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

  ‘What about the children?’ asked Mellberg, dread growing inside him.

  ‘They’re being kept under observation at the hospital until tomorrow, but they seem to be fine. No one else was injured, thank goodness. Those whose homes were destroyed have been evacuated to the community centre.’

  ‘Good lord,’ said Mellberg, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Do we know who did it?’

  ‘No, so far we don’t. But we’ve received plenty of tips, so we need to go through them as quickly as possible. The callers have ranged from crackpots who think the refugees set the fire to the place themselves in order to gain sympathy, to people who claim right-wing extremists are behind the arson. The fire seems to have divided the town into two camps. There are still a lot of people who think it’s what the refugees deserve. On the other hand, we have people like Bill Andersson, who’ve spent the night mobilizing resources and ferrying refugees left homeless by the fire to the community centre. People have been bringing them all sorts of things they might need. You might say the situation is showing people at their best and at their worst.’

  ‘But I …’ Mellberg shook his head, hardly able to go on. ‘I didn’t mean to … I didn’t think …’

  ‘No, that’s just it, Bertil,’ said Annika with a sigh. ‘You don’t think.’

  She stood up and began making coffee.

  ‘Did you say you’d like a cup?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said.

  He swallowed hard.

  ‘What are the chances?’

  ‘Of what?’ asked Annika, sitting down across from him again as the coffee maker began chuffing.

  ‘That his wife will make it.’

  ‘Not good, from what I understand,’ said Annika quietly.

  Mellberg didn’t say a word. He knew he’d made a huge mistake. All he could do now was hope that he’d be able to make amends.

  Bohuslän 1672

  Towards the end of the summer, Elin began to worry. At first she thought it was a late summer ailment that was making her run behind the barn to vomit. Yet she knew better. The same thing had happened when she was expecting Märta. Every night she prayed to God. What was His purpose behind this? What sort of test was she being asked to endure? And should she tell Preben or not? How would he react? She knew that he loved her, but deep in her heart she had misgivings about his fortitude. Preben was a good man, but he was also ambitious and eager to please – that much she had learned about him. All her questions about what this might lead to and how it could go on had always been silenced with kisses and love-making, but not before she glimpsed the anxious look in his eyes.

  And there was Britta to consider. She had become increasingly surly and suspicious. They had done their best to hide their feelings for one another, but Elin knew there were moments when she and Preben, in Britta’s presence, had caught sight of each other and were unable to conceal how they felt. She knew her sister all too well. She knew what Britta was capable of. Even though it was a topic she had never discussed with anyone, Elin had not forgotten how Märta had nearly drowned in the lake. Nor had she forgotten who was responsible.

  As the days grew shorter and everyone worked even harder on the farm to make preparations for winter’s arrival, Britta withdrew more and more. She stayed in bed longer in the morning, refusing to get up. All strength seemed to be seeping out of her.

  Preben asked the cook to make Britta’s favourite foods, but she refused to eat, and every evening Elin had to remove the untouched food from the bedside table. At night Elin caressed her stomach, wondering how Preben would react if she told him she was carrying his child. She could only think he would be glad. He and Britta seemed unable to have children, and he did not love Britta the way he loved her. What if Britta had now contracted some fatal illness? Then Elin and Preben would be able to live together as a family. When she had such thoughts, Elin would pray even more fervently to God.

  Britta grew inexplicably weaker day by day. Finally, Preben summoned a doctor from Uddevalla. Elin was overcome with tension and concern as they awaited the doctor’s arrival. She frantically tried to convince herself it was concern for her sister, but the only thing she could think about was if Britta should be taken badly, there would suddenly be a future for her and Preben. Even though they would be met with suspicion and whispers if they should marry so soon after Preben became a widower, the talk would subside over time. Of that she was certain.

