Sun Storm by Åsa Larsson Page B

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 Måns. “What’s going on here? Hard-hitting American journalism à la Lapland?”
    “Do you think it might have been a ritual killing?” asked the reporter.
    The camera zoomed in on her glowing, agitated cheeks, then there was a close-up of Rebecka’s and the other woman’s faces in profile. Sanna Strandgård was holding her hands up to her face like blinkers. Rebecka’s gray eyes glared straight into the camera first of all, and then she looked straight at the reporter.
    “Get out of the way,” she said sternly.
    The words and the expression on Rebecka’s face stirred an unpleasant memory in Måns’ head. It had been at the firm’s Christmas party the previous year. He’d been trying to chat and be pleasant, and she’d looked at him as if he were something you might find while cleaning out the urinals. If he remembered rightly, that was exactly what she’d said to him as well. In the same stern voice.
    “Get out of the way.”
    After that he’d kept his distance. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel embarrassed and resign. And he didn’t want her getting any ideas either. If she wasn’t interested, that was fine.
    All at once things were happening very quickly on the screen. Måns paid closer attention, kept his finger poised over the pause button on the remote control. Rebecka raised her arm to get past, and suddenly the reporter had vanished out of the picture. Rebecka and Sanna Strandgård more or less climbed over her and went into the police station. The camera followed them, and the reporter’s furious voice could be heard over the clip.
    “Ow, my arm. Christ, did you get that on film?”
    The voice of the male reporter from Channel 4 could be heard once again.
    “The lawyer is with the well-known firm of Meijer & Ditzinger, but no one at the office was prepared to comment on this evening’s events.”
    Måns was shocked to see an archive picture of the company’s offices. He pressed the pause button.
    “Too fucking right,” he swore, getting up from the sofa in such a rush that he spilt milk all over his shirt and trousers.
    What the hell was she up to? he thought. Was she really acting as this Sanna Strandgård’s lawyer without