Читать книгу The Girl in the Woods - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 15

‘What are you doing, Pops?’

Bill had been so immersed in the text he was writing that he gave a start when his son spoke. He almost knocked over his cup, and some of the coffee sloshed over the side on to his desk.

He turned to look at Nils, who was standing in the doorway.

‘I’m working on a new project,’ he said, turning the computer screen so Nils could see.

‘“Nicer People”,’ read Nils aloud.

Underneath the text was a picture of a sailboat ploughing its way through the water.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Don’t you remember that documentary we saw? The Filip and Fredrik film, Nice People?’

Nils nodded.

‘Oh, yeah. Those black guys who wanted to play bandy.’

Bill grimaced.

‘The Somalis who wanted to play bandy. Don’t call them “black guys”.’

Nils shrugged.

Bill peered at his son standing there in the dim light of the room with his hands in his pockets and his blond fringe hanging in his eyes. Nils had come along late in their lives. Unplanned and, to be honest, not particularly welcome. Gun had been forty-five when Nils was born, while he was almost fifty, and Nils’s two older brothers were in their late teens. Gun had insisted they keep the child, saying there had to be some meaning behind her pregnancy. But Bill had never developed the same connection with Nils as he had with the older boys. He hadn’t really tried. He hadn’t wanted to change nappies or sit in the sandbox or read the first-grade maths book for the third time.

Bill turned back to the computer screen.

‘This is a media presentation. My thought is to do something that will be a positive way of helping the refugees in the area become part of Swedish society.’

‘Are you going to teach them how to play bandy?’ asked Nils, his hands still in his pockets.

‘Don’t you see the sailboat?’ Bill pointed at the screen. ‘They’re going to learn to sail! And then we’ll compete in the Dannholmen regatta.’

‘The Dannholmen regatta isn’t exactly the same thing as the bandy world championship those blacks competed in,’ said Nils. ‘Not the same league at all.’

‘Don’t call them blacks!’ said Bill.

Nils was undoubtedly trying to provoke him.

‘I know the Dannholmen regatta is a significantly smaller event, but it has great symbolic importance around here, and it will attract a lot of media attention. Especially now they’re making that film here.’

Nils snorted. ‘I don’t know if they’re really refugees at all. Only people who have money can make their way up here. I read that on the Internet. And those so-called refugee kids have beards and moustaches.’

‘Nils!’

Bill looked at his son, whose face was now flushed with indignation. It was like looking at a stranger. If he didn’t know better, he’d think his son was … a racist. But that wasn’t possible. Teenagers knew so little about the ways of the world. All the more reason to promote this type of project. Most people were basically good at heart. They just needed to be educated, given a little push in the right direction. Nils would soon realize how wrong he was.

Bill heard his son leave the room and close the door behind him. Tomorrow was the start-up meeting, and he needed to have everything ready for the press. This was going to be big. Really big.

‘Hello?’ called Paula as she and Johanna came in the door with three suitcases and two prams. She was carrying the baby, balanced on her hip.

Paula smiled at Johanna as she set down the heaviest suitcase. A holiday on Cyprus with a three-year-old and an infant probably hadn’t been the smartest plan, but they’d survived.

‘I’m in the kitchen!’

Paula relaxed as soon as she heard her mother’s voice. If Rita and Bertil were home, she could leave the kids with them so she and Johanna could unpack in peace and quiet. Or else they could forget about unpacking until tomorrow and instead stretch out on the bed to watch a film until they fell asleep.

Rita gave them a smile as they came into the kitchen. There was nothing strange about her cooking in their kitchen as if it were her own. Rita and Bertil lived in the flat upstairs, but ever since the kids were born, the boundaries between the two flats had disappeared to such an extent that they might as well have installed a direct staircase from one to the other.

‘I made enchiladas. I thought you’d be hungry after the trip. How did things go?’

She reached out her arms to take Lisa.

‘Fine. Or rather, not so great,’ said Paula, gratefully handing over the baby. ‘Shoot me if I ever start talking again about how wonderful it would be to go away for a week with the kids.’

‘It was your idea,’ muttered Johanna as she tried to wake Leo, who had fallen asleep.