  When the wagon bringing the doctor arrived, Elin kept away and prayed. She prayed harder than she had ever prayed before. And she hoped God would not punish her for the entreaties delivered in her prayers. Deep in her soul she believed that God wanted her and Preben to be together. Their love was too great to be mere chance. The fact that Britta was now ill had to be part of God’s plan. The more she prayed, the more convinced she became. Britta would not live much longer. Elin’s unborn child would have a father. They would be a family. She put her trust in God.

  Her heart pounding, Elin went back to the vicar’s house. None of the other servants had said anything, so she assumed they had not yet heard. Gossip usually travelled fast on the farm, and she knew there had been whispering about her and Preben. Nothing escaped the servants’ notice on such a small farm. And they had been talking for days about the fact that the doctor had been summoned from Uddevalla to find out what was ailing their mistress.

  ‘Have you heard anything, Elsa?’ Elin asked the cook who was preparing the evening meal.

  ‘No,’ said Elsa as she continued to stir the big pot. ‘I think the doctor is still with her.’

  ‘I will go and see if I can find out more,’ said Elin, without meeting the cook’s eyes. ‘She is my sister, after all.’

  She was afraid the woman might be able to see from her appearance what she had been praying for, or that her pounding heart might make itself heard. But the cook merely nodded and did not turn around.

  ‘Do that. When the mistress does not eat my pancakes, I know things are not right. But we must trust in God that it is nothing serious.’

  ‘Yes, we must trust in God,’ said Elin, hurrying to the door.

  For a long moment she hesitated outside Britta’s bedchamber. She was not sure she dared knock. Then the door opened, and a thickset man with a bushy moustache came out carrying a doctor’s bag.

  Preben shook his hand.

  ‘I cannot thank you enough, Dr Brorsson,’ he said, and Elin was surprised to see that he was smiling.

  What news could the doctor have delivered to make Preben smile so his eyes gleamed in the dark of the hall? A hard knot formed in Elin’s stomach.

  ‘This is Britta’s sister, Elin,’ said Preben, introducing her to the doctor.

  Warily she shook his hand. She was still having trouble deciphering the expression on the faces of the two men. Behind them she saw Britta sitting in bed, her dark hair spread out on the pillows.

  She looked like a cat who had swallowed the cream, and Elin felt even more bewildered.

  Dr Brorsson said with a sly look:

  ‘It would seem congratulations are in order. She is only a few weeks along, but there is no doubt Britta is with child. Her condition is taking its toll on her, so you must see to it she takes in enough fluids and as much sustenance as she can tolerate. I have recommended that she should be given bouillon for the next few weeks until the discomfort has passed and her appetite returns.’

  ‘I am certain Elin will be most helpful,’ said Preben, beaming with joy.

  Why did he look so happy? He did not want to be with Britta, he wanted to be with her. That was what he had said. He had told her he had chosen the wrong sister. It had been God’s will that his seed refused to grow inside Britta.

  But now he stood there with a big smile, promising Dr Brorsson that Elin would offer her best nursing skills. Britta gave her a maliciously gleeful look. She reached up to brush back her hair and whimpered:

  ‘Preben, I am feeling ill again.’

  She held out her hand,
and Elin watched as he rushed to Britta’s side.

  ‘Is there anything I can do? You heard what the doctor said. Rest and bouillon. Shall I ask Elsa to make you some bouillon?’

  Britta nodded. ‘Not that I have any appetite to speak of, but for the sake of our child, it is best I try to eat something. But please do not leave me. Ask Elin to speak to Elsa and bring the bouillon. I am certain she will gladly do that. She wants her little nephew or niece to be born with the best possible health.’

  ‘I am certain that is true,’ said Preben. ‘But I must see to it that Dr Brorsson takes his leave before I can stay with you.’

  ‘No, no, I can certainly find my own way out,’ laughed the doctor, heading for the door. ‘Take care of the little mother, then I will know that I have done my job properly.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Preben, nodding as he clasped Britta’s hand in both of his.

