The Ice Child Read online

  ‘They didn’t treat their son in the same way. Why do you think Peter got off so much easier?’

  ‘I never could make any sense of that. I’m sure you read the article in which I interviewed several psychologists about it.’

  ‘Yes. In their opinion Vladek’s hatred for women meant that he was abusive only to the females in the family. But that doesn’t seem entirely true. According to the medical records, Peter also suffered injuries. He once had his arm pulled out of the socket, and he also suffered a deep stab wound.’

  ‘That’s right, but it’s nothing compared to what Louise endured.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what happened to Peter? I haven’t been able to track him down. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘No. I never did either. If you do find him, please let me know.’

  ‘But aren’t you retired now?’ asked Erica, though she realized that was a stupid question. The Kowalski case had long ago ceased to be merely a news story for Wilhelm. Maybe it had always been something more. She could see in his eyes that over the years it had become an obsession for him. He didn’t bother to answer her question, but continued to talk about Peter.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mystery. As you no doubt know, he was sent to live with his maternal grandmother after the murder, and he seemed to be doing well. But when he was fifteen his grandmother was murdered when someone broke into their house. Peter was away at a football camp on Gotland when it happened, and after that he seems to have disappeared into thin air.’

  ‘Do you think he might have killed himself?’ Erica speculated out loud. ‘Maybe he did it in such a way that his body was never found.’

  ‘Maybe. Who knows? And there was another tragedy in that family.’

  ‘Are you thinking about Louise’s death?’

  ‘Yes. She drowned while she was living with a foster family. She wasn’t placed with her grandmother but with a foster family. It was thought they could provide her with better support after the trauma she’d been through.’

  ‘It was an unexplained accident, wasn’t it?’ Erica tried to recall the details she’d read.

  ‘Yes. Both Louise and the couple’s other foster daughter, who was the same age, were apparently caught in the undertow and their bodies were never found. A tragic end to a tragic life.’

  ‘So the only relative still alive is Laila’s sister, who lives in Spain, right?’

  ‘Yes, but they didn’t have much contact with each other, even before the murder. I tried to talk to her a few times, but she didn’t want anything to do with Laila. And Vladek left his own family and his old life behind when he decided to stay in Sweden with Laila.’

  ‘Such a strange combination of love and … evil,’ said Erica, unable to find a better word to describe what she meant.

  Wilhelm suddenly looked very tired. ‘What I saw in that living room and in that cellar was the closest to evil I’ve ever come.’

  ‘You were at the crime scene?’

  He nodded. ‘Back then it was a little easier to get into places where I didn’t belong. I had good contacts on the police force, and they allowed me to go in and have a look. There was blood everywhere in the living room. And apparently Laila was sitting there in the middle of it when the police arrived. She didn’t offer the slightest resistance, just went with them quietly.’

  ‘And Louise was chained up when they found her?’ said Erica.

  ‘Yes. She was down in the cellar, emaciated and wretched.’

  Erica swallowed hard as she imagined the scene.

  ‘Did you ever meet the children?’

  ‘No. Peter was so young when it happened. All the journalists were smart enough to leave the children in peace. Both the grandmother and the foster family shielded them from publicity.’

  ‘Why do you think Laila confessed so quickly?’

  ‘I don’t suppose she had any other option. As I said, when the police arrived she was sitting next to Vladek’s body and holding the knife in her hand. And she was the one who notified the police. On the phone she had already said: “I’ve killed my husband.” And by the way, that was all anyone ever got out of her. She repeated her statement during the trial, but apart from that no one was able to get her to break her silence.’

  ‘So why do you think she agreed to talk to me?’ asked Erica.

  ‘Hmm … That does seem odd.’ Wilhelm gave her a searching look. ‘She was forced to meet with the police and the psychologists, but meeting with you is completely voluntary on her part.’

