“He isn’t ‘my’ Johan. Nice and grateful now, otherwise you won’t find out a thing.”
“I am nice and grateful,” said Rebecka meekly. “Tell me.”
“Okay, he said the church had only ticked the box to indicate that it’s a nonprofit-making organization.”
“Damn,” said Rebecka.
“I’ve never had anything to do with nonprofit-making organizations and foundations and that sort of stuff. What does it mean?” asked Maria.
“It means it’s a nonprofit-making organization that exists for the public good, so it isn’t liable for income or capital tax. So it doesn’t have to submit a tax declaration, nor a statement of accounts. It’s impossible to get any kind of access to its affairs.”
“With regard to Viktor Strandgård, he had a very modest salary from the church. Johan checked back two years. No other income. No capital. No property, and no shares.”
Sivving was coming across the yard. His fur hat was pulled well down over his eyes, and he was dragging a snow rake behind him. The dogs raced to meet him and scampered playfully around his feet. Rebecka waved, but he had his eyes fixed on the ground and didn’t see her.
“The pastors take forty-five thousand kronor a month.”
“That’s a damn good salary for a pastor,” said Rebecka.
“Thomas Söderberg has quite a large share portfolio, about half a million. And he owns some land out on Värmdö.”
“Värmdö Stockholm?” asked Rebecka.
“Yes, value for tax purposes four hundred and twenty. But it could be worth just about anything. The taxation value of Vesa Larsson’s house is one point two million. It’s quite new. The value was set last year in a specific property taxation arrangement. He’s got a loan of a million. Presumably on the house.”
“What about Gunnar Isaksson?” asked Rebecka.
“Nothing special. A few bonds, some savings in the bank.”
“Okay,” said Rebecka. “Anything else as far as the church goes? Does it own any companies or anything?”
Sivving appeared behind Rebecka.
“Hello there!” he boomed. “Talking to yourself?”
“Hang on a minute,” said Rebecka to Maria.
She turned to Sivving. Only a tiny part of his face was visible above his scarf. A little snowdrift had already formed on the top of his cap.
“I’m on the phone,” she said, pointing at the wire to her earpiece. “I can’t get the car out. The wheels were just spinning around when I tried to start it.”
“You’re on the phone on that wire thing?” he asked. “Good Lord, soon they’ll be operating to put a telephone inside your head the second you’re born. You carry on, I’ll start clearing.”
He started dragging the rake across the ground in front of the car.
“Hi,” said Rebecka into the phone.
“I’m still here,” replied Maria. “The church owns nothing, but I checked out the pastors and their families. The wives are part owners in a trading company. Victory Print.”
“Did you check it out?”
“No, but its tax records are in the public domain, so you can call the local tax office. I didn’t want to ask Johan again. He wasn’t that keen on asking for information from another tax authority’s transaction network.”
“Thanks a million,” said Rebecka. “I’ve got to give Sivving a hand now. I’ll call you.”
“Be careful,” said Maria, and hung up.
Slowly the night abandoned Sanna Strandgård. Slipped away. Out through the reinforced window and the heavy steel door, leaving room for the unforgiving day. It would be a while before it grew light outside. A faint glow from the street lamps outside pushed its way in through the window and hovered like a shadow beneath the ceiling. Sanna lay motionless on her bunk.
Just a little bit longer, she prayed, but merciful sleep was gone.
She felt as if her face was completely numb. Her hand crept out from under the blanket and she caressed her lips. Pretended her hand was Sara’s soft hair. Let her nose remember the scent of Lova. She still smelled like a child, although she was turning into a big girl. Her body relaxed and sank into her memories. The bedroom at home in the flat. All four of them in the bed. Lova, with her arms around Sanna’s neck. Sara, curled up behind her back. And Virku lying on Sara’s feet. The little black paws, galloping in her sleep. Every single thing was tattooed on her skin, imprinted on the insides of her hands and her lips. Whatever happened, her body would remember.
Rebecka, she thought. I won’t lose them. Rebecka will fix it. I won’t cry. There’s no point.
An hour later the cell door was tentatively pushed open a fraction. Light poured in through the gap, and someone whispered:
“Are you awake?”
It was Anna-Maria Mella. The policewoman with the long plait and the huge stomach.
Sanna answered, and Anna-Maria’s face appeared in the doorway.
“I just thought I’d see if you wanted some breakfast. Tea and a sandwich?”
Sanna said yes, and Anna-Maria disappeared. She left the cell door slightly ajar.
From the corridor Sanna heard the guard’s resigned voice:
“For God’s sake, Mella!”
Then she heard Anna-Maria’s reply:
“Oh, come on. What do you think she’s going to do? Come out here and blast her way through the security door?”
I’ll bet she’s a good mother, thought Sanna. The sort who leaves the door open a bit so the children can hear her moving about in the kitchen. The sort who leaves a light on by the bed if they’re scared of the dark.
After a while Anna-Maria Mella came back with two gherkin sandwiches in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. She had a file clamped under one arm, and pushed the door shut with her foot. The mug was chipped, and once upon a time had belonged to “The Best Grandmother in the World.”
“Wow,” said Sanna gratefully, sitting up. “I thought it was just bread and water in jail.”
“This is bread and water,” laughed Anna-Maria. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
Sanna gestured invitingly toward the foot of the bunk, and Anna-Maria sat down. She placed the file on the floor.
“It’s dropped,” said Sanna between mouthfuls of tea, nodding at Anna-Maria’s stomach. “It’s nearly time.”
“Yes.” Anna-Maria smiled.
There was a comfortable silence between them. Sanna took small bites of her sandwich. The gherkin crunched between her teeth. Anna-Maria gazed out of the window at the heavy snow.
“The murder of your brother was so-how shall I put it-religious,” said Anna-Maria thoughtfully. “Ritualistic, somehow.”
Sanna stopped chewing. The piece of sandwich stuck in her mouth like a huge lump.
“The gouged-out eyes, the severed hands, all the stab wounds,” Anna-Maria went on. “The place where the body was lying. Right in the middle of the aisle, in front of the altar. And no sign of struggle or violence.”
“Like a sacrificial lamb,” said Sanna quietly.
“Exactly,” agreed Anna-Maria. “It made me think of a place in the Bible, ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ ”
“It’s in one of the Books of Moses,” said Sanna, reaching for her Bible, which was on the floor next to her bunk.
She searched for a moment, then she read out loud:
“ ‘And if any harm follow, then thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth…’ ”
She paused and read silently to herself before continuing:
“ ‘…hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.’ ”
“Who had a reason to take revenge on him?” asked Anna-Maria.
Sanna didn’t reply, but flicked through the Bible, apparently aimlessly.
“They often put out people’s eyes in the Old Testament,” she said. “The Philistines put out Samson’s eyes. The Ammonites offered the besieged people of Rabbah peace, on condition that they were allowed to put out the right eye of every single one.”