Anders had just finished work on the plinth of the statue when the foreman called to him from over in the quarry. He sighed and frowned; he didn't like having his concentration being disturbed. But of course he had to obey, as usual. Carefully he put his tools into his toolbox next to the granite block and went to hear what the foreman had to say.
The fat man was nervously twirling his moustache.
'What have you gone and done now, Andersson?' he said, half in jest, half concerned.
'Me? What is it?' said Anders, removing his work gloves and giving the man a bewildered look.
'The front office is calling for you. You have to go down there. Right now.'
Damn it all, Anders swore silently. Was there something else that had to be changed on the statue now, at the eleventh hour? Those architects, or 'artists', or whatever they chose to call themselves, had no idea what they were doing when they sat in their studios and redrew their sketches. Then they expected the stonecutter to be able to make the changes just as easily in stone. They didn't understand that from the beginning he had planned the directions of the cleavages and marked the places where he had to cut, based on the original drawing. A change in the sketch would change his entire starting point, and in the worst case the stone might crack so that all the work had been done in vain.
But Anders also knew that it was no use to protest. It was the client who made the decisions. He was merely a faceless slave who was expected to perform all the hard work that the person who had designed the statue could not or would not do himself.
'Well, I suppose I'll have to go down there and hear what they want,' said Anders with a sigh.
'It might not be anything major,' said the foreman, who knew precisely what Anders feared and was showing some sympathy for a change.
'Well, no use putting it off,' replied Anders as he slouched off towards the road.
A while later he knocked awkwardly on the door of the office and stepped inside. He wiped off his shoes as best he could, but realized that it didn't make much difference, since his clothes were full of granite dust and chips, and his hands and face were dirty. But he'd been compelled to come down here on short notice, so they would have to take him as he was. He plucked up his courage and followed the man from the front office into the director's private office.
A hasty look around the room made his heart sink to his stomach. He understood at once that this summons had nothing to do with the statue. Much more serious matters were about to be discussed.
There were only three people in the room. The director sat behind his desk and his entire visage radiated controlled rage. In one corner sat Agnes staring hard at the floor. And in front of the desk sat a man Anders did not know, looking at him with poorly concealed curiosity.
Unsure of how to act, Anders stepped about a yard into the room and took up an almost military stance. No matter what was to come, he would take it like a man. Sooner or later they would have ended up in this situation; he just wished he could have chosen the circumstances.
He sought Agnes's eyes, but she stubbornly refused to look up and kept staring at her shoes. His heart ached for her. She must find all this incredibly difficult. But they still had each other, and after the worst of the storm subsided they could begin building their life together.
Anders turned his gaze from Agnes and calmly regarded the man behind the desk. He waited for Agnes's father to speak. It took a very long time before that happened, and the hands of the clock seemed to move unbearably slowly. When August Stjernkvist finally spoke, his voice had a cool, metallic tone.
'I understand that you and my daughter have been meeting in secret.'
'Circumstances have forced us to it, yes,' replied Anders calmly. 'But I have never had anything but honourable intentions with respect to Agnes,' he went on, looking Stjernkvist in the eye. For a second he thought he saw surprise in the director's face. This was apparently not the reply he had anticipated.
'I see, well.' Stjernkvist cleared his throat to gain time and decide how to handle this statement. Then his anger returned.
'And how had you intended to do that? A rich girl and a poor stonecutter. Are you so stupid that you believed that was even possible?'
Anders reeled at the scornful tone in the man's voice. Had he acted stupidly? All his decisiveness started to give way before the contempt bombarding him, and he realized at once how absurd the idea sounded when said aloud. Obviously that could never be possible. He felt his heart slowly breaking into bits and desperately sought out Agnes's glance. Was this going to be the end? Would he never see her again? She still didn't look up.
'Agnes and I love each other,' he said quietly, hearing how he sounded like a condemned man offering his last words of defence.
'I know my daughter considerably better than you do, boy. And I know her considerably better than she thinks I do. Of course, I did spoil her and allowed her greater freedom than she probably should have had, but I also know that she's a girl with ambitions. She never would have sacrificed everything for a future with a labourer.'
The words stung like fire, and Anders wanted to scream that he was wrong. Her father was not describing the Agnes he knew, not at all. She was good and kind, and above all she loved him just as passionately as he loved her. She was certainly prepared to make the sacrifices necessary for them to be able to live together. With sheer force of will he tried to make her look up and tell her father how things really stood, but she remained silent and dismissive. Gradually the ground began to give way beneath him. Not only was he about to lose Agnes, he understood quite well that given these conditions he wouldn't be allowed to keep his job either.
Stjernkvist spoke again, and now Anders thought he could sense pain behind the anger. 'But things have suddenly taken on a new light. Under normal circumstances I would have done everything I could to stop my daughter from ending up with a stonecutter. But the two of you have already seen to that by presenting me with an accomplished fact.'
In bewilderment Anders wondered what he was talking about.
Stjernkvist saw his puzzled expression and continued. 'She's expecting a child, of course. You two must be complete idiots not to have thought of that eventuality.'
Anders gasped for breath. He was inclined to agree with Agnes's father. They had indeed been idiots. He had been just as convinced as Agnes was that the precautions they had taken were fully sufficient. Now everything was changed. His feelings were swirling about, making him even more confused. On the one hand, he couldn't help feeling happy that his beloved Agnes would be bearing his child; on the other hand he was ashamed before her father and understood his rage. He too would have been furious if anyone had done such a thing to his daughter. Anders waited tensely for the director to go on.
Mournfully, August Stjernkvist said, still refusing to look at his daughter, 'Naturally there is only one solution. You will have to get married, and to that end I have called in Judge Flemming today. He will marry you at once, and we will deal with the formalities afterwards.'
Over in her corner Agnes now looked up for the first time. To Anders's astonishment he saw no joy in her eyes, but only desperation. Her tone of voice was entreating when she spoke. 'Father dear, please don't force me into this. There are other ways to solve the problem, and you can't force me to marry him. After all, he's only a simple… worker.'
The words felt like the lash of a whip against Anders's face. He seemed to see her for the first time, as if she had metamorphosed into someone else before his eyes.
'Agnes?' he said, as if begging her to remain the girl he loved, even though he already knew that all his dreams were now crashing down around him.
She ignored him and continued desperately appealing to her father. But August wouldn't condescend to give her even a glance. He looked only at the judge and said, 'Do what you need to do.'
'Please, Father!' Agnes shrieked, throwing herself to her knees in a dramatic plea.
'Silence!' said her father turning his cold eyes on her at last. 'Don't make yourself ridiculous. I don't intend to tolerate any hysterical ploys from you. You've made your bed, and now you have to lie in it!' he shouted. His daughter shut up at once.
With a pained look on her face, Agnes reluctantly got to her feet and let the judge carry out his task. It was an odd wedding, with the bride sullenly standing a few yards from the bridegroom. But the reply to the judge's question was 'yes' from each of them, although with much reluctance from one side and much confusion from the other.
'So, now that's done,' August asserted after the businesslike ceremony was completed. 'Of course I can't have you working here any longer,' he said. Anders merely bowed his head to confirm that this was what he expected. His new father-in-law went on, 'But no matter how badly you have behaved, I can't leave my daughter penniless; I owe her mother that much.'
Agnes looked at him tensely, still with a small hope that she wouldn't have to lose everything.
'I have arranged a position for you at the quarry in Fjällbacka. One of the other cutters can finish the statue. I've also paid the first month's rent for a room with a kitchen in one of the barracks. After that month you'll have to manage on your own.'
Agnes let out a whimper. She put her hand to her throat as if she were about to choke, and Anders felt as though he were aboard a ship that was slowly sinking. If he still harboured any hopes of building a future with Agnes, they were crushed for good when he saw the contempt with which she regarded her new husband.
'Dear, beloved Father, please,' she again entreated. 'You can't do this to me. I would rather take my own life than move into a stinking hovel with that man.'
Anders grimaced at her words. Had it not been for the child he would have turned on his heel and left, but a real man took care of his obligations no matter how difficult the circumstances. That had been imprinted on him since he was a boy. So he remained standing in the room that now felt suffocatingly small and tried to imagine his future with a woman who obviously found him repulsive. She was now his companion for life.
'What's done is done,' said August to his daughter. 'You have the afternoon to gather up whatever possessions you can carry, then the carriage leaves for Fjällbacka. Choose your belongings wisely. You probably won't have much use for your party dresses,' he added spitefully, showing how deeply his daughter had wounded him. His soul would never recover from this.
When the door closed behind them the silence was thundering. Then Agnes looked at Anders with so much hatred that he had to dig in his heels so as not to flinch. An inner voice whispered to him to flee while there was still time, but his feet wouldn't budge. They felt as if they were nailed to the floor.
A premonition of bad times ahead made him shudder.
Morgan saw the police officers arrive and then leave again. But he didn't waste time wondering what business they had in his parents' house. He wasn't one to brood.
He stretched. It was now late afternoon and he had been sitting almost the whole day at his computer, as usual. His mother worried about what it would do to his back, but he saw no reason to be concerned about that before something actually happened. Of course his back had started to be rather hunched, but he felt no pain. As long as the problem was merely one of appearance it was nothing that his brain registered. For someone who wasn't normal anyway it didn't matter if he was a little hunchbacked as well.
It was a relief to be able to sit in peace. Now that the girl was gone, that disturbing element had vanished. He had really not liked her. Really. She was always coming in to bother him when he was most engrossed in his work, and she pretended not to hear when he told her to leave. The other children were afraid of him. They contented themselves with pointing their fingers behind his back the few times he showed himself outside the walls of the house. But not her. She kept intruding, demanding attention and refusing to be scared off when he yelled at her. Sometimes he'd been so frustrated that he had stood there screaming with his hands over his ears in the hope that it would make her leave. But she had only laughed. So it was really great that she wouldn't be coming back. Not ever.
Death fascinated him. There was something about the finality of it that kept his brain preoccupied with death in all its forms. The games he most enjoyed were the ones that had a lot of death in them. Blood and death.
Occasionally he had considered taking his own life. Not so much because he no longer wanted to live, but because he wanted to see what it was like to be dead. In the past he had made known his intentions. Said straight out to his parents that he was thinking of killing himself. Just as a matter of sharing information. But their reactions had made him keep such thoughts to himself nowadays. There had been a tremendous row, followed by more visits to the psychologist, at the same time that they, or rather his mother, had begun to watch him around the clock. Morgan had not liked that.
He didn't understand why everyone was so afraid of death. All the incomprehensible emotions that other people seemed to possess became more intense and numerous as soon as the talk turned to death. He really couldn't understand it. Death was a state of being, just like life. Why should one be better than the other?
Most of all he would have liked to be present when they cut into the girl at the post-mortem, be allowed to stand by and watch. See what it was that other people found so terrifying. Maybe the answer would be there when they opened her up. Maybe the answer would be in the faces of the people who cut her open.
Sometimes he dreamed that he was lying in a morgue himself. On a cold metal table, with nothing to hide his naked body. In his dreams he saw the steel gleaming just before the pathologist made the straight cut along his thorax.
But he never told anyone about these thoughts. Then they might think he was truly crazy, not merely different from everyone else, which was a label that he'd learned to live with over the years.
Morgan went back to the code on the computer screen. He enjoyed the calm and the silence. It was really great that she was gone.
Lilian opened the door before they had a chance to knock. Patrik suspected that she had been watching for them ever since they left. In the hall stood a pair of shoes that hadn't been there before, and Patrik assumed they belonged to Lilian's friend Eva who'd come over to lend her moral support.
'So,' said Lilian. 'What did he have to say in his defence? Can we finish that report now, so that you can take him in?'
Patrik took a deep breath. 'We'd just like to have a little talk with your husband first, before we proceed with a report. There are still a few things that seem unclear.'
For a second he saw uncertainty pass over her face, but she regained her belligerent expression at once.
'That's absolutely out of the question. Stig is ill. He's upstairs in bed resting and can't be disturbed under any circumstances.' Her voice sounded strained with a hint of nervousness to it. Patrik could see that Lilian had also forgotten about Stig as a potential witness. So it was even more important that they be allowed to talk with him.
'Unfortunately it can't be helped. I'm sure he could see us for a minute or two,' said Patrik in the most authoritative voice he could muster, taking off his jacket at the same time to emphasize his intent.
Lilian was just about to open her mouth to protest when Gösta said in his most official police tone of voice, 'If we aren't allowed to speak to Stig, it might be considered a matter of obstruction of justice. It wouldn't look good in the official report.'
Patrik was doubtful whether his colleague's assertion would hold in the long run, but it seemed to have the desired effect on Lilian, who furiously strode toward the stairs. When it looked as though she planned to go upstairs with them, Gösta placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
'We can find our way, thanks.'
'Hut…' Her eyes flickered, searching for some other valid P protests, but she finally had to give up.
'Well, don't say that I didn't warn you. Stig is not doing well, and if he gets worse because you go stomping in and asking a lot of questions, then…'
They left the statement hanging as they went up the stairs. The guest room lay directly to the left, and since Lilian had left the I door open, it wasn't hard to locate her spouse. Stig was ensconced in the bed, but he was awake and had turned his head towards the door in anticipation. Judging by how well Lilian's excited voice was now carrying up from the kitchen, he had no doubt heard that they were on their way up. Patrik entered the room before Gösta and had to force himself not to gasp. The man lying in bed was so frail and emaciated that his bones under the covers seemed to jut out in relief. His cheeks were sunken, and his skin had a grey, unhealthy colour. His hair had turned prematurely white, making him look considerably older than he was. There was a nauseating odour of illness in the room, and Patrik had to suppress a desire to breathe only through his mouth.
Dubiously he reached out a hand to Stig to introduce himself. Gösta did the same, and then they looked around the tiny room for a place to sit down. It felt altogether too officious to stand towering over Stig as he lay there in his sickbed. Stig raised a greyish hand and pointed to the edge of the bed.
'Unfortunately this is all I can offer you.' His voice was dry and feeble, and Patrik was again shocked at how utterly exhausted he looked. This man looked far too ill to be at home. He should be in hospital. But it was none of his business, and there was a doctor living in the house, after all.
Patrik and Gösta sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed. Stig grimaced a little when the bed bounced, and Patrik hurried to apologize, afraid that they had caused him pain. Stig waved off the apology.
Patrik cleared his throat. 'First of all, I'd like to start by offering my condolences for the loss of your granddaughter.' Again he heard how formal his voice sounded, a tone that he himself despised.
Stig closed his eyes and seemed to collect himself to reply. The words had obviously stirred up emotions that he was struggling to overcome.
'Technically, Sara was not really my grandchild – her grandfather, Charlotte's father, died eight years ago – but in my heart she always was. I've cared about her from when she was a little baby until…' he paused, 'now at the end.' He closed his eyes again, but when he opened them he seemed to have regained his composure.
'We've talked a bit with the rest of the family,' said Patrik, 'to find out exactly what happened that morning. I wonder whether you might have heard anything in particular. For example, do you know what time Sara left the house?'
Stig shook his head. 'I take strong sleeping pills and don't usually wake up before around ten. And by then she was already… gone.' He closed his eyes once more.
'When we asked your wife whether she could think of anyone who may have wanted to harm Sara, she named your neighbour, Kaj Wiberg. Do you agree with that assessment?'
'Did Lilian say that Kaj murdered Sara?' Stig looked at them sceptically.
'Well, not in so many words, but she hinted that there were reasons why your neighbour might wish your family ill.'
Stig let out a long sigh. 'Well, I've never understood what it is with those two. The feud was already going on before I came into the picture, before Lennart died. To be honest, I don't know who cast the first stone, and I daresay that Lilian is just as capable of keeping the feud going as Kaj is. I've tried to stay out of it as much as possible, but it's not easy.' He shook his head. 'No, I don't really understand why they carry on the way they do. I know my wife as a warm, sympathetic woman, but when it comes to Kaj and his family she seems to have a blind spot. You know, sometimes I think that she and Kaj actually enjoy the whole thing. That they live for the sake of the battle. But that sounds absurd. Why would anyone voluntarily keep it up the way they do, with legal action and everything? And it's cost us plenty of money. Kaj can afford it, but we're not as well off, retired as we both are. No, why would anyone want to keep on fighting like this?'
The question was purely rhetorical. Stig wasn't expecting an answer.
'Have they ever come to blows?' Patrik asked with interest.
'Good Lord, no,' Stig said emphatically. 'They aren't that crazy.' He laughed.
Patrik and Gösta exchanged a glance. 'Did you hear that Kaj was over here earlier today?'
'Yes, I could hardly avoid hearing it,' said Stig. 'There was a frightful commotion down in the kitchen, and he was shouting and carrying on. But Lilian threw him out with his tail between his legs.' He looked at Patrik. 'I don't really understand some people. I mean, regardless of what problems they've had with each other, one would think that he'd show a little sympathy, considering what's happened. With Sara, I mean.'
Patrik agreed that sympathy should have been the prevailing response in recent days, but unlike Stig he didn't put all the blame on Kaj. Lilian had also displayed an alarming lack of respect for the situation. He felt a nasty suspicion taking shape in his mind. He continued his questions, wanting to have it confirmed. 'Did you see Lilian after Kaj was here?' He held his breath.
'Of course,' said Stig, who seemed to wonder why Patrik was asking. 'She came upstairs with some tea and told me how shamelessly Kaj had behaved.'
Now Patrik was beginning to understand why Lilian had looked so uneasy when they told her they wanted to talk to Stig. She had made a tactical error in forgetting about her husband.
'Did you notice anything different about her?' Patrik asked.
'Different? How do you mean? She looked a little upset, but that's no wonder.'
'Nothing to indicate that she'd been slapped in the face?'
'Slapped in the face? No, absolutely not. Who's making that accusation?' Stig looked bewildered, and Patrik almost felt sorry for him.
'Lilian claims that Kaj assaulted her when he was here. And she showed us injuries, including on her face, to prove it.'
'But she didn't have any injuries on her face after Kaj was here. I don't understand…' Stig stirred restlessly, which evoked another grimace of pain.
Patrik's expression was stern as he signalled with his eyes to Gösta that they were done.
'We're going to go downstairs and have another talk with your wife,' he said, trying to get up as carefully as possible.
'Yes, but who could have…?'
They left Stig lying there with a confused look on his face. Patrik suspected that he would probably be having a serious talk with his wife after they left. But first they were going to have a serious talk with her.
He was seething inside as they went downstairs. It was no more than three days since Sara had died, and Lilian was already trying to use her death as a weapon in a petty feud. It was so… callous that he could hardly conceive it was possible. What incensed him most was the fact that she was wasting police time and resources when they needed to focus all their energy on finding the person who had murdered her only grandchild. The fact that Lilian hadn't given a thought to the consequences was so despicable and perverse that he could barely find words to describe her actions.
When they entered the kitchen he saw from Lilian's expression that she knew the battle was lost.
'We just got some interesting information from Stig,' Patrik said ominously. Lilian's friend Eva looked at them curiously. She had no doubt swallowed Lilian's story hook, line and sinker, but in a few minutes she might well see her friend in a new light.
'I don't understand why you persist in bothering someone who's sick in bed, but the police clearly have no consideration for anyone nowadays,' Lilian sputtered in an abortive attempt to regain control.
'You're certainly right about that,' said Gösta, calmly sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs facing Lilian and Eva. Patrik pulled out a chair next to him and sat down too.
'It was a good idea that we had a word with Stig as well, because he made a remarkable statement. Perhaps you'd be willing to help out by explaining it.'
Lilian didn't ask what sort of statement her husband had made. She waited in furious silence for them to continue. It was Gösta who spoke next.
'He said that you came up to his room after Kaj left, and that there were no signs that anyone had struck you. Nor did you mention it to him. Can you explain that?'
'I suppose it takes a while before the marks are visible,' Lilian muttered in a brave attempt to salvage the situation. 'And I didn't want to worry Stig, considering his condition. I'm sure you understand.'
They understood more than that. And she knew it.
Patrik took over. 'I hope you realize the seriousness of fabricating false accusations.'
'I didn't fabricate anything,' said Lilian, flaring up. In a somewhat calmer tone she said, 'Well, maybe I… exaggerated a bit.
But only because he was on the verge of attacking me. I could see it in his eyes.'
'And the injuries you showed us?'
She said nothing, nor did she need to. They had already worked out that Lilian had inflicted them on herself before they arrived. For the first time Patrik began to wonder whether there was actually something wrong with her mind.
Obstinately she said, 'But it was only because you needed a reason to take him in for questioning. Then you could have searched in peace and quiet for proof that he or Morgan murdered Sara. I know it was one of them, and I just wanted to help put you on the right track.'
Patrik gave her an incredulous look. Either she was more single- minded than anyone he'd ever met, or she was simply a little crazy. In any case, they needed to put a stop to these idiocies.
'In future we'd appreciate it if you let us do our job. And leave the Wiberg family alone. Is that understood?'
Lilian nodded, but they could see that she was furious. During the whole conversation her friend had watched her with astonishment. Now she made a point of leaving at the same time Patrik and Gösta did. That friendship had no doubt suffered a shock.
They didn't discuss Lilian's story on the way back to the station. The whole thing was much too depressing.
Stig felt a pang of unease as he lay in bed. He knew that Lilian would be angry now, but he didn't quite know what he could have done differently. She had looked completely normal when she came up to his room. He just didn't understand all this nonsense about Kaj assaulting her. Why would she lie about something like that?
The footsteps on the stairs sounded as angry as he had feared. For an instant he wanted to pull the covers over his head and pretend to be asleep, but he thought better of it. Surely it couldn't be such a big deal. He had simply told the truth; Lilian had to realize that. And besides, the whole thing must have been a mistake.
The expression on her face said more than he wanted to know. Evidently she was furious with him, and Stig literally cringed under her gaze. He always found it extremely unpleasant when she was in one of these moods. He couldn't understand how someone like his Lilian, who was so amiable and warm, could occasionally be transformed into such a disagreeable person. Suddenly he wondered whether what the police had hinted at really might be true. Had she made up an accusation against Kaj? But he dismissed the idea. They just needed to straighten out this misunderstanding, and then he would grasp the situation.
'Can't you ever keep your big mouth shut?' She loomed over him, and her sharp tone of voice sent lightning bolts through his head.
'But my dear, I only told -'
'The truth? Is that what you wanted to say? That you simply told them the truth? How fortunate we all are to have such upright people as you, Stig. Honest, honourable people who don't give a damn whether they put their own wife in jeopardy. I thought you were supposed to be on my side.'
He felt saliva spray across his face and hardly recognized the distorted face hovering above him.
'But I'm always on your side, Lilian. I just didn't know…'
'Didn't know? Do I have to spell out everything for you, you stupid idiot?'
'But you didn't say anything to me… and the police are probably just imagining the whole absurd thing. I mean, you wouldn't make up things like that, would you?' Stig was struggling bravely to find some sort of logic in the rage that was directed at him. Only now did he notice the mark on Lilian's face that was starting to take on a purplish hue. His eyes narrowed and he gave her a searching look.
'What's that mark you have on your face, Lilian? You didn't have it when you came up to see me. Are you saying that what the police hinted at was right? Did you make up a story about Kaj hitting you when he was here?' His voice was incredulous, but he saw Lilian's shoulders droop a bit and needed no further confirmation.
'Why on earth would you do something so stupid?' Now their roles were reversed. Stig's voice was sharp, and Lilian sank down on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands.
'I don't know, Stig. I can see now that it was stupid, but I wanted them to start looking at Kaj and his family seriously. I'm positive that somehow they're mixed up in Sara's death. Haven't I always told you that man is totally lacking in scruples? And that weird Morgan, sneaking about in the bushes and spying on me. Why don't the police do something?'
Her body was shaking with sobs, and Stig summoned his last strength to sit up in bed despite the pain and put his arms around his wife. He stroked her back reassuringly, but his eyes were restless and searching.
When Patrik came home, Erica was sitting alone in the dark, thinking. Kristina had taken Maja out for a walk, and Charlotte had long since gone home. What Charlotte had said was worrying her.
When Erica heard Patrik open the front door she got up and went to meet him.
'Why are you sitting here in the dark?' He set a couple of grocery bags on the counter and began turning on lamps. The glare blinded her for a second before she got used to it. Then she sat down heavily at the kitchen table and watched her husband as he unpacked what he had bought.
'How pleasant things are here at home,' he said cheerfully, looking around. 'It certainly is nice that Mamma can come by and help out occasionally,' he went on, unaware that Erica was giving him the evil eye.
'Oh yes, it's just peachy,' she said acidly. 'It must be wonderful to come home to a clean and well-organized home for a change.'
'Yeah, it sure is!' said Patrik, still clueless that he was digging his own grave deeper with each passing second.
'Then maybe you should see about staying home in future, so things will be more orderly around here!' Erica yelled.
Patrik jumped from her sudden increase in volume. He turned round with an astonished look on his face.
'What did I say now?'
Erica got up from her chair and stormed out. Sometimes he was too stupid for words. If he didn't get it, she didn't have the energy to explain.
She sat down again in the dim light of the living room and looked out of the window. The weather outside precisely reflected how she felt inside. Grey, stormy, raw and cold. Deceptively calm periods with occasional strong storms. Tears began running down her cheeks. Patrik came and sat down beside her on the sofa.
'I'm sorry for being so dumb. It must not be that easy to have Mamma here in the house, is it?'
She could feel her lower lip quivering. She was so tired of crying. She felt she hadn't done anything else these past few months. If only she'd been prepared for how it would be. The contrast was so great to the joy she'd always believed she would feel when she had a baby. In her darkest moments she almost hated Patrik because he didn't feel the same way she did. The rational part of her was relieved because someone had to keep the family going. But she wished that for just a moment he could put himself in her situation and understand how she felt.
As if he was able to read her thoughts he said, 'I wish I could change places with you, I really do. But I can't, so you have to stop being so bloody brave and tell me what's going on with you. Maybe you should even go and talk with someone else, a professional. The people at the child care centre could probably help us out.'
Erica shook her head. Her depression would surely pass of its own accord. It had to. Besides, there were women who had it much worse than she did.
'Charlotte stopped by today,' she said.
'How's she doing?' Patrik said quietly.
'Better, whatever that means.' She paused. 'Are you getting anywhere?'
Patrik leaned back in the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. He heaved a deep sigh and said, 'No, unfortunately. We hardly know where to start. And besides, Charlotte's screwy mother seems to be more interested in finding more ammunition for her feud with her neighbour than in helping us with the investigation. It hasn't made our work any easier.'
'What's that all about?' Erica asked with interest. Patrik gave her a brief rundown of the day's events.
'Do you really think anyone in Sara's family could have had anything to do with her death?' Erica asked.
'No, I have a hard time believing that,' said Patrik. 'They all have plausible alibis for where they were that morning.'
'They do?' said Erica in an odd tone of voice. Patrik was about to ask what she meant when they heard the front door open and Kristina came in with Maja in her arms.
'I don't know what you've done to this child,' she said in annoyance. 'She was screaming the whole way back in the pram and refuses to settle down. This is what happens when you keep picking her up just because she frets a little. You're spoiling her. You and your sister never cried this much
Patrik interrupted her harangue by going over to take Maja. Erica could hear from Maja's cries that she was hungry, and she sat down with a sigh in the easy chair, undid her nursing bra, and plucked out a shapeless, milk-soaked pad. It was time again…
As soon as she entered the house Monica felt that something was wrong. Kaj's anger streamed towards her like sound waves through the air, and she promptly felt even more exhausted. What was it this time? She had tired of his hot temper long ago, but she couldn't recall that he'd ever been any different. They had been together since their early teens, and maybe back then his shifting moods had seemed exciting and attractive. She couldn't even remember any longer. Not that it mattered; life had run its own course. She got pregnant, they got married, Morgan was born, and then one day piled on top of another. Their sex life had been dead for years; she had long ago moved into her own bedroom. Maybe there was something more than this to life, but she had become accustomed to the way things were. Of course she had toyed with the thought of divorce from time to time. On one occasion, almost twenty years ago, she had even packed a bag in secret and was ready to take Morgan with her and leave. But then she'd decided to fix dinner for Kaj first, iron a few shirts, and run the washing machine so that she wouldn't leave a bunch of dirty clothes behind. Before she knew it she'd quietly unpacked her suitcase.
Monica went out to the kitchen. She knew she would find Kaj there because it was where he always sat when he was upset about something. Maybe because he could keep an eye on the usual cause of his agitation. Now he had pulled the curtain aside a crack and was staring at the house next door.
'Hi,' Monica said, but got no civilized greeting in reply. Instead he immediately launched into a long hate-filled tirade.
'Do you know what that bitch did today?' He didn't wait for an answer, nor did Monica intend to give him one. 'She called the police and claimed that I assaulted her! Showed them some fucking marks she'd inflicted on herself and said I was the one who hit her. She's off her bloody rocker!'
When Monica came into the kitchen she was determined not to get drawn into Kaj's latest dispute, but this was far worse than she'd expected. Against her will she felt anger rising up in her chest. But first she had to allay her fears. 'And you're quite sure that you didn't attack her, Kaj? You do have a tendency to fly off the handle
Kaj looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. 'What the hell are you saying? Do you really think I'd be so bloody stupid to play right into her hands like that? I wouldn't mind giving her a punch in the nose, but don't you think I know what she'd do then? Sure, I went over there and gave her a piece of my mind, but I didn't touch her!'
Monica could see that he was telling the truth, and she couldn't help looking spitefully towards the house next door. If only Lilian would leave them in peace!
'So, what happened? Did the cops fall for her lies?'
'No, thank God. They could tell she was lying. They were going to talk to Stig, and I think that he quashed the whole idea. But it was a close call.'
She sat down facing her husband at the kitchen table. His face was beet-red and he was drumming his fingers angrily on the table.
'Shouldn't we just throw in the towel and move away? We can't go on like this.' It was an appeal she had made many times before, but she always saw the same determination in her husband's eyes.
'Out of the question, I told you that. She's never going to drive me out of my home. I refuse to give her the satisfaction.'
He slammed his fist on the table to punctuate his words, but it wasn't necessary. Monica had heard it all before. She knew it was useless. And to be honest, she didn't want to hand Lilian the victory either. Not after all that woman had said about Morgan.
The thought of her son prompted her to change the subject. 'Have you looked in on Morgan today?'
Kaj reluctantly shifted his gaze from the Florins' house and muttered, 'No, should I have? You know he never leaves his room.'
'Okay, but I thought you might go over and say hi. Check on how he's doing.' She knew that this was wishful thinking, but she still couldn't help hoping. Morgan was his son, after all.
'Why should I?' Kaj snorted. 'If he wants company he can come over here.' He stood up. 'Is there anything to eat, or what?'
Silently she got up and began fixing dinner. Years ago it might have occurred to her that Kaj could have made dinner since he was home anyway. That thought no longer crossed her mind. Everything was the way it had always been. And would always be.
FJÅLLBACKA 1924
Not a word had been spoken during the trip to Fjällbacka. After spending so many nights whispering in each other's ears, they now had not a single word left for each other. Instead they sat stiff as tin soldiers, staring straight ahead, both of them brooding over their own thoughts.
Agnes felt as if the world had come crashing down around her. Was it really this morning she woke up in her big bed in her own elegant room in the magnificent villa where she had lived her whole life? How was it possible that she now sat here on this train, with a suitcase beside her, on her way to a life of misery with a man she no longer even wanted to acknowledge? She could hardly stand to look at him. On one occasion during the journey Anders had made an attempt to put a consoling hand on hers. She had shaken it off with such a disgusted expression that she hoped he wouldn't do it again.
Some hours later, when they stopped in front of the company shack that would be their shared home, Agnes at first refused to get out of the cab. She sat there unable to move, paralysed by the filth surrounding her and the noise from the dirty, snot-nosed kids who swarmed around the cab. This couldn't possibly be her life! For a moment she was tempted to ask the cab driver to turn round and drive her back to the train station, but she realized how futile that would be. Where would she go? Her father had made it crystal clear that he didn't want anything more to do with her. Taking some sort of domestic situation was something she would never have considered, even if she hadn't had the child in her belly. All paths were now closed to her, except the one leading to this filthy, wretched hovel.
With a lump in her throat she decided at last to get out of the cab. She grimaced when her foot sank into the mud. Even worse, she was wearing her lovely red shoes with the open toes, and now she felt the damp soak into her stockings and between her toes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw curtains draw back to allow curious eyes to look out at the spectacle. She tossed her head. They could stare until their eyes popped out of their heads. What did she care what they thought? Simple servants is what they were. They had probably never seen a real lady before. Well, this was only going to be a brief sojourn. She would eventually find a way to get out of this predicament; she had never been in a position that she couldn't either lie or charm her way out of.
Decisively she picked up her bag and walked off towards the shack.
At the morning coffee break Patrik and Gösta told Martin and Annika what had happened the day before. Ernst seldom showed up before nine, and Mellberg thought it would undermine his role as chief to have coffee with the staff, so he stayed in his office.
'Doesn't she understand that she's shooting herself in the foot?' said Annika. 'She ought to want you to focus on searching for the killer instead of wasting time on such rubbish.' It was an echo of what Patrik and Gösta had already said to each other.
Patrik merely shook his head. 'Well, I don't know whether she can't think farther than the end of her nose, or whether she's simply crazy. But I think we should put this behind us now. Hopefully we managed to scare her a bit yesterday and she won't do it again. Do we have any other leads?'
No one said a word. There was an alarming lack of evidence and no leads to work with.
'When did you say we'd be getting the results from SCL?' Annika asked, breaking the tense silence.
'Monday,' said Patrik.
'Have the family been ruled out as suspects?' said Gösta, peering at everybody over his coffee cup.
Patrik was reminded at once of Erica's odd tone of voice last evening, when he brought up the family's alibis. There was something nagging at him too; now all he had to do was work out what it was. 'Of course not,' he said. 'Family members are always suspects, but there's nothing concrete to point in that direction.'
'What about their alibis?' said Annika. She often felt left out during the investigations, so she welcomed these opportunities to hear more about what was going on.
'Credible but not confirmed, I would say,' said Patrik. He got up to refill his coffee cup, then remained standing, leaning against the counter. 'Charlotte was sleeping in the downstairs flat because of a migraine. Stig stated that he was also asleep. He'd taken a sleeping pill and had no idea what was going on. Lilian was at home looking after Albin when Sara left the house, and Niclas was at work.'
'So none of them has an alibi that could be considered air-tight,' Annika said dryly.
'She's right,' said Gösta. 'We've probably been a little too cautious, not daring to press them harder. Their statements can definitely be called into question. Except for Niclas, none of their stories can be confirmed.'
There, that was it! Patrik realized what had been nagging at his subconscious. He began pacing back and forth excitedly. 'But Niclas couldn't have been at work. Don't you remember?' he said, turning towards Martin. 'We couldn't reach him that morning. It was almost two hours before he came home. We don't know where he actually was – or why he lied and said that he was at the clinic.'
Martin shook his head mutely. How could they have missed that?
'Shouldn't we question Morgan as well, the son of the family next door? True or not, reports were filed charging that he had sneaked about peeping in windows, ostensibly to see Lilian undressing… though I can't imagine why in God's name anyone would want to see that,' said Gösta, taking another sip of coffee as he looked at the others.
