Maja Söderberg is sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of the night. Well, maybe “sitting” is not the right word. Her bottom is certainly on the chair, but her upper body is sprawled across the table and her legs are dangling beneath the chair. Her cheek is resting on one hand, and she is staring at the pattern on the wallpaper as it grows and shrinks, fades and returns. In front of her is a bottle of vodka. It hasn’t been easy for an unpracticed drinker like her to get so much down. But she did it. First of all she cried and sniveled. But now it’s better. Some kind soul has injected the stuff the dentist uses straight into her brain.
Then she hears Thomas coming up the stairs. The evening services during the Miracle Conference are long, drawn-out affairs. The services go on until late. Then people sit in the café and chat. And then there are always a few ardent souls who stay on and pray until the small hours. It’s important for Thomas to be there then. She understands that. She understands everything.
She can hear him treading carefully on the stairs so as not to disturb the neighbors in the middle of the night. He’s so damned considerate. Of the neighbors.
His footsteps rouse her fury.
Hush, she says. But the fury won’t go back to sleep. It has woken up and is pulling at its chain. Let me loose, it gurgles in a muffled voice. Let me loose and I’ll finish him off.
And then he is standing there beside the kitchen table. His eyes and his mouth are open wide with horror. He looks totally ridiculous. Three gaping holes below his fur hat. She smiles a crooked smile. Has to feel for her mouth with her hand. Yes, her mouth is crooked. How did it end up like that?
“What are you doing?” he asks.
What is she doing? Can’t he see? Drinking, of course. She marched down to the liquor store and spent the whole week’s housekeeping on booze.
He is full of accusations and questions. Where are the children? Does she realize how small this town is? How is he going to explain away his wife buying spirits at the liquor store?
Then her mouth opens and she begins to howl. The numbness in her mouth and her head wears off immediately.
“Shut your fucking mouth!” she screams. “Rebecka’s been here. Do you get it? I’m going to end up in jail.”
He tells her to calm down. To think of the neighbors. That they’re a team, a family. That they’ll get through this together. But she can’t stop screaming now. Curses and swear words that she’s never uttered before come pouring out of her mouth. You bastard. You hypocritical fucking bastard.
Much later, when he is certain that Maja is sleeping like the dead, Thomas picks up the telephone and makes a call.
“It’s Rebecka,” he says. “I can’t allow her to carry on like this.”
It had stopped snowing and begun to blow. A piercing, ice-cold wind raced across the forests and the roads. It swept the snow along with it, smoothing out the whole landscape with a white, even cover. The morning train to Luleå was delayed by several hours, and the neat piles of snow shoveled to one side by the owners of the villas were pushed back onto their driveways, blocking their garage doors. It whistled round the corners of the house in its quest for more snow, and found its way inside the collars of cursing paperboys.
Rebecka Martinsson was plodding over to Sivving’s house. Her shoulders were hunched against the wind, and she kept her head down like a charging animal. Snow was blowing up into her face so that she could hardly see. She was carrying Lova under one arm like a bundle, and in the other hand she was carrying the child’s pink denim rucksack
“I can walk by myself,” whined Lova.
“I know, honey,” said Rebecka. “But we haven’t got time. It’s quicker if I carry you.”
She pushed Sivving’s door open with her elbow and dropped Lova in a heap on the hall floor.
“Hello,” she called, and Bella answered at once with an excited bark.
Sivving appeared in the doorway leading down to the cellar.
“Thanks for taking her,” said Rebecka breathlessly, trying in vain to pull Lova’s shoes off without undoing them. “Useless idiots. They could at least have told me yesterday when I picked her up.”
When she had arrived at nursery with Lova, she’d been informed that the staff had a training day and that none of the children were to attend. That had been exactly one hour before the hearing about Sanna’s arrest, and now she was really pushed for time. Before long the wind would have blown so much snow up against the car that she might not be able to get out. And then she’d never make it in time.
She pulled at Lova’s shoelaces, but Sara had tied double knots when she helped her little sister get dressed.
“Let me do it,” said Sivving. “You’re in a hurry.”
