apartment was so bloody desolate.
He threw his gray cashmere coat on a chair and flicked on every light on his way to the living room. As he was hardly ever home before eleven at night, the video timer was always set to record the news. He switched on the video, and as Channel 4’s news titles rolled he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Ritva had been shopping. Good. It must be her easiest job, cleaning his flat and making sure there was fresh food in. He never made a mess, except on the rare occasions he invited people back. The food Ritva bought was usually untouched when it was replaced with fresh. He presumed she took the old stuff home to her family before it went off. It was an arrangement that suited him perfectly. He ripped open some milk and drank straight from the carton, one ear on the news. The murder of Viktor Strandgård was the top story.
That’s why Rebecka went up to Kiruna, thought Måns Wenngren, heading back into the living room. He sank down on the sofa in front of the TV, the carton of milk in his hand.
“The religious celebrity Viktor Strandgård was found murdered this morning in the church of The Source of All Our Strength in Kiruna,” announced the newsreader.
She was a well-dressed middle-aged woman who used to be married to someone Måns knew.
“Hi there, Beate, how’s things?” said Måns, raising the milk carton to the screen in a toast and taking a deep draught.
“According to police sources, Viktor Strandgård was found by his sister, and those same sources report that the murder was extremely brutal,” continued the newsreader.
“Come on, Beate, we know all that,” said Måns.
He suddenly became aware of how drunk he was. He felt stupid, his head full of cotton wool. He decided to have a shower as soon as the news was finished.
They were showing a report on the murder now. A male voice was speaking over pictures. First of all, pale blue wintry pictures of the impressive Crystal Church up on the hill. Then shots of the police shoveling their way through the area around the church. They’d also used some clips from one of the church gatherings, everyone singing, and gave a short summary of who Viktor Strandgård was.
“There is no doubt that this incident has aroused strong feelings in Kiruna,” continued the reporter’s voice. “This was made very clear when Viktor Strandgård’s sister, Sanna Strandgård, arrived at the police station to be interviewed, accompanied by her lawyer.”
The picture was showing a snow-covered car park. A breathless young female reporter dashed up to two women who were climbing out of a red Audi. The reporter’s red hair stuck out from under her cap like a fox’s brush. She looked young and energetic. It was dark, but you could make out a boring redbrick building in the background. It couldn’t be anything other than a police station. One of the women getting out of the Audi had her head down, and all you could see of her was a long sheepskin coat and a sheepskin hat pulled well down over her eyes. The other woman was Rebecka Martinsson. Måns turned up the volume and leaned forward on the sofa.
“What the…?” he said to himself.
Rebecka had told him she was going up there because she knew the family, he thought. Saying she was the sister’s lawyer must be a mistake.
He looked at Rebecka’s set face as she walked quickly toward the police station, her arm firmly around the other woman, who must be Viktor Strandgård’s sister. With her free arm she tried to fend off the woman with the microphone who was trotting along after them.
“Is it true that his eyes had been gouged out?” asked the female reporter in a broad Luleå accent.
“How are you feeling, Sanna?” she went on when she got no reply. “Is it true the children were with you in the church when you found him?”
When they got to the entrance of the police station, the fox placed herself resolutely in front of them.
“My God, girl,” sighed
He threw his gray cashmere coat on a chair and flicked on every light on his way to the living room. As he was hardly ever home before eleven at night, the video timer was always set to record the news. He switched on the video, and as Channel 4’s news titles rolled he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
Ritva had been shopping. Good. It must be her easiest job, cleaning his flat and making sure there was fresh food in. He never made a mess, except on the rare occasions he invited people back. The food Ritva bought was usually untouched when it was replaced with fresh. He presumed she took the old stuff home to her family before it went off. It was an arrangement that suited him perfectly. He ripped open some milk and drank straight from the carton, one ear on the news. The murder of Viktor Strandgård was the top story.
That’s why Rebecka went up to Kiruna, thought Måns Wenngren, heading back into the living room. He sank down on the sofa in front of the TV, the carton of milk in his hand.
“The religious celebrity Viktor Strandgård was found murdered this morning in the church of The Source of All Our Strength in Kiruna,” announced the newsreader.
She was a well-dressed middle-aged woman who used to be married to someone Måns knew.
“Hi there, Beate, how’s things?” said Måns, raising the milk carton to the screen in a toast and taking a deep draught.
“According to police sources, Viktor Strandgård was found by his sister, and those same sources report that the murder was extremely brutal,” continued the newsreader.
“Come on, Beate, we know all that,” said Måns.
He suddenly became aware of how drunk he was. He felt stupid, his head full of cotton wool. He decided to have a shower as soon as the news was finished.
They were showing a report on the murder now. A male voice was speaking over pictures. First of all, pale blue wintry pictures of the impressive Crystal Church up on the hill. Then shots of the police shoveling their way through the area around the church. They’d also used some clips from one of the church gatherings, everyone singing, and gave a short summary of who Viktor Strandgård was.
“There is no doubt that this incident has aroused strong feelings in Kiruna,” continued the reporter’s voice. “This was made very clear when Viktor Strandgård’s sister, Sanna Strandgård, arrived at the police station to be interviewed, accompanied by her lawyer.”
The picture was showing a snow-covered car park. A breathless young female reporter dashed up to two women who were climbing out of a red Audi. The reporter’s red hair stuck out from under her cap like a fox’s brush. She looked young and energetic. It was dark, but you could make out a boring redbrick building in the background. It couldn’t be anything other than a police station. One of the women getting out of the Audi had her head down, and all you could see of her was a long sheepskin coat and a sheepskin hat pulled well down over her eyes. The other woman was Rebecka Martinsson. Måns turned up the volume and leaned forward on the sofa.
“What the…?” he said to himself.
Rebecka had told him she was going up there because she knew the family, he thought. Saying she was the sister’s lawyer must be a mistake.
He looked at Rebecka’s set face as she walked quickly toward the police station, her arm firmly around the other woman, who must be Viktor Strandgård’s sister. With her free arm she tried to fend off the woman with the microphone who was trotting along after them.
“Is it true that his eyes had been gouged out?” asked the female reporter in a broad Luleå accent.
“How are you feeling, Sanna?” she went on when she got no reply. “Is it true the children were with you in the church when you found him?”
When they got to the entrance of the police station, the fox placed herself resolutely in front of them.
“My God, girl,” sighed
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