It was the only visit to Agnes she intended to make. She no longer thought of her as Mother. Only as Agnes.
Mary had just turned eighteen, and she had left her last foster family without looking back. She didn't miss them, and they didn't miss her.
Over the years the letters had arrived frequently. Thick letters that smelled of Agnes. She hadn't opened a single one. But she hadn't thrown them out either. They lay in a trunk waiting to be read one day.
That was also the first thing Agnes asked her. 'Darling, did you read my letters?'
Mary looked at Agnes without answering. She hadn't seen her in four years, and she needed to learn her facial features again before she could say anything.
It surprised her how little the time in prison seemed to have affected Agnes. She couldn't do anything about the clothing, so the elegant dresses and suits were only a memory, but otherwise she seemed to have taken care of herself and her appearance with the same ardour as before. Her hair was newly coiffed, now in a beehive that was the latest style. Her eyeliner was also fashionably thick, and her nails were just as long as Mary remembered them. Now Agnes drummed them impatiently as she waited for an answer.
It took another moment before Mary spoke. 'No, I haven't read them. And don't call me "darling",' she said, then waited with curiosity for the reply. She was no longer afraid of the woman facing her. The monster inside her had gradually devoured that fear as the hatred had grown. With so much hatred there was no room for fear.
Agnes couldn't pass up such a splendid opportunity for a dramatic scene.
'You didn't read them!' she shrieked. 'Here I sit locked up while you're out running loose and having fun and God knows what else, and the only joy I have is to know that my dear daughter is reading the letters I spend so many hours writing. And I never got a single letter from you or a single telephone call in four years!' Agnes was now sobbing loudly, but no tears came. They would wreck her perfect eyeliner.
'Why did you do it?' asked Mary quietly.
Agnes abruptly stopped crying. With great composure she took out a cigarette and carefully lit it. After taking a few deep drags she replied with the same ghastly calm, 'Because he betrayed me. He thought he could leave me.'
'Couldn't you simply have let him go?' Mary leaned forward so she wouldn't miss a word. She had gone over this topic so many times in her mind that now she didn't want to risk missing even a syllable.
'No man leaves me,' Agnes said. 'I did what I had to do.' Then she shifted her cold glance to Mary and added, 'You know all about that, don't you?'
Mary averted her eyes. The monster inside her stirred restlessly. She said curtly, 'I want you to sign over the house in Fjällbacka to me. I'm thinking of moving there.'
Agnes looked as though she wanted to protest, but Mary hastened to add, 'If you want to have any contact with me in future, then you'll do as I say. If you sign over the house to me, I promise I'll read your letters and write to you.'
Agnes hesitated, so Mary quickly continued, 'I'm the only person you have left now. That may not be much, but I'm still the only one you have.'
For a few unbearably long seconds Agnes weighed the pros and cons, evaluating what would benefit her most, and finally decided.
'All right, that's the deal then. Not because I can understand why you'd want to live in that hole, but if you want to, then fine…' She shrugged, and Mary felt joy rise inside her.
It was a plan that had developed over the past year. She would start over. Become a whole different person. Shake off the past that clung to her like a musty old blanket. Her application to change her name had already been submitted. Gaining access to the house in Fjällbacka was stage two, and she had already begun the work of changing her appearance. Not a single unnecessary calorie had passed her lips in a whole month, and the hour-long walk each morning had also helped. Everything would be different. Everything would be new.
The last thing she heard when she left Agnes sitting in the waiting room was her astonished exclamation, 'Have you lost weight?'
Mary didn't turn round to answer. She was on her way to becoming a new person.
By the next day the storm had subsided, and the autumn was showing its best side. The leaves that had survived the windstorm were red and yellow and fluttered softly in a light breeze. The sunshine gave no warmth, but it still raised the spirits and chased away the raw chill in the air – the kind that crept inside your clothes and made your body feel cold and damp.
Patrik sighed as he sat in the kitchen. Lilian was still refusing to talk, despite all the evidence they had against her. At least it was enough to remand her back into custody, and they still had time to charge her.
'How's it going?' said Annika as she came in to refill her coffee cup.
'Not much happening,' said Patrik with a deep sigh. 'She's as hard as a rock. Doesn't say a word.'
'But do we need a confession if the evidence is sufficient?'
'No, no really,' said Patrik. 'But what we're lacking is a motive. With a little imagination I could come up with a number of plausible motives for killing one husband and attempting to kill the second. But Sara?'
'How did you know that she was the one who murdered Sara?'
'I didn't,' said Patrik. 'Not until now. But all this has made me see that somebody lied about the morning when Sara disappeared, and that somebody had to be Lilian.'
He turned on the tape recorder sitting on the kitchen table. Morgan's voice filled the room. 'I didn't do it. I can't sit in prison for the rest of my life. I didn't kill her. I don't know how the jacket ended up at my place. She was wearing it when she went into her house. Please, don't leave me here.'
'Did you hear that?' said Patrik.
Annika shook her head. 'No, I didn't hear anything special.'