He picked Lova up and sat with her on his knee on a little green wooden chair that completely disappeared under his bulk. Patiently he started to undo the knots.
Rebecka looked gratefully at him. The route march from the nursery to the car and from the car to Sivving had made her hot and sweaty. She could feel her blouse sticking to her body, but there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that she would have time to shower and change her clothes. She had half an hour.
“Now, you’re going to stay here with Sivving, and I’ll be back soon to pick you up, okay?” she said to Lova.
Lova nodded and turned her face up toward Sivving so that she was looking at the underside of his chin.
“Why are you called Sivving?” she asked. “It’s a funny name.”
“Yes, it is,” laughed Sivving. “My real name is Erik.”
Rebecka looked at him in surprise, and forgot that she was in a hurry.
“What?” she said. “Isn’t your name Sivving? Why are you called that, then?”
“Don’t you know?” Sivving smiled. “It was my mother. I was at college in Stockholm, studying to be a mining engineer. Then I moved back home, and was due to start work with LKAB, the mining company. And my mother got a bit above herself. She was proud of me, of course. And she’d had to put up with a lot of nonsense from other people in the village when she sent me away to study. It was really only posh people who sent their children away to study, and they thought there was no call for her to start getting big ideas about herself.”
The memory brought a wry smile to his lips, and he went on:
“Anyway, I rented a room on Arent Grapegatan and my mother sorted out a telephone subscription. And she wrote down my title, and it ended up in the phone book. Civ.eng, civil engineer. Well, you can imagine what they all said to start with: ‘Oh look, it’s civ.eng himself calling to see us.’ But after a while people forgot where the name came from, and I just ended up being called Sivving. And I got used to it. Even Maj-Lis called me Sivving.”
Rebecka looked at him, smiling in amazement.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said.
“Weren’t you in a hurry?” asked Sivving.
She gave a start and shot out through the door.
“Don’t you go killing yourself in that car, you hear?” he called after her through the gale.
“Don’t go putting ideas in my head,” she yelled back, and jumped into the car.
What do I look like, she thought as the car slithered up the tortuous road into town. If only I’d had another half hour to have a shower and put something different on.
She was beginning to know her way into town now. Didn’t need to concentrate a hundred percent, could let her thoughts drift away instead.
Rebecka is lying on her bed with her hands pressed against her stomach.
It wasn’t too bad, she says to herself. And now it’s over.
Strangers dressed in white with soft, impersonal hands. (“Hi, Rebecka, I’m just going to put a cannula in your arm for the drip,” a wad of cold cotton wool against her skin, the nurse’s fingers are cold too, maybe she’s taken a minute to have a quick cigarette out on the balcony in the spring sunshine, “just a sharp prick, that’s it, all done.”)
She had been lying there looking out at the sun as it poured down onto the snow and made the world outside almost unbearably bright. Happiness came floating along down a plastic tube, straight into her arm. All her worries and difficulties drained away, and after a little while two of the people dressed in white came and wheeled her away for the operation.
That was yesterday morning. Now she is lying here with a searing pain in her stomach. She has taken several painkillers, but it doesn’t help. She can’t stop shivering. If she has a shower she’ll get warm. Perhaps it will ease the cramps in her stomach.
In the shower, gouts of blood spurt out of her. She watches them run down her leg, horrified.
She has to go back to the hospital. Another drip in her arm, and she has to stay overnight.
“You’re not in any danger,” says one of the sisters when she notices the thin line of Rebecka’s lips. “An abortion can sometimes lead to an infection afterward. It’s nothing to do with poor hygiene, or anything you’ve done. The antibiotics will sort it out.”
Rebecka tries to smile back at her, but all she can manage is a peculiar grimace.
It isn’t a punishment, she thinks. He isn’t like that. It isn’t a punishment.
Sanna 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.
They 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 leftout 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. Helooks 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.
Anna-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.
“Everything will work out okay,” he said.
“Don’t say everything will work out okay.”
“We’ll move, then. You and me and the baby. We’ll leave this untidy house. The kids’ll be all right for a while. And then I’m sure society will intervene and find them some decent foster parents.”
