The Ice Child Read online

  ‘Turns out it’s not that straightforward,’ Martin said. ‘There aren’t many specialists in that field, and most of them are booked up. But Annika just told me that she’s found an expert who does profiling. A man named Gerhard Struwer. He’s a criminologist at Göteborg University, and he can meet with us at his office this afternoon. She emailed him all the information we have. It’s rather strange that the Göteborg police haven’t already talked to him.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s so strange. We’re the only ones stupid enough to believe in that sort of thing. Next we’ll be bringing in a fortune teller,’ muttered Gösta, who shared Mellberg’s opinion on the matter.

  Patrik ignored his remarks.

  ‘He might not be able to put together a profile, but he could still give us some guidance. Maybe we should also drop by and meet Minna’s mother, since we’ll be in Göteborg anyway. If the perpetrator was the driver of the car, Minna might have had a personal relationship with him – or her. That would explain why she got into the vehicle voluntarily.’

  ‘Don’t you think the Göteborg police must have already interviewed her mother?’ said Martin.

  ‘Sure, but I’d like to talk to her myself and see if we can find out anything more—’

  Patrik was interrupted by the ringing of his mobile. He picked it up, glanced at the display, and then looked at his colleagues.

  ‘It’s Pedersen.’

  With a grunt, Einar pulled himself up into a sitting position in bed. His wheelchair stood nearby, but he stuffed a pillow behind his back and stayed where he was. There was nowhere for him to go. This room was his world now, and that was enough for him, because in here he was able to live in his memories.

  He heard Helga pottering about downstairs, and the revulsion he felt brought a metallic taste to his mouth. He found it disgusting to be so dependent on someone as pitiful as his wife. The balance of power had shifted so that she was now the strong one who could control his life instead of the other way round.

  Helga had been special, filled with such joy and with such a light in her eyes. It had given him tremendous satisfaction to slowly extinguish that light. It had been gone a long time now, but when his health had betrayed him and he was confined to this prison that was his own body, something had changed. She was still a broken woman, but lately he’d caught the occasional glimpse of rebellion in her eyes. Barely discernible, but enough to annoy him.

  He cast a glance at the wedding photograph that Helga had hung on the wall above the chest of drawers. In the black-and-white picture she was looking at him with a radiant smile, blithely unaware how her life would turn out with the man in the suit standing beside her. Back then he had been a handsome young fellow. Tall and blond with broad shoulders and steady blue eyes. Helga was also fair-skinned. Now her hair was grey, but in her youth she’d had long blond hair, pinned up under the bridal veil and myrtle wreath. Of course he was aware how lovely she was, but in many ways he found her even more beautiful later on, after he’d shaped her in accordance with his wishes. A cracked vase was more beautiful than one that was whole, and the cracks had occurred without much effort on his part.

  He reached for the remote control. His huge stomach was in the way, and he was filled with hatred for his body. It had been transformed into something that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the person he once was. But when he closed his eyes he always pictured himself as young. Everything was as clear to him now as it had been back then: the touch of the silky skin of all the women, the feel of their shiny long hair, their breath in his ear, the sound that had made him so hot and excited. The memories freed him from the prison of this bedroom, where the wallpaper had faded and the curtains had remained unchanged for decades. These four walls that now enclosed his worthless body.

  Jonas sometimes came to help him, lifting Einar over to his wheelchair and carefully pushing it down the ramp on the stairs. Jonas was strong, just as strong as he had once been. But the brief excursions outdoors didn’t give him much joy. It felt as if his memories became diminished and faded outside, as if the sun on his face made him forget. So he preferred to stay here in this room, where he was able to keep his memories alive.

  The light in her study was dim even though it was still morning. Erica was sitting at her desk, staring straight ahead and getting nothing done. Her experience the previous day was still haunting her: the darkness in the cellar, the bedroom with the bolt on the door. And she couldn’t stop thinking about what Patrik had said about Victoria. She had followed the course of the investigation as he and his colleagues had tried to find the missing girl, and now Patrik had told her about what had happened to Victoria. Erica’s heart ached at the thought of what her death must mean for her family and friends. But what if she’d never been found? How could any parent live with something like that?

  Four other girls were still missing, vanished without a trace. Maybe they were dead and would never be seen again. Their families were living with the loss round the clock, wondering and agonizing, still hoping, even though they knew there was no hope. Erica shivered. She suddenly felt chilled, so she got up from her desk chair and went into the bedroom to put on a pair of heavy socks. She decided to ignore the mess. The bed had not been made, and clothes were scattered about. On one bedside table was a glass containing Patrik’s mouth guard, which was gathering bacteria. The table on her side of the bed was cluttered with bottles of decongestant spray. Ever since she was pregnant with the twins she’d become dependent on decongestant spray, and the right time to quit never seemed to present itself. She’d tried it before, so she knew quitting would involve three days of hell when she could hardly breathe. So it had been all too easy to go back to using the spray. She could understand why it must be a struggle to quit smoking once you were hooked, or for an addict to stop using drugs. She couldn’t even wean herself from something as banal as an addiction to decongestants.

