Virku 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 was almost touching her.

It’s a magnificent and serviceable stomach, thought Rebecka.

It protruded above his belt like an advance guard, able to penetrate other people’s territory while Gunnar Isaksson himself sheltered behind it at a safe distance. She quelled the impulse to take a step backwards.

I tolerated your hands on my body when you prayed for me, she thought. So I can bloody well put up with you standing too close.

“Hi, Gunnar,” she said casually.

“I’ve been waiting for you to show up," he said. "I thought you would have come to our evening services while you’re in town.”

Rebecka kept quiet. From a poster on the wall, Viktor Strandgård gazed down on them.

“What do you think of the bookshop?” Gunnar Isaksson went on, looking around proudly. “We did it up last year. Opened it up right through to the café, so you can sit and flick through a book while you’re having coffee. You can hang your coat in there if you want to. I said we should put a sign above the coat hooks: ‘Leave your common sense here.’ ”

Rebecka looked at him. He bore the marks of the halcyon days. Bigger stomach. Expensive shirt, expensive tie. His beard and hair were well groomed.

“What do I think of the bookshop?” she said. “I think the church should be digging wells and putting street children into school, instead of leaving them to work as prostitutes.”

Gunnar Isaksson looked at her with a supercilious expression.

“God does not concern himself with artificial irrigation,” he said loudly, with the emphasis on “God.” “In this church community He has opened a spring of His abundance. Through our prayers such springs will open up all over the world.”

He glanced at the girl behind the counter and noted with satisfaction that he had her full attention. It was more amusing to put Rebecka in her place when there was an audience.

“This,” he said with a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the Crystal Church and all the success the church had enjoyed, “this is only the beginning.”

“Absolute crap,” said Rebecka dryly. “The poor can pray their own way to wealth, is that what you mean? Doesn’t Jesus say: ‘Truly, whatever you have done for the least of my children, you have done for me.’ And what was it that was supposed to happen to those who left the little ones without help? ‘They shall go forward to eternal damnation, but the righteous shall go forward to eternal life.’ ”

Gunnar Isaksson’s cheeks were turning red. He leaned toward her and his breath thudded against her face. It smelled of menthol and oranges.

“And you think you belong to the righteous?” he whispered scornfully.

“No,” Rebecka whispered back. “But maybe you should prepare yourself to keep me company in hell.”

Before he could answer, she went on:

“I see that Victory Print Ltd. prints a lot of the things you sell here. Your wife is a partner in the firm.”

“Yes,” said Gunnar Isaksson suspiciously.

“I checked at the tax office. The company has reclaimed a huge amount of VAT from the state. I can’t see any reason for that other than that enormous investments have been made in the company. How could you afford that? Does she earn a lot, your wife? She used to be a primary school teacher, didn’t she?”

“You’ve no right to go snooping in Victory Print’s affairs,” hissed Gunnar Isaksson angrily.

“The tax records are in the public domain,” replied Rebecka loudly. “I’d like you to answer some questions. Where does the money for the investments in Victory Print come from? Was anything in particular bothering Viktor before he died? Was he having a relationship with anyone? For example, one of the men in the church?”

Gunnar Isaksson took a step back and looked at her with disgust. Then he raised his index finger and pointed at the door.

“Out!” he yelled.

The girl behind the counter jumped and gave them a frightened look. Virku stood up and barked.

Gunnar Isaksson stepped menacingly toward Rebecka so that she was forced backwards.

“Don’t you come here trying to threaten the work of God and the people of God,” he roared. “In the name of Jesus and by the power of prayer I condemn thy evil plans. Do you hear what I say? Out!”

Rebecka turned on her heel and quickly left the bookshop. Her heart was in her mouth. Virku was right behind her.