Preacher Page 2

  ‘You two slackers sleep in every single day. It’s almost noon. If you didn’t stay up late gadding about every night and doing God knows what, maybe you wouldn’t have to sleep half the day. I actually need a little help around this place. You live here for free and you eat for free too, and both of you are grown men. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to give your poor mother a helping hand.’

  Solveig Hult stood with her arms crossed. She was morbidly obese, with the pallor of someone who never goes outside. Her hair was filthy, framing her face with straggly, dark locks.

  ‘You’re almost thirty years old and still living off your mother. Yeah, you’re real he-men, all right. And how can you afford to run around partying every single night, if I may ask? You don’t work and I never see you contributing anything to the household expenses. All I can say is that if your father were still alive, he’d put a stop to this behaviour. Have you heard anything from the Job Centre yet? You were supposed to go down there week before last!’

  Now it was Stefan’s turn to put the pillow over his face. He tried to block out the endless nagging; she was like a broken record. But his pillow was yanked away too. He sat up, hung over, his head pounding like a marching band.

  ‘I put away the breakfast things long ago. You’ll have to find something in the fridge yourselves.’

  Solveig’s huge posterior waddled out of the little room that the brothers still shared, and she slammed the door behind her. They didn’t dare try to go back to sleep, but took out a packet of cigarettes and each lit a fag. They could skip breakfast, but the fag lifted their spirits and gave them a nice burn in the throat.

  ‘What a fucking blast last night, eh?’ Robert laughed and blew smoke rings in the air. ‘I told you they’d have great stuff at home. He’s a director of some company in Stockholm. Thank God guys like that can afford the best.’

  Stefan didn’t answer. Unlike his big brother, he never got an adrenaline rush from the break-ins. Instead he went about for days before and after a job with a big cold lump of fear in his stomach.But he always did as Robert said; it never occurred to him that he could do anything different.

  Yesterday’s break-in had given them thebiggest payday they’d had in a long time. Most people had grown more wary of leaving expensive things in their summer houses; they used mainly their old junk that they would have otherwise thrown out, or finds from jumble sales that made them feel they’d made a coup even though the items weren’t worth a shit. But yesterday they’d got hold of a new TV, a DVD player, a Nintendo, and a bunch of jewelry belonging to the lady of the house. Robert was going to sell the stuff through his usual channels, and it would bring a pretty penny. Not that it would last them very long. Stolen money always burned a hole in their pockets, and after a couple of weeks it would be gone. They spent it on gambling, going out and treating their friends, and other necessary expenses. Stefan looked at the pricey watch he was wearing. Luckily their mother couldn’t recognize anything valuable when she saw it. If she knew what this watch cost, the nagging would never stop.

  Sometimes he felt trapped like a hamster on a wheel, going round and round as the years passed by. Nothing had really changed since he and his brother were teenagers, and he saw no possibilities now, either. The one thing that gave his life meaning was the only thing he had ever kept secret from Robert. An instinct deep inside told him that no good would come of confiding in his brother. Robert would only turn it into something dirty with his rude remarks.

  For a second Stefan allowed himself to think about how soft her hair was against his rough cheek, and how small her hand felt when he held it between his own.

  ‘Hey, don’t just sit there daydreaming. We’ve got business to take care of.’

  Robert got up with his cigarettedangling from the corner of his mouth and headed out the door first. As usual, Stefan followed, which was allhe knew how to do.

  In the kitchen Solveig was sitting in her usual place. Ever since Stefan was a little boy, since that incident with his father, he had seen her sitting on her chair by the windowas her fingers eagerly fiddled with whatever was in front of her on the table. In his earliest memories his mother was beautiful, but over the years the fat hadaccumulated in thicker and thicker layers on her face and body.

  Solveig looked as if she were sitting there in a trance; her fingers lived their own life, incessantly plucking at things and then smoothing them out. For almost twenty years had messed about with those fucking photo albums, sorting and resorting them. She bought new albums and then re-arranged the photos and news clippings. Better, more elegantly. He wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t understand that it was her way of holding on to happier times, but someday surely she would see that those days were gone.

