Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 1 and 2: The Ice Princess, The Preacher

Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 1 and 2: The Ice Princess, The Preacher Camilla Lackberg The first two captivating Detective Patrick Hedstrom and Erica Falck psychological thrillers, available together for the first time.The Ice Princess, Camilla Lackberg’s stunning debut, sees writer Erica Falck return to her hometown of Fj?llbacka after the funeral of her parents. She’s shocked to find a community on the brink of tragedy. A childhood friend’s body has been found in an icy bath, her wrists slashed – but was it really suicide?Meanwhile, local detective Patrik Hedstr?m is following his own suspicions about the case. It’s only when they start working together that the truth begins to emerge about a small town with a deeply disturbing past…We return to Fj?llbacka in The Preacher where Erica and Patrik are now living together and expecting their first child. Twenty years ago of two young women disappeared while holidaying in the peaceful resort. Now their remains have been discovered, along with a fresh victim, sending the town into shock.When another girl goes missing, Patrik’s attention focuses on the Hults, a feuding clan of misfits, religious fanatics and criminals. Which of this family’s dark secrets will provide the vital clue? Camilla L?ckberg The Ice Princess (#ulink_b7151eed-3e55-53a7-8555-c624346ae219) and The Preacher (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) This special edition 2011 Copyright © Camilla L?ckberg 2011 English translation © Steven T. Murray 2008 and 2007 The Ice Princess Copyright © Camilla Lackberg 2004 Published by agreement with Bengt Nordin Agency, Sweden English translation © Steven T. Murray 2007 Fj?llbacka map by Andrew Ashton © HarperCollins 2008 The Preacher Copyright © Camilla L?ckberg 2004 Published by agreement with Bengt Nordin Agency, Sweden English translation © Steven T. Murray 2008 Camilla L?ckberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Ebook Edition MARCH 2011 ISBN: 9780007435746 Version: 2017-08-23 Contents Title Page (#u52f9cd3e-5ea2-5af0-b6d6-5472f5706055) Copyright (#udb05922a-5c3f-57d7-8982-6436152a870e) The Ice Princess (#ulink_b7151eed-3e55-53a7-8555-c624346ae219) Title Page (#u818c027b-642a-5caf-b84e-6a4ea031678f) Dedication (#ub4312bc8-317a-5896-8308-8516fb0c880a) Map (#u4778b882-4d36-5a9c-ad6b-791d295ff2e8) 1 (#u0a9f2305-a1d0-5766-8c2d-d17dc93d53a9): Eilert Berg Was Not A Happy Man (#u18df2665-54dc-563c-84b0-237da74c13ea) 2 (#u5cab7d1c-b3d8-5328-98ce-a6e8d1d5efad): Awakened From A Deep And Dreamless Sleep (#uc8271285-3577-5621-b30d-c676a0430df1) 3 (#ub64ae069-6b2d-5ff4-8f6a-c1ae2642ff57): Nelly Had Sounded A Bit Surprised When Erica Called (#u89ffe3b4-e820-588b-a1f2-a0a2079dbc53) 4 (#u293a969b-79cd-55e1-896d-928ba8d5ddee): She Was Tired (#u4f2679be-9b99-5475-98c7-6a32e70c6089) 5 (#litres_trial_promo): The Telephone Woke Her (#litres_trial_promo) 6 (#litres_trial_promo): He Had Never Managed To Shake Off The Habit Of Getting Up Early (#litres_trial_promo) The Preacher (#litres_trial_promo) Title Page (#litres_trial_promo) Dedication (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Two: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Three: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Four: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten: Summer 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven: Summer 2003 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve: Summer 2003 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen: August 1979 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) The Ice Princess (#ulink_6e32c9f4-846a-5db6-bd9a-560c17360f85) The Ice Princess CAMILLA L?CKBERG Translated from the Swedish by Steven T. Murray Dedication (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) For Wille Map (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) 1 (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) The house was desolate and empty. The cold penetrated into every corner. A thin sheet of ice had formed in the bathtub. She had begun to take on a slightly bluish tinge. He thought she looked like a princess lying there. An ice princess. The floor he was sitting on was ice cold, but the chill didn’t bother him. He reached out his hand and touched her. The blood on her wrists had congealed long ago. His love for her had never been stronger. He caressed her arm, as if he were caressing the soul that had now left her body. He didn’t look back when he left. It was not ‘good-bye’, it was ‘until we meet again’. Eilert Berg was not a happy man. (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) His breathing was strained and his breath came out of his mouth in little white puffs, but his health was not what he considered his biggest problem. Svea had been so gorgeous in her youth, and he had hardly been able to stand the wait before he could get her into the bridal bed. She had seemed tender, affectionate, and a bit shy. Her true nature had come out after a period of youthful lust that was far too brief. She had put her foot down and kept him on a tight leash for close to fifty years. But Eilert had a secret. For the first time, he saw an opportunity for a little freedom in the autumn of his years and he did not intend to squander it. He had toiled hard as a fisherman all his life, and the income had been just enough to provide for Svea and the children. After he retired they had only their meagre pensions to live on. With no money in his pocket there was no chance of starting his life over somewhere else, alone. Now this opportunity had appeared like a gift from above, and it was laughably easy besides. But if someone wanted to pay him a shameless amount of money for a few hours’ work each week, that wasn’t his problem. He wasn’t about to complain. The banknotes in the wooden box behind the compost heap had piled up impressively in only a year, and soon he would have enough to be able to move to warmer climes. He stopped to catch his breath on the last steep approach to the house and massaged his arthritic hands. Spain, or maybe Greece, would thaw the chill that seemed to come from deep inside him. Eilert reckoned that he had at least ten years left before it would be time to turn up his toes, and he intended to make the most of them, so he’d be damned if he’d spend them at home with that old bitch. His daily walk in the early morning hours had been his only time spent in peace and quiet; it also meant that he got some much-needed exercise. He always took the same route, and people who knew his habits would often come out and have a chat. He particularly enjoyed talking with the pretty girl in the house farthest up the hill by the H?kebacken school. She was there only on weekends, always alone, but she was happy to take the time to talk about the weather. Miss Alexandra was interested in Fj?llbacka in the old days as well, and this was a topic that Eilert enjoyed discussing. She was nice to look at too. That was something he still appreciated, even though he was old now. Of course there had been a good deal of gossip about her, but once you started listening to women’s chatter you wouldn’t have much time for anything else. About a year ago, she had asked him whether he might consider stopping in at the house as long as he was passing by on Friday mornings. The house was old, and both the furnace and the plumbing were unreliable. She didn’t like coming home to a cold house on the weekends. She would give him a key, so he could just look in and see that everything was in order. There had been a number of break-ins in the area, so he was also supposed to check for signs of tampering with the doors and windows. The task didn’t seem particularly burdensome, and once a month there was an envelope with his name on it waiting in her letter-box, containing what was, to him, a princely sum. He also thought it was nice to feel useful. It was so hard to go around idle after he had worked his whole life. The gate hung crookedly and it groaned when he pushed on it, swinging it in towards the garden path, which had not yet been shovelled clear of snow. He wondered whether he ought to ask one of the boys to help her with that. It was no job for a woman. He fumbled with the key, careful not to drop it into the deep snow. If he had to get down on his knees, he’d never be able to get up again. The steps to the front porch were icy and slick, so he had to hold on to the railing. Eilert was just about to put the key in the lock when he saw that the door was ajar. In astonishment, he opened it and stepped into the entryway. ‘Hello, is anybody at home?’ Maybe she’d arrived a bit early today. There was no answer. He saw his own breath coming out of his mouth and realized that the house was freezing cold. All at once he didn’t know what to do. There was something seriously wrong, and he didn’t think it was just a faulty furnace. He walked through the rooms. Nothing seemed to have been touched. The house was as neat as always. The VCR and TV were where they belonged. After looking through the entire ground floor, Eilert went upstairs. The staircase was steep and he had to grab on hard to the banister. When he reached the upper floor, he went first to the bedroom. It was feminine but tastefully furnished, and just as neat as the rest of the house. The bed was made and there was a suitcase standing at the foot. Nothing seemed to have been unpacked. Now he felt a bit foolish. Maybe she’d arrived a little early, discovered that the furnace wasn’t working, and gone out to find someone to fix it. And yet he really didn’t believe that explanation. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his joints, the same way he sometimes felt an approaching storm. He cautiously continued looking through the house. The next room was a large loft, with a sloping ceiling and wooden beams. Two sofas faced each other on either side of a fireplace. There were some magazines spread out on the coffee table, but otherwise everything was in its place. He went back downstairs. There, too, everything looked the way it should. Neither the kitchen nor the living room seemed any different than usual. The only room remaining was the bathroom. Something made him pause before he pushed open the door. There was still not a sound in the house. He stood there hesitating for a moment, realized that he was acting a bit ridiculously, and firmly pushed open the door. Seconds later, he was hurrying to the front door as fast as his age would permit. At the last moment, he remembered that the steps were slippery and grabbed hold of the railing to keep from tumbling headlong down the steps. He trudged through the snow on the garden path and swore when the gate stuck. Out on the pavement he stopped, at a loss what to do. A little way down the street he caught sight of someone approaching at a brisk walk and recognized Tore’s daughter Erica. He called out to her to stop. She was tired. So deathly tired. Erica Falck shut down her computer and went out to the kitchen to refill her coffee cup. She felt under pressure from all directions. The publishers wanted a first draft of the book in August, and she had hardly begun. The book about Selma Lagerl?f, her fifth biography about a Swedish woman writer, was supposed to be her best, but she was utterly drained of any desire to write. It was more than a month since her parents had died, but her grief was just as fresh today as when she received the news. Cleaning out her parents’ house had not gone as quickly as she had hoped, either. Everything brought back memories. It took hours to pack every carton, because with each item she was engulfed in images from a life that sometimes felt very close and sometimes very, very far away. But the packing couldn’t be rushed. Her flat in Stockholm had been sublet for the time being, and she reckoned she might as well stay here at her parents’ home in Fj?llbacka and write. The house was a bit out of town in S?lvik, and the surroundings were calm and peaceful. Erica sat down on the enclosed veranda and looked out over the islands and skerries. The view never failed to take her breath away. Each new season brought its own spectacular scenery, and today it was bathed in bright sunshine that sent cascades of glittering light over the thick layer of ice on the sea. Her father would have loved a day like this. She felt a catch in her throat, and the air in the house all at once seemed stifling. She decided to go for a walk. The thermometer showed fifteen degrees below zero, and she put on layer upon layer of clothing. She was still cold when she stepped out the door, but it didn’t take long before her brisk pace warmed her up. Outside it was gloriously quiet. There were no other people about. The only sound she heard was her own breathing. This was a stark contrast to the summer months when the town was teeming with life. Erica preferred to stay away from Fj?llbacka in the summertime. Although she knew that the survival of the town depended on tourism, she still couldn’t shake the feeling that every summer the place was invaded by a swarm of grasshoppers. A many-headed monster that slowly, year by year, swallowed the old fishing village by buying up the houses near the water, which created a ghost town for nine months of the year. Fishing had been Fj?llbacka’s livelihood for centuries. The unforgiving environment and the constant struggle to survive, when everything depended on whether the herring came streaming back or not, had made the people of the town strong and rugged. Then Fj?llbacka had become picturesque and began to attract tourists with fat wallets. At the same time, the fish lost their importance as a source of income, and Erica thought she could see the necks of the permanent residents bend lower with each year that passed. The young people moved away and the older inhabitants dreamed of bygone times. She too was among those who had chosen to leave. She picked up her pace some more and turned left towards the hill leading up to the H?kebacken school. As Erica approached the top of the hill she heard Eilert Berg yelling something she couldn’t really make out. He was waving his arms and coming towards her. ‘She’s dead.’ Eilert was breathing hard in small, short gasps, a nasty wheezing sound coming from his lungs. ‘Calm down, Eilert. What happened?’ ‘She’s lying in there! Dead.’ He pointed at the big, light-blue frame house at the crest of the hill, giving her an entreating look at the same time. It took a moment before Erica comprehended what he was saying, but when the words sank in she shoved open the stubborn gate and plodded up to the front door. Eilert had left the door ajar, and she cautiously stepped over the threshold, uncertain what she might expect to see. For some reason she didn’t think to ask. Eilert followed warily and pointed mutely towards the bathroom on the ground floor. Erica was in no hurry. She turned to give Eilert an enquiring glance. He was pale and his voice was faint when he said, ‘In there.’ Erica hadn’t been in this house for a long time, but she had once known it well, and she knew where the bathroom was. She shivered in the cold despite her warm clothing. The door to the bathroom swung slowly inward, and she stepped inside. She didn’t really know what she had expected from Eilert’s curt statement, but nothing had prepared her for the blood. The bathroom was completely tiled in white, so the effect of the blood in and around the bathtub was even more striking. For a brief moment she thought that the contrast was pretty, before she realized that a real person was lying in the tub. In spite of the unnatural interplay of white and blue on the body, Erica recognized her at once. It was Alexandra Wijkner, n?e Carlgren, daughter of the family that owned this house. In their childhood they had been best friends, but that felt like a whole lifetime ago. Now the woman in the bathtub seemed like a stranger. Mercifully, the corpse’s eyes were shut, but the lips were bright blue. A thin film of ice had formed around the torso, hiding the lower half of the body completely. The right arm, streaked with blood, hung limply over the edge of the tub, its fingers dipped in the congealed pool of blood on the floor. There was a razor blade on the edge of the tub. The other arm was visible only above the elbow, with the rest hidden beneath the ice. The knees also stuck up through the frozen surface. Alex’s long blonde hair was spread like a fan over the end of the tub but looked brittle and frozen in the cold. Erica stood for a long time looking at her. She was shivering both from the cold and from the loneliness exhibited by the macabre tableau. Then she backed silently out of the room. Afterwards, everything seemed to happen in a blur. She rang the doctor on duty on her mobile phone, and waited with Eilert until the doctor and the ambulance arrived. She recognized the signs of shock from when she got the news about her parents, and she poured herself a large shot of cognac as soon as she got home. Perhaps not what the doctor would order, but it made her hands stop shaking. The sight of Alex had taken her back to her childhood. It was more than twenty-five years ago that they had been best friends, but even though many people had come and gone in her life since then, Alex was still close to her heart. They were just children back then. As adults they had been strangers to each other. And yet Erica had a hard time reconciling herself to the thought that Alex had taken her own life, which was the inescapable interpretation of what she had seen. The Alexandra she had known was one of the most alive and confident people she could imagine. An attractive, self-assured woman with a radiance that made people turn around to look at her. According to what Erica had heard through the grapevine, life had been kind to Alex, just as Erica had always thought it would be. She ran an art gallery in G?teborg, she was married to a man who was both successful and nice, and she lived in a house as big as a manor on the island of S?r?. But something had obviously gone wrong. Erica felt that she needed to divert her attention, so she punched in her sister’s phone number. ‘Were you asleep?’ ‘Are you kidding? Adrian woke me up at three in the morning, and by the time he finally fell asleep at six, Emma was awake and wanted to play.’ ‘Couldn’t Lucas get up for once?’ Icy silence on the other end of the line, and Erica bit her tongue. ‘He has an important meeting today, so he needed his sleep. Besides, there’s a lot of turmoil at his job right now. The company is in a critical strategic stage.’ Anna’s voice was getting louder, and Erica could hear an undertone of hysteria. Lucas always had a ready excuse, and Anna was probably quoting him directly. If it wasn’t an important meeting, then he was stressed out by all the weighty decisions he had to make, or his nerves were shot because of the pressure associated with being, in his own words, such a successful businessman. So all responsibility for the children fell to Anna. With a lively three-year-old and a baby of four months, Anna had looked ten years older than her thirty years when the sisters saw each other at their parents’ funeral. ‘Honey, don’t touch that,’ Anna shouted in English. ‘Seriously, don’t you think it’s about time you started speaking Swedish with Emma?’ ‘Lucas thinks we should speak English at home. He says that we’re going to move back to London anyway before she starts school.’ Erica was so tired of hearing the words ‘Lucas thinks, Lucas says, Lucas feels that …’ In her eyes her brother-in-law was a shining example of a first-class shithead. Anna had met him when she was working as an au pair in London, and she was instantly enchanted by the onslaught of attention from the successful stockbroker Lucas Maxwell, ten years her senior. She gave up all her plans of starting at university, and instead devoted her life to being the perfect, ideal wife. The only problem was that Lucas was a man who was never satisfied, and Anna, who had always done exactly as she pleased ever since she was a child, had totally eradicated her own personality after marrying Lucas. Until the children arrived, Erica had still hoped that her sister would come to her senses, leave Lucas, and start living her own life. But when first Emma and then Adrian were born, she had to admit that her brother-in-law was unfortunately here to stay. ‘I suggest that we drop the subject of Lucas and his opinions on child-rearing. What have auntie’s little darlings been up to since last time?’ ‘Well, just the usual, you know … Emma threw a tantrum yesterday and managed to cut up a small fortune in baby clothes before I caught her, and Adrian has either been throwing up or screaming non-stop for three days.’ ‘It sounds as though you need a change of scene. Can’t you bring the kids with you and come up here for a week? I could really use your help going through a bunch of stuff. And soon we’ll need to tackle all the paperwork too.’ ‘Er, well … We were planning to talk to you about that.’ As usual when she had to deal with something unpleasant, Anna’s voice began to quaver noticeably. Erica was instantly on guard. That ‘we’ sounded ominous. As soon as Lucas had a finger in the pie, it usually meant that there was something that would benefit him to the detriment of all others involved. Erica waited for Anna to go on. ‘Lucas and I have been thinking about moving back to London as soon as he gets the Swedish subsidiary on its feet. We weren’t really planning to bother with maintaining a house here. It’s no fun for you, either, having the hassle of a big country house. I mean, without a family and all …’ The silence was palpable. ‘What are you trying to say?’ Erica twirled a lock of her curly hair around her index finger, a habit she’d had since childhood and reverted to whenever she was nervous. ‘Well … Lucas thinks we ought to sell the house. It would be hard for us to hold on to it and keep it up. Besides, we want to buy a house in Kensington when we move back, and even though Lucas makes plenty of money, the cash from the sale would make a big difference. I mean, a house on the west coast in that area would go for several million kronor. The Germans are wild about ocean views and sea air.’ Anna kept pressing her argument, but Erica felt she’d heard enough and quietly hung up the phone in the middle of a sentence. Anna had certainly managed to divert her attention, as usual. She had always been more of a mother than a big sister to Anna. Ever since they were kids she had protected and watched over her. Anna had been a real child of nature, a whirlwind who followed her own impulses without considering the results. More times than she could count, Erica had been forced to rescue Anna from sticky situations. Lucas had knocked the spontaneity and joie de vivre right out of her. More than anything else, that was what Erica could never forgive. By morning, the events of the preceding day seemed like a bad dream. Erica had slept a deep and dreamless sleep, but still felt as though she’d barely had a catnap. She was so tired that her whole body ached. Her stomach was rumbling loudly, but after a quick peek in the fridge she realized that a trip to Eva’s Mart would be necessary before she was going to get any food to eat. The town was deserted, and at Ingrid Bergman Square there was no trace of the thriving commerce of the summer months. Visibility was good, without mist or haze, and Erica could see all the way to the outer point of the island of Val?, which was silhouetted against the horizon. Together with Kr?kholmen it bordered a narrow passage to the outer archipelago. She met no one until she had walked halfway up Gal?rbacken. It was an encounter she would have preferred to avoid, and she instinctively looked for a possible escape route. ‘Good morning.’ Elna Persson’s voice chirped with unabashed sprightliness. ‘Well, if it isn’t our little authoress out walking in the morning sun.’ Erica cringed inside. ‘Yes, I was just on my way down to Eva’s to do a little shopping.’ ‘You poor dear, you must be completely distraught after such a horrible experience.’ Elna’s double chins quivered with excitement, and Erica thought she looked like a fat little sparrow. Her woollen coat was shades of green and covered her body from her shoulders to her feet, giving the impression of one big shapeless mass. Her hands had a firm grip on her handbag. A disproportionately small hat was balanced on her head. The material looked like felt, and it too was an indeterminate moss-green colour. Her eyes were small and deeply set in a protective layer of fat. Right now they were fixed on Erica. Clearly she was expected to respond. ‘Yes, well, it wasn’t very pleasant.’ Elna nodded sympathetically. ‘Yes, I happened to run into Mrs Rosengren and she told me that she drove past and saw you and an ambulance outside the Carlgrens’ house, and we knew at once that something horrid must have happened. And later in the afternoon when I happened to ring Dr Jacobsson, I heard about the tragic event. Yes, he told me in confidence, of course. Doctors take an oath of confidentiality, and that’s something one has to respect.’ She nodded knowingly to show how much she respected Dr Jacobsson’s oath of confidentiality. ‘So young and all. Naturally one has to wonder what could be the reason. Personally I always thought she seemed rather overwrought. I’ve known her mother Birgit for years, and she’s a woman who has always been a bundle of nerves, and everyone knows that’s hereditary. She turned all stuck-up, too, Birgit I mean, when Karl-Erik got that big management job in G?teborg. Then Fj?llbacka wasn’t good enough for her anymore. No, it was the big city for her. But I tell you, money doesn’t make anyone happy. If that girl had been allowed to grow up here instead of pulling up roots and moving to the big city, things wouldn’t have ended this way. I think they even packed the poor girl off to some school in Switzerland, and you know how things go at places like that. Oh yes, that sort of thing can leave a mark on a person’s soul for the rest of her life. Before they moved away from here, she was the happiest and liveliest little girl one could imagine. Didn’t you two play together when you were young? Well, in my opinion …’ Elna continued her monologue, and Erica, who could see no end to her misery, feverishly began searching for a way to extricate herself from the conversation, which was beginning to take on a more and more unpleasant tone. When Elna paused to take a breath, Erica saw her chance. ‘It was terribly nice talking to you, but unfortunately I have to get going. There’s a lot to be done. I’m sure you’ll understand.’ She put on her most pathetic expression, hoping to entice Elna onto this sidetrack. ‘But of course, my dear. I wasn’t thinking. All this must have been so hard for you, coming so soon after your own family tragedy. You’ll have to forgive an old woman’s thoughtlessness.’ By this point Elna was almost moved to tears, so Erica merely nodded graciously and hurried to say good-bye. With a sigh of relief she continued walking to Eva’s Mart, hoping to avoid any more nosy ladies. But luck was not with her. She was grilled mercilessly by most of the excited residents of Fj?llbacka, and she didn’t dare breathe freely until her own house was within sight. But one comment she heard stayed with her. Alex’s parents had arrived in Fj?llbacka late last night and were now staying with her aunt. Erica set the bags of groceries on the kitchen table and began putting away the food. Despite all her good intentions, the bags were not as full of staples as she had planned before she walked into the shop. But if she couldn’t buy herself treats on a day as miserable as this, when could she? As if on signal, her stomach started growling. With a flourish, she plopped twelve Weight Watchers points onto a plate in the form of two cinnamon buns. She ate them with a cup of coffee. It felt wonderful to sit and look at the familiar view outside her window, but she still hadn’t got used to the silence in the house. She had been at home alone before, of course, but it wasn’t the same thing. Back then there had been a presence, an awareness that somebody could walk through the door at any moment. Now it seemed as if the soul of the house had gone. Pappa’s pipe lay by the window, waiting to be filled with tobacco. The smell still lingered in the kitchen, but Erica thought it was getting fainter each day. She had always loved the smell of a pipe. When she was little she often sat on her father’s lap and closed her eyes as she leaned against his chest. The smoke from the pipe had settled in all his clothing, and the scent had meant security in the world of her childhood. Erica’s relationship with her mother was infinitely more complicated. She couldn’t remember a single time when she was growing up that she’d ever received a sign of tenderness from her mother; not a hug, a caress, or a word of comfort. Elsy Falck was a hard and unforgiving woman who kept their home in impeccable order but who never allowed herself to be happy about anything in life. She was deeply religious, and like many in the coastal communities of Bohusl?n, she had grown up in a town that was still marked by the teachings of Pastor Schartau. Even as a child she had been taught that life would be endless suffering; the reward would come in the next life. Erica had often wondered what her father, with his good nature and humorous disposition, had seen in Elsy, and on one occasion in her teens she had blurted out the question in a moment of fury. He didn’t get angry. He just sat down and put his arm round her shoulders. Then he told her not to judge her mother too harshly. Some people have a harder time showing their feelings than others, he explained as he stroked her cheeks, which were still flushed with rage. She refused to listen to him then, and she was still convinced that he was only trying to cover up what was so obvious to Erica: her mother had never loved her, and that was something she would have to carry with her for the rest of her life. Erica decided on impulse to visit Alexandra’s parents. Losing a parent was hard, but it was still part of the natural order of things. Losing a child must be horrible. Besides, she and Alexandra had once been as close as only best friends can be. Of course, that was almost twenty-five years ago, but so many of her happiest childhood memories were intimately associated with Alex and her family. The house looked deserted. Alexandra’s maternal aunt and uncle lived in Tallgatan, a street halfway between the centre of Fj?llbacka and the S?lvik campground. All the houses were perched high up on a slope, and their lawns slanted steeply down towards the road on the side facing the water. The main door was in the back of the house, and Erica did not hesitate before ringing the doorbell. The sound reverberated and then died out. Not a peep was heard from inside, and she was just about to turn and leave when the door slowly opened. ‘Yes?’ ‘Hi, I’m Erica Falck. I’m the one who …’ She left the rest of her sentence hanging in mid-air. She felt foolish for introducing herself so formally. Alex’s aunt, Ulla Persson, knew very well who she was. Erica’s mother and Ulla had been active in the church group together for many years, and sometimes Ulla would come over on Sundays for coffee. She stepped aside and let Erica into the entryway. Not a single light was lit in the entire house. Of course, it wouldn’t be evening for several hours yet, but the afternoon dusk was beginning to descend and the shadows were growing longer. Muted sobs could be heard from the room straight down the hall. Erica took off her shoes and coat. She caught herself moving extremely quietly and cautiously because the mood in the house permitted nothing else. Ulla went into the kitchen and let Erica find her own way. When she entered the living room, the weeping stopped. On a sectional sofa in front of an enormous picture window, Birgit and Karl-Erik Carlgren sat desperately holding on to each other. Both had wet streaks running down their faces, and Erica felt that she was trespassing in an extremely private space. Perhaps she shouldn’t intrude. But it was too late to worry about that now. She sat down cautiously on the sofa facing them and clasped her hands in her lap. No one had yet uttered a word since she entered the room. ‘How did she look?’ At first Erica didn’t understand what Birgit had said. Her voice was tiny, like a child’s. Erica didn’t know what to answer. ‘Lonely,’ was what finally came out, and she regretted it at once. ‘I didn’t mean …’ The sentence faded away and was absorbed by the silence. ‘She didn’t kill herself!’ Birgit’s voice all at once sounded strong and determined. Karl-Erik squeezed his wife’s hand and nodded in agreement. They probably noticed Erica’s sceptical expression, because Birgit repeated: ‘She didn’t kill herself! I know her better than anyone, and I know that she would never be capable of taking her own life. She would never have had the courage to do it! You must realize that. You knew her too!’ She straightened up a bit more with each syllable, and Erica saw a spark light up in her eyes. Birgit was opening and closing her hands convulsively, over and over, and she looked Erica straight in the eye until one of them was forced to look away. It was Erica who yielded first. She shifted her gaze to look around the room. Anything to avoid fixing her eyes on the grief of Alexandra’s mother. The room was cosy but a bit over-decorated for Erica’s taste. The curtains had been skilfully hung with enormous flounces matching the sofa pillows that had been sewn from the same floral fabric. Knick-knacks covered every available surface. Hand-carved wooden bowls decorated with ribbons with cross-stitch embroidery shared the room with porcelain dogs with eternally moist eyes. What saved the room was the panoramic window. The view was wonderful. Erica wished that she could freeze the moment and keep looking out the window instead of being drawn into the grief of these people. Instead she turned her gaze back to the Carlgrens. ‘Birgit, I’m really not sure. It was twenty-five years ago that Alexandra and I were friends. I really don’t know a thing about her. Sometimes you just don’t know someone as well as you think you do …’ Even Erica could hear how lame this sounded. Her words seemed to ricochet off the walls. This time Karl-Erik spoke up. He extricated himself from Birgit’s convulsive grip and leaned forward as if wanting to make sure that Erica wouldn’t miss one word of what he intended to say. ‘I know it sounds as if we’re denying what happened, and perhaps we’re not presenting a very coherent impression right now. But even if Alex did take her own life for some reason, she would never, and I repeat never, have done it this way! You probably remember that Alex was always hysterically afraid of blood. If she got the slightest cut she was absolutely uncontrollable until someone put a bandage on it. Sometimes she even fainted when she saw blood. That’s why I’m quite sure that she would have chosen some other method, like sleeping pills, for instance. There is no way in hell that Alex could have managed to take a razor blade and cut herself, first on one arm and then on the other. And then, it’s like my wife says: Alex was fragile. She was not a courageous person. An inner strength is required for someone to decide to take her own life. She didn’t have that kind of strength.’ His voice was compelling. Even though Erica was still convinced that she was listening to the hope of two people in despair, she couldn’t help feeling a flicker of doubt. When she thought about it, there was something that hadn’t felt right when she stepped into that bathroom yesterday morning. Not because it would ever feel right to discover a dead body, but there was something about the atmosphere in the room that didn’t really fit. A presence, a shadow. That was as close to a description as she could come. She still believed that something had driven Alexandra Wijkner to suicide, but she couldn’t deny that something about the Carlgrens’ stubborn insistence had struck a chord. It suddenly occurred to her how much the adult Alex looked like her mother. Birgit Carlgren was petite and slender, with the same light-blonde hair as her daughter, except that instead of Alex’s long mane she wore hers cut in a chic page-boy. Birgit was dressed all in black, and despite her sorrow she seemed aware of what a startling appearance she made, thanks to the contrast between light and dark. Tiny gestures betrayed her vanity. A hand carefully patting her coiffure, a collar straightened to perfection. Erica recalled that Birgit’s wardrobe had seemed a veritable Mecca to eight-year-olds who loved to dress up, and her jewellery case had been the closest thing to heaven they could imagine in those days. Next to Birgit, her husband looked ordinary. Far from unattractive, but simply unremarkable. Karl-Erik Carlgren had a long, narrow face engraved with fine lines. His hairline had receded far up his scalp. He too was dressed all in black, but unlike his wife the colour made him look even greyer. Erica could sense that it was time for her to leave. She wondered what she actually had wanted to accomplish by visiting them. She stood up and the Carlgrens did too. Birgit gave her husband an urgent look, as if exhorting him to say something. Apparently it was something they had discussed before Erica arrived. ‘We’d like you to write an article about Alex. For publication in Bohusl?ningen. About her life, her dreams – and her death. A commemoration of her life. It would mean a great deal to Birgit and me.’ ‘But wouldn’t you rather have something in G?teborgs-Posten? I mean, she did live in G?teborg, after all. And you do too, for that matter.’ ‘Fj?llbacka has always been our home, and it always will be. And that was true for Alex too. You can start by talking to her husband Henrik. We spoke with him and he’s willing to help. Of course you’ll be compensated for all your expenses.’ With that they apparently considered the subject closed. Without actually having accepted the assignment, Erica found herself standing outside on the steps, with the telephone number and address of Henrik Wijkner in her hand, as the door closed behind her. Even though she really had no desire to take on this task, to be perfectly honest the germ of an idea had begun to sprout in her writer’s brain. Erica pushed away the thought and felt like a bad person for even thinking it, but it was persistent and refused to go away. An idea for a new book of her own, an idea that she had long been searching for, was right here in front of her. The account of a woman’s path towards her destiny. An explanation of what had driven a young, beautiful, and obviously privileged woman to a self-inflicted death. She would not mention Alex’s name, of course, but it would be a story based on what she could dig up about the path she had taken towards death. To date Erica had published four books, but they were all biographies about other prominent female authors. The courage to create her own stories had not yet emerged, but she knew that there were books inside her just waiting to be put down on paper. This one might give her the push she needed, the inspiration she’d been waiting for. The fact that she had once known Alex would only be to her advantage. As a human being she writhed with repugnance at the thought, but as a writer she was jubilant. The brush spread broad swathes of red across the canvas. He had been painting since dawn, and for the first time in several hours he now took a step back to look at what he had created. To the untrained eye it was merely large patches of red, orange and yellow, irregularly arranged over the large canvas. For him it was humiliation and resignation re-created in the colours of passion. He always painted using the same colours. The past shrieked and mocked him from the canvas, and now he went back to painting with growing frenzy. After another hour he realized that he had earned the first beer of the morning. He took the tin standing closest to him, ignoring the fact that he had flicked cigarette ashes into it sometime the night before. Flakes of ash stuck to his lips, but he eagerly downed the stale beer, then tossed the tin to the floor after he had slurped the last drop. His underwear, which was all he was wearing, was yellow in front from beer or dried urine, he couldn’t tell which. Possibly a combination of the two. His greasy hair hung over his shoulders, and his chest was pale and sunken. The overall impression of Anders Nilsson was of a wreck, but the painting that stood on his easel showed a talent that was in sharp contrast to the artist’s own degeneration. He sank to the floor and leaned against the wall to face the painting. Next to him lay an unopened can of beer, and he liked the popping sound it made when he pulled the tab. The colours shrieked loudly at him, reminding him of something he had spent the greater part of his life trying to forget. Why in hell was she going to ruin everything now! Why couldn’t she just let things be? That selfish fucking whore, she was thinking only of herself. Sweet and innocent as a bloody princess. But he knew what was beneath the surface. They were cast from the same mould. Years of mutual pain had shaped them, welding them together, yet suddenly she thought she could unilaterally change the order of things. ‘Shit.’ He roared and flung the half-full can of beer straight at the canvas. It didn’t rip, which infuriated him even more. The canvas merely buckled and the can slid to the floor. The liquid sprayed across the painting, and red, orange and yellow began to flow together, blending into new shades. He observed the effect with satisfaction. He still hadn’t sobered up after yesterday’s 24-hour binge. The beer did its work quickly despite his many years of hard drinking and his high tolerance for alcohol. He slowly sank into the familiar fog with the smell of old vomit hanging in his nostrils. She had her own key to the flat. In the hall, she carefully wiped off her shoes, although she knew it was a complete waste of time. Things were cleaner outdoors. She set down the bags of groceries and hung her coat neatly on a hanger. It wasn’t a good idea to announce her arrival. By this time he had probably already passed out. The kitchen to the left of the entryway was in its usual wretched state. Several weeks’ worth of dirty dishes were stacked up, not only in the sink but on the table and chairs and even on the floor. Fag-ends, beer cans, and empty bottles were everywhere. She opened the door of the fridge to put in the food and saw that she was in the nick of time. It was completely empty. She spent several minutes putting things away, and then it was full again. She stood still for a moment, marshalling her strength. The flat was a small bed-sit. She was the one who had brought in the few pieces of furniture, but there wasn’t much she could contribute. The room was dominated by the big easel next to the window. A shabby mattress was flung in one corner. She could never afford to buy him a regular bed. At first she had tried to help him keep everything tidy, both the flat and himself. She mopped, picked up after him, washed his clothes and even gave him baths. Back then she still hoped that everything would turn around. That everything would blow over by itself. But that was many years ago now. Somewhere along the way she just couldn’t face it anymore. Now she contented herself with seeing that at least he had food to eat. She often wished that she still had the energy. Guilt weighed heavy on her shoulders and chest. In the past when she knelt down to wipe up his vomit, she had sometimes felt for a moment that she was paying off some of that guilt. But now she bore it without hope. She looked at him as he lay slumped against the wall. A foul-smelling wreck, but with an incredible talent hidden behind that filthy exterior. Countless times she had wondered how things would have been if she had made a different choice that day. Every day for twenty-five years she had wondered how life would have turned out if she had acted differently. Twenty-five years is a long time to brood. Sometimes she just let him lie there on the floor when she left. The cold had seeped in from outside, and the floor felt ice cold to her feet through the thin tights. She pulled on his arm that hung limp and lifeless at his side. He didn’t respond. Wrapping both hands around his wrist, she dragged him towards the mattress. She tried to roll him onto it and shuddered a little when she pressed her hands against the slack flesh of his waist. After a bit of manoeuvring she got most of his body onto the mattress. Since there was no blanket she took his jacket from the entryway and spread it over him. The effort made her pant, and she sat down. Without the strength in her arms that many years of cleaning had given her, she would never have managed this at her age. She was worried about what would happen on the day she could no longer physically cope with the effort. A lock of greasy hair had fallen over his face, and she tenderly brushed it aside with her index finger. Life had not turned out the way she had imagined for either of them, but she would devote the rest of hers to preserving what little they had left. People averted their eyes when she met them in the street, but not quickly enough that she didn’t notice the look of pity. Anders was notorious in the whole town, and a permanent member of the local AA. Sometimes he would stagger through town when he was drunk, screaming abuse at everyone he met. He received the loathing and she received the pity. Actually, it should have been the other way round. She was the one who was loathsome, and Anders the one who deserved pity. It was her weakness that had shaped his life. But she would never again be weak. She sat there for several hours, stroking his forehead. Sometimes he would stir in his sleep, but he was soothed by her touch. Outside the window life went on as usual, but inside that room time stood still. Monday came with temperatures above freezing and clouds heavy with rain. Erica was always a careful driver, but now she drove a bit slower to give herself some leeway in case she happened to skid. Driving wasn’t her strong suit, but she preferred the solitude of a car to being crowded into the E6 express bus or the train. When she turned right onto the motorway the condition of the road improved and she allowed herself to increase her speed a bit. She was supposed to meet Henrik Wijkner at noon, but she had left Fj?llbacka early and had plenty of time for the trip to G?teborg. For the first time since she saw Alex in that icy-cold bathroom she thought about the phone conversation with Anna. She still had a hard time imagining that Anna would really go through with selling the house. It was their childhood home, after all, and their parents would have been upset if they knew. But anything was possible when Lucas was involved. It was because she could see how lacking in scruples he was that she even considered the likelihood. He kept sinking to ever lower depths, but this was far beyond almost anything he’d done before. But before she seriously began worrying about the house, she ought to find out where she stood from a purely legal point of view. Until then, she refused to let Lucas’s latest ploy get her down. Right now, she had to concentrate on the upcoming talk with Alex’s husband. Henrik Wijkner had sounded pleasant on the telephone, and he had already heard the news when she rang. Of course she could come over and ask him questions about Alexandra, since the memorial article was so important to her parents. It would be interesting to see what Alex’s home looked like, even though Erica wasn’t eager to confront another person’s grief. The meeting with Alex’s parents had been heart-wrenching. As a writer, she preferred to observe reality from a distance. Study it from afar, safely and objectively. At the same time it would be an opportunity to get her first inkling of what Alex had been like as an adult. From their first day at school Erica and Alex had been inseparable. Erica was tremendously proud that Alex had chosen her as a friend. Alex was like a magnet to all who came near her. Everyone wanted to be with Alex, yet she was totally oblivious to her popularity. She was withdrawn in a way that displayed a self-confidence which Erica now, as an adult, perceived as very unusual for a child. And yet Alex was open and generous and showed no sign of shyness despite her reserved manner. She was the one who chose Erica as her friend. Erica never would have dared approach Alex on her own. They were inseparable until the last year before Alex moved away and then vanished from her life for good. Alex had begun to withdraw more and more, and Erica spent hours alone in her room mourning for their lost friendship. Then one day when she rang the doorbell at Alex’s house, nobody answered. Twenty-five years later Erica could still remember in detail the pain she felt when she realized that Alex had moved without even mentioning it to her, without saying good-bye. She still had no idea what had happened. Being a child, she’d put all the blame on herself and simply assumed that Alex had grown tired of her. Erica manoeuvred her way with some difficulty through G?teborg in the direction of S?r?. She knew her way around the city after having studied there for four years, but back then she hadn’t owned a car, so in that respect G?teborg was still a blank space on the map. If she could have driven on the bike paths things would have been much easier. G?teborg was a nightmare for an insecure driver, with plenty of one-way streets, roundabouts with heavy traffic, and the stressful ringing of trams coming at her from every direction. It also felt as though all roads were leading to Hisingen, northwest of the city. If she took the wrong exit she was bound to end up there. The directions that Henrik had given her were clear, and she found the address on the first try, managing to stay out of Hisingen this time. The house exceeded all her expectations. An enormous white villa from the turn of the last century, with a view of the water and a small gazebo that held the promise of warm summer nights to come. The garden, now hidden beneath a thick white mantle of snow, had been carefully laid out. Because of its sheer size, it would demand the tender care of a skilled gardener. Erica drove down an avenue of willow trees and through a tall wrought-iron gate onto the gravel courtyard in front of the house. Stone steps led up to a substantial oak door. There was no modern doorbell; instead she banged hard with a massive door-knocker. The door was opened at once. She had almost expected to be greeted by a housemaid in a starched apron and cap, but instead she was received by a man she realized at once had to be Henrik Wijkner. He was unabashedly good-looking, and Erica was glad she had devoted a little extra effort to her appearance before she left home. She stepped into a huge entrance hall and saw immediately that it was bigger than her entire flat back in Stockholm. ‘Erica Falck.’ ‘Henrik Wijkner. We met last summer as I recall. At that restaurant down by Ingrid Bergman Square.’ ‘Yes, that’s right. At Caf? Bryggan. It seems like an eternity ago that we had summer. Especially considering this weather we’re having.’ Henrik muttered something polite in reply. He helped her off with her coat and showed her the way to a parlour off the hall. She sat down gingerly on a sofa. Even with her limited knowledge of antiques she could tell the sofa was old and probably very valuable. She said yes to Henrik’s offer of coffee. As he pottered about with the coffee and they exchanged comments about the wretched weather, she watched him surreptitiously, concluding that he didn’t look particularly bereaved. But Erica also knew that it might not mean anything. Different people had different ways of grieving. He was casually dressed in perfectly pressed chinos and a sky-blue Ralph Lauren shirt. His hair was dark, almost black, and cut in a style that was elegant but not excessively fastidious. His eyes were dark brown and gave him a slightly Southern European look. She happened to prefer men who looked considerably more rough-and-tumble, but she couldn’t help being affected by the attractive power of this man who looked as if he’d stepped right out of a fashion magazine. Henrik and Alex must have made a strikingly good-looking couple. ‘What an incredibly lovely house.’ ‘Thank you. I’m the fourth generation of Wijkners to live here. My paternal great-grandfather had the house built early in the last century and it’s been in the family ever since. If these walls could talk …’ He made a sweeping gesture and smiled at Erica. ‘Well, it must feel strange to have so much of your family’s history around you.’ ‘Yes and no. But it is a great responsibility. In the footsteps of my ancestors and all that.’ He chuckled softly and Erica didn’t think he looked particularly weighed down by responsibility. She, however, felt helplessly out of place in this elegant room and struggled in vain to find a comfortable way to sit on the lovely but spartan sofa. Finally she perched on the very edge and carefully sipped her coffee, which was served in small mocha cups. Her little finger twitched a bit but she resisted the impulse. The cups were perfect for crooking one’s little finger, but she suspected that it would probably seem more of a parody than a sign of sophistication. She also struggled briefly when confronted with the plate of cakes on the table, but lost the battle in a duel with a thick slice of sponge cake. She estimated it at ten Weight Watchers points. ‘Alex loved this house.’ Erica had been wondering how to broach the real reason why she was sitting here. She was grateful when Henrik himself brought up the topic of Alex. ‘How long did you live here together?’ ‘Ever since we were married, fifteen years. We met when we were both studying in Paris. She was reading art history, and I was trying to acquire enough knowledge about the business world to run the family empire. And I did, but just barely.’ Erica strongly suspected that Henrik Wijkner had never done anything ‘just barely’. ‘Directly after the wedding we moved back to Sweden, to this house. My parents were both dead, and the house had stood empty for a couple of years while I was abroad, but Alex immediately began to renovate it. She wanted everything to be perfect. All the details in the house, all the wallpaper, rugs and furniture, have either been here since the house was built and restored to its former appearance, or else they were purchased by Alex. She went round to, well, I don’t know how many antique dealers to find exactly the same items that were in the house when my great-grandfather lived here. She had stacks of old photographs to help her, and the result is fantastic. At the same time she was busy setting up her own gallery. I still don’t understand how she found time to do everything.’ ‘What was Alex like as a person?’ Henrik took his time before answering the question. ‘Beautiful, calm, a perfectionist to her fingertips. She might have seemed vain to people who didn’t know her, but that was because she didn’t easily let anyone into her life. Alex was the sort of person one had to fight to get to know.’ Erica was acutely aware of what he meant. Alex’s air of remoteness was both intriguing and marked her as stuck-up, even as a child. Yet the same girls who called her that often fought the hardest to sit next to her. ‘How do you mean?’ Henrik looked out of the window and for the first time since she entered the Wijkner home, Erica thought she saw some feeling behind that charming exterior. ‘She always went her own way. She didn’t take anyone else into account. Not out of malice, there was nothing malicious about Alex, but out of necessity. The most important thing for my wife was to avoid getting hurt. Everything else, all other feelings, had to take a back seat to that priority. But the problem is, if you don’t let anyone through the wall out of fear that they might be an enemy, then you end up locking out all your friends as well.’ He fell silent. Then he looked at Erica. ‘She talked a lot about you.’ Erica couldn’t conceal her surprise. In view of the way their friendship had ended, Erica assumed that Alex had turned her back on her and had never given her another thought. ‘I vividly remember one thing she told me. She said that you were the last real friend she ever had. “The last pure friendship.” That’s exactly what she said. I thought it was a rather odd thing to say, but she never mentioned it again, and by that time I’d learned not to question her. That’s why I’m telling you things about Alex that I’ve never told anyone else. Something tells me that despite all the years that have passed, you still had a place in my wife’s heart.’ ‘You loved her?’ ‘More than anything else in the world. Alexandra was my whole life. Everything I did, everything I said, revolved around her. The ironic thing is that she never even noticed. If only she had let me in, she wouldn’t be dead today. The answer was always right in front of her nose, but she refused to see it. My wife had a strange mixture of cowardice and courage.’ ‘Birgit and Karl-Erik don’t think she took her own life.’ ‘Yes, I know. They assume that I wouldn’t believe she did it either, but to be honest, I don’t quite know what I think. I lived with her for over fifteen years, but I never really knew her.’ His voice was still dry and matter-of-fact. Judging by his tone of voice he could have been talking about the weather, but Erica realized that her first impression of Henrik couldn’t have been more off the mark. The depth of his sorrow was enormous. He just didn’t put it on public display the way Birgit and Karl-Erik Carlgren did. Perhaps because of her own experiences, Erica understood instinctively that he was not suffering merely from grief over his wife’s death but also from forever losing the chance to get her to love him the way he loved her. It was a feeling with which she was intimately familiar. ‘What was she afraid of?’ ‘I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. I really don’t know. As soon as I tried to talk to her about it she would shut the door, and I never managed to get in. It was as though she harboured a secret that she couldn’t share with anyone. Does that sound odd? But because I don’t know what that secret was, I can’t say whether she was capable of taking her own life.’ ‘How was her relationship with her parents and her sister?’ ‘Well, how should I describe it?’ He thought for a long time before he replied. ‘Tense. As if they were all tiptoeing round one another. The only one who ever said what she thought was her little sister Julia, and she’s a very strange person in general. It always felt as if a whole different dialogue were going on underneath what was being said out loud. I don’t quite know how to explain it. It was as if they were speaking in code, and someone had forgotten to give me the key.’ ‘What do you mean when you say that Julia is odd?’ ‘As you probably know, Birgit gave birth to Julia quite late in life. She was already a good bit past forty, and it wasn’t planned. So Julia has somehow always been the cuckoo in the nest. And it couldn’t have been very easy to have a sister like Alex. Julia was not a pretty child. She hasn’t grown any more attractive as an adult, and you know how Alex looked. Birgit and Karl-Erik have always been extremely focused on Alex, and Julia was simply forgotten. Her way of dealing with it was to turn inward. But I like her. There’s definitely something underneath her surly exterior. I only hope that someday, someone will make the effort to find it.’ ‘How has she reacted to Alex’s death? What was their relationship like?’ ‘You’ll probably have to ask Birgit or Karl-Erik about that. I haven’t seen Julia in more than six months. She’s studying to be a teacher up north in Ume?, and she doesn’t like coming back here. She didn’t even come home for Christmas last year. As far as her relationship with Alex goes, Julia has always worshipped her big sister. Alex had already started boarding school when Julia was born, so she wasn’t home much, but whenever we visited the family Julia would follow her sister around like a puppy. Alex didn’t like it much but she left her alone. Sometimes she could get angry at Julia and snap at her, but usually she just ignored her sister.’ Erica felt that the conversation was nearing an end. In the pauses the silence in the house had been total, and she could sense that in the midst of all this luxury it had now become a lonely house for Henrik Wijkner. Erica stood up and held out her hand. He took it in both of his, held it for a few seconds, then released it. He walked her to the door. ‘I think I’ll drive down to the gallery and look around a bit,’ she said. ‘That’s a good idea. Alex was incredibly proud of it. She built the business from the ground up, together with a friend from her student years in Paris, Francine Bijoux. Well, now her name is Sandberg. We used to socialize with Francine and her husband a good deal, although that became less frequent after they had children. Francine is probably at the gallery. I’ll give her a ring and explain who you are. I’m sure she’ll be glad to help out and tell you a bit about Alex.’ Henrik held open the door for Erica. With a last thank you, she turned away from Alex’s husband and walked to her car. At the same moment that she got out of her car, the heavens opened up. The gallery was in Chalmersgaten, parallel to the main shopping street Avenyn, but after half an hour of looking for a parking spot Erica resigned herself and parked at Heden. It wasn’t so far away, really, but in the pouring rain it felt like ten kilometres. And the parking fee was twelve kronor an hour. Erica could feel her mood sinking. Naturally she hadn’t brought an umbrella with her, and she knew that her curly hair would soon look like a bad home-perm. She hurried across Avenyn and just managed to dodge the number 4 tram that came thundering in the direction of M?lndal. After passing Valand, where she had spent many an evening during her student years, she turned left into Chalmersgaten. Galleri Abstract was on the left, with big display windows facing the street. A bell over the door pinged as she entered, and she saw that the space was much bigger than it looked from outside. The walls, floor and ceiling were painted white so as not to distract from the works of art hanging on the walls. At the far end of the gallery she saw a woman who looked unmistakably French. She exuded sheer elegance as she discussed a painting with a customer, gesturing eagerly as she talked. ‘I’ll be right there, please have a look around in the meantime.’ Her French accent sounded charming. Erica took the woman at her word. With her hands clasped behind her back she walked slowly around the room as she looked at the artworks. As the gallery’s name indicated, all the paintings were done in the abstract style. Cubes, squares, circles and strange figures. Erica tilted her head and squinted, trying to see what the art aficionados saw. But it completely eluded her. Nope, still only cubes and squares like any five-year-old could produce, in her opinion. She would just have to accept that this was beyond her comprehension. She was standing before a gigantic red painting with yellow, irregularly divided sections when she heard Francine come up behind her with heels clacking on the chequerboard floor. ‘That one is certainly wonderful,’ said Francine. ‘Yes, indeed. Exquisite. But to be honest, I’m not really at home in the world of art. I think Van Gogh’s sunflowers are great, but that’s about as far as my knowledge goes.’ Francine smiled. ‘You must be Erica. Henri just rang and told me you were on your way here.’ She held out a finely contoured hand. Erica hastily wiped off her own hand, still wet with rain, before she took Francine’s. The woman facing her was small and slender, with an elegance that Frenchwomen seem to have patented. Erica was five foot nine in her stockinged feet, and she felt like a giant in comparison. Francine’s hair was raven-black. It was pulled back smoothly from her forehead and gathered in a chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a form-fitting black dress. The colour was no doubt chosen in view of the death of her friend and colleague; she seemed more the type to dress in dramatic red, or perhaps yellow. Her make-up was light and perfectly applied, but it could not conceal the telling red rims of her eyes. Erica hoped that her own mascara wasn’t running – no doubt a vain hope. ‘I thought we ought to sit down and talk over a cup of coffee. The weather is very mild today. Let’s go out back.’ She led Erica towards a small room behind the gallery that was fully equipped with a refrigerator, microwave oven, and coffeemaker. The table was small and had room for only two chairs. Erica sat down and was instantly served a cup of steaming hot coffee by Francine. Her stomach protested after all the cups she had drunk when she was visiting Henrik. But she knew from experience, from the innumerable interviews she had conducted to dig up background material for her books, that for some reason people talked more easily with a coffee cup in their hand. ‘From what I understood from Henri, Alex’s parents asked you to write a commemorative article about her life.’ ‘Yes. I’ve only seen Alex on brief occasions in the last twenty-five years, so I need to find out more about what she was like as a person before I can start writing.’ ‘Are you a journalist?’ ‘No, I write biographies. I’m only doing this because Birgit and Karl-Erik asked me. And besides, I was the first one to find her, well, almost the first. And in some strange way I feel as though I need to do this to create another picture of Alex for myself, a living picture. Does that sound odd?’ ‘No, not at all. I think it’s fabulous that you’re taking so much trouble on behalf of Alex’s parents – and Alex.’ Francine leaned across the table and placed a well-manicured hand over Erica’s. Erica felt a warm blush spread across her cheeks and tried not to think of the draft of the book she’d been working on for large parts of the previous day. Francine went on, ‘Henri also asked me to answer your questions with the utmost candour.’ She spoke excellent Swedish. She rolled her R’s softly, and Erica noticed that she used the French Henri rather than Henrik. ‘You and Alex met in Paris?’ ‘Yes, we studied art history together. We ran into each other the very first day. She looked lost and I felt lost. The rest is history, as they say.’ ‘How long have you known each other?’ ‘Let’s see, Henri and Alex celebrated their fifteenth anniversary last fall so it would be … seventeen years. For fifteen of those years we’ve run this gallery together.’ She fell silent and to Erica’s astonishment lit a cigarette. For some reason she hadn’t pictured Francine as a smoker. The Frenchwoman’s hand shook a little as she lit the cigarette, and then she took a deep drag without taking her eyes off Erica. ‘Didn’t you wonder where she was?’ Erica asked. ‘She must have been lying there a week before we found her.’ It occurred to Erica that she hadn’t thought to ask Henrik the same question. ‘I know it sounds strange, but no, I didn’t. Alex …’ she hesitated. ‘Alex always did pretty much as she liked. It could be incredibly frustrating, but I suppose I got used to it over the years. This wasn’t the first time she was gone for a while. She usually popped up later as if nothing had happened. Besides, she did more than her share when she took care of the gallery all alone when I was on maternity leave. You know, in some way I still think the same thing is going to happen. That she’s going to come walking in the door. But this time I know she won’t.’ A tear threatened to spill from her eye. ‘No, she won’t.’ Erica looked down into her coffee cup to allow Francine to dry her eyes discreetly. ‘How did Henrik react whenever Alex simply vanished?’ ‘You’ve met him. Alex could do no wrong in his eyes. Henri has spent the past fifteen years worshipping her. Poor Henri.’ ‘Why poor Henri?’ ‘Alex didn’t love him. Sooner or later he would have been forced to realize that.’ She stubbed out the first cigarette and lit another. ‘You must have known each other inside-out after so many years,’ said Erica. ‘I don’t think anyone really knew Alex. Although I probably knew her better than Henri did. He has always refused to take off his rose-tinted glasses.’ ‘During our conversation Henrik hinted that in all the years of their marriage it felt as though Alex was hiding something from him. Do you know whether that’s true? And if so, what it could be?’ ‘That was unusually perceptive of him. I may have underestimated Henri.’ She raised a finely shaped eyebrow. ‘To your first question I will answer yes: I’ve always known that she was carrying some sort of baggage. To the second question I must answer no: I don’t have the faintest idea what it could be. Despite our long friendship there was always a point at which Alex would signal, “so far, and no farther”. I accepted it, while Henri did not. Sooner or later it would have broken him. And it probably would have been sooner.’ ‘Why is that?’ Francine hesitated. ‘They’re going to do an autopsy on Alex, aren’t they?’ The question took Erica by surprise. ‘Yes, that’s always done for a suicide. Why do you ask?’ ‘Because then I know that what I’m about to tell you will come out anyway. My conscience feels lighter, at least.’ She stubbed out the cigarette carefully. Erica held her breath in tense expectation, but Francine took her time lighting a third cigarette. Her fingers didn’t have the characteristic yellow discolouration of a smoker, so Erica suspected that she didn’t usually chain-smoke like this. ‘You must know that Alex has been going to Fj?llbacka much more often for the past six months or so?’ ‘Yes, the grapevine works very well in small towns. According to the local gossip, she was in Fj?llbacka more or less every weekend. Alone.’ ‘Alone is not exactly the whole truth.’ Francine hesitated again. Erica had to check her impulse to lean across the table and shake the woman to make her spit out whatever she was holding back. Her interest was definitely aroused. ‘She had met someone there. A man. Well, it wasn’t the first time that Alex had an affair, but somehow I got the feeling that this was different. For the first time in all the years we’ve known each other, she seemed almost content. And I know that she couldn’t have taken her own life. Someone must have murdered her, I have no doubt about that.’ ‘How can you be so sure? Not even Henrik could say for certain whether she might have committed suicide.’ ‘Because she was pregnant.’ Francine’s reply caught Erica off guard. ‘Does Henrik know about this?’ ‘I don’t know. At any rate, it wasn’t his child. They haven’t lived together in that way for many years. And even when they did, Alex always refused to have a child with Henrik. No matter how much he begged her. No, the child must have been fathered by the new man in her life – whoever he may be.’ ‘She never said who he was?’ ‘No. As you probably realize by now, Alex was very sparing with her confidences. I have to admit that I was quite shocked when she told me about the child, but that’s also one of the reasons why I’m absolutely sure she didn’t kill herself. She was literally brimming with happiness and simply couldn’t keep the news to herself. She loved that baby and never would have done anything to harm it, certainly not take its life. For the first time, I saw an Alexandra who had a zest for life. I think I would have grown quite fond of her.’ Her voice sounded sad. ‘You know, I also had a feeling that she intended to come to terms with her past. I don’t know exactly how, but a few scattered remarks here and there gave me that impression.’ The door to the gallery opened and they heard somebody stamping the wet snow from their shoes on the doormat. Francine got up. ‘That’s probably a customer. I have to go. I hope I’ve been of some help.’ ‘Oh yes, I’m very grateful that you and Henrik have both been so frank. You’ve been a great help.’ After Francine assured the customer that she would be right back, she showed Erica to the door. In front of an enormous canvas with a white square on a blue field they stopped and shook hands. ‘Just out of curiosity, what would a painting like this go for? Five thousand, ten thousand?’ Francine smiled. ‘More like fifty.’ Erica gave a low whistle. ‘So, there you see. Art and fine wine. Two areas that remain complete mysteries to me.’ ‘And I can barely write a shopping list. We all have our specialities.’ They laughed. Erica pulled her coat tighter even though it was still damp and headed out into the rain. The rain had transformed the snow to slush, and she drove a bit below the speed limit just to be on the safe side. After wasting almost half an hour trying to get out of Hisingen, where she had ended up by mistake, she was now approaching Uddevalla. A dull rumble in her stomach reminded her that she had totally forgotten to eat all day. She turned off the E6 at the Torp shopping centre north of Uddevalla and drove into McDonald’s. She gulped down a cheeseburger as she sat in the parking lot and was soon back out on the motorway. The whole time her thoughts were filled with the conversations she’d had with Henrik and Francine. What they had told her created an image of a woman who had built high defensive walls around herself. What Erica was most curious about was who could be the father of Alex’s baby. Francine didn’t think that it was Henrik’s, but no one could ever be completely sure what happened in other people’s bedrooms, and Erica still reckoned it was a possibility. If not, the question was whether the father was the man that Francine hinted Alex had gone to meet every weekend in Fj?llbacka, or whether she had a lover in G?teborg. Erica had got the impression that Alex was leading some sort of parallel life. She did as she liked, without worrying about how it would affect those close to her, and Henrik in particular. Erica had the feeling that Francine had a hard time understanding how Henrik could accept a marriage under those conditions. She also thought that Francine disdained him for that reason. Yet Erica could understand all too well how these sorts of things happened. She had been observing Anna and Lucas’s marriage for many years. What depressed Erica most about Anna’s inability to change her situation was that she couldn’t help wondering whether she was part of the reason for Anna’s lack of self-respect. Erica was five years old when Anna was born. From the first instant she saw her little sister she had tried to protect her from the reality she carried round with her like an invisible wound. Anna would never have to feel alone and rejected because of their mother’s lack of love for her daughters. The hugs and loving words that Anna did not get from her mother, Erica supplied in abundance. She watched over her little sister with motherly concern. Anna was an easy child to love. She was totally immune to the sadder aspects of life and took each moment as it came. Erica, who was old beyond her years and often upset, was fascinated by the energy with which her sister loved every minute of her life. Anna took Erica’s anxieties in stride but seldom had the patience to sit on her lap or let herself be cuddled for very long. She grew up to be a wild teenager who did precisely whatever she pleased, an unflappable and self-centred girl. In moments of clarity, Erica admitted to herself that she had probably both protected and coddled Anna far too much. She was just trying to give her what she herself had never received. When Anna met Lucas she became easy prey. She was enthralled by his surface charm but failed to see the stifling forces underneath. Slowly, very slowly he broke down her joie de vivre and self-confidence by playing on her vanity. Now she sat in ?stermalm like a lovely bird in a cage and did not have the power to realize her mistake. Every day Erica hoped that Anna of her own free will would reach out her hand and ask her for help. Until that day, Erica could do no more than wait and remain available. Not that she’d had any great luck with relationships herself. She had a long string of broken relationships and promises behind her; she was usually the one who had broken them off. There was something that snapped whenever she reached a certain point in a relationship. A feeling of panic so strong that she could hardly breathe; she had to clear out, lock and stock, without looking back. And yet, as long ago as she could remember, Erica had paradoxically yearned to have children and a family. She was now thirty-five and the years were slipping away from her. Damn it, she had managed to repress the thought of Lucas all day long, but now he had got under her skin again, and she knew she would have to find out how vulnerable her position actually was. She was altogether too tired to deal with it now. It would have to wait till tomorrow. She felt an acute need to relax for the rest of the day, without thinking about either Lucas or Alexandra Wijkner. She punched in a speed-dial number on her mobile. ‘Hi, it’s Erica. Are you two at home tonight? I thought I’d drop by for a while.’ Dan gave a warm laugh. ‘Are we at home? Don’t you know what tonight is?’ The silence that met her at the other end of the line was alarmingly total. Erica thought hard but couldn’t recall that there was anything special about this evening. Not a holiday, nobody’s birthday. Dan and Pernilla had been married in the summer, so it couldn’t be their anniversary. ‘No, I really have no idea. Tell me.’ There was a deep sigh on the line and Erica realized that the big event had to be sports-related. Dan was an enormous sports fan, which sometimes caused a bit of friction between him and his wife Pernilla. Erica had found her own way of retaliating for all the evenings she had to spend looking at some meaningless sporting event on TV when they were together. Dan was a fanatic follower of the Djurg?rden hockey team, so Erica had taken on the role of rabid AIK fan. Actually she was totally uninterested in sports in general and hockey in particular, and so it seemed to annoy Dan even more. What really got his goat was when AIK lost and she didn’t seem to care. ‘Sweden is playing Belarus!’ He sensed her lack of comprehension and heaved another deep sigh. ‘The Olympic Games, Erica, the Olympics. Aren’t you aware that such an event is going on …?’ ‘Oh, you mean the football match? Yes, of course I know about that. I thought you meant that there was something special tonight besides that.’ She spoke in an exaggerated tone, clearly showing she had no idea that there was a match tonight. She smiled because she knew Dan was literally tearing his hair out over such blasphemy. Sports were not a joking matter for him. ‘But I’ll come over and check out the match with you so I can see Salming crush the Russian defence …’ ‘Salming! Don’t you know how many years it’s been since he retired? You’re kidding me, right? Tell me you’re kidding.’ ‘Yes, Dan, I’m kidding. I’m not that daft. I’ll come over and check out Sundin, if that suits you better. Incredibly cute guy, by the way.’ He sighed heavily yet again. This time because she had been sacrilegious enough to speak of such a giant in the hockey world in terms other than purely athletic. ‘All right, come on over. But I don’t want a repeat of last time! No yakking during the match, no comments about how sexy the players look in their shinguards, and above all, no questions about whether they’re wearing jockstraps and if they wear underpants over them. Understood?’ Erica suppressed a laugh and said seriously, ‘Scout’s honour, Dan.’ He grunted. ‘You’ve never been a scout.’ ‘No, precisely.’ Then she pressed the off button on her mobile phone. Dan and Pernilla lived in one of the relatively new row-houses in Falkeliden. The houses stood in straight lines, climbing up along Rabekullen Hill, and they looked so much alike that it was almost impossible to tell one from the other. It was a popular area for families with children, mainly because the houses had no ocean view whatever and thus hadn’t climbed to such dizzying prices as the neighbourhoods closer to the sea. The evening was much too cold to take a walk, but the car protested vehemently when she forced it up the icy hill, only moderately sanded. She turned into Dan and Pernilla’s street with a deep sigh of relief. Erica rang the doorbell, which instantly set off a tumultuous tramping of little feet inside, and a second later the front door was pulled open by a little girl in pyjamas with feet – Lisen, Dan and Pernilla’s youngest. Fury swelled up in Malin, the middle girl, who thought it was unfair that Lisen got to open the door for Erica, and the squabble didn’t die down until Pernilla’s firm voice was heard from the kitchen. Belina, the oldest girl, was thirteen, and Erica had seen her down by Acke’s hot-dog kiosk surrounded by some downy-cheeked boys on mopeds when she drove past the square. Dan and Pernilla were certainly going to have their hands full with her. After the girls each got a hug, they vanished as fast as they had appeared and left Erica to hang up her coat in peace and quiet. Pernilla was out in the kitchen fixing dinner, with rosy cheeks and an apron with ‘Kiss the Cook’ printed in huge letters on it. She looked to be in the midst of a critical stage in her preparations, and merely waved a bit distractedly at Erica before she turned back to her pots and pans, steaming and sizzling. Erica continued into the living room, where she knew she would find Dan, ensconced on the sofa with his feet on the glass coffee-table and the remote control grasped firmly in his right hand. ‘Hi! I see that the male chauvinist pig is relaxing while the missus toils by the sweat of her brow in the kitchen.’ ‘Hey, Erica! Yeah, you know, if you just show them who wears the trousers in the family and run the house with an iron hand, you can whip most women into shape.’ His warm smile belied his words, and Erica knew that whoever was running the Karlsson household, it certainly wasn’t Dan. She gave him a quick hug and settled down on the black leather sofa. She too put her feet up on the glass coffee-table, feeling quite at home. They watched the news on channel 4 for a while in cosy silence, and Erica wondered, not for the first time, whether she and Dan could have had a life like this together. Dan was her first great love and boyfriend. They were together all through high school and had been inseparable for three years. But they wanted different things out of life. Dan wanted to stay in Fj?llbacka and work as a fisherman like his father and grandfather before him, while Erica could hardly wait to move away from the little town. She had always felt she was being asphyxiated here; for her the future lay elsewhere. They had tried to stay together for a while, with Dan back in Fj?llbacka and Erica in G?teborg, but their lives went in totally different directions. After a painful break-up, they had slowly managed to build a friendship that almost fifteen years later was still strong and close. Pernilla came into Dan’s life like a warm and comforting embrace when he was trying to get used to the idea that he and Erica had no future together. Pernilla was there when he most needed her, and she adored him in a way that filled part of the emptiness Erica had left behind. For Erica it had been a painful experience to see him with someone else, but she gradually realized that it was bound to happen sooner or later. Life went on. Now Dan and Pernilla had three daughters together, and Erica thought that over the years they had built up a warm love for each other, even though she sometimes thought she noticed a restlessness in Dan. At first it had not been entirely friction-free for Erica and Dan to continue their friendship. Pernilla had jealously watched over him, regarding Erica with deep suspicion. Slowly but surely Erica had managed to convince Pernilla that she wasn’t after her husband, and even though they never became best friends, they had a relaxed and warm relationship with each other. Not least because the girls obviously adored Erica. She was even Lisen’s godmother. ‘Dinner is served.’ Dan and Erica got up from their slouched position and went to the kitchen, where Pernilla had placed a steaming casserole on the table. Only two places were set, and Dan raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘I ate with the kids. Go ahead and eat while I put them to bed.’ Erica felt ashamed that Pernilla had gone to so much trouble for her sake, but Dan shrugged his shoulders and began nonchalantly shovelling down an enormous serving of what turned out to be a rich fish stew. ‘How have you been, anyway? We haven’t seen you in weeks.’ His tone was concerned rather than accusatory, but Erica still felt a pang of guilty conscience that she had been so poor at keeping in touch recently. There had just been so much else to think about. ‘Well, things are getting better. But now it looks as though there’ll be a row over the house,’ said Erica. ‘What do you mean?’ Dan looked up from his plate in surprise. ‘You and Anna both love that house; you should be able to reach an agreement.’ ‘Sure, we can. But you forget that Lucas is involved too. He smells money and probably can’t stand to miss such an opportunity. He’s never paid any attention to Anna’s opinion before, and I don’t understand why it should be any different this time.’ ‘Damn it, if I could only get hold of him some dark night, he wouldn’t be so bloody cocky afterwards.’ He pounded his fist emphatically on the table and Erica didn’t doubt for a moment that he could give Lucas a real thrashing if he wanted. Dan had been powerfully built even in his teens, and the hard work on the fishing boat had built up his muscles even more, but a gentleness in his eyes belied his tough image. As far as Erica knew, he had never raised a hand to any living creature. ‘I don’t want to say too much yet, I don’t really know what the situation will be. Tomorrow I’ll ring Marianne, a lawyer friend, and find out what possibilities I have to prevent a sale, but tonight I’d rather not think about it. Besides, I’ve been through a lot in the past few days, and thoughts of my material possessions seem a bit petty.’ ‘Yes, I heard about what happened.’ Dan paused. ‘What was it like to find someone dead like that?’ Erica contemplated what she should say. ‘Sad and terrible at the same time. I hope I never have to experience anything like that again.’ She told him about the article she was writing and about her conversations with Alexandra’s husband and colleague. Dan listened in silence. ‘What I don’t understand is why she closed out the most important people in her life. You should have seen her husband, he absolutely adored her. But that’s how it is with most people, I suppose. They smile and look happy but actually they feel burdened with all the worries and problems in the world.’ Dan interrupted her abruptly. ‘Erica, the game is starting in about three seconds and I would prefer an ice hockey match to your quasi-philosophical exegesis.’ ‘No risk of that. Besides, I brought a book along in case the game is boring.’ Dan had mayhem in his eyes before he noticed the teasing glint in Erica’s eyes. They made it back to the living room just in time for the face-off. Marianne picked up at the first ring. ‘Marianne Svan.’ ‘Hi, it’s Erica.’ ‘Hi, it’s been ages. How nice of you to call. How are you doing? I’ve been thinking a lot about you.’ Once again Erica was reminded that she hadn’t been paying enough attention to her friends lately. She knew that they were worried about her, but the past month she hadn’t even managed to stay in touch with Anna. Yet she knew that they understood. Marianne had been a good friend since their university days. They had studied literature together, but after almost four years of study Marianne realized that becoming a librarian was not her vocation in life, so she switched to law. Successfully, as it turned out, and she was now the youngest partner ever in one of the largest and most respected law firms in G?teborg. ‘Well, under the circumstances I’m doing okay, I suppose. I’m starting to get a little order back in my life, but there are still plenty of things to deal with.’ Marianne had never been much for small talk, and with her unerring intuition she could hear that Erica hadn’t simply called to chat. ‘So what can I do for you, Erica? I can hear there’s something on your mind, so let’s hear it.’ ‘I’m really ashamed I haven’t been in touch for so long, and now that I am calling it’s because I need your help.’ ‘Don’t be silly. How can I help you? Is there some sort of problem with the estate?’ ‘Yes, you could certainly say that.’ Erica was sitting at the kitchen table fidgeting with the letter that had come in the morning post. ‘Anna, or rather Lucas, wants to sell the house in Fj?llbacka.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Marianne’s usual composure exploded. ‘Who the hell does he think he is? You love that house!’ Erica felt something suddenly snap inside her, and she burst into tears. Marianne instantly calmed down and started showering Erica with sympathy over the phone. ‘So how are you really doing? Do you want me to come over? I could be there by tonight.’ Erica’s tears flowed even harder, but after a few moments of sobbing she calmed down enough to wipe her eyes. ‘That’s incredibly nice of you, but I’m okay. Really. It’s just all been a bit too much lately. It was very traumatic to sort through Mamma and Pappa’s things, and now I’m late with my book and the publisher is after me and then all this with the house … and to top it all off, last Friday I discovered my best friend from childhood, dead.’ Laughter began bubbling inside her and with tears still in her eyes she began to laugh hysterically. It took her a while to recover. ‘Did you say ‘dead’, or did I hear you wrong?’ ‘Unfortunately you heard right. I’m sorry, it must sound terrible that I’m laughing. It’s just been a bit too much. She was my best friend from when I was little, Alexandra Wijkner. She committed suicide in the bathtub of her family’s house in Fj?llbacka. You probably knew her, didn’t you? She and her husband, Henrik Wijkner, apparently moved in the best circles in G?teborg, and those are the sorts of people you hobnob with these days, right?’ She smiled and knew that Marianne was doing the same at her end of the line. When they were both young students Marianne had lived in the Majorna district of G?teborg and fought for the rights of the working class. They were both aware that over the years she had been forced to think about completely different issues in order to fit in with the circles that came with her job at the venerable old law firm. Now it was chic suits and blouses with bows. It was the cocktail party in ?rgryte that counted, but Erica knew that in Marianne that only served as a thin veneer over a rebellious temperament. ‘Henrik Wijkner. Yes, I do know who he is. We even share some of the same acquaintances, but I’ve never had the opportunity to meet him. A ruthless businessman, so it’s said. The type that could sack a hundred employees before breakfast without losing his appetite. His wife ran a boutique, I think?’ ‘A gallery. Abstract art.’ Marianne’s words about Henrik shocked her. Erica had always considered herself a good judge of people, and he seemed anything but her idea of a ruthless businessman. She dropped the subject of Alex and started talking about the real reason she was calling. ‘I got a letter today. From Lucas’s attorney. They’re summoning me to a meeting in Stockholm on Friday regarding the sale of Mamma and Pappa’s house, and I’m completely clueless when it comes to the law. What are my rights? Do I even have any rights? Can Lucas really do this?’ She could feel her lower lip start to quiver again and took a deep breath to calm herself down. Outside the kitchen window the ice on the bay was glistening after the last couple of days of thawing rain, followed by freezing temperatures at night. She saw a sparrow land on the window-sill and reminded herself to buy a ball of suet to put out for the birds. The sparrow cocked its head inquisitively and pecked lightly at the window. After making sure that there wasn’t anything edible being handed out, the bird flew off. ‘As you know, I’m a tax attorney, not a family rights attorney, so I can’t give you an answer straight off. But let’s do this. I’ll check with the experts in the office and ring you later today. You’re not alone, Erica. We’ll help you with this, I promise you.’ It was great to hear Marianne’s confident assurances, and when they said good-bye life seemed brighter, even though Erica actually knew no more than before she had called. Restlessness set in almost at once. She forced herself to take up her work on the biography, but it was slow going. She had more than half of the book left to write, and the publishers were growing impatient because they hadn’t received a rough draft yet. After filling up almost two pages she read through what she had written, saw it was crap and quickly deleted several hours of work. The biography only made her feel depressed; the joy of working on it had vanished long ago. Instead, she finished writing the article about Alexandra and put it in an envelope addressed to Bohusl?ningen newspaper. Then it was time to ring Dan and rib him a bit about the near-fatal psychological wound he seemed to have suffered after Sweden’s spectacular loss the night before. Feeling content, Superintendent Mellberg patted his large paunch and debated whether to take a little nap. There was still almost nothing to do, and he didn’t ascribe any great importance to the little there was. He decided that it would be nice to doze for a moment so that his substantial lunch could be digested in peace and quiet. But he barely managed to close his eyes before a determined knocking announced that Annika Jansson, the station’s secretary, wanted something. ‘What the hell? Can’t you see I’m busy?’ In an attempt to look busy he rummaged aimlessly among the papers lying in stacks on his desk, but succeeded only in tipping over a cup of coffee. The coffee flowed towards all the papers and he grabbed the closest thing he could find to wipe up the mess – which happened to be his shirttail, since it was seldom tucked into his trousers anymore. ‘Damn it all, I’m the bloody boss of this place! Haven’t you learned to show a little respect for your superiors and knock before you come barging in?’ She didn’t feel like pointing out that she had actually done just that. With the wisdom born of age and experience, she waited calmly until the worst of his outburst was over. ‘I presume you have something to tell me,’ Mellberg seethed. Annika answered in a restrained voice. ‘Forensic Medicine in G?teborg has been looking for you. Forensic Pathologist Tord Pedersen, to be precise. You can ring him at this number.’ She held out a piece of paper with the number carefully printed on it. ‘Did he say what it’s about?’ Curiosity was giving him a tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach. They didn’t hear from Forensic Medicine very often out here in the sticks. Perhaps there would be a chance for some inspired police work for a change. He waved Annika away distractedly and clamped the telephone receiver between his ear and shoulder. Then he eagerly began dialling the number. Annika quickly backed out of the room and closed the door loudly behind her. She sat down at her own desk and cursed, as she had so many times before, the decision that had sent Mellberg to the tiny police station in Tanumshede. According to rampant rumours at the station, he had made himself unwelcome in G?teborg by abusing a refugee who was in his custody. That was clearly not the only mistake he had made, but it was the worst. His superior finally got fed up. An internal investigation had been unable to prove anything, but there was concern about what else Mellberg might do, so he was immediately moved to the post of superintendent in Tanumshede. Each and every one of the community’s twelve thousand mostly law-abiding citizens served as a constant reminder to him of his demotion. His former superiors in G?teborg reckoned he wouldn’t be able to do much damage there. Up until now this assessment had been correct. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing much good, either. Previously Annika had got on well at her job, but that was all over now with Mellberg as her boss. It wasn’t enough that he was perpetually rude, he also saw himself as God’s gift to women, and Annika was the one who suffered the brunt of it. Snide insinuations, pinches on the behind, and improper remarks were only a fraction of what she had to put up with at work nowadays. What she considered his most repulsive feature, however, was the atrocious comb-over he had constructed to hide his bald pate. He had let the remaining strands of hair grow out – his employees could only guess how long they must be – and then he wound the hair round atop his head in an arrangement that most resembled an abandoned crow’s nest. Annika shuddered at the thought of how it must look when not combed over. She was grateful that she would never need to find out. She wondered what Forensic Medicine wanted. Oh well, she would find out soon enough. The station was so small that any information of interest would spread through the whole place within an hour. Bertil Mellberg heard the phone ring as he watched Annika retreat from his office. A mighty good-looking woman, that one. Firm and fine, but with curves in all the right places. Long blonde hair, nice high tits and a substantial arse. Too bad she always wore those long skirts and loose blouses. Maybe he should point out that clothes a bit tighter might suit her better. As the boss he was entitled to have opinions on the way his staff dressed. Thirty-seven years old – he knew that from checking her personnel file. A little more than twenty years younger than himself, which was precisely his taste. Let someone else deal with the old ladies. He was man enough for the younger talent – mature and experienced, with an attractive stoutness, and surely no one could tell that his hair may have thinned a bit over the years. He touched the top of his head cautiously. All well, his hair was as it should be. ‘Tord Pedersen.’ ‘Yes, hello. This is Superintendent Bertil Mellberg, Tanumshede police station. You were looking for me?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s about the body we got in from you. A woman by the name of Alexandra Wijkner. It looked like suicide.’ ‘Yes?’ Mellberg’s interest was definitely piqued. ‘I performed the post-mortem yesterday and established that it was definitely not a suicide. Someone murdered her.’ ‘Bloody hell!’ In his excitement Mellberg tipped over his coffee cup again and the little that was left in it ran out across the desk. He used his shirttail as a rag again and got a new set of spots on it. ‘How do you know that? I mean, what sort of proof do you have that it was murder?’ ‘I can fax the autopsy report over to you, but it’s doubtful whether you would get much out of it. However, let me give you a summary of the most salient points. Just a moment while I put my glasses on,’ said Pedersen. Mellberg heard him humming as he scanned the report. He waited eagerly for the information. ‘All right, let’s see. Female, thirty-five years old, good general physical condition. But you know all that already. The woman has been dead for about a week, but her body is nevertheless in very good condition, primarily thanks to the low temperature in the room where the body was found. The ice around the lower half of the body also helped preserve it. ‘Deep incisions through the arteries of both wrists made with a razor blade, which was found at the scene. This was where I began to get suspicious. Both the incisions are the same depth and very straight, which is quite unusual. I would even venture to say that it never happens in a suicide. It’s because people are either right-handed or left-handed. The incision on the left arm will be much straighter and more powerful for a right-handed person than the wound on the right. That’s what happens when you’re forced to use the “wrong” hand, so to speak. I then examined the fingers on both hands and had my suspicion confirmed. The edge of a razor blade is so sharp that in most cases it leaves microscopic cuts on the hands. Alexandra Wijkner had nothing of the sort. This indicated that it was someone else who slashed her wrists, probably with the aim of making it look like suicide.’ Pedersen paused, then went on. ‘The question I then asked myself was: how could a person do that without the victim putting up a struggle? The answer came with the toxicology report. The victim had residue of a strong sedative in her blood.’ ‘What does that prove? Couldn’t she simply have taken a sleeping pill?’ ‘Certainly, that’s possible. But thankfully modern science has provided forensic medicine with a number of indispensable tools and methods. One of the tools is that today we can calculate extremely precisely the decay rates of various medications and even poisons. We ran the test several times on the victim’s blood and each time reached the same conclusion: it would have been impossible for Alexandra Wijkner to slash her own wrists, since by the time her heart stopped due to loss of blood, she had already been unconscious for a long while. Unfortunately I can’t give you any exact information about times; science hasn’t progressed that far as yet. But there is absolutely no doubt that it was murder. I truly hope that you can handle this. You don’t have many homicides in your area, I shouldn’t think?’ Pedersen’s voice expressed a good deal of doubt, which Mellberg instantly took as criticism directed at him personally. ‘You’re right that it’s not something we have a lot of experience with here in Tanumshede. Fortunately, I’ve been assigned here only temporarily. My real workplace is at police headquarters in G?teborg. My long years of experience on the job mean we’ll have no trouble handling even a murder investigation here. It will be a chance for the local authorities to see how real police work is done. It won’t take long before the case is solved. Mark my words.’ And with this pompous comment Mellberg knew that he had made it crystal clear to Medical Examiner Pedersen that he wasn’t dealing with some greenhorn. Doctors always had to put on airs. Pedersen’s part of the job was done, at any rate, and now it was time for a pro to take over. ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ The medical examiner was stunned by the conceit displayed by the policeman and had almost forgotten to tell him about two additional discoveries that he considered significant. ‘Alexandra Wijkner was in her third month of pregnancy, and she has also given birth before. I don’t know whether this has any relevance for your investigation, but better too much information than too little, don’t you think?’ said Pedersen. Mellberg merely snorted in reply, and after a few concluding pleasantries they hung up – Pedersen with a sense of doubt about the skill with which the murderer was going to be tracked, and Mellberg with revived spirits and a new feeling of eagerness. A preliminary examination of the bathroom had been done immediately after the body was found, but now he would have to see to it that Alexandra Wijkner’s house was gone over one millimetre at a time. 2 (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) He warmed a lock of her hair between his hands. Small ice crystals melted and made his palms wet. Carefully, he licked off the water. He leaned his cheek against the edge of the bathtub and felt the cold bite into his skin. She was so beautiful. Floating there in the crust of ice. The bond between them still existed. Nothing had changed. Nothing was different. They were two of a kind. It took some effort to open up her hand so he could place his palm against hers. He laced his fingers with hers. The blood was dry and stiff, and small flakes stuck to his skin. Time had never had any meaning when he was with her. Years, days or weeks flowed together, becoming an amorphous entity in which the only thing that meant anything was this: her hand against his. That was why the betrayal had been so painful. She had made time meaningful again. That’s why the blood would never flow hot through her veins again. Before he left, he prised her hand back to its original position. He did not look back. Awakened from a deep and dreamless sleep, (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) Erica at first could not identify the sound. By the time she realized that it was the shrill ring of the telephone that woke her, it had already rung many times. She jumped out of bed to answer it. ‘Erica Falck.’ Her voice was no more than a croak. She cleared her throat loudly with her hand over the mouthpiece to get rid of the worst of the hoarseness. ‘Oh, sorry, did I wake you? I beg your pardon.’ ‘No, I was awake.’ The reply came automatically and Erica could hear how transparent it sounded. It was quite obvious that she was groggy, to say the least. ‘Well, I’m sorry in any case. This is Henrik Wijkner. I just had a call from Birgit, and she asked me to contact you. Apparently she got a call this morning from a particularly rude police superintendent from the Tanumshede station. He more or less ordered her, in not very polite terms, to come down to the station. Evidently my presence was also desired. He didn’t want to say what it was about, but we have an idea. Birgit is quite upset, and since neither Karl-Erik nor Julia is in Fj?llbacka at the moment for various reasons, I wonder whether you could do me a big favour and go over to see her. Her sister and brother-in-law are at work, so she’s at home alone at their house. It will be a couple of hours before I can get back to Fj?llbacka, and I don’t want her to be alone that long. I know it’s a lot to ask, and we don’t actually know each other that well, but I have no one else to turn to.’ ‘Of course I’ll go over to see Birgit. It’s no problem. I just have to throw on some clothes. I can be over there in about fifteen minutes.’ ‘That’s fine. I’m eternally grateful to you. Really. Birgit has never been particularly stable, and I’d like someone to be with her until I make it back to Fj?llbacka. I’ll ring and tell her you’re on the way. I’ll be there sometime after noon, so we can talk more then. Once again – thank you.’ Still with sleep in her eyes, Erica hurried into the bathroom to wash her face. She put on the clothes she’d been wearing the day before, and after running a comb through her hair and applying a little mascara, she was sitting behind the wheel of her car less than ten minutes later. It didn’t take more than five minutes to drive to Tallgatan from S?lvik, so it was almost precisely a quarter hour after Henrik’s call that she rang the doorbell. Birgit looked as if she’d lost several pounds in the few days since Erica last saw her, and her clothes hung loosely on her body. This time they didn’t go into the living room; instead, Birgit led her into the kitchen. ‘Thank you for taking the time to come over. I get so nervous, and I just couldn’t sit here worrying until Henrik arrived.’ ‘He said you had a phone call from the police in Tanumshede?’ ‘Yes, this morning at eight a Superintendent Mellberg rang and told me that Karl-Erik, Henrik and I were to come to his office at once. I explained that Karl-Erik had gone out of town on an urgent business matter, but that he would be back tomorrow. I asked if it was all right if we waited until then. That was not acceptable, as he expressed it, and so Henrik and I would have to do for the time being. The man was quite rude, and of course I rang Henrik at once. He said he’d come home as soon as he could. I probably sounded a bit upset, I’m afraid, and that’s when Henrik suggested he would ring you and ask whether you could come over for a couple of hours. I really hope you don’t think we’re asking too much. You probably don’t want to get even more involved in our family tragedy, but I didn’t know where to turn. Besides, you were almost like a daughter in our house once upon a time, so I thought that maybe—’ ‘Think nothing of it. I’m happy to help. Did the police say what this was all about?’ ‘No, the superintendent didn’t want to say a word. But I have an idea. Didn’t I tell you that Alex didn’t take her own life? Didn’t I?’ Erica impulsively placed her hand over Birgit’s. ‘Dear Birgit, let’s not draw any hasty conclusions. You may be right, but until we know for sure it’s better that we don’t speculate.’ They spent two long hours sitting at the kitchen table. The conversation died out after only a short while, and the only thing that could be heard in the silence was the ticking of the kitchen clock. Erica drew circles with her index finger around the pattern on the slick surface of the oilcloth. Birgit was dressed neatly and her make-up was as immaculate as the last time Erica saw her. But now there was something indefinably tired and worn-out about Birgit, like a photograph whose edges were missing their crispness. The weight she had lost didn’t suit her. Even last time she had bordered on skinny, and the weight loss had brought out new wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Birgit was gripping her coffee cup so hard that her knuckles were white. If the long wait was tiresome for Erica, it had to be insufferable for her. ‘I don’t understand who would want to kill Alex.’ The words sounded like a pistol shot after the long silence. ‘She didn’t have any enemies. She just lived a completely ordinary life together with Henrik.’ ‘We don’t know yet what this is about. It’s no use speculating before we know what the police want,’ Erica said again. She interpreted the lack of a reply from Birgit as tacit agreement. Just after twelve noon Henrik pulled into the little parking space in front of the house. They saw him through the kitchen window and got up with relief to put on their coats. When he rang the bell they were already waiting in the entryway, ready to go. Birgit and Henrik kissed each other lightly on one cheek and then the other. After that it was Erica’s turn to receive the same greeting. She wasn’t used to such mannerisms and was a bit worried that she would cause embarrassment by starting from the wrong side. But she handled the moment with no problem, and for a second she enjoyed the masculine scent of Henrik’s aftershave. ‘You’re coming along, aren’t you?’ Erica was already halfway to her car. ‘Well, I don’t know …’ ‘I’d really appreciate it.’ Erica met Henrik’s eyes over Birgit’s head and with a silent sigh she got into the back seat of his BMW. This was going to be a long day. The ride to Tanumshede took no more than twenty minutes. They chatted about the weather and the gradual depopulation of the countryside. Anything other than the reason for their imminent visit to the police station. Erica sat in the back seat and wondered what she was doing there. Didn’t she have enough of her own problems without getting involved in a murder, if that was what it turned out to be? That would also mean that her book idea was as good as worthless. She had already managed to outline a first draft, and now she might just as well toss the pages in the wastebasket. Oh well, at least it would force her to focus completely on the biography. Although with some small changes it might work out yet. In fact it might even be better. The murder angle could be a real plus. She suddenly realized what she was sitting and doing. Alex was not some made-up character in a book that she could twist and turn however she wished. She was a real person who was loved by real people. Erica had loved Alex too. She looked at Henrik in the rear-view mirror. He looked just as unmoved as before, despite the fact that in a few minutes he might be informed that his wife had been murdered. Wasn’t it true that most murders were committed by someone within the victim’s own family? Once again she was ashamed by her thoughts. With an effort she pushed aside that train of thought and saw with gratitude that they were finally there. Now she just wanted to get this over with so that she could go back to her comparatively trivial concerns. The stacks of paper had grown to imposing heights on his desk. It was astonishing how a small community like Tanum could generate so many crime reports. Mostly petty matters, to be sure, but each report had to be investigated, and that’s why he sat here with administrative duties worthy of an eastern European bureaucracy. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Mellberg helped out, instead of sitting on his fat arse all day long. But he had to do the boss’s work too. Patrik Hedstr?m sighed. Without a certain gallows humour, he would never have survived this long. Lately he’d begun to wonder whether this was really all there was to life. The big event of the day would be a welcome interruption in the daily routine. Mellberg had asked him to sit in on the interview with the mother and husband of the woman who was found murdered in Fj?llbacka. It wasn’t that he didn’t see the tragedy in the whole thing, or didn’t feel for the victim’s family. It was just that nothing exciting ever really happened in his job, and he couldn’t help feeling a tingle of anticipation in his body. At the police academy they had been trained in interview situations, but so far he’d only had a chance to try out his talents in that area in connection with stolen bicycles and domestic abuse. Patrik looked at the clock. Time to go over to Mellberg’s office where the conversation would take place. Technically it wasn’t a matter of an official interview yet, but today’s meeting was nonetheless important. He had heard through the grapevine that the mother kept claiming that the daughter couldn’t possibly have killed herself. He was curious to hear what lay behind this claim, which had now turned out to be correct. He gathered up his notebook, a pen and a coffee cup and went down the corridor. With his hands full he had to use his elbows and feet to get the door open, so it wasn’t until he put down his things and turned to face the room that he caught sight of her. His heart skipped a beat. He was ten years old again and trying to pull her pigtails. A second later, he was fifteen and trying to talk her into hopping onto his moped and going for a ride. He was twenty and had given up hope when she moved to G?teborg. After a quick mental calculation, he reckoned that it was at least six years ago since he had last seen her. She looked just the same. Tall and curvy, with hair curling to her shoulders in several shades of blonde that blended to a warm shade. Even as a little girl Erica had been vain, and he could see that she still placed great emphasis on the details of her appearance. Her face lit up with surprise when she saw him. But Mellberg was giving him a stern look to sit down, so he merely mimed a silent hello. It was a tense group of people sitting before him. Alexandra Wijkner’s mother was small and thin, with too much heavy gold jewellery for his taste. She was perfectly coiffed and extremely well-dressed but looked the worse for wear with dark circles under her eyes. Her son-in-law showed no such signs of grief. Patrik glanced through his background information. Henrik Wijkner, successful businessman in G?teborg and heir to a considerable fortune going back several generations. And it showed. Not because of the obviously expensive quality of his clothes or the scent of fancy aftershave that hovered in the room; it was something less definable. A self-confident assurance that he was entitled to a prominent place in the world, which came from never having lacked any advantages in life. Although Henrik looked tense, Patrik could tell that he always felt he had control of the situation. Mellberg loomed behind his desk. He had actually managed to stuff his shirt into his trousers, but splotches of coffee stained the motley pattern of his shirt. As he observed each of the participants in deliberate silence, his right hand straightened his comb-over, which had slipped too far down on one side. Patrik was trying not to look at Erica. Instead he concentrated on one of Mellberg’s coffee stains. ‘So. You are probably aware of why I called you here.’ Mellberg made a long pause, for effect. ‘I am Superintendent Bertil Mellberg, chief of Tanumshede police station, and this is Patrik Hedstr?m, who will be assisting me during this investigation.’ He nodded at Patrik, who was sitting a bit outside the semicircle formed by Erica, Henrik and Birgit in front of Mellberg’s desk. ‘Investigation? She was murdered, for God’s sake!’ Birgit leaned forward in her chair, and Henrik quickly put a protective arm round her shoulders. ‘Yes, we have confirmation that your daughter could not have taken her own life. Suicide can be definitively ruled out, according to the medical examiner’s report. Of course, I can’t go into the details of the investigation, but the main reason we know she was murdered is that, at the time her wrists were slashed, she could not have been conscious. We found a large amount of sedative in her blood. While she was unconscious, some person or persons apparently first put her in the bathtub, filled it with water, and then slashed her wrists with a razor blade to try and make it look like suicide.’ The curtains in the office were drawn against the sharp midday sun. The mood in the room was double-edged. Gloom was mixed with Birgit’s obvious relief that Alex had not committed suicide. ‘Do you know who did it?’ Birgit had taken out a small embroidered handkerchief from her handbag and carefully dried the corners of her eyes so as not to ruin her make-up. Mellberg clasped his hands over his voluminous paunch and fixed his eyes on the people in front of him. He cleared his throat with authority. ‘Perhaps the two of you might tell me that.’ ‘Us?’ Henrik’s surprise sounded genuine. ‘How would we know that? This must be the work of a madman. Alexandra didn’t have any enemies.’ ‘So you say.’ Patrik thought for an instant that a shadow passed across the face of Alex’s husband. The next second it was gone, and Henrik was again his calm and controlled self. Patrik had always harboured a healthy scepticism about men like Henrik Wijkner. Men who were born to succeed. Who had everything without ever having to lift a finger. Naturally Henrik seemed both pleasant and charming, but under the surface Patrik could sense currents that hinted at a more complex personality. He glimpsed ruthlessness behind the handsome features, and he wondered about the total lack of surprise on Henrik’s face when Mellberg revealed that Alex had been murdered. Believing something is one thing, but hearing it stated as fact is quite another. That much he had learned in his ten years as a cop. ‘Are we suspects?’ Birgit looked as astounded as if the superintendent had changed into a pumpkin right before her eyes. ‘The statistics speak for themselves in cases of murder. The great majority of perpetrators is usually found among the close family members. Now I’m not saying that’s true in this case, but I’m sure you understand that we have to be quite certain. No stone will be left unturned, I can personally vouch for that. With my broad experience in murder cases’ – another dramatic pause – ‘this will surely be resolved quickly. But I would like both of you to submit an account of your actions on the days leading up to the point in time when we suspect Alexandra was killed.’ ‘And what point in time would that be?’ asked Henrik. ‘The last of us to speak with her was Birgit, but none of us phoned her until Sunday, so the murder could even have occurred on Saturday. I did ring her around nine-thirty Friday night, but she often took a walk in the evening before bed, so I assumed that she might have been out walking.’ ‘All the medical examiner can say is that she has been dead for approximately a week. Naturally we will check your statements about when you phoned her, but we have one piece of information that indicates she died sometime before nine o’clock on Friday night. At around six o’clock, which must have been just after she arrived in Fj?llbacka, she rang a Lars Thelander about a furnace that wasn’t working properly. He couldn’t come right away, but promised to be there no later than nine that evening. According to his testimony it was precisely nine o’clock when he knocked on the door. No one came to the door, and after waiting for a while he drove back home. Our working hypothesis is therefore that she died sometime that evening after she arrived in Fj?llbacka, since it seems unlikely that she would have forgotten that the repairman was coming to look at the furnace, considering how cold it was in the house.’ His hair was slipping again, this time down the left side. Patrik noticed that Erica could hardly take her eyes from the spectacle. She was probably controlling an impulse to rush over and straighten his hair. Everyone at the station had been through that phase. ‘What time did you say you talked to her?’ Mellberg directed his question at Birgit. ‘Well, I’m not quite sure.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Sometime after seven. About quarter past, or seven-thirty, I think. We spoke briefly because Alex said she had a visitor.’ Birgit blanched. ‘Could it have been …?’ Mellberg nodded solemnly. ‘Entirely possible, Mrs Carlgren. But it’s our job to find out, and I can assure you that we will put all our resources on the case. In our line of work the elimination of suspects is one of our primary tasks, so please write up an account of Friday evening.’ ‘Do you want me to provide an alibi too?’ Erica asked. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. But we would like you to tell us everything you saw when you were inside the house, the day you discovered her. You can leave your written accounts with Assistant Hedstr?m.’ Everyone turned to look at Patrik, and he nodded in agreement. They began to get up. ‘A tragic event, this. Particularly in view of the child.’ They all turned their eyes to Mellberg. ‘The child?’ Quizzically, Birgit looked from Mellberg to Henrik and back. ‘Yes, she was in the third month of pregnancy according to the medical examiner. Surely this can’t have been a surprise to you, could it?’ Mellberg grinned and winked roguishly at Henrik. Patrik was utterly appalled by his boss’s tactless behaviour. Henrik’s face slowly lost all colour until it looked like white marble. Birgit turned to stare at him in astonishment. Erica felt as if she were petrified. ‘Were you two going to have a child? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, God.’ Birgit pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and sobbed uncontrollably, without a thought for the mascara that now ran in rivulets down her cheeks. Henrik again put a protective arm around her, but over Birgit’s head he met Patrik’s gaze. It was obvious that he hadn’t had a clue that Alexandra was pregnant. Judging by Erica’s hopeless expression, however, it was clear that she did know. ‘We’ll talk about this when we get home, Birgit,’ said Henrik. He turned to Patrik. ‘I’ll see to it that you receive written accounts about Friday evening. I suppose you’ll probably want to interview us in more detail once you have them.’ Patrik nodded affirmatively. He raised his eyebrows to give Erica a questioning look. ‘Henrik, I’ll be right there,’ she said. ‘I just have to speak with Patrik for a moment. We’re old friends.’ She lingered in the corridor as Henrik led Birgit out to the car. ‘Imagine running into you here. That was a surprise,’ said Patrik. He rocked nervously back and forth on his heels. ‘Yes, if I’d thought about it I would have remembered that you work here, of course.’ She was twisting the handle of her purse between her fingers and looking at him with her head cocked a little to one side. All her small gestures were so familiar to him. ‘It’s been a long time. I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the funeral. How are you coping, you and Anna?’ Despite her height she looked small all of a sudden, and he resisted the urge to caress her cheek. ‘We’re doing all right. Anna drove home right after the funeral, but I’ve been here a couple of weeks now, trying to clean up the house. It’s not easy.’ ‘I heard that a woman in Fj?llbacka had discovered the victim, but I had no idea it was you. That must have been horrible. The two of you were friends when you were kids, weren’t you?’ ‘Yes. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to erase that sight from my mind. Well, I have to run now, they’re waiting for me in the car. Maybe we could get together sometime. I’m going to be here in Fj?llbacka for a while yet.’ She was already on her way down the hall. ‘How about dinner, Saturday night?’ he said. ‘At my house, eight o’clock? I’m in the book.’ ‘Sure, that sounds nice. See you at eight, then.’ She backed out through the door. As soon as she was out of sight he did a little improvised dance in the corridor, to the great astonishment of his colleagues. But his joy was spoiled a bit when he realized how much work it would take to get his house in presentable shape. After Karin left him, he hadn’t really felt like dealing with the housework. He and Erica had known each other since birth. Their mothers had been best friends since childhood and were as close as two sisters. Patrik and Erica played together a lot when they were small, and it was no exaggeration to say that Erica was his first love. In fact, he believed he was born in love with Erica. There had always been such a natural quality about his feelings for her. As far as Erica was concerned, she had merely taken his puppy-like admiration for granted. Not until she moved to G?teborg did he realize that it was time to put his dreams on the shelf. He had fallen in love with others since then, of course. And when he married Karin he was utterly convinced that they would grow old together, but Erica was always in the back of his mind. Sometimes months would pass without thinking about her; sometimes he thought about her several times a day. The piles of paper had not been miraculously reduced while he was gone. With a deep sigh he sat down at his desk and picked up the page on top. The work was monotonous enough that he could ponder the menu for Saturday at the same time. Dessert, in any case, was already decided. Erica had always loved ice cream. He awoke with a nasty taste in his mouth. It had been a real blow-out yesterday. His buddies had come over in the afternoon and together they had kept drinking until the small hours. A vague memory of the police stopping by at some point last night hovered just beyond his reach. He tried to sit up but the whole room spun around and he decided to stay where he was for a while. His right hand was aching, and he raised it toward the ceiling to look at it. The knuckles were severely scraped and full of coagulated blood. Damn, there must have been a bit of a dust-up last night, that’s why the cops showed up. More and more of his memory began to return. It was the guys who had brought up the subject of the suicide. One of them had started talking a bunch of shit about Alex. ‘Upper-class bitch’, and ‘society cunt’ were words he had used about her. Anders had short-circuited, and after that he remembered only a red haze of rage as he started bashing the guy in a drunken fury. Sure, he had called her a few names himself when he was most furious at her betrayal. But that wasn’t the same thing. The others didn’t know her. He was the only one who had the right to judge her. The telephone rang with a shrill sound. He tried to ignore it but decided it was less bothersome to get up and answer the phone than to let the noise keep slicing into his brain. ‘Yes, this is Anders.’ He was slurring his words. ‘Hi, it’s Mamma. How are you doing?’ ‘I feel like shit.’ He slid down the wall to sit on the floor. ‘What the hell time is it?’ ‘It’s almost four in the afternoon. Did I wake you?’ ‘Nope.’ His head felt disproportionately large and kept threatening to fall down between his knees. ‘I was in town shopping earlier. There’s a lot of talk about something that I want you to know about. Are you listening?’ ‘Yeah, damn it, I’m listening.’ ‘Apparently Alex didn’t commit suicide. She was murdered. I just wanted you to know.’ Silence. ‘Anders, hello? Did you hear what I said?’ ‘Yeah, sure, I heard you. What did you say? Was Alex … murdered?’ ‘Yes, that’s what they’re saying in town, anyway. Apparently Birgit was down at Tanumshede police station and got the news today.’ ‘Oh, shit. Look, Mamma, I’ve got a lot to do. We’ll talk later.’ ‘Anders? Anders?’ He had already hung up. With an enormous effort he showered and got dressed. After taking two Tylenols he felt more like a human being. The vodka bottle in the kitchen tried to tempt him, but he refused to give in. He had to be sober right now. Well, relatively sober, at least. The phone rang again. He ignored it. Instead he took a phone book out of the cabinet in the hall and quickly found the number he was looking for. His hands were shaking as he punched in the number. It seemed to ring a hundred times. ‘Hi, it’s Anders,’ he said when the receiver on the other end was finally picked up. ‘No, don’t hang up, damn it. We have to talk … well, you don’t have that much of a fucking choice, I have to tell you … I’ll be at your place in fifteen minutes. And you’d better fucking be there … I don’t give a shit who else is there, fuck it! Don’t forget who has the most to lose here … That’s bullshit. I’m going now. See you in fifteen minutes.’ Anders slammed down the receiver. After taking a couple of deep breaths, he pulled on his jacket and went out. He didn’t bother to lock the door. The phone in the flat started ringing furiously again. Erica was exhausted when she got back to the house. There was a strained silence in the car during the trip home, and Erica understood that Henrik was facing a difficult choice. Should he tell Birgit that he wasn’t the father of Alexandra’s child, or should he keep quiet and hope that it didn’t come out during the investigation? Erica didn’t envy him and couldn’t say how she would have acted in his situation. The truth wasn’t always the best solution. It was already getting dark, and she was grateful that her father had put in outdoor lamps that turned on automatically when anyone approached the house. She had always been terribly afraid of the dark. When she was little, she thought it was something she would grow out of, because adults couldn’t be afraid of the dark, could they? But she was thirty-five years old, and she still looked under the bed to make sure that nothing was lurking there in the dark. How pathetic. When she had turned on all the lights in the house, she poured herself a big glass of red wine and curled up on the wicker sofa on the veranda. The darkness was impenetrable, but she still stared straight ahead, though with unseeing eyes. She felt lonely. There were so many people grieving for Alex, people who had been affected by her death. But Erica had only Anna now. Sometimes she wondered whether even Anna would miss her. She and Alex had been so close as girls. When Alex began to withdraw, and finally disappeared completely when she moved, it felt as though the world had ended for Erica. Alex was the only person she’d had to herself, and except for her father the only one who really cared about her. Erica put her glass of red wine down on the table so forcefully that she almost broke the base off the glass. She felt altogether too restless to sit still. She had to do something. It was no use to pretend that Alex’s death had not affected her deeply. What bothered her most of all was that the image of Alex conveyed by family and friends did not jibe at all with the Alex she had known. Even if people change on the path from childhood to adulthood, there is still a core of personality that remains intact. The Alex they had described to her was a complete stranger. She got up and put on her coat again. Her car keys were in her pocket, and at the last moment she took a pocket torch and stuffed it into the other pocket of her coat. The house at the top of the hill looked deserted in the violet light from the street-lamp. Erica parked the car in the car park behind the school. She didn’t want anyone to see her going into the house. The bushes on the property offered a welcome cover as she cautiously sneaked up to the veranda. She hoped their old habits persisted and raised the doormat. There was the spare key to the house, hidden in exactly the same place as twenty-five years ago. The door creaked a little when she opened it, but she hoped that none of the neighbours had heard anything. It was eerie stepping into the shadowy house. Her fear of the dark made it hard for her to breathe, and she forced herself to take some deep breaths to calm her nerves. She thankfully remembered the torch in her coat pocket and said a silent prayer that the batteries were good. They were. The light from the torch made her feel a bit calmer. She played the beam of light over the living room on the first floor. She didn’t know what she was looking for here in the house. She hoped that no neighbour or passer-by would see the light and call the police. The room was lovely and airy, but Erica noticed that the brown and orange seventies furniture that she remembered from her childhood had been replaced by light pieces of clean-lined Scandinavian design, made of birch. She understood that Alex had set her mark on the house. Everything was in perfect order, which created a desolate impression. There wasn’t a single crease on the sofa or even a magazine laid out on the coffee table. She saw nothing that seemed worth examining more closely. She recalled that the kitchen lay beyond the living room. It was big and roomy and immaculate, disturbed only by a lone coffee cup in the dish rack. Erica returned to the living room and went upstairs. She turned right at the top of the stairs and entered the master bedroom. Erica remembered it as Alex’s parents’ bedroom, but now it was obviously Alex and Henrik’s room. It, too, was tastefully decorated but with a more exotic flavour. The fabrics were chocolate-brown and magenta, and there were African wooden masks on the walls. The room was spacious with a high ceiling, which allowed a large chandelier to hang properly. Alexandra had apparently resisted the temptation to decorate her house from top to bottom with marine details, something that was common in the houses of summer residents. Everything from curtains adorned with shells to paintings of complicated knots sold like hotcakes in the small summertime shops in Fj?llbacka. Unlike the other rooms that Erica looked in, the bedroom seemed lived-in. Small personal items lay scattered here and there. On the night-stand lay a pair of glasses and a book of poems by Gustaf Fr?ding. A pair of stockings were flung on the floor and some jumpers were laid out on the bedspread. This was the first time Erica felt that Alex really had lived in this house. Erica began cautiously looking through drawers and cabinets. She still didn’t know what she was searching for and felt like a voyeur as she rummaged among Alex’s lovely silk underwear. But just as she decided to move on to the next drawer she heard something rustle on the bottom. All of a sudden she paused with her hand full of lace-trimmed panties and bras. She clearly heard a sound from downstairs through the stillness in the house. A door being carefully opened and closed. Erica looked all around her in panic. The only hiding places in the room were under the bed or in one of the wardrobes covering one wall. All at once she felt claustrophobic. She couldn’t move until she heard footsteps on the stairs; instinctively she crept over to the closest wardrobe. The door opened without a creak, thank God, and she quickly climbed in among the clothes and closed the door behind her. She had no chance to see who had entered the house, but she could clearly hear footsteps coming closer and closer. The person stopped for a moment outside the bedroom door before coming in. She suddenly realized that she was holding something in her hand. Without thinking she had grabbed whatever it was that rustled in the drawer. She cautiously put it in her jacket pocket. She scarcely dared breathe. Her nose started to itch and she desperately tried to wiggle it to relieve the problem. She was in luck; it stopped. The intruder was searching the bedroom. It sounded as if he or she were doing about the same thing Erica was doing before she was interrupted. Drawers were pulled out, and Erica knew that the wardrobes were next. Her panic rose. Beads of sweat formed on her brow. What could she do? The only solution she saw was to squeeze as far back behind the clothes as possible. She was lucky to have stepped into a wardrobe with several long coats in it, and she cautiously squeezed in amongst them and draped them in front of her. She hoped the two ankles sticking out of a pair of shoes on the floor wouldn’t be noticed. It took a while for the person to go through the bureau. She inhaled a musty smell of mothballs, sincerely hoping they had done their job so that no bugs were creeping around here in the dark. She also hoped that it wasn’t Alex’s killer out there, only a few metres away. But who else would have reason to sneak around in Alex’s house, thought Erica, choosing to ignore the fact that she had no written invitation either. All at once the door to the wardrobe was opened and Erica felt a gust of fresh air against the exposed skin of her ankles. She held her breath. The wardrobe didn’t seem to be hiding any secrets or valuables – at least not for the person who was doing the searching – and the door was closed again almost at once. The other doors were opened and closed just as quickly, and the next moment she heard the footsteps going out the bedroom door and down the stairs. She didn’t dare step out of the wardrobe until a good while after she heard the front door carefully closing. It was wonderful to be able to breathe at last without being acutely conscious of each breath. The room looked the same as when Erica came in. Whoever the visitor was, the search had been careful and had left no traces. Erica was fairly convinced that it wasn’t a burglar. She took a closer look at the wardrobe she had hidden inside. When she retreated to the far corner she had felt something hard pressing against the back of her calves. She swept aside the clothes and saw that what she had felt was a large canvas. It stood with the back facing her. She lifted it out carefully and turned it round. It was an incredibly beautiful painting. Even Erica could see that it had been done by a talented artist. The motif was a naked Alexandra, lying on her side with her head resting on one hand. The artist had chosen to use warm colours, which gave Alex’s face an impression of peace. She wondered why such a beautiful painting had been put in the back of a wardrobe. Judging from the picture, Alex had nothing to be ashamed of. Her body was just as perfect as the painting. Erica couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something familiar about it. There was something obvious that she’d seen before. She knew that she had never seen this particular painting, so it had to be something else. The space in the lower right corner lacked a signature, and when she turned it over there was nothing there but ‘1999’, which must have been the year the painting was done. She carefully put the painting back in its place at the back of the wardrobe and closed the door. She looked around the room one last time. There was something she couldn’t really put her finger on. Something was missing, but for the life of her she couldn’t think what it was. Oh well, it would probably come to her later. She didn’t dare stay in the house any longer. She put back the key where she had found it. She didn’t feel safe until she was back in her car with the motor running. That was enough excitement for one evening. A stiff cognac would soothe her soul and drive off some of her uneasiness. Why in the world had she decided to drive over there and snoop around? She felt like slapping her forehead at her own stupidity. When she pulled into the driveway at home she saw that scarcely an hour had passed since she left. That surprised her. It had felt like an eternity. Stockholm was putting on its best face. And yet Erica felt as though a gloomy cloud were hovering over her. Normally she would have been overjoyed at the sunshine that glittered on Riddarfj?rden as she drove across V?sterbron. Not today. The meeting was set for two o’clock. She had been mulling over things all the way from Fj?llbacka, trying in vain to come up with a solution. Unfortunately Marianne had made her legal position very clear. If Anna and Lucas insisted on selling the house, she would have to go along with it. Her only alternative was to buy them out at half the market value of the house, and with the prices that houses in Fj?llbacka were bringing, she didn’t have even a fraction of that amount. Of course she wouldn’t be left holding the baby if the house were sold. Her half could bring in as much as a couple of million kronor, but she didn’t care about the money. No money in the world could replace the loss of the house. She felt sick at the idea of some Stockholmer, who thought a brand-new sailor’s cap would transform him into a coastal dweller, ripping out the lovely veranda on the front and putting in a panoramic window. And nobody could say that she was exaggerating. She’d seen it happen time and time again. Erica turned in at the attorney’s office in Runebergsgatan in ?stermalm. The building was magnificent with its marble fa?ade lined with columns. She checked herself in the mirror in the lift one last time. Her attire was carefully selected to fit in with the milieu. This was the first time she had been here, but she could easily picture what sort of attorneys Lucas would hire. In a gesture of feigned civility he had pointed out that, of course, she could bring along her own attorney. Erica had chosen to come alone. She simply could not afford an attorney. Actually, she had wanted to meet Anna and the children before the meeting, maybe have a bite to eat with them. Despite her bitterness over Anna’s actions, Erica had decided to do her utmost to keep their relationship alive. Anna didn’t seem to share her point of view, excusing herself by saying that it would be too stressful. It was better that they meet at the attorney’s office. Before Erica could suggest that they could see each other afterwards instead, Anna beat her to the punch and said that she had to rush off and meet a girlfriend after the meeting. Hardly a coincidence, Erica thought. It was obvious that Anna wanted to avoid her. The question was whether it was on her own initiative or whether Lucas refused to permit Anna to meet Erica while he was at work and had no chance to supervise. Everyone was already there when she came in. They observed her solemnly as she put on a fake smile and offered her hand to greet Lucas’s two attorneys. Lucas merely nodded hello, while Anna ventured a weak wave behind his back. They all sat down and began the negotiations. The whole thing didn’t take very long. The attorneys explained in a dry and business-like manner what Erica already knew. That Anna and Lucas were perfectly within their rights in demanding the sale of the house. If Erica could buy them out for half the market value, then she was entitled to do so. If she could not or would not, then the house would be put up for sale as soon as a value was set by an independent appraiser. Erica looked Anna straight in the eye. ‘Do you really want to do this? Doesn’t the house mean anything to you? Imagine what Mamma and Pappa would have thought if they knew you were going to sell it as soon as they were gone. Is this really what you want, Anna?’ Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lucas frown at her emphasis on you. Anna looked down and picked some invisible flecks of dust off her elegant dress. Her blonde hair was tightly pulled back in a ponytail. ‘What are we going to use that house for? Old houses are just a lot of trouble, and think of all the money we could get out of it. I’m sure that Mamma and Pappa would have appreciated it if one of us took a practical view of the matter. I mean, when would we use the house? Lucas and I would rather buy a summer place in the Stockholm archipelago so we have something closer. What are you going to do with that house anyway?’ Lucas smiled scornfully at Erica as he patted Anna on the back with phoney concern. She still hadn’t dared meet Erica’s gaze. Once again, Erica was struck by how tired her little sister looked. She was thinner than usual, and the black dress she wore was loose around the bust and waist. She had dark circles under her eyes, and Erica thought she saw a blue shadow under the powder on her right cheekbone. Her rage at the powerlessness of the situation hit her with full force and she fixed her eyes on Lucas. He returned her gaze with composure. Having come directly from work, he was wearing his professional uniform: a graphite-grey suit with a blinding white shirt and a shiny dark-grey tie. He looked elegant and sophisticated. Erica was sure that many women found him attractive. But she thought he had a cruel streak that acted like a filter over his facial features. His face was angular with sharp cheekbones and firm jawline. This was accentuated even more because he always combed his hair straight back from his high forehead. He didn’t look the typical ruddy Englishman; he was more like a Norwegian with light-blond hair and icy blue eyes. His upper lip was curved and full like a woman’s, giving him an indolent, almost decadent expression. Erica noticed that his eyes drifted down to her d?colletage, and she instinctively pulled her jacket closed. He registered her reaction, which annoyed her. She didn’t want him to see that he had any sort of effect on her. When the meeting was finally over, Erica simply turned on her heel and walked out the door without bothering to say any polite words of farewell. As far as she was concerned, everything had been said that could be said. She would be contacted by someone who would come to appraise the house, and then the house would be put on the market as soon as possible. No amount of persuasion had done any good. She had lost. She had sublet her flat in Vasastan to a pleasant couple studying for their doctorates, so she couldn’t go back there. Since she didn’t feel like setting off on the five-hour drive to Fj?llbacka for a while, she parked the car in the garage at Stureplan and went over to sit in Humleg?rdsparken. She needed to collect her thoughts. The peacefulness in the lovely park that felt like an oasis in the middle of Stockholm offered just the right meditative atmosphere she needed. Snow must have just fallen over the city; the grass was still white. In Stockholm, it only took a day or two for snow to turn into a dirty-grey slush. She placed her mittens on a park bench and then sat down on them as protection under her seat. Urinary tract infections were nothing to play around with; that was the last thing she needed right now. She let her thoughts drift as she watched the crowd of people rushing by on the path. It was the middle of the lunch rush. She had almost forgotten how stressed the mood could be in Stockholm. Everyone was always in a rush, chasing after something they never really could catch. She suddenly longed for Fj?llbacka. She probably hadn’t realized how much she had settled in there over the past few weeks. Certainly she’d had a lot to deal with, but at the same time she’d discovered a peace inside herself that she never found in Stockholm. If you were alone in Stockholm, you were completely isolated. In Fj?llbacka you were never alone, which could be both good and bad. People cared about their neighbours and kept tabs on them. Sometimes it could go too far; Erica didn’t care for all the gossip, but as she sat here watching the bustle of the city she felt that she could never return to this. Like so many times recently, her thoughts turned to Alex. Why had she driven to Fj?llbacka every weekend? Who was she meeting there? And the ten-thousand-krona question: who was the father of the child she was expecting? All at once, Erica remembered the piece of paper she had stuffed into her jacket pocket as she stood in the dark in the wardrobe. She didn’t understand how she could have forgotten about it when she got home the day before yesterday. She felt in her right-hand pocket and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper. With fingers that had grown stiff without mittens, she carefully unfolded the paper and smoothed it out. It was a copy of an article from Bohusl?ningen. There was no date, but based on the typeface and a black-and-white picture, she could see that it wasn’t recent. Judging from the photo, it dated from the seventies. She easily recognized both people in the picture and the story recounted in the article. Why had Alex saved this article at the bottom of a bureau drawer? Erica stood up and put the article back in her pocket. There was no answer to be found here. It was time to go home. The funeral was tasteful and reverential. Fj?llbacka Church was far from full. Most people hadn’t known Alexandra but were there merely to satisfy their curiosity. Family and friends sat in the front pews. Besides Alex’s parents and Henrik, Erica recognized only Francine. She had a tall blond man next to her in the pew, who Erica assumed was her husband. Otherwise, there weren’t many friends. They filled only two rows of pews, confirming Erica’s image of Alex. She had certainly had numerous acquaintances, but few close friends. There were only a few curiosity-seekers scattered here and there in the rest of the church. Erica had taken a seat up in the balcony. Birgit had caught sight of her outside the church and invited her to sit with them. She had politely declined. It would have felt hypocritical to sit there amongst family and friends. Alex was actually a stranger to her. Erica squirmed on the uncomfortable pew. All through their childhood she and Anna had been dragged to church on Sundays. For a child, it had been terribly boring to sit through long sermons and hymns whose melodies were hopelessly difficult to learn. To amuse herself Erica had made up stories in her head. Numerous sagas about dragons and princesses had been composed here without ever being committed to paper. In Erica’s teenage years, her church attendance was much less frequent because of her vehement protests. When she did go along, the sagas were replaced by stories with a more romantic theme. Ironically enough, she actually had this forced church attendance to thank, or blame, for her choice of profession. Erica still hadn’t embraced any type of religion; for her a church was a beautiful building steeped in traditions, nothing more. The sermons of her childhood had prompted no desire to accept a faith. They often dealt with hell and sin; they lacked the bright belief in God that she knew existed but had never personally experienced. Much had changed. Now a woman stood before the altar, dressed in a pastor’s robes, and instead of eternal damnation she spoke of light, hope and love. Erica wished that this view of God had been offered to her when she was growing up. From her hidden place in the balcony, she saw a young woman sitting next to Birgit in the first pew. Birgit was holding the woman’s hand in a convulsive grip, and occasionally she leaned her head on her shoulder. Erica thought she recognized her. The young woman must be Julia, Alex’s little sister. She was too far away for Erica to see her face, but she noticed that Julia seemed to flinch at Birgit’s touch. Julia withdrew her hand each time Birgit took it, but her mother either pretended not to notice or was truly unaware of her daughter’s reaction, due to the state she was in. Sunshine flowed in through the high stained-glass windows. The pews were hard and uncomfortable, and Erica felt the beginning of a dull ache in her lower back. She was grateful that the ceremony was relatively short. When it was over she sat there and looked down on the people slowly wandering out of the church. Outdoors the sun was almost unbearably bright in a cloudless sky. A procession of people walked down the little hill to the churchyard and the newly-dug grave where Alex’s coffin would be buried. Until her parents’ funeral, she had never thought about how burials were done in the winter, when the ground was frozen. Now she knew that an area was heated so that the ground could be dug up. An area just big enough to hold all the coffins that were to be interred. On the way to the site that had been selected for Alex’s grave, Erica passed her parents’ grave. She was last in the procession and stopped for a moment by the headstone. A thick strip of snow lay on the edge and she carefully swept it off. With one last look at the grave she hurried towards the small group that was gathered a bit farther on. At least the rubber neckers had stayed away from the burial ceremony; now only family and friends were left. Erica had felt unsure of whether she should come along, but at the last moment she decided that she wanted to follow Alex to her final resting place. Henrik stood in front with his hands stuck deep in his coat pockets, head bowed and eyes fixed on the coffin that was slowly covered with flowers. Mostly red roses. Erica wondered if he too was looking around and thinking that the child’s father might be among the group gathered at the grave. When the coffin was lowered into the ground Birgit let out a long, drawn-out sigh. Karl-Erik was resolute and dry-eyed. It took all his strength to hold Birgit upright, both physically and emotionally. Julia stood a bit away from them. Henrik had been right in his description of Julia as the family’s ugly duckling. Unlike her big sister, she was dark-haired with short tresses clumsily cut in what could hardly be called a hairstyle. Her features were coarse, with deeply set eyes peering out from beneath a fringe that was much too long. She wore no make-up, and her skin showed clear signs of severe acne during her teens. Birgit looked even smaller and more fragile than usual standing next to Julia. Her youngest daughter was more than four inches taller, with a broad, heavy, shapeless body. Fascinated, Erica watched the series of conflicting emotions that raced like whirlwinds across Julia’s face. Pain and rage alternated at lightning speed. No tears. She was the only one who hadn’t placed a flower on the casket, and when the ceremony was over she quickly turned her back on the hole in the ground and headed back towards the church. Erica wondered how relations had been between the sisters. It couldn’t have been easy, always being compared with Alex, always drawing the short straw. Julia’s turned back was a rebuff as she quickly put more distance between herself and the rest of the group. Her shoulders were hunched in a dismissive gesture. Henrik came up to Erica. ‘We’re going to have a small reception afterwards. We’d be happy if you came.’ ‘Well, I don’t really know,’ said Erica. ‘You could stop by for a little while at least.’ She hesitated. ‘Well, okay. Where is it? At Ulla’s house?’ ‘No, we considered having it there but finally decided on Birgit and Karl-Erik’s house. Despite what happened there, I know that Alex loved that house. We all have happy memories from there, so what better place to remember her? Even though I understand that it might be a bit tough for you. You don’t have such pleasant memories from your last visit, I mean.’ Erica blushed in shame at the thought of what had really been her last visit. Quickly, she looked away. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she said. She drove her own car and parked again in the lot behind H?kebacken School. The house was already full when she went in, and she wondered if she should turn round and go home. The moment for that came and passed; when Henrik came over and took her jacket, it was too late to change her mind. It was crowded around the dining-room table, where a buffet of savoury quiches was laid out. Erica chose a big piece with shrimp and quickly moved to a corner of the room, where she could eat and watch the rest of the party in peace and quiet. The party seemed unusually upbeat in view of the occasion. The undertone was feverishly cheerful. When she looked at the people around her, they all seemed to be wearing strained expressions as they conversed. The thought that Alex had been murdered hovered just beneath the surface. Erica scanned the room, looking from one face to the next. Birgit was sitting on the edge of the sofa, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. Karl-Erik stood behind her with one hand placed awkwardly on her shoulder and a plate of food in the other. Henrik was working the room like a pro. He went from one group to another, shaking hands, nodding in reply to condolences, reminding people that there was also coffee and cake. In every respect he was the perfect host. As if he were at a cocktail party, instead of his wife’s funeral reception. The only thing that showed what an effort it was for him was the deep breath he took and a brief moment of hesitation, as if to gather new strength before he went on to the next group. The only person who was behaving out of sync with everyone else was Julia. She had sat down on the windowsill on the veranda. One knee was drawn up and she was staring out to sea. Anyone who tried to approach her with a little kindness or some words of sympathy was firmly rebuffed. She ignored all attempts at conversation and kept staring out at the big expanse of whiteness. Erica felt a light touch on her arm and gave an involuntary start so that a little coffee splashed onto her plate. ‘Excuse me, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Francine was smiling. ‘Oh, that’s okay. I was just thinking.’ ‘About Julia?’ Francine nodded towards the figure in the window. ‘I saw you watching her.’ ‘Yes, I must admit that she interests me. She’s so totally cut off from the rest of the family. I can’t figure out whether she’s grieving for Alex or whether she’s been cast out for some reason I don’t understand.’ ‘Probably nobody understands Julia. But she couldn’t have had an easy time of it. The ugly duckling growing up with two beautiful swans. Always shoved aside and ignored. It wasn’t that they were outright mean to her, she was just – unwanted. Alex, for example, never mentioned her during the time we lived in France. I was very surprised when I moved to Sweden and discovered that Alex had a little sister. She talked about you more than she talked about Julia. You must have had a very special relationship, didn’t you?’ ‘I don’t know, actually. We were children. Like all kids of that age, we were blood sisters and never wanted to be separated and all that. But if Alex hadn’t moved away, the same thing probably would have happened to us. The same thing that happens to other little girls who grow up and turn into teenagers. We would have fought over the same boyfriends, had different taste in clothes, ended up on different rungs of the social pecking order, and abandoned one another for different friends who better suited the phase we were in – or wanted to be in. But sure, Alex had a big influence on my life, even as an adult. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to shake off that feeling of being betrayed. I always wondered whether I was the one who said or did something wrong. She just retreated more and more and then one day she was gone. When we met again as adults, she was a stranger. In some odd way it feels as though now I’m getting to know her again.’ Erica thought about the book pages that were piling up at home. So far she only had a collection of impressions and episodes mixed with her own thoughts and reflections. She didn’t even know how she would shape the material; all she knew was that it was something she had to do. Her writer’s instinct told her that this was a chance to write something genuine, but where the boundary lay between her needs as a writer and her personal connection to Alex, she had no idea. The sense of curiosity that was crucial to writing something also impelled her to seek the answer to the riddle of Alex’s death on a much more personal level. She could have chosen to dismiss Alex and her fate, turn her back on the whole sad clan surrounding Alex and devote herself to her own affairs. Instead she was standing in a room full of people she really didn’t know. It suddenly occurred to her that she had almost forgotten the painting she found in Alex’s wardrobe. Now she realized why the warm tones used to depict Alex’s nude form on the canvas were so familiar. She turned to Francine. ‘You know, when I met you at the gallery …’ ‘Yes?’ ‘There was a painting right by the door. A big canvas all in warm colours – yellows, reds, oranges …’ ‘Yes, I know the one you mean. What about it? Don’t tell me you’re a collector?’ Francine smiled. ‘No, but I’m wondering – who painted it?’ ‘Well, that’s a very sad story. The painter’s name is Anders Nilsson. He’s actually from here in Fj?llbacka. It was Alex who discovered him. He’s incredibly talented. Unfortunately he’s also a serious alcoholic, which apparently will ruin his chances as an artist. Today it’s not enough to hand in your paintings to a gallery and hope for success. As an artist you also have to be clever at marketing yourself. You need to show up at openings, go to functions, and live up to the image of an artist in every respect. Anders Nilsson is a drunken wino who isn’t fit for civilized company. We sell a painting now and then to customers who know talent when they see it, but Anders will never be a big star in the firmament of art. To be completely crass about it, he’d have the most potential if he drank himself to death. Dead painters have always been a hit with the general public.’ Erica gave the delicate creature in front of her a look of astonishment. Francine saw her expression and added, ‘I didn’t mean to sound so cynical. It just burns me up that someone can have so much talent and squander it on booze. Tragic is only his first name. He was lucky that Alex discovered his paintings. Otherwise the only ones who would have enjoyed them would be the winos of Fj?llbacka. And I have a hard time believing that they’re capable of appreciating the finer aspects of art.’ One piece of the puzzle was in place, but Erica couldn’t for the life of her see how it fit with the rest of the pattern. Why did Alex have a nude portrait of herself painted by Anders Nilsson hidden in her wardrobe? One explanation was that it was intended as a present for Henrik, or maybe for her lover, and that Alex had commissioned the portrait from an artist whose talent she admired. Yet it didn’t quite ring true. There had been a sensuality and sexuality about the portrait that belied a relationship between strangers. There was some sort of bond between Alex and Anders. On the other hand, Erica was well aware that she was no art connoisseur, and her gut feeling could be all wrong. A murmur spread through the room. It began in the group closest to the front door and rippled through the rest of the guests. Everyone’s eyes turned towards the door, where a highly unexpected guest was making a grandiose entrance. When Nelly Lorentz stepped through the door, the others held their breath from sheer astonishment. Erica thought of the newspaper article she’d found in Alex’s bedroom. She could feel how all the apparently disconnected facts were spinning round in her head without making any sense. Since the early fifties, the continued livelihood of Fj?llbacka had waxed or waned with the Lorentz cannery. Almost half of the able-bodied residents of Fj?llbacka were employed at the factory, and the Lorentz family was regarded as royalty in the little town. Since Fj?llbacka wasn’t exactly a hotbed of high society, the Lorentz family were in a class all by themselves. From their elevated position in the enormous villa at the top of the hill they looked down on Fj?llbacka with guarded superiority. The factory was started in 1952 by Fabian Lorentz. He came from a long line of fishermen and was expected to follow in his forefathers’ footsteps. But the stock of fish was running out, and young Fabian was both ambitious and intelligent, with no intention of scraping by on the same meagre earnings of his father. He started the cannery with his two bare hands, and when he died in the late seventies he left his wife Nelly both a robust business and a considerable fortune. Unlike her husband, who was very well liked, Nelly Lorentz had a reputation for being haughty and cold. She never showed herself in town anymore, but like a queen held audiences for those specially invited. So it was a sensation of a high order to see her step through the door. This was going to provide grist for the gossip mill for months to come. It was so quiet in the room that you could have heard a pin drop. Mrs Lorentz graciously allowed Henrik to help her off with her fur coat, and she entered the living room on his arm. He led her over to the sofa in the middle where Birgit and Karl-Erik were sitting, as she briefly nodded a greeting to a select few of the other guests. When she reached Alex’s parents the conversation finally started up again. Small talk about this and that as everyone strained to hear what was being said over by the sofa. One of those who had graciously been granted a nod was Erica. Due to her quasi-celebrity status she had apparently been found worthy, even prompting an invitation to come to tea with Nelly Lorentz after her parents’ death. Erica had politely declined, giving as an excuse that she was still in mourning. With curiosity, she now regarded Nelly as she formally offered her deepest sympathies to Birgit and Karl-Erik. Erica doubted that there was even a scrap of sympathy in her skinny body. She was very thin, with knotty wrists that stuck out of her well-tailored dress. She must have starved herself her whole life to be so fashionably slender, not realizing that what can be lovely with the natural roundness of youth is not as attractive once age has taken its toll. She had a sharp and angular face that was surprisingly smooth and free of wrinkles, which made Erica suspect that the scalpel had helped to put nature on the right track. Her hair was her most handsome attribute. It was thick and silvery grey, done up in an elegant French twist, but combed back so tightly that the skin of her forehead was pulled up a little, giving her a slightly surprised look. Erica estimated Nelly’s age to be a bit over eighty. It was rumoured that in her youth she’d been a dancer, and that she’d met Fabian Lorentz when she was part of a ballet company at a theatre in G?teborg where no upper-class girls would dare show their face. Erica thought she caught a glimpse of a dancer’s training in the graceful way she still moved. But according to the official story, she’d never been near a dance school but was the daughter of a consul from Stockholm. After a few minutes of hushed conversation, Nelly left the grieving parents and went out on the veranda to sit with Julia. No one gave the slightest indication that they found this quite strange. They went on with their conversations, keeping a watchful eye on the odd pair. Erica once again stood alone in the corner after Francine left to continue mingling. From there, she could watch Julia and Nelly undisturbed. For the first time that day Erica saw a smile spread across Julia’s face. She hopped down from the windowsill and sat next to Nelly on the rattan sofa, and there they sat with their heads close together, whispering. What could such a mismatched pair have in common? Erica cast a look in Birgit’s direction. The tears had finally stopped streaming down her cheeks. She fixed her gaze on her daughter and Nelly Lorentz with a look of naked horror on her face. Erica decided to accept that invitation from Mrs Lorentz after all. It might be interesting to have a little chat with her in private. With a great sense of relief she finally left the house on the hill, glad to breathe in the invigorating winter air once more. Patrik felt a little nervous. It was a long time since he had made dinner for a woman. A woman, moreover, for whom he felt a strong attraction. Everything had to be perfect. He hummed as he sliced cucumbers for the salad. After much agony and pondering, he had finally decided on fillet of beef. Now it was trimmed and in the oven, almost done. The gravy was sputtering on the stove, and he could feel his stomach growling from the aroma. It had been a hectic afternoon. He hadn’t been able to leave work as early as he had hoped, so he had to clean the house in record time. He hadn’t really been aware of the extent to which he had let the house go to pot since Karin left him, but when he saw it with Erica’s eyes, he realized that it was going to take a serious effort. It felt a little embarrassing to have fallen into the typical bachelor’s trap with untidy surroundings and nothing in the fridge. He hadn’t really understood what a big burden Karin had carried at home. He took the neat, well-kept home for granted and didn’t give a thought to how much work it required to keep it in order. There was a lot he had taken for granted. When Erica rang the doorbell he flung off his apron and glanced in the mirror to check his hair. Although he’d put gel on it, it was as unruly as ever. Erica looked fantastic, as always. Her cheeks were a warm pink from the cold, and her blonde hair curled thickly over the collar of her down jacket. He gave her a brief hug, allowing himself to shut his eyes for a moment and inhale the scent of her perfume. Then he let her into the warm house. The table was already set, and they started in on the appetizer while they waited for the entree to be done. Patrik surreptitiously watched as she tasted with pleasure the avocado stuffed with shrimp. Not really a difficult dish; hard to ruin. ‘I never would have thought that you could rustle up a three-course dinner,’ Erica said as she took another bite of the avocado. ‘No, I can hardly believe it myself. But – sk?l and welcome to Restaurant Hedstr?m.’ They clinked glasses and sipped at the chilled white wine. Then they ate for a while in companionable silence. ‘How have you been?’ Patrik peered at Erica from under the hair hanging into his eyes. ‘I’ve probably had better weeks.’ ‘Why did you come with them to the interview? It must have been quite a few years since you’ve had any contact with either Alex or her family.’ ‘Yes, it’s probably been about twenty-five years or so. I’m not quite sure why I came. I feel as though I’ve just been sucked into a whirlpool, and I don’t know whether I can escape, or whether I even want to. I think Birgit sees me as a reminder of better days. Plus I’m an outsider, so maybe I represent some sort of security.’ Erica paused. ‘Have you made any progress?’ ‘I’m sorry, I can’t say anything about the case.’ ‘No, I understand. Pardon me, I wasn’t thinking.’ ‘No problem. But I thought you might be able to help me. You’ve seen the family a good deal now, plus you know them from before. Could you tell me a little about your impressions of the family and what you know about Alex?’ Erica put down her silverware and tried to sort out her own impressions in the order she wanted to present them to Patrik. She told him everything she’d found out, along with her impressions of the people in Alex’s life. Patrik listened attentively even as he got up and cleared away the appetizer and brought out the entree. Now and then he would interject a question. He was astonished at all the information Erica had uncovered in such a short time. And after she also told him what she knew about Alex from the past, the woman who until now had been merely a murder victim was suddenly transformed into someone with a face and personality. ‘I know that you can’t talk about the case, Patrik, but can you tell me if the police have any leads? Any ideas at all about who could have murdered her?’ ‘No, I have to say that we haven’t got very far in the investigation. A minor breakthrough, anything at all, would be extremely welcome about now.’ He sighed and circled his finger around the edge of his wine glass. Erica hesitantly said, ‘I may have something that could be of interest.’ She reached for her handbag and began digging around in it. She pulled out a piece of paper which she handed to him across the table. Patrik took it and unfolded it. He read what it said with interest, but raised a questioning eyebrow when he was done. ‘What does this have to do with Alex?’ ‘That’s what I was wondering too. I found this article in a bureau drawer, hidden beneath Alex’s underwear.’ ‘What do you mean, you “found” it? When did you have a chance to go through her bureau drawers?’ He saw her blush and wondered what she was hiding. ‘Well, one night I went to the house and snooped around a little.’ ‘You did what?’ ‘Yes, I know. You don’t have to say it. It was really stupid, but you know how I am. Act first and think later.’ She was talking fast in order to ward off any additional reproaches. ‘In any case, I found this paper in Alex’s drawer and managed to take it with me.’ He refrained from asking how she could ‘manage’ to take the item with her. It was better not to know. ‘What do you think it could mean?’ asked Erica. ‘An article about a disappearance twenty-five years ago. What connection could that have with Alex?’ ‘What else do you know about this?’ asked Patrik, waving the article. ‘Factually, no more than what’s in the article. That Nils Lorentz, son of Fabian and Nelly Lorentz, disappeared without a trace in January of 1977. No body was ever found. On the other hand, there has been a good deal of speculation over the years. Some people think that he drowned and the body washed out to sea. Other rumours say that he embezzled a large amount of money from his father and then fled the country. What I heard was that Nils Lorentz was not a nice person, so most people leaned towards the latter alternative. He was the only son, and Nelly apparently spoiled him rotten. She was inconsolable after he disappeared, and Fabian Lorentz never got over the loss. He died of a heart attack about a year later. The only heir to the fortune is now a foster son they took in about a year before Nils vanished. Nelly adopted him a couple of years after her husband died. Well, that’s just a small sampling of the local gossip. I still don’t understand how this could have any bearing on Alex’s death. The only dealings the families ever had with each other were when Karl-Erik worked in the office at the Lorentz cannery when Alex and I were little, before they moved to G?teborg. But that was over twenty-five years ago.’ Erica suddenly remembered one other link. She told Patrik about Nelly’s appearance at the funeral reception and how she had devoted almost all her attention to Julia. ‘I have no idea how any of this could be connected to the article. But there must be something. Francine, Alex’s partner in the gallery, also mentioned that she thought Alex wanted to come to terms with the past somehow. That was as much as Francine knew, but I think it makes sense. Call it woman’s intuition or whatever you like, but I have a feeling that there’s a connection.’ She was a little ashamed because she knew she hadn’t told Patrik the whole truth. There was one more small but very strange piece of the puzzle that she was keeping to herself. At least until she knew more. ‘Well, I certainly can’t argue with a woman’s intuition. Would you like a little more wine?’ ‘Yes, please.’ Erica looked around the kitchen. ‘A nice place you have here. Did you decorate it yourself?’ ‘No, I can’t take credit for that. It was Karin who was the decorating talent.’ ‘Oh right, your wife Karin. What happened between the two of you, actually?’ ‘Well, it was really the same old story. Girl meets dance-band singer in a waist-length jacket. Girl falls in love. Girl divorces her husband and moves in with the dance-band singer.’ ‘You’re kidding!’ ‘Unfortunately I’m not. It was bad enough that she dumped me. But she left me for Leif Larsson, popular singer and heartthrob in “Leffes” the most famous dance band in Bohusl?n. The man with the prettiest hockey girlfriend on the west coast. Yep, there’s not much you can do to compete with a man in tasselled loafers.’ Erica looked at him wide-eyed. Patrik smiled. ‘Well, that’s probably a somewhat exaggerated version, but something along those lines.’ ‘But that must have been terrible. It couldn’t have been easy for you.’ ‘I felt sorry for myself for quite a while, but it’s okay now. Not good, but okay.’ Erica changed the subject. ‘The news about Alex’s pregnancy was like a bomb going off.’ She stared hard at Patrik, and he had a feeling that there was something more behind her apparently innocent remark. ‘In any case, it seemed she hadn’t shared the good news with her husband,’ Erica said. Patrik waited silently for her to go on. After a moment Erica appeared to have decided to continue down that path, but she spoke in a low voice, still sounding hesitant. ‘According to her best friend, Henrik isn’t the father of the child.’ Patrik raised an eyebrow and whistled, but still said nothing in the hope of more information from Erica. ‘Francine told me that Alex had met someone here in Fj?llbacka. And she drove here every weekend to see him. According to Francine, Alex had never wanted to have children with Henrik, but it was different with this man. She was overjoyed about the baby, and that’s why Francine insisted so strongly that her death wasn’t suicide. In her view, Alex was happy for the first time in her life.’ ‘Did she know who the man was?’ ‘No, she didn’t. Alex kept that information to herself.’ ‘But why would her husband put up with her driving to Fj?llbacka every weekend without him? Did he know that she was meeting someone here?’ Patrik took another sip of wine and felt his cheeks beginning to flush. Whether from the wine or from Erica’s presence, he wasn’t quite sure. ‘Apparently they had a quite unusual relationship. I met Henrik in G?teborg and I got the feeling that their lives ran on parallel tracks that seldom crossed. It’s also impossible to say what he knows or doesn’t know, from the short conversation that I had with him. That man has a stone face. I think that whatever he knows, he’s very careful to keep it to himself.’ ‘That type of person can sometimes be like a pressure cooker. The steam builds and builds, and one day it explodes. Do you think that’s what might have happened? That one day the rejected husband had enough, and he killed the unfaithful wife?’ Patrik asked. ‘I don’t know, Patrik. I really don’t know. But now I think we should drink more than our share of wine and talk about all sorts of things, as long as it doesn’t have to do with murder and sudden death.’ He willingly agreed and raised his glass in a toast. They moved to the sofa and spent the rest of the evening talking comfortably about everything else under the sun. She told him about her life, about the fuss over the house and her grief over her parents. He told her about his anger and feeling of failure after his divorce, and about the frustration of finding himself at square one again, just as he was starting to feel ready for children and a family, ready to believe that he and Karin would grow old together. Even the brief pauses in the conversation felt comfortable, and it was at those moments he had to keep himself from leaning forward and kissing Erica. He refrained, and the opportunity passed. 3 (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) He was watching when they carried her out. He wanted to wail and throw himself over her covered body. Keep her forever. Now she was truly gone. Strangers were going to poke and dig at her body. None of them would see her beauty the same way he had done. For them she would only be a piece of meat. A number on paper, without life, without fire. With his left hand he stroked the palm of his right hand. Yesterday it had caressed her arm. He pressed his palm against his cheek and tried to feel her cold skin on his face. He felt nothing. She was gone. Blue lights were flashing. People were rushing back and forth, in and out of the house. Why were they in a hurry? It was already too late. No one saw him. He was invisible. He had always been invisible. It didn’t matter. She had seen him. She could always see him. When she fixed her blue eyes on him he felt that he was seen. Now there was nothing left. The fire had been put out long ago. He stood in the ashes and watched as his life was carried off, covered by a yellow hospital blanket. At the end of the road there were no choices. He had always been aware of that, and now the hour had finally arrived. He had been longing for it. He embraced it. She was gone. Nelly had sounded a bit surprised when Erica called. (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) For a moment, Erica wondered whether she was making a mountain out of a molehill, although she still couldn’t help thinking that it was very odd for Nelly to show up at Alex’s funeral reception. Not to mention the way she had talked almost exclusively to Julia. It’s true that Karl-Erik had worked for Fabian Lorentz as the factory’s office manager until the family moved to G?teborg, but as far as Erica knew they had never associated socially. The Carlgrens were far below the Lorentz family’s requirements for acceptable social class. The drawing room she was ushered into was exquisitely beautiful. The view stretched from the harbour at one end to the open horizon beyond the islands at the other. On a winter day like this, when the sunshine was reflecting off the snow-covered ice, the view could compete with even the sunniest summertime panorama. They sat down on an elegant sofa group and Erica was served small canap?s from a silver tray. They were fantastic, but she tried to control her appetite so she wouldn’t look unrefined. Nelly ate only one. Afraid to add a gram of flesh to those knobbly bones. The conversation flowed slowly but politely. In the long pauses between the words, only the ticking of a clock could be heard along with the dainty slurping as they sipped their hot tea. They kept the topics of conversation neutral. The flight of young people from Fj?llbacka. The lack of work. How distressing it was that more and more of the lovely old homes were being bought up by tourists and turned into summer houses. Nelly talked a little about how it used to be, when she came to Fj?llbacka as a young woman, newly married. Erica listened attentively, politely asking a question now and then. It felt as if they were circling round the subject they both knew that they would have to broach sooner or later. It was Erica who finally got up the courage. ‘Well, the last time we saw each other it was under rather sad circumstances.’ ‘Yes, so tragic. Such a young woman.’ ‘I didn’t realize that you knew the Carlgrens so well.’ ‘Karl-Erik worked for us for many years, and of course we met his family on numerous occasions. It seemed only right to express my condolences in person.’ Nelly lowered her eyes. Erica saw that her hands were fidgeting nervously in her lap. ‘I got the impression that you also knew Julia. She wasn’t even born when the Carlgrens lived in Fj?llbacka, was she?’ No more than a stiffening of her back and a slight movement of her head indicated that Nelly found the question uncomfortable. She waved a hand covered with gold jewellery. ‘No, Julia is a new acquaintance. But I think she’s a very enchanting young lady. Yes, I know that she may not have the same outer beauty as Alexandra, but unlike her sister, she has a strength of will and a courage that makes me view her as considerably more interesting than her foolish sibling.’ Nelly clapped her hand to her mouth. Besides the fact that, for an instant, she forgot she was talking about a dead person, for a fraction of a second she had revealed a crack in her fa?ade. What Erica saw in that brief moment was pure hatred. Why would Nelly Lorentz hate a woman she could hardly have met except when Alex was a child? Before Nelly had a chance to smooth over her faux pas, the telephone rang. With obvious relief, she excused herself and went to answer it. Erica took the opportunity to snoop around the room. It was beautiful but impersonal. The invisible hand of an interior decorator hovered over the entire room. Everything was colour co-ordinated down to the smallest detail. Erica couldn’t help comparing it with the simplicity of the furnishings in her parents’ house. There nothing had been included for the sake of appearances; all the objects had been purchased over the decades based on their usefulness. Erica thought that the beauty of worn and personal items far surpassed this polished showroom. The only personal thing Erica could find was a row of family portraits on the mantelpiece. She leaned forward and studied them intently. They seemed to be in chronological order from left to right, beginning with a black-and-white portrait of an elegant couple in their wedding finery. Nelly was really radiantly beautiful in a white sheath dress that hugged her figure, but Fabian looked uncomfortable in his tuxedo. In the next photo the family had grown; Nelly was holding a baby in her arms. At her side, Fabian still looked stiff and serious. Then there was a long row of portraits of children at various ages, sometimes alone, sometimes together with Nelly. In the last picture in the row, Nils Lorentz looked to be about twenty-five. The son who had vanished. After the first portrait of the whole family, it was as though Nils and Nelly were the only members left. Although perhaps Fabian wasn’t so eager to be in the picture and instead stood behind the camera. Photos of Jan, the adopted son, were conspicuous in their absence. Erica turned her attention to a desk in one corner of the room. Made of dark cherrywood, with lovely inlays that Erica traced with her finger. It was completely bare and looked as if it served no other function than decoration. She was tempted to peek in the drawers but wasn’t sure how long Nelly would be gone. The phone conversation was apparently taking some time, but she could come back into the room at any moment. The wastebasket attracted Erica’s attention instead. There were some crumpled papers in it. She took out the paper ball on top and gently smoothed it out. She read it with growing interest. Even more astonished than before, she carefully replaced it in the wastebasket. Nothing in this story was what it seemed. She heard someone clear his throat behind her. Jan Lorentz was standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised quizzically. She wondered how long he’d been standing there. ‘Erica Falck, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes, that’s right. And you must be Nelly’s son Jan?’ ‘Also correct. Pleased to meet you. You’re a bit of a topic of conversation here in town, you should know.’ He gave her a big smile and came towards her with outstretched hand. She took it reluctantly. Something about him made the small hairs on her arms stand up. He held her hand a bit too long. She resisted the impulse to pull it back. He looked as though he’d come directly from a business meeting, wearing a well-pressed suit and with a briefcase in his hand. Erica knew that he was the one who ran the family business. And very successfully. He wore his hair slicked back, with a touch too much gel. His lips were a little too full and fleshy for a man, and his eyes were lovely with long dark lashes. If it hadn’t been for a square, powerful jaw with a deep cleft in his chin, he probably would have looked rather feminine. As it was, the mixture of angularity and luxuriance gave him a slightly odd appearance; it was impossible to say whether he was attractive or not. Personally, Erica found him repellent, but she based that opinion more on a feeling she got in the pit of her stomach. ‘So, Mother has finally managed to entice you here. You’ve been high on the wish list ever since you published your first book, I must tell you.’ ‘I see. Well, I understand it’s been received as the event of the century here. Your mother has invited me before, but the time didn’t seem right until now.’ ‘I heard about your parents. Very tragic. I really must express my sincere condolences.’ He managed a sympathetic smile, but the emotion never reached his eyes. Nelly came back into the room. Jan bent over to kiss his mother on the cheek. She let him do it with an indifferent expression. ‘How nice for you, Mother, that Erica could finally come to visit. You’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.’ ‘Yes, it’s very nice indeed.’ She sat down on the sofa. A grimace of pain swept across her face and she grabbed her right arm. ‘Mother, what is it? Are you in pain? Shall I fetch your pills?’ Jan leaned forward and placed his hands on her shoulders, but Nelly brusquely shook them off. ‘No, there’s nothing wrong with me. Just the aches and pains of age, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. Shouldn’t you be at the factory, by the way?’ ‘Yes, I just dashed home to pick up some papers. Well, I suppose I should leave you ladies alone. Don’t over-exert yourself, Mother, remember what the doctor said …’ Nelly merely snorted in reply. Jan’s face showed a concern and sympathy that seemed genuine. But Erica could swear that she saw a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth when he left the room and turned to look at them for a second. ‘Don’t ever get old. With each year that passes, the old Viking idea of jumping off a cliff to one’s death looks better and better. The only thing to hope for is that you get so senile that you think you’re twenty years old again. That would be fun to relive.’ Nelly gave a bitter smile. It didn’t seem like a particularly amusing topic of conversation. Erica muttered something in reply and then changed the subject. ‘In any case it must be a comfort to have a son who can carry on the family business. From what I understand, Jan and his wife live here with you.’ ‘A comfort. Yes, perhaps it is.’ Nelly glanced quickly at the photographs on the mantle-piece. She said nothing more, and Erica didn’t dare ask any questions. ‘Enough about me and my family. Are you working on a new book? I must say that I loved your last one about Karin Boye. You make the people come so alive somehow. Why is it that you only write about women?’ ‘At first it was more of an accident, I think. I wrote my dissertation at the university about great female Swedish authors and became so fascinated by them that I wanted to find out more about who they were as individuals. I began, as you probably know, with Anna Maria Lenngren, since I knew the least about her. Things have just snowballed from there. Right now I’m writing about Selma Lagerl?f, and I’m coming up with a lot of interesting angles.’ ‘Haven’t you ever thought about writing something, what should I say … non-biographical? You have such a flair for language and it would be so interesting to read something fictional by you.’ ‘Of course I’ve had some thoughts in that direction.’ Erica tried not to look guilty. ‘But at the moment I’m swamped with the Lagerl?f project. After that we’ll see what happens.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Speaking of my writing … unfortunately I really have to get going. Even though there’s no time-clock in my profession, it’s important to maintain discipline. I must go home and write my daily quota. Thank you so much for tea – and the delicious canap?s.’ ‘Think nothing of it. It was delightful to have you here.’ Nelly rose graciously from the sofa. Now there was no sign of her aches and pains. ‘I’ll see you out. In the old days our maid Vera would have done that, but times change. Maids aren’t fashionable anymore, and besides hardly anyone can afford one. I would have liked to have kept her on, since we can afford it, but Jan refused. He doesn’t want strangers in the house, he says. Although it’s all right for her to come and clean once a week. Well, it’s not always easy to make sense of you young people.’ Evidently they had now reached a new level of familiarity, because when Erica offered her hand in farewell, Nelly ignored it and kissed her lightly on both cheeks instead. Erica now knew instinctively which side to begin on. She was starting to feel quite sophisticated and almost at home in the more refined drawing rooms. Erica hurried home. She hadn’t wanted to tell Nelly the real reason for her departure. She looked at her watch. Twenty to two. At two o’clock the estate agent was coming to look at the house prior to putting it up for sale. Erica gnashed her teeth at the thought that somebody was going to walk around poking and prodding at the house, but there was nothing for it but to let events take their course. She had left the car at home, and she picked up her pace to get there in time. Although he could just as well wait, she thought, slowing down. Why should she rush? Happier thoughts crept into her mind. Dinner on Saturday at Patrik’s place had far exceeded her expectations. For Erica he had always seemed like a nice but slightly annoying younger brother, even though they were the same age. She had still expected Patrik to be the same irritating boy. Instead she had found a mature, warm and humorous man. He didn’t look half bad, she had to admit. She wondered how soon she could decently ask him over to dinner – just returning the invitation, that is. The last hill up to the S?lvik campground looked deceptively level; it was a long, slow incline. She was panting heavily when she turned off to the right and went up the last small slope to the house. When she reached the top she stopped short. A big Mercedes was parked in front of the house, and she knew exactly who the registered owner was. She’d thought that the day’s activity couldn’t be any more trying than it already was. She was wrong. ‘Hello, Erica.’ Lucas was leaning against the front door with his arms crossed. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Is that any way to welcome your brother-in-law?’ His Swedish had an accent but was grammatically perfect. Lucas mockingly spread out his arms as if to give her a hug. Erica ignored the gesture. She could see that that was precisely what he’d expected. She’d never made the mistake of underestimating Lucas. That’s why she always observed a great deal of caution when she was in his presence. She wanted more than anything to walk right up to him and slap his grinning face, but she knew that could start something that she might regret. ‘Answer my question. What are you doing here?’ ‘If I’m not mistaken … hmmm … let’s see, exactly one quarter of all this is mine.’ He gestured towards the house, but he might as well have been pointing at the whole world, his self-assurance was so vast. ‘Half is mine and half is Anna’s. You have nothing to do with this house.’ ‘You may not be very well versed in the community property code, seeing as you haven’t succeeded in finding anyone stupid enough to get hitched with you, I mean. But according to that law, a married couple shares everything equally. Even ownership in a house by the sea.’ Erica was well aware that this was the case. For a brief moment she cursed her parents who had not been far-sighted enough to guarantee that the house was solely owned by their daughters. They had known what sort of man Lucas was, but they probably hadn’t reckoned that they had so little time left. No one likes to be reminded of his own mortality, and like so many other people they had postponed that sort of decision. She chose not to take the bait and object to his pejorative comment about her marital status. She would rather be an old maid for the rest of her life than make the mistake of marrying someone like Lucas. He went on, ‘I wanted to be here when the estate agent arrived. It never hurts to check up on one’s net worth. We want everything to go smoothly, now don’t we?’ He smiled that infernal smile of his again. Erica unlocked the front door and pushed past him. The agent was late, but she hoped he would show up soon. She didn’t like the prospect of being alone with Lucas. He entered the house after her. She hung up her jacket and began pottering about the kitchen. The only way she could handle him was to ignore him. She heard him walking about the house, inspecting it. It couldn’t be more than the third or fourth time he’d been inside. The beauty of simplicity was not something that Lucas appreciated, nor had he ever shown the slightest interest in visiting Anna’s family. Their father couldn’t stand his son-in-law, and the feeling was mutual. When Anna and the children came to visit, they came alone. She didn’t like the way Lucas was walking around touching things in the house – the way he was touching the furniture and the decorative objects. Erica had to repress a desire to walk behind him with a dust-rag and wipe off everything he had touched. With relief she saw a grey-haired man in a big Volvo turn into the driveway. She hurried to open the door for him. Then she went into her office and closed the door. She didn’t want to watch him go round looking at her childhood home and assessing its weight in gold. Or price per square metre. The computer was already on. The file was open, waiting for her to get back to work. She had been up early for a change and had got a lot done. She had written four pages that morning for her draft of the book about Alex, and now she went back and read through them. She still had a number of problems with the form of the book. At first, when she’d thought that Alex’s death was suicide, she’d considered writing a book to answer the question ‘why?’ It would have been more of a biography. Now the material was increasingly taking on the form of a crime novel, a genre to which she’d never felt particularly attracted. It was people – their relationships and psychological motivations – that she was interested in; she thought that was something most crime novels had to give up in favour of bloody murders and cold shivers running down the spine. She hated all the clich?s they used; she wanted to write about something that was genuine. Something that attempted to describe why someone could commit the worst of all sins – to take the life of another human being. So far she had written down everything in chronological order, reproducing word-for-word what was said to her, and mixing in her own observations and conclusions. She would have to pare down that material. Tighten it up to get as close to the truth as possible. How Alex’s nearest and dearest might react was not something she had wanted to consider yet. She regretted not telling Patrik everything about her visit to the house where Alex had died. She should have told him about the mysterious visitor and about the painting she found hidden in the wardrobe. And about the feeling she had that something was missing, something that had been in the room when she first went inside. She couldn’t stand to ring him now and admit that there was more to tell. But if the right occasion presented itself, she would tell him the rest, she promised herself that. She could hear Lucas and the estate agent walking around in the house. He must have thought she was behaving quite strangely, barely saying hello and then rushing off and locking herself in her office. The agent wasn’t to blame for the situation in which she found herself, so she decided to grit her teeth and display some of the good manners she had been taught. When she came into the living room, Lucas was in the midst of describing in effusive terms the magnificent light let in by the big mullioned windows. Strange, Erica didn’t know that creatures that crept out from under a rock would appreciate sunlight. She had a vision of Lucas as a big, shiny beetle; she just wished she could have eradicated him from her life with a simple stamp of her boot-heel. ‘Please excuse my rudeness just now. I had some urgent business to tend to.’ Erica smiled broadly and held out her hand to the agent, who introduced himself as Kjell Ekh. He assured her that he was in no way offended. Selling houses was a very emotional affair. If she only knew what stories he could tell … Erica smiled wider and even permitted herself a sly little flutter of her lashes. Lucas looked at her suspiciously. She ignored him. ‘Well, don’t let me interrupt. How far did you get?’ ‘Your brother-in-law was just showing me your lovely living room. It’s very tasteful, I must say. Quite beautiful with the light coming in through the windows.’ ‘Yes, it is lovely, isn’t it. Too bad about the draught.’ ‘The draught?’ ‘Yes, unfortunately the windows are not properly sealed, so when the least wind blows you have to make sure you’re wearing your warmest woollen socks. But it’s nothing that replacing all the windows couldn’t fix.’ Lucas glared at her furiously, but Erica pretended not to notice. Instead she took Kjell by the arm; if he’d been a dog he would have been eagerly wagging his tail by this point. ‘You’ve seen the upstairs, I take it, so perhaps we should continue down to the cellar. And don’t worry about the mouldy smell. As long as you’re not allergic, there’s no danger. I practically lived down there, and it didn’t hurt me any. The doctors have assured me that my asthma has no connection with the mould.’ As the finishing touch she broke into a coughing fit so violent that she bent in half. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lucas’s face take on a much redder hue. She knew that her exaggerated claims would be exposed in a closer inspection of the house. But until then, it was some small consolation to be able to annoy Lucas a bit. Kjell looked very relieved when he got outside in the fresh air again, after being shown all the cellar’s good points by an enthusiastic Erica. Lucas was silent and passive during the rest of the tour. With a pang of uneasiness she wondered whether she’d carried her childish prank a little too far. He knew that a real appraisal would show that none of the ‘drawbacks’ of the house that she had revealed would have any substance, but she had attempted to make him a laughingstock. And that was something that Lucas Maxwell could not tolerate. With a slight feeling of dread Erica saw the agent drive off, waving happily, after promising that they would be contacted by a certified appraiser who would go through the house from attic to cellar. Lucas followed her into the hallway. The next second she felt herself plastered to the wall, with Lucas’s hand in a brutal grip around her throat. His face was no more than half an inch from hers. The anger she saw there made her understand for the first time why it was so hard for Anna to get out of her relationship with Lucas. What Erica saw was a man who let no obstacle stand in his way. She stood stock-still, much too afraid to move. ‘Don’t you ever, ever do that again, do you hear me? Nobody makes a fool of me like that without consequences, so watch your step!’ He snarled the words so fiercely that he sprayed her face with saliva. She had to resist the impulse to wipe his spittle from her face. Instead, she stood as motionless as a pillar of salt, silently praying he would get out of her house and go away. To her astonishment he did just that. He released his grip on her throat and turned on his heel to head for the door. But just as she was about to heave a deep sigh of relief, he spun round and with a single step was in front of her again. Before Erica could react, he grabbed her by the hair and pressed his mouth to hers. Lucas forced his tongue between her lips and at the same time took such a tight hold on her breast that she felt the underwire of her bra cut into her skin. With a smile he turned, headed for the door, and vanished into the winter cold. Not until Erica heard his car start and drive off did she dare move. She sank down onto the floor with her back to the wall and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth in disgust. His kiss had somehow seemed more threatening than his stranglehold; she felt herself starting to shake. With her arms wrapped around her legs she leaned her head on her knees and wept. Not for her own sake, but for Anna’s. Monday mornings were not associated with pleasant feelings in Patrik’s world. He didn’t begin to turn into a real human being until eleven o’clock. So he woke from an almost trance-like state when the hefty stack of papers landed on his desk with a thunk. The awakening was brutal. In one stroke, the pile of documents had doubled, and he let out a groan. Annika Jansson gave him a mischievous smile and asked innocently, ‘Didn’t you say you wanted everything that’s been written about the Lorentz family over the past years? Here I do a magnificent job digging up every single word ever written about them, and what do I get as payment for my efforts? A groan. How about your eternal gratitude instead?’ Patrik smiled. ‘My eternal gratitude isn’t good enough for you, Annika. If you weren’t already married I would marry you and cover you in mink and diamonds. But since you broke my heart and insisted on keeping that lout of a husband of yours, you’ll have to settle for a simple thank-you instead. And my eternal gratitude, of course.’ To his great delight he saw that he’d almost succeeded in making her blush this time. ‘All right, now you’ve gone one step too far. Why do you want to look through all this? What’s it got to do with the murder in Fj?llbacka?’ ‘No idea, to tell you the truth. Let’s call it woman’s intuition.’ Annika raised her eyebrows. She decided that she probably wouldn’t get any more out of him for the moment. But she was curious. Everyone knew the Lorentz family, even in Tanumshede, and if they were somehow involved with a murder it would be a sensation, to say the least. Patrik looked up as she closed the door. An incredibly efficient woman. He sincerely hoped that she could stand to be under Mellberg’s command. It would be a great loss for the station if she decided one day that she’d had enough. He forced himself to focus on the stack of papers Annika had placed before him. After quickly leafing through them, he could tell that it was going to take him the rest of the day to read all the material. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and picked up the first article. Six hours later, he massaged his weary neck and felt his eyes itching and stinging. He had read the articles in chronological order, starting with the oldest newspaper clip first. It was fascinating reading. A lot had been written about Fabian Lorentz and his successes over the years. The great majority of it was positive, and for a long time life seemed to have dealt Fabian a winning hand. The company took off with astonishing speed. Fabian seemed to be a very talented, if not to say a brilliant, businessman. His marriage to Nelly was reported in the society columns with accompanying photos showing the handsome couple in evening attire. Then photos of Nelly and her son Nils began appearing in the papers. Nelly seemed to have been unflagging in her work for various charity and society events, and Nils was always at her side – often with a frightened expression and his hand securely held in his mother’s. Even when he reached his teens and should have been a bit more reluctant to be seen with his mother in public, he was unfailingly there by her side, now with her arm tucked under his and with a proud expression on his face. Patrik thought he looked extremely proprietary. Fabian was seen less and less often; he was mentioned only when news of some big business deal was reported. One article was different from the others and caught Patrik’s attention. Allers had a whole feature about Nelly in the mid-seventies when she took in a foster child, a boy who came from a ‘tragic family background’, as the Allers reporter described it. The article showed Nelly, carefully made-up and dressed to the nines in her elegant living room, with her arm around a boy of twelve. He had a defiant and sulky expression on his face. When the picture was snapped he looked as if he were about to shake off her bony arm. Nils, who was then a young man in his mid-twenties, was standing behind his mother, and he wasn’t smiling either. Serious and ramrod straight in a dark suit and slicked-back hair, he seemed to blend into the elegant atmosphere completely, while the younger boy stuck out like a sore thumb. The article was full of praise about the sacrifice and great social contribution Nelly was making by taking in this child. It was hinted that the boy had been involved in some terrible tragedy in his childhood, a trauma that Nelly was quoted as saying she had helped him overcome. She was confident that the healthy and loving environment they were offering him would heal the boy and turn him into a productive human being. Patrik found himself feeling sorry for the boy. What na?vet?. About a year later, the glamorous society photos and enviable ‘at-home-with’ reports were replaced by big black headlines: ‘Heir to Lorentz family fortune missing’. For several weeks the local newspapers trumpeted the news, and it was even considered important enough for the G?teborgs-Posten to report. The eye-catching headlines were accompanied by an abundance of more or less well-founded speculations about what might have happened to young Lorentz. Every conceivable and inconceivable alternative was aired – he had embezzled his father’s entire fortune and was now in an undisclosed location living the life of luxury. Or he had taken his own life because he discovered that he was not actually the son of Fabian Lorentz, who had made it clear that he didn’t intend to let a bastard inherit his considerable fortune. Most of these rumours were not published in so many words, merely intimated discreetly. But anyone who had the least bit of sense could easily read between the lines. Patrik scratched his head. For the life of him he couldn’t understand how he was going to link a disappearance from twenty-five years ago to the current murder case, but he had a strong feeling that there was a connection. He rubbed his eyes wearily and continued going through the stack of papers, now nearing the bottom. After a while, with no new information about Nils’s fate, public interest had begun to flag and the disappearance was seldom mentioned anymore. Even Nelly made the society columns only rarely after that; she wasn’t written about even once during the Nineties. Fabian’s death in 1978 had prompted a large obituary in Bohusl?ningen, with the usual rhetoric about being a pillar of society, and that was the last time he was mentioned. Their adopted son Jan, however, was in the papers more and more frequently. After Nils vanished, he became the sole heir to the family business, and when he turned twenty-one he stepped in at once as CEO. The company had continued to flourish under his leadership, and now it was he and his wife Lisa who were constantly written up in the society columns. Patrik paused. A paper had fluttered to the floor. He bent down to pick it up and began reading with interest. The article was over twenty years old. It provided Patrik with a great deal of interesting information about Jan and his life before he ended up with the Lorentz family. Disturbing information, but fascinating. His life had changed radically when he became part of the Lorentz family. The question was whether Jan himself had changed just as radically. Patrik resolutely gathered up all the papers and tapped the stack on the desk to even out the edges. He pondered what he should do now. So far he had no more than his – and Erica’s – intuition to go on. He leaned back in his office chair, put his feet up on the desk and clasped his hands behind his head. With his eyes closed, he tried to create some sort of order in his thoughts so he could weigh one alternative against another. Closing his eyes was a mistake. Ever since their dinner on Saturday, all he could see was Erica. He forced himself to open his eyes and focused instead on the depressing light-green concrete of the wall. The police station was from the early Seventies, and presumably designed by someone who specialized in government institutions, with their predilection for ninety-degree angles, concrete and dirty green paint. He had tried to liven up the office a bit with a couple of potted plants in the window and some framed pictures on the walls. When he was married he had kept a photo of Karin on his desk. Even though the desk had been dusted many times since then, he still thought he could see a mark where it had stood. He obstinately set his pen-holder in that spot and quickly went back to weighing his options. What should he do about the material he had in front of him? There were really only two courses of action. The first was to investigate this lead on his own, which would mean doing it in his free time. Mellberg always saw to it that his workload was enough to make him run about like a scalded rat all day long. He actually hadn’t managed to look at the articles during work hours, but only because of a rebellious desire to make trouble. He would have to pay for it by working a good part of the evening. He wasn’t very eager to spend the little free time he had doing the work Mellberg had assigned to him, so option two should at least be tried. If he went to Mellberg and presented the matter the right way, perhaps he could get permission to follow up on these leads during working hours. Mellberg’s vanity was his weak point, and if it was massaged correctly he might be able to win his consent. Patrik was aware that the superintendent viewed the case of Alex Wijkner as a guaranteed return ticket to the G?teborg force. Based on all the rumours he’d heard, Patrik believed that Mellberg had burned all his bridges, but he still might be able to exploit the man’s vanity for his own ends. If he could exaggerate the connection to the Lorentz family a little, perhaps hint that he’d received tips that Jan was the father of Alex’s child, it might get Mellberg to go along with him. Not particularly ethical perhaps, but he felt deep in the pit of his stomach that the connection to Alex’s death could be found in the piles of papers in front of him. With one fluid motion, he took down his feet from the desk and shoved back the chair so hard that it continued backwards on its wheels and banged into the wall behind him. Patrik picked up all the photocopies and went down to the other end of the bunker-like corridor. Before he could change his mind he pounded hard on Mellberg’s door and thought he heard him say, ‘Come in.’ As always he was shocked at how a man who did absolutely nothing could manage to amass such a huge amount of paper. Stacks of paper covered every inch of his desk. In the window, on all the chairs, and above all on the desk, thick piles of paper were collecting dust. The bookshelf behind the superintendent was sagging with binders, and Patrik wondered how long it had been since the documents had seen the light of day. Mellberg was on the telephone but waved for Patrik to come in. Patrik wondered in amazement what was going on. Mellberg was beaming like a star in the window on Christmas Eve. It’s a good thing his ears are in the way, thought Patrik, or that smile would wrap all the way round his head. Mellberg’s half of the phone conversation was terse. ‘Yes. ‘Yes, of course. ‘Not at all. ‘Yes, that’s obvious. ‘You did the right thing. ‘Heavens no. ‘Yes, thank you so much, ma’am, I promise to get back to you.’ In triumph, he slammed the receiver down in the cradle, making Patrik jump in his chair. ‘That’s the way to do things!’ Mellberg continued beaming like a jovial Santa Claus. It occurred to Patrik that this was the first time he’d ever seen Mellberg’s teeth. They were astonishingly white and regular. Almost a little too perfect. Mellberg gave him an expectant look, and Patrik gathered that he wanted him to ask what was going on. Obediently he did so, but he didn’t expect the answer he received. ‘I’ve got him! I’ve got Alex Wijkner’s murderer!’ Mellberg was so beside himself with excitement that he didn’t notice that his comb-over had slipped down over one ear. For once Patrik was not struck by a desire to giggle at the sight. He ignored the fact that the superintendent had used the pronoun ‘I’ indicating that he had no intention of sharing any glory with his co-workers. Instead Patrik leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and asked earnestly, ‘What do you mean? Have we got a breakthrough in the case? Who was that you were talking to?’ Mellberg raised his hand to stop the barrage of questions and then leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. This was a moment he intended to milk to the last drop. ‘Well, Patrik, when you’ve been in this profession as long as I have, then you know that breakthroughs aren’t something you get; they’re something you earn. Due to my extensive experience and skill, as well as my hard work, there has indeed been a breakthrough in the case. A certain Dagmar Petr?n rang and passed on some interesting observations that she’d made just before the body was discovered. Yes, I’d even venture to say significant observations, which will eventually lead to our putting a dangerous killer behind bars.’ Impatience tingled like tiny pinpricks inside of Patrik, but he had sense enough to know that all he had to do was wait Mellberg out. Eventually he would get to the heart of the matter. Patrik only hoped that it would happen before he took retirement. ‘Yes, I recall a case we had in G?teborg, autumn of 1967 …’ Patrik sighed and prepared himself for a long wait. She found Dan where she expected to find him. He was moving the pieces of equipment on the boat as easily as if they were sacks filled with cotton. Huge, fat rolls of rope, seamen’s sacks and enormous fenders. Erica enjoyed watching him work. In a hand-knit sweater, cap and gloves and with white vapour steaming out of his mouth with each breath, he looked as though he fit right in with the tableau behind him. The sun was high in the sky and the light reflected off the snow on deck. The silence was absolute. He worked efficiently and purposefully, and Erica could see that he was loving every minute of it. This was his true element. The boat, the sea, the islands in the background. She knew that in his mind he was picturing how the ice would start to break up and how the Veronica would head off for the horizon at full speed. Winter was merely one long waiting period. It had always been hard for people living on the coast. In the old days, if the summer was good they would salt down enough herring to make it through the winter. If not, they would have to find another way to survive. Like so many of the coastal fishermen, Dan couldn’t live on fishing alone, so he had gone to night school. He now worked as a substitute Swedish teacher at the high school in Tanumshede a couple of days a week. Erica thought he was a very talented teacher, but his heart was here, not in the classroom. He was fully absorbed with his work on the boat. She padded along on light feet so she could watch for a while without disturbing him until he noticed her standing there on the wharf. She couldn’t help comparing him to Patrik. In appearance they were completely different. Dan’s hair was so blond that during the summer months it turned almost white. Patrik’s dark hair was the same colour as his eyes. Dan was muscular while Patrik was more of a lanky type. But in terms of personality they could have been brothers. The same calm, gentle manner, with a quiet humour that always surfaced at the right moments. Actually it had never occurred to her before how alike they were in temperament. In a way that pleased her. Since breaking up with Dan she had never been truly happy in a relationship. All these years she had either looked for or ended up in relationships with men of a totally different type. ‘Immature,’ Anna had pointed out. ‘You’re trying to raise boys instead of finding a grown man, so it’s no wonder that the relationships never work out,’ Marianne had said. Maybe they were right. But the years were slipping away, and she had to admit that she was starting to feel a bit panicky. The death of her parents was also a brutal wake-up call to examine what she was missing in her life. Then last Saturday night the subject had suddenly led her to think about Patrik Hedstr?m. Dan’s voice interrupted her musings. ‘Well hello, how long have you been standing there?’ ‘Oh, just a little while. I thought it would be interesting to see how you work.’ ‘Yeah, it’s certainly not the way you make your living. You get paid to sit on your backside and make things up all day long. Ridiculous.’ They both smiled. It was an old familiar subject for their bantering. ‘I brought along something good to warm you up.’ Erica waved the basket she held in one hand. ‘Oh, why the luxury treatment? What do you want now? My body? My soul?’ ‘No thanks, you can keep both of them. Even though I’d call the latter wishful thinking in your case.’ Dan took the basket she handed to him and then helped her over the railing with a steady hand. She almost fell on her backside but was saved by Dan’s firm grip around her waist. Together they brushed the snow off the lid of one of the fish packing-cases. They sat down on top of their mittens, carefully laid out on the cases, and began unpacking the basket. Dan smiled in delight when he opened the thermos of hot chocolate and the salami sandwiches neatly wrapped in foil. ‘You’re a gem,’ he said with his mouth full of salami sandwich. They sat in silence for a while, devoting all their attention to the food. It was peaceful to sit there in the morning sun, and Erica pushed away her guilt about her lack of work discipline. She had been working hard on the manuscript for the past week and thought she deserved a little time off. ‘Have you heard anything more about Alex Wijkner?’ ‘No, the police investigation doesn’t seem to be making any headway.’ ‘Well, according to what I heard in town, you have special access to inside information.’ Dan gave her a teasing smile. Erica never stopped being amazed at the speed and efficiency of the grapevine. She had no idea how the rumour of her meeting with Patrik could have already spread through town. ‘No idea what you’re talking about.’ ‘Right. So, how far did the two of you get? Go for a test drive yet, or what?’ Erica whacked him across the chest with her arm but couldn’t help laughing. ‘No, I didn’t take him on a “test drive”. I don’t really know if I’m interested or not. Or rather, I am interested, but I don’t know if I want to let it go further than that. Assuming that he’s interested, that is. Which may not be the case at all.’ ‘In other words, you’re chicken.’ Erica hated the way Dan was almost always right. Sometimes she thought he knew her too well. ‘Yes, I’m feeling a little insecure, I must admit.’ ‘Well, you’re the only one who can decide to take the chance. Have you thought about how it might feel if it actually worked out?’ She had given it some thought. Many times over the past few days. But at this point the question was extremely hypothetical. All they’d done was have dinner together, after all. ‘Well anyway, I think you should go for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and all that …’ Erica quickly changed the subject. ‘Apropos Alex, I happened to find something odd.’ ‘Oh yeah, what’s that?’ Dan’s voice was full of curiosity. ‘Well, I was in her house a couple of days ago and found an interesting piece of paper.’ ‘You were what?’ Erica didn’t feel like replying and just waved off his shocked response. ‘It was a copy of an old article about Nils Lorentz’s disappearance. Do you have any idea why Alex would have kept an article twenty-five years old hidden at the bottom of her underwear drawer?’ ‘Her underwear drawer! Erica, what the hell!’ She held up a hand to halt his protests and continued calmly. ‘My intuition tells me that this has something to do with why she was murdered. I don’t know how, but it smells fishy to me. Besides, somebody came into the house and rummaged around while I was there. Maybe that person was looking for the article.’ ‘Are you crazy?’ Dan just stared at her, gaping. ‘What the hell business is it of yours? It’s the police’s job to figure out who murdered Alex.’ His voice climbed to a falsetto. ‘Yes, I know. You don’t have to shout, there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. I’m fully aware that it’s really none of my business, but first of all, I’ve already been involved through her family, and second, we were actually very close at one time, and third, I’m having a hard time forgetting about the whole thing since I was the one who found her.’ Erica omitted telling Dan about the book. Somehow it always sounded more crass and cold-blooded when she said it out loud. She also thought that Dan was over-reacting, but he had always been incredibly solicitous of her. She had to admit that it didn’t sound awfully smart to be running around in Alex’s house, considering the circumstances. ‘Erica, promise me you’ll drop all this.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to face him. His clear eyes were unusually steely for Dan. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to you, and if you keep poking about in this I’m afraid you’re going to get in over your head. Let it go.’ Dan’s grip on her shoulders tightened as he stared into her eyes. Erica opened her mouth to reply, dismayed at Dan’s reaction, but before she could say anything she heard Pernilla’s voice from up on the wharf. ‘So, the two of you are having a cosy time, I see.’ Her voice had a coldness that Erica had never heard before. Her eyes were flashing and she kept clenching and unclenching her hands. Both of them had frozen at the sound of Pernilla’s voice; Dan’s hands were still on Erica’s shoulders. Like lightning, as if he’d burned himself, he snatched his hands away and stood at attention. ‘Hello, dear. Did you finish early today? Erica just came by with a little lunch and wanted to talk for a while.’ Dan jabbered on frenetically and Erica looked back and forth between him and Pernilla in astonishment. Erica hardly recognized her. Pernilla gave her a look of pure hatred. Her hands were clenched so hard that her knuckles turned white, and for an instant Erica wondered if she was going to attack her. She didn’t know what was going on. It had been years and years since they’d cleared the air about her and Dan. Pernilla knew that they no longer had feelings for each other, or at least Erica thought she knew. Now she was no longer sure. The question was, what had brought on this reaction? She looked back and forth from Dan to Pernilla. A silent power struggle was going on, and Dan seemed to be losing. There was nothing more for Erica to say, and she decided it would be best to slip away quietly and let them handle it on their own. She hastily gathered up the cups and thermos and put them back in the basket. When she walked down the wharf, she could hear Dan and Pernilla’s agitated voices breaking through the silence. 4 (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) He was indescribably lonely. The world was empty and cold without her, and there was nothing he could do to thaw the cold. The pain had been easier to bear when he could share it with her. After she vanished it was as if he had to endure both their pain, and it was more than he thought he could bear. He dragged himself through the days minute by minute, second by second. Reality outside him did not exist; all he had was the consciousness that she was gone forever. The guilt could be divided up into equal bits and portioned out among the guilty. He did not intend to bear it all alone. He had never intended to bear it alone. He looked at his hands. How he hated his hands. They carried both beauty and death – an incompatibility duality that he had learned to live with. Only when he caressed her had his hands been entirely good. His skin against her skin had driven away all the evil, forced it to flee for a while. At the same time they had nourished each other’s hidden wish. Love and death, hatred and life. Opposites that turned them into moths flying in circles closer and closer to the flame. She was burned first. He felt the heat from the fire on the back of his neck. It was close now. She was tired. (#u5716598e-564c-565c-adaa-8345ec5108ec) Tired of cleaning up other people’s filth. Tired of her joyless existence. One day followed another with no differentiation. She was tired of bearing the guilt that weighed her down day in and day out. Tired of waking up each morning and going to bed each night and wondering how Anders was doing. Vera put the coffee on the stove to boil. The ticking of the kitchen clock was the only sound to be heard. She sat down at the kitchen table to wait for the coffee to be ready. She had spent today cleaning at the Lorentz family’s house. The house was so big that it took all day. Sometimes she missed the old days. Missed the security of going to the same place to work, the status that went along with being the housekeeper for the wealthiest family in northern Bohusl?n. But she didn’t always feel that way. Most often she was glad that she didn’t have to go there every day. That she no longer needed to bow and scrape to Nelly Lorentz. The woman she hated beyond all rhyme and reason. And yet Vera had continued to work for her, year in and year out, until time finally caught up with her. Housekeepers went out of style. For over thirty years, she had lowered her eyes and muttered ‘yes, thank you, Mrs Lorentz, certainly, Mrs Lorentz, right away, Mrs Lorentz,’ at the same time as she repressed a desire to put her strong hands around Nelly’s frail neck and squeeze until that woman breathed no more. Sometimes the desire had been so overwhelming that she hid her hands underneath her apron so that Nelly wouldn’t see how they shook. The kettle whistled to signal that the coffee was ready. With an effort Vera got up and straightened her back before she took out a battered old cup and poured the coffee. The cup was the last remnant of the wedding service they had received from Arvid’s parents when they got married. It was fine Danish porcelain. A white background with blue flowers that had scarcely lost any colour at all over the years. Now this cup was the only piece left. When Arvid was alive they had used the dishes as their good porcelain, but after his death it didn’t seem to make much sense to distinguish between the everyday and special occasions. Normal wear and tear had taken their toll over the years, and the rest Anders had smashed during an attack of delirium more than ten years ago. This last cup was her most prized possession. She sipped the coffee with pleasure. When there were just a few drops left, she poured the coffee into the saucer and drank it with a lump of sugar between her teeth so the coffee filtered through. Her legs were tired and sore after a whole day of cleaning; she had propped them up on the chair in front of her for a little relief. The house was small and simple. Here she had lived for almost forty years, and here she intended to stay until the day she died. It wasn’t actually very practical. The house stood high up on a steep hill, and she often had to stop and catch her breath several times on her way home. It was also much the worse for wear and looked shabby and run-down both inside and out. The location was good enough that she could get a pretty penny if she sold the house and moved into a flat instead, but the thought had never entered her mind. She would rather it rot away around her than move. Here she had lived with Arvid, after all, those few happy years of their marriage. In that bed in the bedroom she had slept outside her parents’ house for the first time. Her wedding night. In that same bed Anders had been conceived. And when she was very pregnant and couldn’t lie in any other position but on her side, Arvid had crept close to her and lain behind her back, caressing her belly. In her ear he had whispered words about how their life together was going to be. About all the children who would grow up in their house. All the happy laughter that would fill this house in the years to come. And when they grew old and the children had moved out, they would sit in their rocking chairs in front of the fireplace and talk about what a wonderful life they’d had together. They were in their twenties back then, incapable of imagining what was waiting for them beyond the horizon. It was at this kitchen table she’d been sitting when she got the news. Constable Pohl had knocked on the front door with his cap in hand, and as soon as she saw him she knew what was coming. She had held her finger to her lips to stop him from speaking, and instead motioned him to come into the kitchen. She waddled after him, in her ninth month of pregnancy, and slowly and methodically made a pot of coffee. As they waited for the coffee to boil, she had sat staring at the man across the table. He, for his part, could not look at her. Instead, he let his eyes wander around the walls as he compulsively tugged at his collar. Not until they each had a cup of steaming hot coffee before them did she gesture to the constable to continue. She herself had not yet uttered a word. She listened to a humming sound in her head that grew louder and louder. She saw the constable’s mouth moving, but not a word penetrated the cacophony in her head. She didn’t need to hear. She knew that Arvid now was on the bottom of the sea, swaying in time with the seaweed. No words could change that. No words could chase away the clouds that now gathered in the sky until all that was visible was a murky grey. Vera sighed as she sat now at the kitchen table, many years later. Others who had lost loved ones said that the image of them faded as the years passed. For her it had been just the opposite. The image of Arvid grew clearer and clearer; sometimes she saw him so clearly before her that the pain felt like an iron band round her heart. The fact that Anders was the spitting image of Arvid was both a curse and a blessing. She knew that if Arvid had lived, the evil never would have happened. He had been her strength; with him beside her she could have been as strong as she should have been. Vera gave a start when the telephone rang. She had been deeply immersed in old memories and didn’t like being disturbed by the shrill ring of the phone. She had to lift her legs down from the chair where they had gone to sleep. Then she hobbled to the phone that was out in the hall. ‘Mamma, it’s me.’ Anders was slurring his words, and from years of experience she knew precisely what stage of intoxication he was in. About halfway to passing out. She sighed. ‘Hello, Anders. How’s it going?’ He ignored the question. She’d had countless conversations like this. Vera could see herself in the hall mirror as she stood with the receiver to her ear. The mirror was old and worn, with dark spots on the glass; she thought how much she was like that mirror. Her hair was shabby and grey, with its original dark colour still visible here and there. She always combed her hair straight back and cut it herself with nail scissors in front of the bathroom mirror. No sense throwing money away on a hairdresser. Her face was furrowed and wrinkled with years of worry. Her clothes matched her appearance: almost colourless but practical, most often grey or green. Many years of hard work and a lack of interest in food had prevented her from becoming stout like many other women her age. Instead she looked wiry and strong. Like a work horse. She suddenly registered what Anders was saying on the other end of the line and looked away from the mirror in shock. ‘Mamma, there are police cars outside. It’s a hell of an escort. It must be me they’re after. It has to be. What the hell should I do?’ Vera heard his voice getting more frantic; his panic was rising with each syllable. An icy cold spread through her body. In the mirror she saw that she was holding the phone with white knuckles. ‘Don’t do anything, Anders. Just wait there. I’m coming.’ ‘Okay, but hurry for God’s sake. This isn’t the usual way the cops arrive, Mamma, they usually come in one car. Now there are three cars outside with all their blue lights and sirens going. Damn …’ ‘Anders, listen to me now. Take a deep breath and calm down. I’m going to hang up now and I’ll be there as quick as I can.’ She could hear that she’d managed to calm him a little, but as soon as she hung up she threw on her coat and ran out the door, not bothering to lock it. She ran across the car park beyond the old taxi stand and took the short-cut behind the loading dock of Eva’s Foods. She had to slow down after that, and it took her almost ten minutes to reach the block of flats where Anders lived. She got there in time to see two husky policemen lead him away in handcuffs. A shriek surged up in her chest, but she forced it back when she saw all the neighbours hanging out their windows like snooping vultures. There was no way she was going to give them more of a show than what they had already witnessed. Her pride was all she had left. Vera hated the gossip that she knew clung to her and Anders like chewing-gum. There was always a lot of whispering going on, and now it would gather speed. She knew what they were going to say: ‘Poor Vera, first her husband drowns and then her son ruins his life with booze. And she’s such a dependable person.’ Yes, she knew exactly what they were going to say. But she also knew that she would do everything in her power to limit the damage. She just couldn’t break down now. Then everything would collapse like a house of cards. Vera turned to the closest police officer, a small blonde woman Vera thought looked ill-suited to the severe police uniform. She still hadn’t got used to the newfangled arrangement that women could apparently do any job they liked. ‘I’m Anders Nilsson’s mother. What’s happening here? Where are you taking him?’ ‘Unfortunately I can’t give you any information. You’ll have to check with the police station in Tanumshede. They’re taking him there under arrest.’ Her heart sank with every word. She understood that it wasn’t about a drunken fight this time. The police cars began driving off one by one. In the last one she saw Anders sitting between two officers. He turned round as they pulled away and looked at her until they drove out of sight. Patrik saw the car with Anders Nilsson drive off in the direction of Tanumshede. The massive police presence had been a little overdone, he thought. But Mellberg wanted a show, so there was a show. Extra resources from Uddevalla had been called in to assist in the arrest. In Patrik’s opinion the only result was that, of the six men present, it was a waste of time for at least four of them. A woman was still standing in the car park, gazing after the police cars. ‘The perp’s mother,’ said senior constable Lena Waltin from the Uddevalla police, who had also stayed behind to help Patrik search Anders Nilsson’s flat. ‘You know better, Lena – he’s not a “perp” before he’s found guilty and convicted. Until then he’s just as innocent as the rest of us.’ ‘I sure as hell doubt that. I’d bet a year’s salary that he’s guilty.’ ‘If you’re so sure, then you would bet more than such a negligible sum.’ ‘Ha ha, very funny. Joking with a cop about salary is like tripping a cripple, for God’s sake.’ Patrik had to agree. ‘No, there’s probably not much to expect. Shall we go up?’ He saw that Anders’s mother was still standing there gazing after the squad cars, even though they had long since disappeared from view. He felt genuinely sorry for her and considered for a moment going over to offer some words of solace. But Lena pulled on his sleeve and motioned towards the entrance to the building. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders and followed her inside to execute the search warrant. They tried the door to Anders Nilsson’s flat. It was unlocked and they could walk straight into the hall. Patrik looked around and sighed for the second time in a minute. The flat was in sad shape, and he wondered how they would ever find anything of value in this mess. They stepped over empty bottles in the hall and surveyed the living room and kitchen. ‘Damn.’ Lena shook her head in disgust. They took thin plastic gloves out of their pockets and pulled them on. In silent agreement, Patrik started in the living room while Lena took the kitchen. It was a slightly schizophrenic feeling to be in Anders Nilsson’s living room. Filthy, filled with trash, and with an almost total lack of furniture and personal objects, it looked like a classic crash pad for a drunk. And Patrik had seen plenty of those during his years on the force. But he had never been inside a drunk’s flat where the walls were covered with art. The paintings were so close together that they completely filled the walls, from three feet above the floor all the way to the ceiling. It was an explosion of colour that made Patrik’s eyes hurt, and he had to stifle an impulse to put up his hand to shield them. The paintings were abstract, painted only in warm colours, and they struck Patrik like a kick in the stomach. The feeling was so physical that he had to fight to stand upright. He had to force himself to turn away from the paintings because they seemed to be jumping off the walls at him. Cautiously he began looking through Anders’s things. There wasn’t that much to look at. For a moment Patrik felt very grateful for the privileged life he led in comparison. His own problems all at once seemed very small. It fascinated him that the human will to survive was so strong that despite the complete absence of any quality of life, one still chose to go on, day after day, year after year. Was there any cause for rejoicing left in a life like Anders Nilsson’s? Did he ever experience the emotions that made life worth living: joy, anticipation, happiness, elation? Or was everything merely a stop on the way to the next shot of alcohol? Patrik went through everything in the living room. He felt the mattress to see if anything was hidden inside, pulled out the drawers in the only cabinet and checked underneath. He carefully unhooked all the paintings one by one and looked behind them. Nothing. Absolutely nothing aroused his interest. He went out to the kitchen to see whether Lena had had better luck. ‘What a pig sty. How the hell can anybody live like this?’ With a disgusted expression she went through the contents of a rubbish bin that she emptied onto a newspaper. ‘Have you found anything interesting?’ Patrik asked. ‘Yes and no. I found some receipts in the trash. The list of calls on the telephone bill might be something to look at more closely. Otherwise the rest just seems to be garbage.’ She pulled off her plastic gloves with a snap. ‘What do you say? Should we call it a day?’ Patrik looked at the clock. They had already been there for two hours, and it was dark outside. ‘Yes, it doesn’t seem we’ll get much further today. How are you getting home? Do you need a lift?’ ‘I brought my own car, so I’m okay. Thanks anyway.’ They left the flat with relief, careful not to leave it in the same unlocked state as when they arrived. The streetlights were lit when they came out to the car park. It had begun to snow lightly while they were inside, and they both had to brush a good deal of snow from their windscreens. When Patrik drove off towards the OK Q8 petrol station he felt something rise to the surface in his mind, something that had been gnawing at him all day. In the silence of his car, alone with his thoughts, he had to admit that something didn’t feel right about the arrest of Anders Nilsson. He wasn’t confident that Mellberg had asked the right questions when he interviewed the witness, which had caused Anders to be brought in to the station. Perhaps he ought to take a closer look at the matter. In the middle of the intersection by the petrol station Patrik made up his mind. He turned the wheel hard and headed into the centre of Fj?llbacka instead of towards Tanumshede. He hoped that Dagmar Petr?n would be at home. Erica was thinking about Patrik’s hands. She usually looked first at a man’s hands and wrists. She thought that hands could be incredibly sexy. They shouldn’t be small, but they didn’t need to be as big as toilet seat lids either. Just big enough and sinewy, without hair, vigorous and supple. Patrik’s hands were just right. She forced herself out of her daydreams. It was futile, to say the least, to think about feelings that so far she only felt as a light quiver in her stomach. And it wasn’t even certain how long she would be here in these parts. When the house was sold there would be nothing to keep her here, and then her flat in Stockholm would be waiting for her, along with the life she had there with her friends. These weeks spent in Fj?llbacka would be, in all probability, only a brief interlude in her life. Considering all of those things, it would be stupid to build romantic castles in the air regarding an old childhood friend. Erica looked out at the twilight that was beginning to settle over the horizon, despite the fact that it was no later than three in the afternoon, and sighed deeply. She was huddled up in a big, loose-fitting sweater that her father used to wear at sea on cold days. She warmed her chilly hands by pulling them far up inside the long sleeves and twisting the ends together. At the moment she was feeling a little sorry for herself. There didn’t seem to be much to be happy about just now. Alex dead, the hassle with the house, Lucas, the book that was heavy going – it all weighed like, a huge burden on her chest. Besides, she felt that she still had a lot to deal with after her parents’ death, both practically and emotionally. In recent days, she hadn’t been able to face continuing the clean-up, and there were half-full trash bags and cartons all over the house. Inside her there were also half-full spaces, with loose threads and unresolved knots of emotion. All afternoon she had been pondering the scene she witnessed between Dan and Pernilla. She simply couldn’t make sense of it. It was so long ago that there had been any friction between herself and Pernilla; it had all been cleared up for years now. In any case, that was what Erica had thought. So why had Pernilla reacted the way she did? Erica contemplated ringing Dan, but she didn’t really dare in case Pernilla answered the phone. She couldn’t face another conflict right now, so she decided not to think about it anymore. She would let it rest and hope that Pernilla had simply got up on the wrong side of the bed and that everything would have blown over by the next time they met. And yet the scene kept on gnawing at her. It was no random fit of temper on Pernilla’s part; it was something that went much deeper. But for the life of her, she couldn’t work out what it could be. This delaying of the work on her book was stressing her out, and she decided to relieve her conscience and write for a while. She sat down at the computer in her workroom and realized that she would have to take her hands out of the sweater’s warmth in order to work. Things went sluggishly at first, but after a while she worked up both some creative steam and some body heat. She envied the writers who could keep to a strict discipline in their writing. She had to force herself to sit down and write every time. Not out of laziness but because of a deep-seated fear that she might have lost her ability since the last time she wrote anything. That she might sit there with her fingers on the keys and her eyes fixed on the screen and nothing would happen. There would just be emptiness, the words wouldn’t come, and she would realize that she was never going to put a single sentence on paper again. Each time that did not happen was a relief. Now her fingers were flying over the keyboard and she had written over two pages in only an hour. After another three pages, she felt she had earned a reward and allowed herself to spend a while on the book about Alex. The cell was very familiar. It wasn’t the first time he had sat there. Drunken nights with vomit on the floor was an everyday occurrence during the periods when things were really bad. Although this time it was different. This time it was serious. He lay down on his side on the hard cot, curled up in a foetal position and rested his head on his hands to avoid the feeling of plastic sticking to his face. Cold shivers ran through him from a combination of the cold in the cell and the alcohol deprivation in his body. The only thing he’d been told was that he was suspected of murdering Alex. Then they shoved him into the cell and told him to wait. What else did they think he was going to do in this cold place? Teach courses in life-drawing? Anders smiled wryly to himself. His thoughts wandered dully since there was nothing to rest his eyes on. The walls were painted light-green over worn concrete with grey spots where the paint had flaked off. In his thoughts, he painted the walls in bold colours. A brush-stroke of red here, one of yellow there. Strong swathes that quickly obliterated the worn green colour. In his mind’s eye the room was soon a blazing cacophony of colours, and only then could he focus his thoughts. Alex was dead. That wasn’t a thought he could flee from even if he wanted to; it was an irrefutable fact. She was dead, and his future was dead with her. Soon they would come to get him. Drag him away. They would shove him roughly, taunt him, tear at him, until the truth lay there naked and shivering before them. He couldn’t stop them. He didn’t even know if he wanted them to be stopped. There was so much he no longer knew. Not that he’d known very much before. There was little that had enough power to cut through the redemptive fog of alcohol. Only Alex. Only the knowledge that she was breathing the same air somewhere, thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same pain. That was the only thing that had always had enough power to worm its way past, under, over, around the treacherous fogs that did their best to bury all his memories in merciful darkness. His legs began to fall asleep as he lay stretched out on the cot, but he ignored the signals from his body and stubbornly refused to budge from the spot. If he moved, he might lose control over the colours that covered the wall and have to stare at bare ugliness again. In more lucid moments, he could see some humour, or at least irony, in it all. The fact that he was born with an insatiable need for beauty, at the same time that he was condemned to a life of filth and squalor. Perhaps his fate was already written in the stars when he was born, perhaps his fate was rewritten on that ill-fated day. If only. Many times his thoughts had run in circles around this ‘if’, playing with the thought of what his life would have been like if. Maybe a good and honourable life, with family, a home, and art as a source of joy instead of despair. Children playing in the garden outside his studio while fragrant aromas wafted from the kitchen. The very height of a Carl Larsson idyll, with a rosy glow round the edges of the fantasy. And Alex was always in the midst of this tableau. Always in the centre, with him like a planet circling round and round her. His fantasies always made him feel warm inside, but suddenly the warm image was replaced with a cold one, with bluish tones and icy chill. He knew this image well. For many nights he’d been able to study it in peace and quiet so that he knew it down to the smallest detail. The blood was what he feared the most. The red, which stood in sharp contrast to the blue. Death was also there, as usual. He lurked along the edges, rubbing his hands in delight. Waiting for him to make his move, do something, anything at all. The only thing he could do was pretend not to see Death. Ignore him until he disappeared. Perhaps then the image could regain its rosy glow. Perhaps Alex could once again smile at him, the smile that tugged and tore at his guts. But Death was a much too familiar companion to be ignored. It was many years now that they had known each other, and the acquaintance had not grown more pleasant with the years. Even in the brighter moments he had shared with Alex, Death had wedged in between them, insistent, importunate. The silence in the cell was comforting. In the distance he could hear the sound of people moving about, but they seemed so far away that they might be in another world. Not until he heard one of the sounds approaching did he snap out of his dream state. Footsteps in the corridor, steadily approaching his cell door. The rattle of the lock and then the door swung open and the fat little superintendent appeared in the doorway. Listlessly, Anders swung his legs over the edge of the cot and put his feet on the floor. Time for interrogation. Might as well get it over with. The bruises had begun to fade enough that she could try covering them with a good layer of powder. Anna looked at her face in the mirror. She looked worn and harried. Without make-up she could clearly see the blue contours under her skin. One eye was still a bit bloodshot. Her blonde hair was dull and lifeless and in need of a trim. She hadn’t got round to booking a new appointment with the hairdresser; she simply never had the energy. All her strength went into taking care of the children’s daily needs and seeing to it that she kept her head up. How did things ever get to this point? She pulled back her hair in a tight ponytail and laboriously got dressed as she tried to avoid moving in a way that would make her ribs hurt. Before, he used to be careful to hit her only in places that could be hidden by clothing, but during the past six months he had stopped being careful and had repeatedly struck her in the face. But the beating wasn’t the worst of it. It was having always to live under the threat of future blows, waiting for the next time, the next fist. The cruellest thing was that he was well aware of this and played on her fear. He would raise his hand to strike her and then switch over to a caress and a smile. Sometimes he hit her for no apparent reason. Right out of the blue. Not because he needed much of a reason, but in the middle of a discussion about what to buy for dinner, or which TV programme they should watch, his fist might suddenly fly out and catch her in the stomach, on the head, on her back, or wherever else he aimed. Then he would continue the conversation without for a moment losing his train of thought, as if nothing had happened, as she lay on the floor gasping for breath. It was the feeling of power that he enjoyed. Lucas’s clothes lay scattered all over the bedroom; she arduously picked up the clothes, one by one, and hung them up on hangers or put them in the laundry basket. When the bedroom was once again in perfect order she went to check on the children. Adrian was sleeping peacefully on his back with his dummy in his mouth. Emma sat playing quietly in her bed, and Anna stood a moment in the doorway watching her. She was so much like Lucas. The same determined, angular face and ice-blue eyes. The same stubbornness. Emma was one of the reasons she couldn’t stop loving Lucas. Not loving him would feel like denying a part of Emma. He was a part of their daughter, and because of that, a part of Anna as well. He was also a good father to the children. Adrian was still too little to understand, but Emma worshipped Lucas, and Anna simply couldn’t take her away from her father. How could she take the children away from half of their security, rip up everything that was familiar and important to them? Instead she had to try to be strong enough for all of them; then they would be able to get through this. Things weren’t like that in the beginning. Things could be good again. As long as she was strong. After all, he told her that he really didn’t want to hit her, that it was for her own good, because she didn’t do what she was supposed to do. If only she could make more of an effort, be a better wife. She didn’t understand him, he said. If only she could find what made him happy, if only she could do the right things so that he didn’t have to be so disappointed in her all the time. Erica didn’t understand. Erica with her independence and her solitude. Her courage and her overwhelming, stifling solicitude. Anna could hear the contempt in Erica’s voice, and it drove her mad. What did she know about the responsibility for keeping a marriage and a family going? About carrying a load on her shoulders that was so heavy she could barely stand upright. The only thing Erica had to worry about was herself. She’d always been such a know-it-all. Her excessive maternal concern for Anna had sometimes threatened to suffocate her. She had felt Erica’s restless, watching eyes following her everywhere, when all she wanted was to be left in peace. What did it matter if their mother never managed to care for them? They had Pappa, at least. One out of two wasn’t so bad. The difference between her and Erica was that she accepted things, while Erica was always trying to find a reason. More often than not, Erica also turned the questions inward and tried to find the reason inside herself. That was why she had always exerted herself too much. Anna, on the other hand, chose not to exert herself at all. It was easier not to worry, to go with the flow and take one day at a time. That was why she felt such bitterness towards Erica. She worried and fretted over her younger sister, coddling her, and that made it even harder for Anna to close her eyes to the truth and the people around her. Moving out of her parents’ house had been so liberating. When she then met Lucas soon afterwards, she thought she had finally found the only person who could love her just as she was and, above all, respect her need for freedom. She smiled bitterly as she cleaned the table after Lucas’s breakfast. Freedom? She no longer even knew how to spell the word. Her life consisted of the space inside this flat. It was only the children who made it possible for her even to breathe, the children and the hope that if she found the right formula, the right answer, then everything could be the way it used to be. In slow motion she placed the lid on the butter tub, put the cheese in a plastic bag, inserted the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and wiped off the table. When everything was shiny and clean, Anna sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and looked around the room. The only sound was Emma’s childish prattle from the nursery, and for a few minutes Anna allowed herself to enjoy a little peace and quiet. The kitchen was bright and airy, decorated in a tasteful combination of wood and stainless steel. They had spared no expense on the appliances, which meant that Philip Starck and Poggenpohl were the dominant brand-names. Anna herself had wanted a cosier kitchen, but when they moved into the lovely five-room flat in ?stermalm she knew better than to air her views. Erica’s concern over the house in Fj?llbacka was something she couldn’t even consider. Anna couldn’t afford to be sentimental, and the money they would get from the sale of the house might mean a new start for her and Lucas. She knew that he wasn’t happy with his job here in Sweden and wanted to go back to London; that was where he thought the action and the career opportunities were. He viewed Stockholm as a backwater, careerwise. And even though he made a good, even excellent, salary at his present job, the windfall from the house in Fj?llbacka, combined with the money they had already saved, would buy them a residence in London that was consistent with their social standing. That was important to Lucas, so it became important to her. Erica would get along all right. She had only herself to think of; she had a job and a flat in Stockholm. The house in Fj?llbacka would only serve as a summer cottage. The money would help her out as well – a writer made no money to speak of, and Anna knew that Erica sometimes went through hard times. She would soon realize that this was for the best. For both of them. Adrian’s shrill voice came from the children’s room, and her brief respite was over. No sense sitting and fretting. The bruises would go away as they always did, and tomorrow was another day. Patrik felt inexplicably light-hearted and took the stairs to Dagmar Petr?n’s house two at a time. But when he was almost to the top he had to catch his breath, bending over with his hands on his knees. He certainly wasn’t twenty years old anymore. The woman who opened the door definitely wasn’t either. He hadn’t seen anything so little and wrinkled since the last time he opened a bag of prunes. Stooped and hunched as she was, she hardly came up much past his waist, and Patrik was afraid she’d snap in two in the slightest breeze. But the eyes that looked up towards him were as clear and alert as a young girl’s. ‘Don’t stand there puffing, son. Come in and have a cup of coffee.’ Her voice was surprisingly powerful, and Patrik suddenly felt like a schoolboy as he followed her obediently inside. He resisted a strong urge to bow and struggled to maintain the snail’s pace so as not to run over Mrs Petr?n. Inside the door he stopped short. Never in his entire life had he seen so many Santa Clauses. Everywhere, on every available surface, there they were. Big ones, little ones, old ones, young ones, winking ones and grey ones. He felt his brain go into overdrive to handle all the sensory input flowing towards him. ‘What do you think? Aren’t they magnificent!’ Patrik didn’t know quite what to say, and after a moment he managed to stammer a reply. ‘Yes, absolutely. Fantastic.’ He gave Mrs Petr?n an anxious look to see whether she could hear that his words didn’t really match his tone of voice. To his amazement she gave him a roguish smile that made her eyes flash. ‘Don’t worry, boy. I’m well aware that it’s not really your taste, but when one gets old it involves certain responsibilities, you understand.’ ‘Responsibilities?’ ‘One is expected to show a bit of eccentricity to be interesting. Otherwise one is simply a sad old crone, and no one wants that, you know.’ ‘But, why gnomes?’ Patrik still didn’t quite understand. Mrs Petr?n explained it to him as if she were speaking to a child. ‘Well, the best thing, you see, is that one only needs to put them up once a year. The rest of the year I can keep the place nice and tidy. Then there’s the advantage that it brings a pack of children running up here at Christmastime. And for an old crone who doesn’t have many visitors, it’s a joy to the soul when the little creatures come and ring my bell to see the Santas.’ ‘But how long do you keep them up, Mrs Petr?n? We’re in the middle of February now.’ ‘Well, I start putting them up in October and then take them down around April. Although you must realize that it probably takes a week or two to put them up and take them down.’ Patrik had no difficulty at all visualizing that it would take time. He tried doing a quick calculation in his head, but his brain hadn’t really recovered from the shock of the whole scene. Instead he turned to Mrs Petr?n with a direct question. ‘How many do you actually have here?’ The reply was instant. ‘One thousand four hundred and forty-three, no excuse me, one thousand four hundred and forty-two – I happened to break one yesterday. And one of the nicest ones at that,’ said Mrs Petr?n with a sad expression. But she pulled herself together, her eyes flashing again. With astonishing strength she tugged on Patrik’s sleeve and more or less dragged him to the kitchen, where in contrast there was not a Santa to be seen. Patrik discreetly smoothed out his jacket but had a feeling that she would have grabbed hold of his ear instead if she could reach that high. ‘We’ll sit here. One gets a bit testy always having a bunch of old men around one. Here in the kitchen they’re banned.’ He sat down on the hard kitchen bench after all his offers of assistance were brusquely refused. Steeling himself at the thought of some thin, wretched boiled coffee, his mouth fell open for the second time at the sight of the huge, stainless-steel, hypermodern coffee brewer enthroned on the worktop. ‘What would you like? Cappuccino? Caf? au lait? Maybe a doppio espresso – you look like you could use it.’ Patrik managed only a nod. Mrs Petr?n was apparently enjoying his amazement. ‘What did you expect? An old percolator from ’43 and hand-ground beans? No, just because I’m an old crone doesn’t mean that one can’t enjoy the good things in life. I got this from my son as a Christmas present a couple of years ago, and it’s always running, I can tell you that. Sometimes there’s a queue of old ladies from the neighbourhood waiting to have a drop.’ She patted the machine tenderly, which was now sputtering and fizzing as it whipped up milk to an airy froth. As the coffee was being prepared, one fantastic pastry after another materialized on the table in front of Patrik. Not a Finnish pin roll or Karlsbad kruller as far as the eye could see; instead big cinnamon buns, stunning muffins, sticky chocolate biscuits, and fluffy meringue cakes were set out as Patrik’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. His mouth started watering so much that saliva threatened to run out the corners of his mouth. Mrs Petr?n chuckled when she saw the expression on his face, and sat down across from him on one of the Windsor chairs. She served them each a cup of hot, aromatic, freshly brewed coffee. ‘I understand that it’s the girl in the house across the way that you want to talk to me about. Well, I already spoke with your superintendent and told him what little I know.’ With an effort Patrik detached himself from the sticky bun he had just sunk his teeth into. He had to clean his front teeth with his tongue before he could open his mouth. ‘Yes, Mrs Petr?n, perhaps you would be so kind as to recount what you said? Is it all right if I turn on the tape recorder, by the way?’ He pressed the red button on the tape recorder and made sure to chew thoroughly while waiting for her reply. ‘Yes, of course you may. Well, it was Friday, the twenty-second of January, at six thirty. And please don’t be so formal. It makes me feel ancient.’ ‘How can you be so sure of the date and time? It’s been a couple of weeks since then.’ Patrik took another bite. ‘Well, you see, it was my birthday that day, so my son and his family were here. We had cake and they brought me presents. Then they left just before the six-thirty news on channel 4, and that was when I heard a devil of a row outside. I rushed to the window that faces out back and over by the lass’s house, and that’s when I saw him.’ ‘Anders?’ ‘Anders the painter, yes. Drunk as a lord he was, standing there yelling like a madman and banging on the door. Finally she let him in and then it was quiet. Well, he may have kept yelling, I don’t know anything about that. It’s impossible to hear what goes on inside these houses.’ Mrs Petr?n noticed that Patrik’s plate was empty, so she pushed over the tray of cinnamon buns to tempt him. He didn’t need a great deal of persuasion. He quickly helped himself to one on top. ‘And you’re quite sure, Mrs Petr?n, that it was Anders Nilsson? No doubts on that point?’ ‘Oh no, I’d know that rascal anywhere. He used to come over at all hours, and if he wasn’t here then he’d be down with the drunks on the square. I never did understand what he had to do with Alexandra Wijkner. That girl had class, I have to tell you. Both good-looking and well-brought-up. When she was little she’d often come over for juice and buns. She used to sit right there on the bench, often together with Tore’s little girl, what was her name now …?’ ‘Erica,’ said Patrik with his mouth full of cinnamon bun, and he felt a tingle in the pit of his stomach just from saying her name. ‘Erica, that’s right. She was a nice girl too, but there was something special about Alexandra. She had a radiance about her. But then something happened … she stopped coming by and hardly ever said hello. A couple of months later they moved to G?teborg, and then I didn’t see her until she started coming here on weekends a couple of years ago.’ ‘Weren’t the Carlgrens ever here during the years in between?’ ‘No, never. But they kept the house in order. Painters and carpenters would come by, and Vera Nilsson came twice a month to clean.’ ‘And you have no idea, Mrs Petr?n, what happened before the Carlgrens moved to G?teborg, what might have changed Alex, I mean? No fight in the family or anything like that?’ ‘There were rumours, of course, there always are here, but nothing I’d put much store in. Even though plenty of folks here in Fj?llbacka claim to know most of what’s going on with everyone else, one thing you should be clear about: nobody ever knows what goes on inside the four walls of anyone else’s home. That’s why I won’t speculate about it either. It serves no purpose. Look, take another pastry, you still haven’t tasted my meringue dreams.’ Patrik patted his stomach and found that yes, there was a tiny little nook that he might be able to fill with a meringue dream. ‘Did you see anything else after that? Did you notice when Anders Nilsson left, for example?’ ‘No, I didn’t see him anymore that evening. But I did see him go into the house several times in the following week. That was odd, I must say. From what I heard in town she was already dead by then. So what in all the world could he have been doing in there?’ That was precisely what Patrik was wondering. Mrs Petr?n gave him an inquiring look. ‘So, did you enjoy those?’ ‘Probably the best pastries I’ve ever tasted, Mrs Petr?n. How is it that you can rustle up a tray of pastries just like that? I mean, I didn’t ring more than fifteen minutes before I came here. You would have had to be as fast as Superman to bake all these goodies.’ She basked in the compliment and tossed her head proudly. ‘For thirty years, my husband and I ran the pastry shop here in Fj?llbacka, so one hopes one has learned something over the years. Old habits are hard to break, so I still get up at five in the morning and bake every day. What doesn’t go to the kids and old ladies who come to visit, I feed to the birds. And then it’s always fun to try new recipes. There are so many modern baked goods that are so much better than those dry old Finnish pin rolls we used to bake tons of in the old days. I find recipes in the food magazines, and then I modify them to my liking.’ She gestured at an enormous stack of food magazines on the floor next to the kitchen bench – there was everything from Amelia Mat to Allt om mat, several years’ worth. Judging by the price per issue, Patrik suspected that Mrs Petr?n must have saved a pretty penny during her years at the pastry shop. He had a bright idea. ‘Do you know whether there was any connection between the Carlgren family and the Lorentz family, besides the fact that Karl-Erik worked for them? Did they ever get together socially, for example?’ ‘Goodness gracious, the Lorentzes getting together with the Carlgrens? No, my friend, that would only have happened if there were two Thursdays in one week! They didn’t move in the same circles. The fact that Nelly Lorentz – according to what I heard – showed up at the funeral reception at the Carlgrens’ house, I’d have to call that quite a sensation, nothing less!’ ‘But what about the son? The one who disappeared, I mean. Did he ever have anything to do with the Carlgrens, as far as you know?’ ‘No, one would hope not. A nasty boy he was. Always trying to nick pastries behind one’s back in the pastry shop. But my husband taught him a lesson when he caught him red-handed. That boy got the scolding of his life. Then, of course, Nelly came rushing over here to tell us off. She threatened to call the police on my husband. Well, he put a stop to that when he told her that there were witnesses to the pilfering, so she could go right ahead and ring the public prosecutor.’ ‘But no connection to the Carlgrens, as far as you know, then?’ She shook her head. ‘Well, it was just a thought on my part,’ said Patrik. ‘Next to the murder of Alex, Nils’s disappearance is probably the most dramatic thing that’s ever happened here, and one never knows. Sometimes the most interesting coincidences turn up. So, I don’t think I have any other questions, so I’ll just say thanks for the coffee. Tremendously good pastry, I must say. I’ll have to eat salad for a few days.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have to eat rabbit food. You’re still a growing boy.’ Patrik chose to accept the compliment, instead of pointing out that at thirty-five only his waistline was still growing. He got up from the kitchen bench but had to sit right down again. It felt like he had a tonne of concrete in his stomach, and a wave of nausea rose up in his throat. On second thought, it hadn’t been such a good idea to stuff himself with all these pastries. He tried to squint a bit as he walked through the living room, and all one thousand four hundred forty-two Santas winked and glittered at him. Walking out to the door took as long as it had to come in. He had to restrain himself from running around Mrs Petr?n as he shuffled behind her toward the front door. She was a feisty old woman, no doubt about it. She was also a reliable witness, and with her testimony it was only a matter of time before they would be able to add another couple of pieces to the puzzle and build a water-tight case against Anders Nilsson. For the time being, it was mostly circumstantial evidence, but it looked as though the murder of Alexandra Wijkner was now solved. Yet he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, to the extent he could feel anything besides pastry. It was a feeling that the simple solutions were not always the correct ones. It was magnificent to breathe fresh air, which somewhat relieved the nausea. He was just thanking Mrs Petr?n once more and turning to go when she pressed something into his hand before he pulled the door closed. He looked to see what it was. It was a shopping bag from ICA stuffed full of pastries – and a little Santa Claus. He grabbed his stomach and groaned. ‘Well now, Anders, things aren’t looking so good for you.’ ‘Oh yeah?’ ‘Oh yeah – is that all you have to say? You’re sitting up to your neck in shit if you haven’t realized that! Have you realized that?’ ‘I didn’t do anything.’ ‘Bullshit! Don’t you sit there and shovel bullshit right in my face. I know you murdered her, so you might as well confess and save us all some trouble. If you save me trouble, you’ll save yourself trouble. Do you get what I’m talking about?’ Mellberg and Anders were sitting in the only interrogation room at Tanumshede police station, and unlike American cop shows, there was no one-way glass wall through which his colleagues could watch the interrogation. Which suited Mellberg just fine. It was completely against regulations to be alone with a subject under interrogation, but what the hell, as long as he delivered, nobody would care about any stupid regulations. And Anders hadn’t asked for an attorney or anyone else to be present, so why should Mellberg insist? The room was small and sparsely furnished, with bare walls. The only furniture was a table and two chairs, now occupied by Anders Nilsson and Bertil Mellberg. Anders was leaning back nonchalantly in his chair, with his hands folded in his lap and his long legs stretched out under the table. Mellberg stood leaning halfway over the table with his face as close to Anders’s as he could stand, in view of the suspect’s anything but minty-fresh breath. But it was close enough for tiny drops of saliva to spray in Anders’s face when Mellberg spat out his words. Anders didn’t bother to wipe his face. He chose to pretend that the superintendent was merely an annoying fly, so insignificant that it wasn’t even worth swatting away. ‘Both you and I know that you were the one who murdered Alexandra Wijkner. Tricked her into taking sleeping pills, put her in the bathtub and slit her wrists, and then calmly watched as she bled to death. So why don’t we just make this easy on both of us? You confess and I’ll write it down.’ Mellberg felt very pleased with what he regarded as a powerful start to the interrogation. He sat down on the chair and clasped his hands over his big paunch. He waited. No response from Anders. His head continued to droop forward, his hair concealing any facial expression. A twitch at the corner of Mellberg’s mouth revealed that indifference was not what he considered his preamble deserved. After waiting in silence a bit longer, he slammed his fist on the table to try to rouse Anders out of his torpor. No reaction. ‘What the hell, you fucking drunk! Do you think you can get out of this by sitting there and not saying a word? Then you’ve ended up in the hands of the wrong cop, I can tell you that. You’re going to tell me the truth if we have to sit here all day!’ The sweat stains under Mellberg’s arms were growing larger with each syllable. ‘You were jealous, weren’t you? We found some paintings you did of her, and it’s quite obvious that you were fucking each other. And to dispel any further doubt, we also found your letters to her. Your sickly sweet, pathetic love letters. Jesus, what fucking crap. What did she see in you, anyway? I mean, just look at you. You’re filthy and disgusting and as far from any Don Juan as you could get. The only explanation would have to be that she was some kind of pervert. That she was turned on by filth and revolting old drunks. Did she take on the other winos in Fj?llbacka too, or were you the only one she serviced?’ Quick as a weasel Anders was on his feet. He launched himself across the table and had his hands around Mellberg’s neck. ‘You fuck, I’m going to kill you, you cop son of a bitch!’ Mellberg tried in vain to prise off Anders’s hands. His face got redder and redder, and his hair fell out of its nest and hung down over his right ear. From sheer astonishment Anders loosened his grip on Mellberg’s neck, and the superintendent was able to take a deep breath. Anders fell back in his chair and glowered at Mellberg. Mellberg had to cough and clear his throat to recover his voice. ‘Don’t you ever do that again! Do you hear me, never! Now you’re going to sit still, damn it, or I’ll toss you in a cell and throw away the key, do you hear me?’ Mellberg sat back down on his chair but kept his eyes vigilantly on Anders. There was a hint of fear in Mellberg’s eyes that wasn’t there before. He discovered that his meticulously arranged hairdo had suffered a real blow, and with a practised motion he swung the hair up onto the shiny patch in the middle of his scalp, at the same time as he tried to pretend that nothing had happened. ‘Now, back to business. So you had a sexual relationship with the victim, Alexandra Wijkner?’ Anders muttered something into his lap. ‘Excuse me, what did you say?’ Mellberg leaned forward across the table with his hands clasped in front of him. ‘I said we loved each other!’ The words echoed and bounced off the bare walls. Mellberg gave Anders a contemptuous smile. ‘Okay, so you loved each other. Beauty and the beast loved each other. How touching. So how long did you “love” each other, then?’ Anders mumbled something incomprehensible again, and Mellberg had to ask him to repeat it. ‘Since we were kids.’ ‘Oh, I see, okay. But I assume that you weren’t screwing like rabbits since you were five, so let me reformulate that question: how long did you have a sexual relationship? How long was she shagging you on the side? How long did you dance the horizontal tango? Do I have to go on, or have you managed to understand the question?’ Anders glared with hatred at Mellberg but made a great effort to stay calm. ‘I don’t know, off and on over the years. I don’t really know, I didn’t check off the dates on the calendar.’ He picked at some invisible threads on his trousers. ‘She wasn’t here very much back then, so it wasn’t that often. Mostly I just painted her. She was so beautiful.’ ‘What happened the night she died? Was it a lovers’ quarrel? Didn’t she want to put out? Or was it the fact that she was knocked up that made you so mad? Sure, that must have been it. She was knocked up and you didn’t know whether it was your kid or her husband’s. She probably threatened to make life hell for you too, didn’t she?’ Mellberg felt extremely pleased with himself. He was convinced that Anders was the killer, and if he just pushed hard enough on the right buttons he would undoubtedly get a confession out of him. No doubt about it. Then G?teborg would beg and plead for him to come back to the force. They would probably try to tempt him with a promotion and a higher salary if he kept them on the hook for a while. He rubbed his belly in pleasure and only now noticed that Anders was staring at him wide-eyed. His face was white, empty of all blood. His hands were twitching in spasms. When Anders raised his head and for the first time looked straight at Mellberg, the superintendent saw that his lower lip was quivering and his eyes were full of tears. ‘You’re lying! She couldn’t have been pregnant!’ Snot was dripping from his nose, and Anders wiped it on his sleeve. He gave Mellberg an almost imploring look. ‘What do you mean? Condoms aren’t a hundred per cent safe, you know. She was in her third month, so don’t try to get all dramatic on me. She was knocked up and you know very well how it happened. Whether it was you or her high-class husband who delivered the goods, well, we’ll never know, will we? It’s a man’s curse, I have to tell you. I’ve been close to getting nailed a few times, but no fucking bitch has ever got me to sign any papers.’ Mellberg chuckled. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but we hadn’t had sex in over four months. Now I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Take me back to my cell, because I don’t intend to say another word.’ Anders gave a big snuffle and the tears kept threatening to spill over. He leaned back in the chair with his arms crossed and glared spitefully from under his mop of hair at Mellberg, who heaved a deep sigh but acquiesced. ‘All right, we’ll continue in a couple of hours. And just so you know – I don’t believe a fucking word of what you’re saying! Go think about that while you sit in your cell. The next time we talk I want a complete confession from you.’ He remained sitting there for a while after Anders was led away to his cell. The stinking drunk hadn’t confessed. Mellberg thought it was utterly incredible. But his trump card was still unplayed and intact. The last time Alexandra Wijkner had been heard alive was at a quarter past seven on Friday, January twenty-second, exactly one week before she was found dead. On that occasion she had talked to her mother on the phone for five minutes and fifty seconds, according to Telia, the phone company. That also matched the time-frame indicated by the medical examiner. Thanks to the neighbour, Dagmar Petr?n, he had testimony that Anders Nilsson visited the victim not only on that very evening, just after six-thirty, but that he was also seen going into the house on several occasions during the following week. And by that time Alexandra Wijkner lay dead in the bathtub. A confession would have made Mellberg’s work considerably easier, but even if Anders turned out to be obstinate, Mellberg felt sure that he would be able to get a conviction. Not only did he have the testimony from Mrs Petr?n, but on his desk he also had a report on the search of Alex Wijkner’s house. Most interesting were the data from the scrupulous examination of the bathroom where she was found. Not only had a footprint been found in the coagulated blood on the floor that matched a pair of shoes confiscated in Anders’s flat, but Anders’s fingerprints had also been found on the victim’s body. Not as clear as they would have been on a hard, even surface, but still clear and identifiable. He hadn’t wanted to use all his options today, but at the next interrogation he would bring out the big guns. And damn if he wouldn’t crack this bastard then. Pleased with himself, Mellberg spat on his palm and smoothed back his hair with saliva. The telephone call interrupted her just as she was typing up an account of her conversation with Henrik Wijkner. Annoyed, Erica took her hands off the keyboard and reached for the phone. ‘Yes?’ She sounded more irritated than she had intended. ‘Hello, it’s Patrik. Am I interrupting you?’ Erica sat bolt upright in her chair and regretted that she hadn’t sounded nicer when she answered. ‘No, absolutely not. I’m just sitting here writing, and I was so into what I was doing that I jumped when the phone rang, so I might have sounded a bit … but you’re not bothering me at all, it’s quite all right, I mean …’ She slapped her forehead when she heard herself rambling on like a fourteen-year-old girl on the phone. Time to pull herself together and control those hormones, she thought. This is ridiculous. ‘Well, I’m in Fj?llbacka and just thought I’d see if you were at home and whether I could drop by for a while.’ He sounded self-confident, manly, secure and calm, and Erica felt even more idiotic for stammering like a teenager. She looked down at what she was wearing, which today consisted of a slightly dirty jogging suit. At the same time she felt her hair. Yep, just as she feared. Her hair was pulled into a knot on top of her head with loose strands sticking out in every direction. The situation could almost be called disastrous. ‘Hello, Erica – are you still there?’ Patrik sounded puzzled. ‘Uh yes, I’m still here. I just thought it sounded like your mobile dropped the call.’ Erica slapped her forehead for the second time in about ten seconds. God in heaven, you’d think she was a beginner at this. ‘Hello-o-o, Erica – can you hear me? Hello?’ ‘Uh, of course I can. Come on over. Just give me fifteen minutes, because I’m busy … uhh … writing a very important part of my book that I’d like to finish first.’ ‘Sure, no problem. Are you sure I’m not bothering you? I mean, we’re seeing each other tomorrow night so –’ ‘No, absolutely not. I’m sure. Just give me fifteen minutes.’ ‘Okay. See you then.’ Erica carefully put down the receiver and took a deep breath full of anticipation. Her heart was beating so hard that she could hear it. Patrik was on his way to her place. Patrik was on … She gave a start as if someone had tossed a bucket of cold water on her, and jumped out of her chair. He was going to be here in fifteen minutes and she looked like she hadn’t washed or combed her hair in a week. She went upstairs two steps at a time as she pulled the jogging sweatshirt over her head. In the bedroom she wriggled out of her sweatpants, tripped and almost fell on her face. In the bathroom she washed under her arms and sent a silent prayer of thanks that she had shaved her underarms when she showered this morning. She dabbed perfume on her wrists, between her breasts, and at her throat where she felt her pulse beating so strong beneath her fingers. She threw open the wardrobe and tossed most of the contents on the bed before she managed to decide on a simple black Filippa top and matching tight black skirt that came down to her ankles. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes left. Bathroom again. Powder, mascara, lip gloss and a light eye shadow. No need for rouge, her face was red enough already. The effect she was going for was the fresh, unpainted look, and with every year that passed it seemed to take more and more make-up to achieve. The doorbell rang. As she cast one last look in the mirror she realized in panic that her hair was still up in a slovenly top-knot, held in place with a neon-yellow elastic. She ripped off the elastic and with a brush and a little mousse she managed to make her hair look presentable. Another ring, more insistent this time, and she hurried downstairs but stopped halfway to catch her breath and compose herself for a second. With the coolest expression she could muster, she opened the door with a big smile. His finger was shaking a little as he pressed the doorbell. He’d been about to turn round several times and phone her with some excuse, but the car practically drove itself towards S?lvik. Of course he remembered where she lived and automatically took the tight curve to the right on the hill before the campground on the way up to her house. Although it was only afternoon it was black as night out, but the streetlights were bright enough that he could glimpse a view of the sea. All at once he understood how Erica felt about her parents’ house. He also understood the pain she must feel at the thought of losing it. And he realized the impossibility of his feelings for her. She and Anna would sell the house and then there would be nothing to keep Erica in Fj?llbacka. She would move back to Stockholm, and a provincial cop from Tanumshede wouldn’t make much of an impression compared with the lounge lizards of Stureplan. He plodded with Moloch-like steps up to the front door and rang the bell. No one came to the door, so he rang the doorbell again. This was definitely starting to feel like a bad idea, not the way he had first imagined on the way from Mrs Petr?n’s house. He simply couldn’t resist calling Erica since she was so close. But he was beginning to regret the whole thing as soon as she answered the phone. She sounded so busy, even irritated when he rang. Oh well, it was too late to worry about that now. The chime of the doorbell echoed for the second time through the house. He could hear someone coming down the stairs. The footsteps paused for a moment before they continued the rest of the way to the door. The door opened and there she stood with a big smile. She took his breath away. He couldn’t understand how she always managed to look so fresh. Her face was bare of any make-up, with the natural beauty that he found most attractive in a woman. Karin had never dreamed of showing her face without make-up, but Erica looked so amazing in his eyes that he couldn’t imagine anything that could possibly improve her appearance. The house looked exactly the same as always, the way he remembered it from his visits as a child. Here the furniture and the house had been allowed to age together with dignity. Wood and white paint predominated, with light-coloured fabrics in blue and white that harmonized with the ageing patina of the furniture. She had lighted candles to drive away the winter darkness. The whole place breathed calm and tranquillity. He followed Erica out to the kitchen. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ ‘Yes, please. Oh, and I brought these.’ Patrik handed over the bag of pastries. ‘Although I should really take some back to the station. I’m sure there’s enough for everybody, and then some.’ Erica peeked into the plastic bag. She smiled. ‘I see you’ve been visiting Mrs Petr?n.’ ‘Yep. And I’m so full I can hardly move.’ ‘A charming old lady, don’t you think?’ ‘Incredible. If I were around ninety-two I’d marry her.’ They smiled at each other. ‘So, how are you doing?’ ‘Fine, thanks.’ A moment of silence made them both squirm. Erica poured coffee into two cups and then poured the rest into a table thermos. ‘Let’s sit on the veranda.’ They took their first sips and the silence no longer felt uncomfortable, but rather pleasant. Erica sat on the wicker sofa across from him. He cleared his throat. ‘How’s it going with the book?’ ‘Good, thanks. And what about you? How’s the investigation going?’ Patrik thought for a moment and decided to tell her a little more than he actually should. Erica was already involved anyway, and he couldn’t see that it would hurt any. ‘It looks like we’ve probably solved it. We actually have a suspect in custody. He’s being interrogated right now, and the evidence is as watertight as it could possibly be.’ Erica leaned forward with an inquisitive expression. ‘Who is it?’ Patrik hesitated a moment. ‘Anders Nilsson.’ ‘So it was Anders after all. Strange, but that doesn’t feel quite right.’ Patrik was inclined to agree with her. There were simply too many loose ends that couldn’t be tied up by Anders’s arrest. But the physical evidence from the murder scene and the testimony of witnesses – that he was in the house not only just before the time Alex was presumably murdered, but also on a number of other occasions after she was killed – didn’t leave much room for doubt. And yet … ‘Well, I suppose it’s over then. Funny, I thought I’d feel more relieved. What about the article I found? The one about Nils’s disappearance, I mean. How does that fit into the picture if Anders is the killer?’ Patrik shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, palms up. ‘I just don’t know, Erica. I don’t know. Maybe it had nothing to do with the murder. Pure coincidence. In any case there’s no reason to rummage through everything anymore. Alex took her secrets with her to the grave.’ ‘And the baby she was expecting? Was it Anders’s?’ ‘Who knows? Anders’s, Henrik’s … Your guess is as good as mine. I really wonder what got those two together. Talk about odd couples. It’s true that there’s nothing unusual about people having someone on the side, but Alexandra Wijkner and Anders Nilsson? I mean, I find it hard to believe that he could get anyone in bed, and Alexandra Wijkner was … well, cute as hell is the only thing I can think of to describe her.’ For a moment Patrik thought he saw a furrow form between Erica’s eyebrows, but the next second it was gone and she was her usual polite, agreeable self. At least he imagined as much. She was just opening her mouth to say something when the theme song from an ice-cream advert was heard from the hall. Both Patrik and Erica gave a start. ‘It’s my mobile,’ Patrik said. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’ He rushed out to the hall to take the call, and after rummaging in his jacket pocket he took out his mobile. ‘Patrik Hedstr?m. ‘Hmm … okay … I get it … Well, then we’re back at square one again. Yeah, I know. Oh, so he said that? Well, you couldn’t have known about that. Okay, Superintendent, see you later.’ He flipped his phone closed with a decisive click and went back to Erica. ‘Throw on a jacket and let’s take a ride.’ ‘Where to?’ Erica gave him a quizzical look with the coffee cup halfway to her mouth. ‘There’s new information about Anders’s involvement. It looks like we have to cross him off the suspect list.’ ‘Really? But where are we going?’ ‘Both you and I could feel that there was something wrong about this. You found the article about Nils’s disappearance at Alex’s house, and there may be more things to find there.’ ‘But didn’t the police already go through the house?’ ‘Sure, but I’m not sure we were looking for the right things. I just want to test an idea I have. Come on.’ Patrik was already halfway out the door. Erica had to throw on her jacket and run after him. The house looked small and dilapidated. It was beyond her comprehension that people could live like this. That anyone could endure such a dreary and grey existence, so – impoverished. But that was the way of the world. Some were rich and some were poor. Nelly thanked her lucky stars that she belonged to the former category and not the latter. It wasn’t in her nature to be poor. A woman like her was made for furs and diamonds. The woman who opened the door had probably never even seen a real diamond. Everything about her was grey and brown. Nelly viewed with disgust Vera’s shabby cardigan and the chapped hands holding it closed over her breast. Vera said nothing, just stood in the doorway. After nervously looking around, Nelly finally had to say, ‘Well, are you going to invite me in, or shall we stand here all day? I’m sure neither you nor I wants anyone to see me visiting you, am I right?’ Vera still said nothing, just backed into the hallway so that Nelly could come in. ‘We have to talk, you and I, don’t we?’ Nelly elegantly removed the gloves she always wore outdoors and took a look around the house with distaste. The hallway, the living room, the kitchen, and a small bedroom. Vera walked behind her with her eyes cast down. The rooms were dark and dismal. The wallpaper had long since seen its best days. No one had bothered to take up the linoleum to reveal the hardwood floors underneath, as most people did with old houses these days. But everything was shiny clean and neat. No dirt in the corners, only a depressing hopelessness that permeated the house from floor to ceiling. Nelly sat down cautiously on the very edge of the old wing chair in the living room. As if she were the one who lived there, she motioned to Vera to take a seat on the sofa. Vera obeyed, also sitting on the very edge. She didn’t make a sound, but her hands nervously fidgeted in her lap. ‘It’s important that we continue to keep this to ourselves. You understand that, don’t you?’ Nelly’s voice was urgent. Vera nodded as she kept her eyes on her lap. ‘Well, I can’t say that I feel sorry about what happened to Alex. She got what she deserved, and I think you’ll agree with me about that. That hussy was going to come to grief sooner or later, I’ve always known that.’ Vera reacted to Nelly’s words by casting a hasty glance up at her, but she still didn’t say a word. Nelly felt a great contempt for this plain, sad woman, who didn’t seem to have even an ounce of will left in her body. Typical working-class, with her downcast eyes. Not that she thought it should be otherwise, but she still couldn’t help feeling scorn for these people without class, without style. What irritated her most of all was that she was dependent on Vera Nilsson. But no matter what it cost, she had to secure Vera’s silence. It had worked before, and it would have to work again. ‘It’s unfortunate that things turned out as they did, but now it’s even more important that we don’t do anything hasty. Everything must continue as before. We can’t change the past, and there’s no reason to drag old rubbish out into the open.’ Nelly opened her handbag, took out a white envelope and placed it on the coffee table. ‘Here’s a little something to make your budget go a little further. Come on, take it.’ Nelly pushed the envelope towards her. Vera didn’t pick it up but only stared at it. ‘I’m sorry things have turned out this way with Anders. It might even be the best thing that could have happened to him. There’s not much alcohol to be had in prison, I mean.’ Nelly understood at once that she’d gone too far. Vera slowly got up from the sofa and with a shaking finger pointed towards the front door. ‘Get out!’ ‘Now now, dear little Vera, you mustn’t take it –’ ‘Get out of my house! Anders isn’t going to prison, and you can take your filthy money and go to hell, you fucking bitch! I know exactly where someone like you comes from, and it doesn’t matter how much perfume you try to pour over it. The smell of shit is still there!’ Nelly shrank back at the naked hatred in Vera’s eyes. Her fists were clenched and she stood erect, staring straight into Nelly’s eyes. Her whole body seemed to be shaking with years of pent-up rage. There was no trace of the subservience she had displayed before, and Nelly began to feel very uncomfortable in this situation. Talk about over-reacting! All she had done was speak the truth. A person ought to be able to stand a little truth. She hurried towards the door. ‘Get out of here and don’t ever show your face here again!’ Vera as good as chased her out of the house, and just before she slammed the door she threw the envelope out. Nelly had to laboriously stoop down and pick it up. Fifty thousand wasn’t something one left lying on the ground, no matter how humiliating it was to see the neighbours pulling their curtains aside. They watched as she practically grovelled in the gravel. What an ingrate! Well, Vera would probably show a little more humility when her money ran out and nobody would hire her as cleaning woman anymore. Her job at the Lorentz home was definitely over, and it probably wouldn’t take much to make her other jobs dry up as well. Nelly would see to it that Vera came crawling on her bare knees to the welfare office before she was done with her. No one insulted Nelly Lorentz with impunity. It felt like walking through water. His limbs were heavy and stiff after the night spent on the cot in jail, and his head was full of cotton for want of alcohol. Anders looked around the flat. The floor was covered with the dirt of police boots tramping about. But he hardly cared. A little dirt in the corners had never bothered him. He took a six-pack of strong beer out of the fridge and flopped down on the mattress in the living room. Leaning on his left elbow, he opened the beer with his right hand and greedily took long, deep swallows until the tin was empty to the last drop. Then he tossed it in a wide arc through the living room. It landed with a clank on the floor in the far corner. With his most acute need temporarily quenched, he lay down on the mattress with his hands clasped behind his head. His eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling as he allowed himself to sink for a while into memories from long ago. It was only in the past that he could sometimes find a little respite for his soul. Between these brief moments when he allowed himself to reminisce about better days, the pain would cut through his heart with ceaseless intensity. It amazed him that past events could feel simultaneously so remote and so near. In his memory the sun was always shining. The asphalt felt warm on his bare feet, and his lips were still salty from swimming in the sea. Oddly enough he could never remember anything but summertime. No winters. No overcast days. No rain. Only sunshine from a clear blue sky and a light breeze that broke the shining mirror of the sea. Alex in her light summer dresses that clung to her legs. Her hair that she refused to cut, so it hung blonde and straight all the way down to the small of her back. Sometimes he could even recall her fragrance so strongly that he felt it in his nostrils, tickling and awakening a sense of longing. Strawberries, salt water, shampoo with Timothy-grass. Sometimes mixed with a smell of sweat that was not at all unpleasant as they raced their bicycles or climbed the rocky hills until their legs gave out. Then they might lie on their backs at the top of Veddeberget, with their feet pointing out to sea and their hands clasped on their stomachs. Alex in the middle between them, with her hair spread out and her eyes looking up at the sky. On rare, precious occasions she would take their hands in hers and for a moment it was as if they were one instead of three. They were careful not to let anyone ever see them together. That would ruin the magic. The spell would be broken and they would no longer be able to keep reality at bay. Reality was something that had to be warded off at all costs. It was ugly and grey and had nothing to do with the sun-drenched dream-world they could construct when they were together. Reality was nothing they ever spoke about. Instead their days were filled with frivolous games and frivolous conversation. Nothing could be taken seriously. Then they could pretend that they were invulnerable, unconquerable, unreachable. Each of them alone was nothing. Together they were the Three Musketeers. The grown-ups were only peripheral dream creatures, mere extras who moved about in their world without affecting them. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out. They made gestures and faces that supposedly had meaning but seemed stilted and meaningless, taken out of context. Anders smiled faintly at the memories, but slowly he was forced out of his catatonic dream state. Nature called, and he was once again back in his own anxiety. He got up to take care of the problem. The toilet was located below a mirror covered with dust and dirt. When he relieved his bladder he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass, and for the first time in many years he saw himself the way other people saw him. His hair was greasy and matted. His face was pale with a sickly grey hue to his skin. Years of neglect had given him a couple of gaps in his front teeth, which made him look decades older than he actually was. The decision was made without him really being aware of it. As he fumbled to do up his fly, he understood what the next step would have to be. The look in his eyes was resolute when he went into the kitchen. After searching through the drawers he found a big kitchen knife that he wiped off on his trouser leg. Then he went into the living room and began methodically taking down the paintings from the walls. One by one, he lifted down the paintings that were the result of many years’ work. Those he had kept and hung up were only the ones he was most satisfied with. He had thrown out many others because they didn’t really pass muster in his eyes. Now the knife slashed through the canvas of one painting after another. He worked slowly and with a steady hand, slicing the paintings into thin strips until it was impossible to see what they had once depicted. It was surprisingly hard work to cut through the canvases, and when he was done beads of sweat lined his brow. The room looked like a battlefield of colours. Strips of canvas covered the living room floor, and frames gaped empty like toothless gums. He looked around in satisfaction. ‘How do you know that it wasn’t Anders who murdered Alex?’ asked Erica. ‘A girl who lives in the same building as Anders saw him coming home just before seven o’clock, and Alex talked to her mother at quarter past. It would have been impossible for him to make it back there in such a short time. Which means that Dagmar Petr?n’s testimony can only tie him to the house while Alex was still alive.’ ‘But what about the fingerprints and footprints you found in the bathroom?’ ‘Those don’t prove that he murdered her, only that he was in the house after she died. In any case it’s not enough to hold him in custody any longer. Mellberg will no doubt bring him in again; he’s still convinced that Anders is the killer, but for the time being he has to release him, otherwise an attorney could make mincemeat of him. I’ve always thought that something didn’t feel quite right, and this confirms it. Anders is still under suspicion, but there are enough question marks that there’s reason to keep looking.’ ‘And that’s why we’re on the way to Alex’s house? What is it you hope to find there?’ asked Erica. ‘I don’t really know. I just feel that I need to get a clearer picture of how things happened.’ ‘Birgit said that Alex couldn’t talk to her because she had a visitor. If it wasn’t Anders, then who was it?’ ‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?’ Patrik was driving a bit too fast for Erica’s taste. She was holding on tight to the handle over the door. He almost missed the turn-off by the sailing club and turned right at the very last second, which meant he was a hair’s-breadth from taking out a fence as they zipped past. ‘Are you afraid that the house might not be there if we don’t get there fast?’ Erica gave him a wan smile. ‘Oops, sorry. I just got a little excited.’ He slowed down considerably, and on the last bit of road to Alex’s house Erica dared let go of the handle. She still didn’t understand why he wanted her to come along, but she had agreed. It might provide some information for her book. Outside the door Patrik stopped with a sheepish look on his face. ‘I forgot that I don’t have a key. I’m afraid we won’t be able to get in. Mellberg wouldn’t appreciate it if one of his cops was caught red-handed climbing in through a window.’ Erica gave a deep sigh and bent down to feel under the mat. With a mocking smile she held up the key to Patrik and then opened the door and let him go in first. Someone had got the furnace started again; the temperature inside was now considerably warmer than outside, and they took off their coats and hung them on the rack by the stairs leading to the top floor. ‘Now what do we do?’ Erica crossed her arms and gave Patrik a questioning look. ‘Some time after quarter past seven, when she was talking to her mother on the phone, Alex ingested a large quantity of sedatives. There was no sign that anyone broke in, so in all probability that means that she had a visit from someone she knew. Someone who then had the opportunity to give her the sedatives. How did this someone manage to do that? Well, they must have had something to eat or drink together.’ Patrik was pacing up and down in the living room as he spoke. Erica sat down on the sofa and watched with interest. ‘Actually,’ he stopped pacing and raised an index finger in the air, ‘the medical examiner was able to tell us what she last ate, based on the contents of her stomach. What did Alexandra eat on the evening of the murder? According to the ME, her stomach contained fish casserole and cider. In the rubbish bin was found an empty packet of Findus fish casserole, and there was an empty cider bottle on the worktop, so that seems to match. What seems a bit strange is that in the fridge there were two large beef fillets, and in the oven there was a frozen potato dish. But the oven was not on, and the potato dish was still raw. There was also a bottle of white wine on the worktop. It was opened, and about five ounces were gone. That corresponds to about one glass.’ Patrik measured the amount between his thumb and index finger. ‘But there was no wine in Alex’s stomach?’ Erica was leaning forward with interest, resting her elbows on her knees. ‘No, precisely. Since she was pregnant she must have drunk cider instead of wine, but the question is, who drank the wine?’ ‘Were there any dirty dishes?’ ‘Yes, there was a plate, a fork and a knife with remnants of fish casserole on it. There were also two glasses in the sink. One glass was full of fingerprints – Alex’s. But there were no prints on the other glass.’ He stopped pacing and sat down in the easy chair facing Erica, stretching out his long legs and clasping his hands on his stomach. ‘Which must mean that someone wiped off the fingerprints on the glass,’ said Erica. She was feeling incredibly intelligent as she sat there coming up with deductions, and Patrik was polite enough to try to look as though he hadn’t already thought of all this before. ‘Yes, that’s what it looks like. Since the inside of the glasses had been rinsed out we found no residue of sedative in either of them, but my guess is that Alex drank it in her cider.’ ‘But why would she eat fish casserole all alone if she had a smashing dinner of beef fillets for two under way in the kitchen?’ ‘Yes, that’s the question, all right. Why would a woman abandon a feast and instead heat up something in the microwave?’ ‘Because she planned a romantic dinner for two, but her date never showed up.’ ‘That’s my guess too. She waited and waited, but finally gave up and tossed something from the freezer into the nuker. I completely understand. It’s not much fun eating beef fillet by yourself.’ ‘Anders actually came here for a visit, so it could hardly be him she was waiting for. How about the child’s father?’ said Patrik. ‘Yes, that seems the most plausible. How tragic. Here she’s prepared the world’s greatest dinner and put wine in the fridge to cool, maybe to celebrate the baby, what do I know, and then he doesn’t show up. So she sits here waiting and waiting. The question is, who came over instead?’ ‘We can’t rule out the person she was waiting for,’ said Patrik. ‘He could have still shown up later than expected.’ ‘Yes, that’s true. Oh, this is so frustrating! If only the walls could talk.’ Erica looked around the room. It was a very lovely room. It felt new and fresh. When she sniffed the air she could even smell a hint of paint. The paint on the walls was one of Erica’s favourite colours, light-blue with a hint of grey, crisply contrasted with the white of the window-frames and furniture. A sense of calm filled the room, making her want to lean her head back against the sofa and close her eyes. She had seen this sofa at the House boutique in Stockholm, but on her income she could only dream about it. It was big and puffy and sort of flowed over all the edges. New furniture was mixed with antiques in an especially tasteful blend. Alex must have found the antiques during her work restoring the house in G?teborg. Most of the antique furniture was in the Gustavian style of the 1770s–80s. Erica thanked IKEA for the fact that she could even identify the style. She had often wished that she could buy a couple of pieces from their series of reproductions based on precisely this style. She gave a deep, envious sigh and then reminded herself why they were here. That quickly quashed any feeling of envy. ‘So what you’re saying is that someone she knew, her lover or somebody else, came here and they had a glass together and then this someone put a sedative in Alex’s cider glass,’ Erica said. ‘Yes, that’s the most plausible scenario.’ ‘And then what? What do you think happened after that? How did she end up in the bathtub?’ Erica burrowed even deeper into the sofa and propped her feet up on the coffee table. She really had to save up for a sofa like this! For a moment the thought occurred to her that if they sold her parents’ house she would have enough money to buy any furniture she wanted. She instantly pushed that thought away. ‘I think that the killer waited until Alex fell asleep, undressed her, and dragged her into the bathroom.’ ‘Why do you think the killer dragged her and didn’t carry her into the bathroom?’ ‘The autopsy report showed that she had scrape marks on her heels and bruises under her upper arms.’ Patrik sat bolt upright in the easy chair and gave Erica a hopeful look. ‘Could I try something?’ Erica said sceptically, ‘It depends on what it is.’ ‘I was thinking you could play murder victim.’ ‘Oh, thanks a lot. Do you really think my acting talents can handle such a stretch?’ She laughed but willingly stood up. ‘No, no, sit back down. The likely scenario is that they sat here and Alex fell asleep on the sofa. So could you please collapse into a lifeless heap?’ Erica grunted but did her best to act like an unconscious person. When Patrik began pulling on her she opened one eye and said, ‘I hope you’re not thinking of taking my clothes off too.’ ‘Oh no, absolutely not, I wouldn’t, I hadn’t intended to, I mean …’ he stammered and blushed. ‘That’s cool, I was only kidding. Go ahead, murder away.’ She felt him drag her onto the floor after first shoving aside the coffee table a bit. He started by trying to drag her by her wrists, but when that didn’t work very well he grabbed her under her armpits and dragged her towards the bathroom. All at once she felt extremely conscious of her weight. Patrik must think that she weighed half a tonne. She tried to cheat a little and push so she wouldn’t feel so heavy, but received a reprimand from Patrik. Oh, why hadn’t she followed the Weight Watchers diet a little more strictly the past few weeks? To be honest, she hadn’t even tried to follow it; instead she had devoted herself to unrestrained comfort eating. To top it off her jumper rode up when Patrik dragged her, and a treacherous spare tyre threatened to spill out of her waistband. She tried to suck in her stomach by taking a deep breath, but was forced to exhale after only a second. The tiled floor in the bathroom was cold against her back and she shivered involuntarily, but not only from the cold. When Patrik had dragged her all the way over to the bathtub, he carefully set her down. ‘Well, that went smoothly enough. Rather heavy, but not impossible. And Alex weighed less than you do.’ Thanks a lot for that, Erica thought as she lay on the floor discreetly trying to pull her jumper down over her stomach. ‘Now all the killer had to do was get her into the tub.’ He made a move to lift Erica’s feet, but she got up quickly and brushed herself off. ‘No, Patrik, I refuse to go along with that. I’ve already got enough bruises for one day. And I’m not getting in that bathtub where Alex was found, that’s one thing for damn sure!’ He reluctantly accepted her protests and they left the bathroom and went back to the living room. ‘After the killer got Alex into the tub it was a simple matter to run the water and then slit her wrists with a razor blade from a bag in the medicine cabinet. Then all the killer had to do was clean up after himself. Rinse out the glasses and wipe off the fingerprints from one of them. Meanwhile Alex slowly bled to death in the bathroom. Terribly, terribly cold-hearted.’ ‘And the furnace? Was it already off when she arrived in Fj?llbacka?’ ‘Yes, it seems so. Which was lucky for us. It would have been much harder to gather any evidence from the body if it had been in room temperature for a whole week. For example, it would probably have been impossible to distinguish Anders’s fingerprints.’ Erica shuddered. The thought of taking fingerprints off a corpse was a little too macabre for her taste. Together they searched the rest of the house. Erica took time to go through Alex and Henrik’s bedroom more thoroughly, since her previous visit had been so rudely interrupted. But she found nothing else. The feeling that something was missing lingered, and it irritated her that she couldn’t think of what it was. She decided to tell Patrik; he was just as frustrated as she was. To her satisfaction she also saw that he looked quite uneasy when she told him about the intruder and how she had been forced to hide in the wardrobe. Patrik heaved a sigh and sat down on the edge of the big four-poster bed, trying to help her figure out what it was she was searching for in her memory. ‘Was it something small or something big?’ ‘I don’t know, Patrik, probably something small, otherwise I would have noticed it, don’t you think? If the four-poster bed was gone, for instance, I would probably have noticed it.’ She smiled and sat down next to him. ‘But where in the room was it? By the door? Over by the bed? On the bureau?’ Patrik fingered a little scrap of leather he found on Alex’s nightstand. It looked like some sort of club insignia, with an inscription burned into the leather in a childish hand: ‘T.T.M. 1976.’ When he turned it over he saw some indistinct spots of what looked like old dried blood. He wondered where it had come from. ‘I don’t know what it was, Patrik. If I did I wouldn’t be sitting here tearing out my hair.’ She glanced at him in profile. He had wonderfully long, dark eyelashes. His beard stubble was perfect. Just long enough to be felt as light sandpaper against the skin, but short enough not to scratch uncomfortably. She wondered how it would feel against her skin. ‘What is it? Have I got something on my face?’ Patrik wiped his mouth nervously. She quickly looked away, embarrassed that he had caught her out staring at him. ‘It’s nothing. A little crumb of chocolate. It’s gone now.’ There was a moment’s silence. ‘Well, what do you say – we’re not going to get any farther now, do you think?’ Erica said at last. ‘No, probably not. But listen, ring me as soon as you think of what’s missing. If it’s important enough for someone to come here to find, it must be important to the investigation as well.’ They locked up carefully, and Erica placed the key back under the mat. ‘Would you like a ride back?’ ‘No thanks, Patrik. I’ll enjoy the walk.’ ‘See you tomorrow night then.’ Patrik shifted from one foot to the other, feeling like an awkward fifteen-year-old. ‘Okay, I’ll see you at eight. Come hungry,’ Erica said. ‘I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything. Right now it doesn’t feel like I’ll ever be hungry again.’ Patrik laughed as he patted his stomach and nodded at Dagmar Petr?n’s house across the street. Erica smiled and waved as he drove off in his Volvo. She could already feel anticipation churning inside of her, mixed with insecurity, anxiety and outright fear. She started for home but hadn’t gone more than a few yards before she stopped short. An idea had come out of nowhere, and it had to be tested before she could let it go. With determined steps she went back to the house, took the key from under the mat, and entered the house again, after first carefully kicking the snow off her shoes. What should a woman do who was waiting for a man who never showed up for a romantic dinner? She should ring him, of course! Erica said a prayer that Alex had a modern telephone and hadn’t fallen for the trendiness of a ’50s Cobra phone or still had some old Bakelite model. She was in luck. A brand-new Doro hung on the wall in the kitchen. With trembling fingers she pushed the button for the last number called and crossed her fingers that nobody had used the phone since Alex’s death. The phone rang and rang. After seven rings she was about to hang up, but then the voicemail switched on. She listened to the message but hung up before the beep. Her face pale. Erica slowly replaced the receiver. She could almost hear the clatter in her head as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Suddenly she knew precisely what it was that was missing from the bedroom upstairs. Mellberg was seething with rage. He strode through the station in a fury. If they could have, the employees at Tanumshede police station would have taken cover under their desks. But grown-ups didn’t do that, so they had to suffer through a whole day of fiery oaths, reprimands and general abuse. And Annika had to bear the brunt of it. Even though she’d developed a tough hide during the months since Mellberg had become boss, for the first time in a long time she felt on the verge of tears. By four o’clock she’d had enough. She left work and stopped at Konsum to buy a large tub of ice cream. Then she went home, turned on Glamour TV and let the tears run down into the chocolate ice cream. It was just one of those days. It drove Mellberg crazy that he’d been forced to release Anders Nilsson from gaol. He felt in every bone of his body that Anders was Alex Wijkner’s killer, and if he’d only had more time alone with him he would have wrung the truth out of him. Instead he’d been forced to release Anders because of a fucking witness who said she saw him come home just before Separate Worlds started on TV. That placed him at home in his flat by seven o’clock, and Alex had talked with Birgit at a quarter past. Bloody hell. Then there was that young cop, Patrik Hedstr?m. Kept spouting a bunch of wild ideas that it was somebody other than Anders Nilsson who murdered the woman. No, if there was anything he’d learned in all his years in the police, it was that everything was most often exactly what it appeared to be. No hidden motives, no complicated plots. Just riff-raff that made life unsafe for honest citizens. Find the riff-raff and you find the perpetrator, that was his motto. He hit the number of Patrik’s mobile. ‘Where the hell are you?’ No pleasantries needed here. ‘Are you sitting around gathering navel lint somewhere, or what? Down here at the station we’re working. Overtime. I don’t know if that’s a phenomenon you’re familiar with. If not, I can fix it so you no longer have to worry about that either. Not here, at any rate.’ He felt a bit better in the pit of his stomach when he’d had a chance to put some pressure on that young whippersnapper. You had to keep them on a short leash, or those young cocks would get too full of themselves. ‘I want you to drive down and talk to a witness who places Anders Nilsson at home at seven o’clock. Press her, twist her arm a little and see what you can find out … yes, NOW, damn it.’ He slammed down the receiver, grateful for the circumstances in life that put him in a position to make other people do the dirty work. Suddenly, life seemed considerably brighter. Mellberg leaned back in his chair, pulled open the top drawer, and took out a packet of chocolate balls. With his short sausage-like fingers he took one out of the packet and blissfully stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. When he finished chewing it he took another. Hard-working men like himself needed fuel. Patrik had already turned off towards Tanumshede via Grebbestad when Mellberg rang. He pulled into the entrance to the Fj?llbacka golf course and turned the car around. He gave a deep sigh. It was getting to be late afternoon and he had plenty to do back at the station. He shouldn’t have stayed so long in Fj?llbacka, but being with Erica exerted a particularly strong attraction on him. It felt like being sucked into a magnetic field; he had to use both strength and will power to pull himself free. Another deep sigh. This could only end one way. Badly. It wasn’t so long ago that he finally got over the break-up with Karin, and now he was already going full speed ahead towards new pain. Talk about self-destructive. The divorce had taken over a year to process. He had spent many nights in front of the TV staring blankly at high-quality shows like Walker, Texas Ranger and Mission Impossible. Even TV Shopping had felt like a better alternative than lying alone in the double bed, tossing and turning, while images of Karin in bed with another man flickered past like a bad soap opera. And yet the attraction he felt for Karin in the beginning was nothing compared to the attraction he now felt for Erica. Logic whispered malevolently in his ear: won’t the fall be that much greater? He drove much too fast, as usual, in the last tight curves before Fj?llbacka. This case was starting to get on his nerves. He took out his frustration on the car and was in real mortal danger when he sped round the last curve before the hill down to the place where the old silo once stood. Now it was torn down and instead there were houses and boat-houses built in the old-fashioned style. Prices were around a couple of million kronor per house; he never ceased to be amazed at how much money people must have to be able to buy a summer house at those prices. A motorcyclist appeared out of nowhere in the curve and Patrik had to swerve in panic. His heart was pounding fast and he braked to a bit below the posted speed limit. That was a close call. A check in the rear-view mirror assured him that the biker was still on his machine and could continue his journey. He kept going straight ahead, past the minigolf course and up to the intersection by the petrol station. There he turned left to the blocks of flats. He reflected one more time over how horribly ugly the buildings were. Brown and white constructions from the Sixties, like big square blocks tossed near the southern entrance to Fj?llbacka. He wondered about the rationale of the architect who designed them. Had he gone in for making the buildings as ugly as possible, as an experiment? Or did he just not care? Apparently, they were the result of the frenzy to build a million housing units in the Sixties. ‘Homes for all.’ Too bad they didn’t say: ‘Beautiful homes for all.’ He parked in the lot and went into the first entrance. Number five. The stairwell to Anders’s flat, but also the flat of the witness Jenny Ros?n. They lived two flights up. He was puffing hard when he reached the right landing, reminded that he’d been getting far too little exercise and way too much coffee cake lately. Not that he’d ever been a paragon of physical training, but it had never been this bad before. Patrik stopped for a second outside Anders’s door and listened. Not a sound to be heard. Either he wasn’t home or he was passed out. Jenny’s door was on the right, and directly opposite from Anders. She had exchanged the standard name-plate for her own made out of wood, with the names Jenny and Max Ros?n in ornate script with decorative roses winding round the plate. So she was married. She had rung the police station with her testimony early this morning, and he hoped she would still be at home. She hadn’t been when they knocked on all the doors in the stairwell yesterday, but they had left a card and asked her to ring the police station. That’s why it wasn’t until today that they got the information about Anders’s return home on the Friday evening when Alex died. The doorbell echoed in the flat, followed at once by a loud shriek from a child. Footsteps could be heard in the hall, and Patrik felt rather than saw someone looking at him through the peephole in the door. A safety chain was unhooked and the door opened. ‘Yes?’ A woman with a one-year-old child was standing there. She was very thin with bleached blonde hair. From the colour of her roots, her natural hair colour must have been somewhere between dark brown and black, which was confirmed by a pair of nut-brown eyes. She wore no make-up and looked tired. She had on a pair of worn jogging trousers with baggy knees, and a T-shirt with a big Adidas logo on the front. ‘Jenny Ros?n?’ ‘Yes, that’s me. What’s this about?’ ‘My name is Patrik Hedstr?m and I’m from the police. You put in a call to us this morning, and I’d like to talk with you a little about the information you gave.’ He spoke in a low voice so he wouldn’t be heard in the flat across the landing. ‘Come in.’ She stepped aside to let him in. The flat was small, a bedsit, and there was definitely no man living there. None older than one year at any rate. The flat was an explosion in pink. Everything was pink. Rugs, tablecloths, curtains, lamps, everything. Rosettes were once again a popular motif, and they were on lamps and candlesticks in a profusion that was both lavish and superfluous. On the walls were pictures that further emphasized the romantic disposition of the occupant. Soft-focus female faces with birds fluttering past. Even a picture of a crying child hung over the bed. They sat down on a white leather sofa, and thank goodness she didn’t offer him coffee. He’d had plenty of that today. She set the child on her lap, but he squirmed out of her grasp. So she put him on the floor, where he toddled about on his still unsteady legs. Patrik was struck by how young the woman was. She couldn’t be out of her teens, he guessed about eighteen. But he knew that it wasn’t unusual for girls in small towns to have one or two children before the age of twenty. Since she called the boy Max, he concluded that the father didn’t live with them. That wasn’t unusual either. Teenage relationships often couldn’t survive the stress of a baby. He pulled out his notebook. ‘So it was Friday the week before last, the twenty-second, that you saw Anders Nilsson come home at seven o’clock? How is it that you’re so sure of the time?’ ‘I never miss Separate Worlds on TV. It starts at seven and it was just before that when I heard a lot of commotion outside. Nothing unusual, I must say. It’s always rather lively over at Anders’s place. His drinking buddies come and go at all hours, and sometimes the police show up as well. But I still went to check through the peephole in the door, and that’s when I saw him. Drunk as a lord, he was trying to unlock his door, but the keyhole would have had to be a metre wide for him to find it. He finally got the door open and went inside, and that’s when I heard the theme song for Separate Worlds and hurried back to the TV.’ She was chewing nervously on a lock of her long hair. Patrik saw that her nails were bitten down to the quick. There were traces of hot pink nail polish on what was left of her nails. Max had steadily worked his way round the coffee table in the direction of Patrik and now took triumphant possession of his trouser leg. ‘Up, up, up,’ he chanted, and Patrik gave Jenny a questioning look. ‘Sure, pick him up. He obviously likes you.’ Patrik awkwardly lifted the boy onto his knee and gave him his bunch of keys to play with. The child beamed like the sun. He gave Patrik a big smile and showed two front teeth that looked like little grains of rice. Patrik gave him a big smile back. He felt a quavering in his chest. If things had turned out differently he could have had a boy of his own on his knee by this time. He cautiously stroked Max’s downy head. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/camilla-lackberg/camilla-lackberg-crime-thrillers-1-and-2-the-ice-princess/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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