never been here before. I’ve never been further north than bloody Gävle.”
“No, no, but you’re incredibly pleased to be here. You’ve always wanted to come up here to see the magnificent mountains and visit the mine. Next time you come up on business you’re thinking of taking some holiday to see the sights.”
“Okay.”
“And none of this ‘how the hell do you cope with the long dark winter when the sun doesn’t even rise’ crap.”
“Of course not.”
“Even if they joke about it themselves.”
“Yeah yeah.”
Rebecka parked the car beside the bell tower. No priest. They strolled along the path toward the vicarage. Red wooden panels and white eaves. The river flowed along below the vicarage. The water was September-low. Torsten was doing the blackfly dance. No one opened when they rang the bell. They rang again and waited. In the end they turned to go.
A man was walking up toward the vicarage through the opening in the fence. He waved to them and shouted. When he got closer they could see he was wearing a clerical shirt.
“Hi there,” he said when he got to them. “You must be from Meijer & Ditzinger.”
He held his hand out to Torsten Karlsson first. Rebecka took up the secretary’s position, half a pace behind Torsten.
“Stefan Wikström,” said the clergyman.
Rebecka introduced herself without mentioning her job. He could believe whatever made him comfortable. She looked at the priest. He was in his forties. Jeans, tennis shoes, clerical shirt and white dog collar. He hadn’t been conducting his official duties, then. Still had the shirt on, though.
One of those 24/7 priests, thought Rebecka.
“You’d arranged to meet Bertil Stensson, our parish priest,” the clergyman continued. “Unfortunately he’s been held up this evening, so he asked me to meet you and show you the church.”
Rebecka and Torsten made polite noises and went up to the little red wooden church with him. There was a smell of tar from the wooden roof. Rebecka followed in the wake of the two men. The clergyman addressed himself almost exclusively to Torsten when he spoke. Torsten slipped smoothly into the game and didn’t pay any attention to Rebecka either.
Of course it could be that the priest has actually been held up, thought Rebecka. But it could also mean that he’s decided to oppose the firm’s proposal.
It was gloomy inside the church. The air was still. Torsten was scratching twenty fresh blackfly bites.
Stefan Wikström told them about the eighteenth-century church. Rebecka allowed her thoughts to wander. She knew the story of the beautiful altarpiece and the dead resting beneath the floor. Then she realized they’d embarked on a new topic of conversation, and pricked up her ears.
“There. In front of the organ,” said Stefan Wikström, pointing.
Torsten looked up at the shiny organ pipes and the Sami sun symbol in the center of the organ.
“It must have been a terrible shock for all of you.”
“What must?” asked Rebecka.
The clergyman looked at her.
“This is where she was hanging,” he said. “My colleague who was murdered in the summer.”
Rebecka looked blankly at him.
“Murdered in the summer?” she repeated.
There was a confused pause.
“Yes, in the summer,” ventured Stefan Wikström.
Torsten Karlsson was staring at Rebecka.
“Oh, come on,” he said.
Rebecka looked at him and shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“A woman priest was murdered in Kiruna in the summer. In here. Didn’t you know about it?”
“No.”
He looked at her anxiously.
“You must be the only person in the whole of Sweden who…I assumed you knew. It was all over the papers. On every news broadcast…”
Stefan Wikström was following their conversation like a table tennis match.
“I haven’t ready any papers all summer,” said Rebecka. “And I haven’t watched any television.”
Torsten raised his hands, palms upward, in a helpless gesture.
“I really thought…” he
“No, no, but you’re incredibly pleased to be here. You’ve always wanted to come up here to see the magnificent mountains and visit the mine. Next time you come up on business you’re thinking of taking some holiday to see the sights.”
“Okay.”
“And none of this ‘how the hell do you cope with the long dark winter when the sun doesn’t even rise’ crap.”
“Of course not.”
“Even if they joke about it themselves.”
“Yeah yeah.”
Rebecka parked the car beside the bell tower. No priest. They strolled along the path toward the vicarage. Red wooden panels and white eaves. The river flowed along below the vicarage. The water was September-low. Torsten was doing the blackfly dance. No one opened when they rang the bell. They rang again and waited. In the end they turned to go.
A man was walking up toward the vicarage through the opening in the fence. He waved to them and shouted. When he got closer they could see he was wearing a clerical shirt.
“Hi there,” he said when he got to them. “You must be from Meijer & Ditzinger.”
He held his hand out to Torsten Karlsson first. Rebecka took up the secretary’s position, half a pace behind Torsten.
“Stefan Wikström,” said the clergyman.
Rebecka introduced herself without mentioning her job. He could believe whatever made him comfortable. She looked at the priest. He was in his forties. Jeans, tennis shoes, clerical shirt and white dog collar. He hadn’t been conducting his official duties, then. Still had the shirt on, though.
One of those 24/7 priests, thought Rebecka.
“You’d arranged to meet Bertil Stensson, our parish priest,” the clergyman continued. “Unfortunately he’s been held up this evening, so he asked me to meet you and show you the church.”
Rebecka and Torsten made polite noises and went up to the little red wooden church with him. There was a smell of tar from the wooden roof. Rebecka followed in the wake of the two men. The clergyman addressed himself almost exclusively to Torsten when he spoke. Torsten slipped smoothly into the game and didn’t pay any attention to Rebecka either.
Of course it could be that the priest has actually been held up, thought Rebecka. But it could also mean that he’s decided to oppose the firm’s proposal.
It was gloomy inside the church. The air was still. Torsten was scratching twenty fresh blackfly bites.
Stefan Wikström told them about the eighteenth-century church. Rebecka allowed her thoughts to wander. She knew the story of the beautiful altarpiece and the dead resting beneath the floor. Then she realized they’d embarked on a new topic of conversation, and pricked up her ears.
“There. In front of the organ,” said Stefan Wikström, pointing.
Torsten looked up at the shiny organ pipes and the Sami sun symbol in the center of the organ.
“It must have been a terrible shock for all of you.”
“What must?” asked Rebecka.
The clergyman looked at her.
“This is where she was hanging,” he said. “My colleague who was murdered in the summer.”
Rebecka looked blankly at him.
“Murdered in the summer?” she repeated.
There was a confused pause.
“Yes, in the summer,” ventured Stefan Wikström.
Torsten Karlsson was staring at Rebecka.
“Oh, come on,” he said.
Rebecka looked at him and shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“A woman priest was murdered in Kiruna in the summer. In here. Didn’t you know about it?”
“No.”
He looked at her anxiously.
“You must be the only person in the whole of Sweden who…I assumed you knew. It was all over the papers. On every news broadcast…”
Stefan Wikström was following their conversation like a table tennis match.
“I haven’t ready any papers all summer,” said Rebecka. “And I haven’t watched any television.”
Torsten raised his hands, palms upward, in a helpless gesture.
“I really thought…” he
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