The Girl in the Woods (Patrik Hedstrom and Erica Falck, Book 10) Page 28

‘Same way you always do,’ replied Patrik. ‘Be polite and vague.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, leaving the office.

  He called her back.

  ‘Annika?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you ask Gösta to come and see me? And ring the district prosecutor in Uddevalla. We need a warrant to search a home.’

  ‘I’ll do it right now,’ she said.

  She was used to not asking any questions. In due course she’d find out what it was all about.

  Patrik leaned back in his chair with a sigh. Gösta was not going to be happy, but this was necessary. And it should have already been done.

  Warmth filled his heart when Martin looked at Tuva in the rear-view mirror. Pia’s parents had been taking care of her, and he’d driven over to pick her up. She was going to stay with her grandparents for another night, but he’d felt such an overwhelming yearning to see her that he’d asked Patrik for an hour off. He needed to see his daughter in order to continue working on this case. He knew that his longing for Tuva was no doubt tied to his longing for Pia, and with time he’d be able to relinquish his hold on his daughter and give her more freedom. But right now he always wanted to have her near. Pia’s parents and Annika were the only ones he could imagine leaving Tuva with, and even then only if his job required it. His own parents were not particularly interested in young children. They were happy to come over for coffee to see him and Tuva once in a while, but they never offered to babysit, and he had never asked them.

  ‘Pappa, I want to go to the playground,’ said Tuva from the back seat. He met her eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Sure, sweetie,’ he said, giving her an air kiss.

  Truth be told, he’d been hoping she would say that. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the woman at the playground, and even though he knew the odds of her being there were slim, he had no other way of contacting her. He promised himself that if he was lucky enough to see her again, he’d be sure to get her name this time.

  He parked next to the playground and unbuckled Tuva from her car seat. By now he could strap her into the seat in his sleep, but in the beginning, when Tuva was very small, he’d struggled with the task. He had panted and cursed as Pia stood nearby, laughing at him. So many things had seemed difficult back then, things he now took for granted. And so many things had seemed so easy but were now very hard. Martin stole a hug as he lifted Tuva out of the seat. The times when she wanted to snuggle with him were fewer and further between. There was too much for her to discover in the world, too few hours to play. Now it was only when she hurt herself or she was tired that she would crawl on to his lap for a hug. He accepted and understood this change, but occasionally he wished he could stop time.

  ‘Pappa, the baby you kicked is here!’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me, sweetie,’ he said, patting Tuva on the head.

  ‘You’re welcome, Pappa,’ she said politely. Then she ran over to the baby boy, who was about to stuff a fistful of sand in his mouth.

  ‘No, no. Don’t eat sand,’ she told him, gently taking his hand and brushing the sand away.

  ‘What a good babysitter I have,’ said the woman, giving Martin a smile.

  The sight of her dimples made him blush.

  ‘I promise not to kick your child this time.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it,’ she said, giving him another smile that made his ears turn bright red.

  ‘Martin Molin,’ he said, reaching out to shake her hand.

  ‘Mette Lauritsen.’

  Her hand was warm and dry.

  ‘Are you Norwegian?’ he asked, unable to place her accent.

  ‘Yes, originally, although I’ve lived in Sweden for the past fifteen years. I’m from Halden, but I married a guy from Tanumshede. The one you heard me arguing with on the phone the other day.’

  She gave him an apologetic look.

  ‘Did you get everything worked out?’ he asked, keeping an eye on Tuva as he did so. She was chatting happily to the toddler.

  ‘No, I can’t say I did. He’s still too preoccupied with his new girlfriend to have any time for Little Man.’

  ‘So his name is Little Man?’ Martin joked, even though he already knew her son’s name.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Mette, laughing. She gave her son a loving look. ‘His name is Jon, after his father, but I call him Little Man. My hope is I’ll stop doing that well before he’s a teenager.’

  ‘That’s probably wise,’ said Martin, feigning seriousness. His heart began turning somersaults when he noticed how her eyes were shining.

  ‘What sort of work do you do?’ she asked him.

