Читать книгу The Girl in the Woods - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 19

Jessie turned over in bed. Her mother had left for the film shoot before six a.m., and Jessie was enjoying having the house to herself. She stretched out her arms, then sucked in her stomach. It felt wonderfully smooth. Not at all fat and doughy the way it normally did. It was flat and smooth, like Vendela’s.

But eventually she had to exhale, making her stomach bulge out. She removed her hand in disgust. She hated her stomach. She hated her whole body and everything else in her life. The only thing she didn’t hate was Sam. She could still taste his kiss on her lips.

Jessie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She could hear the water lapping below the house. She pushed aside the curtains. Brilliant sunshine again. She hoped Sam would want to go out in the boat today too, in spite of the video he’d shown her.

She’d known kids like Nils, Basse and Vendela all her life, at various schools, in different countries in different parts of the world. She knew what they wanted. And what they were capable of doing.

Yet for some reason they didn’t seem interested in doing anything to her.

Jessie had always known the moment when news about her mother began to spread through a new school. First the smiles, the pride at having the daughter of a film star at their school. But that changed as soon as somebody googled her mother’s name and found out who she was: the murderer who became an actress. Then came the stares. And the whispering. She would never be one of the popular girls – because of the way she looked and because of who she was.

Her mother didn’t understand. For her, attention was always a good thing. No matter how bad the situation was for Jessie at school, she had to hang on in there until her mother started making a new film somewhere else.

It was the same for Sam. What had happened to their mothers thirty years ago hovered like a dark cloud over both of them.

Jessie went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. As usual, there was no food, just bottles of champagne. Eating was never a priority for her mother. She was too concerned about keeping her slim figure to take any interest in food. Jessie survived on the generous monthly allowance her mother gave her, spending most of the money on fast food and sweets.

She ran her hand over the bottles, feeling the cold glass under her fingertips. She took one out of the fridge – it was surprising how heavy it was – and set it on the marble countertop. She had never tasted champagne, but her mother – Marie – drank it all the time.

She tore off the metal wrapper and for several seconds stared at the wire surrounding the cork before she cautiously took it off. She pulled at the cork but didn’t hear the familiar ‘pop’. It seemed to be firmly wedged in the top of the bottle. Jessie glanced around before recalling the way Marie always wrapped a dishtowel around the cork in order to pull it out. Jessie reached for one of the white kitchen towels, then twisted the cork at the same time as she pulled on it. Finally it began to come loose. Another tug and Jessie heard the ‘pop’ as the cork flew out of the bottle.

Foam gushed out, and Jessie hurriedly stepped back to avoid being drenched with champagne. Quickly she poured some of the bubbly into a water glass she found on the counter. Hesitantly she took a sip and then grimaced. It tasted awful. But Marie usually added juice, which probably made it taste better, and she always used proper champagne glasses. Jessie took a tall, slender glass from the cupboard and then found the only container of juice in the fridge. She had no idea how much juice to use, but she filled the glass two-thirds full with champagne before adding peach juice. The concoction threatened to overflow, so Jessie slurped it up. Now it tasted much better. It was actually good.

Jessie put the open bottle back in the fridge along with the juice and then took her glass out to the dock in front of the house. Her mother was going to be away filming all day, so she could do whatever she liked.

She reached for her mobile. Maybe Sam would come over and have some champagne.

‘Knock, knock?’ Erica called through the open door, which was framed by an enormous trellis of pink climbing roses. They smelled marvellous, and she’d spent a few minutes admiring them.

‘Come in!’ said a cheerful voice from somewhere inside, so Erica took off her shoes in the hall and went in.

‘Oh my, is that really you?’ said a woman in her sixties when she saw Erica. She was holding a dishtowel in one hand and a plate in the other.

Erica always felt strange when people recognized her even though they’d never met. The success of her books had made her somewhat of a celebrity, and occasionally she was even stopped on the street by someone wanting to take her picture or ask for an autograph.

‘Hi. Yes, I’m Erica Falck,’ she said, shaking hands with the woman.

‘Viola,’ said the woman, giving her a big smile.

She had a delicate network of laughter lines at her eyes, revealing that she smiled often.

‘Do you have a few minutes?’ asked Erica. ‘I’m working on a book about one of your father’s old cases, and since he’s no longer with us—’

‘You thought you’d find out what I know,’ Viola interjected, smiling again. ‘Come in. I was just making a fresh pot of coffee. And I think I know which case you’re talking about.’