‘It was nuts,’ said Paula, taking a pinch of melted golden cheese from the top of one of the enchiladas. ‘Kids everywhere, grown people dressed up like cuddly toys walking around in the heat and singing some sort of battle song.’

‘I don’t think you could really call it a battle song,’ said Johanna, laughing.

‘Okay, but it was indoctrination from some kind of sect. If I’d been forced to listen to it one more time I was going to go over and strangle that big hairy bear.’

‘Tell her about the chocolate fountain,’ said Johanna.

Paula groaned.

‘Oh my God. Every night they had a buffet, specially designed for kids, so there were tons of pancakes, meatballs, pizza, and spaghetti. And a chocolate fountain. One boy made quite an impression. Everyone knew this kid’s name was Linus, because his mother ran around the whole time yelling: “No, no, Liiinus! Don’t do that, Liiinus! Stop kicking that girl, Liiinus!” Meanwhile the boy’s father was busy chugging down the beer, starting right after breakfast. And on the last day …’

Johanna couldn’t help giggling as Paula picked up a plate, helped herself to an enchilada, and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘On the last day,’ she went on, ‘Linus ran right into that huge chocolate fountain and knocked it over. There was chocolate everywhere! And he threw himself down in it and began smearing chocolate all around, while his mother jumped up and down, completely hysterical.’

She took a big bite of her food and sighed. This was the first taste of anything spicy all week.

‘Uncle Bertil?’ said Leo, starting to wake up as Johanna held him.

‘Yes, where is Bertil?’ asked Paula. ‘Has he already fallen asleep in front of the TV?’

‘No,’ said Rita. ‘He’s working.’

‘This late?’

Bertil rarely worked nights.

‘Yes, he had to go. But you’re still on maternity leave,’ said Rita, casting a hesitant look at Johanna.

She knew it hadn’t been easy to get her daughter to take time off, and Johanna was still worried that Paula might go back to work too soon. The plan was for the family to spend the whole summer together.

‘So what’s going on?’ asked Paula, putting down her knife and fork.

‘They went out to search for someone who’s gone missing.’

‘Who’s missing?’

‘A child,’ said Rita, avoiding her eye. ‘A four-year-old girl.’

She knew her daughter all too well.

‘How long has the little girl been missing?’

‘Since last night, but the parents didn’t discover she was gone until this afternoon, so the search has only been going on for a couple of hours.’

Paula cast a pleading look at Johanna, who glanced at Leo and nodded.

‘Go. They’ll need all the help they can get.’

Paula got up and gave her partner a kiss on the cheek. ‘Love you. I’ll be back soon.’ She went into the hall and pulled on a lightweight jacket. ‘Where are they?’ she asked her mother.

‘On a farm. Bertil called it the Berg farm.’

‘The Berg farm?’

Paula abruptly stopped what she was doing. She knew that farm well. And its history. And she was too much of a cynic to believe in coincidences.

Karim knocked hard on the door. He knew Adnan was inside, and he had no intention of leaving until he opened the door. The years they’d spent in a world where a knock on the door could spell death, for themselves or a family member, meant that many refugees were reluctant to open the door. Karim pounded on the door again. Finally it opened.

When he saw Adnan staring at him wide-eyed, he was almost sorry he’d knocked so hard.

‘I just talked to Rolf, and he said all of Fjällbacka is out looking for a missing girl. We need to help.’

‘A girl? A child?’

‘Yes. Rolf said she’s four years old. They think she might be lost in the woods.’

‘Of course we’ll help.’ Adnan turned to look back inside the room as he reached for his jacket. ‘Khalil, come here!’

Karim backed up a few steps.

‘We need you to help round everyone up. Tell them we’ll meet up at the kiosk. Rolf has promised to drive us there.’

‘Sure. And we’d better hurry. A little girl shouldn’t be all alone in the woods at night.’

Karim continued knocking on doors, and he heard Khalil and Adnan doing the same. After a while they’d gathered fifteen others to help out. Rolf would have to make two or three trips to get them all there, but that wasn’t a problem. He was a nice person. He wanted to help.

