Åsa Larsson - The Blood Spilt

The church administration in this community had cost an enormous amount. A considerable number of churches and other buildings that had to be maintained, many lawns to be mown, graves dug, gravel paths raked, moss scraped off gravestones and goodness knows what, but all of that cost money. A lot of money. This community had employed a number of people on work placements, or whatever it was called, workers who were sponsored by the state through the department of employment. Anyway, this meant that the community didn’t have high wage costs for these people, so it didn’t really matter if the employees didn’t exactly break into a sweat. But then they’d been taken on as temporary employees by the church, and the church was now responsible for paying the whole of their wages. There were a lot of them, and the majority weren’t exactly working themselves into the ground, if he could put it like that. So they took on more people, but the work ethos had now become such that it no longer allowed people to come in and roll up their sleeves. Anyone who tried soon got frozen out. So it was difficult to get things done. Some of the employees even managed to hold down another full-time job alongside their full-time job with the church. And now the church was suddenly completely separate from the state, the community was an autonomous organization, and had to take responsibility for its own finances in a completely different way. The solution had been to help the community to put the church administration out to contract. Just as many others had done over the past fifteen years.

Torsten went through the exact figures showing how much money had been saved per year. The others exchanged glances.

Right on target, thought Rebecka.

“And,” Torsten went on, “I still haven’t included the saving the church makes by having responsibility for fewer employees. Besides more cash in the coffers, you have more time available for the real work of the church, meeting the spiritual needs of its members in different ways. Parish priests shouldn’t have to be administrators, but they’re often bogged down with that sort of work.”

Bertil Stensson pushed a piece of paper sideways in front of Rebecka.

“You’ve certainly given us plenty to think about,” it said.

Oh yes? thought Rebecka.

What was he up to? Did he want them to sit there scribbling notes to one another like two school kids keeping secrets from the teacher? She smiled and gave a slight nod.

Torsten finished off, answered a few questions.

Bertil Stensson stood up and announced that coffee would be served outside in the sun.

“Those of us who live up here have to seize the opportunity,” he said. “We don’t often get the chance to use our garden furniture.”

He waved them out into the garden and as people made their way out he took Torsten and Rebecka into the living room. Torsten had to look at his Lars Levi Sunna painting. Rebecka Martinsson noticed that the priest gave Stefan Wikström a look that meant: wait outside with the others.

“I think this is just what the community needs,” the priest said to Torsten. “Although I could really do with you now, not in twelve months’ time when all this can actually become a reality.”

Torsten considered the picture. It showed a gentle-eyed reindeer cow suckling her calf. Through the open door to the hall Rebecka could see a woman who had appeared from nowhere carrying out a tray of thermos pots and clinking coffee cups.

“We’ve had a very difficult time within the community,” the priest went on, “I assume you’ve heard about the murder of Mildred Nilsson.

Torsten and Rebecka nodded.

“I need to fill her post,” said the priest. “And it’s no secret that she and Stefan didn’t exactly get on. Stefan is against women priests. I don’t share his opinion, but I have to respect it. And Mildred was our foremost local feminist, if I can put it that way. It was no easy job being in charge of them both. I know there’s a well-qualified woman who’s going to apply for the post when I advertise. I’ve nothing against her, quite the opposite. But for the sake of peace and quiet at work and at home, I want to fill the post with a man.”

“Less well-qualified?” asked Torsten.

“Yes. Can I do that?”

Torsten rubbed his chin without taking his eyes off the picture.

“Of course,” he said calmly. “But if the female applicant you’ve rejected decides to sue, you’ll be liable for compensation.”

“And I’d have to give her the job?”

“No, no. If the job’s gone to the other person, you can’t take it off him. I can find out how much compensation’s been awarded in similar cases. I’ll do it for free.”

“He probably means you’ll be doing it for free,” the priest said to Rebecka with a laugh.

Rebecka smiled politely. The priest turned back to Torsten.

“I’d appreciate that,” he said seriously. “Then there’s another matter. Or two.”

“Shoot,” said Torsten.

“Mildred set up a foundation. We have a she-wolf in the forests around Kiruna, and Mildred felt very strongly about her. The foundation was to support the work of keeping her alive. Paying compensation to the Sami people, helicopter surveillance in conjunction with the Nature Conservancy Council…”

“Yes?”

“The foundation might not be quite so embedded in the community as she might have wished. Not that we’re against having wolves, but we want to maintain an apolitical profile. Everybody, whether they hate wolves or love them, must be able to feel at home within the church.”

Rebecka looked out through the window. The leader of the association of churches was peering in at them curiously. He was holding his saucer under his chin to catch the drips as he drank his coffee. The shirt he was wearing was appalling. Once upon a time it had presumably been beige, but it must have been in the wash with a blue sock.

Good job, he’d been able to find a tie to match it, thought Rebecka.

“We want to dissolve the foundation and use the resources for other projects which fit into the church better,” said the priest.

Torsten promised to pass the question on to someone who was an expert in the law relating to societies and associations.

“And then there’s quite a sensitive issue. Mildred Nilsson’s husband is still living in the priest’s house in Poikkijärvi. It feels terrible to turn him out of house and home, but… well, the house is needed for other things.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s no problem,” said Torsten. “Rebecka, you’re staying for a while, could you take a look at the lease and have a word with… what’s the husband’s name?”

“Erik. Erik Nilsson.”

“If that’s okay?” said Torsten to Rebecka. “Otherwise I can look at it. The house is tied to the job, so if the worst comes to the worst we can get the police involved.”

The priest grimaced.

“And if it gets that far,” said Torsten calmly, “it’s a good idea to have a bloody lawyer to blame.”

“I’ll sort it,” said Rebecka.

“Erik’s got Mildred’s keys,” the priest said to Rebecka. “The church keys. I want those back.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Including the key to her locker in the church office. It looks like this.”

He took his keys out of his pocket and showed one of them to Rebecka.

“A locker,” said Torsten.

“For money, notes from counseling sessions, and things you just don’t want to lose,” said the priest. “A priest isn’t in the office much, and lots of other people are in and out all the time.”

Torsten couldn’t resist asking.

“The police haven’t got it?”

“No,” said the priest casually, “they haven’t asked for it. Look, Bengt Grape’s on his fourth helping. Come on, otherwise we’re not going to get anything.”