“Was it Emil Wetterstedt who told you that?”
“Perhaps, but that hardly matters now.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Kill you.”
For the second time that morning he heard her say it, that she was going to kill him. This time, though, he hadn’t the strength to feel afraid. He could only convince her that she should give up, or hope that circumstances would arise enabling him to disarm her. Then it occurred to him that there was a third possibility. He was still in the doorway. If she let her attention wander he would be able to throw himself backwards into the main part of the church. Once there, he could hide among the pews, and possibly even escape outside.
“How did you know I was here?”
She still spoke in the same low voice. Lindman could see that she was holding the gun just as steadily as before. It was aimed now at his legs, not his chest. She’s going to pieces, he thought. He shifted his weight onto his right leg.
“Why don’t you give up?” he said.
She didn’t answer, simply shook her head.
Then came the moment he was waiting for. The hand holding the gun dropped down as she turned to look out of the window. He threw himself backwards as fast as he could, then started running down the center aisle. He expected the shot to come from behind at any second and kill him.
All of a sudden he fell headfirst. He hadn’t seen a corner of the carpet sticking up. As he fell, he hit his shoulder against one of the pews.
Then came the shot. It smashed into the pew beside him. Another shot. The echo sounded like a thunderclap. Silence. He heard a thud behind him. When he looked around, he could see her, just in front of her father’s coffin. His heart was pounding. What had happened? Had she shot herself? Then he heard Johansson’s agitated, shrill voice from the organ loft.
“Lie still. Don’t move. Veronica Molin, can you hear me? Lie still.”
“She’s not moving,” Lindman shouted.
“Did she hit you?”
“No.”
Johansson shouted again. His voice echoed round the church. “Veronica Molin. Lie still. Keep your arms outstretched.”
Still she didn’t move. There was a clattering on the stairs from the organ loft and Johansson appeared in the center aisle. Lindman scrambled to his feet. They approached the motionless body with trepidation, Johansson with his pistol held in both hands before him. Lindman raised his hand.
“She’s dead.” He pointed. “You hit her in the eye.”
Johansson gulped and shook his head. “I aimed for her legs. I’m not that bad a shot.”
They walked up to her. Lindman was right. The bullet had entered her left eye. Right next to her, on the lower edge of the stone underhang of the pulpit, was an obvious bullet mark.
“A ricochet,” he said. “You simply missed her, but the bullet bounced off the pulpit and killed her.”
Johansson shook his head in bewilderment. Lindman understood. The man had never shot at a human being before. Now he had, and the woman he’d tried to hit in the leg was dead.
“It couldn’t be helped,” Lindman said. “That’s the way it goes sometimes. But it’s over now. It’s all over.”
The church door opened. A church official was staring at them in horror. Lindman patted Johansson on the shoulder, then went to the man to explain what had happened.
Half an hour later Lindman arrived at the Berggren house and found Rundström there. Larsson was on his way to hospital, but no Hereira. The ambulance man said Larsson had told him that Hereira had melted into thin air.
“We’ll get him,” Rundström said.
“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Lindman said. “We don’t know his real name, he might have several different passports. He’s been very good at hiding so far.”
“Wasn’t he wounded?”
“Just a scratch on his forehead.”
A man in coveralls appeared. He was carrying a dripping wet shotgun that he put on the table. “I found it right away. Was there a shootout in the church?”
Rundström brushed aside the question. “I’ll fill you in later,” he said. Rundström eyed the shotgun. “I wonder if the prosecutor will be able to nail Berggren for all the lies she’s told us,” he said. “Even if it was this Holmström who killed Andersson and threw the shotgun into the river. He’s obviously the arsonist as well. Molin’s house has been totally and truly torched.”
“Hereira told me he had started the fire. To confuse the police,” Lindman said.
“So much has happened that’s beyond me,” Rundström said. “Larsson’s in the hospital, and Erik’s in the church, having killed Molin’s daughter. It seems to me that you, Stefan Lindman, the police officer from Borås, are the only person who can fill me in on what’s been happening on my turf this morning.”