Åsa Larsson - Sun Storm aka The Savage Altar

But there were other inconsistencies. Why, for example, had Vesa Larsson said that nothing was troubling Viktor Strandgård if Thomas Söderberg was supposed to be his "spiritual mentor," and therefore must have been the one who knew him best?

When Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria left the church and were making their way down to the car park, the woman who had been vacuuming came running after them. She had only socks and clogs on her feet, and half ran, half slid down the slope to catch them.

“I heard you asking if he had any enemies,” she panted.

“Yes?” asked Sven-Erik.

“He did,” she said, seizing Sven-Erik’s arm in a viselike grip. “And now he’s dead, the enemy will be even stronger. I myself can feel how I am beset by the foe.”

She let go of Sven-Erik and flung her arms around herself in a vain attempt to keep out the bitter cold. She hadn’t put on any sort of coat or jacket. She bent her knees slightly to keep her balance on the slope. If she leaned backwards even slightly the clogs began to slip.

“Beset?” asked Anna-Maria.

“By demons,” said the woman. “They want to make me start smoking again. I used to be possessed by the tobacco demon, but Viktor Strandgård laid hands upon me and freed me.”

Anna-Maria looked at her, completely exhausted. She couldn’t cope with a mad person right now.

“We’ll make a note of it,” she said tersely, and started to walk toward the car.

Sven-Erik stayed where he was and took his notebook out of the inside pocket of his fleece.

“He was the one who killed Viktor,” said the woman.

“Who?” asked Sven-Erik.

“The Prince of Demons,” she whispered. “Satan. He is trying to force his way in.”

Sven-Erik shoved the notebook back in his pocket and took hold of the woman’s ice-cold hands.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, why don’t you go back inside, so you don’t freeze to death.”

“I just wanted to tell you about it,” the woman called after them.

Inside the church the pastors were engaged in a loud discussion.

“We can’t do it like this!” shouted Gunnar Isaksson agitatedly, dogging Thomas Söderberg’s footsteps as he walked around the black bloodstain on the floor and moved the chairs so that the dark impression of Viktor Strandgård’s death ended up almost as if it were in the middle of a circus ring.

“Yes, we can,” said Thomas Söderberg calmly, and, turning toward the well-dressed woman, he went on:

“Take the rug away from the aisle. Leave the bloodstain as it is. Go and buy three roses and place them on the floor. I want the church rearranged completely. I shall stand beside the spot where he died and preach. I want the chairs in a circle.”

"You’ll have the congregation all around you," squeaked Gunnar Isaksson. "Do you expect people to sit and look at your back?"

Thomas Söderberg went over to the pudgy little man and placed his hands on his shoulders.

You little shit, he thought. You’re not a gifted enough orator to speak in an arena. A theater. A marketplace. You have to have everybody sitting right there in front of you, and a lectern to hang on to if it gets tricky. But I can’t let your inadequacy get in my way.

“Remember what we said, brother,” said Thomas Söderberg to Gunnar Isaksson. “We must hold fast now. I promise you this will work. People will be allowed to weep, to call out to God, and we-God-will triumph tonight. Tell your wife to bring a flower to place on the spot where his body lay.”

The atmosphere will be incredible, thought Thomas Söderberg.

He made a mental note to get several more people to bring flowers and lay them on the floor. It would be just like the spot where Olof Palme was murdered.

Pastor Vesa Larsson was still sitting in exactly the same spot as during the conversation with the police, leaning forward. He took no part in the heated discussion, but sat there with his face buried in his hands. He might possibly have been crying, it was difficult to see.

Rebecka and Sanna were sitting in the car on the way into town. Gray pine trees, weighed down with snow, swept past in the beam of the headlights. The uncomfortable silence was like a shrinking room. The walls and the ceiling were moving inward and downward. With each passing minute it became more difficult to breathe properly. Rebecka was driving. Her eyes flicked back and forth between the speedometer and the road. The intense cold meant that the road wasn’t slippery at all, despite being covered with packed snow.

Sanna sat with her cheek resting on the cold window, winding a lock of her hair tightly around her finger.

“Can’t you just say something,” she said after a while.

“I’m not used to driving on roads like this,” said Rebecka. “I find it difficult to talk and drive at the same time.”

She could hear how obvious the lie was, as clear as a reef just below the surface of the water. But it didn’t matter. Perhaps that’s what she wanted. She looked at the clock. Quarter to eight.

Don’t start anything, she told herself firmly. You’ve rescued Sanna. Now you have to row her to the shore.

“Do you think the girls will be all right?” she asked.

“They’ll have to be,” replied Sanna, straightening up in her seat. “And we won’t be long, will we? I daren’t ring anybody to ask for help; the fewer people who know where I am, the better.”

“Why?”

“I’m frightened of journalists. I know what they can be like. And then there’s Mum and Dad… but let’s talk about something else.”

“Do you want to talk about Viktor? About what happened?”

“No. I’ll be telling the police soon anyway. We’ll talk about you, that’ll calm me down. How are things with you? Is it really seven years since we saw each other?”

“Mmm,” replied Rebecka. “But we’ve had the odd chat on the phone.”

“To think you’ve still got the house in Kurravaara.”

“Well, Uncle Affe and Inga-Lill don’t think they can afford to buy me out. I think they’re annoyed because they’re the only ones putting work and money into the house. But on the other hand, they’re the only ones getting any pleasure out of it as well. I’d like to sell it really. To them or to somebody else, it’s all the same to me.”

She wondered whether what she had just said was true. Did she really get no pleasure from her grandmother’s house, or from the cottage in Jiekajärvi? Just because she was never there? Just the thought of the cottage, the idea that there was somewhere that belonged to her, far away from civilization, deep in the wilderness, beyond marsh and forest, wasn’t that a kind of pleasure in itself?

“You look, how shall I put it, really smart,” said Sanna. “And sure of yourself, somehow. Of course, I always thought you were pretty. But now you look as if you’ve come straight out of one of those TV series. Your hair looks great too. I just let mine grow wild, then cut it myself.”

Sanna ran her fingers through her thick, pale curls with an air of self-assurance.

I know, Sanna, thought Rebecka angrily. I know that you’re the fairest in all the land. And that’s without spending a fortune on haircuts and clothes.

"Can’t you just chat a bit," whined Sanna. "I feel absolutely terrible, but I did say sorry. And I’m just rigid with fear. Feel my hands, they’re freezing."

She took one hand out of its sheepskin glove and reached toward Rebecka.

She’s not right in the head, thought Rebecka furiously, keeping her hands firmly clamped on the wheel. She’s totally fucking crazy.

Feel my hand, Rebecka, it’s shaking. It’s really cold. I love you so much, Rebecka. If you were a boy I’d fall in love with you, did you know that?