Anna-Maria laughed out loud, then blew her nose loudly on a rough piece of kitchen roll.
“Or we could ask my mother to move in here,” said Robert.
“Never.”
“She’d do the cleaning.”
Anna-Maria laughed.
“Never in a million years.”
“Empty the dishwasher. Iron my socks. Give you good advice.”
Robert got up and threw the apple peel in the sink.
Why can’t he just throw it straight in the bin? she thought tiredly.
“Come on, let’s take the kids and go for a pizza. We can drop you at the station afterward and you can go through the Miracle lot this evening.”
When Sara and Rebecka walked into Sivving’s kitchen on Friday afternoon, he and Lova were busy waxing skis. Sivving was holding a white cake of paraffin wax up against a little travel iron, letting it drip onto the skis, which were held in a waxing clamp. Then he carefully spread the paraffin the whole length of the ski with the iron. He put the iron down and held his hand out to Lova without looking at her. Like a surgeon looking down at his patient.
“Scraper,” he said.
Lova passed him the scraper.
“We’re waxing skis,” Lova explained to her older sister as Sivving shaved away the excess paraffin in white curly flakes.
“I can see that,” said Sara, bending down to pat Bella, who was lying on the rag rug in front of the window and playing a tune on the radiator behind her as she wagged her tail.
“So,” Rebecka said to Sivving, “you’ve moved into the kitchen.”
“Well,” he said, “this particular job takes up a lot of space. It might be an idea if you say hello to Bella as well before she wriggles out of her skin. I’ve told her to stay put, so she doesn’t knock the skis over or run around among the flakes of paraffin. Okay, Lova, now you can pass me the glide wax.”
He picked up the iron from the draining board and melted more paraffin onto the skis.
“Right, chicken, now you can take your skis and put on one layer of blue kick wax.”
Rebecka stooped down to Bella and scratched under her chin.
“Are you hungry?” asked Sivving. “There’s cinnamon buns and milk.”
Rebecka and Sara sat on the wooden sofa with a glass of milk each, waiting for the microwave to ping.
“Are you going skiing?” asked Rebecka.
“No,” said Sivving, “you are. The wind’s going to drop tomorrow. I thought we could take the snowmobile and follow the river up to the cabin in Jiekajärvi. Then you can do a bit of skiing. You haven’t been up there for years and years.”
Rebecka took the cinnamon buns out of the microwave and placed them straight on the pine table in a pile. They were much too hot, but she and Sara tore off chunks and dunked them in the cold milk. Lova was rubbing away at her skis.
“I’d love to go up to Jiekajärvi, but I’ve got to do some work tomorrow as well,” said Rebecka, blinking.
The headache was like being stabbed behind the eyes with a chisel. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. Sivving glanced at her. Looked at the half-eaten bun next to her glass of milk. He passed Lova the cork and showed her how to smooth out the wax under her skis.
“Listen,” he said to Rebecka, “you go upstairs and lie down for a bit. The girls and I will go out with Bella, then I’ll sort out some food.”
Rebecka went up to the bedroom. Sivving and Maj-Lis’s double bed stood there in the silent room, neatly made and empty. The big rounded knobs on the pine headboard had grown dark and shiny with many years’ use. She had the urge to place her hand on one of them. The gray sky was shutting out most of the daylight, and the room was dark. She lay down on top of the bed and pulled the woolen rug that was folded up at the bottom of the bed over her. She was tired and frozen and her head was pounding. Restlessly she fumbled for her cell phone and checked her messages. The first was from Måns Wenngren.
“I didn’t need a horse’s head,” he drawled. “But I did promise that journalist first pop at the story if she dropped the complaint.”
“What story?” snapped Rebecka.
She waited for him to say something else, but the message was over, and an expressionless voice in her ear was telling her the time of the next message.
What were you expecting? she sneered at herself. That he was going to whisper sweet nothings and make small talk?
The next message was from Sanna.
“Hi,” said Sanna tersely. “I’ve just heard from Anna-Maria that the girls are going to be interviewed. And they’re dragging somebody from the Child Psych team in. I don’t want it to happen, and I’m surprised you haven’t spoken to me about it. Unfortunately things don’t seem to be working out with you and me, so I’ve decided that Mum and Dad can look after the girls for the time being.”
