The Stone Cutter

by Camilla Lackberg

  As if she could read his mind, Lilian came into the room. Stig had been so deeply immersed in his reverie that he didn't even hear her footsteps on the stairs.

  'Here's a little lunch for you. I was out buying some fresh rolls,' she chirped, and he felt his stomach turn over at the mere sight of what was on the tray.

  'I'm not that hungry right now,' he attempted, but at the same time he knew how fruitless any protests would be.

  'You have to eat something if you want to get better,' said Lilian in her stern nurse's voice. 'Here, I'll help you.'

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and took a bowl of kefir from the tray. She carefully raised a spoon and moved it to his lips. He reluctantly opened his mouth and let her feed him. The feeling of kefir running down his throat nauseated him, but he let her have her way. She meant well, and basically he knew she was right. If he didn't eat he'd never be healthy.

  'How do you feel now?' Lilian asked as she took one of the rolls with butter and cheese and held it to his mouth so he could take a bite.

  He swallowed and replied with a forced smile, 'I think it's a little better, actually. I slept quite well last night.'

  'That's nice to hear,' said Lilian, patting his hand. 'There's no sense playing with your health, and you have to promise that you'll tell me if it gets worse. Lennart was just like you, stubborn as hell, and he refused to let anyone examine him until it was too late. Sometimes I wonder if he'd still be alive if I'd insisted more…' With a sad look she gazed into the distance, her hand holding the spoon poised in mid-air.

  Stig stroked her other hand and said gently, 'You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Lilian. I know you did everything you could for Lennart when he was sick, because that's the sort of person you are. You are not to blame for his death. And I'm feeling better, believe me. I've got better on my own before. If I just have a chance to rest up, I'm sure it will pass. It's probably just "burn-out", like they talk so much about these days. Don't worry about me. You have so many other worse things to worry about.'

  Lilian sighed and nodded. 'Yes, you're probably right. It's a lot for me to bear right now.'

  'Yes, you poor thing. I wish I were feeling healthy so I could offer you more support in your grief. I'm also grieving terribly about the girl. I can't even imagine how you must feel. And how is Charlotte doing, by the way? It's been a couple of days since she's come upstairs to see me.'

  'Charlotte?' said Lilian, and for a moment he thought he saw an ill-humoured glint in her eye. But it vanished so fast he convinced himself that he'd imagined it. Charlotte was everything to Lilian, after all. She was always saying how she lived for her daughter and her family.

  'Well, Charlotte is feeling better than at first, anyway. Even though I think she should have kept taking those sedatives. I don't understand why people have to try to muddle through on their own, when there are such good drugs they could take. And Niclas was certainly willing to write her a prescription, but he refused to write any for me. Did you ever hear anything so stupid? I'm grieving too, and I'm just as upset as Charlotte. Sara was my granddaughter, wasn't she?'

  Lilian's voice had again taken on that sharp, annoyed tone. But just as Stig felt an annoyed frown forming on his brow, she changed her tune and was once again the loving, caring wife that his illness had really made him appreciate. He could hardly expect her to be her usual self, after all that had happened. The stress and the sorrow were affecting her too.

  'Now that you've eaten something you need to rest,' said Lilian as she got up.

  Stig stopped her with a little wave. 'Have you heard any more about why the police took Kaj in for questioning? Does it have anything to do with Sara?'

  'No, we haven't heard anything yet. We'll probably be the last to know,' Lilian snorted. 'But I hope they throw the book at him.'

  She turned on her heel and walked out the door, but he still had time to glimpse a smile on her face.

  * * *

  NEW YORK 1946

  Life 'over there' hadn't turned out the way she'd expected. Bitter lines of disappointment were etched round her mouth and eyes, but Agnes was nevertheless still a beautiful woman at the age of forty-two.

  The first years had been wonderful. Her father's money had ensured her a very comfortable lifestyle, and the contributions she received from her male admirers had improved it significantly. She had lacked for nothing. The elegant apartment in New York was the frequent setting for joyous parties, and the beautiful people had no trouble finding their way to her home. Offers of marriage had been numerous, but she had bided her time, in the hunt for someone even richer, more stylish, more sophisticated. In the meantime, she had not denied herself any form of amusement. It was as though she had to compensate for the lost years and live twice as fast and hard as everyone else. There had been a feverish eagerness in the way she loved, partied, and spent money on clothes, jewellery, and furnishings for her apartment. Those years felt so distant now.