  He looked at Elin, who still stood in the doorway as if frozen in place.

  ‘Please be quick about arranging the food for Britta, she must follow the doctor’s orders.’

  Elin nodded, lowering her eyes.

  Keeping her eyes fixed on her shoes was the only thing she could do to prevent herself crying. If she was forced to look at Preben’s happy face and Britta’s triumphant expression for even a moment longer, she would fall apart. She turned on her heel and swiftly made her way to the kitchen.

  The mistress was with child and needed bouillon. And God in His omnipotence was laughing at poor, foolish Elin.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Erica wasn’t exactly sure how to dress for a gallery opening, so she had opted for something tried and trusted: a pair of plain white shorts and a white blouse. It was only because she’d left the children with Kristina that she dared wear white. If there was one thing she’d learned as the mother of three young children, it was that white clothing acted like an irresistible magnet to sticky little fingers.

  She double-checked the time on the invitation she’d received from Viola, though it wasn’t necessary, since she could see a stream of people making their way into the small gallery. Erica looked around when she stepped inside. The room was bright and airy, and Viola’s paintings had been nicely hung on the walls. On a table in the corner she saw glasses of champagne and vases with flowers that friends and acquaintances had brought. Erica suddenly felt so stupid. Maybe she should have brought something too.

  ‘Oh, Erica! I’m so glad you could come!’

  Viola came forward, giving her a big smile.

  She looked fabulous in a beautiful dark blue kaftan, with her grey hair pulled back in a stylish chignon. Erica had always admired people who could wear a kaftan without making it look like a costume. The few times she’d tried on that sort of garment, she’d felt as if she were in a fancy dress costume. But Viola looked radiant.

  ‘Here, have some champagne. You’re not driving, are you?’ she said, handing Erica a glass.

  Erica thought over her plans for the rest of the day and concluded no driving was involved, so she accepted the glass.

  ‘Have a look around,’ Viola told her, ‘and if you see anything you might like to purchase, just tell that nice girl over there, and she’ll put a red dot on the label next to the painting. She’s my granddaughter, by the way.’

  Viola pointed to a girl in her late teens who stood next to the door holding a strip of red-dot stickers. She seemed to be taking her assignment very seriously.

  Erica took her time looking at all the paintings. A few red dots had already appeared, and that made her happy. She liked Viola. And she liked her paintings. She knew nothing about art and didn’t feel drawn to any sort of artwork that wasn’t representational. But here she saw lovely watercolours with recognizable subjects – mostly people depicted in everyday situations. She stopped in front of a painting showing a blonde woman kneading bread with flecks of flour on her face and a cigarette hanging from her lips.

  ‘That’s my mother. All the paintings in the gallery are of people who have been important to me, and I chose to show them in day-to-day situations. No fancy poses. I wanted to paint them the way I remembered them. My mother was always baking. She loved to bake, especially bread. We had fresh bread every day, but with hindsight I’ve often wondered how much nicotine my siblings and I ingested along with the bread, since my mother always smoked like a chimney when she kneaded the dough. But that wasn’t something anyone gave a second thought to in those days.’

  ‘She was beautiful,’ said Erica, and she meant it.

  The woman in the painting had the exact same glint in her eye as her daughter, and she guessed the two women must have looked very much alike at the same age.

  ‘Yes, she was the most beautiful woman I knew. The most fun too. I’d be satisfied if I was even half as good a mother to my children as she was to me.’

  ‘I’m sure you are,’ said Erica, having a hard time thinking otherwise.

  Someone tapped Viola on the shoulder, and she excused herself.

  Erica stayed where she was, looking at the portrait of Viola’s mother. It made her both happy and sad. Happy because she wished everyone could have a mother who radiated such warmth. Sad because that was far from what she and Anna had experienced when they were growing up. Their mother had never baked bread or smiled or hugged her children or said she loved them.