'Listen one more time, very closely.' He rewound the tape and pressed 'play' again.
'I didn't do it. I can't sit in prison for the rest of my life. I didn't kill her. I don't know how the jacket ended up at my place. She was wearing it when she went into her house. Please, don't leave me here.'
'She was wearing it when she went into her house,' Annika said quietly.
'Precisely,' said Patrik. 'Lilian claimed that Sara left and then didn't come back, but Morgan saw her go into the house again. And the only person who would have a reason to lie about it was Lilian. Why else wouldn't she have told us that Sara came home again?'
'How the hell can someone drown their own grandchild? And why did she stuff ashes into her mouth?' said Annika, slowly shaking her head.
'Yes, that's exactly what I want to know,' said Patrik in frustration. 'But she just sits there and smiles and refuses to say a thing, either to confess or to defend herself.'
'So what about the little boy?' Annika continued. 'Why did she attack him? And Maja?'
'I think Liam was just a random choice,' Patrik said, rotating his coffee cup in his hands. 'A crime of opportunity. It was a way of deflecting attention from her family – from Niclas most of all, apparently. And attacking Maja was a way of getting back at me for investigating her and her family.'
'I heard that you also had a bit of luck that helped you solve the murder of Lennart and the attempted murder of Stig.'
'Yes I did, and unfortunately I can't claim any personal insight. If I hadn't watched Crime Night on the Discovery Channel, we never would have found out about it. But they were featuring that case of a woman in the States who poisoned her husbands, and one of them was first diagnosed with Guillain-Barre. That's when it all fell into place for me. Erica had mentioned that Charlotte's father died of a nerve disease, and when Stig's illness was added to that… two husbands with the same rare symptoms; that made me wonder. So I woke up Erica, and she confirmed that Charlotte had said her father had died of Guillain-Barre. But I must tell you I wasn't completely sure until I rang the hospital. It was great when the test results were done and they showed a sky-high arsenic content. But I only wish I could get her to tell me why. She refuses to say anything!' He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
'Well, you can only do so much,' said Annika, turning to go. Then she turned back to Patrik and said, 'Have you heard the news, by the way?'
'No, what?' said Patrik wearily, showing scant enthusiasm.
'Ernst really has been sacked. And Martin has recruited some woman to work here. He apparently got a little pressure from higher up regarding the lop-sided gender distribution in the station.'
'The poor guy,' Patrik chuckled. 'Let's hope this woman has a thick skin.'
'I don't know anything about her, so we'll see when she shows up. Evidently she'll be here a month from now.'
'I'm sure it'll be fine,' said Patrik. 'Anything will be an improvement compared to Ernst.'
'Yeah, that's for sure,' said Annika. 'And you should cheer up a little. The main thing is that the killer is in custody. The motive may have to remain a matter between her and her creator.'
'I haven't given up yet,' Patrik muttered, and he got up to give it another try.
He went to find Gösta, and together they took Lilian to the interrogation room. She looked a bit rumpled after a couple of days in jail, but she was totally calm. Apart from the annoyance she showed when they took her from the hospital waiting room, she had exhibited an exceedingly well-controlled facade. Nothing they'd said so far had shaken her, and Patrik had begun to doubt that they ever would. But he had to try one last time. Then the prosecutor could take over. But he really wanted to get an answer out of her about Maja. He was proud of himself for managing to keep his rage in check; he'd done it by trying to have a clear goal in mind at all times. The important thing was to get Lilian convicted, and if possible to obtain an explanation. Taking out his personal feelings on her would not advance that goal. He also knew that the slightest outburst on his part would mean that he would be excluded from the hearings. He already had everyone's eyes on him because of his personal connection to the case.
He took a deep breath and began.
'Sara was buried today. Did you know that?'
He and Gösta were sitting on one side of the table with Lilian facing them. She shook her head.
'Would you have wanted to be there?'
She merely shrugged and gave them a strange, sphinx-like smile.
'What do you think Charlotte feels about you now?' He kept changing the subject in the hope of striking a nerve that would make her react. But so far she had been almost inhumanly indifferent.
'I'm her mother,' Lilian replied calmly. 'She can never change that.'
'Do you think she would want to?'
'Maybe. But what she wants won't change anything.'
'Do you think she'd want to know why you did what you did?' Gösta interjected. He was staring at Lilian intently, looking for a crack in what seemed to be impenetrable armour.
Lilian didn't answer, but instead studied her nails impassively.
'We have the evidence, Lilian, you know that. We went over that earlier. We don't doubt for a second that you murdered two people and are guilty of the attempted murder of a third. The arsenic poisoning of Lennart and Stig will bring you many, many years in prison. So it won't cost you a thing to talk about Sara's murder. Killing your husband is nothing new; I could think of a thousand reasons to do it, but why your granddaughter? Why Sara? Did she provoke you? Did you get mad at her and then couldn't stop yourself? Did she have one of her outbursts and you were trying to calm her down with a bath and things got out of hand? Tell us!'