  When the Kreuger crash came in 1932, her father lost everything. A few foolish investments and the fortune he had amassed was gone. When the telegram arrived she had felt such consuming rage at his idiotic behaviour that she tore the piece of paper to hits and stamped on them. How dare he lose everything that one day was supposed to be hers? Everything that would have been her security, her life.

  She sent a long telegram back in which she told him in exhaustive detail what she thought of him and how he had destroyed her life.

  When a week later a telegram arrived with the news that he had put a pistol to his temple, Agnes had merely crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. She was neither surprised nor upset. As far as she was concerned, he deserved nothing less.

  The years that followed had been hard. Not as hard as those with Anders, but a struggle for survival all the same. Now the only way she could live was at the benevolence of men. When she no longer had any financial resources of her own, her wealthy, urbane suitors were gradually replaced by beaux of lesser social status. Offers of marriage ceased altogether. Instead the propositions were of an entirely different nature, and as long as the men paid she didn't object. It also seemed that something inside of her had been damaged by the difficult childbirth, so she was unable to get pregnant, but that increased her value among her occasional partners. None of them wanted to be bound to her by a child, and she herself would have rather jumped off a building than go through that atrocious experience again.

  Agnes had been forced to give up the beautiful apartment; the new one was much smaller, darker, and far from the centre of town. She no longer hosted parties in her home, and she'd had to pawn or sell most of her possessions.

  When the Second World War came, everything that had been bad got even worse. And for the first time since she boarded the boat in Göteborg, Agnes longed for home. Her homesickness gradually grew to resolve, and when the war finally ended she decided to go back to Sweden. In New York she had nothing of value, but in Fjällbacka there was something that she could still call her own. After the big fire, her father had bought the lot where the house she'd lived in had stood, and he had had a new one built on the same site - perhaps in the hope that one day she would return home. The house was in her name, so it was still there, even though everything else he had owned was gone. It had been rented out for all these years, and the income had been placed in an account in the event she ever came back. Several times over the years she had tried to gain access to the money, but she was always told by the administrator that her father had stipulated that she would get the money only if she moved back to her homeland. At the time she had cursed what she viewed as an injustice, but now she reluctantly had to admit that perhaps it hadn't been so stupid after all. Agnes calculated that she would be able to survive on that money for at least a year, and during that time she had set her mind on finding someone who could support her.

  In order for that plan to succeed, she was forced to stick to the story she had created about her life in America. She sold everythin
g she owned and spent every öre on a dress of elegant quality and a set of fine luggage. The bags were empty - she hadn't had enough money to fill them with anything - but no one would notice that when she came ashore. She looked like a successful woman, and she had also elevated her position to that of the widow of a wealthy man with business dealings of an indefinite nature. 'Something in finance,' she intended to say, with a blase shrug of her shoulders. She was sure it would work. People back in Sweden were so naive and so easily impressed by people who had been to the promised land. No one would think it was odd that she came home in triumph. No one would suspect a thing.

  The wharf was full of people. Agnes was shoved here and there as she carried a suitcase in each hand. The money hadn't been enough for a first-class or even a second-class ticket, so she would stick out like a peacock among the grey masses in third class. In other words, she didn't have to fool anyone on the boat by pretending to be a fine lady. As long as she disembarked in Göteborg, nobody would know how she had made the voyage.

  She felt something soft nuzzling her hand. Agnes looked down to see a little girl in a white frilly dress looking at her with tears running down her cheeks. The crowd swelled around her, surging back and forth, and no one paid any attention to the little girl who must have lost her parents.

  'Where's your mommy?' said Agnes in the language she now mastered almost perfectly.

  The girl cried even harder, and Agnes vaguely recalled that children of her age might not have started to talk yet. In fact she seemed to have just learned to walk and looked as though she might fall beneath the tramping feet all around her.

  Agnes took the girl by the hand and looked around. No one seemed to be looking for her. Nothing but rough work clothes wherever she looked, and judging by her clothing the girl definitely seemed to belong to a different social class. Agnes was about to call for help when she had an idea. It was bold, incredibly bold, but brilliant. Wouldn't her story about the rich husband who died and widowed her for the second time take on additional veracity if she also had a small child with her? And even though she remembered how much trouble the boys had been, it would probably be entirely different with a little girl. She was sweet as sugar, that girl. Agnes could dress her in pretty clothes, and tie ribbons in those lovely locks. She was a regular little darling. The thought was appealing to Agnes more and more, and in the blink of an eye she made up her mind. She took both suitcases in one hand and the girl by the other and strode towards the ship. No one reacted when she embarked, and she stifled a desire to look back over her shoulder. The trick was to look as though the child naturally belonged to her, and the girl had even stopped crying out of sheer amazement and willingly followed along. Agnes took that as a sign that she was doing the right thing. Her parents were surely not nice to her, since she went with a stranger so easily. Given a little time, Agnes would be able to give the girl everything she wished for, and she knew that she would be an excellent mother. The boys had just been too difficult. This little girl was different. She could feel it. Everything was going to be different.

