Читать книгу The Stonecutter - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 12

‘Shouldn’t we visit Niclas?’ Asta implored her husband. But she saw no sign of sympathy in his stony expression.

‘I told you his name must never be mentioned in my house again!’ Arne stared hard out of the kitchen window, and there was nothing but granite in his gaze.

‘But after what happened to the girl …’

‘God’s punishment. Didn’t I tell you that would happen someday? No, this is all his own fault. If he’d listened to me it would never have happened. Nothing bad happens to God-fearing people. And now we shall speak no more of this!’ His fist slammed the table.

Asta sighed to herself. Of course she respected her husband, and he did usually know best, but in this case she wondered if he might not be wrong. Something in her heart told her that this couldn’t be consistent with God’s wishes. Surely they should rush to their son’s side when such a terrible blow had struck him. True, she had never got to know the girl, but she was still their own flesh and blood, and children did belong to the kingdom of God, that’s what it said in the Bible. But these were only the thoughts of a lowly woman. Arne was a man, after all, and he knew best. It had always been that way. Like so many times before, she kept her thoughts to herself and got up to clear the table.

Too many years had passed since she had seen her son. They did run into each other occasionally, of course; that was unavoidable now that he had moved back to Fjällbacka, but she knew better than to stop and talk to him. He had tried to speak to her a few times, but she always looked away and walked off briskly, as she had been instructed to do. But she hadn’t cast down her eyes quickly enough to avoid seeing the hurt in her son’s eyes.

Yet the Bible said that one should honour one’s father and mother, and what had happened on that day so long ago was, as far as she could see, a breach of God’s word. That’s why she couldn’t let him back into her heart.

She gazed at Arne as he sat at the table. His back was still as straight as a fir tree, and his dark hair had not thinned, in spite of a few flecks of grey. But they were both over seventy. She remembered how all the girls had run after him when they were young, but Arne had never seemed the least bit interested. He had married her when she was just eighteen, and as far as she knew he had never even looked at another woman. Not that he had been particularly keen on carnal matters at home either. Asta’s mother had always said it was a woman’s duty to endure that aspect of marriage. It was not something to enjoy, so Asta had considered herself fortunate since she had no great expectations.

Nevertheless, they did have a son. A big, splendid, blond boy, who was the spitting image of his mother but had few traits from his father. Maybe that was why things had gone so wrong. If he’d been more like his father, then Arne might have had more of a connection with his son. But that was not to be. The boy had been hers from the start, and she had loved him as much as she could. But it wasn’t enough. Because when the decisive day arrived and she was forced to choose between the boy and his father, she had let her son down. How could she have done otherwise? A wife must stand by her husband, she had been taught that since childhood. But sometimes, in bleak moments, when the lamp was off and she lay in bed looking up at the ceiling, the thoughts would come. She would wonder how something she had learned to be right could feel so wrong. That was why it was such a relief that Arne always knew exactly how things should be. Many times he had told her that a woman’s judgement was not to be trusted; it was the man’s job to lead the woman. There was security in that. Since her father had been like Arne in many ways, a world in which the man decided was the only world she knew. And he was so smart, her Arne. Everyone agreed on that.

Even the new pastor had praised Arne recently. He had said that Arne was the most reliable sexton he had ever had the privilege to work with, and God could be grateful to have such loyal servants. Arne had told her this, swelling with pride, when he had come home. But it was not for nothing that Arne had been the sexton in Fjällbacka for twenty years. Not counting the unfortunate years when that woman was the pastor here, of course. Asta would not want those years back for anything in the world. Thank goodness the woman finally understood that she wasn’t wanted, and stepped aside to make way for a real pastor. How poor Arne had suffered during that woman’s tenure. For the first time in more than fifty years of marriage, Asta had seen her husband with tears in his eyes. The thought of a woman in the pulpit of his beloved church had almost destroyed him. But he’d also said that he trusted that God would finally cast the moneylenders out of the temple. And this time, too, Arne was right.

Her only wish was that he could somehow find room in his heart to forgive his son for what had happened. Until then, she would never again have a day of happiness. But she also realized that if Arne could not forgive Niclas now, after this terrible incident, there was no hope of reconciliation.

If only she had gotten to know the girl. Now it was too late.

Two days had passed since Sara was found. The prevailing gloom of that day had inexorably dispersed as they were forced to go back to their daily responsibilities which hadn’t disappeared because a child had died.

