The Girl in the Woods (Patrik Hedstrom and Erica Falck, Book 10) Read online

  ‘But you’re not denying it?’ the young hack chimed in.

  In his mind Patrik again pictured the body of the little girl, lying exposed and alone on the cold autopsy table. He couldn’t help snapping, ‘We’ve already told you that we won’t know anything until we get the pathology report!’

  The young reporter retreated, looking offended.

  Kjell raised his hand again. This time he looked straight at Patrik.

  ‘I’ve heard your wife is writing a book about the Stella case. Is that true?’

  Patrik had known the question would come, but he still felt unprepared for it. He looked down at his clenched fists.

  ‘For some reason, my wife refuses to discuss her projects, even with the excellent resources she has at home,’ he said, drawing a ripple of laughter from the reporters. ‘So I’ve only heard a few things about it in passing. I don’t know how far along she is in her research. I’m usually kept out of the creative process, and I don’t get involved until she asks me to read the completed manuscript.’

  That wasn’t entirely true, but almost. He knew roughly what stage Erica had reached in the project, but only because of a few casual remarks she’d let slip. She was always reluctant to talk about her books while she was working on them, and he usually got involved only if she needed to ask him about any police-related issues. But she rarely supplied any context when putting her questions, so they were little help in getting a sense of the book itself.

  ‘Could that have been a contributing factor? For another murder?’

  The young woman from the evening paper was looking at him expectantly, and he could see the gleam in her eye. What the hell did she mean? Was she saying his wife might have provoked the death of the little girl?

  He was about to open his mouth to deliver a scathing reply when he heard Mellberg’s calm admonition:

  ‘I consider that question both tasteless and irrelevant. And no, there is nothing to suggest any connection whatsoever between Erica Falck’s book and the murder of Linnea Berg. And if you can’t refrain from such outrageous questions during the next’ – Mellberg glanced at his watch – ‘ten minutes that remain of this press conference, I won’t hesitate to cut it short. Understood?’

  Patrik exchanged astonished glances with Annika. And to his great surprise, the journalists behaved themselves for the rest of the press conference.

  After Annika had ushered everyone out, overriding their mild protests and attempts to ask a few more questions, Patrik and Mellberg remained behind in the conference room.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Patrik simply.

  ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let them go after Erica,’ muttered Mellberg, and turned away.

  He called to Ernst, who had been lying under the table where Annika had set out coffee for the reporters, and then left the room.

  Patrik laughed quietly to himself. Amazing. The old guy had a streak of loyalty in him after all!

  Bohuslän 1671

  Elin had to admit that Britta looked enchanting. Her dark eyes were beautifully offset by the blue fabric of her gown, and her hair had been brushed to a glossy sheen. She wore her hair loose, held back from her face by a lovely silk ribbon. It was not often that they received such a grand visitor. Actually never, if truth be told. Such dignitaries had no reason to visit a simple vicarage in Tanumshede parish, but the king’s edict issued to Harald Stake, governor of Bohuslän, had been quite clear. All the representatives of the church in the county were to be involved in the battle against sorcery and the forces of evil. The government and the church had joined together to fight the devil, and for that reason the vicarage in Tanumshede was to be honoured with a visit. The message was to be spread to all corners of the realm; that was what the king had decreed. And Britta was quick to understand and exploit the opportunity. They would offer the very best in food, lodging, and conversation during Lars Hierne’s visit. He had politely suggested he might stay at the local inn, but Preben had told him that would be out of the question. At the vicarage they would be delighted to receive such an esteemed guest. Even though the inn had a separate section for noble and refined guests, the Tanumshede vicarage would see to it that the governor’s envoy would be offered all the comforts he might desire.

  Britta and Preben were waiting at the door when the carriage arrived. Elin and the other servants kept to the background, their heads bowed and their eyes fixed on their feet. Everyone had been ordered to appear neat and tidy, dressed in clean clothing. And the girls had all combed their hair so carefully that not a strand escaped from beneath their kerchiefs. The air was filled with the fresh scent of soap and the pine boughs the servant boy had used to decorate the rooms that morning.

