Authors: Camilla Läckberg
As Mellberg sat there in his office chair with his eyes closed he could almost feel the warm breeze on his cheeks. The scent of sun-tan oil and fresh peaches. The curtains fluttering in the wind that brought the smell of the sea. He saw himself leaning over to Rose-Marie, lifting the brim of her sun hat, and . . . A knock on his door woke him out of his daydream.
‘Come in,’ he said crossly, quickly taking his feet down from his desk and shuffling the papers that lay spread out in front of him.
‘I hope this is important, I’m very busy,’ he said to Hedström as he came in.
Patrik nodded and sat down. ‘It’s
very
important,’ he said, placing the copy of Sofie’s paper on the desk.
Mellberg read it. And for once he agreed.
There was something about springtime that always made Annika feel sad. She went to work, did what she had to do, went home, hung out with Lennart and the dogs, and then went to bed. The same routine as during the other seasons, but in the springtime she got a feeling it was all meaningless. Actually she had a very good life. She and Lennart had a better marriage than most and their shared passion for drag racing took them all over Sweden. Most of the time, that was enough. But for some reason she always felt there was something missing in the spring. That was when her longing for children hit her full force. She had no idea why. Maybe it was because her first miscarriage had been in the spring. The third of April, a date that would for ever be etched into her heart. Even though it was more than fifteen years ago. Eight more miscarriages had followed, countless visits to the doctor, examinations, treatments. But nothing had helped. And finally they’d accepted the situation and tried to make the best of things. Of course they’d discussed adoption as well, but they never seemed to get around to it. All those years of miscalculations and disappointment had made them feel vulnerable and insecure. They didn’t dare take the risk again. And so, each spring, she longed for her little boys and girls, who for some reason had not been ready for life, either in her womb or outside of it. Sometimes she pictured them in her mind as tiny angels, hovering round her like promises. Days like that were hard. And today was one of those days.
Annika blinked away the tears and tried to concentrate on the Excel spreadsheet on her computer. Nobody at the station knew anything about her personal tragedy. All they knew was that Annika and Lennart had never had children, and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself by sitting here and blubbering in reception. She squinted as she tried to match up the data in the cells before her. The name of the dog owner on the left and the address information on the right. It had taken more time than she’d thought, but now she finally had all the addresses entered onto the list. She saved the file on a disk and popped it out of the computer. The cherubs hovered round her, asking what their names would have been, what games they would have played together, what they would have become when they grew up. Annika felt the sobs rising again and looked at the clock. Eleven thirty; she ought to go home for lunch today. She felt that she needed some time in peace and quiet by herself. But first she had to give Patrik the disk. She knew that he wanted to have all the information ASAP.
In the corridor she ran into Hanna and saw an opportunity to avoid Patrik’s piercing gaze. ‘Hi, Hanna,’ she said. ‘Could you drop this off with Patrik? It’s a list of the dog owners with addresses. I . . . I have to go home for lunch today.’
‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you feeling well?’ Hanna said with concern, taking the diskette.
Annika forced a smile. ‘I’m fine, I just feel like having a home-cooked meal today.’
‘Okay,’ said Hanna. ‘I’ll drop off the disk with Patrik. See you later.’
‘See you,’ said Annika, hurrying out the door. The cherubs followed her home.
Patrik looked up when Hanna came in.
‘Here, this is from Annika. The dog owners.’ She handed him the disk and Patrik put it on the desk.
‘Sit down for a moment,’ he said, pointing to a chair. She did, and Patrik gave her a searching look.
‘So how has your first month been? Do you like working here? A bit chaotic in the beginning, perhaps?’ He smiled and received a wan smile in return. To be completely honest, he’d been worrying a bit about his new colleague. She was looking tired and worn out. Sure, that’s how they all looked but there was something else. Something transparent about her face, something more than normal exhaustion. Her blonde hair was combed back in a ponytail as usual, but it had no lustre and she had dark circles under her eyes.
‘Things have been going great,’ she said cheerfully, not seeming to notice how he was scrutinizing her. ‘I’m enjoying it and I like being busy.’ She looked around, at all the documents and photographs pinned up on the walls, and paused. ‘That sounded tactless. But you know what I mean.’