Viola led the way to the kitchen, which was off the hallway. A bright and airy room with watercolour paintings on the walls offering spots of colour. Erica paused to admire one of the paintings. She didn’t know much about art, nor was she particularly interested, but it was clear the artist was talented and she felt drawn to the image.

‘What lovely paintings,’ she said, looking at them one after the other.

‘Thank you,’ said Viola, blushing. ‘It has long been a hobby of mine, but recently I’ve started exhibiting a few of them. And it turns out people actually want to buy my work. I have a show on Friday at Stora Hotel, if you’d like to come.’

‘I may just do that. I can see why people like them. They’re wonderful,’ said Erica as she sat down at the big white kitchen table which was positioned in front of a huge mullioned window.

She loved old windows. There was something about the irregularity of the glass that made them seem much more alive than modern factory-made windows.

‘Milk?’ asked Viola, and Erica nodded.

‘Please.’

Viola brought over a sponge cake from the counter and cut two thick slices. Erica could feel her mouth watering.

‘I assume you want to talk about my father’s investigation into little Stella’s murder,’ said Viola as she sat down across from Erica.

‘Yes. I’m writing about the case, and your father Leif is an important piece of the puzzle.’

‘It’s been nearly fifteen years since Pappa died. I suppose you know that he committed suicide. It was a terrible shock, even though we should have known it might happen. He’d been terribly depressed ever since our mother passed away from lung cancer. He said he no longer had any reason to live. But I remember that up until his death he talked a lot about that particular case.’

‘Do you recall what he said?’

Erica resisted the impulse to close her eyes out of sheer pleasure as she took a big bite of sponge cake. The butter and sugar melted in her mouth.

‘It was so long ago, I can’t remember the details. Maybe they’ll come back to me if I give it some thought. But I do remember that the case bothered him. He was starting to have doubts.’

‘Doubts about what?’

‘About whether those girls really did it.’

Viola looked pensive as she took a sip of coffee from the white ceramic mug.

‘You mean he thought they were innocent?’

This was news to Erica. Her pulse quickened. After living with a police officer for many years, she knew that gut instincts often turned out to be right. If Leif had doubted the girls’ guilt, he must have had good reason.

‘Did he say why he was having doubts?’

Viola held her coffee mug in both hands, caressing the grooves on the sides with her thumbs.

‘No,’ she said, frowning. ‘He never mentioned anything specific. But I suppose it didn’t help that both girls retracted their confessions and continued to proclaim their innocence all these years.’

‘But no one believed them,’ said Erica, recalling the many articles she’d read about the case, and the response from local residents whenever the case happened to come up in conversation.

Everybody seemed to be in agreement: the girls had killed Stella.

‘Right before he died, he started talking about re-opening the case, but he killed himself before he could do anything. Besides, he was retired, so he would have had to persuade the new chief of police, who I don’t think would have been especially keen on the idea. The case was solved. The question of guilt had been established, even though there was never a proper trial because the girls were so young.’

‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but …’ Erica began, glancing at her mobile. Still no word from Patrik. ‘A little girl went missing yesterday afternoon, or possibly even since the night before, from the same farm where Stella lived.’

Viola stared at her.

‘What? No, I haven’t heard a thing. I’ve been in my studio, working on the paintings for my show. What happened?’

‘They don’t know yet. They’ve been out searching since yesterday afternoon. My husband is a police officer, so he’s involved in the search.’

‘Oh no. Good gracious.’

Viola was struggling to find the right words. No doubt she was experiencing the same flood of emotions that Erica had on hearing the news.

‘It’s a strange coincidence,’ said Erica. ‘Too strange. And the girl is the same age as Stella. Four years old.’

‘Oh, dear God,’ said Viola. ‘Maybe she just got lost. That farm is in a rather remote spot, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is. I hope that’s what happened.’

But Erica could see Viola wasn’t convinced either.

‘Did your father write down any notes on the case? Do you think he might have saved some of the investigative materials at home?’

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ replied Viola. ‘My two brothers and I took care of Pappa’s estate after he died, but I can’t recall seeing anything. I can check with my brothers, but I don’t think there were any notebooks or case files. If there were, I’m afraid we must have thrown them out. None of us are sentimental about saving things. We believe we keep our memories in here.’

She placed her hand on her heart.

Erica knew what she meant and wished she was the same way. She had a hard time getting rid of things with sentimental value, and Patrik was always joking that he was married to a hoarder.

