Sun Storm by Åsa Larsson Page A

“We’re going to tidy up in the kitchen, I’ll cook us a meal, then we’ll heat up some water on the stove and we’ll wash Lova and Virku.”
    “And I need a new top,” said Lova. “Look!”
    She opened the blanket and revealed a soap-smeared T-shirt.
    “And you need a new top,” sighed Rebecka, exhausted.
     
    A n hour later Lova and Sara were sitting eating sausage and mashed potato. Lova was wearing a pair of jeans belonging to one of Rebecka’s cousins and a washed-out pale red top with cartoon characters on the front. Virku was sitting at their feet waiting patiently for her share. The wood in the stove crackled and sparked.
    Rebecka glanced at the clock. Seven already. And she and Sanna had to go to the police station. The stress gnawed at her stomach.
    Sara sniffed at Lova’s top.
    “You smell disgusting,” she said.
    “No she doesn’t,” said Rebecka with a sigh. “The clothes smell a bit funny because they’ve been folded up in a drawer for such a long time. But her own are even worse, so we’ll just have to put up with it. Give Virku your leftover sausage.”
    She left the girls in the kitchen, went into the other room and closed the door.
    “Sanna,” she said.
    Sanna didn’t move. She lay in exactly the same position as before, her face turned to the wall.
    Rebecka went over to the bed and stood there with her arms folded.
    “I know you can hear me,” she said harshly. “I’m not the same person I used to be, Sanna. I’ve become nastier and more impatient since then. I have no intention of sitting by you, stroking your hair and asking you what’s wrong. You can get up right now and get some clothes on. Otherwise I shall take your daughters straight to Social Services and tell them that you’re unable to look after them at present. Then I’ll get the next plane back to Stockholm.”
    Still no answer. Not a movement.
    “Okay,” said Rebecka after a while.
    She took a deep breath as if to indicate that she had finished waiting around. Then she turned and walked toward the kitchen door.
    That’s it, then, she thought. I’ll ring the police and tell them where she is. They can carry her out of the house.
    Just as she placed her hand on the door handle she heard Sanna sit up on the bed behind her.
    “Rebecka” was all she said.
    Rebecka hesitated for half a second. Then she turned round and leaned on the door. She folded her arms again. Like somebody’s mother: Now let’s get this sorted out once and for all.
    And Sanna was like a little girl, chewing on her lower lip, pleading with her eyes.
    “Sorry,” she mumbled in her husky voice. “I know I’m the worst mother in the world and an even worse friend. Do you hate me?”
    “You’ve got three minutes to put your clothes on and get yourself out here to eat something,” ordered Rebecka, and marched out.

 
    S ven-Erik Stålnacke had parked outside the hospital Emergency department. Anna-Maria leaned on the car door when he fumbled in his jacket pocket for the keys. It wasn’t that easy to take deep breaths when the air was so cold it actually took your breath away, but she had to try and relax. Her stomach had grown as hard as a snowball on the short walk from the autopsy out to the car.
    “The Church of All Our Strength has three pastors,” said Sven-Erik, groping in his other pocket. “They have informed us that they are available to receive the police for the purpose of interrogation. They are setting aside one hour, no more. And they have no intention of being interrogated individually; all three of them will talk to us together. They say they wish to cooperate, but—”
    “But they have no intention of cooperating,” supplied Anna-Maria.
    “What the hell do you do?” wondered Sven-Erik. “Go in hard, or what?”
    “No, because then the whole community will just shut up like a giant clam. But you have to wonder why they’re not prepared to speak to us one-on-one.”
    “No idea. One of them did explain. Gunnar