'Those reports are pretty old. And as you say, there isn't much evidence that they're true, especially considering what happened yesterday.' Patrik could hear that he sounded impatient. He wasn't at all sure that he wanted to waste time on investigating any more of Lilian's lies, old or new.
'On the other hand, we've already confirmed that we don't have very much to go on, so…' Gösta threw out his hands, and three pairs of eyes now regarded him with surprise. It wasn't like him to show any initiative in an investigation. But precisely because it was such a rare event, they thought they ought to pay attention. To bolster what he was saying, Gösta added, 'Besides, unless I'm mistaken, you can see the Florins' house from his cabin, so he actually might have noticed something that morning.'
'You're right,' said Patrik, once again feeling a bit stupid. He should have considered Morgan as a potential witness, at least. 'Okay, here's what we'll do: you and Martin talk to Morgan Wiberg…' he lowered his voice but forced himself to continue, 'and Ernst and I will take a closer look at Sara's father. We'll meet again this afternoon.'
'What about me? Is there anything I can do?' said Annika.
'Stay close to the phone. The case should have got a good deal of attention in the press by now, so if we're lucky we might get something useful from the public.'
Annika nodded and got up to put her coffee cup in the dishwasher. The others did the same, and Patrik went to his office to wait for Ernst to arrive. First things first. They had to have a talk about the importance of getting to work on time during an ongoing homicide investigation.
Mellberg could feel fate approaching by leaps and bounds. Only one day left. The letter was still in his top drawer. He hadn't dared look at it again. But he already knew the contents by heart. It amazed him that such contrasting emotions could be at war inside him. His first reactions had been disbelief and rage, suspicion and anger. But ever so slowly a feeling of hope had also emerged. It was this hope that had utterly surprised him. He had always considered his life to be nearly perfect, at least until he'd been transferred to this dump of a town. After that he was forced to admit that things may have taken a slight downturn. Yet other than the still elusive promotion he felt he deserved, he wasn't lacking for anything. It was true, the embarrassing little misadventure with Irina may have given him reason to believe that there were several more things he wanted from life, but he had quickly put that episode behind him.
He had always set great store by not needing anyone. The only person he'd ever been close to, and wanted to be close to, was his dear mother, but she was no longer among the living. The letter, however, implied that all this might change.
His breathing felt heavy and laboured. Dread was mixed with impatient curiosity. Part of him wanted the day to go faster, so that the certainty of tomorrow would replace all doubt. At the same time he wanted the day to pass so slowly that it practically stood still.
For a while he'd considered just saying to hell with everything. Toss the letter in his wastebasket and hope that the problem would disappear on its own. But he knew that would never work.
He sighed, put his feet up on the desk, and closed his eyes. He might as well wait patiently for what tomorrow would bring.
Gösta and Martin slipped discreetly past the big house, hoping that they wouldn't be noticed when they headed for Morgan's little cabin instead. Neither of them was in the mood for a confrontation with Kaj. They wanted a chance to speak with Morgan in peace, without his parents getting involved. Besides, he was an adult, so there was no reason for a parent to be present.
It took a long time before the door opened, so long that they weren't sure anyone was at home. But finally it did open, and a pale, blond man in his thirties stood before them.
'Who are you?' His voice was a monotone, and his face failed to show the inquiring expression that normally accompanied that sort of question.
'We're from the police,' said Gösta, introducing both of them. 'We're going around the neighbourhood interviewing the neighbours about the death of your neighbour's little girl, Sara.'
'I see,' said Morgan, still with the same expressionless face. He made no move to step aside.
'Could we come in and talk with you a bit?' said Martin. He was starting to feel a little uncomfortable in the presence of this strange young man.
'I'd rather not. It's ten o'clock, and I work from nine to quarter past eleven. Then I eat lunch between quarter past eleven and twelve, and then I work again from noon to quarter past two. After that I have coffee and rolls at the house with Mamma and Pappa until three o'clock. Then I work again until five, and after that I have dinner. Then the news is on channel 2 at six o'clock, then on channel 4 at six thirty, then on channel 4 at seven thirty, and then it's on channel 2 again at nine. After that I go to bed.'
He was still speaking in the same monotone, hardly seeming to take a breath during the whole speech. His voice was also a bit too high and shrill, and Martin exchanged a hasty glance with Gösta.
'It sounds like you have quite a busy schedule,' said Gösta, 'but you see, it's important for us to talk with you. So we'd really appreciate it if you could give us a few minutes of your time.'
Morgan seemed to mull over this question for a moment, but then decided to acquiesce. He stepped aside and let them in, but it was obvious he didn't appreciate this interruption of his routine.
Martin was taken aback when they entered. The cabin consisted of one small room, which seemed to serve as both workroom and bedroom, and there was also a little kitchen nook. The place looked clean and neat, except for one thing. There were piles of magazines everywhere. Narrow paths had been cleared between the stacks to facilitate movement between the various parts of the room. One path led to the bed, one to the computers, and one over to the kitchen. Otherwise the floor was completely covered. Martin glanced down and saw that the magazines were mostly about computers. Judging by the covers the collection before them had been amassed over many years. Some magazines looked new, while others seemed well-worn.
'I see that you're interested in computers,' Martin said.
Morgan merely looked at him without confirming the obvious in his observation.
'What sort of work do you do?' asked Gösta to fill in the awkward pause.
'I design computer games. Mostly fantasy,' replied Morgan. He went over to the computers, as if seeking protection. Martin noticed that he moved with a clumsy, lurching gait that threatened to knock over one of the stacks of magazines as he passed. But somehow he managed to avoid doing so, and he sat down at a computer without causing an accident. He gave Martin and Gösta a vacant stare as they stood there in the midst of all those magazines. They were wondering how to proceed in questioning this odd individual. There was something not quite right about him, but they couldn't quite put a finger on it.
'How interesting,' said Martin. 'I've always wondered how anyone managed to create all those fantastical worlds. It must take a heck of an imagination.'
'I don't actually create the games. Other people do that, I just code them. I have Asperger's,' Morgan added matter-of-factly. Martin and Gösta exchanged another bewildered glance.
'Asperger's,' said Martin. 'Unfortunately I don't know what that is.'
'No, most people don't,' said Morgan. 'It's a form of autism, but it's most often accompanied by normal to high intelligence. I possess high intelligence. Extremely high,' he added without seeming to attach any emotion to the statement. 'Those of us who have Asperger's have a hard time understanding such things as facial expressions, metaphors, irony, and tone of voice. The result is that we have problems interacting socially.'
It sounded as though he were reading from a book, and Martin had to make a real effort to follow Morgan's lecture.
'So I can't create the computer games myself, since that would require me to imagine other people's feelings. On the other hand, I'm one of the best programmers in Sweden.' The words were a simple statement of fact, not coloured by either boasting or pride.
Martin couldn't help being fascinated. He had never heard of Asperger's before, and hearing Morgan explain it made him genuinely interested. But they were here to do a job, and they had better get on with it.
'Is there somewhere we could sit down?' he said, looking about the room.
'On the bed,' replied Morgan, nodding to the narrow bed standing against the far wall. Cautiously Gösta and Martin made their way between the stacks of magazines and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. Gösta spoke first.
'We assume you know what happened on Monday at the Florins'. Did you see anything peculiar that morning?'
Morgan did not reply, but looked at them blankly. Martin realized that 'anything peculiar' might be too abstract, so he tried to reformulate the question in a more concrete way. He couldn't even imagine how difficult it would be to function in society without being able to interpret all the implied messages in human communication.
'Did you notice when the girl left the house?' he said tentatively, hoping that was precise enough for Morgan to answer.
'Yes, I saw when the girl left the house,' said Morgan and then fell silent, unsure whether there was anything more to the question.
Martin was starting to get the hang of things and said more precisely, 'What time did you see her leave?'
'She went out at ten after nine,' said Morgan, still in the same high, shrill tone of voice.
'Did you see anyone else that morning?' Gösta asked.
'Yes.'
'Who did you see that morning, and at what time?' said Martin in an attempt to anticipate Gösta. He sensed that his colleague was starting to get impatient with their odd interviewee.
'At a quarter to eight I saw Niclas,' Morgan replied.
Martin was taking notes of everything he said. He didn't doubt for a second that the times were exact.
'Did you know Sara?'
'Yes.'
Gösta now began to squirm, and Martin hurried to place a warning hand on his arm. Something told him that an emotional outburst would not have a beneficial effect as they tried to get as much information as possible out of Morgan.
'How did you know her?'
The question elicited nothing but an empty stare from Morgan, and Martin rephrased it. He had never realized before how difficult it was to be precise when speaking, or how much he normally relied on the other person to understand the essence of what he was saying.
'Did she come here sometimes?'
Morgan nodded. 'She interrupted my routines. Knocked on the door when I was working and wanted to come in. Touched my things. Once she got angry when I told her to leave, and she knocked over some of my stacks.'
'You didn't like her?' said Martin.
'She interrupted my routines. And knocked over my stacks,' said Morgan, and that was about as close as he could come to showing any emotion about the girl.
'What do you think of her grandmother?'
'Lilian is a nasty person. That's what Pappa says.'
'She says that you sneaked about outside their house and looked in the windows. Did you do that?'
Morgan nodded without hesitation. 'Yes, I did. I wanted to have a look. But Mamma got mad when I said that. She told me that I mustn't do that.'
'So you stopped doing it?' said Gösta.
'Yes.'
'Because your mamma said that you mustn't?' Gösta's tone was sarcastic, but Morgan didn't notice.
'Yes, Mamma always talks about what one should and shouldn't do. We practise things to say and things to do. She teaches me that even if somebody says one thing, it can mean something completely different. Otherwise I might say or do the wrong thing.' Morgan looked at his watch. 'It's ten thirty. I should get back to work now.'
'We won't bother you any longer,' said Martin, getting to his feet. 'Please excuse us for disturbing your routine, but as police officers we can't always take such things into account.'
Morgan seemed content with that explanation and had already turned round to the computer screen. 'Pull the door closed behind you,' he said, 'or it will blow open.'
'What an odd duck,' said Gösta as they slipped through the garden to the car they had parked a block away.
'I thought it was fascinating, I really did,' said Martin. 'I've never heard of Asperger's before, have you?'
Gösta snorted. 'No, that's not something we had back in my day.
There are so many weird diagnoses nowadays. Personally I think the term "idiot" goes a long way.'
Martin sighed and got into the driver's seat. Gösta was certainly short on empathy, that's for sure.
Something was tugging at Martin's subconscious. Something that made him wonder whether they had actually asked the right questions. He struggled with his intractable memory but finally had to give up. Maybe he was just imagining things.
The clinic lay shrouded in a grey mist, and there was a single car in the car park. Ernst was still sulking about being admonished by Patrik for arriving late. He climbed out of the car and strode over to the main entrance. In annoyance, Patrik slammed the car door a bit too hard and trotted after him. It was like dealing with a little kid.
They passed the pharmacy counter and turned left into the reception area. There was no one else in sight, and their footsteps echoed in the deserted corridor. Finally they located a nurse and asked for Niclas. She informed them that he was with a patient, but he would be free in ten minutes, and she asked them to sit down and wait. Patrik was always fascinated by how similar all clinical waiting-rooms seemed. The same dismal wooden furniture with ugly upholstery, the same meaningless art on the walls, and always the same boring magazines. He leafed absentmindedly through something called Care Guide and was surprised at how many different ailments he'd never heard of. Ernst had sat down as far away as he could, nervously tapping his foot on the floor. Occasionally Patrik caught him shooting dirty looks his way, but it didn't bother him. Ernst could think whatever he liked, as long as he did his job.
'The doctor is free now,' said the nurse. She showed them into an office where Niclas sat behind a desk cluttered with papers. He looked exhausted. He stood up and shook hands with them, even attempting a welcoming smile. But the smile never reached his eyes but hardened into an anxious grimace.
'Are there any developments in the investigation?' he asked.
Patrik shook his head. 'We're working full-tilt, but so far without much progress. But we're bound to have a breakthrough,' he said, hoping to sound reassuring. But inside him the doubts were getting worse. He was far from sure that they would be successful this time.
'What can I do for you?' said Niclas wearily as he ran his hand over his blond hair.
Patrik couldn't help reflecting that the man before him looked like a model for the cover of one of those romance novels about beautiful nurses and handsome doctors. Even now his charm shone through, and Patrik could only imagine how attractive he must seem to women. According to what he'd heard from Erica, over the years that had presented problems in his marriage to Charlotte.
'We have a few questions regarding your activities last Monday morning,' Patrik began. Ernst was still sulking and he ignored Patrik's glances attempting to get him to participate.
'Oh yes?' said Niclas, apparently unmoved, but Patrik thought he noticed his gaze shift slightly.
'You told us that you were at work.'
'Yes, I drove here at quarter to eight, as usual,' said Niclas, but his nervousness was unmistakable.
'That's what we don't quite understand,' said Patrik in a last attempt to involve Ernst. But his colleague just stared obstinately out of the window facing the car park.
'We tried to get hold of you for a couple of hours that morning. And you weren't in. Of course we could check with the nurse,' said Patrik, gesturing towards the door. 'I presume she wrote down your office hours and can see whether you were here that morning.'
Now Niclas was squirming uneasily in his chair, and beads of sweat had appeared at his temples. But he was still struggling to look unmoved, and Patrik had to admit that he was doing a fairly good job of it. In a calm voice Niclas said, 'Oh, I remember now. I'd taken time off to drive out and look at some houses that were for sale. I didn't mention it to Charlotte because I wanted to surprise her.'
The explanation would have seemed plausible if it weren't for the tension that Patrik sensed beneath the calm tone of voice. He didn't believe for a moment what Niclas was saying.
'Could you be a little more precise? Which houses did you go to look at?'
Niclas gave a nervous laugh and seemed to be trying to think of a way to gain time. 'I'd have to check on that, I don't really recall,' he said hesitatingly.
'There aren't that many houses for sale here right now. You must at least remember what neighbourhoods you were in.' Patrik pressed him harder with his questions, and he saw Niclas growing more and more nervous. Whatever he had done that morning, he hadn't been looking at houses.
A moment of silence followed. It was obvious that Niclas's brain was working overtime in an attempt to salvage the situation. But then Patrik saw him give up and his whole body slumped. Now maybe they were getting somewhere.
'I don't…' Niclas's voice broke and he started over. 'I don't want Charlotte to hear about this.'
'We can't promise anything. Things have a tendency to come out sooner or later, but we're giving you an opportunity to present your version before we hear anyone else's.'
'You don't understand. It would destroy Charlotte completely if…' His voice broke again, and even though Patrik had no idea where this was going, he couldn't keep from feeling a certain sympathy for Niclas.
'As I said, I can't promise anything.' He waited for Niclas to conquer his anxiety and continue. Images of sweet, gentle Charlotte came to him, and suddenly his sympathy was mixed with repugnance. Sometimes he was ashamed to have to listen to the males of the species.
'I…' Niclas cleared his throat, 'I was with someone.'
'And who might that be?' asked Patrik. By now he had completely given up hope of bringing Ernst into the conversation. But his colleague suddenly turned from the window and regarded the subject of the interview with great interest.
'Jeanette Lind.'
'The woman who owns the gift shop on Galärbacken?' Patrik asked. He could vaguely recall a petite, curvaceous, dark-haired woman.
Niclas nodded. 'Yes, that Jeanette. We…' once again the same hesitation, 'we've been seeing each other for a while.'
'How long is a while?'
'A couple of months. Three, maybe.'
'How did the two of you manage that?' Patrik's curiosity was genuine. He had never understood how people in affairs could make time to meet. Or how they dared. Especially in a town as small as Fjällbacka, where a car parked for five minutes outside someone's house was enough to start the rumours flying.
'Sometimes at lunch, sometimes I said I was working late. Once I pretended I had an urgent house call.'
Patrik had to restrain himself from going over and punching this guy. But his personal feelings were irrelevant. They were here only to investigate the matter of his alibi.
'And last Monday morning you simply took a couple of hours off to drive over and see… Jeanette.'
'That's right,' said Niclas in a gruff voice. 'I said I had to make some house calls that I'd been putting off for a while, but that I'd be available on my mobile if anything urgent came up.'
'But you weren't. We tried to get hold of you through your nurse on repeated occasions, and you didn't answer your mobile.'
'I forgot to charge it. It died just after I left the clinic, but I didn't even notice.'
'And what time did you leave the clinic to meet your lover?'
That last word seemed to affect Niclas like a slap in the face, but he didn't object. Instead he ran his hands through his hair again and said wearily, 'Just after nine thirty, I think. I had telephone consultations between eight and nine, and then I did some paperwork for about half an hour. So between nine thirty and twenty to, I would think.'
'And we got hold of you just before one. Was that when you came back to the clinic?' Patrik was struggling to keep his voice neutral, but he couldn't help imagining Niclas in bed with his lover at the same time as his daughter lay dead in the sea. However one looked at it, Niclas Klinga was not presenting an attractive picture of himself.
'Yes, that's correct. I had to start seeing patients at one, so I got back around with about ten minutes to spare.'
'We're going to have to talk to Jeanette to verify your story. You realize that, don't you?' Patrik said.
Niclas nodded dejectedly. He repeated his entreaty once again: 'Try to keep Charlotte out of this: it would break her completely' You should have thought of that earlier, Patrik thought, but he didn't say it out loud. Niclas had probably had the same thought many times over the past few days.
FJÅLLBACKA 1924
It was so long ago that he had felt any joy in his work that those days seemed like a distant, pleasant dream. Day-to-day toil had made him lose all enthusiasm, and he now worked mechanically on whatever task was at hand. Agnes's demands never seemed to end. Nor could she make the money last, as the other stonecutter families managed to do, even though they often had a large brood of children to feed. Everything he brought home seemed to run through her fingers, and he often had to go hungry to the quarry because there was no money for food. And yet for once he brought home every öre he earned. Poker was the biggest amusement among the stonecutters. The games laid claim to both evenings and weekends, often ending when the men went home foolish with empty pockets. Their wives had long since resigned themselves and let the bitterness carve furrows in their faces.
Bitterness was a feeling that was beginning to take its toll on him too. Life with Agnes, which had seemed a beautiful dream less than a year ago, had turned out to be a form of punishment. The only thing he had done wrong was to love her and plant a child inside her, and yet he was being punished as if he'd committed the ultimate mortal sin. He couldn't even feel happy about the child in her belly anymore. Her pregnancy had not progressed free of pain, and now that she was in the last stage, things were worse than ever. During her entire pregnancy she had complained of aches and pains of one sort or another, and refused to take care of everyday chores. This meant that he not only worked from early morning to late evening in the quarry, but he also had to handle all the chores that a housewife should do. It was not made any easier knowing that the other cutters by turns laughed at him and felt sorry for him because he was forced to carry out a woman's duties. Most often he was simply too exhausted to even care what others said behind his back.
Nevertheless, Anders was looking forward to the birth of the child. Maybe maternal love would make Agnes stop seeing herself as the centre of the world. A baby needed to be the centre of attention, and that would probably be a useful experience for his wife. Because he refused to give up the idea that they could make this marriage work. He was not a man who took his promises lightly. Now that they had forged a legally recognized bond, it was not something to be merely dissolved, no matter how hard their situation might be.
Naturally he would occasionally look at other women at the compound, women who worked hard and never complained. He thought that he'd been dealt an unfair hand in life, but at the same time he realized in all honesty that he had brought this situation upon himself. And consequently he had lost the right to complain.
With heavy steps he trudged home along the narrow track. This day had been just as monotonous as all the others. He had spent it cutting paving stones, and one shoulder was aching, where the same muscle had been subjected to far too much strain. Hunger was tearing at his stomach as well; there had been nothing at home that he could take with him in his lunch sack. If Jansson in the shack next door hadn't taken pity on him and shared his sandwich, Anders wouldn't have had a thing to eat all day. No, he thought, starting now, he was done entrusting his wages to Agnes. He would simply have to take charge of buying the groceries, just as he had taken over her other chores. He could stand to go without food himself, but he had no intention of letting his child starve. It was high time he began introducing some different routines at home.
He sighed and paused for a moment before he opened the flimsy wooden door and went inside to his wife.
From behind the glass window of the reception, Annika had a good view of everyone who came and went. But today it was quiet. Only Mellberg was still in his office, and no one had come to the police station on any urgent errand. But her office was hopping with activity. The publicity in the media had produced results, prompting a welter of calls, but it was still too early to say whether anything was worth following up. Nor was it her job to decide. She merely wrote down all the information, along with the name and phone number of the informant. The notes were then passed to the investigator in charge. In this case it was Patrik who would be the lucky recipient of a huge dose of gossip and baseless accusations, which in her experience made up most of the calls.
But this case had generated more buzz than usual. Anything having to do with children usually stirred up emotions among the public, and nothing aroused stronger feelings than murder. But it was not a pleasant picture she derived from the general populace when she took the calls. Most noticeable was the fact that the modern tolerance for homosexuals had not taken root outside the big cities. She was now getting lots of tips about men who were suspicious individuals simply because of confirmed or suspected homosexuality. In most cases the arguments that were advanced were laughably simple-minded. It was enough for a man to have a non-traditional profession for Annika to be told that he must be 'one of those perverts'. According to small-town logic, that alone was enough to accuse him of all sorts of things. So far she had received multiple tips about a local hairdresser, a part- time florist, and a teacher who had apparently committed the outrageous error of favouring pink shirts. Most suspect of all was a male day-care aide. Annika counted ten calls about this latter individual, and she put them all aside with a sigh. Sometimes she wondered whether time moved forward at all in small towns.
The next call proved to be different. The woman on the other end of the line wanted to remain anonymous, but the tip she provided was undoubtedly of interest. Annika straightened up and wrote down exactly what the woman told her. This one was going on the top of the stack. A shiver ran down her back because she sensed that she'd just heard something crucial to the case. It was so seldom that she had any part in what could break a case wide open that she couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction. This could be one of those moments. The phone rang again and she picked up the receiver. Another tip about the florist.
Reluctantly Arne placed the hymnals on the pews. Usually this task made him feel good, but not today. Newfangled inventions! A music service on Friday evening, and it was far from God-fearing music. Cheerful and lively and altogether heathen! Music should only be played in church during Sunday worship service, and then preferably traditional hymns from the hymnal. Nowadays anything at all could be played, and in some instances people had even taken to applauding. Well, he had to be glad that here it wasn't yet as bad as in STRÖMSTAD, where the pastor brought in one pop artist after another. This evening at least it was only some youths from the local music college who would appear, not silly Stockholm women touring the country with hummable tunes that they were just as happy to play in the house of God as for drunks in the public parks.
It was going to be hymns in any event, and with meticulous care Arne hung up the numbers on the board to the right of the choir. When he had finished posting the numbers he took a step back to make sure they all hung straight. He took pride in every detail being perfect.
If only he would be allowed to create the same order among human beings, everything would be so much better. Instead of thinking up their own idiocies, people could listen to him and learn. It was all in the Bible, after all. Everything was described in the smallest detail, if only one took the trouble to read what the Scriptures said.
He was again struck full force by the sorrow of not living his life as a pastor. After cautiously looking around to ensure that he was all alone, he opened the gate to the choir and stepped reverently up to the altar. He glanced up at the emaciated and wounded Jesus hanging on the cross. This was what life was all about. Studying the blood seeping out of Jesus's wounds, observing how the thorns cut into his scalp, and then bowing one's head in respect. He turned round and gazed out over the empty pews. In his mind's eye they were filled with people, his congregation, his audience. He tentatively raised his hands in the air and intoned in a crisp, echoing voice: 'May the Lord let his countenance shine upon you…'
He pictured the people being filled by his words. He saw them receiving the blessing into their hearts and looking at him with faces beaming. Arne slowly lowered his hands and stole a glance at the pulpit. He had never dared step up there, but today it was as if the Holy Spirit were filling him. If his father hadn't stood in the way of his calling, he could have approached the pulpit with the full right of a pastor. From that platform, elevated above the heads of the congregation, he could have preached God's word.
He tentatively moved towards the pulpit, but when he put his foot on the first step he heard the heavy church door creak open. He removed his foot and went back to his chores. The bitterness he felt ate into his breast like acid.
The shop was not open except during the summer months and on holiday weekends, so Patrik and Ernst had to look for Jeanette at the workplace where she made her living the other nine months of the year. She was a waitress at one of the few lunch spots in Grebbestad that was open in the winter, and Patrik felt his stomach rumble as they walked inside. But it was still too early for lunch, so the restaurant was empty of patrons. A young woman was slowly making the rounds of the tables, setting them up.
'Jeanette Lind?'
She looked up and nodded. 'Yes, that's me.'
'Patrik Hedström and Ernst Lundgren. We're from the Tanumshede police station. We'd like to ask you a few questions if that's all right.'
She nodded curtly but quickly lowered her gaze. If she had any powers of deduction she probably knew why they were there.
'Would you like some coffee?' she asked, and both Patrik and Ernst nodded eagerly.
Patrik watched her as she walked over to the coffee-maker. He recognized her type. Small, dark and curvaceous. Big brown eyes and hair with a natural wave that reached well below her shoulders. Certainly the prettiest girl in her class, maybe even in her whole grade level at school. Popular and always going with one of the older, cooler guys. But when the school years were over, the heyday of such girls came to an end as well. And yet they stayed in their home towns, aware that there at least they retained a bit of star status, while in any of the nearby cities they would suddenly seem mediocre in comparison with the hordes of other pretty girls. He judged that Jeanette was a lot younger than he was, and also much younger than Niclas. Twenty-five at most.
She placed a coffee cup in front of each of them and tossed her hair back as she sat down at the table. In her teens she had undoubtedly practised that move hundreds of times in front of the mirror. Patrik had to admit that by now she had the flirtatious gesture down pat.
'All right, shoot, or whatever it is they say in American films.' She gave them a wry smile and her eyes narrowed slightly as she stared at Patrik.
Against his will he had to admit that he could understand what it was that Niclas saw in her. He too had spent many years pining for the cutest girls in school. Boys were all alike. But he had really never had a chance. Short, thin and with decent grades, he had qualified as one of the average guys. He could only admire from afar the tough guys who cut maths class to hang out in the smoking area with a cigarette hanging from the corner of their mouth. Although over time, of course, he had already got to know many of those boys well in his professional capacity.
Some of them could even call the drunk tank at the station their second home.
'We were just speaking with Niclas Klinga and…' he hesitated, 'your name came up.'
'Yes, I'm sure it did,' said Jeanette, obviously not embarrassed in the least about the context in which her name must have been mentioned. She looked at Patrik calmly and waited for him to continue.
Ernst was sitting quietly as usual, and now took a cautious sip of his hot coffee. The looks he gave Jeanette belied the fact that he was old enough to be her father. Patrik glared angrily at his colleague and had to restrain a desire to kick him in the shin underneath the table.
'Well, he says that you were together Monday morning, is that correct?'
She tossed her hair again in her practised way and then nodded. 'Yes, that's true. We were at my place. I had the day off on Monday.'
'What time did Niclas arrive at your house?'
She examined her fingernails as she considered what to say. They were long and well manicured. Patrik wondered how she could do her work with such long nails.
'Sometime around nine thirty, I think. No, actually, I'm sure of it, because I had set the alarm clock for nine fifteen and I was in the shower when Niclas arrived.'
She giggled, and Patrik began to feel some distaste for her. Before him he saw Charlotte, Sara and Albin, but such images apparently didn't bother Jeanette.
'And how long did he stay?'
'We had lunch at noon, and he had an appointment at one o'clock at the clinic, so he probably left my place about twenty minutes before that, I should think. I live up on Kullen, so it's not far to his office from there.' Another little titter.
Now Patrik really had to control himself to keep from showing the disgust he felt. But Ernst didn't seem to have any such objections to Jeanette. His gaze grew more enthralled the longer they sat there.
'And Niclas was at your house the whole time? He didn't leave to run an errand?'
'No,' she said calmly, 'he didn't go anywhere, I can assure you of that.'
Patrik looked at Ernst and asked, 'Do you have anything to add?' His colleague responded by shaking his head, so he gathered up his notes.
'We'll be coming back with more questions, I'm sure, but that's all for now.'
'Well, I hope I've been of some help,' she said, getting up. She hadn't uttered a word about the fact that her lover's daughter had died. That a child had been murdered while she was rolling around in bed with the father. There was something indecent about her obvious lack of sympathy.
'Yes, thank you,' he said curtly, putting on his jacket he'd hung over the back of his chair. As they went out the door he saw that she'd gone back to setting the tables. She was humming some tune, but he couldn't hear what it was.
Charlotte paced aimlessly back and forth in the cellar flat where they had been living for the past few months. The pain in her chest made her restless and forced her to keep moving. She felt guilty that she hadn't been able to take care of Albin properly. Instead she had left him largely in the care of her mother-in-law; in the midst of her grief there was just no room for the baby. In his smile and his blue eyes she saw only Sara. He looked so much like she had looked at the same age; it hurt to see how similar they were. It also pained her to see what an anxious and timorous child he was. It was as if Sara had sucked up all the energy that should have been divided between the two children, leaving nothing for him. And yet Charlotte knew better than that. The secret chafed in her breast. She hoped that she could make amends.
Charlotte regretted what she had said to Erica yesterday. Right now she and Niclas needed to stick together; her suspicions were just making everything worse. She could see that he was suffering, and if this tragedy couldn't bring them back together, there was really no hope for them.
Since she'd emerged from her sedated fog, Charlotte had hoped that Niclas would be the man she always knew he could be. Tender, considerate and loving. She had seen glimpses before, and it was this side of him that she loved. Now she wanted nothing more than to be able to lean on him; she wanted him to be the stronger one. But it hadn't turned out that way. He had shut himself off, gone back to work as quickly as he could, leaving her here among the broken pieces of their life.
Her foot struck something. Charlotte started to bend down but stopped abruptly. She'd asked Niclas to move all Sara's things out of sight, and he'd spent a whole morning putting everything in boxes and taking them up to the attic. But he'd missed one thing. Sara's old teddy bear lay halfway under the bed, and that was what Charlotte had felt with her foot. She gently picked it up and then had to sit down on the edge of the bed when everything started spinning before her eyes. The teddy bear felt grubby in her hands. Sara had refused to let them wash it, so it looked like it had been through a street fight. The bear also gave off an odd smell, and presumably it was this smell that absolutely mustn't be lost in the washing machine and replaced by the scent of laundry detergent. One eye was missing from the bear, and Charlotte touched the threads that had once held the button eye in place. It had been two hours since she'd last wept, the longest dry spell since the police had brought the news of Sara's death. Now the sobs began rising in her chest again. Charlotte hugged the teddy bear and lay down on her side on the bed. Then her grief took over.
'Will wonders never cease?' Pedersen said on the telephone. 'For the first time in the history of the world we got an analysis result back sooner than they predicted.'
'Hold on, I just have to pull over,' said Patrik, looking for a suitable spot. Ernst pointed to a little forest track on their side of the highway that would do.
'All right, I'm not a danger to traffic anymore. So, what did the tests show?' he said. It was clear from his tone of voice that he wasn't expecting much. They'd probably only managed to identify what Sara had eaten for breakfast. As for the water in her lungs, Patrik had done a little investigating on his own and found out that there wasn't much hope of identifying exactly what brand of soap was involved. Pedersen confirmed this at once.
'As I said before, the water was ordinary tap water, and the particular mixture of substances found in the water shows without any doubt that it was from the Fjällbacka area. Unfortunately the traces of soap couldn't be linked to any specific brand.'
'Well, that's not much to go on,' Patrik sighed. He was discouraged and once again felt the case slipping out of his hands.
'No, not as far as what was found in her lungs,' said Pedersen with a mysterious tone of voice. Patrik sat up straighter in the driver's seat.
'What else have you got?' he said, holding his breath as he waited for the answer.
'All right, here goes, even though I don't know what it means,' the M.E. replied. 'Analysis of the contents of the girl's stomach confirms what the family said she ate for breakfast, but…' Then he paused and Patrik almost screamed with impatience. 'There was something strange in her stomach. It seems as though the girl had eaten ashes.'
'Ashes?' said Patrik with a gobsmacked look on his face.
'Yes,' Pedersen said, 'and since we found them in the stomach, the lab did another check of the water in her lungs and found minute traces of ash there too. We missed them in the first analysis.'
'But how the hell could she have got ashes inside her body?' Out of the corner of his eye Patrik saw Ernst give a start and turn to stare at him.
'It's impossible to say for certain, but after looking at the data and going over the post-mortem report again, my theory is that someone forced the ashes into her orally. We did find traces in her mouth and oesophagus as well, even though most of it was flushed out by the water.'
Patrik didn't say a word, but his thoughts were tumbling round in his head. Why in the world would anyone have forced the girl to eat ashes? He tried to collect himself and focus on what he ought to ask about.
'But why would she have ashes in her lungs, if she had been forced to swallow them?'
'Once again, it's only speculation on my part, but it's possible the ashes went down the wrong way when they were stuffed in her mouth. If she was already in the bathtub when she was force-fed the ashes, some could have ended up in the water. And when she was drowned, the ash in the water could have then got into her lungs.'
With alarming clarity Patrik could see the whole scene before him. Sara in a bathtub, an unknown, menacing figure forcing a handful of ashes into her mouth and then holding her nose and mouth shut to force her to swallow. The same hands that later held her head underwater until bubbles stopped rising to the surface and everything was still.
A rustling sound came from the woods outside the car and broke the oppressive silence. In a low voice he said to Pedersen, 'Can you fax all this to us?'
'Already done. And the lab will be doing more tests on the ashes to see if they can find anything useful there. But they didn't want to wait for the results; they thought it was better to give us this information right away.'
'Yes, they were right about that. When do you think we can get more info on the ashes?'
'By the middle of next week, I should think,' said Pedersen. Then he added quietly, 'How's it going? Are you getting anywhere?'
It was unusual for the M.E. to ask questions about the investigation, but it didn't really surprise Patrik. Sara's death seemed to have affected so many people, even the most jaded. He thought for a moment before he replied.
'Not really, I'm afraid. To be honest, we don't have much to go on. But hopefully this will give us a lead. Not that I can see how at the moment, but it's an odd enough piece of information that it might break open the case.'
'Yes, let's hope so,' said Pedersen.
Patrik then gave Ernst a brief rundown of what he'd found out. They both sat in silence for a while, as the rustling continued in the bushes outside the car. Patrik was half-expecting to see a bull elk come rushing towards them, but it was probably just some birds or squirrels rummaging about in the fallen red leaves of autumn.
'What do you think, is it time to take a closer look at the Florins' bathroom?'
'Shouldn't we have done that already?' asked Ernst.
'Could be,' Patrik replied bitterly, well aware that Ernst had a point. 'But we didn't, so it's better to do it late than never.'
Ernst didn't answer. Patrik took out his mobile and made the necessary calls to summon backup and the technical team from Uddevalla. With Ernst's words ringing in his ears, he made his request sound as urgent as he could and was promised that the team would come out that very afternoon.
With a sigh Patrik started the car and put it in reverse. In his head whirled thoughts of ashes. And death.