Rebecka switched off the phone without listening to her other messages. There was a knock on the door, and Sivving popped his head round. He looked at her lying there, and stared at the telephone in her hand.
“I think we need to swap that for a proper teddy bear,” he said. “It’ll do you good to come out to Jiekajärvi. There’s no reception there, so you might as well leave it at home. I was just going to say the food will be ready in an hour, and I’ll come and wake you. Now get some sleep.”
Rebecka looked at him.
“Don’t go,” she said. “Talk to me about my grandmother.”
Sivving went over to the wardrobe, took out another woolen blanket and spread it over Rebecka. Then he took the telephone off her and placed it on the bedside table.
“People round here never used to think that Albert, your grandfather, would get married,” he said. “He always used to sit in the corner with his cap in his hand when he went visiting, never said a word. He was the only one of the brothers that stayed on the farm with his father. And his father, your grandfather’s father, Emil, he was a real hard man. We lads were terrified of him. Hell, one time when he caught us playing poker in the sandpit, I thought he was going to pull my ear clean off my head. He was a really strict Laestadian. But anyway, Albert went off to a funeral in Junosuando, and when he came back there was something different about him. He still didn’t say anything, just like before. But it was as if he was sitting there smiling to himself, although his mouth never moved, if you see what I mean. He’d met your grandmother. And that summer he went off several times to visit relatives in Kuoksu. Emil was furious when Albert disappeared right in the middle of the harvest. In the end she came to visit. And you know what Theresia was like. When it came to work, there was nobody to beat her. Anyway, I don’t know how it came about, but suddenly she and Emil were out there cutting one half each of the old sheep pasture, you know, the meadow between the potato field and the river. It was like a competition. I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was quite late in the summer, the blackflies had arrived and it was just before supper, so they were biting well. We lads stood there watching. And Isak, Emil’s brother, he was there too. You never got to meet him. Pity. They worked in silence, Emil and Theresia, each with their own scythe. The rest of us kept quiet too. All you could hear were the insects and the evening cry of the swallows.”
“Did she win?” asked Rebecka.
“No, but in a way, neither did Emil. He finished first, but your grandmother wasn’t far behind. And Isak ran his hand over the stubble on his chin and said, ‘Well, Emil, we’d better put the ram out on your half.’ Emil had rushed ahead with his scythe like a fury, but he hadn’t made a very good job of it. But your grandmother’s half looked as if she’d crawled over the meadow on her knees with a pair of nail scissors. So, now you know how she won the respect of your grandfather’s father.”
“Tell me some more,” begged Rebecka.
“Another time.” Sivving smiled. “Now you need to sleep for a while.”
He closed the door behind him.
How am I supposed to sleep? thought Rebecka.
She had the distinct impression that Anna-Maria Mella had lied to her. Or maybe not lied, but kept something back. And why was Sanna lashing out now that the girls were going to be interviewed? Was it for the same reason as Rebecka, that she had no confidence in von Post? Or was it because a child psychologist was going to be involved? Why had somebody sent a card to Viktor saying that what they’d done wasn’t wrong in the eyes of God? Why had the same person threatened Rebecka? Or maybe it wasn’t a threat, maybe it was a warning? She tried to remember exactly what it had said on the note.
God, I can’t possibly sleep, she thought, gazing up at the ceiling.
But the next minute she had fallen into a deep sleep.
She was woken by a thought, opened her eyes to the darkness be-neath the ceiling and lay completely still so as not to frighten it away.
It was something Anna-Maria Mella had said. "We have only circumstantial evidence."
"If you only have circumstantial evidence, what is it you need?" she whispered to the ceiling.
Motive. And what kind of motive could you uncover by interviewing Sanna’s daughters?
The realization dropped into her brain like a coin in a wishing well. It floated down through the water and settled on the bottom. The ripples on the surface died away, and the picture was crystal clear.
Viktor and the girls. Rebecka pushed the thought away. It just wasn’t possible. And yet, it was horribly possible.
