The Ice Princess

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘Hush-hush?’

  ‘Yes, you know, conversations that stopped when I came into the room. Grown-ups talking in low voices. “Shh, don’t let the children hear” and comments like that. In other words all I know is that there was a lot of talk at the time about Nils’s disappearance. But I was too young. I wasn’t told anything.’

  ‘Hmm, I’m going to have to dig a little deeper into this. It’s going on my list of things to do tomorrow. But right now I’m having dinner with a woman who’s not only beautiful but also a fantastically good cook. A skål to the hostess.’

  He raised his glass and Erica felt all warm inside from the compliment. Not so much because of what he said about the meal but because he’d called her beautiful. Imagine how much easier everything would be if we could read each other’s minds, she thought. This whole charade would be unnecessary. Instead she sat here hoping that he would give her the slightest little hint that he was interested. It was fine to throw yourself out there and take a chance when you were a teenager, but with the years it felt as if her heart had grown less and less elastic. The efforts required were greater and the damage to one’s self-confidence bigger each time.

  After Patrik had helped himself to three more servings and they had long since stopped talking about sudden death and switched to discussing dreams, life and various world problems, they moved to the veranda to give their stomachs a break before dessert. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa and sipped their wine. Bottle number two was almost empty, and both of them could feel the effect. Their limbs were heavy and warm and their heads felt as if they were wrapped in lovely soft cotton. The night outside the windows was pitch-black with not a single star to light up the sky. The dense darkness outside made them feel as though they were wrapped in a big cocoon, completing the illusion that they were the only people on earth. Erica couldn’t recall ever feeling so content, so at home in her own existence. She made a sweeping gesture with the hand holding her wine glass, managing to encompass not only the whole veranda but the whole house.

  ‘Can you believe that Anna would want to sell all this? It’s not just that this is the most beautiful house in the whole world, there’s history in these walls. And I don’t mean only Anna’s and my history, but the histories of those who lived here before us. Did you know that a sea captain had this house built for his family in 1889? Captain Wilhelm Jansson. The story is actually very sad, like so many other stories in this town. He built the house for himself and his young wife Ida. They had five children in five years, but during the sixth childbirth Ida died. In those days single fathers were unheard of, so Captain Jansson’s unmarried older sister moved in and took charge of the children while he sailed the Seven Seas. His sister Hilda was not the best choice for foster mother. She was the most religious woman for several counties around, and that’s saying a lot considering how religious everyone was here. The children could hardly move without being accused of sinning, and the beatings they received from Hilda were administered with a God-fearing and stern hand. Today she would probably be called a sadist, but in those days it was totally acceptable to hide such propensities under the guise of religion.

  ‘Captain Jansson wasn’t home often enough to see how badly the children were faring, even though he must have had his suspicions. But like most men he considered child-rearing to be women’s work, and he felt that he was fulfilling his fatherly duties by seeing to it that they had a roof over their heads and food on the table. Until he came home one day, and discovered that the youngest girl, Märta, had gone for a week with a broken arm. Then Hilda was given the boot and the captain, who was a man of action, searched among the unmarried women of the area for a suitable new foster mother for his children. He made a good choice. Within two months he had married a solid daughter of peasant stock, Lina Månsdotter, and she took the children to her heart as if they were her own. She and the captain also had seven more together, so it must have been awfully crowded here. If you look carefully you can see traces of those kids. Little nicks and dents and worn spots. All over the house.’

  ‘So how did your father come to buy the house?’

  ‘Over the years the Jansson siblings were scattered with the wind. Captain Jansson and his Lina, who had grown very fond of each other, passed away. The only one left in the house was the eldest son, Allan. He never married and when he grew old he couldn’t keep up the house by himself, so he decided to sell. Pappa had just married Mamma, and they were looking for a home. Pappa told us that he fell in love with the house on the spot. He didn’t hesitate for a second.

  ‘When Allan sold the house to Pappa, he also passed on the story to him. The history of the house and his own family. It was important to him, he said, that Pappa knew whose feet had worn the old wooden floors. He also left some documents behind. Letters that Captain Jansson had sent from every corner of the world, first to his wife Ida, then to Lina. He also left the horsewhip that Hilda had used to punish the children. It still hangs down in the cellar. Anna and I used to go down there and touch it sometimes when we were small. We had heard the story about Hilda, and we used to try to imagine how the rough straws of the whip would feel on our bare skin. We felt sorry for the little children who were treated so badly.’

  Erica looked at Patrik. She went on, ‘Now you understand why my heart breaks at the thought of selling this house. If we sell this house we’ll never ever get it back again. It’s irrevocable. It makes me sick to think that some rich Stockholmer would stomp in here and start sanding the floors and put up new wallpaper with little shells on it, not to mention the panoramic window that would go up here in the veranda faster than I can say “tasteless”. Who would care about preserving the pencil marks that are left on the inside of the pantry doors, where Lina each year marked how tall the children had grown? Who would care about reading the letters in which Captain Jansson tried to describe how it looked in the South Seas for his two wives who had hardly been out of the parish? Their history would be erased and then this house would be only…a house. Any old house. Charming, but without a soul.’