FJÅLLBACKA 1924
Agnes hated her life. Even more than she'd thought possible on the day when she'd arrived at her new home. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that everything would be so impoverished and miserable. And as if the physical setting weren't bad enough, her body had swollen up and made her ugly and awkward. She sweated all the time in the summer heat, and her hair, before so carefully coiffed, hung in lank strands. She wished for nothing more than that the creature who had transformed her into this repulsive figure would come out; at the same time she was terrified of the process of childbirth. The mere thought of it made her feel faint.
Living with Anders was also an affliction. If only he'd had a little steel in his backbone! Instead his mournful puppy-dog eyes followed her everywhere, begging for a crumb of attention. She knew that the other women despised her because she didn't spend all day scrubbing her filthy home like they did. Nor did she wait hand and foot on her ungrateful husband. But how could they expect her to act the same way? She was so much better than they were, after all, coming from a superior social class and with such a fine upbringing. It was unreasonable of Anders to demand that she get down on all fours and scour the wretched wooden floor or run to the quarry to bring him lunch. Besides, he had the nerve to complain about the way she handled the few coins he brought home. In her condition she shouldn't have to do anything, and she always craved some fine delicacy when she went to the grocer's. It shouldn't cause such a terrible fuss just because she allowed herself some treat, instead of spending all the money on butter or flour.
Agnes sighed and propped up her swollen feet on the stool in front of her. Many an evening she had sat here by the single small window and dreamt of how different her life might have been. If only her father hadn't been so bull-headed. Occasionally she had considered setting off for Strömstad and throwing herself on her knees before her father to beg for his mercy. If only she had believed that there was the slightest chance this gesture would succeed, she would have done it long before. But she knew her father, and she knew in her heart that it would do no good. She was stuck where she was, and until she thought up some way to extricate herself from her current situation, she would simply have to bide her time.
She heard footsteps on the front porch. With a sigh she realized that it must be Anders coming home. If he expected dinner to be on the table, he was going to be disappointed. Considering the pain and suffering she'd been enduring to bear his child, he should be fixing dinner for her instead. Not that there was much food in the house. The money always ran out a week after he got paid, and it was another week until the next payday. But since he was on such a good footing with the Jansson couple next door, surely he could go over and beg a loaf of bread from them and maybe something he could use to make soup.
'Good evening, Agnes,' said Anders, timidly opening the door. Despite the fact that they had been married more than six months, no homely atmosphere had developed, and he looked bewildered as he stood in the doorway.
'Good evening,' she snorted, frowning at his filthy appearance. 'Do you have to track all that dirt inside? At least take off your shoes.'
Obediently he removed his footwear and set them on the porch steps. 'Is there anything to eat?' he asked, which made Agnes glare at him as though he had just sworn the worst of all oaths.
'Do I look like I can stand around cooking for you? I can hardly stay on my feet, and you expect your dinner to be hot on the table as soon as you come home. And how am I supposed to pay for dinner? You don't bring home enough money for us to eat proper meals, and right now there isn't a single öre left. And the grocer won't give us any more credit, that old skinflint.'
Anders grimaced at the mention of credit. He hated to be in debt, but over the past six months since he and Agnes had moved in, she had bought plenty of things on tick.
'Well, I think we should have a talk about that…' He drawled his words and Agnes began to smell a rat. This didn't sound promising.
Anders went on. 'It's probably best if I take care of the money from now on.'
He didn't look her in the eye when he said it, and she could feel the rage building up inside of her. What did he mean? Was she now going to be robbed of the only joy she had left in life?
Vaguely aware of the storm that his words had provoked, Anders said, 'It's already hard for you to go down to the grocer, and when the baby is born it'll be hard for you to get away at all, so it's probably just as well that I take care of that chore.'
She was so furious that she couldn't say a word. Then her temporary muteness vanished and she told him exactly what she thought of the idea. She could see that he was squirming with discomfort because half the compound could hear what she was saying and the names she called him, but she didn't give a damn. She couldn't care less what these labourers thought of her, but she would damn well see to it that Anders didn't miss what she thought about him, not for a moment.
Despite her cursing he refused to give in, to her great surprise. For the first time he stood firm and let her yell herself out. When she had to pause to catch her breath, he calmly said that she could yell until her lungs exploded, but that was how things were going to be from now on.
Agnes felt herself starting to hyperventilate, and her rage made her see red. Her father had always relented when she began to retch and gasp for breath, but Anders simply gazed at her in silence and made no attempt to console her.
Then she felt a sharp pain in her belly, and she fell silent in horror. She wanted to go home to her father.
Monica felt the fear as a kick in the stomach.
'Have the police been here?'
Morgan nodded but didn't take his eyes off the screen. She knew that it was actually the wrong time to talk to him. According to his schedule he should be working now, so nobody could talk to him. But she couldn't help herself. Worry was spreading through her body, making her shift from one foot to the other. She wanted to go over and give her son a good shake, make him say more without her having to ask detailed questions about everything, but she knew it was hopeless. She would have to do this with her usual patience.
'What did they want?'
He still refused to look away from the screen, and he replied without his fingers for an instant slowing down as they flew over the keyboard. 'They asked about the girl that died.'
Her heart skipped not only one beat but several. In a hoarse voice she said, 'So what did they ask about?'
'Whether I'd seen her when she left in the morning.'
'Had you?'
'Had I what?' Morgan replied absentmindedly.
'Seen her?'
He ignored the question. 'Why are you asking me now? You know that it doesn't fit into my schedule. You usually come here when I'm not working.' His high, shrill voice contained no hint of whining; he was merely stating a fact. She had deviated from their usual routines, interrupted his rhythm, and she knew that it must be confusing him. But she couldn't help it. She had to know.
'Did you see when she left?'
'Yes, I saw when she left,' he said. 'I told the police about it, answered all their questions. Although they interrupted my routine too.'
Now he turned halfway towards her and looked at her with his intelligent but peculiar gaze. His eyes were always the same. They never changed, never showed any emotion. At least not recently. By now he had learned to have some control over his life. When he was younger he could succumb to enormous outbursts of rage in frustration over things he couldn't control, or choices he was unable to make. It could involve anything from deciding which day he would take a shower to choosing what he wanted to eat for dinner. But Monica and Morgan had both learned to deal with it. Now life was compartmentalized and the choices already made. He showered every other day, he had four different dishes that she alternated according to a rolling schedule, and breakfast and lunch were always the same. His work had also become something of a salvation for him. It was something he was good at, something that gave him an outlet for his high intelligence and that suited the special temperament of someone with Asperger's.
It was extremely rare that Monica came to see him at the wrong time in his schedule. She couldn't recall the last time she had done so. But now she had already disturbed him, so she might as well continue.
She followed one of the paths through the stacks of magazines and sat down on the edge of the bed.
'I don't want you to talk to them anymore unless I'm with you.'
Morgan just nodded. Then he turned all the way round to face her. He was now sitting astride the chair backwards, with his arms crossed and resting on the back.
'Do you think I could have seen her if I asked to?'
'Seen who?' asked Monica, surprised.
'Sara.'
'What do you mean?' Monica could feel the room spinning.
The stress of the past few days had upset her equilibrium, and Morgan's question made her lose her self-control.
'Why would you want to see her?' She couldn't keep the anger out of her voice, but as usual he didn't react to it. She wasn't even sure that he understood that her raised voice meant she was angry.
'To see how she looks now,' he replied calmly.
'Why?' Her voice rose even higher, and she could feel her fists clenching. The fear had her in a tight grip, and every word from Morgan felt like another step towards the darkness that terrified her.
'To see how dead she looks,' he said with his gaze fixed on her.
Monica was having a hard time breathing. It felt as though the walls of the little cabin were closing in on her. She couldn't stand it any longer. She had to get some air.
Without saying a word she rushed out the door and slammed it behind her. The raw, cold air stung her throat as she took long, deep breaths. After a while she could feel her pulse begin to slow.
She cautiously peered through one of the windows. Morgan had turned round. His hands were flying over the keyboard. She pressed her face to the glass and looked at the back of his neck. She loved him so much it hurt.
There was nothing that gave Lilian as much pleasure as cleaning house. The rest of the family claimed she was manic, but that didn't particularly bother her. As long as they stayed away and didn't try to help, she was happy.
She began with the kitchen, as usual. Every day the same routine. Wipe off all surfaces, vacuum, mop the floor, and once a week take everything out of the cupboards and cabinets and wipe them inside. When she was done with the kitchen she cleaned the hall, the living room, and the veranda. The only room on the ground floor that she couldn't clean at the moment was the little guest room where Albin was asleep. She would have to do it later.
She dragged the vacuum cleaner up the stairs. Stig had wanted to buy her a smaller model; she had politely but firmly declined. She'd had this one for fifteen years and it still worked like new. Much better than the newer models that broke down every fifteen minutes. But it was definitely heavy. She was panting a bit by the time she reached the upstairs hall. Stig was awake and turned his head towards her.
'You're going to wear yourself out,' he said in a feeble voice.
'Better than sitting and twiddling my thumbs.'
It was an old ritual they went through. He would tell her to take it easy, and she would come back with some snappy response. He would certainly change his tune if she stopped taking care of everything in the house and transferred some of the responsibility to the others. Without her this house would go downhill fast. Everything would just crumble away. She was the glue that kept it all together, and they knew it. If only they would show a little gratitude sometimes. No, instead they all kept nagging her to take it easy. Lilian could feel the old familiar irritation building up. She went into Stig's room. He looked a little paler today, she saw.
'You look worse,' she said, helping him to lift his head far enough off the bed so that she could pull out the pillow. She fluffed it up and placed it under his head again.
'I know. Today is not a good day.'
'Where does it hurt the most?' she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
'Everywhere, it feels like,' said Stig faintly, attempting a smile.
'Can't you be more precise than that?' Lilian said, annoyed. She plucked at the knots on the bedspread and gave him an imperious look.
'My stomach,' said Stig. 'It's churning about somehow, and there's a sharp pain sometimes.'
'Well, Niclas is going to have to take a look at you tonight when he comes home. You can't lie here in this condition.'
'Just no hospital.' Stig waved his hand to fend off the idea.
'That's for Niclas to decide, not you.' Lilian plucked little bits of lint from the bedspread and looked around the room, searching. 'Where's the breakfast tray?'
He pointed to the floor. Lilian leaned over him and looked.
'You haven't eaten a thing,' she said crossly.
'Couldn't face it.'
'You've got to eat or you'll never get well, you know that. Now I'm going downstairs to fix you some tomato soup. You have to get some nourishment inside you.'
He merely nodded. There was no point in arguing with Lilian when she was in this mood.
Furiously she stomped down the stairs. Why did she always have to do everything?
The reception was empty when Martin and Gösta came back to the station. Annika must have taken an early lunch. Martin saw that there was a big pile of note papers in Annika's handwriting on the desk. Probably tips that had started coming in from the public.
'Are you going to lunch soon?' Gösta asked.
'Not quite yet,' said Martin. 'Can we eat at noon?'
'I'll probably starve to death by then, but it beats eating alone.'
'Okay, it's a deal,' said Martin and went into his office. He'd had a brainstorm on the way back from Fjällbacka. After checking in the telephone book he found what he was searching for.
'I'm looking for Eva Nestler,' he told the receptionist who answered. He was told that there were calls ahead of him, and he waited patiently in the phone queue. As usual, some off-putting canned music was playing, but after a while he started thinking that it sounded pretty good. Martin glanced at the clock. He'd been waiting for almost a quarter of an hour. He decided to give it five more minutes, then he'd hang up and try again later. Just then he heard Eva's voice in the receiver.
'Eva Nestler.'
'Hello, my name is Martin Molin. I don't know if you remember me, but we met a couple of months ago in connection with an investigation of suspected child abuse. I'm ringing from the Tanumshede police station,' he hastened to add.
'Yes, I remember. You work with Patrik Hedström,' said Eva. 'I've mostly been in contact with Patrik, but I recall meeting you as well.' There was a moment's silence. 'What can I help you with?'
Martin cleared his throat. 'Are you familiar with something called Asperger's?'
'Asperger's syndrome. Yes, I'm familiar with it.'
'We have a…' he fell silent and wondered how to express himself. Morgan wasn't quite classifiable as a suspect, rather as a person of interest. He started over. 'We've encountered Asperger's in a case we're working on right now, and I'd like a little more information about what it involves. Do you think you could help me?'
'Well,' said Eva hesitantly, 'I think I'd need a little time to refresh my knowledge.' Martin could hear her paging through something that must be an appointment diary. 'I'd actually set aside an hour after lunch to do some errands, but for the police…' She paused. 'Otherwise I don't have a slot free until Tuesday.'
'Right now would be fine,' Martin hurried to say. He'd actually hoped to be able to do it on the phone, but it wasn't much trouble to drive over to Strömstad.
'So I'll see you in about 45 minutes then?'
'Of course,' said Martin. Then a thought occurred to him. 'Should I bring you some lunch?'
'Sure, why not? A little return on my taxes wouldn't hurt. I'm just joking,' she added quickly, in case Martin misunderstood.
'No problem,' Martin laughed. 'Any special requests for what sort of food your tax should generate?'
'Something light would be good, maybe a salad. Most people try to slim down for summertime, but I seem to be doing the opposite. I'm trying to lose weight for winter instead.'
'A salad it is,' said Martin and hung up.
He took his jacket and stopped outside Gösta's door.
'Hey, we'll have to skip lunch today. I have to drive up to Strömstad and talk to Eva Nestler, the psychologist we usually consult.' Gösta's expression forced him to add, 'Of course, you can come along if you like.'
For a moment Gösta looked as though he wanted to do just that. Then the skies opened up outside and he shook his head.
'Heck no. I'm staying inside in this weather. I guess I'll give Patrik and Ernst a ring and see if they can bring back something edible.'
'You do that. I'm off now.'
Gösta had already turned his back and didn't reply. Martin hesitated a moment inside the front doors before he turned up his collar and jogged over to his car. Even though it wasn't parked very far away, he still managed to get soaked.
Half an hour later, he was parked by the river a stone's throw from Eva's office. It was located in the same building as the Strömstad police station, and he assumed they had a good deal to do with each other. The police often had occasion to avail themselves of a psychologist's services, for example when a victim of abuse needed professional help after an investigation was concluded. There weren't many practising psychologists in the county; Eva was one of the few. She had an excellent reputation and was considered highly skilled. Patrik had nothing but good things to say about her, and Martin hoped she could also help him.
In reality he wasn't quite sure why he wanted to consult her. Morgan was not a suspect, after all, but Martin's curiosity had been aroused by what lay behind his strange behaviour and character. Asperger's was something altogether new for Martin, and it couldn't hurt to know more about it.
He shook the rain off his jacket before he hung it in the cloakroom. His shirt underneath was also damp, and he shivered a bit. In a paper bag he had two salads that he'd bought at Coffee and Buns, and Eva Nestler's receptionist had apparently been forewarned of his arrival. She merely nodded in the direction of the door with Eva's nameplate. He knocked discreetly and heard a voice call out, 'Come in.'
'Hello, that was fast.' Eva glanced at the clock. 'I hope you didn't break any speed limits on the way over here.' She feigned a disapproving look and he laughed.
'No, no danger of that. Besides, I happen to know that the police are busy with other things today,' he whispered conspiratorially with a wink. He recalled that he'd liked Eva the first time he met her. She had a special talent for making people relax in her company. It must be a gift particular to people in her profession.
Martin set out the lunch on a little table in her office.
'I hope prawn salad will do.'
'That's perfect,' replied Eva, getting up from her chair behind the desk and sitting down on one of the four chairs around the table.
'Actually I'm only fooling myself,' she said as she poured the entire contents of the little container of dressing on the salad. 'After all this liquid fat has covered the veggies, I might as well have ordered a hamburger. But a salad feels better psychologically. That way I might be able to convince myself that I can indulge in a piece of cake tonight.' She laughed so hard her breasts jiggled.
Martin could see from her plump figure that she probably convinced herself of that quite often, but she was elegantly dressed and her grey hair was cut short in a style that looked modern yet suitable for her age.
'So, you wanted to know more about Asperger's syndrome,' she said.
'Yes, I encountered it for the first time yesterday, and at this stage I'm mostly just curious,' said Martin as he impaled a prawn on his fork.
'Well, I do know something about it, but I've never actually had a patient with that diagnosis, so I had to read up on the subject before you came. What is it you want to know, more specifically? There's plenty to say about it.'
'Let's see,' Martin said, giving it some thought. 'Maybe you could tell me a bit about what characterizes someone with Asperger's, and how you can tell that's what it is.'
'First of all, it's a diagnosis that hasn't been in use until quite recently. It probably appeared about fifteen years ago, but it was first documented back in the forties by Hans Asperger. It's a functional disorder. Some researchers now claim he may have had the malady himself.'
Martin nodded and let Eva continue.
'It's a form of autism, but the person most often has normal to high intelligence.'
Martin recognized this from what Morgan had said.
Eva went on, 'What makes it hard to describe Asperger's syndrome is that the symptoms can vary from one individual to another, and they're divided into several groups. Some people withdraw inside themselves, more like classic autism, while others are extremely outgoing. And Asperger's is seldom discovered early. Parents may be concerned that their child's behaviour is abnormal in some way, without being able to say exactly what's wrong. And as I said, the problem is that it can vary considerably from one child to another. Some Asperger's children start talking unusually early, some unusually late, and the same is true of starting to walk and lots of other developmental areas. Normally the problem doesn't show up before school age, but that's also when it can be wrongly diagnosed as ADHD or DAMP.'
'And how does the problem manifest itself then?' Martin was so fascinated that he was neglecting his lunch. Before he applied for the police academy he had toyed with the idea of studying psychology, and sometimes he wondered whether he might have made the wrong choice. Nothing was as interesting as the human psyche in all its myriad forms.
'The most obvious symptoms are probably the difficulties that arise with social interaction. The children consistently behave in an improper fashion. They don't understand social rules, and they may have a tendency to blurt out the truth, which obviously makes it hard to get along with other people. There is also a strong egocentricity. They have a hard time relating to other people's feelings and experiences and care only about themselves. Often they don't have much need to be with other people. If they do play with other children they either try to decide everything or they completely submit to the other children's will. The latter is more common among girls with the syndrome. Another clear indication is if the child develops a special interest that becomes an obsession. Children with Asperger's have the capacity to become incredibly detail-oriented, and they often learn everything about their special interest. For adults it's often exciting to watch the child develop his knowledge, but Asperger children have such one- track minds and are so often consumed by their special passion that others soon lose interest. When the children reach school age, obsessive thoughts and actions start becoming noticeable. They have to do things in a certain way, and they also force people around them to do things that way.'
'What about language?' asked Martin, recalling Morgan's odd way of expressing himself.
'Yes, language is another strong indicator.' Eva scraped the last of her salad from the plastic bowl and then continued. 'It's one of the big difficulties that people with Asperger's syndrome encounter in their daily lives. When we humans communicate, we usually express much more than what our words say. We use body language and facial expressions, we modify the intonation of a sentence, use different emphasis, and vigorously employ similes and metaphors. All these things present difficulties for someone with Asperger's. An expression such as "we'll probably have to skip coffee" could be understood as meaning that one should jump over a coffee cup. When speaking, they also have a hard time understanding hearing how they sound to other people. Their voice could be very soft, almost a whisper, or very loud and shrill. Often it is droning and monotonous.'
Martin nodded. Morgan's voice fit with that latter description.
'The person I met also had an odd way of moving. Is that common?'
Eva nodded. 'Motor function is also a distinct sign. It can be awkward, stiff, or extremely minimalistic. Stereotypy also occurs frequently.'
She could see from Martin's expression that she needed to explain that last term.
'That means stereotypical movements that are repeated, such as small waves of the hand.'
'If the person with Asperger's has trouble with motor skills, does it apply to everything he does?' Martin remembered how Morgan's fingers flew smoothly over the keyboard.
'No, not really. It's common that in conjunction with his special interest, or if he's doing something that particularly fascinates him, he can have very high-functioning fine-motor skills.'
'What are the teen years like for kids with this syndrome?'
'Well, that's a whole other story. But would you like some coffee before we go on? It's a lot of information to take in. Are you going to take notes, by the way, or is your memory that good?'
Martin pointed to the little tape recorder he'd placed on the table. 'My assistant will take care of that. But I won't say no to a cup of coffee.' His stomach was grumbling a little. Salad was not what he usually ate for lunch, and he knew he'd have to stop at a hot-dog stand on the way back.
After a while Eva came back with a cup of steaming hot coffee in each hand. She sat down and continued her lecture.
'Where were we? Oh yes, the teen years. Once again that's a time when it's rather difficult to diagnose a person with Asperger's if he or she hasn't been diagnosed previously. So many of the usual problems of adolescence come up, but they're often amplified and made more extreme by Asperger's. Hygiene, for example, is a big problem. Many are careless with their daily hygiene. They don't feel like taking a shower, brushing their teeth, or changing clothes. Going to school becomes problematic. They have a hard time grasping the importance of making an effort in school, and problems also continue in social interactions with schoolmates and other contemporaries. This makes it difficult and sometimes impossible for them to work in groups, which are becoming more prevalent in secondary school and the gym. Depression is common, as well as antisocial behaviour.'
Martin pricked up his ears at this. 'What would you include in that category?'
'Things such as violent crimes, break-ins, and arson.'
'So there's an increased tendency for persons with Asperger's to commit crimes of violence?'
'Well, it's not that those suffering from Asperger's as a whole are more inclined to violence, but the percentage is definitely higher than in the general population. As I said before, they have a strong ego fixation and difficulty understanding and involving themselves in other people's feelings. Lack of empathy is a strong personality trait. To simplify somewhat, one might say that common sense is a concept that is lacking in someone with Asperger's.'
'If a person with Asperger's…' Martin hesitated, 'was implicated in a homicide investigation, would there be a reason to pay closer attention to him?'
Eva took his question seriously and paused to ponder her reply.
'I can't answer that. Of course there are, as I said, certain characteristics in the diagnosis that lower the barrier that prevents most people from committing acts of violence. At the same time it's an exceedingly small percentage of people with Asperger's who go to the extreme of committing murder. Yes, I do read the papers, so I know what case you're talking about,' she said, cradling her coffee cup pensively in her hands. 'It's my personal opinion that it would be extremely risky to go down that road, if you know what I mean.'
Martin nodded. He knew exactly what she meant. It had happened many times before that people ended up being wrongly accused simply because they were different. But knowledge is power, and he still felt it had been very valuable to get an insight into Morgan's world.
'I'd really like to thank you for taking the time to talk with me. I hope the errands you had to postpone because of me weren't urgent.'
'No, not at all,' said Eva, getting up to show him out. 'A little badly needed renewal of my wardrobe is all. In other words, nothing that can't wait till next week.'
She accompanied him to the cloakroom and waited while he put on his jacket, which was actually dry by now.
'I'm glad I don't have to go out in this crummy weather,' said Eva. They peered out of the window at the rain that was still pouring down and making big puddles on the square.
'Yes, it's looking like it's going to be autumn forever,' replied Martin, holding out his hand to say goodbye.
'Thanks for the lunch, by the way. And do call if you have any more questions. It was a pleasure to be able to brush up on a particular subject. I don't often get a chance to do that.'
'Right. Well, I'll give you a ring if I need to. Thanks again.'
FJÅLLBACKA 1924
The delivery was more horrible than Agnes could ever have imagined. She had been in the throes of labour for almost forty- eight hours and was close to dying, before the doctor finally leaned his whole weight on her belly and forced the first child out into the world. For there were two. The second boy soon followed, and they proudly showed her the babies after they had been washed and wrapped in warm blankets. But Agnes turned away. She didn't want to see the creatures that had destroyed her life and had brought her so near death. As far as she was concerned, they could give those babies away, or toss them in the river or do whatever they liked with them. Their tiny, shrill voices tore at her ears. After being forced to listen to that sound for a while, she covered her ears and bellowed at the woman holding them to take them away. In horror the nurse obeyed, and Agnes could hear people starting to whisper around her. But the shrieks faded, and now she just wanted to be allowed to sleep. Sleep for a hundred years, to be wakened by a kiss from a prince who would take her away from all this misery and from the two demanding little monsters that her body had expelled.
When she awoke she thought at first that her dream had been granted. A tall, dark figure stood leaning over her, and for a moment she thought she saw the prince she'd been waiting for. But then reality came crashing down on her. She saw that it was Anders's stupid face bending towards her. The sight of the loving expression on his face made her sick. Did he think that things between them would be different now, just because she had squeezed out two sons for him? She would be happy if he could take them away and let her have her freedom back. For a brief moment she noticed how that thought aroused a jubilant feeling in her breast. She was no longer huge and shapeless and pregnant. She could leave if she liked, find the life she deserved, the life where she belonged. Then she realized how impossible that would be. Since there was no chance of returning to her father, where would she go? She had no money of her own and no way of obtaining any, other than selling herself on the streets. Even her present life was better than that. The hopelessness of her situation made her turn her head away and sob. Anders gently stroked her hair. If she could have managed it she would have raised her arms to shove his hands away.
They're so beautiful, Agnes. They're just perfect.' His voice was quivering a little.
She didn't reply, just stared at the wall and shut out everything else. If only somebody would come and take her away from here.
Sara still hadn't come back. Mamma had explained that she wasn't going to, but Frida hadn't believed her. She thought it was just something Mamma was saying. Sara couldn't simply disappear like that, could she? If so, Frida regretted that she hadn't been nicer to her. She wouldn't have fought so much with Sara when she took her toys, but just let her have them. Now it was probably too late.
She went over to the window and looked up at the sky again. It was grey and dirty-looking. Sara wouldn't like living there, would she?
Then there was the whole secret about the old man, too. Of course she'd promised Sara to keep quiet. But Mamma said that she should always tell the truth, and not saying anything was almost the same as lying, wasn't it?
Frida sat down in front of her dollhouse. It was her favourite toy. It had belonged to her mamma when she was little, and now it was Frida's. She had a hard time imagining that Mamma was once the same age as Frida was now. Mamma was so… grownup, after all.
The dollhouse showed clear traces of being from the '70s. It was supposed to represent a two-storey brick house and it was furnished in brown and orange. The furniture was the same as when her mother had played with the dollhouse. Frida thought all the pieces were super, but it was a shame that there weren't more pink and blue things in the dollhouse. Blue was her favourite colour. And pink had been Sara's favourite. Frida thought it was odd. Everyone knew that pink and red clashed, and Sara had red hair, so she shouldn't have liked pink. But she did anyway. That was how she always was. Contrary, sort of.
There were four dolls that went with the house. Two child dolls and a mamma and a pappa doll. Now she took the two child dolls, both girls, and set them facing each other. Usually she wanted to be the one in green, because she was the nicest-looking, but now that Sara was dead she could be the green one. Frida would have to be the doll in the brown dress.
'Hi, Frida, do you know that I'm dead?' said the green Sara doll.
'Yes, Mamma told me,' said the brown one.
'What does she say about it?'
'That you've gone to heaven and won't be coming over to play with me anymore.'
'How boring,' said the Sara doll.
Frida nodded her doll's head. 'Yes, I think so too. If I knew you were going to die and wouldn't come over to play with me anymore, you could have had whatever toys you wanted and I wouldn't have complained.'
'What a shame,' said the Sara doll. 'That I'm dead, I mean.'
'Yes, what a shame,' said the one in brown.
Both dolls were silent for a moment. Then the Sara doll said in a serious tone of voice, 'You didn't say anything about the man, did you?'
'No, I promised.'
'Because it was our secret.'
'But why can't I tell? The old man was nasty, wasn't he?' The brown doll's voice sounded shrill.
'That's why. The old man said that I mustn't tell. And you have to do whatever nasty old men say'
'But you're dead, so the old man can't do anything, can he?'
The Sara doll had nothing to say to that. Frida carefully put the dolls back in the house and went over to stand by the window again. Imagine that everything had to be so hard, just because Sara had died.
Annika was back from lunch and called out to Patrik when he and Ernst returned. He merely waved, in a hurry to get to his office, but she insisted. He stopped in the doorway with a curious expression on his face. Annika peered at him over the top of her glasses. He looked exhausted, and the rain had given him the appearance of a drowned cat besides. But between the baby and the murder of a child he probably didn't have much energy left to take care of himself.
She saw the impatience in Patrik's eyes and hurried to tell him what she wanted to report. 'I got a number of calls today, because of the media coverage.'
'Anything of interest?' said Patrik without much enthusiasm. It was so seldom they got anything useful from the public that he didn't have very high hopes.
'Yes and no,' said Annika. 'Most of them are from the usual gossips who ring up to pass on hot tips about their sworn enemies and all sorts of people, and in this case the homophobia has really been rampant. Apparently, any man who works with flowers or cuts hair is automatically suspected of being homosexual and capable of doing horrid things to children.'
Patrik was shifting from one foot to the other, and Annika rushed on. She took the top note from the pile and handed it to him.
'This one seems like it might be something. A woman rang, refused to give a name, but said we ought to take a look at the medical records of Sara's little brother. That's all she would say, but something told me there might be something to it. Could be worth following up on, anyway.'
Patrik didn't look nearly as interested as she had hoped. On the other hand he hadn't heard the urgency in the voice of the woman who rang. Her tone differed markedly from the poorly disguised malice of those who loved to spread gossip.
'Yes, it could be worth checking out, but don't get your hopes up. Anonymous tips don't usually pan out.'
Annika started to say something, but Patrik held up his hands.
'Yeah, yeah, I know. Something told you that this one is different. And I promise to follow up on it. But it'll have to wait a while. We have more pressing things to deal with right now. There's a meeting in the lunchroom in five minutes, then I'll tell you more.' His fingers beat a quick tattoo on the door frame, and Patrik walked off with her note in his hand.
Annika wondered what new information had come up. She hoped it would be something that broke the case open. The mood at the station had been way too gloomy lately.
Niclas could find no peace and quiet to work. The image of Sara's face wouldn't leave him alone, and the visit from the police this morning had brought all his feelings of anxiety to the surface. Maybe it was right what everyone said, maybe he'd gone back to work too soon. But for him it had been a means of survival. It helped him to put aside the thoughts he didn't want to think about and instead focus his attention on ulcers, corns, three-day fever, and ear infections. Nothing mattered as long as he didn't have to think about Sara. Or Charlotte. But now reality had mercilessly intruded, and he felt himself rushing towards the abyss. It didn't help that his anxiety was self-inflicted. To be honest, which was unusual for him, he couldn't really understand why he did the things he did. Something inside seemed to keep driving him forward in a hunt for something that lay just out of reach. Despite the fact that he already had so much – or at least used to have so much. Now his life was in pieces, and nothing he said or did could change it.
Niclas leafed listlessly through the records in front of him. He always hated paperwork, and today he was having serious trouble concentrating. During his first appointment after lunch he had even been brusque and impolite to the patient. Normally he was charming with everyone, no matter who came in. But today he hadn't had the energy to pamper yet another old lady who came to see him about her imaginary pains. The patient in question had been something of a steady customer at the clinic, but now it was doubtful she would be back. His candid opinion on the state of her health had not been to her taste. Oh well, such things no longer seemed important.
With a sigh he began to gather up all the medical records. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the feelings he'd been trying to suppress for so long, and with a single motion he swept everything off his desk. The papers fluttered lazily to the floor and landed in one big heap. Niclas suddenly couldn't get his doctor's coat off fast enough. He flung it to the floor, pulled on his jacket and ran out of his office as if pursued by the Devil himself. Which he was, in a sense. He stopped briefly to tell his nurse with forced composure to cancel all his appointments for the afternoon. Then he rushed out into the rain. A tear found its way into his mouth, and the salt called up an image of his daughter, floating in a grey sea while whitecaps danced on the surface around her head. It made him run even faster. His tears merged with the rain as he fled. Most of all he was fleeing from himself.
The coffee-maker chugged and wheezed but produced the same black tar as usual. Patrik chose to stand next to the drainboard, while the others took their cups and sat down. Everyone was present except Martin, and he was just about to ask if anyone had seen him when he came dashing in, out of breath.
'Sorry I'm late. Annika rang and said there was a meeting. I was on my way and -'
Patrik held up his hand. 'We'll deal with that later. Right now I have some things I want to discuss.'
Martin nodded and sat down at the foot of the table, giving Patrik a curious look.
'We got the results of the analysis of Sara's stomach and lung contents. And they found something odd.'
The mood grew palpably tense around the table. Mellberg was looking attentively at Patrik, and even Ernst and Gösta seemed interested for a change. Annika was taking notes as usual so she could send out minutes to everyone after the meeting.
'Someone forced the girl to eat ashes.'
If a needle had dropped to the floor it would have sounded like thunder, it was so quiet in the room. Then Mellberg cleared his throat. 'Ashes? Did you say ashes?'
Patrik nodded. 'Yes, they were found in her stomach and her lungs. Pedersen's theory is that someone forced them into her mouth when she was already in the bathtub. Some of the ashes landed in the water, and when she was drowned she ended up with ashes in her lungs.'
'But why?' Annika said in amazement, forgetting for once to take notes.
'Yes, that's the question. And we also need to ask how this information can lead us forward. I already rang and ordered an examination of the Florin family's bathroom. Wherever we find ashes, that's the crime scene we're looking for.'
'But do you really think that someone in the family…' Gösta didn't finish his sentence.
'I don't think anything,' said Patrik. 'But if some other potential crime scene turns up, we'll have to go over it with a fine-toothed comb as well, especially if the search this afternoon doesn't produce anything. The Florins' home is still the last place she was seen, so we might as well start there. Or what do you think, Bertil?'
The question was rhetorical. Mellberg hadn't been involved in the investigation at all, but everyone knew that he liked to encourage the illusion that he was in control.
Mellberg nodded. 'Sounds like a good idea. But why wasn't a forensic examination of their home already done?'
Patrik had to control himself not to grimace. It was bad enough that Ernst had pointed out the same thing a moment earlier, but to have to hear it from Mellberg just made matters worse. It was easy to be smart in hindsight. If Patrik were to be completely honest, until now they hadn't any valid reason to do anything but a cursory inspection of the house. He didn't think he could even have obtained a warrant. But he chose not to point this out. Instead he replied as vaguely as possible: 'I think now we have something concrete to look for, it's a better time. In any case, the team from Uddevalla will be there at four o'clock. I intend to participate, and I'd like to take you along too, Martin, if you have time.'
Patrik glanced cautiously at Mellberg when he said this. He hoped that he wouldn't persist in forcing Ernst on him. He was in luck. Mellberg didn't say a word. Maybe the whole issue was forgotten by now.
'Sure, I can come along,' said Martin.
'All right, then. The meeting is adjourned.'
Annika had intended to tell everybody about the call she'd received, but they had already stood up so she decided to wait. Patrik had the information, and she was sure he'd deal with it as soon as he could.
The handwritten note was in fact in Patrik's back pocket. Forgotten.
