“I will give you one hour,” he said. “No door will be locked, no guards will watch over you. Think about what I have said, and come to your own decision. I know that if you let God into your heart and mind, you will do what is right. Do not forget that I love you very much.”
He stood up, traced a cross on her brow with his finger, and left without a sound.
Langaas was waiting in the hallway.
“She settled down when she saw me. I don’t think she’ll do it again.”
They walked through the garden to an outbuilding that had been used for storing fishing equipment. They stopped outside the door.
“Has everything been prepared?”
“Everything has been prepared,” Langaas said.
He pointed to four tents that had been erected next to the shed, then pulled open the flap to one of them. Westin looked in. There were the boxes, piled one on top of the other. He nodded. Langaas pulled the tent flap shut.
“The cars?”
“The ones that will drive the greatest distance are waiting up on the road. The others have been stationed in the positions we discussed.”
Erik Westin looked down at his watch. The many, often difficult years he had spent laying the groundwork had seemed endless. Now time was suddenly going too fast. From now on, everything had to work exactly as it should.
“It’s time to start the countdown,” he said.
He glanced at the sky. Whenever he had thought forward to this moment in the past, he had always imagined that the heavens would mirror its dramatic import, but in Sandhammaren on this day, September 7, 2001, there were no clouds and almost no breeze.
“What is the temperature?” he asked.
Langaas looked at his watch, which had a built-in thermometer, as well as a pedometer and a compass.
“Eight degrees,” he said.
They walked into the shed, which still smelled pungently of tar. Those who were waiting for him sat in a semicircle on low wooden benches. Westin had planned to perform the ceremony with the white masks, but now he decided to wait. He still didn’t know if the next sacrifice would be Zeba or the policeman’s daughter. They would do the ceremony then. Now they only had time for a shorter ritual; God would not accept anyone who arrived late for their appointed task. Not to be mindful of one’s time was like denying that even time was a gift of the Lord. Those who needed to travel to their destinations would have to leave shortly. They had calculated how much time was needed for each leg of their journey, and had followed the checklists in the carefully prepared manuals. In short, they had done everything in their power, but there was always the possibility that the dark forces would prevent them from achieving their goals.
When the cars with the three groups who had to travel had left, and the others had returned to their hideouts, Westin remained in the shed. He sat motionless in the dark with the necklace in his hand—the golden sandal that was now as important to him as the cross. Did he have any regrets? That would be blasphemy. He was only an instrument, but one equipped with a free will to comprehend and then dedicate himself to the path of the chosen. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of tar. He had spent a summer on the island of Öland as a child visiting a relative who was a fisherman. The memories of that summer, one of the happiest of his childhood, were nestled in the scent of tar. He remembered how he snuck out in the light summer night and ran down to the boat shed in order to draw the smell more deeply into his lungs.
Westin opened his eyes. He was past the point of no return. The time had come. He left the shed and took a circuitous route to the front of the house. He looked out at the verandah from the cover of a large tree. Anna was sitting in the same chair. He tried to interpret her decision from the way she was sitting, but he was too far away.
Suddenly there was a rustling sound behind him. He flinched. It was Langaas. Westin was furious.
“Why are you sneaking around?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
Westin struck him hard in the face, right below the eye. Langaas accepted the blow and lowered his head. Then Westin stroked his head lightly and they walked over to the house. He made his way soundlessly to the verandah until he was right behind her. She only noticed his presence when he bent over and she felt his breath on the nape of her neck. He sat down across from her, pulling her chair closer until their knees touched.
“Have you made your decision?”
“I will do as you ask.”
He had expected that she would say this, but it still came as a relief.
He walked over to a shoulder bag that lay next to the wall and pulled out a small, thin, and extremely sharp knife. He gently lowered it into her hands, as if it were a kitten.
“The moment when she reveals that she knows things she shouldn’t, I want you to stab her—not once, but three or four times. Strike her in the chest and force the blade up before you pull it out. Then call Langaas and stay out of sight until we get you. You have six hours to do this, no more. You know I trust you, and love you. Who could love you more than I do?”
She was about to say something, but stopped herself. He knew she had been thinking of Henrietta.
“God,” she said.
“I trust you, Anna,” he said. “God’s love and my love are one and the same. We are living in a time of rebirth. A new kingdom. Do you understand this?”
“Yes.”
He looked deep into her eyes. He was still not entirely sure about this, but he had to believe he was doing the right thing.
He followed her out.
“Anna is going home now, Torgeir.”
They got into a car that was parked in the front yard. Westin tied the kerchief over her eyes himself to make sure she didn’t see anything.
“Drive around a little,” he said in a low voice to Langaas. “Make her think it’s farther than it really is.”
The car came to a stop at five-thirty. Langaas took out Anna’s earplugs, then instructed her to keep her eyes closed and count to fifty after he had taken off her blindfold.
“The Lord is watching you, and he will not appreciate it if you peek.”
He helped her step out onto the sidewalk. Anna counted to fifty, then opened her eyes. At first she didn’t know where she was. Then she realized she was on Mariagatan, outside Linda’s apartment.
