The Stone Cutter

by Camilla Lackberg

  'How interesting,' said Martin. 'I've always wondered how anyone managed to create all those fantastical worlds. It must take a heck of an imagination.'

  'I don't actually create the games. Other people do that, I just code them. I have Asperger's,' Morgan added matter-of-factly. Martin and Gösta exchanged another bewildered glance.

  'Asperger's,' said Martin. 'Unfortunately I don't know what that is.'

  'No, most people don't,' said Morgan. 'It's a form of autism, but it's most often accompanied by normal to high intelligence. I possess high intelligence. Extremely high,' he added without seeming to attach any emotion to the statement. 'Those of us who have Asperger's have a hard time understanding such things as facial expressions, metaphors, irony, and tone of voice. The result is that we have problems interacting socially.'

  It sounded as though he were reading from a book, and Martin had to make a real effort to follow Morgan's lecture.

  'So I can't create the computer games myself, since that would require me to imagine other people's feelings. On the other hand, I'm one of the best programmers in Sweden.' The words were a simple statement of fact, not coloured by either boasting or pride.

  Martin couldn't help being fascinated. He had never heard of Asperger's before, and hearing Morgan explain it made him genuinely interested. But they were here to do a job, and they had better get on with it.

  'Is there somewhere we could sit down?' he said, looking about the room.

  'On the bed,' replied Morgan, nodding to the narrow bed standing against the far wall. Cautiously Gösta and Martin made their way between the stacks of magazines and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. Gösta spoke first.

  'We assume you know what happened on Monday at the Florins'. Did you see anything peculiar that morning?'

  Morgan did not reply, but looked at them blankly. Martin realized that 'anything peculiar' might be too abstract, so he tried to reformulate the question in a more concrete way. He couldn't even imagine how difficult it would be to function in society without being able to interpret all the implied messages in human communication.

  'Did you notice when the girl left the house?' he said tentatively, hoping that was precise enough for Morgan to answer.

  'Yes, I saw when the girl left the house,' said Morgan and then fell silent, unsure whether there was anything more to the question.

  Martin was starting to get the hang of things and said more precisely, 'What time did you see her leave?'

  'She went out at ten after nine,' said Morgan, still in the same high, shrill tone of voice.

  'Did you see anyone else that morning?' Gösta asked.

  'Yes.'

  'Who did you see that morning, and at what time?' said Martin in an attempt to anticipate Gösta. He sensed that his colleague was starting to get impatient with their odd interviewee.

  'At a quarter to eight I saw Niclas,' Morgan replied.

  Martin was taking notes of everything he said. He didn't doubt for a second that the times were exact.

  'Did you know Sara?'

  'Yes.'

  Gösta now began to squirm, and Martin hurried to place a warning hand on his arm. Something told him that an emotional outburst would not have a beneficial effect as they tried to get as much information as possible out of Morgan.

  'How did you know her?'

  The question elicited nothing but an empty stare from Morgan, and Martin rephrased it. He had never realized before how difficult it was to be precise when speaking, or how much he normally relied on the other person to understand the essence of what he was saying.

  'Did she come here sometimes?'

  Morgan nodded. 'She interrupted my routines. Knocked on the door when I was working and wanted to come in. Touched my things. Once she got angry when I told her to leave, and she knocked over some of my stacks.'

  'You didn't like her?' said Martin.

  'She interrupted my routines. And knocked over my stacks,' said Morgan, and that was about as close as he could come to showing any emotion about the girl.

  'What do you think of her grandmother?'

  'Lilian is a nasty person. That's what Pappa says.'

  'She says that you sneaked about outside their house and looked in the windows. Did you do that?'

  Morgan nodded without hesitation. 'Yes, I did. I wanted to have a look. But Mamma got mad when I said that. She told me that I mustn't do that.'

  'So you stopped doing it?' said Gösta.

  'Yes.'

  'Because your mamma said that you mustn't?' Gösta's tone was sarcastic, but Morgan didn't notice.