For a moment Karim felt uncertain. Rolf was nice, and he knew them. But how would the other Swedes react when they turned up? A bunch of roaches from the refugee centre. He knew that’s what people called them. Roaches. Or wogs. But a child was missing, and it was everyone’s responsibility to find her. It didn’t matter whether she was Swedish or Syrian. Somewhere a mother was crying in despair.

When Rolf pulled up in his car, Karim, Adnan, and Khalil were waiting along with Rashid and Farid. Karim glanced at Rashid. His children were back in Syria. Rashid met Karim’s eye. He didn’t know whether his own children were still alive, but tonight he was going to help search for a Swedish little girl.

It was blissfully quiet now the kids were in bed. Sometimes Erica felt guilty about how much she enjoyed the peace in the evenings. When Maja was little she’d joined the web forum Family Life in an attempt to find like-minded people and to get things off her chest. She thought she couldn’t be the only one who was experiencing a conflict between being a mother and needing time to herself once in a while. But she’d received such a hate-filled response when she’d honestly written about her feelings that she’d never gone back to the forum. She’d been caught off guard by the curses and insults other mothers had hurled at her, just because she didn’t love every minute she spent breastfeeding, getting up in the middle of the night, changing nappies, and listening to her baby crying. She’d been told she should not have had a child, that she was an egotistical and self-absorbed bitch because she felt the need for time on her own. Erica could still feel the anger surging inside her at the thought of those women judging her because she didn’t act and feel the same as them. Why can’t everyone do whatever is best for them? she wondered as she sat on the sofa with a glass of red wine, trying to relax in front of the TV.

Her thoughts soon turned to another mother. Nea’s mother, Eva. She could only imagine what anguish she must be feeling right now. Erica had sent Patrik a text to ask again whether she could help. She could get Kristina to come over to look after the kids. But he had told her they already had all the volunteers they needed, and she would be more useful staying at home with the children.

Erica didn’t know the Bergs, and she’d never been to their farm. Wanting to describe the setting as precisely as possible, she’d thought about going out there to have a look around and take a few pictures, but so far she hadn’t done it. There were old photographs available, so she knew exactly how the farm had looked when the Strand family lived there. Yet it was always a different experience to visit a location in person, to take in the atmosphere and get a feeling for how life on the farm must have been.

She’d enquired about the Berg family and learned they’d moved here from Uddevalla, looking for peace and quiet in the country and a good place for their daughter to grow up. Erica sincerely hoped their dream would be realized, that she’d soon get a text from Patrik saying they’d found the child in the woods, scared and lost, but alive. Yet she had a bad feeling that was not how this would end.

She swirled the red wine in her glass. She’d treated herself to a good Amarone in spite of the oppressive evening heat. Most people drank chilled rosé wines in the summer, or white wine served with ice cubes. But she didn’t care for either white or rosé wines. She preferred sparkling wines or intense red wines, no matter what the season. That said, she couldn’t tell the difference between an expensive champagne and a cheap Spanish cava, so as Patrik liked to joke, she was a cheap date.

She felt guilty, sitting in comfort and drinking wine when a four-year-old girl, in the best-case scenario, was lost in the woods. But that was how her mind worked. It was too awful to dwell on all the bad things that might happen to a child, so she subconsciously turned her thoughts to something banal and meaningless. That was a luxury Nea’s mother couldn’t afford at the moment. She and her husband had found themselves caught in a living nightmare.

Erica straightened up and set her wine glass on the coffee table. She reached for her notebook. Over the years she’d got in the habit of always having paper and pen nearby. She liked to jot down whatever thoughts and ideas popped into her head, and she made lists of things she needed to do in order to move forward with her book. That was what she wanted to do now. All her instincts told her that Nea’s disappearance was somehow connected to Stella’s death. She’d spent the past few weeks loafing. Summertime laziness and sunshine had taken over, and she hadn’t made the sort of progress she’d hoped with her book. Now she was going to set her mind to it. That way, if the worst happened, she might be able to offer help, based on what she’d learned about the previous case. Maybe she could find the link that she was sure existed.

Erica glanced at her mobile. Still no word from Patrik. Then she began feverishly jotting down notes.