  The pictures were from the days when Solveig was beautiful. The high point of her life had been when she married Johannes Hult, the youngest son of Ephraim Hult, the noted Free Church pastor and owner of the most prosperous farm in the region. Johannes was handsome and rich. Solveig may have been poor, but she was the most beautiful girl in all of Bohuslän; that’s what everyone said at the time. And if further proof were needed, the articles she had saved from when she was crowned Queen of the May two years in a row would suffice. It was those articles, and the many black-and-white photos of herself as a young girl, that she had carefully preserved and sorted every day for the past twenty years. She knew that the girl was still there somewhere beneath all the layers of fat. Through the photos she could keep the girl alive, even though she was slipping further and further away with each passing year.

  With a last look over his shoulder, Stefan left his mother sitting in the kitchen and followed Robert out the door. As Robert said, they had business to take care of.

  Erica considered going out for a walk, but realized that it probably wasn’t such a good idea right now, with the sun at its peak and the heat most intense. She’d done splendidly throughout her entire pregnancy until the heat wave set in. Since then, she went about like a sweaty whale, desperately trying to find a way to cool off. Patrik, God bless him, had come up with the idea of buying her a table fan, and now she carried it about with her like a treasure wherever she went in the house. The only drawback was that she had to plug it in, so she could never sit further from an outlet than the cord would reach, which limited her choices.

  But on the veranda the outlet was perfectly placed, and she could settle down on the sofa with the fan on the table in front of her. No position was comfortable for more than five minutes, which made her keep shifting to find a better position. Sometimes she felt a foot kicking at her ribs, or else something that felt like a hand punching her in the side. Then she was forced change position again. She had no idea how she was going to stand another month of this.

  She and Patrik had only been together for half a year when she got pregnant, but oddly enough it hadn’t upset either of them. They were both a little older, a little more certain of what they wanted, and they didn’t think there was any reason to wait. Only now was she starting to get cold feet, at the eleventh hour, so to speak. Perhaps they’d not shared enough everyday life before they embarked upon this pregnancy. What would happen to their relationship when they were suddenly presented with a tiny stranger who required all the attention they’d been able to devote to each other before?

  The crazy, blind infatuation of their early days together had faded, of course. They had a more realistic, everyday foundation to build on now, with better insight into each other’s good and bad sides. But after the baby was born, what if only the bad sides were left? How many times had she heard the statistics about all the relationships that fizzled out during the first year of a baby’s life? Well, there was no use worrying about it now. What’s done is done, and there was no getting around the fact that both she and Patrik were longing for the arrival of this child with every fibre of theirbodies. She hoped that sense of longing would be enough to get them through the turbulent changes ahead.

  Erica gave a s
tart when the telephone rang. Laboriously she struggled to get up from the sofa, hoping that whoever was calling had enough patience not to hang up.

  ‘Yes hello?. . . Oh, hi, Conny. . . Oh, I’m fine, thanks, it’s just a little too hot to be fat. . . Drop by? Sure, of course . . . Come on over for coffee . . . Spend the night? Well . . .’ Erica sighed inside. ‘Of course, why not? When are you coming? Tonight? Well no, it’s no problem at all. You can sleep in the guest room.’

  Wearily she hung up the receiver. There was one big drawback to having a house in Fjällbacka in the summertime. All sorts of relatives and friends –who hadn’t uttered a peep during the ten colder months of the year –would pop up out of the blue. They weren’t particularly interested in seeing her in November, but in July they saw their chance to live rent-free with an ocean view. Erica had thought that they might be spared this year, when half of July passed without a word from anyone. But now her cousin Conny said he was on his way to Fjällbacka from Trollhättan with his wife and two kids. It was only for one night, so she supposed she could handle it. She’d never been that fond of either of her two cousins, but her upbringing made it impossible to refuse to take them in, even when that was what she wanted to do. In her opinion, they were both freeloaders.

