Johan Theorin - The Darkest Room

“Okay, you sit there and keep an eye open, then,” he said. “But if we find anything in there, it’s ours. Mine and my brother’s.”

Tommy took out the rucksack containing the tools, slammed the door of the van, and headed for the church, disappearing into the darkness with Freddy trailing along behind.

Henrik leaned back and waited. The darkness was dense among the trees. He thought about his grandmother, who had grown up around here.

The door of the van suddenly opened, and Henrik jumped.

It was Freddy. His eyes were shining, as they did after a particularly successful raid, and he was talking fast.

“Tommy’s on his way,” he said. “But look at this! There was a cupboard in the sacres… sacarest… What the fuck is it called?”

“The sacristy,” said Henrik.

“What do you think these might be worth?”

Henrik looked at the old candlesticks Freddy was holding out. Four of them; they looked like silver. Had they been there when his grandparents got married? There was a good chance.

Now Tommy was back at the van, sweaty and excited. “You can drive,” he said to Henrik. “I need to count all this.” He jumped into the passenger seat to the sound of clinking.

He had a plastic bag in his hand, which he emptied onto the seat between his legs. Coins and notes came pouring out.

“Their collection box was made of wood,” he said with a laugh. “It was right by the door, all I had to do was give it a kick.”

“Hundred-kronor notes,” said Freddy, leaning forward between the seats.

“I’m going to count them,” said Tommy, with a look at Henrik. “Just remember, this belongs to us.”

“You keep it,” said Henrik quietly.

He didn’t feel so good now. It was just too much, breaking into churches and stealing money that was meant to go to pensioners or people in Somalia with leprosy or whatever. Too fucking much. But what was done was done.

“What’s this?” said Tommy, bending down.

He had discovered the gun on the floor under the seat.

“I found it in the house,” said Henrik.

“Fucking hell.” Tommy picked it up. “It’s an old Mauser. Collectors love this sort of thing, but people still use them for hunting. They’re very reliable.”

He looked curiously along the barrel and pulled back the bolt.

“Take it easy with that thing,” said Henrik.

“It’s fine… the safety catch is on.”

“So you know about guns?”

“Sure,” said Tommy. “I used to hunt elk. When Dad was sober, we were always out in the forest.”

“You might as well take care of it, then,” said Henrik.

He started up the van and switched on the lights. He swung around and slowly drove out of the trees.

“Not too many more,” he said when they were back on the road.

“What?”

“These trips, I can’t cope with many more.”

“We have to do a few more. Four more.”

“Two,” said Henrik. “I’ll go out with you twice more.”

“Okay. Where?”

Henrik was silent behind the wheel.

“A couple of places I know,” he said. “A priest’s house where there could be some jewelry. And maybe the manor house at Eel Point.”

“Eel Point?” said Tommy. “The one Aleister gave us a tip about.”

Henrik nodded, even thought he believed that the person moving the glass around the board was called Tommy, not Aleister.

“We can go up there and see if he was right,” said Tommy.

“Sure… but then that’s enough.”

Henrik stared gloomily at the empty road. Fuck. This was completely out of control-not at all like the trips with Mogge.

He should have tried harder to stop that last break-in.

Stealing from churches brought bad luck.

“The police are back in Marnäs now, and we’ve got our eye on every criminal. I want everyone in northern Öland to be aware of that fact.”

Inspector Holmblad certainly had a gift for public speaking, Tilda realized as she listened to him, and he seemed to like being in the center of things. He gazed out over the audience of a dozen or so who had gathered in the cold wind on the street outside the new police station in Marnäs-journalists, colleagues, and perhaps a couple of ordinary residents-and continued his inaugural speech:

“The local police is a new aspect of police work, a more personal police force… comparable with the beat constables in the old days, who knew everyone in the community where they worked. Of course, our society has become more complex since then, there are more networks, but our local police officers here in northern Öland are well prepared. They will be working together with clubs and companies and will be

devoting particular attention to crimes committed by young people.”

He paused. “Any questions?”

“What are you going to do about the graffiti around the square?” said an elderly man. “It’s a disgrace.”

“The police will be bringing in anyone who is caught spraying graffiti,” replied Holmblad. “We have the right to search them and to confiscate any aerosols, and we will of course be applying a zero tolerance approach in this matter. But vandalism is equally an issue for schools and parents.”

“And what about the thieving, then?” asked another male voice. “All these break-ins into churches and summer cottages?”

“Breaking and entering is one of the key targets for the local police force,” said Holmblad. “We will be making it a priority to solve these cases and to bring the perpetrators to justice.”

Tilda was standing behind her boss like a dummy, her back stiff and her eyes fixed firmly ahead. She was the only woman present, but would have preferred to be anywhere but Marnäs on this particular day. She would also have preferred to be someone else-not a police officer, at any rate. The uniform was too thick and too tight; it was suffocating her.

And she didn’t want to stand so close to her new colleague, Hans Majner.

The father of the family over on Eel Point, Joakim Westin, had written a critical letter to Ölands-Posten three days ago, about the police mix-up between his dead wife and his living daughter. He hadn’t mentioned anyone in particular by name, but after the letter had appeared Tilda thought that people on the streets of Marnäs had begun to stare at her in a different way, scrutinizing and judging her. And last night Holmblad had called her to say that she had to go out to Eel Point with him-to apologize.

“… and finally I have a couple of items for our new local police team, Hans Majner and Tilda Davidsson. The keys to the station and this…” Inspector Holmblad picked up a rectangular brown parcel that had been leaning against a desk. He opened it and took out an oil painting of a sailing ship, a three-masted ship out at sea in the middle of a violent storm. “This is a gift from Borgholm… a symbolic way of showing that we are all in the same boat.”

Holmblad handed over the painting and a bunch of keys each to Majner and Tilda with great ceremony. Majner unlocked the station door and invited everyone in with a sweeping gesture.

Tilda stepped to one side and let the men go in first.

The office had recently been cleaned, and the floor was spotless. On the walls were maps of Öland and the Baltic. Holmblad had ordered open-faced prawn sandwiches, which were laid out on a coffee table between Majner’s and Tilda’s workstations.

There were already several piles of paper on Tilda’s desk. She picked up one of the plastic folders and went over to her colleague.

Majner was standing by his own desk tucking into the sandwiches. He was talking to two male colleagues from Borgholm, who were laughing at something he’d just said.