  The very thought made her nose close up, so she went over to the nightstand and shook several of the little bottles until she found one that wasn’t empty. Then she sprayed twice in each nostril. The sensation when her nasal passages cleared was almost like an orgasm. Patrik liked to joke that if she ever had to choose between Sinex and sex, he would have to get himself a mistress.

  Erica smiled. The thought of Patrik with a lover seemed so ridiculous. First, because he would never dare. Second, because she knew how much he loved her, even though daily life all too often put a damper on romance. The burning passion from their first years together had long since faded, to be replaced by a more serene glow. They knew each other so well, and she loved the sense of security their marriage gave her.

  Erica went back to her study. The thick socks were blissfully warm, and she tried once again to focus on what was on her computer screen. But today seemed to be one of those days when it was impossible to concentrate.

  Listlessly she scrolled through the document she had opened on her computer. She was having a hard time making any progress with her book, which of course was largely due to Laila’s unwillingness to cooperate. Without the assistance of the key players she couldn’t write her true crime books – at least, not in the way she would like. Merely repeating what was recorded in the investigative reports and describing the police procedures wouldn’t lend flesh-and-blood to her account. She was looking for emotions and thoughts, everything that had gone unsaid. And in this instance, Laila was the only one who could tell her what had actually happened. Louise was dead, Vladek was dead, and Peter had disappeared. In spite of persistent attempts, Erica had been unable to locate him, and it was doubtful that he’d be able to tell her much about that day. He’d been only four years old when his father was murdered.

  Erica closed the document, annoyed. Her thoughts returned to the current police cases, to Victoria and the other missing girls. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to spend some more time thinking about them. She often found it energizing to put aside her own work and deal with something else for a while. And she
wasn’t tempted to use her free time doing the laundry.

  She opened a desk drawer and took out a pad of Post-it notes. She had used them so many times before when she needed to bring some sort of order to her thoughts. After opening a web browser, she began searching for articles. The disappearance of the girls had been front-page news on a number of occasions, and it was easy to find the information she was looking for. She wrote their names on five different notes, using a different colour for each, in order to keep the cases separate. Then she used more Post-it notes to write down the rest of the basic information: hometown, age, names of parents and siblings, time and place of disappearance, interests. She stuck the notes on the wall, one column for each girl. She felt a pang in her stomach as she stared at them. Each column represented indescribable sorrow and grief. A parent’s worst nightmare.

  She sensed that something was missing. She wanted to put a face to each girl’s name. So she printed out photos, which were also easy to find on the newspaper websites. She wondered how many extra copies of the papers they had sold when they reported on the disappearances, but quickly dismissed such a cynical thought. The newspapers were just doing their job, and she was in no position to criticize them, given that she made a living by writing about other people’s tragedies – and her books offered a much more detailed and in-depth description than the newspapers ever could.

  Finally she printed out a map of Sweden in several sections, which she then taped together. She hung it up beside the Post-it notes and used a red pen to mark the places where the girls had disappeared.

  She got up and took a step back. She now had a basic structure, or skeleton. Years of research had taught her that answers could often be found by simply getting to know the victim. What was it about these girls that had made the perpetrator single them out? She didn’t believe in coincidence. The girls shared something more than appearance and age, something about their personality or living situation. What was the common denominator?

  She stared at the five faces in the photographs on the wall. So much hope, so much curiosity about what life had to offer. Her eyes settled on one of the photos and suddenly knew where she should begin.

  Laila spread out the newspaper clippings and felt her heart start pounding wildly. It was a physical reaction to psychological anxiety. Faster and faster, a sense of powerlessness quickening her pulse until there seemed to be no oxygen left.

  She tried to take several deep breaths, drawing in as much as she could of the stale air in the small room, forcing her heart to slow down. Over the years she had taught herself a great deal about handling fear, so she knew what to do when the panic attacks came, without seeking help from a therapist or drugs. In the beginning she had taken all the pills they gave her, downing anything that might allow her to disappear into the fog of forgetting, where she could no longer see the evil. But when nightmares began slipping inside the fog, she had stopped the medication. She handled the nightmares best when her mind was clear and alert. If she lost control, anything might happen. And all her secrets might then seep out.

  The oldest newspaper clippings had started to yellow. They were creased and wrinkled from being folded up in the little box that she’d managed to hide under her bed. Whenever it was cleaning day, she would tuck it away in her clothes.

  Her eyes scanned the words. It wasn’t necessary for her to read them, since she knew these texts by heart. Only the more recent articles required closer attention because she hadn’t yet read them often enough to commit the words to memory. She ran her hand over her cropped hair. It still felt strange. She’d had her long hair cut short during the first year in prison. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was her way of creating a distance, signalling an end. Ulla would no doubt have some theory to explain it, but Laila hadn’t asked her. There was no reason to go rooting around in anything concerning herself. For the most part she knew why things had turned out the way they had. She had all the answers in her possession.

