ASA LARSSON ~ THE SAVAGE ALTAR Read Online Free PDF
Author: Åsa Larsson
yet,” he answered slowly.
Carl von Post could feel his pulse rate rising. He wasn’t going to stand for anybody being obstructive or awkward.
“But surely you must have noticed something already? I want ongoing reports and detailed information at all times.”
He snapped his fingers as if to illustrate the speed with which all this information was to be passed on.
Anna Granlund looked at the snapping fingers; it occurred to her that she used exactly the same gesture to her dogs.
Pohjanen stood in silence, looking at the floor. The sound of his breathing, slightly too fast, quietened only when he raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled with great concentration. Carl von Post met Anna Granlund’s fierce gaze.
Y ou can stare, he thought. A year ago at the police Christmas party you were giving me a very different look. For God’s sake, I’m surrounded by spastics and morons. Pohjanen looked worse now than before the operation and his sick leave.
“Well, then?” he said challengingly, when he thought the doctor had been silent for long enough.
Lars Pohjanen looked up and met the prosecutor’s raised eyebrows.
“What I know at this moment,” he said in his rasping voice, which was not much more than a loud whisper, “is that first of all he’s dead, and that secondly death was probably due to externally applied force. That’s all, so you can let us pass now, sonny.”
The prosecutor saw how the corners of Anna Granlund’s mouth twitched downward in an attempt to suppress a smile as they walked past him.
“When will I get the autopsy report?” snapped von Post as he followed them to the door.
“When we’ve finished,” replied Pohjanen, and let the church door slam shut in the assistant chief prosecutor’s face.
V on Post raised his right hand and caught the swinging door; at the same time he was forced to root in his inside pocket with his left hand because his cell phone had started to vibrate.
It was the girl from the police switchboard.
“I’ve got a Rebecka Martinsson on the line saying she knows where Viktor Strandgård’s sister is and she wants to arrange a time for an interview. Tommy Rantakyrö and Fred Olsson have gone to look for the sister, so I didn’t know whether to put her through to them or to you.”
“You did exactly the right thing; put her through to me.”
Von Post allowed his gaze to wander up the aisle of the church as he waited for the call to be connected. It was evident that the architect had had a clear vision in mind: the long red handwoven carpet ran along the nave right up to the choir stalls, and on either side stood rows of blue chairs with wavy contours on the back. It made you think immediately of the Bible story of the parting of the Red Sea. He began to stroll up the aisle.
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice on the telephone.
He answered with his name and title, and she went on.
“My name is Rebecka Martinsson. I’m calling on behalf of Sanna Strandgård; I understand that you wish to speak to her with regard to the murder.”
“Yes; you have information about where we can find her.”
“Well, not exactly,” continued the polite and almost too well-spoken voice. “Since Sanna Strandgård wishes me to accompany her to the interview, and since I am in Stockholm at the moment, I wanted to check with whoever is in charge of the investigation to see if it would be more convenient for us to come in this evening, or if tomorrow would be better.”
“No.”
“Sorry?”
“No,” said von Post, not bothering to hide his irritation, “it isn’t convenient this evening and it isn’t convenient tomorrow. I don’t know whether you’ve quite grasped this, Rebecka Whatever-your-name-is, but this is actually an ongoing murder investigation, for which I am responsible, and I want to talk to Sanna Strandgård right now. I think you should advise your friend not to stay in hiding, because I’m quite prepared to issue a warrant for her arrest
Carl von Post could feel his pulse rate rising. He wasn’t going to stand for anybody being obstructive or awkward.
“But surely you must have noticed something already? I want ongoing reports and detailed information at all times.”
He snapped his fingers as if to illustrate the speed with which all this information was to be passed on.
Anna Granlund looked at the snapping fingers; it occurred to her that she used exactly the same gesture to her dogs.
Pohjanen stood in silence, looking at the floor. The sound of his breathing, slightly too fast, quietened only when he raised the cigarette to his lips and inhaled with great concentration. Carl von Post met Anna Granlund’s fierce gaze.
Y ou can stare, he thought. A year ago at the police Christmas party you were giving me a very different look. For God’s sake, I’m surrounded by spastics and morons. Pohjanen looked worse now than before the operation and his sick leave.
“Well, then?” he said challengingly, when he thought the doctor had been silent for long enough.
Lars Pohjanen looked up and met the prosecutor’s raised eyebrows.
“What I know at this moment,” he said in his rasping voice, which was not much more than a loud whisper, “is that first of all he’s dead, and that secondly death was probably due to externally applied force. That’s all, so you can let us pass now, sonny.”
The prosecutor saw how the corners of Anna Granlund’s mouth twitched downward in an attempt to suppress a smile as they walked past him.
“When will I get the autopsy report?” snapped von Post as he followed them to the door.
“When we’ve finished,” replied Pohjanen, and let the church door slam shut in the assistant chief prosecutor’s face.
V on Post raised his right hand and caught the swinging door; at the same time he was forced to root in his inside pocket with his left hand because his cell phone had started to vibrate.
It was the girl from the police switchboard.
“I’ve got a Rebecka Martinsson on the line saying she knows where Viktor Strandgård’s sister is and she wants to arrange a time for an interview. Tommy Rantakyrö and Fred Olsson have gone to look for the sister, so I didn’t know whether to put her through to them or to you.”
“You did exactly the right thing; put her through to me.”
Von Post allowed his gaze to wander up the aisle of the church as he waited for the call to be connected. It was evident that the architect had had a clear vision in mind: the long red handwoven carpet ran along the nave right up to the choir stalls, and on either side stood rows of blue chairs with wavy contours on the back. It made you think immediately of the Bible story of the parting of the Red Sea. He began to stroll up the aisle.
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice on the telephone.
He answered with his name and title, and she went on.
“My name is Rebecka Martinsson. I’m calling on behalf of Sanna Strandgård; I understand that you wish to speak to her with regard to the murder.”
“Yes; you have information about where we can find her.”
“Well, not exactly,” continued the polite and almost too well-spoken voice. “Since Sanna Strandgård wishes me to accompany her to the interview, and since I am in Stockholm at the moment, I wanted to check with whoever is in charge of the investigation to see if it would be more convenient for us to come in this evening, or if tomorrow would be better.”
“No.”
“Sorry?”
“No,” said von Post, not bothering to hide his irritation, “it isn’t convenient this evening and it isn’t convenient tomorrow. I don’t know whether you’ve quite grasped this, Rebecka Whatever-your-name-is, but this is actually an ongoing murder investigation, for which I am responsible, and I want to talk to Sanna Strandgård right now. I think you should advise your friend not to stay in hiding, because I’m quite prepared to issue a warrant for her arrest