  When the vicar and his wife were seated at the table with their guest, Elin poured wine into the big tankards her father had always used to serve wine when she was growing up. They had been passed on to Britta as a wedding gift. When she married, Elin had received several of the tablecloths her mother had embroidered. Her father had not wanted the finer things from his home to end up in the poor hovel of a fisherman. And Elin had actually agreed with his decision. What would she and Per have done with such frills and finery? Those things were better suited to the vicarage than Elin’s simple home. But she treasured her mother’s tablecloths. She kept them in a small chest along with the herbs she gathered and dried every summer. She always wrapped the herbs in paper so as not to stain the white cloths.

  Ever since she was little, Märta had been sternly warned never to open the chest. Elin did not want her child’s sticky fingers touching her mother’s tablecloths, but the admonition was also because some of the herbs could be poisonous if not handled properly. Her maternal grandmother had taught her the uses of the various herbs, along with the words of supplication to be used. There could be no confusion, or disaster might ensue. Elin was ten years old when her grandmother began teaching her, and she had decided to wait until Märta was the same age before she passed on her knowledge.

  ‘Oh, how terrible it is with all these wives of the devil,’ said Britta, giving Lars Hierne a gentle smile.

  Enchanted, he stared at her lovely features glowing in the light of the many tallow candles. Britta had chosen well when she decided to wear the blue brocade dress; the fabric gleamed and sparkled against the backdrop of the dark walls in the vicarage dining room, making Britta’s eyes look as blue as the sea on a sunny day in July.

  Elin silently wondered how Preben was reacting to the way their visitor was immodestly staring at his wife, but he appeared completely unaffected. He seemed to pay no attention at all. Instead, Elin felt him looking at her, and she quickly lowered her gaze. She had already noticed that he too looked exceptionally stylish. When he was not wearing his clerical garb, he dressed most often in dirty work clothes. For a man of his position, he had an odd fondness for doing manual labour on the farm and taking care of the livestock. On her very first day at the vicarage, Elin had asked one of the other maids about this and was told it was indeed strange, but the master often worked side by side with his servants. They had simply grown accustomed to this unusual behaviour. Yet the maid had gone on to say that the mistress did not favour her husband’s conduct, which had led to many quarrels at the farm. When the maid suddenly realized who Elin was, her whole face turned red. This sort of response occurred frequently. Elin held a strange position on the farm, since she was both a maid and the sister of the vicar’s wife. She belonged and yet did not belong. When she entered the servants’ quarters the others would often stop talking and refuse to look in her direction. In that sense, she felt even lonelier, but it did not greatly concern her. She had never been friends with many women, most of whom she regarded as spending far too much time gossiping and squabbling.

  ‘Yes, these are troubling times,’ said Lars Hierne. ‘Yet we are fortunate to have a king who refuses to turn a blind eye, a king who dares to enter the battle against the evil forces we are now fighting. This has been a difficult year for the realm,
and the ravages of Satan have been greater than for many generations. The more of these women we can find and bring to trial, the faster we can quell the devil’s power.’

  He took a bite of bread and ate it with pleasure. Britta’s gaze was fixed on his lips, and her face shone with both fascination and alarm.

  Elin listened closely as she carefully refilled his tankard with wine. The first course had been served, and Boel of Holta need not feel shame for the meal she had prepared. They were all eating with great appetite, and Lars Hierne praised the food many times, which caused Britta to modestly throw out her hands.

  ‘But how can you be certain these women are part of the devil’s web?’ asked Preben as he leaned back in his chair, holding the tankard in his hand. ‘We have not yet found the need to bring anyone to trial here in our district, but I doubt we will be spared. Though so far we have merely heard rumours and loose talk about how others have set about the task.’