48
During the afternoon and evening of September 7, Linda once again watched her father try to gather all the threads together and come up with a plan for how they should proceed. Over the course of those hours she became aware that the praise he sometimes received from his colleagues and at times in the press—when they were not chastising him for his dismissive attitude toward them in press conferences—was justified. She realized not only that her father was knowledgeable and experienced but also that he possessed a remarkable ability to focus and inspire his colleagues.
During her time at the police academy, the father of a friend of hers had been an ice-hockey coach for a top team in the second-highest league. She and her friend had once been allowed into the locker room right before a game, during the intermission, and after it was over. This coach had the ability she had just witnessed in her father, an ability to motivate people. After two periods, the team was losing by four goals, but this coach didn’t let up. He egged them on, urging them not to let themselves be beaten, and in the last period the players had stormed back onto the ice and almost managed to turn the game around.
Will my dad manage to turn this game around? she wondered. Will he find Zeba before anything happens to her? Over the course of the day, during a meeting or press conference when she hovered near the back of the room, she kept rushing out to go to the bathroom. Her stomach had always been her weakest point; fear gave her diarrhea. Her dad, on the other hand, had an iron stomach and sometimes bragged about having the stomach lining of a hyena—apparently their stomach acid was the strongest in all the animal kingdom. His weakness was his head, and sometimes when he was under a great deal of s
tress he would suffer tension headaches that could last days and only be relieved by taking prescription-strength pills.
Linda was afraid, and she knew she wasn’t the only one. There was an unreal quality to the calm and concentration at the police station. She understood something that no one had mentioned at the academy: sometimes the most important task facing a police officer was keeping her own fear in check. If it got out of control, all this concentration and focus would crumble into chaos.
Shortly after four o’clock, Linda saw her father pacing up and down the corridors like a wild animal. The press conference was about to take place. Wallander kept sending in Martinsson to see how many journalists were assembled, and how many television cameras. From time to time he asked Martinsson about individuals by name, and from the tone of his voice it was clear he was hoping they were not present. She watched him walking anxiously to and fro. He was the animal nervously pacing backstage, waiting to be sent into the arena. When Holgersson came to announce that it was time, he lunged into the room. The only thing missing was a roar.
During the thirty-minute-long press conference, Wallander concentrated on Zeba. Photographs were passed around, a slide photograph was projected onto the wall. Where was she? Had anyone seen her? He skillfully sidestepped being pulled into lengthy explanations, keeping his remarks concise and ignoring questions he did not want to answer.
“There is still a dimension here that we do not understand,” he said in closing. “The church fires, the two dead women, and the burned animals. We cannot be entirely sure that there is a connection, but what we know is that this young woman may be in danger.”
What danger? Who posed this danger? Could he add anything? The room buzzed with dissatisfaction. Linda imagined him lifting an invisible shield and simply letting the questions bounce back unanswered. Chief Holgersson said nothing during the proceedings, except to moderate the question-and-answer session. Svartman mouthed answers to Wallander when there were details that escaped him.
Suddenly it was all over. Wallander stood up as if he couldn’t take it any longer, nodded, and left the room. He shook off the reporters that rushed after him. Afterward he left the station without saying another word.
“That’s what he always does,” Martinsson said. “He takes himself out for some air, as if he were his own dog. Walks around the water tower. Then he comes back.”
Twenty minutes later he came storming down the corridor. Pizzas were delivered to the conference room. Wallander told everyone to hurry up, shouted at a young woman from the office who had not provided them with the paper he had asked for, and then slammed the door. Lindman, who was sitting beside her, whispered:
“One day I think he’s going to lock the door and throw away the key. We’ll turn into pillars of salt. If we’re lucky, we’ll be excavated a thousand years from now.”
Ann-Britt Höglund had just returned from a quick investigative turn in Copenhagen.
“I met this Ulrik Larsen,” she said and pushed a photograph over to Linda. She recognized him immediately. He was the one who had warned her not to look for Torgeir Langaas and knocked her down.
“He’s evidently changed his mind,” Höglund continued. “Now there’s no more talk about drugs. He denies having threatened Linda, but he gives no alternate explanation. He is an allegedly controversial minister. His sermons have become increasingly fire-and-brimstone as of late.”
Linda saw her father’s arm shoot out and interrupt.
“This is important. How do you mean ‘fire-and-brimstone,’ and specify ‘as of late.’”
Höglund flipped through her notebook.
“I was led to believe that ‘as of late’ means this last year. The fire-and-brimstone is shorthand for the fact that he has started preaching about Judgment Day, the crisis of Christianity, ungodliness, and the punishment that will be meted out to all sinners. He has been admonished both by his own congregation and by the bishop, but he refuses to change the tenor of his sermons.”
“I take it you asked the most important question?”
Linda wasn’t sure what he meant, and when Höglund answered, Linda felt stupid.
“His views on abortion? I was actually able to ask him myself.”
“The answer?”
“There was none. He refused to speak with me. But in some of his sermons he has allegedly stated that abortion is a crime that deserves the severest punishment.”