  For a moment he thought she sounded quite flirty, but he couldn’t decide whether that was merely wishful thinking on his part.

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ he said, hearing the pride in his voice.

  And he was proud of his profession. He was making a difference. He’d wanted to join the police force ever since he was a kid, and he’d never had any doubts about that choice. The job had been his salvation when Pia died, and his colleagues at the station were more than his co-workers. They were his family. Even Mellberg. Every family needed one dysfunctional member, and Bertil Mellberg filled the role to a T.

  ‘A policeman? Cool,’ she said.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m a financial assistant at an office in Grebbestad.’

  ‘Do you live here?’ asked Martin.

  ‘Yes. Jon’s father lives here. But if he’s not planning to be involved, then I’m not sure …’

  She cast a long look at her son, whom Tuva was hugging.

  ‘She hasn’t learned yet about not being so forward,’ said Martin with a laugh.

  ‘Some of us never learn that,’ she replied with a big smile.

  Then she hesitated.

  ‘So … If this isn’t too presumptuous … How about having dinner one evening?’

  She looked as if she instantly regretted her words, but Martin felt his heart turning somersaults again.

  ‘That’d be great!’ he said a little too emphatically. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Mette dubiously.

  ‘That it’s my treat.’

  Her dimples reappeared, and Martin felt something inside him beginning to thaw.

  ‘Where are Martin and Paula? Aren’t they back yet?’ asked Gösta as he sat down on the chair in front of Patrik’s desk.

  He thought they were all supposed to meet when Annika asked him to go to Patrik’s office, but so far it was only the two of them.

  ‘I sent them home for a while. Martin had to pick up Tuva, and Paula needed to say hi to her kids, but they’ll be back later.’

  Gösta nodded. He waited for Patrik to say why he wanted to see him.

  ‘I’ve talked to both Pedersen and Torbjörn again,’ said Patrik.

  Gösta sat up straighter. It had felt as if they were merely treading water since the girl was found, so it would be invaluable to get even the smallest bit of information to help the investigation.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘The post-mortem is finished, and I received a preliminary report. Torbjörn and his team aren’t quite done yet, but I persuaded him to give me an initial report.’

  ‘And?’ said Gösta, feeling his heart beating faster. He badly wanted to give Nea’s parents some answers, some form of closure.

  ‘The girl was most likely not killed in the glade in the woods. That’s probably a secondary crime scene, and we need to find the primary site ASAP.’

  Gösta swallowed. He had assumed Nea was killed in the glade. It changed everything to hear that she was killed somewhere else and then taken there, even if right now they couldn’t say exactly what had happened.

  ‘So where do we start looking?’ he asked.

  As soon as he asked the question, he knew what the answer would be.

  ‘Oh,’ he said quietly.

  Patrik nodded.

  ‘Yes,
that’s the logical place to begin.’

  Patrik watched him anxiously. He knew how much empathy Gösta felt for the girl’s family. Even though they were strangers, from the very start he had shared their grief and felt connected.

  ‘No matter how much I’d like to object, I know it has to be done,’ he said now, feeling his heart sink.

  He looked at Patrik.

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’m waiting to hear about the search warrant from the district prosecutor in Uddevalla. But there shouldn’t be any problem. I’d like to get started early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘All right,’ said Gösta. ‘Did they tell you anything else?’

  ‘She died from a wound to the back of her head. It might have been caused by a fall, or a blow to the head. If that’s the case, it’s unclear what sort of weapon was used. Dirt was the only thing found in the wound.’

  ‘They should be able to do a more detailed analysis of the dirt,’ said Gösta.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Patrik. ‘They’ve turned in everything for further analysis. But it will take a while to get the results.’

  For a moment neither of them spoke. Outside, the sun had started to set, and the bright yellow rays had been replaced by subtle shades of red and orange. The temperature inside the station was almost comfortable now.

  ‘Is there anything else we can do tonight?’ asked Gösta, picking at an invisible thread on his uniform shirt.

