was full of reproaches when Rebecka got back to the car in the parking lot at the mine.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” said Rebecka, with a pang of guilt. “We’re going to pick up Sara and Lova soon, then we’ll play outside for a long time, I promise. We’re just going to pop into the tax office first and check something on their computers, okay?”
She drove through the falling snow to the local tax office.
“I hope this is over soon,” she said to Virku. “Although it’s not looking too good. I can’t make any sense of it.”
Virku sat beside her on the front seat, listening carefully. She tilted her head anxiously to one side, and looked as if she understood every single word Rebecka said.
She’s like Jussi, Grandmother’s dog, thought Rebecka. The same clever expression.
She remembered how the men in the village used to sit and talk to Jussi, who was allowed to come and go as he pleased. “The only thing he can’t do is talk,” they used to sigh.
“Your mistress didn’t feel too good during the interrogation today,” Rebecka went on. “She sort of curls up and disappears through the window when they push her. Sounds far away, as if she doesn’t care. She drives the prosecutor mad.”
The tax office was in the same building as the police station. Rebecka looked around as she parked outside. The bad feeling from the previous day when she’d found the note on the car just wouldn’t go away.
“Five minutes,” she said to Virku, locking the car door behind her.
Ten minutes later she was back. She placed four computer printouts in the glove compartment and scratched the top of Virku’s head.
“Right, that’s it,” she said triumphantly. “This time they’d better answer me when I start asking questions. We can fit in one more thing before we pick up the girls.”
She drove up to the Crystal Church on Sandstensberget and let Virku jump out of the car in front of her.
I might need somebody who’s on my side, she thought.
Her heart was pounding as she walked up the hill toward the café and the bookshop. The risk of bumping into somebody she knew was relatively high. Just as long as it wasn’t one of the pastors or the elders.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. It might as well happen now as later.
Virku raced from one lamppost to the next, reading and replying to messages. A lot of male dogs had been along here, ones Virku didn’t already know.
There wasn’t a soul inside the bookshop, apart from the girl behind the counter. Rebecka had never met her before. She had short curly hair and a large cross covered in glass beads on a short chain around her neck. She smiled at Rebecka.
“Just let me know if you need any help,” she trilled.
It was obvious that she vaguely recognized Rebecka, but couldn’t place her.
She’s seen me on television, thought Rebecka. She nodded at the girl, told Virku to stay by the door, brushed the snow off her coat and set off toward the nearest shelf.
Christian pop poured out of the loudspeakers, the volume low. Glass lights from IKEA hung from the ceiling, and spotlights illuminated the shelves on the walls, filled with books and CDs. The shelves in the middle of the shop were so low you couldn’t hide behind them. Rebecka could see straight through the big glass doors leading into the café. The wooden floor was almost dry. Not many people with snowy shoes had come in here today.
“Isn’t it quiet?” she said to the girl behind the counter.
“Everyone’s at seminars,” replied the girl. “The Miracle Conference is on at the moment.”
“You decided to go ahead with it, even though Viktor Strandgård…”
“Yes,” the girl answered quickly. “It’s what he would have wanted. And God wanted it too. Yesterday and the day before there were loads of journalists in here, asking questions and buying tapes and books, but today it’s quiet.”
There it was. Rebecka found the shelf with Viktor’s book. Heaven and Back. It was available in English, German and French. She turned it over. “Printed by Victory Print Ltd.” She turned over some of the other books and pamphlets. They had also been printed by Victory Print Ltd. And on the videotapes: “Copyright Victory Print Ltd.” Bingo.
At that moment she heard a voice right behind her.
“Rebecka Martinsson,” it said, far too loudly. “It’s been a long time.”
When she swung around Pastor Gunnar Isaksson was right next to her. He was deliberately standing too close. His stomach