Free Sun Storm by Åsa Larsson

walls. One thought was pounding in her head. During her years with the police she had learned to recognize the signs of stress. Everything from sweating to dizziness. People were usually nervous when they were talking to the police. But it was when they started trying to hide their stress that it became interesting to watch them.
    And there was one particular sign of stress that you only got one chance to catch. It only happened once. And she’d just heard it. Immediately after she’d asked whether Viktor Strandgård was intending to reveal something before he died. One of the three pastors, she hadn’t managed to work out which one, had taken a deep breath. Just once. Caught his breath.
    “Shit,” she said aloud, and was surprised at how good it felt to swear secretly in church.
    It didn’t necessarily mean a damned thing. Someone breathing. It’s obvious there’s something going on. Show me the board of a large organization where there isn’t. Even in the police. And this lot aren’t as pure as the driven snow either.
    “But that doesn’t make them murderers,” Anna-Maria continued her discussion with herself as she flushed the toilet.
    But there were other inconsistencies. Why, for example, had Vesa Larsson said that nothing was troubling Viktor Strandgård if Thomas Söderberg was supposed to be his “spiritual mentor,” and therefore must have been the one who knew him best?
    When Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria left the church and were making their way down to the car park, the woman who had been vacuuming came running after them. She had only socks and clogs on her feet, and half ran, half slid down the slope to catch them.
    “I heard you asking if he had any enemies,” she panted.
    “Yes?” asked Sven-Erik.
    “He did,” she said, seizing Sven-Erik’s arm in a viselike grip. “And now he’s dead, the enemy will be even stronger. I myself can feel how I am beset by the foe.”
    She let go of Sven-Erik and flung her arms around herself in a vain attempt to keep out the bitter cold. She hadn’t put on any sort of coat or jacket. She bent her knees slightly to keep her balance on the slope. If she leaned backwards even slightly the clogs began to slip.
    “Beset?” asked Anna-Maria.
    “By demons,” said the woman. “They want to make me start smoking again. I used to be possessed by the tobacco demon, but Viktor Strandgård laid hands upon me and freed me.”
    Anna-Maria looked at her, completely exhausted. She couldn’t cope with a mad person right now.
    “We’ll make a note of it,” she said tersely, and started to walk toward the car.
    Sven-Erik stayed where he was and took his notebook out of the inside pocket of his fleece.
    “He was the one who killed Viktor,” said the woman.
    “Who?” asked Sven-Erik.
    “The Prince of Demons,” she whispered. “Satan. He is trying to force his way in.”
    Sven-Erik shoved the notebook back in his pocket and took hold of the woman’s ice-cold hands.
    “Thank you,” he said. “Now, why don’t you go back inside, so you don’t freeze to death.”
    “I just wanted to tell you about it,” the woman called after them.
     
    I nside the church the pastors were engaged in a loud discussion.
    “We can’t do it like this!” shouted Gunnar Isaksson agitatedly, dogging Thomas Söderberg’s footsteps as he walked around the black bloodstain on the floor and moved the chairs so that the dark impression of Viktor Strandgård’s death ended up almost as if it were in the middle of a circus ring.
    “Yes, we can,” said Thomas Söderberg calmly, and, turning toward the well-dressed woman, he went on:
    “Take the rug away from the aisle. Leave the bloodstain as it is. Go and buy three roses and place them on the floor. I want the church rearranged completely. I shall stand beside the spot where he died and preach. I want the chairs in a circle.”
    “You’ll have the congregation all around you,” squeaked Gunnar Isaksson. “Do you expect people to