. The three pastors were sitting in a row right at the front of the church, their faces turned toward the altar. There were also three other people in the church. A middle-aged woman was dragging an unwieldy vacuum cleaner as it droned and roared over the carpets. Anna-Maria thought she looked skinny in her old-fashioned tights and a pale lilac knitted cotton sweater that almost came down to her knees. From time to time the woman had to switch off the vacuum cleaner and get down on her hands and knees to pick up bits of rubbish that were too big for the hose. Then there was another middle-aged woman, much more elegant, in a smart skirt, well-pressed blouse and matching cardigan. She was walking up and down the rows of chairs and placing a photocopied sheet on each seat. The third person was a young man. He appeared to be wandering aimlessly around, talking to himself. He held a Bible in his hand. Every so often he stopped in front of a chair, reached out his hand and seemed to be talking to it in an agitated manner, but no sound came from his lips. Or he stopped dead, raised the Bible up toward the ceiling and gabbled out loud a series of phrases that were completely incomprehensible to Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria. When they walked past him, he gave them a filthy look. The blood-soaked rug was still lying in the aisle, but someone had moved the chairs so that it was easy to get by without walking where the body had been.

“So, this is the Holy Trinity, then,” said Sven-Erik in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere as the three pastors rose to greet them, their faces serious.

None of them gave the slightest hint of a smile.

When they were seated Anna-Maria jotted down their names with a short description in her notebook so that she’d remember afterward who was who and who said what. A tape recorder was out of the question. It was probably going to be difficult enough to get anything out of them as it was.

“Thomas Söderberg,” she wrote, “dark, good-looking, trendy glasses. Forty-something. Vesa Larsson, forty-something, the only one who isn’t wearing a suit and tie. Flannel shirt and leather waistcoat. Gunnar Isaksson. Pudgy, beard. About fifty.”

She thought about their handshakes. Thomas Söderberg had pressed her hand firmly, met her eyes steadily and held on for a moment. He was used to inspiring trust. She wondered how he would react if the police indicated that they didn’t quite believe something he said. His suit looked expensive.

Vesa Larsson’s handshake was flaccid. He wasn’t used to shaking hands. When their hands met he had actually made his greeting through a brief nod that preceded the handshake, and he was already looking at Sven-Erik.

Gunnar Isaksson had nearly crushed her hand in his. And it wasn’t the unconscious strength you sometimes find in men.

He’s just afraid of seeming weak, thought Anna-Maria.

“Before we start I’d like to know why you wish to be interviewed together,” asked Anna-Maria by way of introduction.

“This thing that’s happened is just terrible,” said Vesa Larsson after a short silence, “but we feel very strongly that the church must stand together in the days to come. This applies to us, the three pastors, most of all. There are powerful forces that will attempt to sow discord, and we intend to give these forces as few openings as possible.”

“I quite understand,” said Sven-Erik in a tone of voice that conveyed quite clearly that he didn’t understand in the slightest.

Anna-Maria looked at Sven-Erik as he pushed his lips forward, his moustache protruding like a big scrubbing brush beneath his nose.

Vesa Larsson fiddled with a button on his leather waistcoat and glanced sideways at Thomas Söderberg. Thomas Söderberg didn’t look at him, but nodded thoughtfully at what had just been said.

Aha, thought Anna-Maria, Pastor Söderberg approves of Vesa’s reply. It isn’t difficult to see who’s pulling the strings in this particular setup.

“Can you explain how the church is actually organized?” asked Anna-Maria.

“God is at the top,” replied Gunnar Isaksson in a loud voice full of faith, pointing upward. “The church has three pastors, that’s us, and five elders. If we were to compare it with a company, you could say that God is the owner, we three are the managing directors and the elders form the board.”

“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.