But just as in earlier interrogations they got no answers from Lilian. She simply smiled indulgently.
'We have the evidence!' Patrik repeated, now with increasing irritation. 'The samples from Lennart showed high levels of arsenic, and Stig's likewise. We've even been able to demonstrate that the arsenic poisoning occurred during the past six months, and in ever increasing doses. We found the arsenic in an old container of rat poison that you kept down in the cellar. Sara had traces in her lungs of the ashes that you kept in your bedroom. You smeared a small child with the same ashes to throw us off the track, and you also put Sara's jacket in Morgan's cabin to try to shift the blame on him. The fact that Kaj turned out to be a paedophile was a stroke of luck for you. But we also have Morgan's testimony on tape, saying that he saw Sara go back in the house. And that contradicts what you told us. We know that you were the one who murdered Sara. Help us now, help your daughter to move on. Tell us why! And my daughter, what reason did you have for taking her out of the pram? Was it me you were trying to get at? Talk to me!'
Lilian was drawing little circles on the table with her index finger. She'd heard Patrik's entreaties several times before, and they were just as futile this time.
Patrik felt himself beginning to lose his temper. He realized that it would be best to stop before he did something stupid. He jumped to his feet, reeled off the necessary information to conclude the interrogation, and walked over to the door. In the doorway he turned round.
'What you're doing now is unforgivable. You have the power to give your daughter some meagre peace of mind, but you choose not to do so. It's not only unforgivable, it's inhuman.'
He asked Gösta to take Lilian back to her cell. He couldn't look at her another second. For an instant he'd thought he was gazing directly into the depths of evil.
'Damned women's lib types we keep having shoved down our throats,' Mellberg muttered. 'Now we're going to be encumbered with them at work as well. I don't get the point of that damned quota system. Maybe I was naive, but I thought I'd be able to choose my own staff. But no, instead they're going to send me a dame who probably hasn't even learned to button her uniform. Am I right?'
Simon didn't answer but kept his eyes fixed on his plate.
It felt odd to be eating lunch at home, but it was another link in the father-and-son project that Mellberg had initiated. He had even made an effort to slice some vegetables, which previously had never even made an appearance in his refrigerator. But he noticed with annoyance that Simon hadn't touched either the cucumber or the tomatoes. Instead he was concentrating on the macaroni and meatballs, which he covered with enormous quantities of ketchup. Oh well, ketchup was tomatoes too, Mellberg supposed, so that would have to do.
He decided to change the subject. It just aggravated his blood pressure to keep thinking about their new colleague. Instead he focused on his son's plans for the future.
'So, have you thought about what sort of job you want? If you don't think that studying at the Gymnasium is for you, I can help you find some sort of work. Not everyone can be the studious type, and if you're half as practically inclined as your father…' Mellberg chuckled.
A less experienced parent might have been concerned about his son's lack of initiative regarding his own future, but Mellberg was filled with confidence. Surely Simon was just going through a temporary period of depression; there was nothing to worry about. He pondered whether he wanted the boy to be a lawyer or a doctor. A lawyer, he decided. Doctors no longer made as much money. But until he could get him onto that career track the important thing was to back off and cut the boy some slack. If he got a taste of life's hard knocks he would eventually listen to reason. Of course Simon's mother had informed him that the boy had failed in almost every subject, and it was clear that might place some obstacles in his path. But Mellberg was thinking positive. The whole problem was no doubt due to lack of support at home, because the intelligence must be there; otherwise Mother Nature would have played an especially malicious trick on them.
Simon was chewing listlessly on a meatball and didn't seem particularly inclined to answer his father's question.
'So, what do you say about a job?' Mellbergsaid again, getting a bit more annoyed. Here he was making an effort to forge a bond between them, and Simon couldn't even take the trouble to reply.
Still chewing, Simon said after a while, 'No, I don't think so.'
'What do you mean, you don't think so?' said Mellberg indignantly. 'Then what do you think? That you can live here under my roof and eat my food and just sit and goof off all day long? Is that what you think?'
Simon didn't even blink. 'No, I'll probably go back and live with my mum.'
The announcement hit Mellberg like a kick in the head. Somewhere near his heart he felt a weird, almost stabbing pain.
'Back to your mum?' Mellberg repeated, as if he couldn't believe his ears. It was an option he hadn't even considered.
'But I thought you didn't like living there? You said you hated "that damned bitch," when you arrived.'
'Oh, Mum's all right,' said Simon, looking out of the window.
'And I'm not?' said Mellberg in a grumpy voice. He couldn't hide the disappointment that had crept in. He regretted being so hard on the boy. Maybe it wasn't really necessary for the kid to start working right away. There would be plenty of time for drudgery in his life; taking it easy for a while wasn't going to ruin his chances.
Mellberg hurried to declare his new point of view, but it didn't have the effect he expected.
'Oh, that's not it. Mum will probably make me get a job too. But it's my mates, you know. I have lots of mates back home, and here I don't know a soul and…' He let the sentence die out.