  ‘No. Go home and rest. I’ll keep you posted about tomorrow. Martin and Paula are coming in tonight to write up their report about the interviews they did today. And I heard from Annika that you’ve written down the conversation you had with Nea’s parents.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m also helping Annika go through all the reports we’ve received about sexual assaults and the like. But I can take some of the files home with me.’

  He stood up and pushed the chair into place in front of Patrik’s desk.

  ‘Do that,’ said Patrik. After a moment he added, ‘Did you hear about the phone calls we’ve been getting? About the refugee centre?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gösta. He thought about what Peter’s parents had said, and decided not to mention it to Patrik. ‘It’s fear,’ he sighed. ‘Fear of the unknown. People have always blamed outsiders for any misfortune. It’s easier to do that than face up to the fact a crime might have been committed by someone they know.’

  ‘Do you think it’s going to become a problem?’ asked Patrik.

  Gösta took his time before answering. He thought about all the headlines in the evening newspapers over the past few years, the growing support for the far-right political party Sveriges Vänner, in spite of all the scandals. He wanted to say no, but instead he heard himself confirming what Patrik already knew.

  ‘Yes, it’s going to become a problem,’ he said.

  Patrik merely nodded. He could think of nothing else to say.

  Gösta left the room and went to his own office to get the papers he wanted to take home with him. For a moment he sat at his desk and stared out the window. Outside it looked as if the sky was on fire.

  Vendela cautiously opened the window as she listened to the sound of the TV downstairs. Even though her room was on the first floor, it had been a long time since she’d tried to climb down. The roof of the porch was right below her, and she could crawl out on to it and then clamber down the big tree next to the house. As an extra precaution, she had locked her bedroom door and turned up the volume of the music full blast. If her mother knocked, she would simply assume that Vendela couldn’t hear her.

  As she climbed down the tree, she peeked in the living room window. She saw the back of her mother’s head as she sat alone in the middle of the sofa, watching some dreary detective show, as usual, with a glass of wine in her hand. It was still so light outside that her mother would see her if she turned around, but Vendela quickly reached the ground and then dashed across the front of the house. Her mother tended not to notice anything when she was drinking. In the past she used to drink wine one evening a week, mostly while holding a photo of Stella in her hand. She always complained of a headache the next day, as if she didn’t know what the cause could be. Since Marie Wall had returned to Fjällbacka, her mother had started drinking every night.

  Marie and Helen. The women who had killed her mother’s sister and turned her mother into a boxed-wine alcoholic.

  Around the corner, she found Nils and Basse waiting for her. Vendela pushed aside all thoughts of Marie and Helen and their children Sam and Jessie.

  Nils gave her a hug, pressing his body close to hers.

  He and Basse had cycled over, and Vendela hopped on to the back of Nils’s bike. They headed towards Fjällbacka, passing the Tetra Pak factory and the big open car park with the small fire station. They raced past Pizzeria Bååhaket and the square with the patch of lawn. When they’d made their way up the slope of Galärbacken, they stopped, and Vendela wrapped her arms tighter around Nils’s waist, aware of his smooth, hard stomach.

  Then they started down. The hill was steep, and Nils didn’t brake. The wind made it impossible to hear anything as it blew her hair back, making it flutter behind her. Her muscles clenched when they hit small holes in the asphalt, and she had to fight back her fear.

  They passed Ingrid Bergman Square, and Vendela breathed a sigh of relief when the ground levelled out. There were a lot of people at the square, and some teenagers, all dressed up, had to jump out of the way as they zoomed past. She turned to see them raising their fists in anger, but she merely laughed. Stupid tourists. They came here for a few weeks every year and thought they owned Fjällbacka. They would never dream of coming here in November. No, they just sailed in with their rich families, on holiday from their fancy homes and schools, always trying to push ahead in the queue and talking loudly about the ‘yokels’.

  ‘Did you bring your swimsuit?’ asked Nils over his shoulder.

  They were slowly cycling out to the small pier facing Badholmen, so now she was able to hear what he said.