  'Yes, Mamma always talks about what one should and shouldn't do. We practise things to say and things to do. She teaches me that even if somebody says one thing, it can mean something completely different. Otherwise I might say or do the wrong thing.' Morgan looked at his watch. 'It's ten thirty. I should get back to work now.'

  'We won't bother you any longer,' said Martin, getting to his feet. 'Please excuse us for disturbing your routine, but as police officers we can't always take such things into account.'

  Morgan seemed content with that explanation and had already turned round to the computer screen. 'Pull the door closed behind you,' he said, 'or it will blow open.'

  'What an odd duck,' said Gösta as they slipped through the garden to the car they had parked a block away.

  'I thought it was fascinating, I really did,' said Martin. 'I've never heard of Asperger's before, have you?'

  Gösta snorted. 'No, that's not something we had back in my day.

  There are so many weird diagnoses nowadays. Personally I think the term "idiot" goes a long way.'

  Martin sighed and got into the driver's seat. Gösta was certainly short on empathy, that's for sure.

  Something was tugging at Martin's subconscious. Something that made him wonder whether they had actually asked the right questions. He struggled with his intractable memory but finally had to give up. Maybe he was just imagining things.

  The clinic lay shrouded in a grey mist, and there was a single car in the car park. Ernst was still sulking about being admonished by Patrik for arriving late. He climbed out of the car and strode over to the main entrance. In annoyance, Patrik slammed the car door a bit too hard and trotted after him. It was like dealing with a little kid.

  They passed the pharmacy counter and turned left into the reception area. There was no one else in sight, and their footsteps echoed in the deserted corridor. Finally they located a nurse and asked for Niclas. She informed them that he was with a patient, but he would be free in ten minutes, and she asked them to sit down and wait. Patrik was always fascinated by how similar all clinical waiting-rooms seemed. The same dismal wooden furniture with ugly upholstery, the same meaningless art on the walls, and always the same boring magazines. He leafed absentmindedly through something called Care Guide and was surprised at how many different ailments he'd never heard of. Ernst had sat down as far away as he could, nervously tapping his foot on the floor. Occasionally Patrik caught him shooting dirty looks his way, but it didn't bother him. Ernst could think whatever he liked, as long as he did his job.

  'The doctor is free now,' said the nurse. She showed them into an office where Niclas sat behind a desk cluttered with papers. He looked exhausted. He stood up and shook hands with them, even attempting a welcoming smile. But the smile never reached his eyes but hardened into an anxious grimace.

  'Are there any developments in the investigation?' he asked.

  Patrik shook his head. 'We're working full-tilt, but so far without much progress. But we're bound to have a breakthrough,' he said, hoping to sound reassuring. But inside him the doubts were getting worse. He was far from sure that they would be successful this time.

  'What can I do for you?' said Niclas wearily as he ran his hand over his blond hair.

  Patrik couldn't help reflecting that the man before him looked like a model for the cover of one of those romance novels about beautiful nurses and handsome doc
tors. Even now his charm shone through, and Patrik could only imagine how attractive he must seem to women. According to what he'd heard from Erica, over the years that had presented problems in his marriage to Charlotte.

  'We have a few questions regarding your activities last Monday morning,' Patrik began. Ernst was still sulking and he ignored Patrik's glances attempting to get him to participate.

  'Oh yes?' said Niclas, apparently unmoved, but Patrik thought he noticed his gaze shift slightly.

  'You told us that you were at work.'

  'Yes, I drove here at quarter to eight, as usual,' said Niclas, but his nervousness was unmistakable.

  'That's what we don't quite understand,' said Patrik in a last attempt to involve Ernst. But his colleague just stared obstinately out of the window facing the car park.

  'We tried to get hold of you for a couple of hours that morning. And you weren't in. Of course we could check with the nurse,' said Patrik, gesturing towards the door. 'I presume she wrote down your office hours and can see whether you were here that morning.'