  ‘Maybe she just wants company. Maybe she’s tired of seeing the same faces everyday,’ said Erica, even though she wasn’t convinced by her own explanation.

  ‘Not Laila. There must be some other reason. Has she said anything that especially caught your interest or surprised you? Has there been any clue that something has happened or changed?’ He leaned forward even more, sitting on the edge of his chair.

  ‘There is one thing …’ Erica hesitated. Then she took a deep breath and told him about the articles that Laila had hidden in her room. She knew it was a long shot. The clippings probably had nothing to do with her meetings with Laila. But Wilhelm listened intently, and she saw a keen intelligence in his eyes.

  ‘Have you thought about the date?’ he said then.

  ‘What date?’

  ‘The date when Laila finally agreed to meet with you.’

  Erica frantically searched her memory. It was about four months ago, but she couldn’t recall the exact date. Then she remembered. It was the day after Kristina’s birthday. She mentioned the date to Wilhelm, who gave her a crooked smile as he leaned down and picked up from the floor a thick stack of old copies of Bohusläningen. He began looking through them, then paused and with a pleased expression handed Erica a newspaper open to an inside page. She cursed her stupidity. Of course. That had to be the connection. The question was, what did it mean?

  The air inside the barn was stifling, and an icy vapour issued from her lips as she breathed. Helga drew her coat closer around her. She knew that Jonas and Marta viewed the Friday dinners as an obligation. That was obvious from their long-suffering expressions. But the dinners were the anchor of Helga’s existence, the only time when she could see all of them as members of a real family.

  Yesterday it had been more difficult than usual to keep up the illusion. Because that was precisely what it was: an illusion, a dream. She’d had so many dreams. When she met Einar he had taken over and filled her whole world with his broad shoulders, his blond hair, and a smile that she’d interpreted as warm, though she later learned it meant something else entirely.

  She stopped next to the car that Molly had talked about. She knew exactly which one it was, and if she had been Molly’s age, she would have chosen it too. Helga looked about at the other cars in the barn. All of them abandoned and falling apart from rust.

  She could remember where every single car had come from, every trip that Einar had made to buy suitable vehicles to restore. Each car had required many hours of work before it could be sold. The business hadn’t brought in a huge income, but it had been enough for them to live comfortably. She’d never had to worry about money. That was one part of the bargain Einar had managed to keep: he had provided for her and Jonas financially.

  Slowly she moved away from Molly’s car, as she was now calling it, and went over to an old black Volvo that had big rust patches and broken windows. It would have been a wonderful vehicle if Einar had fixed it up. If she closed her eyes, she could picture his face whenever he brought home a new car. She could tell at once if the trip had been successful. Sometimes he was gone only a day, but sometimes he would head to distant regions of Sweden and be away for a week. When he drove into the yard with a feverish look in his eyes and flushed cheeks, she knew that he’d found what he’d wanted. For several days, sometimes even several weeks afterwards, he would be totally immersed in his work. That was when she could devote herself to Jonas and her housework. For a while she could escape his outbursts, the cold
hatred in his eyes, and the pain. Those were her happiest days.

  She put her hand on the car and shivered at the icy touch of the metal. The light inside the barn had slowly shifted as she wandered about. The sun was now shining through the gaps in the walls and reflecting off the black paint. Helga pulled back her hand. This car would never have a new life. It was a dead object, something that belonged to the past. And she intended to see that it stayed that way.

  Erica leaned back in the visitor’s chair. She had driven directly from Wilhelm’s house to the prison. She needed to speak to Laila again. Fortunately, Laila seemed to have calmed down since the morning and agreed to meet with her. Maybe she hadn’t been as upset as Erica thought.

  They’d been sitting in silence for a while now, a hint of concern in Laila’s eyes as she studied Erica.

  ‘Why did you want to see me again today?’

  Erica was debating with herself. She wasn’t sure what to say, but she could tell that Laila would close up like a clam if she mentioned the newspaper clippings and revealed her suspicions about a connection.

  ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said earlier,’ she replied at last. ‘You said it was a house of horrors, but not in the way everybody thought. What did you mean by that?’

  Laila turned to look out of the window.

  ‘Why would I want to talk about that? It’s not something I want to remember.’

  ‘I can understand that. But seeing as you’ve agreed to meet with me, I have a feeling you do want to talk about it. And maybe it would be a relief to share it with someone.’

  ‘Talking is overrated. People go to therapists and psychologists and discuss things over and over with friends. They have to analyse every little detail. But certain things are best left alone.’

  ‘Are you talking about yourself now, or about what happened?’ said Erica gently.

  Laila turned back from the window and looked at her with those strange icy blue eyes of hers.

  ‘Maybe both,’ she said. Her cropped hair looked even shorter than usual. She must have just had it cut.

  Erica decided to change tack.

  ‘We haven’t talked much about the rest of your family. Could we do that now?’ she asked in an attempt to find a crack in the wall of silence that Laila had built around herself.

  Laila shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Your father died when you were very young, but were you close to your mother?’

  ‘Yes. Mamma was my best friend.’ A smile appeared on Laila’s face, making her look several years younger.

  ‘What about your older sister?’

  Laila paused before replying. ‘She’s lived in Spain for many years,’ she then said. ‘We’ve never had much contact, and she cut off all ties with me when … it happened.’

  ‘Does she have a family?’

  ‘Yes. She’s married to a Spaniard, and they have a son and a daughter.’

  ‘Your mother stepped in to take care of Peter. Why Peter but not Louise?’

  Laila uttered a harsh laugh. ‘Mamma could never have handled the Girl. But things were different with Peter. He and Mamma were very close.’

  ‘The Girl?’ Erica gave Laila an enquiring look.

  ‘Yes. That’s what we called her,’ Laila said quietly. ‘It was Vladek who started it, and the name stuck.’

  Poor child, thought Erica. She tried to restrain her anger and focus on the questions she wanted to ask.

  ‘So why couldn’t Louise, or the Girl, live with your mother?’

  Laila stared at her defiantly. ‘Because she was a very demanding child. That’s all I’m going to say about the matter.’

  Erica was forced to accept that she wasn’t going to get any further, so she changed tack again.

  ‘What do you think happened to Peter after your mother … died?’

  A touch of sadness appeared on Laila’s face. ‘I don’t know. He just disappeared. I think …’ She swallowed hard and seemed to have difficulty finding the right words. ‘I think maybe he just couldn’t go on any more. He was never that strong. He was such a sensitive boy.’

  ‘Are you saying that you think he may have committed suicide?’ Erica tried to formulate the question as cautiously as possible.

  At first Laila didn’t react, but then she nodded, her eyes lowered.

  ‘But he was never found?’ Erica persisted.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must be incredibly strong to have endured so many losses in your life.’

  ‘People can survive more than they think. If they have to,’ said Laila. ‘I’m not a particularly religious person, but it’s said that God never puts a greater burden on your shoulders than He knows you can bear. And He must know that I can handle a lot.’

  ‘There’s going to be a memorial service in Fjällbacka church today,’ said Erica, watching Laila closely. It was risky for her to turn the conversation to Victoria.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Laila gave her an inquisitive look, but Erica could tell she already knew about the service.

  ‘It’s for the girl who disappeared and then died. I’m sure you’ve heard about it. Her name was Victoria Hallberg. It must be so hard for her parents right now. And for the parents of the other girls who are still missing.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Laila seemed to be struggling to keep her composure.

  ‘Just imagine, their daughters have disappeared. And now that they know what happened to Victoria, they must be going through hell thinking that their girls may have been subjected to the same treatment.’

  ‘I only know what I’ve read in the newspapers,’ said Laila, swallowing hard. ‘But it must be awful.’

  Erica nodded. ‘Have you been following the case?’

