Sun Storm by Åsa Larsson Page A

As if Thomas might suddenly shout “Away” and hit him on the muzzle.
    Thomas Söderberg looked disturbed. He twisted his body as if he were trying to shake off the pastors’ wives.
    “I just want to know that she’s all right,” he said. “Nothing must happen to her.”
    Curt nodded, and his gaze slid over the seats, which were beginning to fill up. He held up the Bible in his hands and pressed it to his chest.
    “I want to bear witness,” he said quietly. “God has something to say.”
    Thomas Söderberg nodded.
    “If you hear anything from Sanna, tell her I was asking about her,” he said.
    Astrid looked at Thomas Söderberg.
    And if you hear anything from God, she thought, tell Him I’m asking about Him all the time.

 
    M åns Wenngren, Rebecka Martinsson’s boss, got home late going on early. He’d spent the evening at Sophie’s, treating two young ladies to drinks, along with a representative for one of the law firm’s clients, a computer company specializing in industrial IT that had recently floated on the stock exchange. It was pleasant to deal with that kind of client. Grateful for every cent you managed to keep away from the tax collector. The clients who’d been accused of tax evasion or dubious bookkeeping weren’t usually that keen on sitting in a bar with their lawyer. They sat and drank at home instead.
    After Sophie’s had closed Måns had shown one of the young ladies, Marika, his nice office, then he had put little Marika in a cab with some money in her hand, and himself in another cab.
    When he walked into the dark apartment on Floragatan he thought as usual that he ought to move to something smaller. It was hardly surprising that every time he came home he felt well, however it was he felt when the 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