Stig heard the footsteps on the stairs and steeled himself. He'd heard Niclas and Lilian's voices downstairs and knew they were talking about him. He carefully pushed himself up to a half-sitting position. It felt like a thousand knives slicing into his stomach, but by the time Niclas came into the room Stig's face was without expression. The image of his father in hospital, helpless and small, languishing in a cold, clinical hospital bed, filled his thoughts. He swore once again that it would never happen to him. His condition was only temporary. It had passed before and it would pass again.
'Lilian says that you're feeling worse today.' Niclas sat down on the edge of the bed, and put on his most concerned doctor's expression. Stig saw that his eyes were rimmed in red. And it was no wonder if the boy had cried. Losing a child. Stig himself missed the little girl so much it hurt. He realized that Niclas was waiting for an answer.
'Oh, you know how women are. Blowing everything all out of proportion. I didn't sleep very well last night, that's all, but now I feel better.' The pain forced him to clench his jaws, and it was a strain not to show how he was really feeling.
Niclas gave him a suspicious look but then took out some paraphernalia from a large doctor's bag he had brought along.
'I'm not sure I believe you, but let's start by taking your blood pressure and checking your vitals. Then we'll see.'
He fastened the blood-pressure cuff round Stig's skinny arm and pumped it up until it was tight. He watched the gauge as it fell and then removed the cuff.
'150 over 80, not too bad. Unbutton your shirt and I'll have a listen to your chest.'
Stig obeyed and unbuttoned his shirt with fingers that were oddly stiff and unwilling. The cold stethoscope against his chest made him gasp for breath, and Niclas said gruffly, 'Long, deep breaths.'
Each breath hurt, but he managed through sheer willpower to do as Niclas asked. After listening for a moment, Niclas removed the stethoscope from his ears. He looked Stig straight in the eye.
'Well, there's nothing definite to go on, but if you're feeling worse then it's important that you let me know. Shouldn't we do a proper check-up on you? If I send you down to Uddevalla they can do some tests and see whether there's anything wrong that I'm missing.'
With a shake of his head, Stig showed his aversion to the suggestion. 'No, I'm feeling pretty good now. It's not necessary to waste time and money on me. I've probably just picked up some bug, but I'll get better soon. It's happened before, right?' A tone of entreaty slipped into his voice.
Niclas shook his head and sighed. 'Well, just don't say I didn't warn you. One can't be too careful when the body starts signalling that something's wrong. But I'm not going to force you. It's your health, so it's up to you – although I'm not looking forward to going downstairs and confronting Lilian, I must say. She was practically ready to ring for the ambulance when I came home.'
'Yes, she's a real hothead, my Lilian,' Stig chuckled, but fell silent quickly when the knives again stuck him in the stomach.
Niclas closed up his bag and gave Stig a suspicious look. 'Do you promise to tell me if there's something wrong?'
Stig nodded. 'Absolutely.'
As soon as he heard Niclas's footsteps going down the stairs he slid painfully back into a recumbent position. The pain would soon pass. Just so he stayed out of the hospital. He had to avoid that at all costs.
Lilian's face showed a broad range of emotions when she opened the door. Patrik and Martin stood in front, with a three-man team of technicians, or rather two men and one woman, behind them.
'What's this crowd for?'
'We have a warrant to examine your bathroom.'
Patrik had a hard time meeting her gaze. It was strange how often his profession made him feel like an insensitive shithead.
Lilian's gave them a look as hard as granite. But after a moment she stepped aside and let them in.
'Don't make a mess in there, I just cleaned,' she snapped.
The comment made Patrik once again regret that he hadn't ordered this done sooner. Judging from what he'd seen of the Florins' home earlier in the week, she cleaned house almost constantly. If there had been any viable evidence in the room, it was surely gone by now.
'We have a bathroom down here, with a shower, and one upstairs with a tub.' Lilian pointed up the stairs. 'Take off your shoes,' she commanded, and everyone obeyed. 'And don't bother Stig. He's resting.' With undisguised fury she went into the kitchen and began noisily clattering as she washed the dishes.
Patrik and Martin exchanged a look and led the techs upstairs. Careful to stay out of the way, they let the team get started on the bathroom and waited outside in the hall. The door to Stig's room was closed, and they spoke in low voices.
'Do you really think this is necessary?' said Martin. 'I mean, there's nothing to indicate that the killer was a family member, and… well, they're going through a difficult enough time as it is.'
'You're quite right, of course,' replied Patrik, almost whispering. 'But we can't rule anyone out simply because it makes us feel uncomfortable. Even if the family doesn't understand, we're doing this with their best interests in mind. If we can eliminate them from the list of suspects, we can devote more energy to other lines of inquiry. Don't you agree?'
Martin nodded. He knew that Patrik was right. It was all just so damned unpleasant. Footsteps on the stairs made them turn round, and they met Charlotte's inquiring glance.
'What's going on here? Mother said that you showed up with a whole army to look at our bathroom. Why?' Her voice rose a bit and she made an attempt to go past them. Patrik stopped her.
'Could we sit down for a moment and talk, please?'
Charlotte cast one last glance at the techs behind them and turned to go back downstairs. 'We'll sit in the kitchen,' she said, with her head turned away from Martin and Patrik. 'And I want Mother to hear what you have to say too.'
Lilian was still angrily clattering the dishes when they entered the kitchen. Albin was sitting on a blanket on the floor, watching his grandmother's activities with big, serious eyes. He gave a start like a scared rabbit each time she raised her voice.
'If you're going to be taking things apart, I presume you'll put everything back the way it was.' Lilian's voice was like frost.
'I can't promise anything; they might need to take some things apart. But I can assure you they'll be as careful as possible,' said Patrik, taking a seat.
Charlotte picked Albin off the floor and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs with the boy on her lap. He snuggled into his mother's arms. She had lost weight, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept in a week – which she may not have done. He saw that she was trying to control a quivering lower lip when she asked, 'So, why is there a gang of police in the house all of a sudden? Why aren't they out looking for Sara's murderer instead?'
'We simply want to rule out all possibilities, Charlotte. The thing is, we… we have some new information. I wonder, can you think of any reason at all why someone would have wanted to make Sara eat ashes?'
Charlotte looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. She held on tighter to Albin, making him whimper. 'Eat ashes? What do you mean?'
He told her what the M.E. had said, and saw her face grow paler with every word.
'Only a crazy person would do something like that. So I understand even less why you're spending time here.' The last word sounded like a scream, and affected by his mother's anxiety Albin began to scream too. She hushed him at once and soothed him enough that he stopped, but she didn't take her eyes off Patrik.
He repeated what he'd said to Martin a little while ago. 'It's important for us to eliminate the family from the investigation. There is absolutely nothing to indicate that anyone in your family had anything to do with Sara's death. But we wouldn't be doing our job if we didn't do everything we could to investigate that possibility. As you know, it has happened in other cases. I'm afraid we can't always be as considerate as we'd like.'
Lilian gave a snort as she stood at the sink. Her whole body posture showed what she thought of Patrik's little speech.
'I do understand, of course I do,' said Charlotte. 'Just so you don't waste time when you could be spending it more effectively.'
'We're working full steam ahead, examining all possibilities, I can assure you of that.' On impulse Patrik leaned over the table and placed his hand on hers. She didn't pull away but met his gaze with great intensity, as if she wanted to look into his soul and with her own eyes see whether he was telling the truth. Patrik didn't flinch. And what she saw was evidently satisfactory, for she lowered her eyes and nodded.
'All right, I suppose I'll have to trust you. But it's lucky for you that Niclas isn't at home.'
'He was here a while ago,' said Lilian without turning round. 'He looked in on Stig but then left again.'
'Why did he come home? And why didn't he tell me that he was here?'
'You were sleeping, I think. And I have no idea why he came home in the middle of the afternoon. He must have needed a break. Well, I did tell him that I thought it was too soon for him to go back to work, but that boy is so conscientious that it's beyond all understanding. One certainly has to admire -'
Lilian's comments were interrupted by a demonstrative sigh from Charlotte, so she went back to washing dishes with even greater frenzy. Patrik could practically feel the tension reverberating in the room.
'In any event, he ought to hear about this. I'll ring the clinic.'
Charlotte set Albin down on his blanket on the floor and rang from the wall phone in the kitchen. No one said a word while she was on the phone. Patrik wanted nothing more than to get out of there. After a few minutes, Charlotte hung up.
'He wasn't there,' she said in disbelief.
'He wasn't there?' Lilian turned round. 'Then where is he?'
'Aina didn't know. She said that he'd taken the rest of the afternoon off. She assumed he went home.'
Lilian frowned, still turned towards the others in the kitchen. 'Well, he wasn't here more than fifteen minutes. He looked in on
Stig for a moment, then he left. And I got the impression he was going back to work.'
Patrik and Martin exchanged a look. They had their own theory about where the grieving father had gone.
The technician in charge stuck his head in the doorway to the kitchen. 'This is probably going to take a couple of hours. You'll have the results as soon as we're finished.'
Patrik and Martin got up, feeling a bit out of sorts, and nodded awkwardly to Charlotte and Lilian.
'Then we'll be on our way. And if you think of anything that might be linked to ashes, you know where to find us.'
Charlotte nodded, her face pale. Standing next to the sink Lilian pretended she was deaf and didn't even condescend to look at them.
They left the house in silence and walked towards the car.
'Could you give me a lift home?' asked Patrik.
'But you left your car down at the station. Won't you need it this weekend?'
'I just can't face going back there right now. And I still plan to come in and work a little on Saturday or Sunday. I can take the bus in and then drive my car home.'
'I thought you promised Erica to take the whole weekend off,' Martin ventured.
Patrik grimaced. 'Yeah, I know, but I hadn't counted on being saddled with a homicide investigation.'
'I'll be working this weekend, so tell me if there's anything I can do.'
'That's great, but I think I need to go over everything by myself in peace and quiet.'
'Well, you're the only one who knows what you need to do,' said Martin, getting into the car. Patrik got in on the passenger's side – but he wasn't so sure that Martin was right.
Finally she was going to get her mother-in-law out of the house. Erica could hardly believe it. All the admonitions, all the know- it-all comments and underhanded complaints had completely demolished her reserves of patience. She was counting the minutes until Kristina would get into her little Ford Escort and drive back home. If Erica had been suffering from a lack of confidence as a mother before her mother-in-law arrived, it was even worse now. Apparently nothing she did was right. She didn't know how to dress Maja the right way, or how to feed her correctly; she was too blunt, she was too clumsy, she was too lazy, she ought to rest more. There was no end to her shortcomings, and as Erica sat there with her daughter on her lap she felt as though she might as well give up. She would never manage all of this. At night she dreamt that she left Maja with Patrik and took a long trip. Far, far away. Somewhere that was calm and peaceful, with no screaming babies or responsibilities or demands. Somewhere she could curl up and be a little girl again, and someone else would take care of her.
At the same time she had a competing feeling inside that was steering her in the opposite direction. A protective instinct, and a certainty that she would never be able to leave the child she held in her arms. It was just as unthinkable as chopping off a leg or an arm. They were one now, and they would have to get through all this together. And yet she'd begun to think about what Charlotte had been urging her to do, before the terrible nightmare of Sara's death. Charlotte had said she should talk to someone, someone who understood how she was feeling. Maybe feeling like this wasn't normal. Maybe it wasn't supposed to be this way.
Sara's death was what made her begin to rethink things. It had put her own depression into perspective, made her see that she, unlike Charlotte, was going through a dark spell that could be dissipated. Charlotte would have to live with her grief for the rest of her life. But Erica might be able to do something about her situation. Before she went to talk to anyone, she ought to try Anna Wahlgren's baby care recommendations. If she could get Maja to sleep somewhere other than right on top of her, that would be progress. She just needed to muster some courage before she started that project. And get her mother-in-law out of the house.
Kristina came into the living room and gave Erica and Maja a worried look. 'Are you nursing her again? It can't have been more than two hours since last time.' She didn't wait for an answer but continued, 'In any case I've tried to put a little order in things here. Ail the laundry is washed, and it was quite a load, let me tell you. There are no dishes left to do, and I've given everything a good dusting. And by the way, I cooked some hamburgers and put them in the freezer, so you'll have something to eat besides those horrible frozen dinners. You have to eat properly, you know, and that goes for Patrik too. He works hard all day long, and then he has to take care of Maja large parts of the evening, so he needs all the nourishment he can get. I must say I was quite shocked when I saw him. He looked dreadfully pale and worn out.'
The litany went on and on, and Erica had to clench her teeth to resist the impulse to put her hands over her ears and sing, like a little girl. Of course she'd had a few hours free when her mother- in-law was here, she couldn't deny that, but the drawbacks clearly outweighed the benefits. With tears threatening to spill, she stubbornly stared straight ahead at Ricki Lake on the TV. Why couldn't her mother-in-law just leave?
It seemed as though her prayer had been heard, for Kristina set a packed suitcase in the hall and began putting on her coat and shoes.
'Are you sure you'll be able to get along?'
Erica wearily shifted her gaze from the TV and even managed to squeeze out a little smile.
'Sure, we'll be fine.' After an almost Herculean effort she added, 'And thanks so terribly much for all the help.'
She hoped Kristina couldn't hear how false it sounded. Apparently not, for her mother-in-law nodded graciously and said, 'Well, it's just nice to be of some use. I'll come back soon.'
Get your arse out of here, woman, Erica thought feverishly, trying by sheer force of will to shove her mother-in-law out the front door. Miraculously it seemed to work, and when the door closed behind her Erica heaved a deep sigh of relief. But it didn't last long. In the silence after Krishna's departure, with Maja's rhythmic snuffling the only sound, thoughts of Anna popped up. She still hadn't got hold of her sister, and Anna hadn't tried to call either. In frustration she punched the number of Anna's mobile, but as so many times before in recent weeks she got only the voicemail. She left a brief message for the umpteenth time and then broke the connection. Why wasn't Anna answering? Erica started devising one plan after another to find out what had happened to her sister, but eventually she gave up as she was overcome by fatigue. It would have to wait until another day.
Lucas said he was going out to look for a job, but she didn't believe him for an instant. Not dressed as he was, slovenly and unshaven with his hair unkempt. She had no idea what he was doing instead. But Anna knew better than to ask. Questions were bad. Questions led to hard blows that left visible marks. Last week she hadn't been able to take the children to day-care. The marks on her face had been so obvious that even Lucas realized it would be folly to let her go out.
Her thoughts kept circling around how this was all going to end. Everything had gone downhill so fast that it made her head spin. The time in the elegant flat in Östermalm, with Lucas going off to his job as a stockbroker each day, well-dressed and calm, felt like a distant dream. She could remember that even back then she had wanted to escape, but it was hard to understand why. Compared with her life now it could hardly have been so bad. Of course she had received the occasional beating, but there were good times as well, and everything had been so nice, so orderly. Now she looked around the cramped two-room flat and felt hopelessness settling over her. The children slept on mattresses on the floor of the living room, and their toys were strewn about everywhere. She couldn't even face picking them up. If Lucas came home before she found the energy to clean up, the consequences would certainly be harsh. But she simply couldn't be bothered anymore.
What scared her the most was when she looked into Lucas's eyes and saw that something vital had disappeared. Something human that had slipped away, to be replaced by something much darker and more dangerous. He had lost almost everything, and nothing was as dangerous as a person who had nothing more to lose.
For a moment she thought about making an attempt to get out of the flat and call for help. Collect the children at day-care, ring Erica and ask her to come get them. Or ring the police. But she wouldn't get beyond the thinking stage. She never knew when
Lucas might come home, and if he arrived at the moment she was trying to escape her prison, she would never again get a chance to flee, or a chance to survive.
Instead she sat down in the easy chair by the window and looked out over the courtyard. She let the dusk slowly descend over her life.
FJÅLLBACKA 1925
The sound of the sledgehammer striking the chisel was accompanied by his whistling. After the boys were born, he regained the joy he used to feel in his work, and each day he went to the quarry with the certainty that he now had something to work for. The twins were everything he had ever dreamt of. They were only six months old, but already they controlled his whole world and comprised his whole universe. The image of their bald little heads and toothless smiles kept coming back to him as he worked. It brought a song to his heart and he longed for evening so he could go home to them.
The thought of his wife made his otherwise even-handed blows on the granite lose their rhythm for a moment. She still hadn't seemed to bond with the children, although now it was a long time since she had almost died giving birth. The doctor had said that for some women it could take a long time to recover from such an experience, and that in those cases months could go by before they bonded with the child, or in this case the children. But by now half a year had passed. And Anders had tried his best to make things easier for Agnes. Despite his long workdays, he always tended to the boys when they woke up at night, and since she refused to nurse them, he also helped with feeding them. And he was happy to change their nappies and play with them. At the same time he had to spend long hours at the quarry, so Agnes was forced to take care of them while he was away. This worried him. When he came home he often found that they hadn't been changed all day and they were crying desperately from hunger. He had tried to talk to his wife about it, but she just turned her head away and refused to listen.
Finally he had gone over to the Janssons and asked Karin, Jansson's wife, if she'd consider coming over occasionally to see how his family was doing at his place. She'd given him a searching look and then promised to do so. Anders was eternally grateful to her for this. Not that she didn't have enough to do with her own children. The eight kids took up almost all her time, and yet she promised without hesitation to look in on his two as often as she could. A stone had been lifted from his heart with that promise. Sometimes he thought he saw a strange gleam in Agnes's eyes, but it vanished so quickly that he convinced himself it was just his imagination. But sometimes he would picture that look as he stood and worked, and then he had to stop himself from throwing down his sledgehammer and running home, just to make sure that the boys were sitting there on the floor and playing, rosy- cheeked and healthy.
Lately he had taken on even more work than usual. Somehow he had to find a way to make Agnes more satisfied with her life, otherwise she would make all of them unhappy. Ever since they moved to the company compound she had nagged him to rent a place somewhere in town instead, and Anders had decided to do all he could to grant that wish. If it would make her even a bit more kindly disposed to him and the boys, his long hours of work would be more than worth it. He put aside every extra öre he could spare. Now that he had control of the household funds it was possible to save, even though it meant that their meals became rather monotonous. His mother hadn't taught him how to cook many dishes, and he always bought the cheapest ingredients he could find. Agnes reluctantly began to take on some of a wife's duties, and after some practice, what she cooked began to be actually edible, so Anders had some hope that he could give up responsibility for making dinner in the near future.
If they could only move into the town of Fjällbacka, where things were a little more lively, the situation might get brighter.
Maybe they could even have a real married life again, something she had denied him for over a year.
Before him the stone parted in a perfect cleavage right down the middle. He took it as a good omen – his plan was leading him in the right direction.
At precisely ten past ten, the train rolled in. Mellberg had already been waiting for half an hour. Several times he had been on the verge of turning the car around and driving back home. But that wouldn't have served any purpose. His whereabouts would have been asked about and soon the gossip would have started. It was just as well to confront this entire disagreeable situation head on. At the same time he couldn't ignore the fact that something resembling eagerness was stirring in his breast. At first he hadn't even been able to identify the feeling. It was so foreign to him to feel anticipation for something, anything, that it took him a long moment to work out what the bubbling sensation was. It came as a big surprise when he finally identified it.
Sheer nervousness made it impossible for him to stand still on the platform awaiting the train's arrival. He constantly shifted position, and for the first time in his life wished he smoked, so that he could have calmed his nerves with a cigarette. Before he left the house he had cast a wistful glance at the bottle of Absolut vodka, but managed to restrain himself. He didn't want to smell of liquor the first time they met. First impressions were important.
Then the thought popped into his head again and took root. What if what she had said wasn't really true? It was confusing not to know what he was even hoping for, whether he wanted it to be true or not. He had already vacillated back and forth many times, but right now he was leaning towards hoping that the letter was right. No matter how strange that felt.
A toot of the horn in the distance signalled that the train from Göteborg was approaching the station. Mellberg gave a start, which made the hair he had combed over the top of his scalp slide down over one ear. With a swift and practised motion he flipped the strands of hair back into place and made sure that they were properly positioned. He didn't want to disgrace himself right from the start.
The train came rolling in at such speed that at first Mellberg didn't think it was even going to stop. Maybe it would keep on going into the unknown and leave him standing there, with his feelings of eagerness and uncertainty. But at last the train slowed and with much screeching and general racket it came to a halt. He swept his eyes over all the doors. All at once it struck him that he didn't even know if he would recognize him. Shouldn't she have put a carnation in his buttonhole or something? Then he realized that he was the only one waiting on the platform, so at least the arriving passenger would be able to find Mellberg.
The door furthest back opened, and Mellberg felt his heart stop beating for a second. A lady of retirement age carefully climbed down the steps. The disappointment at seeing her got his heart started again. But then he emerged. And as soon as Mellberg saw him, all doubt was erased. He was filled with a quiet, strange, aching joy.
The weekends went by so fast, but Erica enjoyed having Patrik at home. Saturday and Sunday were the days she focused on. Then Patrik could take care of Maja in the mornings, and one of the nights she usually used the breast pump so that he could give Maja the milk. That meant that she got a whole night of blessed sleep, even though she paid a price by waking up with two aching, leaking breasts that felt like cannonballs. But it was worth it. She never would have imagined that nirvana was being allowed to sleep a whole night undisturbed.
But this weekend had felt different. Patrik had gone in to work a few hours on Saturday, and he was silent and tense. Even though she understood why, it annoyed her that he was unable to devote himself completely to her and Maja. Her disappointment in turn gave her a guilty conscience and made her feel like a bad person.
If Patrik's brooding might lead to Charlotte and Niclas finding out who had murdered their daughter, then Erica ought to be generous enough to excuse his lack of attention. But logic and rationality didn't seem to be her strong suit these days.
On Sunday afternoon the overcast weather that had lasted all week finally broke, and they went for a long walk in town. Erica couldn't help being amazed at how the appearance of the sun could suddenly transform their surroundings so completely. In the storm and rain Fjällbacka looked so barren, so implacable and grey, but now the town sparkled once again, wedged in at the base of the monolithic hill. No trace remained of the breakers that had crashed against the docks and caused temporary flooding of Ingrid Bergman Square. Now the air was clear and fresh, and the water lay placid and gleaming as if it had never looked any other way.
Patrik pushed the pram, and Maja for once had acquiesced to fall asleep in it.
'How are you doing, actually?' Erica asked, and Patrik jumped, as if he were far, far away.
'I'm the one who should be asking you that question,' Patrik said, sounding guilty. 'You have a hard enough time without worrying about me too.'
Erica stuck her arm in under his and leaned her head on his shoulder. 'We both worry about each other, okay? And to answer your question first, things have been better, I have to admit. But they've been worse too. So now answer my question.'
She recognized Patrik's state of mind. It had been the same during the last murder investigation he'd handled, and this time it was a child who was the victim. And on top of everything, she was the daughter of one of her own friends.
'I just don't know how to proceed anymore. I've felt that way ever since we began this investigation. I went over everything again and again when I drove in to the station yesterday, but I've run out of ideas.'
'Is it true that nobody saw anything?'
He sighed. 'Yes, all they saw was Sara leaving the house. After that there was no trace of her. It's as if she vanished in a puff of smoke and then suddenly turned up in the sea.'
'I tried to ring Charlotte a while ago and Lilian answered,' Erica said cautiously. 'She sounded unusually curt, even for her. Is there something I should know about?'
Patrik hesitated, but finally decided to tell her. 'We did a crime- scene search at their house on Friday. Lilian was a bit upset about it…'
Erica raised her eyebrows. 'I can imagine. But why did you do that? I mean, someone outside the family must have done it, don't you think?'
Patrik shrugged. 'Yes, more than likely. But we can't just assume that's true. We have to investigate everything.' He was starting to get irritated that everyone was questioning the way he did his job. He couldn't rule out investigating the family simply because the idea was unpleasant. It was just as important to scrutinize the family members closely as it was to examine everything that pointed to an outside perpetrator. With no clues leading in a specific direction, all directions were equally important.
Erica could hear his irritation, and she patted him on the arm to show that she meant no offence. She felt him relax.
'Do we need to get something for dinner?' They were walking past the old clinic that was now a day-care centre, and saw the Konsum supermarket sign up ahead.
'Something good.'
'Do you mean dinner or dessert?' said Patrik, turning down the little hill towards the Konsum car park. Erica shot him a look, and Patrik laughed.
'Both,' she said. 'What I was thinking
When they emerged from the market with plenty of goodies loaded onto the pram's undercarriage, Patrik asked in surprise, 'Did I imagine it, or was the woman behind us in the queue giving me a funny look?'
'No, you weren't imagining it. That was Monica Wiberg, the Florins' neighbour. Her husband's name is Kaj and they have a son named Morgan, who I hear is a little strange.'
Now Patrik understood why the woman had been staring at him with such anger. Of course he wasn't the officer who had questioned her son, but it was probably enough that he was a member of the same profession.
'He has Asperger's,' said Patrik.
'Who?' said Erica, who had already forgotten what they were talking about and was fully engrossed in arranging Maja's cap, which had twisted to one side as she slept, exposing her ear to the autumn chill.
'Morgan Wiberg,' said Patrik. 'Gösta and Martin went over to talk to him, and he told them himself that he has something called Asperger's.'
'What's that?' said Erica curiously, letting Patrik push the pram once Maja's ears were both properly covered by the warm cap.
Patrik told her some of what he'd learned from Martin on Friday. It had been a good idea to go out and meet the psychologist.
'Is he a suspect?' Erica asked.
'No, not the way things look at the moment. But he seems to be the last person who saw Sara, so it doesn't hurt to know as much about him as possible.'
'To make sure that you're not targeting him because he's a little odd.' She bit her tongue as soon as she said that. 'Sorry, I know that you're more professional than that. It's just that in small towns like this, people who are different are always the ones singled out whenever something bad happens. Blame it on the village idiot, that sort of thing.'
'On the other hand, unusual individuals have always met with greater respect in small communities than in the big cities. An eccentric character is just another part of the daily scene and is accepted as he is. In the big city he would end up considerably more isolated.'
'You're right, but that kind of tolerance has always rested on shaky ground. That's all I'm saying.'
'Yeah, well, in any case Morgan isn't being treated any differently from anyone else, I can assure you of that.'
Erica didn't reply but stuck her arm under Patrik's again. The rest of the walk home they talked about other things. But she could sense that his thoughts were somewhere else the whole time.
By Monday the fine weather that had prevailed the day before was gone. Now it was just as grey and bitterly cold as before, and Patrik huddled up in a big, thick woollen jumper as he sat at his desk. Last summer the air conditioning hadn't worked, and it was like working in a sauna. Now the raw damp seeped through the walls, making him shiver. A ring from the telephone made him jump.
'You have a visitor,' Annika's voice said on the line.
'I'm not expecting anyone.'
'A Jeanette Lind says she wants to see you.'
Patrik pictured the curvaceous little brunette in his mind and wondered what she wanted.
'Send her in,' he said, getting up to greet his unexpected visitor. They shook hands politely in the corridor outside his office. Jeanette looked tired and haggard, and he wondered what had happened since last Friday when he last saw her. Many evening shifts at the restaurant, or something more personal?
'Would you like a cup of coffee?' he asked, and she nodded.
'Have a seat, and I'll bring you some.' He pointed to one of his guest chairs.
A moment later he set two cups on his desk.
'So, how can I help you?' He put his forearms on the desk and leaned forward.
It took a few seconds before she replied. With her eyes lowered, she warmed her hands on the coffee cup and seemed to be pondering how to begin. Then she tossed back her thick, dark hair and looked him straight in the eye.
'I lied about Niclas being with me last Monday,' she said.
Patrik's expression didn't reveal his consternation, but inside he felt something leap in his chest.
'Tell me more,' he said calmly.
'I just told you what Niclas had asked me to say. He gave me the times and asked me to say that we'd been together then.'
'And did he say why he wanted you to lie on his behalf?'
'All he said was that everything would be complicated otherwise. That it was much simpler for everyone if I gave him an alibi.'
'And you didn't question that?'
She shrugged. 'No, I had no reason to do so.'
'Even though a child had been murdered, you didn't think there was anything remarkable in him asking you to give him an alibi?' Patrik said incredulously.
Jeanette shrugged again. 'No,' she said. 'I mean, Niclas would hardly have killed his own daughter, would he?'
Patrik didn't reply. After a moment he asked, 'Niclas hasn't said anything about what he was actually doing that morning?'
'No.'
'And you have no idea yourself?'
Once again the impassive shrug of her shoulders. 'I just assumed he took the morning off. He works hard, and his wife is always nagging him about how he should help around the house, even though she's at home all day long. He probably needed a little free time.'
'And why would he risk his marriage by asking you to give him an alibi?' said Patrik, trying in vain to read something in Jeanette's aloof expression. The only thing that revealed any emotion was the way she was nervously drumming her long nails on the coffee cup.
'I have no idea,' she said impatiently. 'He probably thought that of two evils, it was better to be discovered with a lover than to be suspected of the murder of his own daughter.'
Patrik thought that sounded far-fetched, but people reacted strangely under stress; he'd seen many different examples.
'If you thought it was okay to give him an alibi as late as last Friday, why have you changed your mind now?'
Her nails kept drumming on the coffee cup. They were extremely well-manicured, even Patrik could see that.
'I… I thought about it all weekend, and it doesn't feel right. I mean, a child is dead, isn't she? You should be told everything.'
'Yes, we should,' said Patrik. He wasn't sure that he believed her explanation, but it didn't matter. Niclas no longer had an alibi for Monday morning, and worse, he'd asked someone to give him a phoney one. That was enough to send a number of warning Hags to the top of the mast.
'Well, I must thank you for coming here to tell me this,' Patrik said, getting to his feet. Jeanette held out a dainty little hand and held onto his a bit too long as they said goodbye. Unconsciously Patrik wiped his hand on his jeans as soon as she was outside the door. There was something about that young woman that made her really disliked. But thanks to Jeanette they now had a solid lead to go on. It was time to look more closely at Niclas Klinga.
All at once Patrik remembered the note that Annika had given him. In a slight panic he felt in his back pocket. When he fished out the little piece of paper he was extremely grateful that neither he nor Erica had got around to washing clothes this weekend. He read the note and then sat down to make some phone calls.
FJÅLLBACKA 1926
The two-year-olds were shouting noisily behind her and Agnes hushed them in annoyance. She had never seen the likes of those boys for making a racket. They were surely spending too much time over at the Janssons', picking up things from their snotty kids, Agnes thought. She chose to close her eyes to the fact that the neighbouring woman had pretty much brought up her sons as her own ever since they were six months old. But things were going to change now that they were moving into town. Agnes looked back with pleasure from her seat on the moving cart. Hopefully, she would never have to set eyes on that miserable shack again. Now she would come one step closer to the life she deserved. She was at least going to live among sensible people in surroundings that were bustling and lively. The house they were renting wasn't really much to brag about, though the rooms were cleaner and brighter, and even a few square yards bigger, than those in the shack. But at least the house was located in Fjällbacka. She could step off the front porch without sinking to her ankles in mud, and she could start cultivating acquaintances who were considerably more stimulating than those simple stonecutter wives, who did nothing but produce one kid after another. Finally she would have a chance to get to know other people with completely different outlooks. Agnes chose to ignore the fact that she herself might not be an interesting acquaintance for them, since she now belonged to the crowd of cutter wives she scorned. Or perhaps she thought they would see that she was different.
'Johan, Karl, calm down. Sit still in the cart, or else you can get off and walk,' said Anders, turning halfway round to the boys. As usual Agnes thought he was much too lenient with them. If it were up to her, he would have yelled at them much louder, and even followed up his scoldings with a box on the ears. But on that issue he was unwavering. No one would raise a hand to his boys. Once Anders had caught her giving Johan a slap, and he gave her such a talking-to that she never dared do it again. In everything else she could get Anders to do as she wanted, but when it came to Karl and Johan he had the last word. He had even chosen their names. If the names were good enough for kings, they were good enough for his sons, he'd said. Agnes had merely snorted. Such foolishness. But she didn't give a damn what the boys were called, so if he wanted to name them she had no objection.
Most of all it would be lovely to get away from that busybody Mrs Jansson. Sure, it had been convenient that she took care of the kids for her, but she did it of her own free will. At the same time her reproachful glances had got on Agnes's nerves. As if she were a bad person just because she didn't view it as her sole purpose in life to wipe the shit from kids' bottoms.
They couldn't drive all the way up to the house, which stood along one of the small, narrow lanes that led down to the sea. They had to carry their belongings the last bit. Anders would be making a couple more trips to fetch their rickety furniture. Agnes said hello to the old man who owned the house and would be their landlord, and then she stepped into their new home. She never thought she'd consider two small rooms in a tiny house to be a step up in life, but compared to the dark shack the new dwelling looked like a castle.
She swept in with her skirts rustling over the threshold, was pleased to find that the previous tenant had left the place clean and neat. She detested living in messy or dirty surroundings, but in the small space of the company shack it hadn't seemed such a great idea to clean house. Besides, she wasn't inclined to clean. But if she could wheedle Anders, the skinflint, into buying some nice curtains and a rug, this house might be acceptable.
The boys raced past her legs and ran around like crazy in the empty room, chasing each other. Agnes felt herself boiling inside when she saw how the mud they tracked in on their shoes was spread all over the clean floor.
'Karl! Johan!' she yelled, and the boys froze in terror. She pressed her fists to her sides to stop herself from dealing out a resounding slap. Instead she settled for grabbing her sons by the arms and dragging them out the front door. She permitted herself to give each of them a little pinch, and saw with satisfaction how their tiny faces dissolved in tears.
'Pappa!' Karl began to wail, and Johan soon joined in the chorus. 'I want Pappa!'
'Shut up,' Agnes hissed, looking around anxiously. A fine thing it would be to disgrace herself on the first day in their new home. Hut the boys had gone past the point where they could stop crying.
'Pappa!' they wailed in unison, and Agnes had to force herself to take deep, controlled breaths so she wouldn't do anything rash. Then the boys raised the ante.
'Karin, we want Karin,' they shrieked, as they lay down on the ground and began pounding their little fists.
They were damned cry-babies, just like their father. To think that they had the nerve to prefer that rotten bitch to their own mother. She felt her foot start to twitch with an urge to kick them in the soft parts round their stomachs. Fortunately at that moment Anders appeared at the top of the hill.
'What's going on here?' he said in his melodious Blekinge accent, and the boys were up on their feet like bolts of greased lightning.
'Pappa! Mamma's mean!'
'So what happened now?' he said in resignation, giving Agnes a disapproving glance. She silently cursed him. He didn't even know what had happened, and still he took his sons' side. She couldn't be bothered to explain, but turned on her heel and went into the house to gather up the bits of mud the boys had left behind. Behind her she heard them snuffling with their faces buried in Anders's coat. Like father, like sons.
Monica took a sick day on Monday. Only a week had passed since they found the girl, but it felt like years had been added to her life since then. She heard Kaj rummaging about in the kitchen and knew that it was only a matter of time. Sure enough, here it came.
'Monica-a-a-a. Where's the coffee?'
She closed her eyes and answered with forced politeness, 'In the tin in the cupboard above the stove. Where it's been for the past ten years,' she couldn't help adding.
She heard a muttered reply from the kitchen and got up with a sigh. She'd better go help him. She couldn't understand how a grown man could be so helpless. How he'd been able to run a business with thirty employees was beyond her comprehension.