Patrik was writing up the last lines of a report on an assault case when the telephone rang. He saw from the display who was calling and picked up the receiver with a sigh. Just as well to get it over with. He heard the familiar voice of Medical Examiner Tord Pedersen on the other end. They exchanged polite greetings before they broached the actual reason for the call. The first indication that Patrik was not hearing what he had expected was that a furrow formed between his eyebrows. After another minute it had deepened, and when he had heard everything the M.E. had to report he slammed down the receiver with a bang. He tried to collect himself for a minute as the thoughts swirled in his head. Then he got up, grabbed the notebook he’d been writing in as they talked, and went into Martin’s office. Actually, he should have gone to Bertil Mellberg first, being the chief of police, but he felt that he needed to discuss the information he had received with someone he trusted. Unfortunately his boss was not in that category. Martin was the only one of his colleagues who qualified.

‘Martin?’

He was on the phone when Patrik came in, but he motioned towards a chair. The conversation sounded like it was winding down, and Martin concluded it cryptically with a quiet ‘hmm … sure … me too … hmm … likewise,’ as he flushed from his scalp downwards.

Despite his own concerns, Patrik couldn’t resist teasing his young colleague a little. ‘So who were you talking to?’

He got an inaudible mumble in reply from Martin, whose face flushed even more.

‘Someone calling to report a crime? One of our colleagues in Strömstad? Or Uddevalla? Or maybe Leif G. W. Persson, interested in writing your biography?’

Martin squirmed in his chair but then muttered a bit more audibly, ‘Pia.’

‘Oh, I see, Pia. I never would have guessed. Let’s see, what’s it been – three months, right? That must be a record for you, don’t you think?’ Patrik teased him. Up until this past summer Martin had been known as something of a specialist in short, unhappy love affairs, usually because of his unfailing ability to get mixed up with women who were already taken and were mostly out for a little adventure on the side. But Pia was not only available, she was also an extremely attractive and serious young woman.

‘We’re celebrating three months on Saturday.’ Martin’s eyes sparkled. ‘And we’re moving in together. She just rang to say that she’d found a perfect flat in Grebbestad. We’re going out to look at it this evening.’ His colouring had returned to normal, but he couldn’t hide how obviously head over heels in love he was.

Patrik remembered how he and Erica had been at the start of their relationship. P.B. Pre-baby. He loved her fiercely, but that stormy infatuation, all of a sudden, felt as distant as a woolly dream. Dirty nappies and sleepless nights were no doubt having their effect.

‘But what about you – when are you going to make an honest woman of Erica? And don’t you want to be recognized as Maja’s legal father?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out …’ said Patrik with a grin.

‘So, did you come here to root around in my private life, or did you have something you wanted to tell me?’ By now Martin had regained his composure.

At once Patrik’s face turned serious. He reminded himself that they were facing something that was as far from a joke as one could get.

‘Pedersen just rang. He’s sending the report from Sara’s post-mortem by fax, but he summarized the contents for me. What he told me means that her drowning was no accident. She was murdered.’

‘What the hell are you saying?’ Martin threw out his hands in dismay, knocking over his pen-holder, but he ignored the pens that had spilled onto his desk. Instead he focused his undivided attention on Patrik.

‘At first he assumed, as we did, that it was an accident. No visible marks on the body, and she was fully dressed, in clothing appropriate to the season, except that she had no jacket, but it could have floated away. But most important of all: when he examined her lungs he found water in them.’ He fell silent.

Martin threw out his hands again and raised his eyebrows. ‘So what did he find that didn’t fit with an accident?’

‘Bathwater.’

‘Bathwater?’

‘Yes, she didn’t have seawater in her lungs as you might expect if she had drowned in the sea. It was bathwater. Or rather, presumably bathwater, I should say. Pedersen found residue of both soap and shampoo in the water, which suggests that it’s bathwater.’

‘So she was drowned in a bathtub?’ said Martin, sounding sceptical. They had been so convinced that it was a tragic yet normal drowning accident that he was having a hard time adjusting to this new theory.

‘Yes, that’s what it looks like. It also explains the bruises that Pedersen found on the body.’

‘I thought you said there were no injuries to the body?’

‘Well, not at first glance. But when he lifted the hair on the back of her neck and checked more thoroughly, he could clearly see bruises that match the imprint of a hand. The hand of someone who held her head under the surface by force.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Martin looked like he was going to be sick. Patrik had felt the same way when he first heard the news. ‘So we’re dealing with a homicide,’ said Martin, as if trying to make himself face the fact.

‘Yes, and we’ve already lost two days. We have to start knocking on doors, interviewing the family and friends, and finding out all we can about the girl and those who knew her.’

Martin grimaced, and Patrik understood his reaction. This wasn’t going to be fun. The family was already devastated, and now the police would have to go in and stir everything up again. All too often, children were murdered by someone who ought to grieve the most over the death. So Patrik and Martin couldn’t display the sympathy that would normally be expected when meeting with a family that had lost a child.

‘Have you been in to see Mellberg yet?’