'But what about all the great things we've done together,' said Mellberg. 'Father and son, you know. I thought you were enjoying finally being with your old pop. Getting to know me.'
Mellberg was groping for a convincing argument. He couldn't imagine why only two weeks earlier he'd felt such panic, waiting for his son to arrive. Sure, he'd been angry with him occasionally, but still. For the first time, he had actually had a feeling of anticipation when he put the key in the door after work. And now all that was about to disappear.
The boy shrugged. 'You've been great. It has nothing to do with you. But I was never actually supposed to move here. That's just something Mum says when she gets mad. She's sent me to Grandma before, but now that she's sick, Mum didn't know what to do with me. But I talked to her yesterday. She's calmed down now and wants me to come home. So I'm taking the nine o'clock train in the morning,' he said without looking at Mellberg. But then he raised his eyes. 'But it's been really cool. Honest. And you've been bloody great and tried really hard and all that. So I'd like to come and visit sometimes, if that's okay…' He paused for a moment but then added, 'Pop?'
Warmth spread through Mellberg's chest. It was the first time the boy had ever called him Pop. Damn it, it was the first time anyone had ever called him Pop.
All at once he found it a bit easier to take the news that the boy was leaving. At least he would be coming back to visit once in a while. Pop.
It was the hardest thing they had ever done. At the same time it gave them a feeling of closure that would enable them to build a foundation for their marriage in the future. The sight of the little white casket sinking into the ground made them hold each other tight. Nothing in the world could be more difficult than this. Saying goodbye to Sara.
Niclas and Charlotte had chosen to be alone. The ceremony in the church had been short and simple. They had wanted it that way. Only the two of them and the pastor. And now they stood alone by the grave. The pastor had spoken the words the occasion demanded and then quietly withdrawn. They had tossed a single rose onto the casket, and it shone bright pink against the white wood. Pink had been her favourite colour. Maybe just because it clashed with her red hair. Sara had never chosen the easy paths.
Their hatred for Lilian was still fresh. Charlotte felt ashamed to be standing in the stillness of the churchyard, with so much hatred gushing out of every pore in her body. Maybe it would be assuaged over time, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the mound of earth on her father's grave, formed when he was laid to rest for the second time. Then she wondered how she would ever be able to feel anything other than rage and sorrow.
Lilian had not only taken Sara from them, but also her father, and she would never forgive her for that. How could she? The pastor had talked about forgiveness as a way to lessen the pain, but how does one forgive a monster? She didn't even understand why her mother had committed these horrendous crimes. The meaningless- ness of the deeds only stoked the fury and pain she felt. Was Lilian completely insane, or had she acted according to some sort of demented logic? The fact that they might never find out made the loss even harder to bear; she wanted to rip the words of explanation out of her mother's mouth.
Besides all the flowers from people in town who wanted to show their sympathy, two small wreaths had also arrived at the church. One was from Sara's paternal grandmother Asta. It was placed next to the casket and had now been carried down to the churchyard to be placed beside the small gravestone. Asta had also contacted them to ask if she could attend, but they had politely refused. They wanted the time to themselves. Instead they asked whether she might consider taking care of Albin while they went to the church. And she had agreed with pleasure.
The second wreath was from Charlotte's maternal grandmother Agnes. Without knowing why, Charlotte had refused to have it anywhere near the casket and had ordered it thrown out. She had always thought that Lilian took after her mother, and in some way she knew instinctively that the evil came from her.
They stood in silence by the grave for a long while, with their arms around each other. Then they walked slowly away. For a second Charlotte stopped at her father's grave. She gave a brief nod of farewell. For the second time in her life.
In the little cell Lilian felt safe for the first time in many years, oddly enough. She lay on her side on the narrow bunk, taking calm, deep breaths. She didn't understand the frustration of the people asking her all those questions. What difference did it make why she had done it? The result was all that mattered. That's how it always was. But now they were suddenly interested in the reasoning behind the deeds, in some logic they thought they might find, in explanations and truths.
She could have talked to them about the cellar. About the heavy, sweet scent of Mother's perfume. About the voice that was so seductive when it called her 'darling'. And she could have told them about the rough, dry taste in her mouth, about the monster that lived inside her, still vigilant, still ready to act. Above all she could have told them how her hands, trembling with hatred, not with fear, carefully put the poison in Father's cup and then scrupulously stirred it, watching it dissolve and vanish into the hot tea. It was lucky that he always took his tea with so much sugar.
That had been her first lesson. Not to believe in promises. Mother had promised her that everything was going to be different. Once Father was gone, they would live a completely different life. Together, close. No more cellar, no more fear. Mother would touch her, caress her, call her 'darling', and never let anything come between them again. But promises were broken as easily as they were made. She had learned that back then and would never let herself forget it. Sometimes she had allowed her mind to consider the thought that what Mother had said about Father might not have been true. But she immediately dismissed that idea to the very depths of her soul. She couldn't even think about that possibility.