'Let me,' she said, snatching the tin of coffee from his hand.
'What's got into you?' said Kaj in the same annoyed tone of voice.
Monica took a deep breath to calm herself down as she silently counted out spoonfuls of coffee. It wasn't worth starting a fight with Kaj on top of everything else.
'Nothing,' she said. 'I'm just a little tired. And I don't like it that the police were here talking to Morgan.'
'Well, what can we do about it?' said Kaj, sitting down at the kitchen table and waiting for the coffee to be served. 'He's a grown man, even if you refuse to believe it,' he added.
'You of all people ought to know how difficult things are for
Morgan. Where have you been all these years? Aren't you part of this family?' The irritation crept back into her voice, and she began slicing the Swiss roll with more energy than necessary.
'I've been part of this family as much as you have, thank you very much. On the other hand, I haven't been as inclined to coddle Morgan. Or drag him from one shrink to another. What good has that done? He just sits out there in his cabin all day long, getting weirder and weirder with each passing year.'
'I never coddled him,' said Monica between clenched teeth. 'I tried to give our son the best care he could get, considering what he's had to deal with. The fact that you chose to ignore him is something you'll have to live with. If you spent half the time with him that you spend on your exercise routines…'
She practically slammed the plate of Swiss roll onto the table and then stood leaning against the counter with her arms crossed.
'All right, all right,' said Kaj, trying to placate her as he stuffed a piece of cake in his mouth. He was in no mood for a fight either, this early in the morning. 'No need to drag that up again. At any rate, I agree with you that it's unpleasant having the police running in and out. Why don't they focus their attention on that damned bitch next door instead?'
Now that he was onto his favourite topic again, he pulled the curtain aside and looked over at the Florins' house.
'Seems quiet over there. I wonder what all those cars were doing there on Friday? And all the boxes and equipment they carried in?'
Monica dropped her guard reluctantly and sat down across from him. She took a piece of cake even though she knew she shouldn't. Her craving for sweets had already added some weight around her hips. But Kaj didn't seem to mind, so why should she make an effort?
'I have no idea, and it's not worth worrying about. The main thing is that they leave Morgan alone.'
The cold, sinking feeling in Monica's stomach refused to subside. With each day it got worse and worse. The sugar in the cake calmed her nerves for a while, but she knew that anxiety would soon overpower her again. In despair she looked at Kaj across the table. She considered telling him everything, but soon realized how absurd that would be. Thirty years together and they had nothing in common. He was contentedly chewing another piece of Swiss roll, unaware of the wolves' claws ripping his wife apart inside.
'Shouldn't you be at work?' said Kaj and stopped chewing.
Typical. She should have left an hour ago, but he hadn't noticed until now that she'd stayed home.
'I called in sick. I'm not feeling well.'
'You look okay to me,' he said critically. 'A little pale, maybe. Well, you know I keep telling you to quit that job. It's crazy to keep slaving away there when you don't have to. We don't really need your salary.'
A violent rage flared up inside her. She jumped to her feet.
'I don't want to hear any more about that. I stayed at home for more than twenty years and did nothing but iron your shirts and fix dinner for you and your business associates. Don't I have the right to my own life?'
She snatched up the plate of cake, went over to the rubbish bin and demonstratively dumped in the last pieces on top of the coffee grounds and food scraps. Then she left Kaj gaping at the kitchen table. She couldn't stand looking at him for another second.
Mia parked the pram in back of Järnboden hardware store and made sure that Liam was asleep. She was just going to run in and buy a few things, and she didn't feel like dragging the pram inside. The wind was blowing hard, but it was worse at the front of the shop, the side facing the water. At the back the shop was protected against the wind by the stone mass of Veddeberget, and the car would be fine there for the five minutes she planned to be gone.
The bell over the door rang as she entered. The shop was filled with everything that do-it-yourself handymen and boat lovers could ever possibly need. She checked the shopping list Markus had given her to see what she was supposed to buy. He'd promised to put up the rest of the shelves in the nursery this weekend if she picked up the necessary hardware.
Mia was happy to be getting the nursery done at last. Months had flown by, and despite the fact that Liam was already six months old, his room still looked like it was under construction. It was not like the cosy, snug children's room she had always dreamt of. The only problem was that she was depending on her boyfriend to fix up the room. She'd never held a hammer in her life and he was actually quite handy once he put his mind to it; unfortunately that didn't happen very often.
Sometimes she wondered whether the rest of her life would be like this. When they first met, she'd thought his philosophy was wonderful: always have a good time and never do anything boring. She had latched on to his lifestyle, and for almost a year they had lived a marvellously carefree life with lots of partying and spur- of-the-moment decisions. But eventually she had grown tired of all that. She felt the responsibilities of adult life growing more insistent – especially since she'd had Liam. In the meantime Markus kept on living in his little bubble; she felt like she now had two children to raise. He didn't contribute anything towards food and rent either. If she hadn't been living at home and getting money from her parents, they would have starved to death.
Markus was good at talking his way into jobs, that wasn't the problem. No, the problem was that no job ever lived up to his expectations, or his demands that everything always had to be cool, so he usually quit after a couple of weeks. Then he would loaf about for a while, living off her until he succeeded in charming his way into a new job. He slept most of the day as well, so he almost never helped out, either with the housework or with Liam. Instead he stayed up all night playing computer games.
To be honest, Mia had begun to tire of the way they were living. She was twenty years old and felt like forty. She kept hearing herself harping and nagging, and sometimes to her horror she sounded just like her mother.
Mia sighed as she walked down one aisle of shelves. She looked at the list. Nails and some of the other things he needed she found quite easily, but she had to ask for help to find the screws. When she was finished at last and about to pay Berit at the checkout, she glanced at the clock. A quarter of an hour had flown by while she was ticking off the items on the list, and she felt sweat starting to trickle from her armpits. She hoped Liam hadn't woken up. She hurried to the door with her purchases, and as soon as she stepped outside she heard his piercing screams, just as she had feared. But they sounded different from the way they were when he was angry, hungry, or upset. This was a scream of sheer panic, and it echoed shrilly off the rock wall of Veddeberget.
Mia's maternal instinct told her that something was wrong, and she dropped her bags and ran to the pram. When she looked down at him her heart stopped for an instant as she tried to understand what she was seeing. Liam's face was black with something that looked like ashes, or soot. In his open, shrieking mouth she also saw a clump of ashes, and he kept sticking out his tongue in an attempt to get rid of the nasty stuff. The inside of the pram was coated with the black powder, and when Mia lifted up her panic-stricken son and pressed him to her breast, her coat became covered with it too. Her mind could still not form any sensible theory of what had happened, but with Liam in her arms she ran back inside Järnboden. All she knew was that someone had done something to her son. As the clerk rang for help, Mia tried desperately to get the ashes out of Liam's mouth using a paper napkin.
Only an insane person would have done something like this.
By two o'clock they had all the information they needed. Annika had done the legwork, and Patrik thanked her in a low voice as he gathered up all the pages that had come in by fax in a steady stream. He knocked on Martin's door but walked in without waiting for him to answer.
'Hello,' said Martin, and managed to make the casual greeting sound like a question. He knew what Patrik and Annika had been working on, and he only needed to see Patrik's face to know that their efforts had paid off.
Patrik didn't reply to the greeting but sat down in the chair in front of Martin's desk and placed the faxes on his desktop without commenting.
'I presume you've come up with something,' said Martin, reaching for the stack of paper.
'Yes, after we succeeded in getting a warrant, it was like opening Pandora's box. There's all sorts of information. See for yourself.'
Patrik leaned back in the chair and waited for Martin to finish skimming through the printouts.
'This doesn't look good,' said Martin after a while.
'No, it doesn't,' said Patrik, shaking his head. 'A total of thirteen times Albin was taken to the clinic with some sort of injury. Broken leg, cuts, burns, and God knows what else. It's like reading a textbook on child abuse.'
'And you think it's Niclas and not Charlotte who did all this?' Martin nodded at the stack of faxes.
'First of all, there's no proof that it is actually child abuse. No one has found any reason to start asking questions before now, and theoretically he might just be the unluckiest kid in the world. That said, both you and I know that's very unlikely. It's possible that someone abused Albin on repeated occasions. Whether it's Niclas or Charlotte, well, that's impossible to say for sure. But at the moment Niclas is the one we have the most questions about, so I'm assuming he's the more likely candidate, at least.'
'Could it be both of them? There have been cases like that, as you know.'
'Absolutely,' said Patrik. 'Anything is possible, and we can't rule it out. But considering the fact that Niclas lied about his alibi – and also attempted to get someone else to lie for him – I'd like to bring him in for a serious talk. Are we agreed on that?'
Martin nodded. 'Yes, definitely. Let's get him in here and present this information to him and then see what he has to say.'
'Good, that's what we'll do, then. Should we go over there right away?'
Martin nodded. 'I'm ready if you are.'
An hour later they had Niclas sitting across from them in the interview room. He looked obdurate, but he hadn't protested when they fetched him from the clinic. It was as though he had no energy to make any objections. At no time during the trip to the station had he asked why they wanted to talk to him. Instead he had stared out at the passing landscape and let the silence speak for itself. For a brief moment Patrik felt a pang of sympathy. It looked as though Niclas's brain had only now registered the fact that his daughter was dead, and for the present he was devoting all his energy trying to cope with that knowledge. Then Patrik remembered the contents of the physician's reports, and his sympathy was quickly and effectively extinguished.
'Do you know why we want to talk with you?' Patrik began calmly.
'No,' Niclas replied, studying the tabletop.
'We've received some information that is…' Patrik paused for effect, 'disturbing.'
No response from Niclas. His whole body slumped forward, and his hands resting on the table were trembling slightly.
'Don't you want to know what sort of information we have?' said Martin kindly, but Niclas didn't respond to that either.
'Then we'll tell you,' Martin went on, glancing at Patrik to take over, who cleared his throat.
'First of all, it turned out that the statement you gave us about where you were on Monday morning was not correct.'
Here Niclas looked up for the first time. Patrik thought he saw a glint of surprise, which disappeared just as rapidly. In the absence of any verbal reply, Patrik continued.
'The person who gave you an alibi has retracted her statement. In plain Swedish: Jeanette has now told us that you were not with her at all, as you claimed, and she also says that you asked her to lie about it.'
No reaction from Niclas. It seemed as though all emotion had drained out of him, leaving behind only a vacuum. He showed no anger, astonishment, consternation, or any of the feelings that Patrik had expected. He waited him out, but silence prevailed.
'Would you like to comment?' Martin coaxed him.
Niclas shook his head. 'If that's her story…'
'Perhaps you'd like to tell us where you were during the hours in question.'
Niclas merely shrugged. Then he said in a low voice, 'I have no intention of making any statement. I don't even understand why I'm here and being asked these questions. It's my daughter who is dead. Why would I have harmed her?' He raised his eyes and looked at Patrik, who saw a suitable avenue to the next question.
'Perhaps because you have a habit of abusing your children. At least Albin.'
Now Niclas gave a start, and he stared at Patrik with his mouth open. A slight quiver of his lower lip was the first indication of emotion they'd seen. 'What do you mean?' said Niclas uncertainly, and his eyes flicked between Patrik and Martin.
'We know,' Martin said calmly, leafing demonstratively through the stack of papers before him. He had made copies of the faxes so that both he and Patrik had a set.
'What is it you think you know?' said Niclas, and his voice contained a hint of defiance. But he couldn't prevent his gaze from returning to the papers in front of Martin.
'Thirteen times Albin has been treated for various types of injuries. What does that tell you as a doctor? What conclusion would you draw if someone came in thirteen times with a child who had burns, cuts and broken bones?'
Niclas pressed his lips together.
Patrik went on. 'Well, you didn't take him to the same clinic every time. That would have been tempting fate, wouldn't it? But when we gathered reports from the hospital in Uddevalla and the clinics in the region, it makes a total of thirteen times. Is he an unusually accident-prone child, or what?'
Still no reply from Niclas. Patrik looked at his hands. Were those hands capable of injuring a little child?
'Perhaps there's an explanation for this,' said Martin in a deceptively gentle voice. 'I mean, I can understand that things can just get to be too much sometimes. You doctors work long hours and are worn-out and stressed. Sara was also a very demanding girl, and having a little baby as well might have been enough to break even the best of us. All the frustrations that need to get out, that have to find an outlet. In spite of everything, we're only human, aren't we? And that could explain why there haven't been any more reports of "accidents" since you moved to Fjällbacka. Getting some help around the house, a less stressful job, and everything suddenly feels easier. There's no longer a need to vent your frustrations.'
'You know nothing about me or my life. Don't flatter yourself that you do,' Niclas said with unexpected acrimony, staring down at the tabletop. 'I'm not going to talk to you about this anymore, so you can just as well cut out the psychobabble.'
'You mean you have no comment at all to any of this?' said Patrik, waving his copies of the reports.
'No, I don't. I already told you that,' replied Niclas stubbornly continuing to study the top of the table.
'You realize that we have to turn over this data to social welfare, don't you?' said Patrik, leaning towards Niclas. Once again they saw only a slight quiver of his lip.
'Do what you have to do,' said Niclas in a thick voice. 'Do you intend to hold me here, or can I go now?'
Patrik stood up. 'You can go. But we're going to have more questions for you.'
He escorted Niclas to the main entrance, but neither of them made any move to shake hands.
Patrik went back to the interview room, where Martin was waiting.
'What do you think of that?' said Martin.
'I don't really know. To start with I expected a stronger reaction.'
'Yeah, he seems utterly shut off from the outside world. But I assume it might be the way grief has affected him. According to what you told me, he threw himself back into work as if nothing had happened. Besides, he was forced to be strong at home when Charlotte collapsed. If she's feeling better now, maybe his grief has caught up with him. What I'm saying is that we can't assume that lie might have done something, in spite of the odd way he was behaving. The circumstances are really rather extraordinary.'
'Yeah, you're right,' said Patrik with a sigh. 'But we also can't ignore certain facts. He did ask Jeanette to lie about his alibi, and we still don't know where he actually was that morning. And I wasn't born yesterday – these reports clearly show that Albin was abused. If I were to guess who the most likely perpetrator is, it would definitely be Niclas.'
'So we're going to file a report with social welfare, as you said?' asked Martin.
Patrik hesitated. 'We really ought to do it immediately, but something tells me we should wait a few days, until we know more.'
'Okay, you're the boss,' said Martin. 'I just hope you know what you're doing.'
'To be honest, I don't have a damned clue,' said Patrik with a wry smile. 'Not a damned fucking clue.'
Erica gave a start at the knock on the door. Maja was lying on her back in her baby gym, and Erica had been sitting in a corner of the sofa lost in an exhausted torpor. She jumped up and went to open the door. When she saw who was standing outside, she raised her eyebrows a bit in astonishment.
'Hello, Niclas,' she said, but made no move to let him in. They had only met a few times, and she wondered why he had decided to drop by.
'Hello,' he said uncertainly, and then fell silent. After what felt like a very long time he said, 'May I come in for a moment? I need to talk with you.'
'Of course,' said Erica, still feeling puzzled. 'Come in and I'll put on some coffee.'
She went to the kitchen and made coffee while Niclas hung up his coat. Then she picked up Maja from the floor because she had started to fuss, and poured the coffee with her free hand before she sat down at the kitchen table.
'I certainly recognize that,' Niclas said with a laugh as he sat down facing Erica. 'All mothers seem to have the ability to do anything with one hand as easily as two. I don't know how you manage it.'
Erica smiled back at him. It was incredible how much Niclas's face changed when he laughed. But then he turned serious again, and his face closed up.
He sipped his coffee as if to gain time. Erica was filled with curiosity. What did he want from her?
'You're probably wondering why I'm here,' he said as if reading her mind. Erica didn't reply. Niclas took another swallow from his cup and then went on, 'I know that Charlotte has been here and talked to you.'
'I can't discuss what we -'
He held up his hand. 'No, I'm not here to pry about what Charlotte might have told you. I'm here because you're the closest friend she has in this town, and from what I saw when you came over, you're a good friend. And Charlotte will be needing a friend now.'
Erica gave him a quizzical look. At the same time she had an awful premonition about what he was going to say. She felt a little hand against her cheek and looked down at Maja, who was staring up at her contentedly, reaching for a lock of her hair. To be honest she didn't know whether she wanted to hear any more. Something inside her wanted to stay inside the cocoon she'd been living in the past few months. Even though it often felt as if she were suffocating, at the same time it was safe and familiar. But she repressed the impulse to shrink from what he was going to tell her. She shifted her gaze from Maja to Niclas and said, 'I'll help you in any way I can.'
Niclas nodded but then seemed to hesitate. After turning the coffee cup in his hands for a while, he took a deep breath and said, 'I've betrayed Charlotte. I've betrayed my family in the worst possible way. But there's something else. Something that has been undermining us, making us drift apart. Things that we now have to confront. Charlotte doesn't know about my cheating yet, but I'll have to tell her, and then she's going to need you.'
'Tell me,' said Erica softly, and with obvious relief Niclas began pouring out everything in one incoherent and unpleasant mass.
When he finished, the relief on his face was evident. Erica didn't know what to say. She caressed Maja's cheek, as if to defend herself against a reality that was too ugly and horrible. Part of her wanted to stand up and tell him to go to hell. Another part of her wanted to hug him and pat his back consolingly. Instead she said, 'You have to tell Charlotte everything. Go home right now and tell her everything you told me. And I'll be here if she needs to talk. Then…' Erica paused, unsure of how to say it, 'then the two of you have to get a grip on your life. If Charlotte, and I'm saying if she can forgive you, then you'll have to make it your responsibility to see to it that the two of you can go on. The first thing you have to do is to arrange things so that you both get out of that house. Charlotte was already being driven crazy by Lilian, and I know that since Sara died it's only got worse. You two have to have your own home. A home where you can find your way back to each other again, where you can grieve for Sara in peace. There you can become a family.'
Niclas nodded. 'Yes, I know you're right. I should have taken care of that long ago, but I was so involved in my own troubles that I didn't see…'
He bent forward and stared hard at the tabletop. When he looked up his eyes were filled with tears. 'I miss her so much, Erica. I miss her so much that it feels like I'm falling apart. Sara is gone, Erica. It's only now that I understand it. Sara is gone.'
The tears ran down his cheeks and dripped onto the table. His whole body was shaking, and his face was contorted almost beyond recognition. Erica reached across the table and took his hand in hers. For a long time they sat together as he sobbed out his pain.
That weekend it happened again. A couple of weeks had passed since the last time, so Sebastian had begun to hope that it was all just a dream, or that it had ended once and for all. But then those moments returned. The moments of loathing, denial and pain.
If only he knew how to fight it. Whenever it happened he felt his lack of will paralyse his body, and he had to let himself float along.
Sebastian wrapped his arms around his knees as he sat at the top of Veddeberget. From this high up he could look out over the bay. It was cold and windy, but somehow beautiful. For once it felt the same outside as in. Although some rain would have made things even better. Because that was precisely the way he felt inside. As if it was raining. Pouring down and flushing away all that was good and whole. As if it were running down a gigantic drain.
And Rune had chewed him out, on top of everything else. Yelled and screamed and said he damn well didn't see that Sebastian was making enough of an effort. That he had to do better. That he wasn't going to have any future if he didn't work harder, because he certainly didn't seem to have a good head for studying. But he had tried. As much as he could under the circumstances. It wasn't his fault that everything turned to shit.
His eyes were stinging. Angrily he wiped them with the sleeve of his jumper. The last thing he wanted was to sit here blubbering like some cry-baby. Especially when it was all his own fault. If he'd only been a little stronger, then it wouldn't have had to happen. Not the first time. Not the second time either. Not over and over and over again.
Now the tears were running down his cheeks, and he rubbed them so hard with the rough sleeve of his jumper that red streaks appeared on his face.
For a moment he had an impulse to put an end to it all. It would be so easy: a few steps to the edge, then he could jump. In a couple of seconds it would all be over, and no one would really care. Rune would surely be relieved. Then he wouldn't have to take care of somebody's else's kid. Maybe he could even meet someone else and have the son he really wanted.
Sebastian stood up. The thought was still tempting. He walked slowly over to the cliff and looked down. It was a steep drop. He tried to imagine how it would feel. To fly through the air, utterly Weightless for a few moments, and then the thud when his body hit the ground. Would he feel anything at all in that instant? Testing, he stuck one foot over the edge of the cliff and let it hang free in the air. Then the thought struck him that he might not die from the fall. What if he survived, but as a cripple or something like that? A drooling vegetable for the rest of his life. Then Rune really would have something to grumble about. Although he would no doubt bundle him off to some nursing home as quickly as possible.
With his foot hanging over the edge Sebastian hesitated. Then he sat down again and slowly scooted back. With his arms hugging his chest he gazed out towards the horizon. Far, far away.
As soon as Niclas walked in the door she threw herself over him.
'What happened? Aina rang and said that the police came and got you at work, is that true?' Lilian's voice was anxious, bordering on panic-stricken. 'I haven't said anything to Charlotte,' she added.
Niclas waved her off, but Lilian wasn't that easy to dismiss. She followed close on his heels as he walked to the kitchen, bombarding him with questions. He ignored her and went straight to the coffee- maker and poured himself a big cup of coffee. The machine was shut off and the coffee was hardly more than lukewarm, but it didn't matter. He needed coffee, or a big glass of whisky, but it was probably best if he stuck to the non-alcoholic alternative.
He sat down at the table, and Lilian followed his example as she scrutinized him. What sort of idiotic ideas had the police come up with now? Didn't they know that Niclas was someone to be respected, a doctor, a successful man? Once again she was amazed that her daughter had had such luck, that she had made such a catch. Of course, they were only teenagers when they started going out together, but Lilian had seen immediately that Niclas was a man with a future, and so she had encouraged the relationship. She ascribed it to luck that Niclas chose Charlotte above all the other girls who were running after him. She was pretty cute, of course, when she made an effort, but even as a teenager she had put on a few too many kilos, and worst of all she had no ambitions. And yet Charlotte had won what her mother had wished for most of all. Lilian had worn her son-in-law's success like a star on her chest, but now everything was at risk. She was terrified of the gossip-mongers in town, who would instantly start spreading rumours if it came out that the police had taken Niclas in for questioning. His eyes were completely red from crying too, so they must have given him a hard time.
'Well, what did they want?'
'They just had a few questions,' Niclas said dismissively, drinking the now lukewarm coffee in big gulps.
'What sort of questions?' Lilian refused to give up. If she was going to have to run the gauntlet whenever she ventured into town, she at least wanted to know what it was all about.
But Niclas ignored her. He got up and put the empty coffee cup in the dishwasher.
'Is Charlotte downstairs?'
'She's resting,' said Lilian, not bothering to conceal her anger at not getting an answer.
'I'm going down to talk to her.'
'What do you want to talk to her about?' Lilian still wouldn't let up. But by now Niclas had had enough.
'That's between me and Charlotte. I already told you it was nothing special. I assume I'm allowed to speak with my own wife without informing you, aren't I? Erica is right, it's time for Charlotte and me to get a place of our own.'
Lilian shrank back with every syllable. Niclas had always treated her with respect, so his words now felt like slaps in the face. Especially after all she had done for him. For him and Charlotte.
The injustice of it all made her blood boil, and she searched for something caustic to say, but found nothing until he was already halfway down the stairs. She sat down at the kitchen table again. Her thoughts were tumbling about in her head. How could he speak to her that way? She had never had anything but their best interests in mind. She had constantly made sacrifices and put her own interests last. They were like leeches, sucking all the energy out of her. Lilian could see it so clearly now. Stig, Charlotte, and now Niclas as well. They were all exploiting her. They took and took from her outstretched hand, without ever giving anything in return.
Charlotte sat thinking about her father. It was strange, but during the eight years that had passed since his death, she had thought about him less and less. The memories had turned into vague, out-of-focus images of a few specific moments. But since Sara died, she remembered him as clearly as if he'd passed away yesterday.
They had been very close, she and Lennart. Much closer than she and her mother had ever been. Sometimes it had almost felt as if they shared the same soul. He had always been able to make her laugh. Her mother seldom laughed, and Charlotte couldn't remember a single instance when they had laughed together. Her father had been the diplomat of the family, always mediating and trying to explain things. For instance, why Lilian kept badgering her daughter, why nothing Charlotte did was ever good enough. Why she could never live up to her mother's expectations. On the other hand, she had never disappointed her father. In his eyes she had been perfect; she knew that.
It came as a shock when he fell ill. The disease progressed so slowly, so gradually, that it took a long time before they even noticed it was happening. Sometimes Charlotte wondered if she could have forestalled his death if she'd been more observant. Seen the signs earlier. But at the time she and Niclas were living in Uddevalla, and she was expecting Sara. She'd been so wrapped up in her own life. When she eventually noticed that he wasn't feeling well, she had for once joined forces with Lilian and wrangled with him until he went in for a medical exam. But by then it was too late. After that, everything happened so fast.
Only a month later he was dead. The doctors said that he'd contracted a rare disease that attacked the nervous system and gradually broke down his body. They also said that it wouldn't have helped if he had come in earlier. But Charlotte still felt guilty.
She wondered whether she could have kept his memory more alive if she'd had more room in which to grieve for him. But Lilian had taken up all the space there was. She'd laid claim to all mourning rights and demanded that her grief take precedence over everyone else's. A torrent of people had passed through their home in the weeks after Lennart had died, and for them Charlotte could just as well have been part of the furniture. All condolences, all expressions of regret were directed towards Lilian, who held audience like a queen. At those moments Charlotte had hated her mother. The ironic thing was that just before they got the news of Lennart's diagnosis, she thought that her father was about to leave Lilian. The quarrels and bickering had escalated, and a separation seemed inevitable. But then Lennart fell ill, and Charlotte realized that her mother had cast all the old grudges aside and devoted herself wholeheartedly to her husband. It was only afterwards that Charlotte had got a bitter taste in her mouth from her mother's seemingly boundless need to be the centre of attention.
But the years passed and she put bitterness aside. Life held too much else for her to keep focusing on bad feelings towards her mother. Nor had she had the time to think about or mourn her father. This was no longer the case. Life had caught up with her, run her down, and left her aching all over by the side of the road. Now she had all the time in the world to think about the man who should have been here right now. Who would have known what to say, who would have stroked her hair and said that everything was going to be all right. Lilian, as usual, was worrying too much about herself to take the time to listen, and Niclas, well, he was just Niclas. Any hope she had harboured that might bring them closer to each other had been extinguished. It was as though he'd sealed himself up inside his own little cocoon. Of course he had never let her get very close, but now he was like a shadow figure slinking in and out of her life. He laid his head on the pillow next to hers every night, but then they lay there side by side, careful not to touch each other. Afraid that a sudden and unexpected contact of skin against skin might open wounds that would be better left alone. They had been through so much together. Against all odds they had maintained an illusion of unity, at least, but now she wondered whether they might have come to the end of the road.
Footsteps on the stairs roused her from these weighty thoughts. She looked up and saw Niclas. A glance at the clock showed that there were still a couple of hours left until he ought to be coming home from work.
'Hi, are you home already?' she said in surprise, starting to get up.
'Don't get up, we need to talk.' Her heart sank. Whatever it was he had to say, it wasn't going to be good.
FJÅLLBACKA 1928
Life in the house wasn't the big improvement she had hoped for. Who she was now still took precedence over the person she had once been. With each passing year her bitterness grew, and the life she had lived before she married seemed more like a distant dream. Had she really worn fine dresses, played the piano at elegant parties, had suitors compete to dance with her? Above all, was there actually a time when she could eat as much food and sweets as she liked?
She had inquired about her father and, to her satisfaction, heard that he was a broken man. He now lived alone in the big house and went out only to go to work. That pleased Agnes; at the same time she harboured a faint hope that he might take her back in his good graces if his life had turned sufficiently miserable. But the years passed and nothing happened, and that hope faded more and more.
The boys were now four years old and completely incorrigible. They ran wild around the neighbourhood, as small as they were, and Agnes had neither the desire nor the energy to discipline them properly. And Anders had even longer workdays now that he had to travel from town out to the quarry. He left before the boys woke up and came home after they had gone to bed. Only on Sundays could he spend a little time with them, and then they were so happy to have him home that they behaved like little angels.
They hadn't had any more children, Agnes made sure of that.
Anders had made some awkward attempts to bring up the subject, and his desire to be allowed into her bed, but she'd had no difficulty in saying no. The desire she once felt for him was utterly gone. Now she was merely disgusted, and she shuddered at the thought of feeling his dirty, lacerated fingers anywhere near her skin. The fact that he didn't protest against the enforced celibacy also increased her contempt for him. What some people would call consideration, she called spinelessness, and the fact that he still did most of the housework only reinforced that image. No real man would wash his children's clothes or make his own packed lunch. Yet she closed her eyes to the fact that the reason he did so was because she refused to do these tasks herself.
'Mamma, Johan hit me!' Karl came running over to where she sat on the front steps smoking a cigarette, a bad habit she had acquired in recent years. She defiantly asked Anders for money to buy cigarettes, always hoping that he would object.
Now she cast a cool glance the crying boy before her and then slowly blew a cloud of smoke in his face. He started to cough and rubbed his eyes. He pressed up against her in an attempt to find some solace, but like so many times before she refused to respond with affection. It was up to Anders to dole out endearments. He spoiled the boys so much that she didn't need to make them mamma's boys too. Brusquely she pushed Karl away and gave him a swat on the bottom.
'Don't blubber – just hit him back,' she said calmly, blowing another puff of smoke up into the clear spring air.
Karl gave her a look that contained all the sorrow he felt at being rejected once again. Then he lowered his head and slunk over towards his brother.
Not long ago the woman next door had actually had the nerve to come over and tell Agnes that she ought to keep a better eye on her kids. She'd seen them playing alone out on the wharf by the freight dock. Agnes had merely given the old crone a dirty look and then calmly told her to mind her own business. Considering that her oldest daughter had gone to the city and, according to rumour, made her living by showing herself off as God made her, she was hardly the one to tell Agnes how to take care of her children. The woman had put on a wounded expression and then walked off muttering something about 'poor boys', but she hadn't dared to come and knock on the door again, which was exactly as Agnes had intended.
She leaned back in the spring sunshine, reminding herself not to enjoy for too long the rays that felt so good on her face. She wanted to retain the white complexion that was the mark of a woman of the upper class. The only thing she had left from her former life was her looks, and that was something she exploited to the utmost, trying to put a little silver lining on her otherwise dreary existence. It was astonishing how much she could glean from the shopkeeper in exchange for acquiescing to an embrace or maybe more, provided there was enough to gain. In that way she'd been able to bring home sweets and extra food, though she shared none of it with her family. She'd even acquired a bit of fabric that she carefully hid from Anders. For the time being she had to be content with touching it occasionally, rubbing it against her cheek to feel its silky smoothness. The butcher had also dropped a few hints, but there were limits to what she would do just to get some extra fine cuts of meat. The shopkeeper was a relatively young man and good-looking, and not half bad when it came to exchanging kisses in the back room, but the butcher was a fat, greasy lout in his sixties. Agnes would need to get considerably more than a piece of rump steak for allowing those sausage fingers with dried blood under the nails to slip underneath her dress.
She knew that people were talking behind her back. But once she realized that she would never regain her former social status, she no longer cared. Let them talk. If she could find ways to indulge in some of the good things in life, she had no intention of letting the views of a bunch of narrow-minded workers prevent her from doing so. And if it also bothered Anders occasionally to hear what people were saying about his wife, then all the better. In Agnes's eyes it was his fault that she had ended up where she was, and it made her happy if she could cause him pain.
But the past few weeks something had been bothering her. She felt as though something was going on, but she wasn't part of it. Several times she had come upon Anders lost in thought, staring into space as if he were contemplating something important. On one occasion she had even asked him if he was thinking about anything in particular, but he had denied it, though not very convincingly. He was involved in something, she was sure of it. Something that would affect her, but for some reason she was not allowed to know what it was. The whole thing was driving her crazy, but in this situation she knew her husband well enough to realize that it would do no good to push him to reveal anything before he was ready. He could be stubborn as a mule if he set his mind to it.
Pensively, she picked up the packet of cigarettes and got up to go inside. She wondered briefly where the boys could have run off to, but then shrugged her shoulders, leaving them to take care of themselves. For her part she intended to take a little midday nap.
The afternoon passed slowly. Patrik had spent far too much time poring over Albin's medical records. He wondered whether he'd made the right choice when he decided to wait to bring in the social welfare authorities. But something told him that he had to know more before he did that. Once the bureaucratic wheels began to turn, it would be hard to stop the process, and he knew that both the police and the doctors were reluctant to report suspected child abuse. There was always a risk that there was a natural explanation, but no one would be willing to consider that possibility after social welfare stepped in. Besides, there hadn't been any incidents since the Klinga family had moved to Fjällbacka. Apparently the situation had stabilized. But he couldn't be entirely sure, and if Albin was hurt again the responsibility would be on his shoulders.
The telephone rang and interrupted his gloomy thoughts.
'Patrik Hedström.'
'Hello, this is Lars Kalfors from the Göteborg police.'
'Yes?' said Patrik. The man sounded as though he was supposed to recognize his name, but he couldn't recall hearing it before. And he had no idea why someone from Göteborg would be calling him.
'We just sent over some information regarding an ongoing matter to you. It was marked for your attention, I believe.'
'Oh yes?' said Patrik, even more puzzled. 'Offhand I can't recall seeing any message from Göteborg on my desk. When was it sent, and what was it about?'
'I got in touch with you over three weeks ago. I work in the division dealing with the sexual exploitation of children, and we're tracking a child pornography ring. We stumbled on a person from your district, and that's why I contacted you.'
Patrik felt like an idiot, but he had no idea what the man was talking about. 'Who did you talk to here?'
'Well, you seemed to be on parental leave that day, so I was referred to a… let me see…' It sounded like the man was paging through his notes. 'Here it is. I talked with an Ernst Lundgren.'
Patrik felt anger clouding his vision and making him see red. In his mind's eye he pictured himself putting his hands around Ernst's neck and slowly starting to squeeze. With forced calm he said, 'We must have had a communications glitch here at the station. Maybe you should give me the information instead. Then I can look into what's happened.'
'Of course, I can do that.'
Kalfors gave him a broad outline of what their work had involved, and how they came to be working on the child pornography case that was now high priority. When he came to the bit where the Tanumshede police station might be able to contribute something, Patrik gasped. He forced himself to listen to the whole account, then promised they'd give the matter immediate attention. After that he offered the usual polite phrases. But as soon as he hung up he was on his feet. He crossed his office in two strides and yelled out into the corridor, 'ERNST!'
Erica was sitting on the sofa, trying to sort out her thoughts when a knock on the door made her jump again. She guessed who it was and went to open the door. Charlotte stood outside. She had no coat on and looked like she'd run the whole way from her house. Sweat was running down her forehead and she was shaking uncontrollably.
'My God, you look awful,' said Erica, but instantly regretted her choice of words and swept Charlotte into the warmth of the house.
'Is this a bad time?' Charlotte asked pitifully, and Erica shook her head.
'Of course not. You're welcome here anytime, you know that.'
