He broke off, feeling distaste wash over him before he went on.
“With Sanna’s girls, then.”
“Why did she miss the beginning?” said Anna-Maria. “Von Post is right, in any case. We have to talk to Sanna Strandgård’s children. She might have had a damned good reason to hate her brother. We need to get in touch with the child protection unit. They can help us talk to the girls.”
When they’d hung up, Sven-Erik stayed at the kitchen table with the cat on his knee.
Shit, he thought. Anything but that.
It was the pastors’ secretary Ann-Gull Kyrö who answered the office telephone at the church when Rebecka rang at quarter past eight in the morning. Rebecka had just dropped the children off and was on her way back to the car. When she asked for Thomas Söderberg, she heard the woman on the other end of the phone inhale sharply.
“Unfortunately,” said Ann-Gull, “he and Gunnar Isaksson are busy with the morning service and cannot be disturbed.”
“Where’s Vesa Larsson?”
“He’s not well today, he’s not to be disturbed either.”
“Perhaps I could leave a message for Thomas Söderberg. I’d like him to ring me; the number is-”
“I’m sorry,” Ann-Gull interrupted her politely. “But during the Miracle Conference the pastors are extremely busy and won’t have time to ring people who are trying to get hold of them.”
“But if I could just explain,” said Rebecka, “I’m representing Sanna Strandgård and-”
The woman on the other end of the line interrupted her again. This time there was a certain element of sharpness beneath the polite tones.
“I know exactly who you are, Rebecka Martinsson,” she said. “But as I said, the pastors have no time during the conference.”
Rebecka clenched her hands.
“You can tell the pastors that I’m not going to disappear just because they’re ignoring me,” she said furiously. “I-”
“I have no intention of telling them anything,” Ann-Gull Kyrö interjected. “And there’s no point in threatening me. This conversation is over. Good-bye.”
Rebecka pulled out her earpiece and pushed it into her coat pocket. She had reached the car. She turned her face up to the sky and let the snowflakes land on her cheeks. After a few seconds she was wet and cold.
You bastards, she thought. I’m not about to slink away like a dog that’s afraid of being beaten. You will talk to me about Viktor. You say I’ve got nothing to threaten you with. We’ll see about that.
Thomas Söderberg lived with his wife, Maja, and their two daughters in an apartment in the middle of town, above a clothes shop. Rebecka’s footsteps echoed on the stairs as she made her way up to the top floor. Shell-colored fossils were inlaid in the brown stone. The nameplates were all made of brass, and etched in the same neat, italic script. It was the kind of silent stairwell where you can just imagine the elderly residents inside their stuffy apartments, ears pressed to the door, wondering who’s there.
Pull yourself together, Rebecka said to herself. There’s no point in wondering whether you want to do this or not. You’ve just got to get it over with. Like a visit to the dentist. Open wide and it’ll soon be over. She pressed the bell on the door marked “Söderberg.” For a split second she thought that Thomas might open the door, and suppressed the urge to turn tail and run down the stairs.
It was Maja Söderberg’s sister, Magdalena, who opened the door.
“Rebecka” was all she said. She didn’t look surprised. Rebecka got the feeling she was expected. Perhaps Thomas had asked his sister-in-law to take some time off work, and installed her as a guard dog to protect his little family. Magdalena hadn’t changed. Her hair was cut in the same practical pageboy bob as it had been ten years ago. She was wearing unfashionable jeans tucked into a pair of hand-knitted woolen kneesocks.
She’s sticking to her own special style, thought Rebecka. If there’s anyone who isn’t about to fall for the idea of dressing for success and slipping on a pair of high heels, it’s Magdalena. If she’d been born in the nineteenth century she’d have worn her well-starched nurse’s uniform all the time and paddled her own canoe along the rivers to the godforsaken villages with her super-size syringe in her bag.
“I’ve come to talk to Maja,” said Rebecka.
“I don’t think you’ve got anything to talk about,” said Magdalena, holding firmly onto the door handle with one hand and resting the other on the doorjamb so that Rebecka wouldn’t be able to get past her.
Rebecka raised her voice so that it could be heard in the flat.
“Tell Maja I want to talk to her about Victory Print. I want to give her the chance to persuade me not to go to the police.”
“Right, I’m closing the door,” said Magdalena angrily.
Rebecka placed her hand on the door frame.
“You’ll break my fingers if you do,” she said so loudly that it bounced off the walls of the stairwell. “Come on, Magdalena. See if Maja wants to talk to me. Tell her it’s about her holdings in the company.”
“I’m closing it,” said Magdalena threateningly, pulling the door back slightly as if she were going to slam it. “If your hand’s still there, you’ve only yourself to blame.”
You won’t do it, thought Rebecka. You’re a nurse.
R ebecka sits down and flicks through a magazine. It’s from last year. It doesn’t matter. She isn’t reading it anyway. After a while the nurse who first saw her comes back and closes the door behind her. Rosita is her name.
“You’re pregnant, Rebecka,” says Rosita. “If you’ve decided to have an abortion, we need to book you in for a D & C.”
D & C. That means they’re going to scrape Johanna out of her womb.
It’s when Rebecka is on her way out that it happens. Before she manages to get past reception, she bumps into Magdalena. Magdalena stops in the corridor to say hello. Rebecka stops and returns her greeting. Magdalena asks if Rebecka is coming to choir practice on Thursday, and Rebecka looks uncomfortable, makes excuses.
Magdalena doesn’t ask what Rebecka is doing at the hospital. That’s how Rebecka realizes that Magdalena knows. It’s the things you don’t say. That’s what always gives a person away.
“Let her in. The neighbors must be wondering what the hell’s going on.”
Maja appeared behind Magdalena. The years had etched two hard lines around the corners of her mouth. They grew even deeper as she contemplated Rebecka.
“You can keep your coat on,” said Maja. “You won’t be staying long.”
They sat down in the kitchen. It was spacious, with new white cupboards and a central island. Rebecka wondered whether the children were in school. Rakel must be in her early teens, and Anna should be at high school by now. Time had passed here too.
“Shall I make some tea?” asked Magdalena.
“No, thank you,” replied Maja.
Magdalena sank back onto her chair. Her hands moved to the cloth and brushed away nonexistent crumbs.
You poor thing, thought Rebecka, looking at Magdalena. You ought to get your own life, instead of being one of this family’s possessions.
Maja stared stonily at Rebecka.
“What do you want with me?” she asked.
“I want to ask you about Viktor,” said Rebecka. “He-”
“Just now you were standing out there showing us up in front of the neighbors and playing hell about Victory Print. What did you want to say about it?”
Rebecka took a deep breath.
“I’ll tell you what I think I know. And then you can tell me if I’m right.”
Maja snorted.
“According to the tax records I’ve seen, Victory Print has reclaimed VAT from the state,” said Rebecka. “A great deal of VAT. That indicates that considerable investments have been made in the company.”