  Lars Hierne tore his eyes away from Britta and turned to Preben.

  ‘It is actually a very simple and straightforward process to establish whether someone is a witch – or a sorcerer, for that matter. We must not forget that women are not the only ones who may succumb to Satan’s temptations. Although it is more common for womenfolk, since they are more susceptible to the devil’s enticements.’

  He gave Britta a solemn look.

  ‘To determine whether the accused is indeed a witch, we first subject her to the water test. She is bound, hand and foot, and thrown into deep water.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  Britta leaned forward. She seemed to find the subject fascinating.

  ‘If she floats, she is a witch. I am proud to say that so far we have not subjected a single innocent woman to an unjust accusation. They have all floated like birds. And with that, they have revealed their true nature. Afterwards they are offered the chance to confess and receive God’s forgiveness.’

  ‘And have they confessed? The witches you have seized?’

  Britta leaned even closer, and the flames from the candles cast dancing shadows over her face.

  Lars Hierne nodded.

  ‘Oh yes, they have all confessed. Some have required … persuasion in order to elicit a confession. Where a woman has been long under Satan’s power or deeply in thrall to the evil one, his hold may be greater. But in the end they all confess. And upon confessing they have been executed according to the decree of both king and God.’

  ‘You are carrying out a most important task,’ said Preben, nodding pensively. ‘Yet I dread the day when we must carry out such a painful duty here in our parish.’

  ‘Yes, it is indeed a heavy cross to bear, but we must have the courage to take on whatever obligations Our Lord asks of us.’

  ‘In truth, in truth,’ said Preben, raising the tankard to his lips.

  The next course was now brought to the table, and Elin hurried to pour more red wine. All three had already had a good deal to drink, and a slight haze had appeared in their eyes. Again Elin felt Preben looking at her, and she took great pains not to meet his eye. A shiver raced down her spine, and she nearly dropped the pitcher she was holding. Her grandmother used to call such a feeling a premonition of trouble brewing. But Elin convinced herself it was merely a gust of wind from a gap in the window frame.

  Later, when she went to bed, however, the feeling returned. She drew Märta closer on the narrow cot they shared, in an attempt to fend it off, but the feeling stayed with her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gösta was glad he wasn’t expected to attend the press conference. It was nothing but show and spectacle, in his opinion. He always had the feeling the journalists were there to find fault and stir up trouble rather than to communicate with the public and contribute to the investigation. But maybe he was a cynic. When you’d been in the job as long as he had, cynicism became a habit that was hard to break.

  Even though he was happy not to participate in the press conference, the prospect of interviewing Eva and Peter filled him with dread. According to the doctor, although badly shaken they’d be up to answering his questions. Gösta remembered when he and Maj-Britt lost their little son and how grief had paralysed them for a long time afterwards.

  He saw Paula and Martin’s car parked outside a small red-painted house with white trim. He hoped they were having some luck with their door-to-door enquiries. Out in the country, neighbours tended to keep a close eye on any goings on. His own place was in a slightly out of the way location, near the Fjällbacka golf course, and he often found himself sitting in the kitchen, staring out the window at passers-by. Another habit he’d picked up over the years. He had a clear memory of his father sitting at the kitchen table and staring out the window. As a boy he’d thought it silly, but now he understood why his father had done it. There something soothing about simply looking out the window. Not that he’d ever tried any of that meditation nonsense, but he could imagine there were certain similarities.

  He turned on to the track leading up to the farm. Yesterday the yard had been bustling with activity, but now it was empty and desolate. Not a soul in sight. And it was quiet. Very quiet. The blustery wind from earlier in the morning had subsided now that the sun had passed its zenith. The air was shimmering with heat.

  A jump rope was lying on the ground near the barn, and Gösta carefully avoided stepping on a hopscotch game scratched into the dirt. It was already partially erased and no doubt wouldn’t last much longer. Nea must have traced the outline with the toe of her little foot, or maybe her parents had helped her draw it.