  ‘No. Shit. I forgot. But I can still go swimming.’

  She stroked his thigh, and he laughed. Vendela had quickly learned how to please him. The wilder she behaved, the more excited he got.

  ‘Somebody’s already here,’ said Basse, pointing at the old diving tower.

  ‘Damn. It’s only some shitty kids from the class below us. They’ll take off when we get there. Believe me.’

  Vendela could sense Nils smiling in the dusk. There was something about that smile of his that always gave her butterflies in her stomach. They laid their bicycles on the gravel right next to the old bathhouse and walked over to the diving tower where three boys were splashing and shouting in the water. They fell silent when they saw who was coming and began treading water.

  ‘Get lost. We want to swim,’ said Nils calmly, and the three boys swam over to the ladder without a word.

  Moving as fast as they could, they climbed the ladder and made their way over the rocks to one of the changing rooms. This was an old spa bath, so people changed under open skies, with only a few wooden walls offering privacy. But Nils and Basse didn’t bother with that. They simply threw off their clothes.

  Nils and Basse began climbing the diving tower, while Vendela took her time undressing. The diving tower was not her thing. It probably wasn’t Basse’s either, but he always did whatever Nils did.

  Vendela went over to the ladder and climbed down a way, then launched herself backwards, allowing the water to flow over her body. Underwater, she couldn’t hear a thing, but that simply made it easier to enjoy a few marvellous moments when she was cut off from everything else. From the image of her mother holding a glass of wine in one hand and a picture of Stella in the other. Eventually she was forced to resurface. She floated on her back, peering up at the diving tower.

  Basse was dithering, as usual, while Nils stood next to him, grinning. The tower wasn’t particularly high, but it was tall enough to make your stomach clench wh
en you stood at the top. Basse moved closer to the edge but still hesitated. Then Nils gave him a shove in the back.

  Basse screamed the whole way down.

  Nils followed with an elegant cannonball. When he came up to the surface, he bellowed at the sky.

  ‘What the fuck! That was great!’

  He grabbed Basse’s head and pushed him under, but let him come back up after a few seconds. Then he swam over to Vendela with elegant, strong strokes. He pulled her close in the water, pressing his groin against her as he trod water. His hand slipped inside her knickers, and he pushed a finger inside her. Vendela closed her eyes. She thought about that fucking Marie’s fucking daughter Jessie, who probably did the exact same thing with Sam. She responded by kissing Nils.

  Suddenly Nils pushed away.

  ‘Shit!’ he swore. ‘A bloody jellyfish!’

  He swam over to the ladder and climbed up. His right thigh had bright red streaks.

  When Vendela got out of the water, she realized she’d forgotten to bring a towel. The air, previously so warm, was now icy cold.

  ‘Here,’ said Basse, handing her his T-shirt to dry off.

  He had climbed out too. His pale face was almost luminescent.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, drying off the salt water.

  Nils had already put on his clothes. He kept clutching his thigh, but the pain seemed to egg him on. When he turned to face them, she saw the glint in his eye that always appeared right before he caused havoc in someone’s life.

  ‘What do you say? Should we do it?’

  Vendela glanced at Basse. She knew he wouldn’t dare say no.

  She felt a jittery sensation in her chest.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ she said, and headed towards the bicycles.

  Bohuslän 1672

  A strange mood settled over the farm during the following week. Hatred and anger boiled inside Elin, but good sense won out. If she accused Britta of something when she had only a child’s word to offer in evidence, they would both be sent away. And then where would they go?

  At night she lay awake, holding Märta close when nightmares tormented her young body. Now and then the child would toss and turn as she muttered about the things haunting her. And there was no trace of Viola. Märta’s joy had disappeared along with her cat. She no longer ran about the farm, nor did she protest in a childish way over her allotted chores. Elin’s heart ached when she looked into her daughter’s eyes, which were now as dark as the water in the lake, but there was nothing she could do about it. Her grandmother’s teachings offered no remedies for a broken heart or fear, and not even her own maternal love could cure what ailed Märta.