She had learned another important lesson as well. To never let herself be abandoned again. Father had abandoned her. Mother had abandoned her. Then she was shuttled from one foster family to another like a soulless piece of baggage, and they all had abandoned her too, if only through their lack of interest.
When she visited her mother at the prison in Hinseberg, she had already made up her mind. She would create a new life, a life in which she had the control. The first step had been to change her name. She never again wanted to hear that name that trickled like venom over Mother's lips. 'Mary. Maaaryyy.' When she had sat in the dark of the cellar, that name had echoed between the walls, making her cower and curl up into a ball.
She chose the name Lilian because it sounded so different from Mary. And because it made her think of a flower, frail and ethereal, but at the same time strong and supple.
She had also worked hard to change her appearance. With military discipline she had denied herself everything that she previously gorged on, and with astonishing rapidity the pounds vanished from her body until her obesity was only a memory. And she never again permitted herself to get fat. She had watched scrupulously that her weight did not increase by a single ounce, and she showed contempt for those who didn't display the same fortitude, like her daughter. Charlotte's weight disgusted her, bringing back memories of a time she didn't want to think about. Anything flabby, loose, and slack aroused a feeling of rage in her, and sometimes she'd had to fight a desire to tear the flesh from Charlotte's body with her bare hands.
They had scornfully asked her if she felt disappointed that Stig had survived. She hadn't responded. To be honest, she didn't know the answer herself. It wasn't as if she had planned what she did. It had merely happened naturally somehow. And it all started with Lennart. With his talk about how it might be best for both of them if they separated. He'd said something about the fact that after Charlotte moved out, he'd discovered that they no longer had much in common. Lilian wasn't sure whether it was then, with those first words, she'd decided that her husband had to die. She felt that it was something she was destined to do. She had found the can of rat poison back when they'd bought the house. She couldn't explain why she never threw it away. Maybe because she knew it might come in handy one day.
Lennart had never done anything in haste in his whole life, so she knew that it would take time before he got around to moving out. She had started with small doses, small enough that he wouldn't die immediately, but big enough to make him seriously ill. Gradually his health had been broken. She had enjoyed taking care of him. There was no more talk of separating. Instead he had gazed at her with gratitude when she fed him, changed his clothes, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
Sometimes she had felt the monster stirring restlessly again. Losing patience.
It had never occurred to her that she might be found out, oddly enough. Everything happened so naturally, and one course of events succeeded another. When Lennart was given the diagnosis of
Guillain-Barré syndrome, she took it as a sign that everything was as it should be. She was just doing what she was intended to do.
In the long run he left her anyway. But it was on her terms – through death. The promise she had made to herself, that no one would ever be allowed to abandon her, still held.
And then she met Stig. He was so loyal, so confident by nature that she was sure he would never entertain the thought of leaving her. He did everything she said, even accepting staying in the house where she had lived with Lennart. It was important to her, she explained. It was her house. Bought with money from the sale of the house she'd had Mother sign over to her, the house she had lived in until she married Lennart. Then, to her great sorrow, she'd been forced to sell it. There wasn't enough room in the little house. Yet she had always regretted it, and the house in Sälvik had felt like a poor substitute. But at least it was hers. And Stig had understood that.
Eventually, as the years passed, she began to notice signs of discontent in him. It was as if she could never be enough for anyone. They were always chasing after something else, something better. Even Stig. When he began talking about how they were growing apart, about feeling a need to start over on his own, she hadn't made any conscious decision. Her actions had simply followed his words as naturally as Tuesday followed Monday. And just as naturally he, precisely like Lennart, had turned to her in gratitude because she was the one who took care of him, who nursed him, who loved him. This time too she knew that parting would be inevitable, but what did that matter when she controlled the pace and determined the moment.
Lilian turned over on her other side and rested her head on her hands. She stared at the wall, seeing only the past. Not the present. Not the future. The only thing that counted was the time that had passed.
She did notice the loathing in their faces when they asked about the girl. But they would never understand. The child had been so hopeless, so intractable, so disrespectful. Not until Charlotte and Niclas had moved in with her and Stig did she realize how bad the situation was. How evil the girl was. It had shocked her at first. But then she had seen the hand of fate in it. The girl was so much like Agnes. Maybe not in appearance, but Lilian had seen the same evil in her eyes. Because that was what she'd come to realize over the years. That Mother was an evil person. She enjoyed watching as the years gradually broke her down. She had moved her to a place nearby. Not so she could visit her, but for the feeling of control it gave her to deny her mother the visits she desperately yearned for. Nothing made her happier than knowing that Mother was sitting there, so close yet so far away, rotting from the inside.
Mother was evil and the girl was too. Lilian had seen how the girl was slowly splitting the family apart and destroying the fragile mortar that held Niclas and Charlotte's marriage together. Her constant outbursts and demands for attention were wearing them down, and soon they would see no other way out than to go their separate ways. She couldn't let that happen. Without Niclas, Charlotte would be nothing. An uneducated, overweight, single mother of small children, without the respect that came with a successful husband. Some people in Charlotte's generation would probably say that such a view was obsolete, that it was no longer fashionable to win social status through marriage. But Lilian knew better. In the town where she lived, status was still important, and she liked having it that way. She knew that people, when they talked about her, often added, 'Lilian Florin? Oh yes, her son-in- law is a doctor, you know.' That gave her a certain respect. But the girl was going to destroy all that.