  Talking with Erica was like playing with fire. She would never have sought out someone to talk to, but Erica had made contact just as another clipping had been added to the collection in the box, so she was probably feeling especially vulnerable that day. Laila didn’t remember the details. The only thing she recalled was that she had surprised even herself by agreeing to a visit.

  Erica had arrived that very same day. And even though Laila didn’t know at the time – and still didn’t – whether she would ever respond to Erica’s questions, she had met with her, talked to her, and listened to the queries, which hovered unanswered in the visitor’s room. Sometimes the panic would return after Erica’s visits. She was aware that it was becoming urgent, that she needed to tell someone about the evil, and that Erica might be the right person to hear her story. But it was so hard to open the door that had been closed for so long.

  Yet she looked forward to the visits. Erica asked the same questions as everyone else, but she did so in a different way. Not with a ghoulish desire to hear all the scandalous details, but with genuine interest. Maybe that was why Laila continued to see her. Or maybe it was because she knew that eventually she had to tell someone what she knew. She was starting to fear what might happen if she didn’t.

  Tomorrow Erica would come to see her again. The staff had told Laila that she had requested another visit. Laila merely nodded at the news.

  She placed the newspaper clippings back in the box, folding them up in precisely the same way so no new creases would appear. Then she closed the lid. Her heart was again beating calmly.

  Patrik went over to the printer and with trembling hands picked up the sheet of paper. He was overcome with waves of nausea, and he had to pause for a moment before he walked down the narrow corridor to Mellberg’s office. He knocked on the closed door.

  ‘What is it?’ called Mellberg, sounding annoyed. He had just come back from his purported walk, and Patrik surmised that he was now settling down to take a nap.

  ‘It’s Patrik. I have Pedersen’s report, and I thought you’d want to see the results of the autopsy.’ He resisted an impulse to yank open the door. He had done that once, only to find his boss snoring away, clad only in a pair of worn underpants. That was the sort of mistake he didn’t want to repeat.

  ‘Come in,’ said Mellberg after a moment.

  When Patrik entered the room he saw his boss sitting at his desk and making a show of going through some papers to indicate he was a busy man. Patrik sat down in the visitor’s chair, and was immediately greeted by Ernst, who emerged from his usual place under the desk. The dog had been named after a former colleague who had now passed away. Patrik had never been one to speak ill of the dead, but he couldn’t help thinking the dog was considerably more likeable than his namesake.

  ‘Hi, fella,’ he said, scratching Ernst’s head.

  ‘You’re white as a sheet,’ said Mellberg. It was unusual for him to be so observant.

  ‘It’s not very pleasant reading.’ Patrik placed the printout in front of Mellberg. ‘Do you want to read through it yourself, or should I summarize the main points?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead. Let’s hear it,’ said Mellberg, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘I hardly know where to begin.’ Patrik cleared his throat. ‘She lost her eyes because someone poured acid on them. The wounds had healed; judging by the scar formation, Pedersen thinks it was done shortly after Victoria was kidnapped.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Mellberg leaned forward and propped his elbows on his desk.

  ‘Her tongue was severed with a sharp tool of some description. Pedersen couldn’t say exactly what was used, but he reckoned it could have been done with shears, a hacksaw, or something of that nature. Probably not a knife.’ Patrik could hear how gruesome his words sounded, and Mellberg looked sick to his stomach.

  ‘In addition, a sharp object had been inserted into both ears, doing enough damage that Victoria had also lost her hearing.’ He reminded himself to tell Erica about this. Her idea of a girl in a bubble had tu
rned out to be accurate.

  Mellberg stared at him. ‘So you’re saying that she couldn’t see, hear, or speak?’ he queried.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Patrik.

  For a moment neither of them said anything. They were trying to imagine what it must feel like to lose three such important senses, to be imprisoned in a silent and impenetrable darkness without the ability to communicate.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Mellberg said again. Then the silence in the room continued. There were simply no words to express what they were thinking. Ernst gave a little yelp and gazed at them uneasily. He could sense the heavy mood that had descended over them, but he didn’t know why.

  ‘All of these injuries probably occurred right after she was captured. And she was mostly likely kept bound. Her wrists and ankles bore scars from a rope. Some were old, some were new. She also had bedsores.’

  Now even Mellberg’s face had gone pale.

  ‘The toxicology report is also available,’ Patrik added. ‘There were traces of ketamine in her blood.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Ketamine is a sedative. Classified as a narcotic.’

  ‘Why would she have something like that in her blood?’

  ‘Hard to say, but according to Pedersen, the effect can vary, depending on the dosage. With a higher dose the individual will be unconscious and feel no pain. A lower dose can provoke psychosis and hallucinations. Who knows what effect the perpetrator was intending. Maybe both.’

  ‘And where would someone get hold of this narcotic?’

  ‘Drug dealers sell it, just like any other narcotic, but it’s a speciality drug. You have to know how to use it and what dose to take. Kids who ingest it in nightclubs don’t want to get knocked out for a whole night, which happens if they take too much. So it’s often mixed with ecstasy. But generally it’s used mostly in hospitals. And as an anaesthetic for animals. Especially horses.’