  Yet Erica was grateful that she and Patrik had a house in Fjällbacka where they could receive guests, invited or not. After her parents died, her brother-in-law had tried to effect a sale of the house. But her sister Anna finally got fed up with his physical and mental abuse. She’d divorced Lucas, and she and Erica now owned the house together. Since Anna was still living in Stockholm with her two kids, Patrik and Erica were able to move into the house in Fjällbacka. In return they took care of all the expenses. Eventually they would have to make more permanent arrangements regarding the house, but for the time being Erica was just glad to have it. And she was thrilled to be living there year-round.

  Erica looked around and saw that she’d have to get busy if she wanted the house to be relatively tidy when the guests arrived. She wondered what Patrik would say to the invasion, but then shrugged her shoulders. If he was willing to leave her alone here and go off to work in the middle of their holiday, then she could certainly decide to have guests. She’d already forgotten that she had been thinking it was rather nice not to have him underfoot all day.

  Ernst and Martin had come back to the station from the call they’d been on, and Patrik decided to start by getting them up to speed in the case. He called them into his office, and they sat down in the chairs in front of his desk. He couldn’t help noticing that Ernst was beet-red with anger because a younger detective had been assigned to lead the investigation, but Patrik chose to ignore it. That was something Mellberg would have to handle. In the worst-case scenario Patrik could manage without Ernst’s help if his colleague refused to work with him.

  ‘I assume you’ve already heard about what happened.’

  ‘Yes, we heard it on the police radio,’ said Martin. Unlike Ernst, he was young and enthusiastic and sat bolt upright in his chair with a notebook in his lap and his pen poised.

  ‘A woman was found murdered in the King’s Cleft in Fjällbacka. She was naked and looks to be somewhere between twenty and thirty. Underneath her were found two human skeletons of unknown and age. Unofficially, Karlström in CSI told me that they weren’t exactly fresh. So we seem to have been given a lot on our plate, besides all theusual pub fights and drink-drivers we’re up to our necks in. And both Annika and Gösta are on holiday, so we’ll have to roll up our sleeves and get busy. I’m actually on holiday this week as well, but I agreed to come in and work. Mellberg has asked me to lead this investigation. Any questions?’

  This was aimed primarily at Ernst, who chose not to confront him. No doubt he would grumble about things behind his back instead.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Martin was like a restless horse, now impatiently circling his pen above his notebook.

  ‘I want you to start by checking with the Schengen Information System for any missing-persons reports about women who’ve disappeared during, let’s say, the past two months. It’s better to expand the time interval until we hear more from the forensic medicine lab. Although I suspect that the time of death is much more recent, maybe just a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘The database is down. We’ll have to forget about SIS and do things the good old-fashioned way.’

  ‘Damn. Great bloody timing. Well, according to Mellberg we don’t seem to have any missing-persons reports outstanding from before I went on holiday. So I suggest that you ring round to all the nearby districts. Start with the closest districts and work your way out. Understood?’

  ‘All right. How far out should I go?’

  ‘As far as you need to until we find someone who matches. And ring Uddevalla right after the meeting to get a preliminary description of the victim to use in your enquiries.’

  ‘So what should I do?’ The enthusiasm in Ernst’s voicewas not exactly contagious.

  Patrik glanced over the noteshe had jotted down after his conversation with Mellberg.

  ‘I’d like you to start by talking to the people who live near the entrance to the King’s Cleft. Find out whether they saw or heard anything last night or early this morning. The Cleft is full of tourists in the daytime, so the body, or the bodies if we’re going to be precise, must have been transported there sometime during the night or early morning. We can assume that the remains were brought there via the larger entrance; they could hardly have been carried up the steps from Ingrid Bergman Square. The little boy discovered the woman at about six o’clock, so you should focus on the hours between nine at night and six in the morning. I thought I’d go down to the archives and take a look myself. There’s something about those two skeletons that is tugging at my memory. I have the feeling that I should know what it is, but . . . can you think of anything? Isn’t there something that jogs your memory?’

