to his work in the parish as well as his position in the church. During the service, everything was supposed to go according to tradition. There were supposed to be shining chasubles and polished candelabras, and he was happy to sing the liturgy. If he had been allowed to swing censers, then he would probably have done so.
“Those were perhaps the two opposite sides that were most obvious. But sometimes I thought there was something else about him. Something dark . . . secret . . . or maybe sad. I don’t know really.”
“Did you like Sten Schyttelius as a person?”
Eva Möller took her time before she replied. “I accepted that he was the way he was. He was old and about to retire. We never had any difficulties between us. It was probably because he let me take care of the music and the church choir the way I wanted to. Actually, he never got involved in my work and I stayed away from his.”
“How long have you been the cantor in this . . . congregation, is it called?”
“Church Association. I’ve been here almost exactly four years. It was actually this house that lured me here.”
“First you got the house, and then the job?” Irene asked.
“Yes. I was fortunate enough to buy it very cheaply from an acquaintance who had renovated it but realized he would never have the time to stay here. He wanted to use it as a summer cottage, but his new wife couldn’t imagine spending her vacation in the woods. But I felt that it was my house the first time I saw it.”
“Was it for sale then?”
“No. But I knew it would become mine.”
Fredrik didn’t seem to have a single question. He chewed on rolls and sat and stared, fascinated by the lovely Eva. Irene was slightly irritated at her colleague’s passivity. She decided that it was time to broach the real reason for their visit.
“As I’m sure you’ve read in the papers we found pentagrams at the crime scenes. At both places the pentagrams were painted directly on the computer screens with the victims’ blood.”
Eva Möller nodded.
“I spoke with Louise Måårdh this morning. She mentioned that you have a pentagram on the gearshift of your car. Can you tell us why?”
To Irene’s surprise, Eva Möller burst out laughing. When she managed to stop, she said, still with restrained amusement in her voice, “I got it at Christmas from a friend. He thinks I have too much fire and wind in me. The pentagram is the tool of the earth. It stands for stability. I got the knob simply so that I would keep my feet on the ground. Or rather on the road.”
Irene was disappointed that the explanation was so simple. Or was it?
“Why does a cantor drive around with the devil’s face on her gearshift?” Irene asked.
Eva Möller instantly became serious. “Oh. Was the pentagram on the computer screens turned upside down?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was used for a Satanic purpose. The pentagram, in and of itself, is a strong tool, but it’s only Satanists who turn it upside down. My pentagram isn’t turned the wrong way. But. ...”
Eva pressed her lips together and looked Irene steadily in the eye. She quickly got up and walked over to the shelf above the stove. She took down the paperweight and pressed it hard against her chest as she walked back toward the kitchen table.
“This is my pentagram,” she said. She set the glass object in front of Irene and motioned for her to look closer. She could see that it wasn’t just a paperweight, but a rounded glass dome with a pentagram engraved in its bottom.
“The pentagram in and of itself isn’t a symbol of evil but, like all magical implements, it has strong powers that can be abused. It’s easy to turn my pentagram and then—poof—you have the devil’s face.”
She turned the glass dome so that two of the points faced up and one down.
The devil’s face looked up at Irene from the glass.
The glass devil.
The phrase etched itself on Irene’s brain, though she didn’t really understand why. The pentagram’s power depended on how you used it. And if you believed in it. Clearly, Eva Möller believed. Was she nuts, or was she messing about with funny New-Age foolishness?
“How do you reconcile a belief in the pentagram’s power with your work in the church?” Irene continued.
The cantor looked sincerely surprised. “They don’t have anything to do with each other. Music is my work,