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.
R ebecka 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.
S he 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 left out 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.