  Patrik threw out his hands and waited with raised eyebrows for an answer, but Martin and Ernst just shook their heads. He sighed. Well, there was nothing to do but go to the catacombs . . .

  Wondering whether he might be in disfavour, and not sure whether he even would have known if he’d had time to ponder the matter, Patrik sat deep in the bowels of the Tanumshede police station and dug through old documents. Dust had settled on most of the folders, but thank goodness they still seemed to be in good order. Most of the files were archived in chronological order, and even though he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, he knew that it had to be there somewhere.

  He sat on the stone floor with his legs crossed and methodically went through box after box. Decades of human fates passed through his hands, and after a while it struck him how many people and families kept reappearing in the police registers. It was as if a life of crime were being passed down from parents to children and even to grandchildren, he thought when he saw the same family names popping up again and again.

  His mobile phone rang and he saw from the display that it was Erica.

  ‘Hi, darling, is everything all right?’ He knew what the answer was going to be. ‘Yes, I know that it’s hot. Just sit by the fan, there isn’t much else to be done . . . Erica, we’ve got a homicide on our hands here, and Mellberg wants me to lead the investigation. Would you be very upset if I came in and worked a couple of days?’

  Patrik held his breath. He knew he should have rung her earlier to say that he might have to work, but like a typical man he had evaded the issue, trying to put off the inevitable. On the other hand, she was well aware of the demands made by his profession. Summertime was the most hectic season for the Tanum police, and they had to take turns going on holiday. It was never guaranteed that they could even take a few days in a row; it all depended on how many drunks, fights, and other side-effects of tourism the station had to handle. And homicide, of course, took precedence over everything
else.

  Erica said something that he almost missed.

  ‘Coming to visit, you say? Who? Your cousin?’ Patrik sighed. ‘No, what can I say? Sure, it would have been nicer if we could be alone tonight, but if they’re already on the way . .. They’re just staying for one night, I hope? Okay, then I’ll pick up some shrimp to serve them. Something simple, so you won’t have to cook. I’ll be home around seven. Kiss, kiss.’

  He stuck the phone back in his pocket and continued going through the contentsof the boxes in front of him. A file marked ‘Missing’ caught his interest. Some ambitious person had at one time collected all the missing-persons reports resulting frompolice investigations. Patrik knew that this was what he’d been looking for. His fingers were filthy from all the dust, so he wiped them on his shorts before he opened the thin file. After a few minutes’ reading, his memory received the jog it required. He should have remembered this straight away, considering how few people in the district had actually gone missing without being found again. His age must be starting to take its toll. At least now he had the relevant reports in front of him, and he had a feeling that it was no coincidence that two women were reported missing in 1979 and were never seen again. Then two skeletons turn up now in the King’s Cleft.

  He took the file with him upstairs to the daylight and placed it on his desk.

  The horses were the only reason she stayed. With a practised hand she curried the coat of the brown gelding with steady strokes. The physical labour acted as a safety-valve for her to get rid of some of her frustration. It was shit to be seventeen years old and not have any say about your own life. As soon as she came of age she was going to get the hell out of this hole. Then she’d accept the offer she’d received from the photographer who’d come up to her when she was walking about in downtown Göteborg. When she became a model in Paris and was making tons of money she would tell them all where they could stuff their fucking education. The photographer had told her that with each passing year her value as a model decreased. A whole year of her life would be wasted before she ever got the chance to model, justbecause the old man had education on the brain. It didn’t take much education to strut down the runway. Later, when she was around twenty-five and starting to get too old, she’d marry a millionaire. Then she could laugh at the old man’s threat to cut her out of his will. Someday she’d be able to go shopping and spend the equivalent of his entire fuckingfortune.