‘I know,’ Patrik said with a smile. ‘And Mellberg, has it . . .’ he searched for the right word, ‘has he behaved himself?’
Hanna laughed and for a moment her face softened and he recognized the woman who had started with them five weeks earlier. ‘I’ve hardly seen him, to tell the truth, so yes, you could say he’s behaved himself. If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that everybody regards you as the person in charge. And that you do the job proud.’
Patrik felt himself blush. It wasn’t often he got a compliment, and he didn’t know how to handle it.
‘Thanks,’ he muttered, and then quickly changed the subject. ‘I’m going to have a new run-through in an hour. I thought we’d gather in the break room. It’s so cramped in here.’
‘Have you got something new?’ Hanna said, sitting up straight in her chair.
‘Well, yes, you could say that,’ said Patrik and couldn’t repress a smile. ‘We may have found the key to what connects the cases.’ His smile grew.
Hanna sat up even straighter. ‘The connection? You’ve found it?’
‘It just came to me, you might say. But first I have to make two calls to confirm things, so I don’t want to say anything before the meeting. So far I’ve only told Mellberg.’
‘Okay, then I’ll see you in an hour,’ said Hanna, getting up to leave.
Patrik still couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong. But she would probably tell him soon enough.
He picked up the receiver and punched in the first number.
‘We’ve found the connection we’ve been looking for.’ Patrik looked around, enjoying the effect of his announcement. His gaze paused for a moment on Annika, and he noticed she looked a bit red round the eyes. That was highly unusual. Annika was always happy and positive in all situations, and he made a mental note to talk with her after the meeting to hear how she was doing.
‘The crucial piece of the puzzle was brought in by Sofie Kaspersen today. She found an old newspaper article among her mother’s things and decided to bring it to us. Gösta and Hanna visited her and her father last week, and apparently they made a good impression on her, which led to her decision to contact us. Well done!’ he said, nodding his approval in their direction.
‘The article . . .’ he couldn’t resist pausing for effect as he felt the tension mounting in the room, ‘the article deals with the fact that twenty years ago Marit was involved in an auto accident that resulted in a fatality. She crashed into a car driven by an elderly lady, who died. When the police arrived at the scene it turned out that Marit had a high alcohol count in her blood. She was sentenced to prison for eleven months.’
‘Why haven’t we heard about this earlier?’ asked Martin. ‘Was this before she moved here?’
‘No, she and Ola were twenty years old and had lived here for a year when it happened. But it was a long time ago; people forget, and there was probably some sympathy for Marit as well. Her blood alcohol was just over the legal limit. She had got into the car after having dinner at a friend’s house and drinking a few glasses of wine. I know this because I found the documents about the accident. We had them down in the archives.’
‘So we had a file on this the whole time?’ said Gösta incredulously.
Patrik nodded. ‘Yes, I know, but it’s not so strange that we didn’t find it. It happened so long ago that it wasn’t entered into any database, and there was no reason to go through the documents down there willy-nilly. And definitely no reason to go through all the archived boxes of DWI convictions.’
‘And yet . . .’ Gösta muttered, looking subdued.
‘I’ve checked with Lund, Nyköping and Borås. Rasmus Olsson became disabled when he wrapped his car around a tree, and his passenger, a friend the same age, died. Rasmus was drunk when the accident occurred. Börje Knudsen has a rap sheet as long as my arm. One of the items is the report of an accident fifteen years ago, when he caused a head-on crash in which a five-year-old girl died. So this is the common denominator in three cases out of the four; they all drove drunk and killed someone because of it.’
‘And Elsa Forsell?’ asked Hanna, staring at Patrik. He threw out his hands.
‘That’s the only case I couldn’t get any confirmation about yet. There are no records of a conviction against her in Nyköping, but the priest of her congregation talked a lot about Elsa’s “guilt”. I think there’s something there, but we haven’t found it yet. I’m going to ring Father Silvio after our meeting and see if I can get anything more out of him.’
‘Good work, Hedström,’ said Mellberg from his seat at the kitchen table. Everyone turned their gaze to him.