  Gösta paused a moment to look at the house. Nothing about the farm gave any indication of the tragedy that had played out here. The old barn was slightly more crooked and tilting than he remembered from thirty years ago, but the farmhouse was freshly painted and in good repair, and the flowers in the garden were more abundant than ever. Clothes had been hung up to dry at one end of the yard, and he saw a child’s garments that would never be worn again. His throat tightened and he had to cough. Then he walked towards the house. No matter what his own feelings might be, he had a job to do. If someone had to talk to the parents, he was the right person to do it.

  ‘Knock, knock. May I come in?’

  The kitchen door was ajar, so he pushed it open. An older and significantly tanner version of Peter got up from the table and came to shake his hand.

  ‘I’m Bengt,’ he said solemnly.

  A thin woman who was equally tan also stood up. She had sun-bleached hair worn in a pageboy style. She introduced herself as Ulla.

  ‘The doctor told us you’d be coming over,’ said Bengt.

  His wife sat down again. The table was covered with crumpled pieces of paper.

  ‘Yes, I asked him to tell you, so my visit wouldn’t be unexpected,’ replied Gösta.

  ‘Have a seat. I’ll get Eva and Peter,’ said Bengt quietly as he headed for the stairs. ‘They’ve been resting.’

  Ulla looked at Gösta with tears in her eyes as he sat down across from her.

  ‘Who could do such a thing? She was so little …’

  She reached for a roll of kitchen towels on the table and tore off a piece to wipe her eyes.

  ‘We will do our best to find out who did it,’ said Gösta, clasping his hands on the table.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bengt coming down the stairs, with Eva and Peter behind him. They were moving slowly, and Gösta felt the lump in his throat grow.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ asked Eva mechanically.

  Ulla jumped up.

  ‘Sit down, honey. I’ll get it.’

  ‘But I can …’ said Eva, turning towards the counter.

  Ulla gently pushed her daughter-in-law over to the table.

  ‘No, you sit down. I’ll make the coffee,’ she said and began looking through the cupboards.

  ‘The filter is in the right-hand cupboard above the sink,’ said Eva, about to get up again.

  Gösta placed his hand
on her trembling arm.

  ‘Your mother-in-law will manage,’ he said.

  ‘So you wanted to talk to us?’ said Peter, taking Ulla’s place at the table.

  He looked at all the crumpled balls of paper, as if he couldn’t understand what they were doing there.

  ‘Has something happened?’ asked Eva. ‘Do you know anything? Where is she?’

  Her voice was toneless, but her lips quivered.

  ‘We don’t have any new information yet, but believe me everyone is working very hard, and we’re doing everything we can. Nea is in Gothenburg now. You’ll be able to see her later, if you like, but not just yet.’

  ‘What will they … what will they do with her?’ asked Eva, giving Gösta a look that cut right through him.

  He tried not to grimace. He knew all too well what would be done to her little body, but that wasn’t something a mother needed to hear.

  ‘Eva, don’t ask him that,’ said Peter, and Gösta noticed that he too was shaking.

  He wasn’t sure whether it was from shock or because the shock was leaving Peter’s body. Everyone reacted differently, and over the years he’d seen as many reactions as victims of crimes.

  ‘I’m afraid I need to ask you a few questions,’ said Gösta, nodding his thanks as Ulla set a cup of coffee in front of him.

  She seemed calmer now that she had a task to do. Both she and Bengt looked more composed as they sat down at the table.

  ‘Anything that will help. We’ll answer any questions you have. But we don’t know anything. We can’t understand how this could have happened. Who could have …’

  Peter’s voice broke, and a sob escaped his lips.

  ‘We’ll take this one step at a time,’ Gösta said calmly. ‘I know you’ve already answered a number of questions, but we’ll go through everything again. It’s important for us to be as thorough as possible.’

  Gösta placed his mobile on the table and, after receiving a nod from Peter, he switched on the recording function.