  She could hear that she was babbling, but for some reason it was important to her that Patrik understood. She looked at him. He was watching her intently and she flushed under his gaze. Something happened. An instant of absolute understanding, and before she knew what was happening Patrik was sitting next to her, and after a second of hesitation he pressed his lips to hers. At first she only sensed the taste of wine on both their lips, but then she sensed the taste of Patrik. She cautiously opened her mouth and felt the tip of his tongue seeking hers. Her whole body felt electric.

  After a while it became unbearable, and Erica got up, took him by the hand, and without a word led him up to the bedroom. They lay down on the bed and kissed and caressed each other. After a while Patrik gave her a questioning look and then began unbuttoning the back of her dress. She gave her silent assent by starting to unbutton his shirt. She realized at once that the undergarments she’d chosen were not the ones she wanted to show to Patrik the first time. God only knew that the pantyhose she had on weren’t the world’s sexiest undergarment. The question was how she could get out of them and the support knickers without Patrik seeing them. Erica sat up abruptly.

  ‘Excuse me, I just have to go to the toilet.’

  She rushed to the bathroom and looked around feverishly. She was in luck. There was a pile of clean wash in the laundry basket that she hadn’t had time to put away. She laboriously wriggled out of the tight pantyhose and put them and the old-lady knickers in the laundry basket. Then she pulled on a pair of thin white lace knickers that would go well with her bra. She pulled her dress down over her backside and carefully checked herself in the mirror. Her hair was dishevelled and curly and her eyes had a feverish look. Her mouth was redder than normal and slightly swollen from all the kissing. She actually looked rather sexy, she thought. Although without the support knickers her belly didn’t look as flat as she liked. She sucked it in and instead thrust out her bust a
s she went in to Patrik, who was still lying on the bed just as she had left him.

  Their clothes began disappearing, with more and more of them landing in a pile on the floor. The first time wasn’t as fantastic as it always is in romance novels; it was more of a mixture of strong feelings and embarrassing awareness. At the same time that their bodies reacted explosively to each other’s touch, they were acutely aware of their nakedness, conscious of little imperfections, worried that embarrassing sounds might arise. They were clumsy and unsure of what the other person might like and dislike. Not sure enough of each other yet that they dared put their thoughts into words. Instead they used small guttural sounds to indicate what worked and what might need to be adjusted. But the second time it was better. The third time it was quite acceptable. The fourth time was very good and the fifth time was fantastic. They fell asleep, curved around each other like spoons. The last thing Erica noticed before she fell asleep was Patrik’s arm safely round her breast and his fingers laced in hers. She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

  Patrik’s head was splitting into bits. His mouth was so dry that his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, but at some time there must have been saliva in it, because against his cheek he felt a wet spot of drool on the pillow. It felt like someone was holding down his eyelids and fighting his attempts to open his eyes. After a couple of strenuous attempts he finally got them open.

  He saw a vision before him. Erica was lying on her side, turned towards him, with her blonde hair curled around her face. She seemed to be dreaming, because her eyelashes were fluttering and her eyelids were twitching. Patrik thought he could lie here like this and look at her forever, without ever tiring of what he saw. His whole life if need be. Erica gave a start in her sleep but returned quickly to her steady breathing. It was true that this was like riding a bike. And by that he didn’t mean only the sex act, but also the feeling of loving a woman. During the dark, gloomy days and the nights he had thought it impossible that he would ever feel like this again. Now it felt impossible not to feel like this.

  Erica stirred restlessly and he saw that she was about to resurface. She too struggled to get her eyelids open. But when she did, he was astonished all over again at how blue her eyes were.

  ‘Good morning, sleepyhead.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  The smile that spread across her face made him feel like a millionaire.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Erica said.

  Patrik looked at the alarm clock’s glowing numerals. ‘Yes, the two hours I slept were wonderful. Although the waking hours before that were probably even more wonderful.’

  Erica merely smiled in reply.

  Patrik suspected that his breath smelled like a viper’s, but he still couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing her. The kiss became deeper and an hour raced by. Afterwards Erica lay on his left arm drawing circles with her finger on his chest. She looked up at him.

  ‘Did you think when you came over that we’d end up in bed?’

  He thought about it a moment before he answered, and put his right hand behind his head while he was thinking.

  ‘No-o-o, I can’t say that I thought it would happen. But I hoped it would.’

  ‘Me too. Hoped, I mean, not thought.’

  Patrik deliberated for a moment about how bold he should be, but with Erica in his arms he felt he could dare anything.

  ‘The difference is that you started hoping quite recently, didn’t you? Do you know how long I’ve been hoping this would happen?’

  She gave him a puzzled look. ‘No, how long?’

  Patrik paused for effect. ‘As long as I can remember. I’ve been in love with you as long as I can remember.’ Now that he’d said it out loud, he heard how true it sounded.

  Erica stared at him wide-eyed. ‘You’re kidding! And here I’ve gone around worrying whether you were even the slightest bit interested in me! And now you tell me that you were mine for the taking.’

  Her tone was light hearted, but he saw that she was a bit shaken by what he’d said.