Charlotte just nodded, still shivering with her arms hugging her body. Her hair was plastered to her head from sweat and the damp air, and a stray lock hung into her eyes. She looked like a soaking wet puppy that had been abandoned.
'Would you like some tea?' asked Erica.
Charlotte had a frantic look in her eye, mixed with the haunted expression that had been there ever since she had gotten the news about Sara. But she nodded gratefully in answer to Erica's offer.
'Have a seat, I'll be right back,' Erica said and went into the kitchen. She checked on Maja in the living room, who seemed content and merely cast an interested glance at Charlotte as she walked past.
'I'll get your sofa wet if I sit down,' said Charlotte, as if that would be the end of the world.
'Don't worry, it'll dry,' said Erica. 'Look, I only have wild strawberry tea, is that all right, or do you think it's too sweet?'
'That'll be fine,' said Charlotte. Erica suspected she would have said the same thing if she'd been offered horse-flavoured tea.
Erica soon returned carrying a tray with two big cups of tea, a jar of honey and two spoons. She set it on the table in front of the sofa and sat down next to Charlotte.
Cautiously Charlotte raised her cup and sipped the tea. Erica sat quietly next to her and did the same. She didn't want to force Charlotte into talking, but she felt an almost physical need for her friend to confide in her. Maybe she just didn't know where to start. Erica wondered whether Niclas had told Charlotte that he'd been over to see her. After another long silence when Maja's babble was the only sound, Charlotte answered that question.
'I know that he's been here. He told me. So you already know that he's been seeing someone else. Again, I should add.' A bitter laugh escaped Charlotte's lips, and the tears that she had been holding back finally poured out.
'Yes, I know,' said Erica. She also knew what her friend meant by 'again'. Charlotte had told her about Niclas's recurring affairs. But also that she'd believed they'd stopped since they decided to start over in Fjällbacka. He had promised that it would be a new start in that respect as well.
'He's been seeing her for several months. Can you imagine? For several months. Here, in Fjällbacka. And nobody caught them. He must have incredible damn luck.' Her laugh now had a hint of hysteria to it, and Erica put a consoling hand on her knee.
'Who is it?' Erica said quietly.
'Didn't Niclas tell you?'
Erica shook her head, so Charlotte said, 'Some little bitch who's twenty-five years old. I don't know who she is. Jeanette something.' Charlotte waved her hand. The subject had shifted; it was Niclas's betrayal that mattered.
'I can't tell you all the shit I've taken over the years. All the times I've forgiven him, hoping he would change, and said I would forget about it and then promised to continue on. And this time it was really going to be different. We would get away from all the stuff that had happened, go live in a different town, become new people, or so I assumed.' Then that ominous laugh again. But the tears kept pouring out.
'I'm terribly sorry, Charlotte.' Erica stroked her back.
'We've been together so many years. We've had two children, we've gone through more than anyone could imagine. We've lost a child, and now this.'
'Why is he telling you now?' said Erica, taking a sip of tea.
'Didn't he say?' Charlotte asked in surprise. 'You're not going to believe this. But he told me it was because the police took him in for questioning today.'
'They did?' Not that Patrik told her everything about his work, but she had no clue that they were particularly interested in Niclas. 'Why was that?'
'He said he didn't really know. But they'd found out about his affair with this girl, and that may have been why they wanted to check him out. But it's all cleared up now, he said. They know he'd never hurt his own daughter; they just wanted him to answer a few questions.'
'Are you sure that's the only reason?' Erica couldn't resist asking. She knew enough about Patrik's job to realize that it seemed like a rather thin excuse for bringing somebody in for questioning. Especially the victim's father. At the same time she began to question Niclas's motive for visiting her. After all, she was not only his wife's friend, she was also living with the detective who was in charge of the investigation.
Charlotte looked confused. 'Well, that was what he said, at any rate. But there was something…'
'Yes?'
'Oh, I don't know, except it feels like he didn't tell me everything, now that you mention it. But I was so focused on what he said about his lover that I was probably deaf and blind to everything else.'
Charlotte sounded so bitter that Erica wanted to take her in her arms and rock her like a baby. But she always felt a little uncomfortable when she got too physical with other people, so she made do with continuing to stroke Charlotte's back.
'And you have no idea what other reasons there could be?' Was she imagining things, or did a shadow suddenly cross Charlotte's face? But it vanished so quickly that she was unsure.
Charlotte's reply at least was swift and confident. 'No, I have no idea what it could be.' Then she fell silent and took a little sip of tea. She was calmer than when she arrived, and wasn't crying anymore. But the expression on her face was bleak, and if a broken heart could be visible on the outside, then that was how Charlotte's heart looked at the moment.
'How did you and Niclas actually meet?' Erica asked, more out of curiosity than for any therapeutic reason.
'Well, that's a fine mess of a story, I have to say.' For the first lime her laugh sounded almost genuine. 'He was in the class ahead of me in gymnasium. I hadn't really paid too much attention to him, because I had a crush on one of his friends. But for some reason Niclas got interested in me and started to show it, so gradually I got interested in him too. We ended up going steady for a month or two, and then I was the one who actually got bored.'
'You broke up with him?'
'Don't sound so surprised, you might offend me.' She laughed and Erica joined in.
'Unfortunately I didn't stick to my decision for more than a couple of months. Then I went over to see him one evening, and the whole merry-go-round started up again. This time we were together all summer, and then he went off on a drinking trip with his mates. When he returned he came up with some story, in case I heard from the others about how he'd disappeared on the last night. He claimed he'd drunk too much and passed out behind a bar but the truth came out pretty quickly and our relationship was finished for the second time. After that I was honestly relieved that I got away with just a few tears. Niclas started going through all the girls in Uddevalla as if every day were his last, and you wouldn't believe some of the stories I heard. I'm ashamed to admit that on a few occasions I was weaker in the flesh than in spirit, but those episodes left me with quite a bitter aftertaste. Looking back, it probably would have been better if the story had ended there, and Niclas had remained a simple teenage mistake. But even though I loathed so much of what he had done and who he had become, he stayed in the back of my mind for a long time. A couple of years later we met by accident and the rest is history, as they say. I suppose I should have known what I was getting myself into.'
'People change. The fact that he cheated on you as a teenager doesn't mean you should automatically assume he would do the same as an adult. Most people mature with time.'
'Not Niclas, apparently,' said Charlotte, letting the bitterness take over again. 'But I can't really bring myself to hate him. We've been through too much together, and sometimes I see glimpses of his true self. On some occasions I've seen him vulnerable and open, and it's because of those times that I love him. I also know about his family life, and what happened with his father when he was seventeen, so I probably saw all of that as some sort of mitigating circumstance. And yet it's hard to comprehend why he would want to hurt me so badly.'
'What are you going to do now?' Erica asked. She glanced over at Maja and couldn't believe her eyes when she saw that her daughter had fallen asleep on her own in the bouncer. That had never happened before.
'I don't know. I can't face dealing with it right now. And in a way it feels like it doesn't matter. Sara is dead, and nothing Niclas does or says can hurt anywhere near as much as that does. Niclas wants us to start over, find our own place and move out of Mamma and Stig's house as soon as we can. But I have no idea what to do right now…'
She bowed her head. Then she abruptly got to her feet.
'I have to go home. Mamma has spent enough time watching Albin today. Thanks for letting me unload all this on you.'
'You're always welcome here, you know that.'
'Thanks.' Charlotte gave Erica a quick hug and then vanished as quickly as she'd come.
Erica wandered back into the living room. In amazement she stopped in front of the bouncer and looked down at her sleeping daughter. Maybe there was hope for her life after all. Unfortunately she didn't know whether Charlotte could say the same thing.
Morgan had come to his favourite part of the computer game he was working on. The part where the first blow of the sword fell. The man's head rolled, and according to the script there should be plenty of extreme effects. His fingers raced across the keyboard, and on the screen the scene emerged at lightning speed. He admired and envied the people who could write the stories, which he then was commissioned to transform into virtual reality. If there was anything he lacked in his life, it was the imagination that others had, allowing them to burst all boundaries and let ideas flow freely. Naturally he had tried. Sometimes he'd even been forced to give it a go himself. Writing compositions in school, for instance. Those had been a nightmare. Sometimes the pupils were given a topic, or just an image, and from that they were expected to spin a whole web of events and characters. He'd never got further than the first sentence. Then his mind just seemed to shut down. It was blank. The paper lay empty before him, absolutely screaming to be filled with words, but none came. The teachers had berated him. At least until Mamma went and talked to them, after his parents had received the diagnosis. Then the teachers merely regarded his attempts with curiosity, observing him as if he were an alien life-form. They didn't know how right they were. That was how he felt as he sat at his school desk, with the blank paper in front of him and the sound of his classmates' scratching pens all around. An alien life-form.
When Morgan discovered the world of computers he'd felt at home for the first time. This was something that came easy to him, that he could master. If he was an odd piece of the puzzle then he had finally found another piece that was a perfect fit.
When he was younger he had gone in for code languages just as manically. He had read everything he could find about the subject and could reel off what he'd learned for hours on end. There was something about numbers and letters being used in ingenious combinations that had appealed to him. But once his interest in computers took over, overnight he lost his fascination with codes. The knowledge was still there, and whenever he liked he could pull out everything he'd ever learned about the topic, but it simply didn't interest him anymore.
The blood running down the edge of the sword made him think of the girl again. He wondered whether her blood had congealed inside her now that she was dead. Whether it was just a dense mass filling her blood vessels. Maybe it had also turned the brown colour of dried blood; he'd seen it once when he'd tried cutting himself on the wrist. In fascination he'd stared at the blood trickling out, watching the way the flow gradually slowed, coagulated and began to change colour.
His mother had been shocked when she came into his room that time. He'd tried to explain that he just wanted to see what it was like to die, but without a word she'd shoved him into the car and driven him to the medical clinic. Although actually it wasn't necessary. It hurt to cut himself, so he hadn't made a deep cut and the blood had already coagulated. But his mother still got hysterical anyway.
Morgan didn't understand why death seemed to be such a scary concept for normal people. It was only a state of being, just like living. And sometimes death seemed much more tempting to him than life. So sometimes he envied the girl. Because now she knew. Knew the solution to the riddle.
He forced himself to concentrate on the computer game again. Sometimes thinking about death could make several hours vanish before he knew it. And that screwed up his schedule.
Looking surly, Ernst sat in front of Patrik, refusing to meet his gaze. Instead he studied his unpolished shoes.
'Answer me, damn it!' Patrik yelled at him. 'Did you get a call from Göteborg about child pornography?'
'Yes,' Ernst replied grumpily.
'And why didn't we ever hear about it?'
There was a long silence.
'I repeat,' said Patrik in an ominously low voice, 'why didn't you report it to us?'
'I didn't think it was that important,' said Ernst evasively.
'You didn't think it was that important!' Patrik's tone was ice- cold and he slammed his fist on the desk so hard that his keyboard jumped.
'No,' said Ernst.
'And why not?'
'Well, there was so much else going on at the time… And it felt a bit improbable, I mean, that's the sort of thing they're into in the big cities.'
'Don't talk nonsense,' said Patrik without being able to conceal his contempt. He'd got up from his chair and was now towering behind his desk. His rage made him look four inches taller. 'You know very well that child pornography has nothing to do with geography. It happens in small towns too. So stop talking bullshit and tell me the real reason. And believe me, if it's what I think, you're going to be in serious hot water!'
Ernst looked up from his shoes and glared defiantly at Patrik, but he knew it was time to lay his cards on the table.
'I just didn't think it sounded plausible. I mean, I know the guy, and it didn't seem like something he'd be involved in. So I thought the Göteborg cops must have made a mistake, and an innocent person would have to suffer if I passed on the information. You know how it is,' he said, glaring at Patrik. 'It wouldn't change anything if they rang again after a while and said, "Oh, excuse us, but there's been a mistake here and you can forget about that name we gave you" – his name would still be mud in this town. So I thought I'd wait a while and see what happened.'
'You'd wait a while and see what happened!' Patrik was so furious that he had to force himself to enunciate each syllable to keep from stammering.
'Well, I mean, you have to agree this whole thing is unreasonable. He's well known for all the work he does with young people. He does plenty of good things, I have to tell you.'
'I don't give a shit what sort of good things he does. If our colleagues in Göteborg ring and say that his name came up in an investigation of child pornography, then we have to check it out. That's our fucking job! And if you two are best mates -'
'We aren't best mates,' Ernst muttered.
'… or friends or whatever the fuck, then it makes no difference at all, don't you see that? You can't sit there and make decisions about what's going to be investigated or what's not, based on who you know or don't know!'
'After all the years I've spent on the force -' Ernst couldn't finish his sentence before Patrik cut him off.
'After all the years you've spent on the force you should bloody well know better! And you didn't think to say anything when his name came up in a murder investigation? Wouldn't that at least have been a good time to tell us about the call?'
Ernst had gone back to studying his shoes and didn't feel like getting drawn into an argument. Patrik sighed and sat down. He folded his hands and gave Ernst a sombre look.
'Well, there isn't much we can do about it now. We've received all the data from Göteborg and will be bringing him in for questioning. We've also got a warrant to search his home. You'd better pray on bended knee that he hasn't got wind of this and managed to clean out all the evidence. And Mellberg has been informed. I'm sure he'll want to have a talk with you.'
Ernst didn't say a word when he got up from his chair. He knew that he had probably committed the worst blunder of his career. And in his case that was saying a lot.
'Mamma, if I promised to keep a secret, how long do I have to keep it?'
'I don't know,' replied Veronika. 'You shouldn't really ever tell anyone's secret, should you?'
'Hmm,' said Frida, drawing circles in her yoghurt with her spoon.
'Don't play with your food,' said Veronika, wiping off the drainboard with annoyance. Then she stopped in the middle of what she was doing and turned to her daughter.
'Why do you ask, anyway?'
'Dunno,' said Frida with a shrug.
'You certainly do know. Now tell me, why do you ask?' Veronika sat down on a kitchen chair next to her daughter and gazed at her thoughtfully.
'If you shouldn't ever tell someone's secret, then I can't say anything, can I? But -'
'What do you mean?' Veronika coaxed her cautiously.
'But if somebody you promised something to is dead, do you still have to keep the secret? What if you say something and then the person who's dead comes back and gets really mad?'
'Sweetheart, is it Sara who made you promise to keep something secret?' Frida kept drawing circles in her bowl of yoghurt. 'We talked about this before, and you have to believe me when I say that I'm really sorry, but Sara is never coming back. Sara is in heaven and she's going to stay there for ever and ever.'
'For ever and ever, for all the eternities of eternity? A thousand million million years?'
'Yes, a thousand million million years. And as far as the secret goes, I don't think Sara would be mad if you only told it to me.'
'Are you sure?' Frida looked nervously up at the grey sky she could see out of the kitchen window.
'I'm completely sure.' Veronika placed a hand on her daughter's arm to reassure her.
After a moment of silence as Frida apparently pondered what her mother had told her, she said hesitantly, 'Sara was super- scared. There was a nasty old man who scared her.'
'A nasty old man? When was that?' Veronika waited tensely for her daughter's reply.
'The day before she went to heaven.'
'Are you sure that's when it was?'
Upset that her mother would doubt her, Frida frowned. 'Ye-e-es, I'm absolutely sure. I know all the days of the week. I'm not a baby.'
'No, no, I know that. You're a big girl, and of course you know what day it was,' Veronika said soothingly.
Then she cautiously tried to coax out more information. Frida was still sulking over her mistrust, but the temptation to share the secret was finally too strong.
'Sara said that the old man was really disgusting. He came and talked to her when she was playing down by the water and he was mean.'
'Did Sara say that he was mean?'
'Mm-hmm,' said Frida, thinking that was enough of an answer.
Veronika continued patiently. 'What exactly did she say? How was he mean?'
'He grabbed her by the arm so it hurt. Like this, she said.' Frida demonstrated by taking a hard grip with her right hand on her upper left arm. 'And then he said dumb things too.'
'What kind of dumb things?'
'Sara didn't understand all of it. She just said that she knew it was nasty. It sounded like "double pawn" or something like that.'
'Double pawn?' said Veronika, looking bewildered.
'I told you it was dumb and Sara didn't understand. But it was nasty, that's what she said. And he didn't talk regular with her, he yelled at her. Really loud. So it made her ears hurt.' Now Frida demonstrated by holding her hands over her ears.
Carefully Veronika took her hands away and said, 'You know, this may be a secret that you'll have to tell other people besides me.'
'But you said…' Frida sounded upset and her eyes once again nervously sought out the grey sky outdoors.
'I know I said that, but you know what? I really think that Sara would want you to tell this secret to the police.'
'Why?' asked Frida, still looking worried.
'Because when somebody dies and goes to heaven, the police want to know all the secrets that person had. And people usually want the police to know all their secrets too. It's the job of the police to find out everything.'
'So they're supposed to know all the secrets?' said Frida in amazement. 'Do I have to tell them about the time I didn't want to eat all my sandwich and hid it under the sofa cushion?'
Veronika couldn't help smiling. 'No, I don't think the police need to know that secret.'
'I don't mean while I'm alive, but if I die, would you have to tell them about that?'
The smile vanished from Veronika's face. She shook her head. The conversation had taken an unpleasant turn. Gently she stroked her daughter's blonde hair and whispered, 'You don't have to worry about that, because you're not going to die.'
'How do you know that, Mamma?' asked Frida.
'I just know.' Veronika got up abruptly from her chair and with her heart clenched up so hard that she had difficulty breathing, she went out to the hall. Without turning round, so that her daughter couldn't see her tears, she called in a voice that came out unnecessarily brusque, 'Put on your coat and shoes. We're going to talk to the police right now.'
Frida obeyed. But when they went out to the car she involuntarily flinched beneath the heavy grey sky. She hoped that Mamma was right. She hoped that Sara wouldn't be mad.
FJÅLLBACKA 1928
Lovingly he dressed the boys and combed their hair. It was Sunday, and he was going to take the boys out for a walk in the sunshine. It was hard to get their clothes on because they were jumping up and down with joy at being able to go out with their father, but at last they were dressed and ready to set off. Agnes didn't answer when the boys called goodbye to her. It cut Anders to the quick to see once more the thirsting, disappointed look in their eyes when they looked at their mother. She didn't seem to understand it, but they longed for her – longed to smell her close to them and to feel her arms around them. The idea that she might be aware of this but deliberately denied them was a possibility he didn't even want to imagine, but it was a thought that kept intruding more and more often. Now that the boys were four years old, he could only surmise that there was something unnatural about the way she related to them. At first he'd thought that it was because of the difficult childbirth, but as the years passed she still hadn't seemed to bond with them.
He himself never felt so rich as when he walked off down the hill with a little child's hand firmly gripped in each of his own. The boys were still so small that they would rather run than walk. Sometimes he had to jog to keep up with them, even though his legs were so much longer than theirs. People smiled and tipped their hats when they came scurrying along the main street. He knew that they made a pleasant sight – the father, big and tall in his Sunday best, and the boys, also as finely dressed as a stonecutter's sons could be, and with their tousled blond hair that was exactly the same shade as his own. They even had his brown eyes. Anders was often told how they were his spitting image, and he swelled with pride every time. Sometimes he permitted himself a sigh of gratitude that they didn't take after Agnes either in appearance or manner. Over the years he'd noticed a hardness in her, which he sincerely hoped the children wouldn't inherit.
When he passed by the village shop he hastened his steps and carefully avoided looking in that direction. Naturally he had to go there now and then to buy the things they needed, but since he'd heard what people were saying he tried to limit his visits as much as possible. If only he believed that there was no truth to what the gossips were saying, he could have walked in there with his head held high. The worst thing was that he didn't doubt the rumours for a minute. And even if he had doubted, the shopkeeper's superior smile and bold tone of voice would have been enough to convince him. Sometimes Anders wondered if there was any limit to how much he had to take. If it hadn't been for the boys he would have cleared out long ago. But the twins forced him to look for another option to leaving his wife, and he believed that he had found it. Anders had a plan. It had taken a year of hard work to carry it out, but now he was getting close. As soon as some last pieces fell into place he would be able to offer his family a new beginning, a chance to make everything right. Maybe he would then be able to give Agnes more of what she longed for so that the darkness that seemed to be growing inside her heart would disappear. He thought he could already see how their new life would look and how it would offer all of them so much more than this one here.
He squeezed the boys' hands extra hard and smiled at them when they tilted their heads back to look up at him.
'Pappa, could we get a cola?' said Johan in the hope that his father's good mood would make him favourably disposed to such a request. And it did. After pondering for a moment Anders nodded his assent, and the boys whooped and jumped up and down in anticipation. Buying a couple of colas would necessitate a visit to the village shop, of course, but it would be worth it. Soon he would be done with all that.
Gösta sat in his office, slumped at his desk. The mood had been tense to say the least since Ernst's screw-up had been revealed. Gösta shook his head. His colleague had made any number of mistakes over the years, but this time he'd gone too far in ignoring how a police officer should carry out his job. For the first time Gösta believed that Ernst actually might be fired because of his actions. Not even Mellberg could back him up after this.
Despondently he looked out of the window. This was the time of year he hated most. It was even worse than winter. He still had the memory of summer fresh in his mind, and he could still reel off the scores of pretty much every round of golf he'd played. By the time winter arrived at least a merciful forgetfulness had begun to roll in, and he sometimes wondered whether he'd really made those perfect shots on the golf course, or whether it was all just a beautiful dream.
The telephone interrupted his ruminations.
'Gösta Flygare.'
'Hi, Gösta, it's Annika. Look, I've got Pedersen on the line and he's looking for Patrik, but I can't get hold of him right now. Could you talk to Pedersen?'
'Sure, put him on.' He waited a couple of seconds. Then he heard the click on the line and the medical examiner's voice.
'Hello?'
'Yes, I'm here. It's Gösta Flygare.'
'I heard that Patrik was out on a job. But you're working on the investigation of the murder of the little girl too, aren't you?'
'Everyone at the station is, more or less.'
'Good, then you can take down the information we just got in, but it's important that everything be sent on to Hedström.'
Gösta wondered for a second whether Pedersen had heard about Ernst's fiasco, but then realized it was impossible. He probably just wanted to emphasize that the head of the investigation should get all the information. And Gösta had no intention of making the same mistake as Lundgren, that's for sure. Hedström was going to hear about everything, even the slightest clearing of his throat.
'I'll take notes, and you'll fax me as usual, right?'
'Of course,' said Pedersen. 'We've got the analysis of the ashes now. That is, the ashes the girl had in her stomach and lungs.'
'I'm familiar with the details,' said Gösta, who couldn't keep a hint of irritation from sneaking into his reply. Did Pedersen think he was simply some bloody errand boy at the station, or what?
If he heard Gösta's annoyance, Pedersen ignored it and went on calmly, 'Well, we've found out a few interesting things. First, the ashes aren't exactly fresh. The contents, at least certain portions, might be characterized as…' he paused, 'rather old.'
'Rather old?' said Gösta, still sounding peevish. But he couldn't deny that he was curious. 'What exactly does "rather old" mean? Are we talking Stone Age, or the Swinging Sixties?'
'Well, that's the snag. According to SFL it's incredibly difficult to pin down. The best estimate I could get was that the ashes are somewhere between fifty and a hundred years old.'
'Hundred-year-old ashes?' said Gösta, astonished.
'Yes, or maybe fifty. Or somewhere in between. But that wasn't the only remarkable thing they found. There were also fine particles of stone in the ashes. Granite, to be precise.'
'Granite? Where the hell are the ashes from then? It couldn't have been a piece of granite that burned, could it?'
'No, stone doesn't burn, as we all know. The stone must have been in fine particles from the start. They're still working on analysing the material to be able to say something more definite. But…'
Gösta could hear that something big was brewing. 'Yes?' he said.
'What they can tell, at this point, is that it seems to be a mixture. They've found remnants of wood mixed in with…' he paused but then went on, 'organic matter.'
'Organic matter? Are you saying what I think you are? Are they ashes from a human body?'
'Well, that's what further analyses will show. It's not yet possible to determined whether they're human or the remains of some animal. And it's not certain they'll even be able to determine that, but SFL is going to try. And as I said, in any case it's mixed with other substances: wood and granite.'
'I'll be damned,' said Gösta. 'So somebody saved these old ashes.'
'Yes, or found them somewhere.'
'That's right, it could be that too.'
'So this should give you a little to go on,' said Pedersen dryly. 'Hopefully we can find out more in a few days, such as whether there are actually human remains in the ashes. Until then this will have to do.'
'Yes, it will,' said Gösta, already imagining his colleagues' faces when he told them what he'd found out. The question was how in the world the information could be used.
He put down the receiver and went over to the fax machine. What was whirling in his head was the news of the granite particles Pedersen had mentioned. They should provide a lead.
But the thought slipped away.
Asta groaned as she straightened up. The old wooden floor had been laid when the house was built and could only be cleaned with soap and water. Although her body would probably last for a while yet, with every year that passed it got harder for her to kneel down and scrub.
She looked around the house. For forty years she had lived here. She and Arne. Before that he had lived here with his parents, who had remained living with the newlyweds. Suddenly both parents passed away within the space of a few months. She was ashamed of even thinking it, but those had been hard years. Arne's father had been as gruff as a general, and his mother wasn't much better. Arne had never discussed it with her, but she gathered from random comments that he'd been beaten a lot when he was little. Maybe that's why he'd been so hard on Niclas. A boy who thinks he's loved with the whip will probably dispense love with the whip when that day comes. Although in Arne's case it had been a belt, of course. The big brown belt that hung on the inside of the pantry door and was used whenever their son had done something that didn't suit his father. But who was she to question the way Arne had brought up their son? Certainly it had broken her heart to hear her son's muffled screams of pain, and she had used a gentle hand to wipe away his tears when the ordeal was over, but Arne had always known best.
Laboriously she climbed up on a kitchen chair and took down the curtains. She couldn't see any dirt on them yet, but as Arne always said, if anything ever gets dirty it should have been cleaned long ago. She stopped abruptly, with her hands raised above her head, just as she was about to lift off the curtain rod. Hadn't she done the same thing on that horrible day? Yes, she believed she had. She had stood there changing the curtains when she heard raised voices coming from outside in the garden. Naturally she was used to hearing Arne's angry voice, but what was unusual was that Niclas had also raised his voice. It was so inconceivable, and the possible consequences so dire, that she hurried to jump down from the chair and run out to the garden. They were standing facing each other, like two combatants. Their voices, which had sounded loud from inside the house, now hurt her eardrums. Incapable of stopping, she had run up to Arne and grabbed his arm.
'What's going on here?' She could still hear how desperate her voice had sounded. And as soon as she took hold of Arne's arm she knew it was the wrong thing to do. He fell silent and turned towards her with eyes that were completely empty of emotion. Then he raised his hand and slapped her hard. The silence that followed was ominous. They had stood utterly still, like a three- headed stone statue. Then she saw as if in slow motion how Niclas drew his arm back, clenched his fist, and aimed it at his father's head. The sound of his fist slamming into Arne's face had abruptly broken the eerie silence and set everything in motion again. In disbelief Arne put his hand up to his cheek and stared at his son. Then Asta saw Niclas's arm draw back and fly at Arne again.
After that it seemed it would never stop. Niclas moved like an automaton, punching him over and over. Arne took the blows without seeming to understand what was happening. Finally his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. Niclas was breathing hard. He looked at his father on his knees before him, with blood running out of his nose. Then he turned and ran.
After that day she was not allowed to mention Niclas's name again. He was seventeen years old.
Asta climbed down carefully from the chair with the curtains in her arms. Lately she'd had so many disquieting thoughts, and it was probably no accident that the memories of that day were intruding just now. The girl's death had stirred up so many feelings, so much that she'd tried to forget over the years. A realization of how much she'd lost because of Arne's stubbornness had come sneaking up on her, awakening emotions that would only make life more difficult for her. But as soon as she went to visit her son at the clinic she'd begun to question much of what she'd taken for granted over the years. Maybe Arne didn't know everything after all. Maybe Arne wasn't the one who could decide how everything should be, even for her. Maybe she could start making her own decisions about her life. The thoughts made her nervous, and she pushed them aside until later. Right now she had curtains to wash.
Patrik knocked on the door with an authoritative rap. He was already having to work to keep his expression neutral. Inside of him he felt repugnance welling up and giving him a foul taste in his mouth. This was the lowest of the low, the most loathsome type of person he could imagine. The only consolation, and this was not something Patrik would ever say out loud, was that once this type of person ended up behind lock and key, he wouldn't have it easy in prison. Paedophiles were at the bottom of the pecking order and were treated accordingly. And rightfully so.
He heard footsteps approaching and took a step back. Martin stirred tensely beside him, and standing behind them were several colleagues from Uddevalla, including some who could provide invaluable expertise in these cases – computer expertise.
The door opened and Kaj's thin form appeared. As always he was formally dressed, and Patrik wondered if he even owned any casual clothes. For his part he always slipped on a pair of worn- out jogging trousers and a cosy sweatshirt the minute he got home.
'What is it this time?' Kaj stuck his head out of the door and frowned when he saw two police cars parked in his driveway. 'Is it really necessary for you to advertise your presence like this? The old lady next door is probably rubbing her hands together with glee. If you have something to ask me you could just pick up the phone, or send over one person instead of a whole troop!'
Patrik studied him for a moment, wondering whether Kaj really felt so secure that uniformed policemen showing up at his door didn't arouse any thoughts that he'd been found out. Or maybe he was simply a good actor. Well, they would soon see.
'We have a warrant to search the premises. And we request that you accompany us to the station for questioning.' Patrik's voice was extremely formal and revealed none of the emotions he was feeling.
'A warrant to search my house? What the hell? Is it that damned woman who thought this up? I swear I'm going to…' Kaj stepped outside onto the porch and seemed to consider heading over to the Florins' house. Patrik held up his hand, and Martin blocked his way.
'This has nothing to do with Lilian Florin. We have information that implicates you in child pornography.'
Kaj stiffened. Now Patrik realized that he hadn't been acting earlier. He really hadn't considered that possibility. Stammering, he tried to regain his composure.
'Wha… what in… what are you saying, man?' But his protest sounded powerless, and the shock had made his shoulders slump.
'As I said, we have a warrant to search the premises, and if you'd be so kind as to come with us in one of the cars, we intend to continue this conversation in peace and quiet at the station.'
The bitter taste of gall in his mouth forced Patrik to keep swallowing. He wanted to throw himself at Kaj and shake him, ask him how, why, what it was that enticed him about children, young boys, that he couldn't get in an adult relationship. But there would be plenty of time for those questions. The most important thing right now was to secure the evidence.
Kaj seemed to be utterly paralysed, and without replying or taking along a jacket, he followed them down the stairs and compliantly got into the back seat of one of the police cars.
Patrik turned to his colleagues from Uddevalla. 'We'll take him in and begin the questioning. You do what you have to do here, and ring if you find anything we can use. I know I don't have to point this out, but I'll say it anyway: take all the computers and don't forget that the warrant includes the cabin on the property. I know there's at least one computer in there.'
His colleagues nodded and entered the house with determined expressions.
With a sense of elation Lilian leisurely walked past the police cars as she made her way home. It was as if her dreams had been answered. An entire phalanx of officers outside the neighbours' house, and on top of that, Kaj wearing a downhearted expression had been forced to get in the back of one of the police cars. A feeling of joy surged through her. After all these years of trouble with him and his family, his behaviour had finally caught up with him. God knows that she herself had always behaved correctly. Could she help it that she wanted everything to be done with decorum? Could she help it that he had done things that deviated from the spirit of neighbourliness, so that she was then forced to answer in kind? And people had the nerve to claim that she was belligerent. Oh yes, she'd heard the gossip going around town. But she denied any responsibility for the trouble between them. If Kaj hadn't kept it up by bothering them and doing stupid things, she wouldn't have made a fuss. In normal circumstances no one was as gentle and easy-going as she was. And she felt absolutely no guilt in telling the police about that peculiar son of theirs. Everybody knew that sooner or later, people like that who had something wrong in the head would present problems. Even though she may have exaggerated Morgan's Peeping Tom behaviour in her statement to the police, she'd only done it to prevent further problems. People like that could come up with anything if they were allowed to run riot, and it was common knowledge that they had an overactive sex drive.
But now everybody would get to see how things really stood.
It wasn't outside her house that the police were swarming. She paused outside her front door to watch the show with her arms crossed and a malevolent smile on her lips.
When the police car with Kaj drove off, she reluctantly went inside. She pondered for a moment whether to go over there as a concerned citizen and ask what was going on. But the police disappeared inside Kaj's house before she even finished that thought, and she didn't want to seem like such a busybody that she would go over and knock on the door.
As she took off her shoes and hung up her jacket she wondered whether Monica knew what was going on. Maybe she ought to ring her at the library and tell her, like a good neighbour, of course. But Stig's voice from upstairs interrupted her before she made up her mind.
'Lilian, is that you?'
She went upstairs. He sounded feeble today. 'Yes, darling, it's me.'
'Where have you been?'
He looked up at her pitifully as she entered his bedroom. What a weak little soul he was now. A feeling of tenderness rose up inside her when she realized how dependent he was on her care. It warmed her heart to feel so needed. It was like when Charlotte was a child. What a feeling of power that had been to be responsible for such a helpless little life. Actually she had liked that period the best. Gradually, as Charlotte grew up, she had slipped more and more out of her mother's hands. If Lilian had been able to do so, she would have frozen time and stopped her from growing up altogether. But the harder she tried to hold on to her daughter, the more she had pulled away. Instead, Charlotte's father had quite undeservedly received all the love and respect that Lilian thought she deserved. She was Charlotte's mother, after all. A father should have lower status than a mother. She was the one who'd given birth to her, and during the first years she was the one who'd satisfied all her daughter's needs. Then Lennart had taken over, reaping the fruits of all her labours. He had turned Charlotte into a daddy's girl. After Charlotte moved out and it was just the two of them, he'd started talking about divorce, as if Charlotte were the only one who counted in all those years.
The memory made the anger rise up in her throat, and she forced herself to smile at Stig. At least he needed her. And so did Niclas, to some extent, even though he didn't know it himself. Charlotte had no idea how good she had it. Instead she was always grumbling that her husband never helped out, that he didn't do his part when it came to the children. Ungrateful, that's what she was. But Lilian had also begun to feel deeply disappointed with Niclas. He would come home and snap at her and talk about moving. But she knew quite well where these whims came from. She simply hadn't thought he'd be so easily influenced.
'You look so stern,' said Stig, reaching for her hand. She pretended not to notice and instead carefully smoothed out the bedspread.
Stig always took Charlotte's side, so Lilian couldn't say anything to him about what she'd just been thinking. Instead she told him, 'There's an awful commotion next door. Police officers and police cars everywhere. This is no fun, let me tell you, having such people living so close.'
Stig sat up with a start. The movement made him grimace and grab his stomach. But his face was filled with hope. 'It must be about Sara. Do you think they've found out anything about Sara?'
Lilian nodded. 'Yes, it wouldn't surprise me. Why else would they send out a whole contingent?'
'It would be a blessing for Charlotte and Niclas if we could have an end to all this.'