  Now Niclas was squirming uneasily in his chair, and beads of sweat had appeared at his temples. But he was still struggling to look unmoved, and Patrik had to admit that he was doing a fairly good job of it. In a calm voice Niclas said, 'Oh, I remember now. I'd taken time off to drive out and look at some houses that were for sale. I didn't mention it to Charlotte because I wanted to surprise her.'

  The explanation would have seemed plausible if it weren't for the tension that Patrik sensed beneath the calm tone of voice. He didn't believe for a moment what Niclas was saying.

  'Could you be a little more precise? Which houses did you go to look at?'

  Niclas gave a nervous laugh and seemed to be trying to think of a way to gain time. 'I'd have to check on that, I don't really recall,' he said hesitatingly.

  'There aren't that many houses for sale here right now. You must at least remember what neighbourhoods you were in.' Patrik pressed him harder with his questions, and he saw Niclas growing more and more nervous. Whatever he had done that morning, he hadn't been looking at houses.

  A moment of silence followed. It was obvious that Niclas's brain was working overtime in an attempt to salvage the situation. But then Patrik saw him give up and his whole body slumped. Now maybe they were getting somewhere.

  'I don't…' Niclas's voice broke and he started over. 'I don't want Charlotte to hear about this.'

  'We can't promise anything. Things have a tendency to come out sooner or later, but we're giving you an opportunity to present your version before we hear anyone else's.'

  'You don't understand. It would destroy Charlotte completely if…' His voice broke again, and even though Patrik had no idea where this was going, he couldn't keep from feeling a certain sympathy for Niclas.

  'As I said, I can't promise anything.' He waited for Niclas to conquer his anxiety and continue. Images of sweet, gentle Charlotte came to him, and suddenly his sympathy was mixed with repugnance. Sometimes he was ashamed to have to listen to the males of the species.

  'I…' Niclas cleared his throat, 'I was with someone.'

  'And who might that be?' asked Patrik. By now he had completely given up hope of bringing Ernst into the conversation. But his colleague suddenly turned from the window and regarded the subject of the interview with great interest.

  'Jeanette Lind.'

  'The woman who owns the gift shop on Galärbacken?' Patrik asked. He could vaguely recall a petite, curvaceous, dark-haired woman.

  Niclas nodded. 'Yes, that Jeanette. We…' once again the same hesitation, 'we've been seeing each other for a while.'

  'How long is a while?'

  'A couple of months. Three, maybe.'

  'How did the two of you manage that?' Patrik's curiosity was genuine. He had never understood how people in affairs could make time to meet. Or how they dared. Especially in a town as small as Fjällbacka, where a car parked for five minutes outside someone's house was enough to start the rumours flying.

  'Sometimes at lunch, sometimes I said I was working late. Once I pretended I had an urgent house call.'

  Patrik had to restrain himself from going over and punching this guy. But his personal feelings were irrelevant. They were here only to investigate the matter of his alibi.

  'And last Monday morning you simply took a couple of hours off to drive over and see… Jeanette.'

  'That's right,' said Niclas in a gruff voice. 'I said I had to make some house calls that I'd been putting off for a while, but that I'd be available on my mobile if anything urgent came up.'

  'But you weren't. We tried to get hold of you through your nurse on repeated occasions, and you didn't answer your mobile.'

  'I forgot to charge it. It died just after I left the clinic, but I didn't even notice.'

  'And what time did you leave the clinic to meet your lover?'

  That last word seemed to affect Niclas like a slap in the face, but he didn't object. Instead he ran his hands through his hair again and said wearily, 'Just after nine thirty, I think. I had telephone consultations between eight and nine, and then I did some paperwork for about half an hour. So between nine thirty and twenty to, I would think.'

  'And we got hold of you just before one. Was that when you came back to the clinic?' Patrik was struggling to keep his voice neutral, but he couldn't help imagining Niclas in bed with his lover at the same time as his daughter lay dead in the sea. However one looked at it, Niclas Klinga was not presenting an attractive picture of himself.