  ‘Well, it’s not as if I’ve been celibate or living in an emotional desert my whole life. Of course I’ve been in love with other women too, Karin for example. But you’ve always been special. I always felt something here every time I saw you.’ He pressed his hand to a spot above his heart. Erica took his hand, kissed it, and put it against her cheek. That gesture told him everything.

  They spent the morning getting to know each other. When Erica asked Patrik how he liked to spend his free time, his reply elicited a frustrated groan.

  ‘No-o-o-o-o! Not another sports fan! Why oh why can’t I find a guy who’s smart enough to realize that it’s an entirely normal pastime to chase a ball across a lawn—if you’re five! Or at least a guy who might question what use it is to humanity if someone can jump two metres in the air over a crossbar.’

  ‘Two forty-five.’

  ‘What do you mean, two forty-five?’ said Erica in a voice that showed she wouldn’t be very interested in the answer.

  ‘The guy who jumps the highest in the world, Sotomayor, jumps two point forty-five metres. Women jump around two metres.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ She gave him a suspicious look. ‘Do you get the Eurosport channel?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Canal+, not for the films but for the sports?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘TV 1000, same reason?’

  ‘Yep. Although to be accurate, I get TV 1000 for another reason besides sports.’

  Erica gave him a playful swat on the chest. ‘Have I forgotten anything?’

  ‘Yep, TV3 has a lot of sports.’

  ‘My sport-fool radar is really well-developed, I have to say. I spent an incredibly boring evening at my friend Dan’s house last week, watching Olympic hockey. I just don’t understand how anyone can think it’s interesting to see guys in gigantic padding chase around after a little black thingumabob.’

  ‘In any case it’s a lot more fun and more productive than spending a whole day running from one clothing boutique to another.’

  In reply to this blatant attack on her greatest vice in life, Erica wrinkled her nose and made a face at Patrik. Then she saw how his eyes suddenly took on a glazed look.

  ‘Damn.’ He sat up straight in bed.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Damn, shit, bloody hell.’

  Erica looked at him wide-eyed.

  ‘How the hell could I miss something like that?’ He struck his forehead several times with his hand.

  ‘Hello, Earth to Patrik! Would you please tell me what you’re talking about?’

  Erica waved her hands in front of him. Patrik lost his focus for a moment when he saw how the gesture made her naked breasts jiggle. Then he hopped briskly out of bed, naked as a newborn, and rushed downstairs. He came back up with a couple of newspapers in his hand, sat down on the bed, and started leafing through them frantically. By this time Erica had given up trying to get any answers and merely watched him with interest.

  ‘Aha!’ Patrik shouted in triumph. ‘What luck that you didn’t toss your old TV listings.’

  He waved the paper in front of Erica. ‘Sweden vs. Canada!’

  Still silent, Erica made do with raising a very puzzled eyebrow.

  Impatient, Patrik tried to explain. ‘Sweden beat Canada in an Olympic match. On Friday, January twenty-second. On TV4.’

  She still looked at him without expression. Patrik sighed.

  ‘All ordinary programmes were cancelled because of the match. Anders couldn’t have come home at the same time as Separate Worlds that Friday, because it was cancelled. Do you understand?’

  Slowly, it dawned on Erica what he was saying. Anders no longer had an alibi. Even though it was tenuous, the police would still have a hard time getting past it. Now they could bring Anders in again, based on the evidence they already had. Patrik nodded with satisfaction when he saw that Erica understood.

  ‘But you don’t think th
at Anders is the killer, do you?’ said Erica.

  ‘No, of course not. But for one thing, sometimes I can be wrong, even though I know you have a hard time believing that.’ He winked at her. ‘And for another thing, if I’m not mistaken, I’ll bet that Anders knows considerably more than he’s told us. Now we have a chance to press him a lot harder.’

  Patrik began hunting round the bedroom for his clothes. They were strewn here and there, but most alarming was that he discovered he still had his socks on. He quickly pulled on his trousers and hoped that in the heat of passion Erica hadn’t noticed the socks. It was hard to look like a sex god with white tube socks embroidered with ‘Tanumshede IF’.

  Suddenly it felt like there was no time to lose, and he dressed with fumbling fingers. On his first attempt to button his shirt he got it wrong, and he swore when he had to undo all the buttons and start over. Patrik realized all at once how his rash behaviour must look, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, took Erica’s hands in his, and gazed steadily into her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry to rush off like this, but I have to. I just want you to know that this has been the most wonderful night of my life and I can hardly wait until the next time we see each other. Do you want to see me again?’

  What they had shared still felt fragile and delicate, and he held his breath waiting for her reply. She nodded.

  ‘Then I can come back here when I finish work?’

  Erica nodded again. He leaned forward and kissed her.

  When he left she was sitting on the bed with her knees pulled up and the covers wrapped loosely round her body. The sun was shining in through the little round window, creating the illusion of a halo round her blonde head. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  The snow was wet and stubbornly seeped through Bengt Larsson’s thin loafers. His shoes were more suited to summer weather, but alcohol was an effective way to deaden the cold. And faced with the choice between buying a pair of winter shoes or a whole litre of schnapps, the decision was easy.