  Laila gave her an evasive look. ‘Well, we read the papers every day here. So I’ve followed the case just like everybody else.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Erica, thinking about the box containing the carefully cut out articles hidden under the bed in Laila’s room.

  ‘You know, I’m really tired. I don’t feel like talking any more. You’ll have to come back some other day.’ Laila abruptly stood up.

  For a moment Erica considered confronting Laila, telling her that she knew about the clippings and was convinced that Laila had a personal connection to the case, though she wasn’t sure what it was. But she stopped herself. Laila’s face was stony, and her hands were gripping the back of the chair so hard that her knuckles were white. Whatever it was she wanted to say, she clearly couldn’t make herself do it.

  Impulsively Erica stood up and stepped forward to pat Laila’s cheek. It was the first time she’d ever touched her, and her skin was surprisingly soft.

  ‘We’ll talk more later,’ Erica said gently. As she headed for the door, she could feel Laila’s eyes steadily watching her.

  Tyra could hear her mother humming out in the kitchen. She was always much happier when Lasse wasn’t home. And she wasn’t upset any more about yesterday. She had accepted Tyra’s explanation that she’d simply forgotten her mother was coming and had gone home with a friend. It was better not to tell her anything. There would just be trouble if she heard the truth. Tyra wandered into the kitchen.

  ‘What are you baking?’

  Her mother stood at the kitchen table, her hands covered with flour. There were even specks of flour on her face. Neatness had never been her strong suit, and whenever she made dinner Lasse would always complain that the kitchen looked like a battlefield.

  ‘Cinnamon buns. I thought we could have a little snack this afternoon after the memorial service. Plus I wanted to refill the freezer.’

  ‘Is Lasse in Kville?’

  ‘Yes, as usual.’ Terese reached up to push back a lock of hair, making her face even whiter with flour.

  ‘Pretty soon you’re going to look like the Joker,’ said Tyra, and she felt a warm fluttering in her stomach at the sight of her mother smiling. That happened so rarely these days. She mostly looked tired and unhappy. But the feeling v
anished as quickly as it had come. Tyra’s grief for Victoria was always present, extinguishing any cheerful feelings that might arise. And the thought of the memorial service made her stomach turn over. She didn’t want to say goodbye.

  She watched her mother in silence for a moment.

  ‘So what was Jonas like as a boyfriend?’ she wondered out loud.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was just thinking about the two of you together.’

  ‘I have to admit that he wasn’t an easy person to understand. Always a bit closed off and withdrawn. And kind of a chicken-heart too. I remember having to fight to get him to even put his hand under my shirt.’

  ‘Mamma!’ Tyra covered her ears with her hands and glared at Terese. That wasn’t the sort of thing she wanted to hear from her mother. She preferred to think of Terese as a Barbie doll, completely sexless.

  ‘But it’s true. He really was a chicken. His father was so domineering, and sometimes it seemed like Jonas and his mother were both afraid of the man.’

  Terese rolled out the dough on the kitchen table and smeared on butter so it covered the entire surface.

  ‘Do you think he was abusive towards them?’

  ‘Who? Einar? Hmm … I never saw anything like that. I mostly heard him griping and grumbling. He’s probably one of those guys whose bark is worse than his bite. I really didn’t see him that often. He was either out on one of his buying trips, or else he was working on the cars in the barn.’

  ‘How did Jonas and Marta meet?’ Tyra pinched off a piece of dough and stuffed it in her mouth.

  Terese stopped what she was doing and paused a few seconds before answering.

  ‘You know, I’ve never actually heard how they met. One day she was just there. And it all happened so fast. I was young and naive, and I thought Jonas and I would be together for ever. But suddenly he broke up with me. And I’ve never been one to make a fuss, so I just went my own way. I was sad for a while, of course, but I got over it.’ She began sprinkling cinnamon on the buttered dough, then rolled it up.