  Erica suddenly felt guilty. She’d vowed she would be the direct opposite of her mother. Always warm, fun, and loving. Yet right now she was working on her book, and she’d arranged for Kristina to babysit the children. But she did give her kids lots of love, and they enjoyed being with their grandmother or spending time with their cousins at Anna’s home. It was not a hardship for them. And if she didn’t work, she would no longer be Erica. She loved her children, and she also loved her job.

  Slowly she moved from one painting to the next as she sipped her glass of bubbly. The gallery was an attractive, air-conditioned space, and it didn’t feel crowded in spite of all the people. Occasionally she overheard someone whisper her name, and she’d seen several women giving their companions a poke in the side. That was something she still hadn’t grown used to – the fact that people recognized her and viewed her as some sort of celebrity. So far she’d been able to avoid the worst celebrity traps. She hadn’t gone to any film premieres, hadn’t wrestled with snakes and rats on the TV show Fångarna på fortet, hadn’t spilled her heart out on the talk show Hellenius Hörna, or appeared on the TV show På sporet.

  ‘That’s my father,’ said a voice next to Erica, who gave a start.

  Viola had returned and was now pointing at a large painting in the middle of the wall. It had an entirely different aura to the portrait of her mother. Erica tried to put into words the feeling depicted and decided it had to be ‘melancholy’.

  ‘Pappa sitting at his desk. That’s how I remember him, always working. As a child, I couldn’t understand it, but as an adult I understand and respect his passion for his job, which could be both a blessing and a curse. As the years passed, it ate him up …’

  The meaning of what she’d said hung in the air. Then she turned to Erica.

  ‘Sorry. There’s a reason I asked you to come here. I found Pappa’s old diary. I don’t know whether it will be of any use to you. He used abbreviations for everything, but I thought you might want to see it anyway. I brought it with me, if you’d like to have it.’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ said Erica. ‘Thank you.’

  She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about why Leif would so drastically change his view about the girls’ guilt. One way or another, she wanted to get to the bottom of this. Maybe his diary would provide a new lead.

  ‘Here,’ said Viola, coming back with a well-worn black diary. ‘You can keep it.’

  She handed it to Erica.

  ‘I have Pappa here,’ she said, pointing to her heart. ‘I can recreate him in my memory whenever I like. Sitting at his desk.’

  She placed her hand lightly on Erica’s shoul
der, then left her standing in front of the painting. Erica studied it for a moment. Then she went over to speak to the girl holding the strip of red dots.

  Khalil was sitting on a chair in the corner, watching an elderly woman as she handed blankets to Adnan. He couldn’t forget the image of Karim dragging Amina out of the house. The way his hands had smouldered. The way he had screamed. And the way Amina had been so horribly silent.

  After the fire, Bill, their Swedish teacher Sture, and more people that Khalil didn’t know had turned up. Apparently, Rolf and Bill had joined forces to ferry them to the community centre. Bill had waved his arms about, talking too fast in his strange mixture of Swedish and English, as he pointed at the cars, but no one had dared get in until Khalil, Adnan and the others on the sailing team had each climbed into a car.

  They had exchanged quizzical glances when they arrived at the red building at the other end of Tanumshede. How would things go in this place? But over the last half hour people had begun streaming in. Dumbfounded, they had watched car after car pull into the parking area in front of the big building, bringing blankets, Thermoses of coffee, and clothes and toys for the children. Some people simply dropped off what they’d brought and then left, while others had stayed and were now doing their best to chat.

  Where had all these Swedes been before? They smiled, talked, asked the children their names, offered food and clothing. Khalil couldn’t understand it.

  Adnan came over to him, his eyebrows raised enquiringly. Khalil shrugged.

  ‘Listen here, boys,’ called Bill from a short distance away. ‘I’ve talked to the folks at Hedemyrs supermarket, and they said they want to donate some food. Could you drive over there and pick it up? Take my car keys.’