  'Yes, that's correct. I had to start seeing patients at one, so I got back around with about ten minutes to spare.'

  'We're going to have to talk to Jeanette to verify your story. You realize that, don't you?' Patrik said.

  Niclas nodded dejectedly. He repeated his entreaty once again: 'Try to keep Charlotte out of this: it would break her completely' You should have thought of that earlier, Patrik thought, but he didn't say it out loud. Niclas had probably had the same thought many times over the past few days.

  * * *

  FJÅLLBACKA 1924

  It was so long ago that he had felt any joy in his work that those days seemed like a distant, pleasant dream. Day-to-day toil had made him lose all enthusiasm, and he now worked mechanically on whatever task was at hand. Agnes's demands never seemed to end. Nor could she make the money last, as the other stonecutter families managed to do, even though they often had a large brood of children to feed. Everything he brought home seemed to run through her fingers, and he often had to go hungry to the quarry because there was no money for food. And yet for once he brought home every öre he earned. Poker was the biggest amusement among the stonecutters. The games laid claim to both evenings and weekends, often ending when the men went home foolish with empty pockets. Their wives had long since resigned themselves and let the bitterness carve furrows in their faces.

  Bitterness was a feeling that was beginning to take its toll on him too. Life with Agnes, which had seemed a beautiful dream less than a year ago, had turned out to be a form of punishment. The only thing he had done wrong was to love her and plant a child inside her, and yet he was being punished as if he'd committed the ultimate mortal sin. He couldn't even feel happy about the child in her belly anymore. Her pregnancy had not progressed free of pain, and now that she was in the last stage, things were worse than ever. During her entire pregnancy she had complained of aches and pains of one sort or another, and refused to take care of everyday chores. This meant that he not only worked from early morning to late evening in the quarry, but he also had to handle all the chores that a housewife should do. It was not made any easier knowing that the other cutters by turns laughed at him and felt sorry for him because he was forced to carry out a woman's duties. Most often he was simply too exhausted to even care what others said behind his back.

  Nevertheless, Anders was looking forward to the birth of the child. Maybe maternal love would make Agnes stop seeing herself as the centre of the world. A b
aby needed to be the centre of attention, and that would probably be a useful experience for his wife. Because he refused to give up the idea that they could make this marriage work. He was not a man who took his promises lightly. Now that they had forged a legally recognized bond, it was not something to be merely dissolved, no matter how hard their situation might be.

  Naturally he would occasionally look at other women at the compound, women who worked hard and never complained. He thought that he'd been dealt an unfair hand in life, but at the same time he realized in all honesty that he had brought this situation upon himself. And consequently he had lost the right to complain.

  With heavy steps he trudged home along the narrow track. This day had been just as monotonous as all the others. He had spent it cutting paving stones, and one shoulder was aching, where the same muscle had been subjected to far too much strain. Hunger was tearing at his stomach as well; there had been nothing at home that he could take with him in his lunch sack. If Jansson in the shack next door hadn't taken pity on him and shared his sandwich, Anders wouldn't have had a thing to eat all day. No, he thought, starting now, he was done entrusting his wages to Agnes. He would simply have to take charge of buying the groceries, just as he had taken over her other chores. He could stand to go without food himself, but he had no intention of letting his child starve. It was high time he began introducing some different routines at home.

  He sighed and paused for a moment before he opened the flimsy wooden door and went inside to his wife.

  * * *

  From behind the glass window of the reception, Annika had a good view of everyone who came and went. But today it was quiet. Only Mellberg was still in his office, and no one had come to the police station on any urgent errand. But her office was hopping with activity. The publicity in the media had produced results, prompting a welter of calls, but it was still too early to say whether anything was worth following up. Nor was it her job to decide. She merely wrote down all the information, along with the name and phone number of the informant. The notes were then passed to the investigator in charge. In this case it was Patrik who would be the lucky recipient of a huge dose of gossip and baseless accusations, which in her experience made up most of the calls.