Höglund sat down. Nyberg opened the door at that moment.
“The theologist is here.”
Linda looked around the room and saw that only her father knew what Nyberg was talking about.
“Show him in,” Wallander said.
Nyberg left and Wallander explained whom they were waiting for.
“Nyberg and I have been trying to make sense of that Bible that was left or deliberately placed in the hut where Medberg was murdered. Someone has gone in and changed the text, notably in the Book of Revelation, Romans, and parts of the Old Testament. But what kind of changes? Is there a logic there? We talked to the state crime people, but they had no experts to send. That’s why we contacted the Department of Theology at Lund University and established contact with Professor Hanke, who has come here today.”
Professor Hanke, to everyone’s surprise, turned out to be a young woman with long blond hair and a pretty face, dressed in black leather pants and a low-cut top. Linda saw that it threw her father. Hanke walked around the room shaking hands and then sat down in the chair that was pulled up next to Lisa Holgersson.
“My name is Sofia Hanke,” she said. “I’m a professor at the university and wrote my dissertation on the Christian paradigm shift in Sweden after World War II.”
She opened her portfolio and took out the Bible that had been found in the hut.
“This has been fascinating,” she said. “But I know that you don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll try to make it brief. The first thing I want to say is that I believe this is the work of one person, not because of the handwriting, but because there is a kind of logic to what is written here.”
She looked in a notebook and continued, “I’ve chosen an example to illustrate what I mean, from Romans chapter seven. By the way, how many of you know the Bible? Perhaps it’s not part of the current curriculum at the police academy?”
Everyone who met her gaze shook his or her head, except Nyberg, who surprised everyone by saying, “I read from the Bible every night. Foolproof way to induce sleep.”
Everyone laughed, including Sofia Hanke.
“I can relate to that experience,” she said. “I ask mainly because I’m curious. In any case, Romans chapter seven discusses the human tendency to sin. It says, among other things, ‘Yes, the good that I wish to do, I do not; but the evil that I do not wish to do, I do.’ Between these lines our writer has rearranged good and evil. The new version reads: ‘Yes, the evil that I wish to do, I do; but the good that I do not wish to do, I do not do.’ St. Paul’s message is turned upside down. One of the grounding assumptions of Christianity is the idea that humans want to do what is right, but always find reasons to do evil instead. But the changed version says that humans do not even want to do what is right. This sort of thing happens again and again in the changes. The writer turns texts upside down, seemingly to find new meanings. It would be easy to assume that this is the work of a deranged soul, but I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with. There is a strained logic to these changes. I think the writer is hunting for a significance he or she believes is concealed in the Bible, something that is not immediately apparent in the words themselves. He or she is looking between the words.”
“Logic,” Wallander said. “What kind of logic is there in something this absurd?”
“Not everything is absurd; some of it is straightforward. There are also other texts in the margin. Like this quote: ‘All the wisdom life has taught me can be summed up in the words ‘he who loves God, is blessed.’”
Linda saw that her father was g
etting impatient.
“Why would someone do this? Why do we find a Bible in a secret hut where a woman has been the victim of a bestial murder?”
“It could be a case of religious fanaticism,” Hanke said. Wallander leaned forward.
“Tell me more.”
“I normally refer to something I call Preacher Lena’s tradition. A long time ago, a milkmaid in Östergötland had mystical visions and started preaching. After a while she was taken to an insane asylum, but these people have always been around: religious fanatics who either choose to live as lone preachers or who try to gather a flock of devotees. Most of these people are honest to the extent that they act out of a genuine belief in their divine inspiration. Of course there have always been con artists, but they are in the minority. Most of these people preach their beliefs and start their sects from a genuine desire to do good. If they commit crimes or evil deeds, they often try to legitimize these acts in the eyes of their God, by interpretation of Bible verses, for example.”
The discussion with Sofia Hanke continued, but Linda could already tell that her father was thinking about other things. These scribbles between the lines of the Bible found in the Rannesholm hut hadn’t yielded any clues. Or had they? She tried to read his thoughts, something she had been practicing since early childhood. But there was a big difference between being alone with him at home and being in a conference room full of people at the police station, like now.
Nyberg escorted Sofia Hanke out, and Holgersson opened a window. The pizza cartons were starting to empty. Nyberg returned. People walked around, talked on the phone, went to get cups of coffee. Only Linda and her father stayed at the table. He looked at her absently and then retreated into his own thoughts.
When they started their long meeting, Linda was quiet and no one asked her any questions. She sat there like an invited guest. Her father looked at her a few times. If Birgitta Medberg had been a person who mapped old, overgrown paths, then her father was a person who was looking for passable roads to travel. He seemed to have an endless patience, even though he had a clock inside him ticking quickly and loudly. That’s what he had told her once when he was in Stockholm and met with Linda and a few of her student friends and told them about his work. During times of enormous pressure, like when he knew a person’s life was in danger, he had a feeling that there was a clock ticking away on the right side of his chest, parallel to his heart. Outwardly, however, he was patient, and he only displayed any signs of irritation if anyone started to leave the subject: where was Zeba?