'Yes, and you know how it has been upsetting me too, Stig. Now maybe I can have peace in my soul again.'
She let Stig pat her hand, and his voice was as loving as usual when he said, 'Of course, darling. You have such a kind heart, this has been a terrible time for you.' He turned her hand over and kissed her palm.
She let him hold her hand for a second longer, but then pulled it back. Brusquely she said, 'It's nice to hear someone worrying about me for a change. Let's just hope that we're right, and that they took Kaj away because of Sara.'
'What else do you think it could be?' Stig sounded surprised.
'Well, I don't know. I didn't really think about it. But I of all people know what he's capable of -'
'When is the funeral?' Stig interrupted.
Lilian got up from the side of the bed. 'We're still waiting to hear when we can get the body back. Probably next week sometime.'
'Please don't use the word "body". It's our Sara we're talking about.'
'She's actually my grandchild, not yours,' Lilian snapped.
'I loved her too, and you know it,' said Stig gently.
'Yes, dear, I know. Forgive me. All this is just so hard for me, and nobody seems to understand.' She wiped away a tear, noticing the remorse on Stig's face.
'No, I'm the one who should ask for forgiveness. That was stupid of me. Can you forgive me, darling?'
'Of course,' said Lilian magnanimously. 'And now I think you should rest and not think so much about all this. I'll go downstairs and make some tea and bring you a cup. Then maybe you can sleep for a while afterwards.'
'What have I done to deserve you?' said Stig to his wife with a smile.
It wasn't easy for Mellberg to concentrate on work. Not because he had ever prioritized that part of his life, but he usually was able to get at least a little bit done. And the situation that Ernst had provoked should have taken up a larger part of his thoughts. But since last Saturday nothing was the same. Back home in his flat the boy was playing video games. The new ones that he'd bought him yesterday. Mellberg had always kept a tight control on his wallet and yet he had suddenly felt an irresistible urge to be generous. And video games were clearly what stood at the top of the list, so video games it would be. Mellberg had bought an Xbox and three games, and even though he'd been shocked at the price, he hadn't balked.
Because the boy was his, after all. Simon, his son. If he'd had any doubts before, they were swept aside as soon as he saw him step off the train. It was like seeing himself as a young lad. The same well-fed physique, the same strong facial features. The emotions aroused in him were astonishing. Mellberg was still shocked that he was capable of such deep feelings. He had always taken pride in the fact that he didn't need anyone. Well, with the possible exception of his mother.
She had always pointed out that it was a sin and a shame that such excellent genes as his weren't going to be passed on. And on that she'd undoubtedly had a point. It was one of the foremost reasons that he wished that his mother could have met his son. To show her that she was right. All it took was a glance at the boy to see that he'd inherited many of his father's characteristics. The apple certainly didn't fall far from the tree. The boy's mother had said in her letter that he was lazy, unmotivated, insubordinate, and did miserably in school. But that said more about her child- rearing ability than about the boy. He just needed to spend a little time with his father, a manly role model. It was surely only a matter of time before he'd make a man out of him.
Naturally he thought that Simon at least could have said 'thank you' when he gave him the video games, but the poor boy was probably so shocked to get anything as a gift that he didn't know what to say. Lucky that Mellberg was such a good judge of people. It wouldn't be productive to force anything at this stage; he knew that much about raising children. Although he had no practical experience in the subject, he had to admit, but how hard could it be? It was probably only a matter of using common sense. The boy was a teenager, after all, and people said that was going to be difficult, but in Mellberg's opinion it was simply a matter of finding the appropriate language: slang for peasant farmers and Latin for scholars. And if there was anyone who knew how to talk to people on their level, it was him. He was convinced that he would have no problem at all.
Voices out in the corridor announced that Patrik and Martin were back. Hopefully with that paedophile jerk in tow. This was one interrogation he intended to participate in, for a change. And this time he'd be forced to put away the kid gloves.
FJÅLLBACKA 1928
It began like any other day. The boys had run over to the neighbours' in the morning, and she'd been lucky that they stayed there until evening. The old woman had even felt sorry for the boys and fed them, so she got out of fixing lunch, even though it usually only entailed making a couple of open sandwiches. This turn of events had put her in such a good mood that she condescended to mop the floor. So when evening came she felt sure of getting some well-earned praise from her husband. Even though she didn't particularly care what he thought, she still craved attention and she looked on praise as a luxury.
By the time she heard Anders coming up the front steps, Karl and Johan were already asleep, and she was sitting at the kitchen table reading a women's magazine. She looked up at him distractedly and nodded, but then gave a start. He didn't look as tired and downhearted as he usually did when he came home; he had a gleam in his eye that she hadn't seen in a long time. A vague feeling of uneasiness awoke inside her.
He sank down on one of the wooden chairs facing her, folded his hands and rested them on the worn tabletop.
'Agnes,' he said, and then stopped. The silence lasted long enough for the unpleasant feeling in her stomach to grow into a lump. He obviously had something on his mind, and if there was anything she had learned in her life, it was that surprises were seldom good.
'Agnes,' he said again, 'I've been thinking a lot about our future, and about our family, and I've come to the conclusion that we need a change.'
All right, so far she was following him. She just couldn't envision what he'd be able to do to change her life for the better.
Anders continued with obvious pride. 'So that's why I've taken on as much extra work as I could this past year, and I put away all the money so I could buy us a one-way ticket.'
'A ticket? Where to?' asked Agnes, with her uneasiness rising. She also felt annoyed at the realization that he had withheld money from her.
'To America,' Anders said, seeming to expect a positive reaction. Instead Agnes felt the shock turn her face numb. What had that idiot gone and done now?
'America?' was all she could say.
He nodded eagerly. 'Yes, we're leaving next week, and you'd better believe I had to pull some strings to arrange everything. I've been in touch with some of the Swedes who went over there from Fjällbacka, and they assured me that there's plenty of work for someone like me. A man who's skilled can make himself a good future "over there".' This last he said in English with his broad Blekinge accent, evidently proud that he already knew two words in his new language.
Agnes wanted to lean forward and slap him right across his grinning, happy face. What was he thinking? Was he so naive that he actually believed she would get on a boat to a foreign land together with him and his brats? To end up in an even more dependent position, in an unfamiliar country, with a strange language and strange people? Certainly she hated her life here, but at least there was the possibility that she might someday get out of the hellhole she'd ended up in. Although to be honest she had toyed with the idea of travelling to America herself, but alone, without him and the kids as a shackle round her leg.
But Anders didn't see the horror in her face. Overjoyed, he took out the tickets and placed them on the table. In desperation Agnes regarded the four pieces of paper, spread out like a fan before him. She wanted to shrivel up and cry.
She had a week. A miserable week left to get out of this situation somehow. She forced herself to give Anders a smile.
Monica had driven to Konsum to buy groceries, but suddenly she set down the shopping basket and walked out the door without buying a thing. Something was telling her she had to get home. Her mother and grandmother had been the same way. They could sense things, and she too had learned to listen to her inner voice.
She floored the gas pedal of her little Fiat as she took the road around the mountain, past the Kullen neighbourhood. When she came round the curve on the road up to Sälvik, she saw the police car parked outside their house and knew she had been right to heed her instincts. She parked right behind the police car and got out cautiously, terror-stricken at what she might encounter. Each night for the past week she'd had exactly the same dream. Police officers coming to their home and uncovering the very thing she'd done her utmost to put out of her mind. Now it was reality, not a dream, and she approached the house with reluctance. Trying to postpone the inevitable. Then she heard Morgan wailing, and she began to run. Up the garden path, out to his little cabin. He was standing in front of the door to the cabin screaming at two policemen. With his arms outstretched he was trying to block the entrance.
'Nobody can come into my house! It's mine!'
'We have a warrant,' said one policeman in an attempt to reason with him. 'We have to do our job, so please let us in.'
'No, you're just going to mess things up!' Morgan spread his arms even wider.
'We promise to be careful and disturb as little as possible. On the other hand, we may have to take a few things with us – if you have a computer in there, for instance.'
Morgan interrupted the policeman with a loud bellow. His eyes flicked back and forth and his body had started to twitch uncontrollably.
'No, no, no, no, no,' he chanted. He looked ready to defend his computers with his life, and Monica believed this was quite close to the truth. She hurried over to the group.
'What's going on? Can I help?'
'Who are you?' asked the policeman standing closest to her, but he didn't take his eyes off Morgan as he spoke.
'I'm Morgan's mother. I live here.' She pointed to the main house.
'Could you please explain to your son that we have a warrant to enter the cabin and look around? We're also permitted to take any computer equipment that may be in there.'
At the mention of the computers Morgan began to shake his head violently and again chanted, 'No, no, no, no…'
With great calm Monica walked up to him. As she fixed her gaze on the police officers, she put her arm round her son and stroked his back.
'Could you please tell me first why you're here? Then I'm sure I can help you.'
The younger of the two officers looked embarrassed and lowered his eyes. The older one who was certainly more hardened answered her calmly, 'We've taken in your husband for questioning, and we also have a warrant to search the premises.'
'May I ask why?' She could hear that she sounded unnecessarily cool, but to see those officers standing there trying to get past Morgan without giving her a reasonable explanation was not something she intended to accept.
'Your husband's name has come up in connection with possession of child pornography.'
Her hand stroking Morgan's back stopped short. She tried to speak but all that came out was a wheeze.
'Child pornography?' She cleared her throat to try and regain control of her voice. 'You must be mistaken. My husband, involved in child pornography?'
Thoughts began to tumble round in her head. Things she'd always wondered about, always pondered. But most overwhelming was a feeling of relief. They hadn't come because of what she feared most.
She took a few seconds to collect herself and then turned to Morgan.
'Now listen to me. You have to let them go inside the cabin. And you have to let them take the computers. You have no choice, it's the police. It's their right.'
'But what if they mess things up? And what about my schedule?' The shrill pitch of his voice wasn't the usual monotone, but displayed unusual sensitivity.
'I'm sure they'll be careful, just as they said. And you have no choice.' She stressed this last sentence and could feel him begin to calm down. It was always easier for Morgan to handle situations in which he had no choice.
'Do you promise not to mess things up?'
The policemen nodded, and Morgan slowly took a step away from the door.
'And you have to be careful with the files on the computers. I have a lot of jobs stored there.'
Again they nodded, and now he stepped out of the way and let them go inside.
'Why are they doing this, Mamma?'
'I don't know,' Monica lied. Relief was still the dominant emotion inside her. But slowly the realization of what the officers had said began to sink in. A feeling of disgust began to form in her stomach and work its way upwards. She took Morgan by the arm and led him to the front of the house. She kept turning her head to look back with concern towards the cabin.
'Don't worry, they promised to be careful.'
'Are we going inside the big house?' said Morgan. 'I don't usually go in the big house this time of day.'
'No, I know that,' said Monica. 'But today we have to do something totally different. We can't bother the policemen. So you have to come with me to Aunt Gudrun's house.'
He looked confused. 'But we only go there at Christmas. Or when one of them has a birthday.'
'I know,' Monica said patiently. 'But today we have to make an exception.'
He pondered this for a moment and then decided that there was logic in what she said.
As they walked towards the car Monica saw out of the corner of her eye the curtain drawn aside in the Florins' kitchen. Lilian stood in the window watching them. She was smiling.
'So, Kaj. This is certainly not a pleasant situation.' Patrik sat facing him, with Martin next to him and Mellberg sitting discreetly on a chair in the corner. To Patrik's great relief he had voluntarily offered to play a passive role in the interrogation. Patrik would have preferred not to have him there, but he was the chief, after all.
Kaj didn't answer. He dropped his chin to his chest, giving Patrik and Martin a close-up view of the top of his head. His hair had thinned over the years so that his pink scalp shone through the wisps of black hair.
'Do you have any explanation for why your name appears on an order list for child pornography? And don't give me that old story that it must be a mistake. Your name and address are both on the list, so there's no question that you were the one who placed the order.'
'Somebody must be trying to frame me,' Kaj muttered into his lap.
'Oh, really?' said Patrik, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 'Then perhaps you can tell us why anyone would go to the trouble of trying to put you in jail. What sort of arch-enemies have you made over the years?'
Kaj didn't answer. Martin slammed the palm of his hand on the table to get his attention, which made Kaj jump.
'Didn't you hear the question? Who would be interested in sending you to jail?'
Still no reply, so Martin continued. 'That's not so easy to answer, is it? Because there isn't anyone.'
There were a number of printouts in front of Patrik and Martin. Patrik leafed through them for a moment in silence, pulling out a few pages and gathering them into a pile.
'You must realize that we have plenty of material about you. We have names of others who…' he searched for the right term – 'share the same interest and who you've been in contact with. We have information on when you ordered material from them, we know that you've submitted material yourself, and we also have records of chat sessions that our colleagues in Göteborg have been skilled enough to get their hands on. There are a number of talented computer guys over there, you understand. And they weren't stopped by the elaborate firewalls that you all set up so that no one could hack into your little group and eavesdrop on the cheery topics that you discuss. Nothing is foolproof, you know.'
Now Kaj looked up and his eyes flitted restlessly from Patrik to the printouts in front of him. His whole world was tumbling down as the second hand ticked on the wall clock behind him. Patrik saw that he was shaken by the revelation that someone had been able to get into files they had thought were completely protected. Now Kaj was clearly wondering exactly how much they knew. It was just the right time to press him further.
'At this very moment we're going through your whole house. And our colleagues aren't amateurs. There is no hiding place they haven't seen before. No brilliant secret cubby-holes that they can't find. And your computer will be sent to Uddevalla to be examined by some guys who are real hackers. You know, guys who could get into banks on the Internet and move a little money around if they felt like it and if they didn't happen to be on the side of the law.'
Patrik thought he might be exaggerating the skills of his colleagues a bit, but Kaj didn't know that. And he could see that the tactic was working. Little beads of sweat had begun to appear on Kaj's brow, and he could feel rather than see Kaj's legs start to shake uncontrollably.
'And even though you may be an amateur when it comes to computers, perhaps Morgan has told you that just because you've deleted a file, that doesn't mean it's gone. Our computer guys can restore most of everything, as long as there hasn't been damage to the hard drive.'
Martin took up where Patrik had left off. 'As soon as they've had a chance to go through your computer, we'll have a little talk.
Then we'll know precisely what you've been up to. Göteborg and our own staff are working full speed to try and identify the children who appear in the material the police confiscated. The information we have so far indicates that your favourite victims are young boys. Is that correct? Well, is it true, Kaj? Do you prefer boys with no hair on their chest – young, innocent lads?'
Kaj's lower lip was quivering, but he still said nothing.
Patrik leaned forward and lowered his voice. Now he had reached the moment that was the real point of the interrogation.
'But what about girls? Does it work with little girls too? Pretty tempting with one living so close by, right next door in the neighbours' house. Must have been almost irresistible. Especially since it would be a chance to get back at Lilian. What a feeling. Right under her nose, to avenge all those years of injustice. But something went wrong, didn't it? How did it happen? Did the girl start to struggle, say that she was going to tell her mamma, so you had to drown her to make her shut up?'
Mouth agape, Kaj looked first at Patrik, then at Martin. His eyes were big and shiny. He shook his head.
'No, I had nothing to do with that. I never touched her, I swear!'
The last words came out like a shriek, and Kaj looked as though he would have a heart attack at any moment. Patrik wondered if he ought to interrupt the questioning, but decided to continue a bit longer.
'And why should we believe you? We have proof that you have a sexual interest in children, and we'll soon know if there's evidence that you've actually assaulted anyone. A seven-year-old girl living in the house next door to yours was found drowned. That's an odd coincidence, don't you think?'
He didn't mention that no trace of sexual assault had been found on Sara. But as Pedersen had said, that didn't necessarily mean that one hadn't taken place.
'But I swear I had nothing to do with the girl's death! She's never been inside our house, I swear it!'
'That remains to be seen,' said Martin grimly, casting a glance at Patrik. He saw the same 'bloody hell' expression in his eyes that he felt in his own. Patrik gave a slight nod and Martin got up to go make a phone call. They had forgotten to order a team of techs to check the bathroom. When that mistake was corrected and he'd been promised an immediate response, he went back in the interrogation room. Patrik was still asking about Sara.
'So you really expect us to believe it when you say that you were never once tempted to… take an interest in the neighbour's girl. She was a sweet girl, too.'
'I didn't touch her, I told you. And I wouldn't call her sweet. A bloody child of Satan is what she was. Sneaking into the garden in the summertime and pulling up all Monica's flowers. No doubt her fucking grandmother put her up to it.'
Patrik was shocked at how fast Kaj's nervousness vanished and his hatred of Lilian Florin took over. Even under these circumstances the feelings were so ingrained that for a moment they made Kaj forget why he was sitting there. Then Patrik saw reality sink in again, and his shoulders slumped as he hunched over the table.
'I didn't kill the little girl,' said Kaj quietly. 'And I never touched her, I swear.'
Patrik again exchanged a look with Martin and then made a decision. They probably weren't going to get much further right now. Hopefully they'd have more material once the search was completed of Kaj's house and computer. And if they were really lucky, the techs would find something when they examined the bathroom.
Martin took Kaj back to his cell, and Mellberg left right after that. Patrik remained where he was. He looked at the clock. By now he'd had enough too. He intended to drive home and kiss Erica and bury his nose in Maja's little neck and drink up the scent of her. That was probably the only thing that could get rid of the cloying feeling he had after sitting locked in a small room with Kaj. A sense of inadequacy also made him long for the security of home. He just couldn't screw this case up. People like Kaj shouldn't be allowed to go free. Especially not if they had a little girl's death on their conscience.
He was just about to go out the front door when Annika stopped him. 'You have visitors; they've been waiting quite a while. Gösta wants to talk to you ASAP. And I got a tip that you ought to take a look at right away.'
Patrik sighed and let the door glide shut. It seemed he'd have to give up his plan to go home. Now it looked as though he'd have to ring Erica instead and tell her he'd be late. That was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to.
Charlotte's finger hesitated in front of the doorbell. Then she made up her mind, took a deep breath, and pressed the button. She heard it ring inside. For a second she considered turning on her heel and fleeing, but she heard footsteps inside and forced herself to stand still.
She vaguely recognized the woman who opened the door. The town was small enough that they'd probably run into each other, and she saw that the other woman knew exactly who she was. After a brief moment of hesitation Jeanette opened the door and stepped aside.
Charlotte was surprised at how young Jeanette looked. Twenty- five, Niclas had said when she pressed him. She didn't know why she wanted to know such details. It was like a primitive need, an urge to know as much as possible. Maybe it was because she hoped somehow to understand what he was looking for that she couldn't seem to give him. And maybe that was precisely why she'd been inexorably drawn here. She had never before confronted the women from any of his affairs. She had wanted to see them but never dared. But after Sara's death everything changed. It was as though she were invulnerable. All terrors had vanished. She had already been struck by the worst possible thing that could happen to a person. So much of what had previously paralysed and terrified her now seemed like insignificant obstacles. Not that it was easy to come here, she wouldn't say that. But she had done it. Sara was dead, so she had done it.
'What do you want?' Jeanette looked at her warily.
Charlotte felt big in comparison with this other woman who was probably no more than five foot three. At five foot nine Charlotte felt like a giant. Jeanette had also not had her figure altered by two pregnancies. Charlotte couldn't help noticing that her breasts in the tight top didn't need a bra to look perky. In her mind's eye Charlotte pictured Jeanette naked, in bed with Niclas, who was caressing her perfect breasts. She shook her head to get rid of the image. She had already spent far too much time on that sort of self-torment over the years. But the images no longer bothered her as much. She had worse images than that in her head – images of Sara, floating in the water.
Charlotte forced herself back to reality. In a calm voice she said, 'I just want to talk a little. Could we have a cup of coffee?'
She didn't know whether Jeanette had expected her to show up or whether she found the situation so surreal that she couldn't really take it in. At any rate, Jeanette's face showed no surprise. She simply nodded and went into the kitchen, with Charlotte following.
Curious, she looked around the flat. It was close to what she'd imagined. A little two-room place with a lot of pine furniture, frilly curtains, and souvenirs of trips abroad as the primary decoration. Jeanette apparently saved every öre she earned to be able to take party trips to the sunshine, and those trips were probably the high point of her life. Except when she was fucking married men, that is, Charlotte thought bitterly as she sat down at the kitchen table. She wasn't feeling as self-assured as she hoped she looked. Her heart was pounding hard, making her very nervous. But she'd just looked the other woman in the eye, seeing for the first time what sort of person could make a roll in the hay weigh heavier than marriage vows, children and decency.
To her surprise Charlotte was disappointed. She had always imagined Niclas's lovers to be in a whole different class. Sure, Jeanette was cute and curvy, she couldn't ignore that, but she was so – she searched for the right word so insipid. She radiated no warmth, no energy. From what Charlotte could see of her and her home, this woman didn't seem to have either the capacity or ambition to do anything other than just go with the flow in life.
'Here,' said Jeanette peevishly, setting a coffee cup in front of Charlotte. Then she sat down across the table and began nervously sipping her coffee. Charlotte noticed that she had long, perfectly manicured nails. Yet another thing that didn't exist in the world of mothers of small children.
'Are you surprised to see me here?' said Charlotte, observing with ostensible calm the woman facing her.
Jeanette shrugged her shoulders. 'Dunno. Maybe. I haven't thought that much about you.'
At least she's honest, Charlotte thought. Whether it was from boldness or sheer stupidity, she couldn't tell yet.
'Did you know that Niclas told me about you?'
Once again the same nonchalant shrug. 'I knew it would come out sooner or later.'
'How did you know that?'
'People talk so much in this town. There's always somebody who's seen someone somewhere, and then they feel compelled to pass it on.'
'Sounds like this isn't the first time you've played this game,' said Charlotte.
A little smile tugged at the corners of Jeanette's mouth. 'I can't help it if the best ones are already taken. Not that it usually bothers them much.'
Charlotte's eyes narrowed. 'So Niclas didn't worry about it either? That he was married and had two kids?' The word 'had' stuck in her throat and she felt her emotions once again well up and threaten to take over. With an effort she pushed them back.
Her hesitation apparently made Jeanette realize that she might have certain human obligations. Stiffly she said, 'I'm really sorry about your daughter. About Sara.'
'Don't speak my daughter's name, thank you,' said Charlotte with an icy cold that made Jeanette shrink back. She lowered her eyes and stirred her coffee.
'Instead answer my question: did Niclas worry about sleeping with you when he had a family at home?'
'He didn't talk about you,' said Jeanette evasively.
'Never?'
'We had other things to do rather than talk about you,' Jeanette let slip, before she again realized that out of sheer decency she ought to watch what she said.
Charlotte looked at her with disgust. But she felt even more disgust and contempt for Niclas, who clearly had been ready to throw away everything they shared for this – a stupid, narrow- minded girl who thought that the world lay at her feet simply because she'd once been chosen as the class Lucia in high school. Yes, Charlotte knew the type. Too much attention during her most impressionable years had swelled Jeanette's ego to enormous proportions. Hurting other people, taking what didn't belong to her, had no meaning for girls like her.
Charlotte stood up. She was sorry she'd come. She would have preferred to keep the image of Niclas's lover as a beautiful, intelligent, passionate woman. Someone she could harbour some understanding for as a competitor. But this girl just seemed cheap. The thought of Niclas with Jeanette turned her stomach, and she could feel the little respect she still had for him slowly vanishing into nothingness.
'I'll find my way out,' she said, and left Jeanette sitting at the kitchen table. On the way out she happened to bump into a ceramic donkey with 'Lanzarote 1998' painted on it that was standing on the hall bureau. It shattered into a thousand bits on the floor. An ass for an ass, thought Charlotte, treading with glee on the remains before she shut the door behind her.
FJÅLLBACKA 1928
It was a Sunday when catastrophe struck. The boat to America was supposed to sail from Göteborg on Friday and they had already done most of the packing. Anders had sent Agnes into town to buy some last items that he thought they would need 'over there', and for once he had entrusted her with some money.
She had her basket full of purchases when she turned the corner and began to walk up the hill. She could hear people shouting in the distance, and she quickened her steps. The smoke reached her a few houses away from theirs, and she saw that it was thicker farther up the hill. Agnes dropped the basket and ran. The first thing she saw was the fire. Huge flames were shooting out of the windows of the house, and people were running back and forth like chickens with their heads cut off. The men and some of the women were carrying buckets of water. The rest of the women held their hands to their heads, screaming in panic. The fire had spread to a number of houses and seemed to be taking over more and more of the neighbourhood. It spread with incredible speed. Agnes observed the scene with her mouth agape and her eyes wide with shock. Nothing could have prepared her for this sight.
A thick black smoke began to settle like a lid over the houses, turning the air at ground level greyish and hazy, like a fog. Agnes still stood as if frozen to the spot when one of the neighbour women came up to her and grabbed her by the arm.
'Agnes, come with me, don't just stand there staring at it.' She tried to pull her along, but Agnes wouldn't budge. Her eyes filled with tears from the smoke as she stared at the flaming ruin of their home. It seemed to be the one burning brightest of all.
'Anders… the boys…' she said tonelessly. The neighbour woman now tugged desperately at the sleeve of her blouse to get her to leave the scene.
'We don't know anything yet,' said the woman, who Agnes vaguely recalled was named Britt, or maybe Britta. She went on, 'Everybody was told to gather at the market square. Maybe your family are already down there,' she said, but Agnes could hear the doubt in her voice. The woman knew as well as Agnes that she wouldn't find any of them there.
Slowly she turned round and felt the heat from the fire warming her back. Listlessly she followed Britt or Britta down the hill, allowing herself to be led to the square, where the wailing of the women rose to the heavens. But they all fell silent when Agnes appeared. The rumour had already spread; while they were crying over their lost homes and possessions, Agnes could cry over her husband and her two little boys. All the mothers looked at her with aching hearts. Regardless of what they may have said or thought about her before, at this moment she was a mother who had lost her children, and they pressed their own little ones close.
Agnes kept her gaze fixed on the ground. She did not cry.
They stood up as Patrik came towards them. Veronika held her daughter's hand tight and wouldn't let go even when Patrik led them to his small office. He pointed to the two chairs and they sat down.
'So, how can I help you?' asked Patrik, smiling reassuringly at Frida when he noticed her anxious expression. She looked up at her mother, who nodded.
'Frida has something to tell you,' said Veronika, nodding again to her daughter.
'Actually it's a secret,' said Frida in a faint voice.
'Oh, a secret,' said Patrik. 'How exciting.' He could see that the girl was extremely uncertain about whether to tell him or not, so he went on, 'But you know, the job of the police is to listen to everyone's secrets, so it doesn't really count if you tell a secret to the police.'
That made Frida's face light up. 'So you get to know all the secrets in the world, then?'
'Well, maybe not all of them,' said Patrik. 'But almost all. So what sort of secret do you have?'
'There was a disgusting old man who scared Sara,' she said, now talking fast to get the words out. 'He was super-nasty and said that she was "double pawn" and Sara got really scared. But I wasn't allowed to tell anybody, because she was afraid the old man would come back.'
She caught her breath. Patrik felt his eyebrows arch. Double pawn?
'What did the old man look like, Frida? Can you remember?'
She nodded. 'He was super-old. A hundred at least. Like Grandpa.'
'Her Grandpa is sixty,' said Veronika, and couldn't help smiling.
Frida went on. 'His hair was all grey and his clothes were all black.' She seemed about to continue but then slumped down in her chair. 'That's all I remember,' she said downhearted, and Patrik winked at her.
'That's excellent. And it was a good secret to tell the police.'
'So you don't think that Sara will be mad when she comes back from heaven, because I told you?'
Veronika took a deep breath to explain again the realities of death to her daughter, but Patrik interrupted.
'No, because you know what I think? I think that Sara is having much too good a time in heaven to want to come back, and I'm sure she doesn't mind whether you told the secret or not.'
'Are you sure?' said Frida sceptically
'I'm sure,' said Patrik.
Veronika got up. 'Well, you know where we live if you need to ask anything else. But I really think Frida doesn't know any more than that.' She hesitated. 'Do you think it might be…?'
Patrik just shook his head and said, 'Impossible to say, but it was great that you came in and told me about this. All information is important.'
'Could I ride in a police car?' said Frida, giving Patrik a pleading look.
He laughed. 'Not today, but I'll see if we can arrange it some other time.'
She seemed content with that, and preceded her mother into the corridor.
'Thanks for coming,' said Patrik, shaking hands with Veronika.
'I do hope you catch the man who did this soon. I hardly dare let her out of my sight,' she said, reaching out to stroke her daughter's hair.
'We'll do our best,' said Patrik with more confidence than he felt, and accompanied them to the front entrance.
As the door closed behind them he pondered what Frida had said. A disgusting old man? The description she'd given didn't match Kaj. Who could it be?
He went over to Annika sitting behind her glassed-in counter. After glancing at the clock he said wearily, 'You had some tips I was supposed to look at?'
'Yes, here they are,' she said, shoving a sheet of paper towards him. 'And don't forget that Gösta wants to talk to you too. He's probably about to go home, so you'd better get hold of him right away.'
'Some people sure have it easy, being able to go home,' he sighed. Erica hadn't been happy when he called, and his guilty conscience was nagging him.
'He probably goes home when you tell him he can go home,' said Annika, peering over the top of her glasses at Patrik.
'In theory you're right, but in practice it's probably best for Gösta to go home and get some rest. He doesn't contribute much when he's sitting here grumbling.'
It sounded harsher than Patrik intended, but sometimes he got so tired of having to drag his colleagues along with him. Two of them, at any rate. Oh well, he could at least be thankful that Gösta was far too lacking in initiative to present the problems that Ernst did.
'I suppose I'd better go find out what he wants.'
Patrik picked up the piece of paper with the tip information and headed for Gösta's office. He stopped in the doorway long enough to see Gösta shut down a game of solitaire on his computer. The fact that his colleague was sitting there wasting time while Patrik was working like a Trojan made him so irritated that he had to clench his teeth. He couldn't have this discussion with Gösta now, but sooner or later…
'So, there you are,' said Gösta, sounding put out, and Patrik wondered whether 'sooner' might be the best option.
'I had something important to take care of,' Patrik said, making an effort not to sound as critical as he felt.
'Well, I have some things to tell you too,' said Gösta, and Patrik heard to his surprise a certain eagerness in his colleague's voice.
'Shoot,' said Patrik in English, then realizing from Gösta's quizzical look that English expressions probably weren't his strong suit. Unless they were golf-related, of course.
Gösta told him about the conversation with Pedersen, and Patrik listened with growing interest. He took the faxes that Gösta handed him and sat down to study them.
'Yep, these are undeniably interesting,' he said. 'The question is, how do we proceed from here?'
'Well,' said Gösta, 'I've been thinking the same thing. The information might help us link somebody to the murder if we find the right person. But until then it doesn't give us much to go on.'
'And they couldn't say for sure whether the organic remains were animal or human?'
'No,' said Gösta, shaking his head. 'But within a few days we might get the answer to that.'
Patrik looked thoughtful. 'Tell me again, Gösta, what did Pedersen say about the stone?'
'That it was granite.'
'Pretty damn common here in Bohuslän, in other words,' said Patrik ironically, running his hand dispiritedly through his hair. 'If only we could work out what role the ashes played, I bet we'd also know who murdered Sara.'
Gösta nodded in agreement.
'Well, we aren't going to get any further right now,' said Patrik, getting to his feet. 'But it was damned interesting information. Why don't you head home now, Gösta, and we'll start fresh tomorrow.' He even managed to force a smile.
Gösta didn't need to be told twice. Within two minutes he'd shut down the computer, gathered up his things, and was on his way out the door. Patrik wasn't quite as fortunate. It was already quarter to seven, but he went in and sat down at his desk to read through the notes Annika had given him. A moment later, he grabbed the telephone.
Sometimes Erica felt as though she were standing outside the real world, encased in a tiny little bubble that kept shrinking. Now it was so small that she felt she could touch its walls if she reached out her hand.
Maja was sleeping at her breast. Once again Erica had tried to lay her down and get her to sleep by herself, but Maja woke up a few minutes later, protesting loudly at the enormous indignity of finding herself in a cot. And just when she was sleeping so soundly at her mother's breast. Erica had considered trying out the suggestions in The Baby Book but so far she hadn't got beyond the thinking stage. So as usual she had given up and quieted the baby's cries by putting Maja to her breast and letting her sleep there. Often she would sleep for an hour or two, provided Erica didn't move much and she wasn't disturbed by loud noises from the telephone or the TV. So Erica had now been sitting for half an hour like a paving stone in the easy chair, with the telephone unplugged and the TV on mute. Of course there was nothing good on at this time of day, so she watched an episode of a dumb American soap opera that TV4 apparently had bought by the thousands. She hated her life.
Feeling guilty, she looked at the little downy head resting happily on the nursing pillow. The baby's mouth was half open and her eyelids fluttered now and then. Erica's despair had nothing to do with lack of motherly love. She loved Maja fiercely and sincerely. At the same time she felt as if she'd been invaded by an alien parasite that sucked all joy out of her and forced her into a shadow existence that had nothing in common with the life she'd lived before.
Sometimes she felt such bitterness against Patrik as well. He could make small guest appearances in her world and then slip out into the real world like a normal person; he didn't understand how it felt to be living her life right now. But in more clear-headed moments she realized that she wasn't being fair. Because how could he understand? He wasn't physically bound to the baby in the same way she was, nor emotionally either, for that matter. For better or worse, the bond between mother and daughter was so strong in the beginning that it functioned as both a shackle and a lifeline.
One of her legs had gone to sleep, and Erica cautiously tried to change position. It was risky, she knew that, but the pain in her leg was too much. Maja started to squirm, opened her eyes and immediately began searching for food with her mouth wide open. With a sigh Erica stuck in her nipple again. So far Maja had only slept for half an hour, and Erica knew that it wouldn't be long before she fell asleep again. Sitting motionless like this, her bottom was going to get a real workout today too. No, damn it all, she thought in the next instant. This time she was going to make Maja sleep alone!
It turned into a battle of wills. In one corner, Erica, seventy- two kilos. In the other, Maja, six kilos. With a firm grip Erica rolled the pram over the threshold between the living room and the hall. A whole arm's length, in, out. She wondered how anyone could sleep in a pram that shook like there was an earthquake going on, but according to The Baby Book that was exactly what was needed. Give the baby plain and clear instructions that 'now you're going to sleep, Mamma has the situation under control'. Although by fifteen minutes into the experiment Erica wouldn't exactly describe her situation as 'under control'. Although Maja, according to all calculations, should have been extremely tired, she screamed to high heaven, furious at being denied the right to the pacifying warmth of her mother's body. For a moment Erica was tempted to give up and sit down and nurse her daughter to sleep, but then she thought better of it. No matter how angry Maja was about the new regime, and how much her shrieks cut to Erica's heart, Maja would be better served by a mother who felt happy and had the energy to take care of her. So she persevered. Each time Maja cried in protest, Erica firmly rolled the pram back and forth. If Maja quieted down and seemed about to go to sleep, Erica would carefully stop the pram. According to Anna Wahlgren it was important to stop moving the pram just before the baby fell asleep so she would do so under her own power. And hallelujah! Half an hour later Maja was sound asleep in the pram. Cautiously Erica wheeled her into the workroom, closed the door, and sat down on the sofa with a blissful smile on her face.
