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

  Putting emphasis on every word, Patrik said:

  ‘So you relied on an anonymous tip and forced your way in here without consulting anyone else. Is that what you’re saying? And the woman who lives here let you in? Without asking any questions?’

  Patrik cast a glance at the woman standing nearby.

  ‘Well, I mean, I know that in many countries you have to show some sort of document, so I thought it would be easier if I did too, so—’

  ‘A document?’ queried Patrik, not sure he wanted to hear the explanation.

  ‘Yes, she can’t speak Swedish, and she doesn’t seem to know English either. And I had a veterinary certificate for Ernst in my breast pocket. I took him to the vet the other day. He’s been having stomach trouble, you know, and—’

  ‘Am I understanding you right?’ Patrik interrupted. ‘Instead of waiting for backup or an interpreter, you forced your way into the residence of a traumatized refugee family by showing the woman a veterinary certificate, pretending it was a search warrant?’

  ‘Yes, but bloody hell, didn’t you hear what I said?’ Mellberg’s face was bright red. ‘It’s a matter of getting results! And I found something! I found the little girl’s knickers. The ones with the Frozen illustration that her mother mentioned. They were behind the toilet. With bloodstains!’

  No one said a word. The only sound was the crying of the children. Off in the distance they saw a man running towards them. He ran faster the closer he got.

  ‘What is happening? Why are you talking to my family?’ he shouted in English as soon as he was close enough to be heard.

  Mellberg took a step towards him to grab his arm and twist it behind his back.

  ‘You are under arrest.’

  Patrik glanced behind him and saw the woman staring at them while the children kept crying. The man did not resist.

  She’d done it. She was standing here outside Marie’s house. She still wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing, but the pressure in her chest had begun to feel worse and worse.

  Sanna took a deep breath and knocked on the door. It sounded like a gunshot, and Sanna realized how tense she must be.

  Relax.

  Then the door opened and there was Marie. The inimitable Marie. She gave Sanna a puzzled look. Her lovely eyes narrowed.

  ‘Yes?’

  Sanna’s mouth was dry, her tongue felt thick. She cleared her throat and forced herself to speak.

  ‘I am Stella’s sister.’

  At first Marie simply stood in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. Then she stepped aside.

  ‘Come in,’ she said and led the way inside.

  Sanna followed her into a big, open room. Beautiful French doors had been thrown open, facing a dock with a view of Fjällbacka’s harbour. The evening sun was glinting off the water.

  ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? A drink?’

  Marie picked up a glass of champagne from a bench and sipped her drink.

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Sanna.

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  Over the past few days she had been mustering her courage and planning what she’d say. But now all the words had vanished.

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ said Marie, going over to a big wooden table.

  From upstairs came the sound of cheerful pop music, and Marie looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘My teenage daughter.’

  ‘I have one too,’ said Sanna, sitting down across from Marie.

  ‘Strange creatures, teenagers. You and I never had the experience of being a teenager.’

  Sanna looked at her. Was Marie comparing her childhood to hers? Sanna’s teenage years had been stolen from her, and Marie was the one who’d done it. She’d also stolen her own teenage years. But Sanna didn’t feel the anger she’d imagined or thought she should feel. The person sitting across from her seemed no more than a shell. A glossy, perfect exterior, but resoundingly empty inside.

  ‘I heard about your parents,’ said Marie, taking another sip of her drink. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The words held no emotion, and Sanna merely nodded. It was all so long ago now. She had only vague memories of her parents. The years had swept them away.

  Marie set down her glass.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked.

  Sanna felt herself shrinking under Marie’s gaze. All the hatred she’d felt, all the anger and rage now seemed like a distant dream. The woman before her was not the monster who had been chasing her in her nightmares.

  ‘Did you do it?’ she heard herself ask. ‘Did the two of you murder Stella?’

  Marie stared down at her hands, seeming to study her fingernails. Sanna wondered if she’d heard the question. Finally Marie looked up.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, we didn’t do it.’

  ‘Then why did you say you did? Why did you say you killed her?’

  The music upstairs had stopped, and Sanna had a feeling that someone was listening up there.

  ‘It was so long ago. What does it matter?’

  For the first time there was some emotion in Marie’s eyes. Weariness. Marie looked as tired as Sanna felt.

  ‘It does matter,’ said Sanna, leaning forward. ‘Whoever did it, took everything from us. We didn’t just lose Stella, we lost our family, we lost the farm … and I was left all alone.’

  She straightened up.

  The only sound was the water lapping against the posts of the dock.

  ‘I saw somebody in the woods,’ said Marie at last. ‘On that day. I saw somebody in the woods.’

  ‘Who?’

  Sanna didn’t know what to believe. Why would Marie say this if she and Helen were guilty? She wasn’t naive enough to think Marie would speak the truth when she’d been professing her innocence for thirty years, but she’d thought she could read the truth in Marie’s reaction, if only she asked the question face to face. But Marie’s face was a mask. Nothing was genuine.

