A pile of flowers and cards lay in the central circle.
Viktor is dead, she thought.
Tried to make it seem real.
Viktor is actually dead.
She caught sight of Karin and Maja. Maja was waving eagerly. No chance of escape. The only thing to do was to go over to them. They were wearing dark suits. She had rummaged in her wardrobe and tried things on for an hour. All her suits were red, pink or yellow. She had one dark suit. Navy blue. But she couldn’t zip up the skirt. Finally she settled on a long knitted cardigan that made her look thinner and disguised her hips and bottom. But looking at Karin and Maja, she felt like a mess. A sweaty mess.
“Where’s Vesa?” whispered Maja, before she’d even managed to sit down.
Friendly smile. Dangerous eyes.
“Ill,” she replied. “Flu.”
She could see they didn’t believe her. Maja closed her mouth and breathed in through her nose.
They were right. Her whole body was telling her that she didn’t want to sit there, but she sank down on the chair next to Maja.
Thomas had finished the prayer with the choir and was walking over to them.
So I shall have to answer to him as well, she thought.
She felt a pang as Thomas placed his hand on Maja’s arm and greeted her with a quick, warm smile. Then he asked about Vesa. Astrid replied again: ill; flu. He gazed at her sympathetically.
Poor me, having such a weak husband, she thought.
“If you’re worried about him, go home,” said Thomas.
She shook her head obediently.
“Worried.” She tried out the word.
No, she should have been worried several years ago. But at the time she’d been fully occupied with the children and the house being built. And by the time she discovered that she had reason to worry, it was already too late and time to begin grieving. To get over the grief of being abandoned in her marriage. Learn to live with the shame of not being good enough for Vesa.
It was the shame. That was what made her sit next to Maja, although she didn’t want to. Made her stand in front of the freezer with the door open, stuffing herself with frozen cakes when the children were at school.
They did still sleep with each other, although it was rare. But it happened in the dark. In silence.
And this morning. The kids had gone off to school. Vesa had been sleeping in the studio. When she brought in the coffee he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his flannel pajamas. Unshaven, eyes tired. Deep lines around the corners of his mouth. His long, fine artist’s hands resting on his knees. The floor around the bed littered with books. Expensive, beautifully bound art books with thick shiny pages. Several about icons. Thin paperbacks from their own publishing firm. In the beginning Vesa had designed the covers. Then he’d suddenly decided he didn’t have the time.
She had put the tray of coffee and sandwiches down on the floor. Then she had crept up behind him, kneeling on the bed. His hips between her thighs. She had let her dressing gown fall open and pressed her breasts and her cheek against his back while her hands caressed his firm shoulders.
“Astrid,” was all he said.
Troubled and suffering. Filled her name with apologies and feelings of guilt.
She had fled to the kitchen. Switched on the radio and the dishwasher. Picked up Baloo and wept into the dog’s fur.
Thomas Söderberg leaned down toward the three women and lowered his voice.
“Have you heard anything about Sanna?” he asked.
Astrid, Karin and Maja shook their heads.
“Ask Curt Bäckström,” said Astrid. “He’s forever trailing around after her.”
The pastors’ wives turned their heads like periscopes. It was Maja who first caught sight of Curt. She waved and pointed until he reluctantly got up and shambled over to them.
Karin looked at him. He always seemed so anxious. Walked a bit hesitantly. Almost sidling along. As if it might appear too aggressive to approach head-on. Looked at them out of the corner of his eyes, but always glanced away if you tried to meet his gaze.
“Do you know where Sanna is staying?” asked Thomas Söderberg.
Curt shook his head. Answered as well, just to be on the safe side:
“No.”
He was obviously lying. There was fear in his eyes. At the same time, they were resolute. He didn’t intend to reveal his secret.
Like a dog that’s found a bone in the woods, thought Karin.
Curt looked furtively at them. Almost crouching. As if Thomas might suddenly shout “Away” and hit him on the muzzle.
Thomas Söderberg looked disturbed. He twisted his body as if he were trying to shake off the pastors’ wives.
"I just want to know that she’s all right," he said. "Nothing must happen to her."
Curt nodded, and his gaze slid over the seats, which were beginning to fill up. He held up the Bible in his hands and pressed it to his chest.
“I want to bear witness,” he said quietly. “God has something to say.”
Thomas Söderberg nodded.
“If you hear anything from Sanna, tell her I was asking about her,” he said.
Astrid looked at Thomas Söderberg.
And if you hear anything from God, she thought, tell Him I’m asking about Him all the time.
Måns Wenngren, Rebecka Martinsson’s boss, got home late going on early. He’d spent the evening at Sophie’s, treating two young ladies to drinks, along with a representative for one of the law firm’s clients, a computer company specializing in industrial IT that had recently floated on the stock exchange. It was pleasant to deal with that kind of client. Grateful for every cent you managed to keep away from the tax collector. The clients who’d been accused of tax evasion or dubious book-keeping weren’t usually that keen on sitting in a bar with their lawyer. They sat and drank at home instead.
After Sophie’s had closed Måns had shown one of the young ladies, Marika, his nice office, then he had put little Marika in a cab with some money in her hand, and himself in another cab.
When he walked into the dark apartment on Floragatan he thought as usual that he ought to move to something smaller. It was hardly surprising that every time he came home he felt, well, however it was he felt when the apartment was so bloody desolate.
He threw his gray cashmere coat on a chair and flicked on every light on his way to the living room. As he was hardly ever home before eleven at night, the video timer was always set to record the news. He switched on the video, and as Channel 4’s news titles rolled he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Ritva had been shopping. Good. It must be her easiest job, cleaning his flat and making sure there was fresh food in. He never made a mess, except on the rare occasions he invited people back. The food Ritva bought was usually untouched when it was replaced with fresh. He presumed she took the old stuff home to her family before it went off. It was an arrangement that suited him perfectly. He ripped open some milk and drank straight from the carton, one ear on the news. The murder of Viktor Strandgård was the top story.
That’s why Rebecka went up to Kiruna, thought Måns Wenngren, heading back into the living room. He sank down on the sofa in front of the TV, the carton of milk in his hand.
“The religious celebrity Viktor Strandgård was found murdered this morning in the church of The Source of All Our Strength in Kiruna,” announced the newsreader.
She was a well-dressed middle-aged woman who used to be married to someone Måns knew.
“Hi there, Beate, how’s things?” said Måns, raising the milk carton to the screen in a toast and taking a deep draught.
“According to police sources, Viktor Strandgård was found by his sister, and those same sources report that the murder was extremely brutal,” continued the newsreader.