Her good humour held on, even when it was eight o'clock and Patrik still hadn't come home. Erica hadn't had the energy to go round and turn on the lamps, so as the twilight gradually turned to night, the house had grown ever darker. Now the only light came from the TV screen. She lazily watched one of the many reality shows that were on in the evening as she fed Maja once again. To her shame, she had to admit being hooked on far too many of these shows and Patrik had taken to muttering about being inundated with petty intrigues and people greedy for media attention. His time watching sports programmes had been considerably curtailed, but as long as he wasn't the one who had to sit and nurse Maja all evening, he agreed to let Erica be the boss of the remote control. Now she turned up the volume, amazed at how a bunch of cute girls were willing to prance and preen themselves for the sake of a vain and foolish young man who tried to convince them that he was marriage material. It was obvious to all the TV viewers that he considered his participation in the programme as a way to increase his pick-up success at the trendiest clubs in Stockholm. Erica actually agreed with Patrik that the programme was an intelligence-free zone, but once she started watching it she couldn't stop.
A sound from the front door made her turn the volume back down. For an instant her old fear of the dark took over, but then she pulled herself together and realized that it must be Patrik finally coming home.
'You've sure got it dark in here,' he said, turning on a couple of lamps before he went over to Erica and Maja. He leaned over and kissed Erica on the cheek, stroked Maja's head gently, and then plopped down on the sofa.
'I'm really sorry to be so late,' he said. Despite Erica's childish feelings earlier that day, her annoyance drained out of her at once.
'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'We managed fine, the two of us.' She was still euphoric at getting some brief moments to herself when Maja was sleeping in the pram in the workroom.
'No chance of watching a little hockey, is there?' Patrik cast a wistful glance at the TV without having noticed Erica's unusually good mood.
Erica just snorted in reply. What a dumb question.
'That's what I thought,' he said and stood up. 'I'm going to make myself a couple of sandwiches. Would you like some?'
She shook her head. 'I ate a while ago. But a cup of tea would be nice. She'll probably have had her fill soon.' As if Maja understood what Erica said, she let go and looked up in contentment. Erica gratefully straightened her clothes, set Maja in the bouncer, and went to join Patrik in the kitchen. He was at the stove stirring O'Boy cocoa powder into a saucepan of milk. She went to stand behind him, putting her arms round him to hug him tight.
It felt so good, and she realized how little physical contact they'd had since Maja was born. She was mostly to blame for that, she had to admit.
'How was your day?' she asked. That was something else she hadn't done in a long time.
'Terrible,' he said, taking butter, cheese and caviar out of the fridge.
'I heard that you brought Kaj in,' she said cautiously, unsure of how much Patrik would want to tell. She had decided not to say anything about the visits she'd had that day.
'The gossip has spread like wildfire, I presume?' said Patrik.
'You could say that.'
'So what are people saying?'
'That he must have had something to do with Sara's death. Is it true?'
'I don't know.' Patrik seemed tired as he poured the hot chocolate into a cup and fixed a couple of open sandwiches. He sat down facing Erica and began to dunk his cheese and caviar sandwich into the hot chocolate. After a while he went on, 'But we didn't bring him in because of Sara's murder. There was another reason.'
He fell silent again. Erica knew better than to pry, but she couldn't help asking. In her mind's eye she saw Charlotte's listless gaze.
'But is there anything to indicate that he may have had something to do with Sara's death?'
Patrik dunked another sandwich in the chocolate and Erica tried not to look. She thought this habit was barbaric, to say the least.
'Yeah, there might well be. But we'll have to wait and see. We can't take the risk of narrowing our focus. There's something else we have to look at too,' he said, avoiding her eyes.
She stopped asking questions. Some grunts of protest from the living room indicated that Maja was getting tired of sitting all alone. Patrik got up and brought in the bouncer with their daughter in it. She gurgled gratefully and waved her hands and feet when Patrik set her on the kitchen table. The weariness in his face vanished, and his eyes took on that special gleam reserved for his daughter.
'Is this Pappa's little sweetie? Did Pappa's little darling have a good day? Is she the sweetest girl in the whole world?' he babbled with his face close to Maja's. Then Maja's face contorted, turned bright red, and after a couple of groans there was a noise from the lower regions and a dense stink spread round the table. Erica got up automatically to deal with the situation.
'I'll get it, you just sit,' said Patrik, and Erica gratefully sank back onto the kitchen chair.
When Patrik came back with a newly changed Maja in her pyjamas, she told him with great enthusiasm about the successful pram trick and how she had got Maja to fall asleep.
Patrik looked sceptical. 'She cried for forty-five minutes before she fell asleep? Is she really supposed to do that? On TV they said that if they cry, you're supposed to give them the breast. Can it really be good for her to have to cry like that?'
His lack of enthusiasm and understanding made Erica furious. 'Obviously the point is not for her to cry for forty-five minutes. It'll taper off in a few days, and besides, if you don't think it's a good idea, then you can stay home and take care of her! You're not the one who has to sit here nursing all day long. That must be why you don't see any need to make any changes!'
Then she burst into tears and dashed upstairs to the bedroom. Patrik sat there at the kitchen table, feeling like an idiot. He should think before he opened his mouth.
FJÅLLBACKA 1928
Two days later her father came to Fjällbacka. She was sitting in the little room where she had found a temporary roof over her head, waiting with her hands folded in her lap. When he came in she reflected that the gossip had been right. He looked terrible. His hair had thinned even more on top. A couple of years earlier he'd been pleasantly plump, but now his figure was bordering on fat, and his breathing was erratic. His complexion was flushed bright red from the exertion, but just underneath was a grey tinge that refused to yield to the red. He didn't look well.
He hesitated at the threshold with an expression of disbelief when he saw how small and dark the room was, but when he caught sight of Agnes he rushed forward to give her a big hug. She didn't return the embrace, but kept her hands in her lap. He had betrayed her, and nothing could change that fact.
August tried to get a reaction out of her but then gave up and released her. And yet he couldn't help caressing her cheek. She flinched as if he'd slapped her.
'Agnes, Agnes, my poor Agnes.' He sat down on the chair next to her but refrained from touching her again. The sympathy on his face turned her stomach. It was too late for that now. Four years ago she had needed him, yearned for paternal care and concern. Now it made no difference.
She studiously avoided looking at him as he urgently spoke to her, his words occasionally catching in his throat.
'Agnes, I know that I was wrong and that nothing I can say will change that. But let me help you now that you're in such terrible straits. Come back home, and let me take care of you. Things can be like they were before, everything can be like before. What has happened is horrible, but together we can put it all behind you.'
His voice rose and sank in imploring waves that shattered against the hard shell of her heart. His words felt like a reproach.
'Dear Agnes, please come home. You can have anything you want.'
She saw out of the corner of her eye how his hands trembled, and his beseeching tone of voice gave her more satisfaction than she could have ever imagined. And she had imagined it; she had dreamt about it many times during the dark years that had passed.
She slowly turned to face him. August took this as a sign that she accepted his entreaties and eagerly tried to take her hands. Without expression she abruptly pulled her hands away.
'I'm leaving for America on Friday,' she said, enjoying the dismayed expression on August's face.
'A… aa… merica,' August stammered, and Agnes saw beads of sweat break out on his upper lip. Whatever he had expected, it wasn't this.
'Anders had bought tickets for all of us. He dreamt about a future for us there. I intend to honour his wish and go there myself,' she said dramatically, shifting her eyes away from her father to look out of the window. She knew that her profile was beautiful in the backlight, and her black clothing emphasized the pallor she had so carefully guarded.
People had been tiptoeing around her for two days. A small room had been put at her disposal, with the promise that she could stay as long as she liked. All the talking behind her back, all the contempt they had previously directed at her, all that was as if it had been swept away with the wind. The women brought her food and clothing. Everything she wore now was either borrowed or a gift. She had nothing of her own left.
Anders's cutter mates at the quarry had also come by. Dressed in their Sunday best and newly scrubbed, they stood with their caps in hand and looked at the floor. They shook her hand and mumbled some words about Anders.
Agnes couldn't wait until she could get away from this patched, threadbare crowd. She longed to go aboard the boat that would take her to another continent. She wanted to let the sea air blow away the filth and decay that lay like a membrane over her skin. For a couple more days she had to tolerate their sympathy and their pathetic attempts to show goodwill. Then she would set off and never look back. But first there was what she wanted to get from the bloated, red-faced man sitting next to her, this man who had abandoned her so cruelly four years ago. Now she would see to it that he paid, and paid dearly, for each and every one of the four years that had passed.
Her father continued to stammer, still in shock over the news she had just announced. 'But, but, how will you make a living over there?' he asked with concern, wiping the sweat from his brow with a little handkerchief that he pulled out of his pocket.
'I don't know,' she replied with a melodramatic sigh, allowing a worried shadow to glide across her face. It was gone in an instant, but there was still enough time for her father to notice.
'Won't you change your mind, my heart? Come stay with your old father instead.'
She shook her head, waiting for him to offer another suggestion. In that respect he did not disappoint her. Men were so easy to see through.
'Won't you at least let me help you, then? Some money to get you started, and an allowance so you can manage? Couldn't I do that much for you? Otherwise I'll worry to death about you, all alone and so far away.'
Agnes pretended to ponder the idea for a moment, and August hastened to add, 'And surely I can see to it that you have a better ticket for the crossing. A private stateroom in first class. That sounds a little better than travelling squeezed in with a bunch of other people.'
She nodded graciously and said after a pause, 'Well yes, I suppose I could let you do that. You can give me the money tomorrow. After the funeral,' she added, and August flinched as though he'd burned himself.
He tentatively tried to find the right words. 'The boys,' he began in a trembling voice, 'did they look like our side of the family?'
They had been the spitting image of Anders, but in a stony I voice Agnes said, 'They looked precisely like the pictures of you when you were little. Like small copies of you. And they often asked why they didn't have a grandfather like the other children.' She saw how her words twisted like a knife in his breast. One lie after another, but the more his conscience weighed on him, the more he would fill her purse.
With tears in his eyes her father got up to take his leave. In the doorway he turned round to look at Agnes one last time. She decided to throw him a little scrap and nodded graciously. As she predicted that small gesture made him happy, and he gave her a smile with his eyes shining.
With hatred Agnes watched him go. She would allow someone to betray her only once. After that there were no second chances.
Patrik sat in the car and tried to focus on the first task of the day. He thought it important to follow up as soon as possible on the call he had made just before he left work yesterday evening. But he was having a hard time forgetting the stupid words he'd said to Erica last night. To think that it could be so difficult. He'd always believed that raising a child was easy. Well, maybe a lot of work, but not as anxiety-ridden as it had been during the past two months. He sighed, feeling dejected.
Not until he parked outside the brown-and-white blocks of flats by the southern road into Fjällbacka was he able to concentrate on the present and forget his problems at home. The flat he was heading for was in the first block, second stairwell, and he took the stairs up to the first floor. The sign on the door said 'Svensson & Kallin'. He knocked cautiously. He knew that the couple living in the flat had a young child, and he was painfully aware of how Unwelcome a stranger would be if he woke the kid. A young man of about twenty-five opened the door. Although it was already nine-thirty he looked sulky, as if he'd just got up.
'Mia, it's for you.'
He stepped aside without greeting Patrik and shuffled into a small room off the hall. Patrik looked into the room that was probably intended as a guest room, but now it was set up as a game room, with a computer, several joysticks, and piles of games strewn across a desk. A game of 'shoot to kill as many enemies as possible' was running on the computer. The young man, who Patrik assumed was either Svensson or Kallin, started playing as if he had entered another world.
The kitchen was to the left down the hall, and Patrik stepped inside after depositing his shoes by the front door.
'Come in, I'm feeding Liam.'
The little boy sat in a white highchair, being fed porridge and some sort of fruit puree. Patrik waved to him and was rewarded with a mushy smile.
'Have a seat,' said Mia, pointing to a chair across from them.
He did as she said and took out his notebook.
'Could you tell me exactly what happened yesterday?'
A light trembling of her hand holding the spoon showed how upsetting the events of the previous day had been for her. She nodded and related briefly what had happened. Patrik took notes, but it was the same information that Annika had received the day before when Mia had called in her report.
'And you saw no one in the vicinity of the car?'
Mia shook her head. Liam, who apparently thought his mother was playing a game, shook his head frenetically too, which made it considerably more difficult to feed him the porridge.
'No, I didn't see anybody. Either before or after.'
'You parked the pram in the rear, you said?'
'Yes, it's more secluded there, and I thought it would be a safer place to leave him. I wanted to take him inside with me, but he was asleep, and it seemed more trouble than it was worth to drag the pram into the store. I was just going to be gone a couple of minutes.'
'And then when you came out, you saw a dark substance in the pram and on Liam.'
'Yes, he was screaming like crazy. His whole mouth must have been stuffed full, but he'd managed to spit out most of it. The inside of his mouth was coloured black.'
'Did you take him to a doctor?'
Again she shook her head, and Patrik saw that he'd hit a nerve.
'No. I probably should have, but we were in a hurry to get home, and he seemed to be doing all right, except that he was scared and angry, so I…'
Her voice trailed off and Patrik hurried to say, 'I'm sure it's not dangerous. You did the right thing. The boy does look like he's feeling fine.'
Liam waved his arms, as if to confirm what was said and then opened his mouth wide for the next spoonful of porridge. There was obviously nothing wrong with his appetite, as evidenced by his plump double chin.
'The shirt I called about yesterday, did you
She got up. 'No, I didn't wash it, just as you asked me. And it's full of that black stuff. Looks like ashes, I think.'
She went to get the shirt. Liam stared longingly at the spoon, which she'd put down beside the bowl. Patrik hesitated for a second, then moved to the chair Mia had been sitting on and took up where she left off. Two spoonfuls went smoothly, but then Liam decided to demonstrate his car sounds, flubbering his lips so that Patrik's hair and face were sprayed with mush. Just then Mia came back with the shirt. She couldn't help laughing.
'Look at you. I should have warned you, or at least given you a raincoat and a sou'wester. I'm really sorry.'
'No problem,' said Patrik wiping off a little mush from his eyelashes with a smile. 'My baby is just two months old, so it's good for me to get a little practice.'
'Go ahead and practice,' said Mia, who sat down and let him continue the feeding. 'Here's the shirt,' she said, placing it on the table.
Patrik looked at it. The whole front was black and filthy.
'I'd like to take this with me. Do you mind?'
'Not at all. Take it. I'd have just thrown it away anyway. I'll put it in a plastic bag for you.'
Patrik took the bag and got up. 'If you think of anything else, just ring the station,' he said, handing her his card.
'I certainly will. I just don't understand why anyone would do something like this. What do you think the shirt might tell you?'
He just shook his head in reply. Patrik couldn't say anything about the reason for his interest. As yet nothing had leaked out lo the press about the ashes they'd found in connection with Sara's murder. He glanced at Liam. Thank goodness it hadn't gone as far in his case. The question was whether murder had never been the intention; maybe something had interrupted the person who did this. But until they had the ashes on the shirt analysed, they couldn't say whether it was connected to Sara's death or not. Although he was already willing to bet that they would find a connection. This was no coincidence.
When Patrik got back in his car he took his mobile out of his jacket pocket. He hadn't heard from the team that did the search of Kaj's house yesterday, and he thought that was a little strange. He'd had too much on his mind yesterday to worry about it, but now he wondered why they hadn't reported back to him. Swearing, he saw that he'd turned off his phone on his way in to interrogate Kaj and then forgotten to turn it back on. The voicemail icon was flashing. He punched 133 and listened tensely to the message. With a glint of triumph in his eyes he flipped the phone shut and stuffed it back in his pocket.
Patrik had again chosen the kitchen as their meeting place. It was the biggest room in the police station, and he also thought the proximity to freshly brewed coffee would be an asset, given the situation. Annika had dashed off to the bakery down the street and bought a big bag of hazelnut balls, coconut mocha squares and chocolate oatmeal balls. Patrik didn't have to twist anyone's arm; as he stood at the easel with the tablet everyone was munching on some high-calorie treat.
He cleared his throat. 'As you know, yesterday was quite eventful.'
Gösta nodded and reached for another hazelnut ball. But Mellberg was too fast for him. The chief was already well into his third pastry and looked like he'd welcome a fourth. Ernst sat off by himself, and everyone carefully avoided looking at him. Ever since his disastrous mistake had come to light, a sort of doomsday shadow had hovered over him. Nobody knew when the axe would fall. All such matters had to be deferred as long as they were involved in the most intensive phase of the homicide investigation. But everyone knew it was only a matter of time. Including Ernst.
All eyes were directed at Patrik. He went on. 'I think I'll sum up what we have so far. Most of this you already know, but it might be good to get an overview of where we stand.'
He cleared his throat one more time, took his pen and began writing notes on the big tablet as he talked.
'First of all, we brought in the father, Niclas, for questioning and asked him about his alibi. We still don't know where he was on Monday morning, and the question is, why did he try to concoct a fake alibi? We also suspect child abuse, based on the information we received from the clinic about the injuries that his son Albin had sustained. The question is whether Sara was also subjected to abuse and whether it could have escalated to murder.'
He drew a point on the tablet, wrote 'Niclas' next to it, and then drew lines to the two words 'alibi' and 'suspected abuse'. Then he turned back to his colleagues.
'Then Sara's playmate Frida came in yesterday with her mother, and the girl reported that someone she called a "nasty old man" had given Sara a real fright the day before she died. He had behaved In a threatening manner towards her and also called her "double pawn". Is there anyone who can explain what that might mean?'
Patrik looked inquiringly at the group. At first no one answered. They sat quietly and seemed to be making an effort to work out what such an odd phrase could mean.
Annika looked at them, shook her head at their obtuseness, and then said, 'He probably said "Devil's spawn".'
It was so obvious that they all looked as if they wanted to slap their foreheads.
'Yes, of course,' said Patrik, also cursing his stupidity. 'That makes it sound like we're dealing with some religious fanatic. And Frida described the individual as an older man with grey hair. Martin, could you check with Sara's mother and see whether that matches anyone they know?'
Martin nodded.
'Then we got an interesting report yesterday. A young mother parked a pram behind Järnboden with her sleeping son inside. Then she went into the shop to buy something. When she came out she started screaming, because the inside of the pram was covered with some black substance that the boy also had in his mouth. It seemed as though someone had tried to force him to swallow the stuff. I drove over and talked with the boy's mother this morning, and she gave me the shirt that the boy was wearing.
The whole front of it is covered with something that could well be ashes.'
Silence descended over the table. No one chewed, no one slurped coffee. Patrik continued, 'I've already sent it off for analysis, and something tells me it's the same type of ashes we found in Sara's stomach. We have a very precise time for when this… assault occurred, so it might be worthwhile to check alibis. Gösta, you and I will handle that.'
Gösta nodded and picked the last shreds of coconut from his plate.
The tablet was now covered with notes and arrows, and Patrik paused for a second with his pen hovering. Then he made one more point and wrote 'Kaj' next to it. It was obvious to all that he'd now reached the part of the summation that he judged the most important.
'After we talked with our colleagues in Göteborg, it came to our attention that Kaj Wiberg is implicated in an investigation of a paedophile ring.'
They all made an even greater effort not to look at Ernst, and he squirmed a bit in his seat.
'We brought Kaj in for questioning yesterday and also conducted a search of his home, with the help of our colleagues from Uddevalla. The interview produced nothing concrete, but we view it as a first step and will continue our talks with Kaj. Using the material we're getting from Göteborg we'll also see whether we can identify any victims locally. Kaj, as you know, has taken an active role for many years in working with youths in Fjällbacka, so it's not entirely farfetched to believe that assaults occurred during his years here.'
'Is there anything to indicate that he might be linked to Sara's murder?' Gösta asked.
'I'll get to that in a moment,' replied Patrik evasively, and Martin shot him an astonished look. They hadn't had any luck developing any connection during the interrogation.
'The search of Kaj's house may have given us our first big breakthrough in the investigation.'
The tension increased palpably, and Patrik couldn't resist drawing it out a bit for the sake of effect. Then he said, 'When they searched Kaj's house yesterday, the officers found Sara's jacket.'
They all gasped.
'Where did they find it?' asked Martin, looking a bit miffed that Patrik hadn't told him about this.
'That's just the thing,' said Patrik. 'It wasn't in the main house, but out in the cabin on the lot where their son Morgan lives.'
'Jesus Christ,' said Gösta. 'I could have sworn that weirdo was mixed up in it. People like that -'
Patrik cut him off. 'I agree that it looks bad, but I don't want us to get locked into that theory yet. First of all, we don't know whether it was the father or the son who put the jacket there; it could just as well have been Kaj trying to hide it. Second, there are too many other unresolved issues – for example, Niclas's attempt to construct a false alibi – so we can't completely ignore them. We have to keep working on all the points I've put up here on the tablet. Any questions?'
Mellberg spoke up. 'Excellent work, Hedström. It looks good. And by all means check out those other things you wrote down as well.' He gestured idly at the board. 'But I'm inclined to agree with Gösta. That Morgan boy doesn't seem quite right, and if I were you,' he said, holding his hand theatrically to his chest, 'I'd pull out all the stops to clamp down on him. But it's clear, you're responsible for the investigation, and you're the one who decides.' Mellberg said this in a way that made it obvious to everyone that he thought Patrik would do best to follow his advice.
Patrik didn't reply, which Mellberg interpreted to mean his message had hit home. He nodded contentedly. Now it was only a matter of time before the case was solved.
Resolutely Patrik went back into his office and got to work on the day's tasks. The old fart could believe what he liked, but Patrik had no intention of dancing to his tune. Naturally the fact that they'd found the jacket in Morgan's cabin had also made him want to draw certain conclusions, but something – whether it was instinct, experience or merely a hunch – told him that not everything was as it seemed.
FJÅLLBACKA 1928
Standing with her back to the Swedish coastline she closed her eyes and felt the breeze against her eyelids. This was what freedom felt like.
The boat to America had sailed from Göteborg on the dot, and the wharf had been full of people saying goodbye to their loved ones with both hope and sorrow. None of them knew whether they would ever see one another again. America was so far away that most people who went there never returned and were heard from only by letter.
But there had been no one to say goodbye to Agnes. That was precisely the way she wanted it. She was leaving her old life behind and setting off towards a new land. With her father's cheque in her pocket and a fine cabin in first class, she felt for the first time in years that she was on the right track.
For a moment her thoughts drifted to Anders and the boys. The church had been filled to the brim for the funeral, and loud sniffles had risen towards the roof in a sorrowful chorus. But she had not wept. Behind the veil of her hat she had looked at the three coffins near the altar. One big one and two small. The white coffins were covered with flowers and wreaths. The largest wreath was from her father. She had forbidden him to come.
Not that there had been much to put in the coffins. The fire had raged with such consuming heat that almost nothing was left. So the coffins contained only a few remains. The pastor had suggested urns instead, considering the state of the remains, but
Agnes had wanted it this way. Three coffins that could be lowered into the ground.
Some of Anders's workmates had carved the headstone. One stone for all three, with their names elegantly engraved.
They had been the sole victims of the fire. Otherwise only property had been destroyed, but the destruction had been extensive. The whole lower part of Fjällbacka, the part closest to the sea, was now charred and in ruins. Many houses were gone, and burnt pilings stuck up out of the water where docks used to be. But few had complained about the loss of their homes. Whenever they had the desire to cry about what they had lost, they thought of Agnes and what had been taken from her. Everyone from that part of town had turned up at the funeral, and their hearts ached when they pictured in their minds the little blond boys walking hand in hand with their father.
But their mother shed nary a tear. When the funeral was over she went back to her temporary lodgings and packed the few belongings that had been given to her. Charity. Being forced to accept alms was so distasteful to her that it made her feel sick, but she would never be at the mercy of other people's kindness again.
As she stood on the top deck of the ship, no one would guess that until quite recently she had lived a life of poverty. New clothing had been hastily acquired, and her baggage was the most elegant that money could buy. With pleasure she stroked her hand over the soft fabric of her dress. What a difference from the worn, faded clothes that had been her lot for four years.
All that was left of her old life was a blue wooden box that she had carefully stowed in the bottom of her luggage. The box itself was not important, but its contents were. She had sneaked out the night before and filled it to remind her never again to let anything stand in the way of the life she deserved. She had made the mistake of trusting one man, and it had cost her four long years. After the way her father had betrayed her, she was determined never to let another man do the same. And she would see to it that her father would pay dearly for his actions. Loneliness was the highest price, but she also intended to make sure that his money flowed in her direction. She had earned it. And she knew precisely which buttons to push to keep his guilty conscience alive. Men were so easy to manipulate.
She was roused from her reverie by the sound of someone clearing his throat. She was so startled that she jumped.
'Ah, excuse me, I hope I didn't frighten you, Madam?'
An elegantly dressed man smiled suavely and held out his hand to her.
Agnes scrutinized him with a quick and practised eye before she returned his smile and placed her gloved hand in his. He had an expensive, tailored suit and hands that had never seen manual labour. In his thirties and with a pleasant, yes, even attractive appearance. No ring on his ring finger. This passage might be much more pleasant than she'd anticipated.
'Agnes, Agnes Stjernkvist. And it's Miss, not Madam.'
Erica's friend Dan had come to visit. Even though they'd spoken on the phone a couple of times, he still hadn't been to the house to have a look at Maja. But now his huge body filled the hall, and he took the baby from Erica with the ease of an experienced father.
'Helllllo, baby girl. What a little beauty we have here,' he cooed, lifting her towards the ceiling. Erica had to stifle an impulse to snatch her daughter back, but Maja didn't look like she minded the situation at all. And considering that Dan had three daughters of his own, he probably knew what he was doing.
'So how's little Mamma doing?' he said, giving Erica one of his bear-hugs. Once upon a time they had been an item, but the romance was long since over and for many years now they had been close friends. Their friendship had suffered a real setback two winters ago, when they had both gotten mixed up in a murder investigation under unpleasant circumstances, but the passage of time had healed the rift. After Dan got a divorce from his wife Pernilla, though, they hadn't seen each other very often. Dan had jumped into the single life and all that involved, while Erica went in the opposite direction. He had gone through a series of unsuitable girlfriends, but at the moment he was single and on the loose. Erica thought he looked happier than he had in a long time. The divorce had taken its toll on him, and he often lamented not being with his daughters more than every other week, but he seemed to have grown used to the situation and moved on.
'I wondered whether you'd like to take a walk with us,' said Erica. 'Maja is starting to get tired, and if we take a stroll she'll probably fall asleep in the pram.'
'A short one, then,' Dan muttered. 'It's pretty chilly out there, and I was looking forward to getting inside where it's warm.'
'Just until she goes to sleep,' Erica cajoled her friend, and he reluctantly put his shoes back on.
She kept her promise. Ten minutes later they were back inside and Maja was sleeping peacefully under the rain hood of the pram.
'Have you got a baby alarm?' Dan asked.
Erica shook her head. 'No, I'll have to look in on her from time to time.'
'You should have said something. I could have tried to dig up our old one.'
'I hope you'll be coming over more often now,' said Erica, 'so you can bring it next time.'
'All right. I'm sorry for taking so long to come over and say hi,' he said. 'But I know how the first few months are, so I -'
'You don't have to apologize,' said Erica. 'You're completely right. I haven't felt ready to have visitors until now.'
They sat down on the sofa. Erica had set out coffee and buns that were warm from the oven. Dan helped himself.
'Mmm,' he said. 'Did you bake these?' He couldn't help a hint of amazement from creeping into his voice.
Erica gave him a dirty look. 'If that were the case, you wouldn't sound so surprised. But no, it wasn't me. My mother-in-law baked them when she was here,' she had to admit.
'I thought it must be something like that. These aren't burnt enough to be yours,' Dan teased her.
Erica couldn't come up with a witty retort. He was right. She had never been much of a baker.
After a pleasant chat that enabled them to get caught up with what had been happening in their lives lately. Erica stood up.
'I just have to go check on Maja.'
She cautiously cracked open the front door and looked down into the pram. That's funny, Maja must have slid down under the covers. She detached the rain hood as quietly as she could and pulled back the blanket. Panic struck her full-force. Maja wasn't in the pram!
Martin's spine creaked as he sat down, and he stretched his arms above his head to straighten out his vertebrae. All that lugging of cartons and moving of furniture had made him feel like an old man. Suddenly he realized that a few hours at the gym occasionally might be a good idea, but it was too late to make up for lost time now. Anyway, Pia always said she liked his lanky body, so he saw no reason to make any changes. But his back did hurt like hell.
The new place had turned out fine, he had to admit. Pia was the one who decided where to put everything, and the result was much better than anything he'd ever been able to come up with in his bachelor flats. He just wished he could have kept a few more of his own things. Only his stereo, TV and a 'Billy' bookshelf from IKEA had passed muster. The rest of his possessions had been sent off to the dump without mercy. He was saddest to part with the old leather sofa he'd had in his living room. He agreed that it had probably seen better days, but the memories… ah, what memories.
On second thought that might be precisely the reason that Pia had been so firm about tossing it in favour of a 'Tomelilla' model from IKEA. He'd actually been allowed to keep an old pine kitchen table, but Pia had quickly bought a tablecloth to cover every inch of its surface.
Well, those were only tiny bits of sand in the machinery. So far there hadn't been anything negative about living together. He loved coming home to Pia every evening, cuddling up with her on the sofa and watching something worthless on TV with Pia's head in his lap. And he loved slipping into the new double bed and falling asleep together. Everything was just as wonderful as he'd dreamt it would be. He knew that he probably ought to be sad that the wild partying of his bachelor days was over, at least that's what some of his mates said, but he didn't miss it any more than he missed a huge hangover. And Pia, well, she was simply perfect.
Martin wiped the foolish newly-in-love smile off his face and looked up the Florin family's number to phone them. He hoped it wouldn't be that terrible harpy who answered. Charlotte's mother reminded him of a caricature of a mother-in-law.
He was in luck. Charlotte herself answered. He felt a pang of sympathy when he heard how listless her voice sounded.
'Yes, hello, this is Martin Molin from Tanumshede police station.'
'What's this about?' Charlotte asked cautiously.
Martin was well aware that a call from the police aroused both misgivings and hopes, so he hastened to say, 'Well, I just wanted to check on something with you. We got a tip that somebody threatened Sara the day before she…' he stammered, 'died.'
'Threatened her?' said Charlotte, and he could almost see her puzzled expression. 'Who said that? Sara didn't tell us anything about it.'
'Her playmate, Frida.'
'But why didn't Frida say anything about it before now?'
'Sara made her promise not to say anything. Frida said it was a secret.'
'But who would threaten her?' Only now did Charlotte perk up enough to ask the relevant question.
'Frida didn't know who he was. But she described the man as older with grey hair and black clothes. And he apparently called Sara "the Devil's spawn". Does any of this ring a bell?'
'It certainly does,' said Charlotte through clenched teeth. 'It most certainly does.'
The pain had intensified over the past few days. It felt like a hungry animal tearing at his stomach with its claws.
Stig turned carefully onto his side. No position was really comfortable. No matter how he lay, it hurt somewhere. But it hurt most of all in his heart. He was thinking about Sara more often. About the way they'd had long, serious talks about everything under the sun. School, friends, her precocious meditations on everything that went on around her. He didn't believe the others had ever taken the time to see that side of her. They had focused only on her awkward, loud, and troublesome traits. And Sara had reacted to their image of her by becoming even more difficult, making even more noise, and smashing things. A vicious circle of frustration that none of them knew how to handle.
But in the hours she spent with him she had found peace. He missed her so much it hurt. He had seen so much of Lilian in her. Lilian's strength and decisiveness. Her brusque manner that concealed such enormous concern and love.
As if she could read his mind, Lilian came into the room. Stig had been so deeply immersed in his reverie that he didn't even hear her footsteps on the stairs.
'Here's a little lunch for you. I was out buying some fresh rolls,' she chirped, and he felt his stomach turn over at the mere sight of what was on the tray.
'I'm not that hungry right now,' he attempted, but at the same time he knew how fruitless any protests would be.
'You have to eat something if you want to get better,' said Lilian in her stern nurse's voice. 'Here, I'll help you.'
She sat down on the edge of the bed and took a bowl of kefir from the tray. She carefully raised a spoon and moved it to his lips. He reluctantly opened his mouth and let her feed him. The feeling of kefir running down his throat nauseated him, but he let her have her way. She meant well, and basically he knew she was right. If he didn't eat he'd never be healthy.
'How do you feel now?' Lilian asked as she took one of the rolls with butter and cheese and held it to his mouth so he could take a bite.
He swallowed and replied with a forced smile, 'I think it's a little better, actually. I slept quite well last night.'
'That's nice to hear,' said Lilian, patting his hand. 'There's no sense playing with your health, and you have to promise that you'll tell me if it gets worse. Lennart was just like you, stubborn as hell, and he refused to let anyone examine him until it was too late. Sometimes I wonder if he'd still be alive if I'd insisted more…' With a sad look she gazed into the distance, her hand holding the spoon poised in mid-air.
Stig stroked her other hand and said gently, 'You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Lilian. I know you did everything you could for Lennart when he was sick, because that's the sort of person you are. You are not to blame for his death. And I'm feeling better, believe me. I've got better on my own before. If I just have a chance to rest up, I'm sure it will pass. It's probably just "burn-out", like they talk so much about these days. Don't worry about me. You have so many other worse things to worry about.'
Lilian sighed and nodded. 'Yes, you're probably right. It's a lot for me to bear right now.'
'Yes, you poor thing. I wish I were feeling healthy so I could offer you more support in your grief. I'm also grieving terribly about the girl. I can't even imagine how you must feel. And how is Charlotte doing, by the way? It's been a couple of days since she's come upstairs to see me.'
'Charlotte?' said Lilian, and for a moment he thought he saw an ill-humoured glint in her eye. But it vanished so fast he convinced himself that he'd imagined it. Charlotte was everything to Lilian, after all. She was always saying how she lived for her daughter and her family.
'Well, Charlotte is feeling better than at first, anyway. Even though I think she should have kept taking those sedatives. I don't understand why people have to try to muddle through on their own, when there are such good drugs they could take. And Niclas was certainly willing to write her a prescription, but he refused to write any for me. Did you ever hear anything so stupid? I'm grieving too, and I'm just as upset as Charlotte. Sara was my granddaughter, wasn't she?'
Lilian's voice had again taken on that sharp, annoyed tone. But just as Stig felt an annoyed frown forming on his brow, she changed her tune and was once again the loving, caring wife that his illness had really made him appreciate. He could hardly expect her to be her usual self, after all that had happened. The stress and the sorrow were affecting her too.
'Now that you've eaten something you need to rest,' said Lilian as she got up.
Stig stopped her with a little wave. 'Have you heard any more about why the police took Kaj in for questioning? Does it have anything to do with Sara?'
'No, we haven't heard anything yet. We'll probably be the last to know,' Lilian snorted. 'But I hope they throw the book at him.'
She turned on her heel and walked out the door, but he still had time to glimpse a smile on her face.