‘No,’ Patrik sighed. ‘But I’m going there now. Since we were the ones who took the call the other day, I thought I’d ask you to join me in conducting the investigation. Do you have any objections?’ He knew that the question was merely rhetorical. Neither of them wanted to see their colleagues Ernst Lundgren or Gösta Flygare be put in charge of anything more challenging than bicycle thefts.

Martin nodded curtly in reply.

‘Okay,’ said Patrik, ‘then we might as well get it over with.’

Superintendent Mellberg looked at the letter before him as if it were a poisonous snake. This was one of the worst things that could have happened to him. Even that mortifying incident with Irina last summer paled in comparison.

Tiny beads of sweat had formed on his brow, although the temperature in his office was rather on the cool side. Mellberg wiped off the sweat absentmindedly and at the same time managed to dislodge the few strands left of his hair, which he had carefully wound in a nest atop his bald head. Annoyed, he was trying to put everything back in place when there was a knock on the door. He gave his hair one last pat and called out a surly ‘Come in!’

Hedström seemed unperturbed by Mellberg’s tone of voice, but he had an uncommonly serious look on his face. Normally the superintendent thought that Patrik too often displayed a distasteful lack of decorum. He preferred working with men like Ernst Lundgren, who always treated their superiors with the respect they deserved. When it came to Hedström he always had the feeling that the man might stick his tongue out as soon as he turned his back. But time would separate the wheat from the chaff, Mellberg thought sternly. With his long experience in police work, he knew that the guys who were too soft and the ones who joked around always broke first.

For a second he had managed to forget the contents of the letter, but when Hedström sat down in the chair across his desk, Mellberg remembered that it was lying there in full view. He quickly slipped the letter into his top drawer. He would have to deal with that matter soon enough.

‘So, what’s going on?’ Mellberg could hear his voice quavering a bit from the shock of the letter, and he forced himself to bring it under control. Never show weakness – that was his motto. If he exposed his throat to his subordinates they would soon sink their teeth into it.

‘A homicide,’ Patrik said tensely.

‘What now?’ Mellberg sighed. ‘Has one of our old iron-fisted acquaintances managed to hit his wife in the head a little too hard?’

Hedström’s face was still unusually resolute. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s about the drowning accident the other day. Or rather it wasn’t an accident after all. The girl was murdered.’

Mellberg gave a low whistle. ‘You don’t say, you don’t say,’ he murmured as confused thoughts ran through his head. For one thing, he was always upset by crimes perpetrated against children, and for another he tried to do a rapid evaluation of how this unexpected development would affect him in his capacity as police chief of Tanumshede. There were two ways to look at it: either as a damned lot of extra work and administration, or as a means of advancing his career that might get him back to the excitement of the big city, Göteborg. Although he had to admit that the successful conclusion of the two homicide investigations he had been involved with up to now had not yielded the desired effect. But, sooner or later, something would convince his superiors that he belonged back at the main station. Perhaps this was just the ticket.

He realized that Hedström was waiting for some other type of response from him and hastily added, ‘You mean someone murdered a child? Well, that pervert isn’t going to get away with it.’ Mellberg clenched his fist to stress the gravity of his words, but that only managed to induce a worried expression in Patrik’s eyes.

‘Don’t you want to know the cause of death?’ Hedström asked, as if wanting to lend him a helping hand. Mellberg found his tone of voice extremely irritating.

‘Of course, I was just getting to that. So, what did the M.E. say about the case?’

‘She drowned, but not in the sea. They found only fresh water in her lungs, and since they also found the residue of soap and shampoo, Pedersen assumes it’s probably bathwater. So the girl, Sara, was presumably drowned indoors in a bathtub and then carried down to the sea and thrown in. It was an attempt to make it look like an accident.’

The image that Hedström’s account conjured up in Mellberg’s mind made the chief shiver, and for a moment he forgot all about his own chances of promotion. He assumed he’d seen just about everything during his years on the force. He was proud of being able to maintain a sense of objectivity, but there was something about the murder of children that made it impossible to remain unmoved. It crossed the boundaries of all decency to attack a little girl. The feeling of indignation that the murder awoke inside him was unfamiliar but, he actually had to admit, quite pleasant.

‘No obvious perpetrator?’ he asked.

Hedström shook his head. ‘No, we don’t know of any problems in the family, and there have been no other reported attacks on children in Fjällbacka. Nothing like this. So we should probably start by interviewing the family, don’t you agree?’ asked Patrik tentatively.

Mellberg understood at once what he was getting at. He had no objections. It had worked fine in the past to let Hedström do the legwork, and then he could step into the spotlight when the case was resolved. Not that it was anything to be ashamed of. After all, knowing how to delegate responsibilities was the key to successful leadership.

‘It sounds as though you’d like to head up this investigation.’