  ‘If I knew, I wouldn’t have had to spend thirty years claiming I was innocent,’ said Marie, getting up to refill her glass.

  She took a half-empty bottle from the fridge and held it up.

  ‘Sure you won’t have any?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Sanna.

  A memory stirred deep in her subconscious. Somebody in the woods. Someone she used to be scared of. A shadow. A presence. Something she hadn’t thought about in close to thirty years, but now it had been conjured back into existence by Marie’s words.

  Marie sat down again.

  ‘So why did both of you confess?’ asked Sanna. ‘I mean, if you didn’t kill her?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  Marie looked away, but Sanna saw her face contort with pain. For a second it made her look like a real human being instead of a beautiful doll. When Marie turned back to look at Sanna, all trace of pain had disappeared.

  ‘We were children. We didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation. And when we did, it was too late. Everyone thought they had the answer, and they refused to listen to anything else.’

  Sanna didn’t know what to say. For so many years she’d dreamed of this moment, tried to picture it, turned and twisted the words she would speak, the questions she would ask. But it turned out there were no words, and the only thought in her mind right now was the distant memory of something in the woods. Someone in the woods.

  When Sanna let herself out the front door, Marie was standing at the worktop, refilling her glass. Upstairs the music was once again playing. When Sanna stepped outside, she noticed a girl in the window upstairs. She waved, but the girl merely stared. Then she turned around and was gone.

  ‘Bill! Wake up!’

  He awoke with a start when he heard Gun calling him. He must have forgotten to set the alarm clock before he took his afternoon nap.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he managed to say.

  Gun never woke him from his nap.

  ‘Adnan and Khalil are here.’

  ‘Adna
n and Khalil?’

  He tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘They’re waiting downstairs. Something has happened …’

  Gun didn’t meet his eye, which immediately alarmed Bill. She almost never lost her composure.

  He went downstairs and caught sight of Adnan and Khalil pacing back and forth in the living room.

  ‘Hello, boys!’ he said first in Swedish, before switching to English. ‘What has happened?’

  They both started talking at once in English, and Bill had to strain to understand what they were saying.

  ‘What? Karim? Speak slower, boys. Slowly!’

  Adnan nodded to Khalil, who explained, and Bill was suddenly wide awake. He looked at Gun, who looked as outraged as he felt.

  ‘That’s madness! The police took him in? They can’t do that!’

  Adnan and Khalil again began talking at once. Bill held up his hand.

  ‘Calm down, boys. I’ll take care of this. This is Sweden. The police can’t just arrest anyone they please. This isn’t some banana republic!’

  Gun nodded, and that warmed his heart.

  They heard a creaking sound from above.

  ‘I told you.’

  Nils came downstairs. He had a gleam in his eye that Bill hadn’t seen before, a look he didn’t want to see.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you it had to be one of those roaches who did it? Everybody’s been talking about it, saying that somebody at the centre must have read about the old case and then seized the opportunity. Everybody knows what sort of people are staying there. Swedes are so naive! Those refugees don’t need help, they’re just looking for a soft life or else they’re criminals!’

  Nils’s hair was sticking straight up, and he was so agitated that his words came spilling out. The look he gave Adnan and Khalil practically robbed Bill of breath.

  ‘You’re a fool if you think it’s a matter of offering humanitarian help while we let rapists and thieves pour across our borders. You’ve let them take advantage. What bloody idiots you are. I hope you realize how wrong you were. I hope that filthy wog who killed a kid rots in jail, and—’

  Gun’s hand slapped Nils’s cheek with a sound that echoed through the whole living room. Nils gasped and gave his mother a shocked look. Suddenly he was a child again.

  ‘Go to hell!’ he shouted and ran upstairs with his hand pressed to his cheek.

  Bill looked at Gun who was studying her hand. He put his arm around her and then turned to face Adnan and Khalil, who didn’t know how to react.

  ‘Sorry about my son. Don’t worry. I will fix this.’

  This whole thing made him sick. Bill knew his home town and the people who lived here. Anyone foreign or different had never been welcomed with open arms. If one of the men from the refugee centre was suspected of murdering a little girl from here, all hell would soon break loose.

  ‘I’m going over to the police station,’ he said, sticking his feet into a pair of summertime loafers. ‘Tell Nils that he and I need to have a serious conversation when I get back,’ he added.

  ‘You’ll have to take your place in the queue behind me,’ said Gun.

  When he drove off with Adnan and Khalil, Bill looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Gun standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression grim. For a moment he almost felt sorry for Nils. But when he registered the fear in Adnan’s and Khalil’s eyes, all sympathy with his son evaporated.

  James ran up the steps. The rumour circulating in town had lifted his spirits and given him energy.

  He threw open the front door.

  ‘I knew it!’ he said, looking at Helen who flinched as she stood at the worktop in the kitchen.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  The colour had drained from her face, and as usual he was struck by how weak she was. Without him, she would have been lost. He had taught her everything, protected her against everything.

  He sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll tell you.’

