“Like, last night, after the party. The money—it’s gone. Someone took it.”
21
There’s a chapel in Skavböke, built by the community under leadership of vicar Teodor Lindqvist almost a hundred years ago. They had collected twenty-three thousand kronor. It was enough, but just barely.
Inside the chapel is a mural depicting the Creation, with the Fall of Man facing the chancel. It’s a strange construction, almost as though it revealed a truth about humankind.
You can’t see one without a glimpse of the other.
Maybe the same is true of justice. In the end, you can’t look away; you must face it all.
Isidor Enoksson had been leading services at Skavböke Chapel since 1967. Before him had been Hugo Edman, and before that was Teodor Lindqvist himself, a theological lineage Isidor was very proudof.
Early in the morning on the fourth Sunday of Advent, in this blessed year of 1999, he stepped onto the street in Oskarström after paying a visit to Hasse Ek, the ill-fated old harness driver. It wasn’t so hard to do the Lord’s work, not really. That was what traditions and psalms were for. They bound earthly life to the next and helped us understand the great moments of human existence. Now, more than ever, it was important to gather around light and hope, but Isidor had a feeling his words wouldn’t be heard in the usual way today, that he would be addressing a different audience than he was usedto.
Isidor needed to worship as much as anyone right now. He always found himself feeling uneasy as he sat with the old tin-hatter in his apartment. For Isidor, conversations with Hasse Ek weren’t only an opportunity to practice the duties of pastoral work; they were also a key to a part of him no one else knew about.
“I used to bet every last krona on you,” Isidor once confessed. “Out at the track. Even when it wasn’t my own money.”
He had come very close to ruination. Gambling was under his skin; he could feel it still today, a prickly sensation when he passed a horse trailer on the county roads, when he saw an ad on TV or walked past the gambling machines during an occasional lunch at Ida’s Bar and Grill.
Not that the priesthood had saved him either, not at all, even though one might assume that’s what had happened. He had started conveying God’s mercy to mankind through the church much earlier. If a little cash turned up missing from the coffers, he expected God would notice but let it be. After all, the Lord had more important matters to see to. These days, when Isidor visited Hasse Ek, it was like getting closer to a part of himself that was otherwise difficult to reach, yet all the more important to remember for that very reason. It’s so easy to forget your weaknesses.
With a heavy heart, he got in his car and turned the key. Karl-Henrik and Lillemor Söderström up there on the farm, and Filip, the younger brother who was suddenly his parents’ only son. Isidor couldn’t even imagine what that must be like. He should probably go over there and check in on them. Filip especially—this couldn’t be easy for him.
Today, on the second day after the murder, almost everything was about the Söderströms. The initial shock had moved through the village, and the eerie calm that remained gave rise to questions. Some of them would be answered during the very service Isidor himself would lead in a few hours, although perhaps it wouldn’t be the ones folks might have guessed.
22
Gerd Pettersson lived in a snug little house in Oskarström, and when Siri parked on the street she caught a glimpse of her new colleague’s frizzy hair in the kitchen window. Despite the early hour, she seemed nimble and alert, full of focus. She swiftly downed the last bite of her sandwich.
A house. Yes, maybe it was about time to get one. Siri had grown up in a series of apartments in the central neighborhoods of Halmstad. In her memory, the furniture was always the same, which made the rooms it stood in look identical even though the apartments weren’t. She remembered early mornings before Dad left for work as a foreman at Pilkington Glass, quiet moments at the kitchen table with Mom before they had to get ready for school. Autumn weekends, going along to hunt with Dad and being supplied with activity books to keep her from pestering during the long hours outside.
The passenger door flew open.
“Good morning,” Gerd said, plopping heavily into the seat. “Aren’t you an early bird.”
“Always have been.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
Siri had left Oskarström very late, worn out from a first day full of too many intense impressions. Despite her exhaustion, she had lain awake for a long time in the quiet apartment, trying to organize thoseimpressions, put them in order and study them, as though they were objects she could scrutinize and comb for something she’d missed.
“A few hours. You?”
“I’ll make it. Didn’t you bring anything?”
“I did, but I didn’t have time to stop and buy it.”
Siri reached into the backseat and fumbled for the thermos and the two plastic mugs next toit.
Gerd took them. “This is better anyway. Home-brewed coffee, damn, that’s nice. You drive, I’ll pour.”
The clock on the dashboard read 9:30. They drove to the office and changed into their uniforms, then headed to Skavböke with plenty of time to spare. Gerd poured coffee into a plastic mug and set it in Siri’s cupholder before filling her own.
“I need to call the prosecutor and Violent Crimes in Halmstad later,” Gerd said. “Can you remind me? They’ll want an update.”
“Have any of them even been out here yet?”
