Part 67 (1/2)

And he himself has broken an inmate out of jail, used violence against a prison officer, threatened his life.

Disa would have said he was just under-stimulated, that he needs to get back to work. It's too late for that now, but he had no choice, in which case the consequences are irrelevant.

When Joona opens the door Rocky wakes up and looks at him with narrow, sleepy eyes.

'Wait here,' Joona says, and leaves the car.

Rocky gets out and spits on the ground, leans against the roof of the car and draws a line in the dirt with his hand.

'Do you recognise where we are?' Joona asks.

'No,' Rocky says, looking up at the church. 'But that doesn't mean anything.'

'I want you to wait in the car,' Joona repeats. 'I don't think the serial killer's here, but it could still be a dangerous situation.'

'I don't give a s.h.i.+t,' Rocky says bluntly.

He follows Joona between the graves. The air is fresh, as if it had just been raining. They pa.s.s a man in jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt standing outside the porch, smoking and talking on his mobile.

The transition from bright sunlight leaves them almost completely blind when they walk into the darkness of the porch.

Joona moves quickly to one side, ready to draw his pistol.

He blinks and waits for his eyes to adapt before going in amongst the pews beneath the organ loft. Huge pillars hold up the roof and ornate frescos.

There's a knocking sound, and a shadow flits across the walls.

There's someone sitting in one of the front pews.

Joona stops Rocky, draws his gun and holds it hidden beside his hip.

A bird hits the window. It looks like a jackdaw that's got caught in a piece of twine, and keeps. .h.i.tting the window when it tries to fly off.

The door to the sacristy is ajar. On the wall is a hazy cross in a circle.

Joona slowly approaches the huddled figure from behind, and sees a wrinkled hand holding on to the back of the pew in front.

The bird hits the window again. The shrunken figure slowly turns its head towards the sound.

It's an elderly Chinese woman.

Joona carries on past her, still concealing his gun, and looks at her from the side. Her face is downcast, impa.s.sive.

Beside the medieval font Mary sits like a child. Her wide, wooden dress falls in heavy folds around her feet.

At the centre of the altarpiece Christ hangs on the cross against a sky of gold, just as Rocky described it under hypnosis.

This was where he first met the unclean preacher, when the entire church was full of priests.

Now he's back.

Rocky has stopped in the darkened doorway beneath the organ loft. The instrument's pipes stick up above him like a row of quill pens.

He's standing still, irresolute. Like an apostate, he doesn't look up at the altar, and just stares down at his big, empty hands.

The Chinese woman stands up and walks out.

Joona knocks on the door of the sacristy, nudges the door open slightly and peers into the gloom. A set of vestments is hanging ready, but the room looks empty.

Joona steps aside and looks into the gap between the hinges, sees the uneven stone wall, like billowing fabric.

He opens the door further and walks in, his pistol at his chest. He quickly looks round at the liturgical textiles. High above, pale daylight filters in through a deep alcove.

Joona crosses the floor to the toilet and opens the door, but there's no one there. There's a wrist.w.a.tch on the shelf above the hand-basin.

He raises his pistol and opens the door to the wardrobe. Chasubles, ca.s.socks and stoles hang side by side, different colours for different seasons of the religious calendar. Joona quickly pushes the clothes aside and looks towards the back of the wardrobe.

There's something on the floor in one corner. A pile of magazines about sports cars.

Joona returns to the nave and walks past Rocky, who has sat down in one of the pews, and goes outside, where he asks the man by the door where the priest is.

'That's me,' the man smiles, dropping his cigarette in the empty coffee mug by his feet.

'I mean the other priest,' Joona explains.

'There's only me here,' he says.

Joona has already looked at his arms, they're free of injection scars.

'When were you ordained?'

'I was ordained as a curate in Katrineholm, and four years ago I was appointed as the priest here,' the man replies amiably.

'Who was here before you?'

'That was Rickard Magnusson ... and before him, Erland Lodin and Peter Leer Jacobson, Mikael Friis and ... I can't remember.'

The man has cut his hand, there's a grubby plaster across his palm.

'This probably sounds like a strange question,' Joona says. 'But when would a church be full of priests ... in the pews, like the congregation?'

'When a priest is ordained, but that would be in a cathedral,' the priest replies helpfully, picking his mug up off the ground.

'But here?' Joona persists. 'Has this church ever been full of priests?'

'That would be for a priest's funeral ... but that's up to the family to decide, it depends who gets invited ... there are no special rules for priests.'