‘Please do ask them. And here’s my phone number, in case you happen to find anything. Or if you remember something your father said about the case. Anything at all. Don’t hesitate to phone, no matter how insignificant it might seem. You never know.’

Erica took a business card from her purse and handed it to Viola, who studied it for a moment before setting it on the table.

‘Such awful news about that little girl. I hope they find her,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘I hope so too,’ replied Erica, again glancing at her mobile.

Still no message from Patrik.

‘Well, thank you,’ she said, getting up to leave. ‘I’ll try to stop by the gallery on Friday if I can. I love your paintings.’

‘I hope to see you then,’ said Viola, blushing at Erica’s praise.

As Erica headed for her car, the scent from the roses lingered in her nostrils. And Viola’s words rang in her ears.

Leif had harboured doubts that Marie and Helen were guilty.

It felt as if they’d been waiting for an eternity, but an hour after Mellberg made the call, Torbjörn Ruud and his team of technicians from Uddevalla came walking through the woods. Patrik ushered them towards the tree trunk a couple of metres inside the area he had cordoned off.

‘Oh hell,’ said Torbjörn. Patrik nodded.

He knew crime scene techs had seen just about everything, and over time they couldn’t help but become inured to the horror. But dead children never ceased to affect them. The contrast between the vitality of a young child and the utter finality of death felt like a punch in the solar plexus.

‘Is that where she is?’ asked Torbjörn.

‘Under the tree trunk,’ Patrik confirmed. ‘I haven’t gone over to check. I wanted to wait for you to get here so as to avoid having anyone else walking through the site. According to the men who found her, there’s a hollow space, and her body was shoved inside. That’s why we didn’t find her earlier, even though we searched this area several times.’

‘Are those the men who found her?’

Torbjörn pointed at Harald, Johannes and Karim, who were standing a short distance away.

‘Yes. I asked them to stay here, so you could make sure nothing at the crime scene came from them. I assume you’ll want to photograph their shoes to identify which footprints are theirs.’

‘That’s right,’ said Torbjörn. He rattled off some instructions to one of the techs he’d brought along. Then he put on a protective suit and pulled plastic coverings over his shoes. Patrik did the same.

‘Come on,’ said Torbjörn when they were both ready.

Patrik took a deep breath and followed him over to the tree. He steeled himself for what they were about to see, but the sight still upset him so much that for a moment he froze. The first thing he saw was a child’s hand. As he’d been told, the little girl’s naked body had been stuffed into a hollow in the ground underneath the tree. She was curled up as if in a foetal position. Her face was turned towards them, though partially hidden by her hand, which was black with dirt. Her blond hair was covered with dirt and leaves, and Patrik had to stop himself from bending down to brush off the debris. Who could have done such a thing? What kind of person would do that? Fury rushed through his veins, giving him the strength to do what he had to do. It helped him to remain cold and professional, putting his own feelings aside until later. He owed it to the little girl and her parents. And after many years of working together, he knew Torbjörn would be doing the same.

They squatted down next to each other and took in all the details. The child’s body was mostly hidden from view, making it impossible to tell the cause of death. That would come later. What mattered at the moment was securing any evidence the perpetrator might have left behind.

‘I’ll step away for a while and let your team get to work,’ said Patrik. ‘Let me know when we can lift her out. I want to help.’

Torbjörn nodded, and signalled for the techs to move in and begin the meticulous task of collecting evidence from the area surrounding the tree. It was a task that could not be hurried. The smallest strand of hair, a cigarette butt, a piece of plastic, everything found in the area would have to be photographed, placed in plastic bags, and labelled. Any footprints in the loose soil would have to be lifted by pouring a viscous substance into the indentation; once the substance hardened, the techs could remove the entire footprint and take it back to the lab for comparison. It was time-consuming work, and having participated in a number of homicide investigations, Patrik had learned to curb his impatience and allow Torbjörn and his team to do their job in peace. The evidence they collected would be vital when the murderer was brought to trial. If anything was lost due to carelessness, it might harm their case.

Patrik stepped beyond the cordoned-off area and took up position a short distance away. Right now he didn’t have the energy to talk to anyone. He needed to gather his thoughts and prepare for what had to be done. The first twenty-four hours of an investigation were crucial; they needed to trace witnesses before they had time to forget what they’d seen, and to ensure that evidence was gathered before it could be erased or damaged by the elements, or by the perpetrator returning to remove all traces. A lot could happen in twenty-four hours, so it was important to prioritize. In theory, Mellberg, as the station chief, should have been in charge of this, but in practice the responsibility fell on Patrik’s shoulders.