  Helen had just started a fresh pot, and the coffee was already seeping through the filter. She took out his cup, filled it from the pot, and added some milk. Not too much, not too little.

  ‘They’ve arrested someone for the murder of the little girl,’ he said as Helen picked up the pot to wipe off the coffee machine.

  The sound of the pot striking the floor startled James so much that he spilled coffee on the front of his shirt.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted, jumping up from his chair.

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ stammered Helen, dashing to get the broom and dustpan.

  While she swept up the pieces, James reached for the kitchen roll and wiped off his shirt.

  ‘Now we’ll have to buy a new coffee pot,’ he said, sitting back down. ‘We’re not made of money, you know.’

  Helen silently continued to sweep up the glass. This was something she’d learned over the years: it was best not to say anything.

  ‘I was over at the town square when I heard about it,’ he said. ‘It was one of those guys from the refugee centre. Nobody’s at all surprised.’

  Helen paused for a moment, her shoulders slumped. Then she began sweeping again.

  ‘Are they sure?’ she asked, dumping the shards of glass into an empty milk carton, which she carefully placed in the bin.

  ‘I don’t know the details,’ he said. ‘All I heard was that they’ve arrested a guy. The Swedish police may not be especially efficient, but they don’t pick up people without cause.’

  ‘Right,’ said Helen, wiping off the worktop with a rag, which she wrung out and hung neatly from the tap.

  She turned to face James.

  ‘So, it’s over.’

  ‘Yes, it’s over. It has been for a long time. I’ll take care of you. That’s what I’ve always done.’

  ‘I know,’ said Helen, lowering her eyes. ‘Thank you, James.’

  The sound of the door splintering was what woke them. The next second they were inside the bedroom, grabbing his arms, dragging him away. Karim’s first instinct had been to resist, but when he heard the children screaming, he relented. He didn’t want them to see him get beaten to a pulp. That’s what had happened to so many others, so he knew it would do no good to offer resistance.

  After that he was left to lie on a cold, damp floor in a windowless room, unable to tell whether it was day or night outside. He could still hear the children’s screams ringing in his ears.

  The blows had rained down on him, and they had asked the same questions over and over. They knew he’d found documents stating who in Damascus was working against the regime, and they wanted those documents. Now. To begin with, he had refused, insisting that, as a journalist, he could not be forced to reveal his sources. But days of torture followed, and at last he’d given them what they wanted. He gave them names, he gave them places. When he slept, briefly, uneasily, he dreamed of the people he’d named, he pictured them being dragged from their homes while their children screamed and their spouses wept.

  Every waking minute he scratched at his arms in order to keep from thinking of all the lives he had destroyed. He scratched until the blood ran, leaving wounds that became dirty and infected.

  After three weeks they released him, and only a day later he and Amina packed up what few possessions they owned. Amina had cautiously touched the wounds on his arms, but he never told her what he had done. It was his secret, his shame, which he could never share with her.

  Karim leaned his head against the wall. Even though the room where he now found himself was cold and bare, it was clean and the sun shone through a small window. But the feeling of powerlessness was the same. He didn’t think the police were allowed to beat prisoners in Sweden, but he wasn’t sure. He was a foreigner in a foreign country, and he didn’t know the rules.

  He thought he’d left everything behind when he came to this new land, but now the children’s screams were once again ringing in his ears. His fi
ngers dug into the scars on his arms. Slowly he pounded his forehead against the wall in the small cell, while sounds from the street outside came in through the barred window.

  Maybe this was his fate, his punishment for what he’d done to those who still haunted his dreams. He’d thought he could flee, but no one could escape the all-seeing eyes of God.

  The Stella Case

  ‘What will happen to the girls?’

  Kate was using her strong, supple fingers to knead the dough. Leif loved watching her do that. For forty years he had watched her standing at the kitchen worktop with flour on her face and a cigarette hanging from her lips. Always ready with a smile. Viola had inherited her smile and sunny disposition. And her creativity. The boys were more like him. They took life a little too seriously. Roger, the oldest, had become an accountant, while the youngest, Christer, worked as an administrator at an employment agency. Neither of them seemed to have much fun.

  ‘They’re too young to be sent to prison, so the matter will be handled by social services.’

  ‘Humpf. Sounds so clinical when you say it like that. We’re talking about two children here.’

  Flour was whirling around Kate. Behind her the sun shone through the kitchen window and lit up the short, fluffy down of her hair. Her scalp looked translucent and ethereal in the light, with the blood vessels pulsing under her skin. Leif had to restrain himself from getting up to put his arms around his wife. She detested being treated as weak.

  Kate had never been weak. And after a year of chemotherapy, she was still the strongest person he knew.

  ‘You should stop smoking,’ he said mildly as she tapped the ash from her cigarette just before it would have landed on the bread.

  ‘No, you should stop smoking,’ she said, and he laughed and shook his head.

  She was impossible. They’d had this discussion so many times before. She was always more worried about him than about herself. Even now. The absurdity of the situation only made him love her more. And he didn’t think that was possible.

  ‘So what’s going to happen?’ she persisted.