‘Well, I’m actually already on the case. Martin and I responded to the call when it came in, and we’ve met with the girl’s family.’

‘Well, that sounds like a good idea, then,’ Mellberg said, nodding in agreement. ‘Just see that you keep me informed.’

‘All right,’ said Hedström with a nod, ‘then Martin and I will get going on it.’

‘Martin?’ said Mellberg in an ominous tone. He was still irritated at the lack of respect in Patrik’s voice and now saw a chance to put him in his place. Sometimes Hedström acted as if he was the chief of this station. This would be an excellent opportunity to show him who made the decisions around here.

‘No, I don’t think I can spare Martin at the moment. I assigned him to investigate a series of car thefts yesterday, possibly a Baltic gang operating in the area, so he’s got plenty to do. But …’ he paused for dramatic effect, enjoying the distressed look on Hedström’s face. ‘Ernst doesn’t have that much work right now, so it would probably be good if you two worked on this case together.’

Now Patrik had started squirming as if in agony, and Mellberg knew that he’d figuratively put his thumb on the most vulnerable spot, right in the middle of the officer’s eye. He decided to assuage Hedström’s agony a bit. ‘But I’m putting you in charge of the investigation, so Lundgren will report directly to you.’

Even though Ernst Lundgren was a more pleasant colleague to deal with than Hedström, Mellberg was smart enough to realize that the guy had certain limitations. It would be stupid to shoot himself in the foot …

As soon as the door closed behind Hedström, Mellberg took out the letter again and read it for at least the tenth time.

Morgan did a few stretching exercises with his fingers and shoulders before he sat down in front of the computer. He knew that sometimes he could disappear so deeply into the world before him that he would sit in the same position for hours. He checked carefully that he had everything he needed in front of him so that he wouldn’t have to get up unless it was absolutely necessary. Yes, everything was there. A large bottle of Coke, a big health bar and a king-size Snickers. That would keep him going for a while.

The binder he’d received from Fredrik felt heavy lying on his lap. It contained everything he needed to know. The whole fantasy world he himself was unable to create was gathered there inside the binder’s stiff covers and would soon be converted into ones and zeros. That was something he had mastered. While emotions, imagination, dreams and fairy tales had, by a caprice of nature, never found space in his brain, he was a wizard at the logical, the elegantly predictable in ones and zeros, the tiny electrical impulses in the computer that were converted into something legible on the screen.

Sometimes he wondered how it would feel to do what Fredrik was able to do. Plucking other worlds out of his brain, summoning up other people’s feelings and entering into their lives. Most often these speculations led Morgan to shrug his shoulders and dismiss them as unimportant. But during the periods of deep depression that sometimes struck him, he occasionally felt the full weight of his handicap and despaired that he had been made so different from everyone else.

At the same time it was a consolation to know that he was not alone. He often visited the websites of people who were like him, and he had exchanged emails with some of them. On one occasion he had even gone to meet one of them in Göteborg, but he wouldn’t be doing that again. The fact that they were so essentially different from other people made it hard for them to relate even to each other, and the meeting had been a failure from beginning to end.

But it had still been great to find out that there were others. That knowledge was enough. He actually felt no longing for the sense of community that seemed to be so important for ordinary people. He did best when he was all alone in the little cabin with only his computers to keep him company. Sometimes he tolerated his parents’ company, but they were the only ones. It was safe to spend time with them. He’d had many years to learn to read them, to interpret all the complex non-verbal communications in the form of facial expressions and body language and thousands of other tiny signals that his brain simply didn’t seem designed to handle. They had also learned to adapt themselves to him, to speak in a way that he could understand, at least adequately.

The screen before him was blank and waiting. This was the moment he liked best. Ordinary people might say that they ‘loved’ such a moment, but he wasn’t really sure what ‘loving’ involved. But maybe it was what he felt right now. That inner feeling of satisfaction, of belonging, of being normal.

Morgan began to type, making his fingers race over the keyboard. Once in a while he glanced down at the binder on his lap, but most often his gaze was fixed on the screen. He never ceased to be amazed that the problems he had coordinating the movements of his body and his fingers miraculously disappeared whenever he was working. Suddenly he was just as dextrous as he always should have been. They called it ‘deficient motor skills’, the problems he had with getting his fingers to move as they should when he had to tie his shoes or button his shirt. He knew that was part of the diagnosis. He understood precisely what made him different from the others, but he couldn’t do anything to change the situation. For that matter, he thought it was wrong to call the others ‘normal’ while people like him were dubbed ‘abnormal’. Actually it was only societal preconceptions that landed him in the wrong group. He was simply different. His thought processes simply moved in other directions. They weren’t necessarily worse, just not the same.

He paused to take a swig of Coca Cola straight out of the bottle, then his fingers moved rapidly over the keys again.

Morgan was content.