So she had done what was demanded of her. She noticed when Sara turned back on her way to Frida's because she'd forgot her cap. Actually Lilian didn't know why she had done it right then. But suddenly the opportunity presented itself. Stig was sleeping soundly from his sleeping pills and wouldn't wake up even if a bomb exploded in the house; Charlotte lay exhausted in the cellar flat, and Lilian knew that not many sounds penetrated down there; Albin was asleep, and Niclas was at work.
It had been easier than she expected. The girl had thought it was a fun game, to be able to take a bath with her clothes on. Naturally she had struggled when Lilian fed her with Humility, but she wasn't strong enough. And holding the girl's head under water had been no trouble at all. The only tricky part had been to get down to the shore without being seen. But Lilian knew that she had destiny on her side and that she couldn't fail. She had covered Sara with a blanket, carried her in her arms, and then tipped her into the water and watched her sink. It took only a few minutes, and just as she'd thought, luck had been on her side. No one had seen a thing.
The second incident had been merely a spur-of-the-moment impulse. When the police began sniffing around Niclas she knew that she was the only one who could save him. She had to create an alibi for him, and she happened to see the sleeping child outside Järnboden hardware store. Terribly irresponsible to leave a child like that. His mother really deserved to be taught a lesson. And Niclas was at work, she'd checked on that, so the police would be forced to eliminate him from the investigation.
Her attack on Erica's daughter had also been meant to serve as a lesson. When Niclas mentioned that Erica told him it was time that he and Charlotte got themselves their own home, the fury Lilian felt had been so strong that she saw red. What right did Erica have to be giving out advice? What right did she have to interfere in their lives? It had been easy to carry the sleeping infant to the other side of the house. The ashes were intended as a warning. She hadn't dared stay to see Erica's face when she opened the front door and discovered the baby was gone. But she'd pictured it in her mind, and the sight made her happy.
Sleep crept up on Lilian as she lay on the bunk, and she willingly shut her eyes. Behind her closed eyelids the faces whirled past in a surreal dance. Father, Lennart, and Sara dancing round in a circle. Close behind them she saw Stig's face, wasted and thin. But in the centre of the circle was Mother. She was dancing with the monster in an intimate embrace, closer, tighter, cheek to cheek. And Mother was whispering: Mary, Mary, Maaaryyy…
Then the darkness of sleep rolled in.
Agnes was feeling sincerely sorry for herself as she sat by the window in the old folks' home. Outside the rain was pelting the window, and she almost thought she could feel it whipping against her face.
She didn't understand why Mary didn't come to visit. Where did she get all that hatred, all that rancour? Hadn't she always done everything she could for her daughter? Hadn't she been the best mother she could be? Not everything that went wrong along the way was her fault, after all. Other people were to blame. If only she'd had luck on her side, then things would have been different. But Mary didn't understand that. She believed that Agnes was to blame for the unfortunate events, and no matter how hard she'd tried to explain, the girl refused to listen. She had written many long letters from prison, explaining in detail why she wasn't at fault, but somehow the girl was unreceptive, as if she'd hardened herself to all other views.
The injustice made Agnes's old eyes well up with tears. She had never received anything from her daughter, even though she herself had given and given and given. Everything that Mary had perceived as nasty and horrid had been done for her own good. It wasn't true that Agnes had taken any joy in punishing her daughter or telling her that she was fat and ugly. On the contrary. No, it had actually pained her to be so harsh, but that was her duty as a mother. And it had produced results. Hadn't Mary finally pulled herself together and got rid of all that flab? Yes, she had. And it was all thanks to her mother, though she'd never received any credit.
A strong gust of wind outside made a branch strike the window- pane. Agnes jumped in her wheelchair, but then laughed at herself. Was she turning into a scaredy-cat at her age? She who had never been afraid of anything. Except of being poor. The years as a stonecutter's wife had taught her that. The cold, the hunger, the filth, the degradation. All that had made her scared to death of ever being poor again. She had believed that the men in the States would be her ticket out of misery, then Äke, then Per-Erik. But they had all betrayed her. They had all broken their promises to her, just as her father had. And they had all been punished.
In the end she was the one who had the last word. The blue wooden box and its contents had served as a reminder that she alone controlled her own destiny. And that any means were permitted.
She had fetched the ashes in the wooden box the night before the ship left for America. Under cover of darkness she had sneaked to the site of the fire and gathered up ashes from the spot where she knew Anders and the boys had been sleeping. At the time she didn't know why she did it, but as the years passed she began to understand her impulsive action. The wooden box with the ashes reminded her how easy it was to do something in order to achieve her own goals.