She remembered how things had been when she arrived in Kurravaara. Lova dousing herself and the dog with soap. And hadn’t Sanna said she always carried on like that? Didn’t that seem like a typical thing to do for children who…
She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.
She suddenly thought of Sanna. Sanna, with her provocative clothes. And her heavy-handed, dangerous daddy.
How could I not have seen it, she thought. The family. The family secret. It can’t be true. It must be true.
But still, Sanna couldn’t have killed Viktor on her own. Sanna couldn’t have managed it, even if she’d wanted to.
She remembered the time Sanna had bought a toaster that didn’t work.
She couldn’t bring herself to take it back, she thought. If I hadn’t taken it she would have just kept quiet and held on to it.
She sat up on the bed, thinking. If Sanna didn’t want the children interviewed, then her parents were probably on the way here already. Presumably they’d already been to her grandmother’s house, rattling the door handle. And they were bound to be back any minute.
She picked up her cell phone and rang Anna-Maria Mella. She answered on her direct line at work. Sounded tired.
“I can’t explain,” said Rebecka, “but if you do want to interview the children, I can come in with them tomorrow. After that it’s going to be difficult for you.”
Anna-Maria kept her questions to herself.
“Fine” was all she said. “I’ll sort it out.”
They arranged a time for the following day, and Rebecka promised to bring the children in.
That’s it, then, thought Rebecka as she got up. Sorry, Sanna, but I won’t be checking my messages till tomorrow afternoon. So I still don’t know that you want your parents to take the girls.
She had to keep out of the way until the following day. She couldn’t stay here with the girls. Sanna had been to Sivving’s house.
At the police station Anna-Maria Mella was sitting in front of the computer, going through the matches for the participants in the conference. The corridor outside her room was in darkness. Next to her on the desk lay a half-eaten tuna pizza in its greasy box. There were matches for a surprising number of those involved in the Miracle Conference on the criminal records register, the register of suspects and the antisocial-behavior records. Most were drug-related offenses linked to theft and violence.
Reformed junkies and thugs, thought Anna-Maria.
She had written down the names and ID numbers of a few people she thought were worth following up.
Just when she had decided to ring Robert, her eye caught a note on a murder case. The verdict had been returned by the court in Gävle. Twelve years ago. Sentence: placed in a secure psychiatric unit. Nothing since then.
I wonder, she thought. Is he out on parole, or has he been discharged? I must check up on him.
She picked up the phone and rang home. Marcus answered. Sounded disappointed when it was only his mother.
“Tell Dad I’ll be late,” she said.
Rebecka went down to the kitchen. Sivving was just laying the table for dinner. He was putting out the same Duralex glasses, the cutlery with the black Bakelite handles and the everyday china with the yellow flowers that she remembered from when she was little. She’d often sat here in the kitchen talking to Maj-Lis and Sivving.
“It’s meatballs,” he said.
“I’m absolutely starving,” said Rebecka. “It smells terrific.”
“Two-thirds elk mince and one-third beef.”
“Where are the girls?”
He nodded toward the big room.
“Sivving,” said Rebecka, “can I borrow your snowmobile and the sledge trailer? I’m going up to the cabin in Jiekajärvi with the girls this evening.”
Sivving put the cast-iron pan on the table. He used a folded tea towel with Maj-Lis’s initials embroidered on it in red cross-stitch as a table mat.
“Has something happened?” he asked.
Rebecka nodded.
“We’re not in any danger,” she said. “But we can’t stay here. If Sanna’s parents come here asking for us, you don’t know where we are.”
“I see,” said Sivving. “There are padded scooter overalls here for both you and the children. And I’ll give you some food and dry wood to take with you. Bella and I will follow you up early tomorrow morning. But I’m not letting you go without some food inside you.”
Rebecka went into the other room. Lova and Sara had spread a newspaper out on the folding table and were painting stones with intense concentration. In the middle of the table lay a finished stone as an example. It was slightly bigger than a man’s clenched fist, and on it was painted a curled-up cat with big turquoise eyes.
“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.”
At 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.
Curt 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.
Anna-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.