He got out his mobile to text Erica and let her know he’d be late. She’d be wondering what was going on, and he trusted her to be discreet and keep the news to herself until he gave her the all clear. But there was no reception, so he put his phone back in his pocket. He’d ring her later.

It was hot. He closed his eyes and turned his face towards the sun. The sounds from the woods blended with the murmured conversations of the techs. Patrik thought about Gösta. He wondered how he was doing, and he was grateful he wasn’t the one who had to tell Nea’s parents.

A mosquito landed on his bare arm. He opened his eyes, but resisted the impulse to kill it, swatting it away instead. There had been enough death for one day.

It was all so surreal. Here he stood in the middle of a Swedish wood with people he’d never met before.

This was not the first time Karim had seen a dead body. When he was imprisoned in Damascus, a dead man had been dragged from the cell right in front of his eyes. And during the journey across the Mediterranean Sea, he’d seen dead children floating next to the boat.

But this was different. He’d come to Sweden because it was a country with no dead children. Yet a dead girl was lying only a few metres away.

Karim felt someone touch his arm. It was the older man named Harald, the one with the kind brown eyes who spoke English with such a strong Swedish accent that Karim found it difficult to understand. But he liked the man. They had passed the time by chatting. When neither of them could find the right words, they had resorted to gesturing and miming. And the younger guy, Johannes, had helped Harald find the English words that eluded him.

For the first time since arriving in Sweden, Karim had found himself talking about his family and homeland. He was aware of the longing in his own voice as he spoke of the city he’d left behind, maybe never to return. But he knew the picture he presented was not entirely accurate. The place and people he longed for had nothing to do with terrorism.

How could any Swede comprehend what it was like to spend your days constantly looking over your shoulder, fearful that at any moment someone might betray you? It might be a friend, a neighbour, even a family member – the government had eyes everywhere. Everyone was trying to protect their own interests, everyone did whatever was necessary to save their own skin. Everyone had lost somebody. Everyone had seen loved ones die, and that meant they would do anything to protect whoever they had left. As a journalist, he’d been especially targeted.

‘You okay?’ asked Harald, his hand still resting on Karim’s arm.

Karim could see his own thoughts mirrored in the other man’s face. He had let down his guard, revealing the longing and frustration, and it unnerved him. He slammed the lid shut on his memories.

‘I’m okay. I’m thinking about the girl’s parents,’ he said, seeing for a second the faces of his own children.

Amina was probably worried by now, and her uneasiness always affected the children. But there was no reception out here, so he hadn’t been able to phone her. She would be cross when he returned. Amina was always angry whenever she felt anxious. But it didn’t matter. She was even more beautiful when she was angry.

‘Those poor people,’ said Harald, and Karim saw that his eyes were shiny with tears.

A short distance away the men in white plastic overalls were kneeling on the ground near the little girl, carrying out their work. One of the techs had photographed Karim’s shoes. He’d also taken pictures of the shoes Johannes and Harald were wearing. And he’d pressed tape against their clothing, then carefully placed the pieces of tape in plastic bags, which he sealed and labelled. Karim understood why he did this, even though he’d never seen it happen before. The technicians wanted to rule out any traces that he and the two other men might have left behind when they entered the area where the little girl lay.

Johannes said something in Swedish to the older man, and they both nodded. Johannes then translated:

‘We thought maybe we could ask the policeman if we can go home now. They seem to be done with us.’

Karim nodded. He wanted to get away from this place where the dead girl lay. Away from the sight of her blond hair and her little hand covering her face. Away from where she had been stuffed into a hollow in the ground, lying in a foetal position.

Harald went to talk to the officer standing on the other side of the police tape. They spoke for a moment in low voices, and then Karim saw the policeman nod.

‘We can go,’ said Harald when he rejoined the others.

Karim noticed he had started to shake, now that the tension had eased. He wanted to go home. Back to his children. And to Amina’s flashing eyes.

Sanna closed her eyes at the sound of Vendela pounding up the stairs. She had a splitting headache today, and she couldn’t help flinching when the door slammed. She could picture the wood panelling cracking.

All Sanna had done was suggest that Vendela should go with her to the garden centre. Vendela had never been exactly thrilled about being there, but nowadays she seemed to regard it as a form of punishment. Sanna knew she ought to take a sterner hand with Vendela, but she just didn’t have the energy. It felt as if all her strength had vanished when she heard about Nea’s disappearance.