The plan had gradually taken shape in her mind as the day of their departure for America approached. She knew that her fate would be sealed if she let herself be shipped off like a milk-cow with her family as a dead weight round her legs. But alone she would have a chance to create a different future for herself. One in which poverty would be only a distant and distasteful memory.
Anders never knew what hit him. The knife sank into his back all the way to the hilt, deep into his heart, and he fell like a dead piece of meat over the kitchen table.
The boys were taking a nap. She stole quietly into their room, eased the pillow out from under Karl's head and put it over his face. Then she pressed it down with her whole weight. It was so easy. He kicked and struggled briefly, but no sound escaped from under the pillow, so Johan kept sleeping peacefully while his twin brother died. Then it was his turn. She repeated the procedure, and this time it was a little harder. Johan had always been stronger and more powerful than Karl, but even he couldn't fight for long. He was soon as lifeless as his brother. With unseeing eyes they lay there staring at the ceiling, and Agnes felt strangely empty of feelings. It was as though she were putting things back in their proper order. They never should have been born, and now they were no more.
But before she could go on with her own life there was one more thing she had to do. In the middle of the floor she gathered a big pile of the boys' clothes and then went out to the kitchen. She pulled the knife out of Anders's back and dragged him to the boys' room. He was so big and heavy that she was totally soaked with sweat when he finally lay in a heap on the floor. She fetched some of the aquavit they had in the house, poured it over the pile of clothes, and then lit a cigarette. With pleasure she took a few drags before she cautiously placed the lit cigarette next to the clothing drenched in alcohol. Hopefully she could get a good distance away before it caught fire properly.
Voices out in the corridor of the nursing home roused Agnes from her reverie. She waited tensely until they passed, hoping they weren't coming for her, and didn't relax until she heard them go by and continue down the hall.
She hadn't needed to pretend she was shocked when she came back from her errands and saw the fire. She never dreamed it would burn so hot or spread so fast. The whole house had burnt to the ground, but at least all had gone according to plan. No one had even for a moment suspected that Anders and the boys might have died in some other way, and not in the fire.
During the days that followed Agnes felt so wonderfully free that she sometimes had to look at her feet to make sure they were touching the ground. Outwardly she had kept up the pretence, played the grieving widow and mother, but inside she had laughed at how easily those stupid, simple people could be fooled. And the biggest idiot of them all was her father. She was itching with the desire to tell him what she'd done, to hold up the crime to him like a bloody scalp and say, 'See what you did? See what you drove me to do when you banished me like a Babylonian harlot that day?' But she thought better of the idea. No matter how much she wanted to share the blame with him, she would be better served by accepting his sympathy.
The whole plan had worked so well. It had turned out exactly as she wanted and hoped, and yet bad luck had hounded her. The first few years in New York had been everything she'd dreamt of when she sat in the stonecutter compound, imagining a different life for herself. But later she had again been denied the life she deserved. And one injustice followed another.
Agnes felt the rage rising in her breast. She wanted to free herself of this old, loathsome skin. Wriggle out of it like a chrysalis and emerge as the lovely butterfly she once had been. She could smell the odour of old age in her nostrils, and it made her want to vomit.
A consoling thought occurred to her: maybe she could ask her daughter to send over the blue box. Mary couldn't have any use for it, and Agnes would like to run its contents through her fingers again, one last time. The thought cheered her up. She would ask her to bring the box over here. If her daughter brought it herself, maybe she would even tell Mary what it actually contained. To her daughter she had always called it Humility when she fed her spoonfuls of it down in the cellar. But really it had been Fortitude that she wanted to impart to the girl. The strength to do whatever was necessary to achieve what she wanted. She believed she'd succeeded when the girl had obeyed her wishes to get rid of Äke. But after that everything had fallen apart.
Now Agnes couldn't wait to get hold of the ashes again. She reached out a trembling, wrinkled hand for the telephone, but froze halfway there. Then her hand dropped to her side, and her head fell forward, with her chin resting on her chest. Her eyes stared unseeing at the wall, and saliva trickled down from the corner of her mouth to her chin.
A week had passed since Patrik and Martin had arrested Lilian at the hospital. It had been a week full of both relief and frustration. Relief that they had found Sara's murderer, but frustration that she still refused to tell them why she had done it.
Patrik put his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head. He'd been able to spend more time at home this past week, which eased his guilty conscience a little. Besides, things were beginning to settle down at home. With a smile he watched Erica as she resolutely rocked the pram with Maja in it back and forth over the threshold to the hall. Now he had also learned the technique, and it usually took no more than five minutes for them to get Maja to fall asleep.
Cautiously Erica pushed the pram into the work room and closed the door. That meant that Maja was asleep and they would have at least forty minutes of peace and quiet together.
'There, now she's sleeping,' said Erica, snuggling up next to Patrik on the sofa. Most of her moodiness seemed to have vanished, although he could still catch brief glimpses of it if Maja had an especially fretful day. But they were definitely headed in the right direction as parents, and he intended to do his part to improve the situation even more. The plan he had devised a week earlier had now crystallized, and the last practical detail had fallen into place yesterday, with the kind assistance of Annika.