‘Thanks,’ said Patrik in astonishment. A compliment from Mellberg was like . . . no, he couldn’t even think of anything to compare it with. One simply didn’t get compliments from Mellberg. Ever. Slightly bewildered by this comment out of the blue, Patrik went on, ‘What we have to do now is to start working from this new assumption. Find out as much as you can about the accidents. Gösta, you take Marit; Martin, you can have Borås; Hanna, you take Lund, and I’ll try to find out more about Elsa Forsell in Nyköping. Any questions?’
Nobody said anything, so Patrik adjourned the meeting. Then he went to ring Nyköping. There was a sort of frenzy, a tense energy, filling the air at the station. It was so palpable that Patrik felt as if he could reach out and touch it. He stopped in the corridor, took a deep breath and then went to make his calls.
Whenever Father Silvio took a trip home to visit his family and friends in Italy, he often got the same question. How could he stand it up in the cold North? Weren’t the Swedes odd? From what they had heard, Swedes most often stayed at home and hardly talked to each other. And they couldn’t handle alcohol at all. They drank like sponges and always overdid it. Why would he want to live there?
Silvio usually sipped on a glass of good red wine, looked out over his brother’s olive groves, and replied, ‘The Swedes need me.’ And that was how he felt. It had seemed like an adventure when he first went to Sweden almost thirty years earlier. An offer of a temporary position in the Catholic congregation in Stockholm had presented the opportunity he’d always wanted, a chance to move to the country which had always seemed so mythical and strange. Maybe it wasn’t all that strange. And he almost froze to death that first winter until he learned that three layers of clothing were a must if he wanted to go outdoors in January. But it was still love at first sight. He loved the light, the food, the Swedes’ cold exterior but glowing interior. He had learned to appreciate and understand the small gestures, the discreet comments, the muted friendliness he found with the fair-haired northerners. And that was another stereotype that had turned out to be false. He had been amazed when he landed on Swedish soil and saw that not all Swedes were blond and blue-eyed.
In any case, he had stayed. After ten years assisting with the congregation in Stockholm, he took an opportunity to lead his own church in Nyköping. Over the years a certain Sörmland accent had crept into his Italian-Swedish, and he enjoyed the merriment that this odd mixture sometimes aroused. If there was anything that Swedes did far too seldom, it was laugh. People in general might not associate Catholicism with joy and laughter, but for him the religion was precisely that. If love for God was not something bright and enjoyable, what else would be?
It had surprised Elsa at first. She had come to him, perhaps in the hope of finding a scourge and a hair shirt. Instead she found a warm handshake and a friendly gaze. They had spoken so much about this. Her feeling of guilt, her need to be punished. Over the years he had gently guided her through all the different concepts of guilt and forgiveness. The most important part of forgiveness was remorse. True remorse. And that was something Elsa had in abundance. For over thirty-five years she had felt remorse every second of every day. It was a long time to bear such a burden. He was glad that he’d been able to lighten her load a bit, so that she could breathe more freely, at least for a few years. Up until she died.
Father Silvio frowned. He had thought a lot about Elsa’s life – and her death – ever since the police had come to call. He had thought a lot about it before as well. But their questions had let loose a flood of emotions and memories. Yet the sacrament of confession was holy. The trust between a priest and a parishioner must not be broken. Still, the thoughts whirled round in his head, making him long to break a promise that God had bound him to. But he knew it was impossible.
When the telephone rang on his desk, he knew instinctively what it was about. He answered half in anticipation, half in dread: ‘Father Silvio Mancini.’
He smiled when he heard the officer from Tanumshede introduce himself. He listened a long while to what Patrik Hedström had to say and then shook his head.
‘Unfortunately I cannot talk about what Elsa confided in me.
‘No, that is included in the vow of confidentiality.’
His heart was pounding. For a moment he thought he saw Elsa sitting in the chair in front of him. Elsa with the erect posture, the short white hair and the thin figure. He had tried to fatten her up with pasta and pastry, but nothing seemed to stick to her. She gave him a kindly look.
‘I’m terribly sorry, but I simply can’t. You’ll have to find another way to . . .’