The sound of throbbing bass came from upstairs now, so loud it made the walls vibrate. Sanna wondered how her daughter planned to spend the day. She mostly seemed to hang out with those two boys, and they were probably not the best companions for her. A fifteen-year-old girl and two boys the same age could only mean trouble.

Sanna pushed aside her breakfast plate. Vendela had eaten only an egg. The bread she’d always had for breakfast, ever since she was little, contained too much sugar for Vendela these days. Sanna toasted a slice of the bread and spread on a thick layer of orange marmalade. She was already so late that five more minutes would make no difference.

She didn’t mind that Vendela was in one of her defiant moods today. At least it was a distraction from thoughts of Nea. And she hadn’t had time to think about Stella. But now, as she sat alone in the kitchen, all the memories came flooding in. She remembered that day down to the smallest detail. How happy she’d been to go with her mother to Uddevalla to buy new clothes for school. How she’d felt torn between joy at having a shopping expedition with her mother and envy of Stella, who had those two cool older girls babysitting her. But her jealousy was forgotten as soon as they had waved goodbye and she and her mother drove off in the Volvo, headed for the big city.

On their way home, she kept glancing in the back seat at the shopping bags with her new clothes. Such amazing clothes. She’d been so happy it was all she could do to sit still. Her mother had scolded her, but she’d been laughing as she did so.

That was the last time she ever saw her mother laugh.

Sanna set the rest of her toast on the table. The bread seemed to swell inside her mouth. She remembered getting out of the car and seeing her father’s expression when he greeted them. Nausea suddenly overwhelmed Sanna, and she had to rush for the toilet, making it there just in time. Pieces of orange marmalade floated in the toilet bowl, and she began to retch again.

Afterwards she sank on to the cold tile floor, shaking all over.

Upstairs, the music was still thudding.

The bullet slammed into one of the targets nailed to a tree in the forest glade behind their yard.

‘Good,’ said James curtly.

Sam had to force himself not to smile. This was the only thing for which he ever received praise. It seemed his only talent as a son was being a good shot.

‘You’re getting better and better,’ James told him, giving a satisfied nod as he peered over the rims of his sunglasses.

He wore aviator shades. Sam thought his father looked like a parody of an American sheriff.

‘See if you can hit the target from a little further away,’ said James, motioning for Sam to back up.

Sam moved away from the tree.

‘Steady your hand. Exhale at the precise moment you squeeze the trigger. Focus.’

James had trained elite Swedish military units for years, and Sam knew his father was a highly respected professional. That he was also a cold bastard probably added to his reputation, but it made Sam long for the next time James would be deployed abroad.

The months when James was away, often to unknown destinations, seemed like a breath of fresh air to Sam. Both he and his mother were more relaxed. She laughed more, and Sam loved seeing her happy. As soon as James stepped in the door, the laughter vanished, and she went out running more often. She lost weight, but instead of looking healthier, she just looked stressed. Sam hated that version of his mother as much as he loved the happier one. He knew he was being unfair, but she was the one who had chosen to have a child with that man. Sam refused to call him Father. Or Pappa.

He quickly fired off a few shots. He knew his aim was right on.

James nodded with satisfaction.

‘Hell, if only you had a backbone, I could make a fine soldier out of you,’ said James, chuckling.

Helen came into the backyard.

‘I’m going out for a run,’ she called to James and Sam, but neither of them answered.

Sam thought she’d already left. She usually went running right after breakfast in order to avoid the worst heat of the day, but it was nearly ten o’clock.

‘Back up another couple of metres,’ said James.

Sam knew he’d be able to hit the target, even at that distance. He’d been practising at greater distances during the periods when James was away. But for some reason he didn’t want to show his father exactly how good a shot he was. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking his son had inherited something from him. He didn’t deserve any credit. Everything in Sam’s life was in spite of James, not thanks to him.

‘Nice!’ his father shouted when he made the next series of shots.

That was something Sam hated. The way James would switch to English, speaking with a distinct American accent. He had no American ancestors; his grandfather had been a fan of James Dean when he was young. But James had spent so much time with Americans that he’d picked up their accent. Thick and mushy. Sam found it embarrassing every time James failed to speak Swedish.

‘One more time,’ said James in English, as if he could read Sam’s thoughts and wanted to provoke him.

Sam aimed the gun at the target and pulled the trigger. Bullseye.