He was just about to open his mouth when Erica said, 'Oh, I made the mistake of weighing myself this morning.'
She fell silent and Patrik felt panic come over him. Should he say anything? Should he not? Getting into a discussion of a woman's weight was like stepping into an emotional minefield. He would be forced to evaluate carefully each spot where he chose to set his feet.
Erica hadn't said anything more, and he guessed that she was waiting for him to make some comment. He searched feverishly for a suitable reply and felt his mouth go dry when he cautiously said, 'You did?'
He wanted to hit himself in the head. Was that the most intelligent thing he could think of to say? But so far he seemed to have avoided the mines, and Erica went on with a sigh, 'Yeah, I still weigh twenty pounds more than I did before I got pregnant. I really thought losing the extra pounds would go faster.'
With the utmost care he fumbled his way forward in search of safer ground. Finally he said, 'Maja isn't that old yet. You have to be patient. I'm sure those pounds will disappear from the nursing. You'll see, by the time she's six months old it'll all be gone.' Patrik held his breath as he waited to see how she would react.
'Yeah, you're probably right,' said Erica, and he gave a sigh of relief. 'I just feel so damned unsexy. My belly is drooping, my breasts are enormous and leaking milk, I'm always sweating, not to mention these damned zits I've started to get from the hormones
She laughed as if what she just said was a joke, but he could hear how desperate the underlying tone was. Erica had never been particularly fixated on her looks, but he understood that it must be hard to handle when your body and appearance were altered so much in a relatively short time. He was having a hard time himself coming to terms with the middle-aged paunch that had developed around his waist at the same pace as Erica's belly grew. It hadn't got any smaller, either, after Maja was born.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Erica wipe away a tear, and all at once he knew that he would never have a better opportunity.
'Sit there, don't move,' he said excitedly, and leapt up from the sofa. Erica gave him a quizzical look but obeyed. He felt her eyes on his back as he rummaged for something in his jacket pocket, which he then concealed neatly before he went back to her.
With a gallant gesture he fell to one knee before her and solemnly took her hand in his. He saw that the penny had already dropped, and he hoped it was joy he saw in her eyes. At least he now had her full attention. He cleared his throat, since his nerves suddenly made him feel unsteady.
'Erica Sofia Magdalena Falck, would you consider doing me the honour of making an honest man out of me and marrying me?'
He didn't wait for an answer before with trembling fingers he plucked out the box he had hidden in his back pocket. With some effort he got the lid of the blue velvet box open, hoping that he and Annika with their combined efforts had succeeded in finding a ring that Erica would like.
The small of his back was starting to ache as he knelt there, and he was beginning to feel alarmed that the silence was lasting such a long time. He realized that he hadn't even imagined that she might say no, but now an anxious feeling crept over him and he wished he hadn't been so cocky.
Then Erica broke out in a big smile and the tears began running down her cheeks. She was laughing and crying at the same time, and she held out her ring finger so that he could place the engagement ring on it.
'Is that a yes?' he said with a smile. She simply nodded.
'And I would never propose to anyone but the most beautiful woman in the world, you know that,' he said, hoping that she would hear the sincerity in his voice and not think that he was laying it on too thick.
'Oh, you…' she said, searching for the right epithet. 'You know, sometimes you know exactly what to say. Not always, but sometimes.' She leaned forward and gave him a long, warm kiss, but then leaned back and held her hand out to admire her new ring.
'It's fantastic. You couldn't have picked it out by yourself.'
For an instant he felt a bit insulted that she would mistrust his taste, and he felt like saying 'I did so'. Then he thought better of it and realized that she was actually right.
'Annika came along as my adviser. So, is it all right? Are you sure? You don't want to exchange it? I waited to have it engraved until you saw it, in case you didn't like it.'
'I love it,' said Erica with feeling, and he could hear that she meant it. She leaned forward and gave him another kiss, this time even longer and more intimate.
The shrill ring of the telephone interrupted them, and Patrik felt his irritation rising. Talk about bad timing! He got up and went to answer it, sounding a bit more curt than necessary.
'Yes, this is Patrik.'
Then he listened for a moment before turning slowly to look at Erica. She was still sitting there smiling, admiring her ring- bedecked hand. When she saw him looking at her she gave him a big smile, but it faded when she saw that he didn't reciprocate.
'Who is it?' she said, and an anxious tone had crept into her voice.
Patrik's expression was grave when he said, 'It's the Stockholm police. They want to talk to you.'
Slowly she got up and went to take the phone from his hand.
'Yes, this is Erica Falck.' A thousand misgivings were contained in that simple statement.
Patrik watched her tensely as she listened to what the man on the other end had to say. With an incredulous expression on her face she turned to Patrik and said, 'They say that Anna has killed Lucas.'
Then she dropped the phone. Patrik got there just in time to catch her before she hit the floor.