  * * *

  Niclas came home as soon as she rang. Because she hadn't wanted to say what it was about, he dashed in the front door with his heart in his throat. On the stairs he saw Lilian coming down with a tray, and she looked surprised.

  'Why are you home?'

  'Charlotte rang me. You don't know what it's about?'

  'No, she never tells me anything,' Lilian snapped. Then she gave him an ingratiating smile. 'I was just out buying fresh buns, they're in a bag in the kitchen.'

  He ignored her and took the stairs down to the cellar flat in two strides. It wouldn't surprise him if Lilian was standing with her ear to the door right now, trying to hear what they were saying.

  'Charlotte?'

  'I'm in here, changing Albin.'

  He went to the bathroom and saw her standing at the changing table with her back to him. Even from her posture he could see that she was angry, and he wondered what she'd found out now.

  'What was it that was so important? I had patients waiting.' The best defence was a good offence.

  'Martin Molin rang.'

  He searched his memory for the name.

  'The policeman in Tanumshede,' she clarified, and now he remembered. The young, freckled chap.

  'What did he want?' he said tensely.

  Charlotte, who now had finished changing and dressing Albin, turned toward Niclas with their son in her arms.

  They discovered that someone had threatened Sara. The day before she died.' Her voice was ice-cold and Niclas waited nervously for her to continue.

  'Yes?'

  'The man who threatened her was described as an older man with grey hair and black clothes. He called her the "Devil's spawn". Does that sound like anyone you know?'

  Rage coursed through his veins in a fraction of a second.

  'Bloody hell,' he cried and ran up the stairs. When he tore open the door to the ground floor he almost knocked Lilian unconscious. He had guessed right: the old biddy had been standing there listening. But it wasn't even worth getting excited about now. He put on his shoes without bothering to tie them, grabbed his jacket and ran out to the car.

  Ten minutes later he stopped with a screech outside his parents' house after driving much too fast through town. The house stood on the side of the hill, right above the mini-golf course, and it looked exactly the same as it did when he was a boy. He shoved open the car door and jumped out without bothering to shut it. Then he rushed right up to the front entrance. For a second he paused, then he took a deep breath and knocked hard on the door. Niclas hoped his father was at home. No matter how unchristian he was, it wasn't proper to do what he intended to do in a church.

  'Who is it?' called the familiar, stern voice from inside the house. Niclas tried the door handle. As usual, the door wasn't locked. Without hesitating he stepped inside and called out.

  'Where are you, you cowardly old devil?'

  'What in the world is going on?' His mother came into the hall from the kitchen holding a tea towel and a plate. Then he saw his father's austere figure emerge from the living room.

  'Ask him.' Niclas pointed a trembling finger at his father, whom he hadn't seen other than from a distance since he was seventeen years old.

  'I don't know what he's talking about,' said Arne, refusing to speak directly to his son. 'Of all the nerve, coming in here and standing there cursing and screaming. That's enough now. Get out of here.'

  'You know damn well what I'm talking about, you old bastard.' Niclas saw to his satisfaction how his father flinched at his choice of words. 'And how cowardly can you be, threatening a little girl! If you're the one who killed her I'll make sure that you never walk again, you bloody fucking…'

  His mother looked back and forth between the two men and then raised her voice. This was so unusual that Niclas abruptly shut up, and even his father closed his mouth without replying.

  'Now can one of you be so good as to tell me what this is all about? Niclas, you can't just barge in here and start screaming, and if it's something to do with Sara, then I have a right to know.'

  After taking a couple of deep breaths Niclas said through clenched teeth, 'The police found out' - he could hardly bring himself to look at his father - 'that he yelled and screamed and threatened Sara. The day before she died.' Fury took over again and he shouted, 'What the bloody hell is wrong with you? Scaring a seven-year- old out of her wits and calling her the "Devil's spawn" or some such nonsense. She was seven years old, don't you get it, seven years old! And I'm supposed to believe that it was a coincidence that you threatened her the day before she was found murdered! Is that right?'

  He took a step towards his father, who hastily backed up.

  Asta now stared at her husband. 'Is the boy telling the truth?'

  'I don't have to stand here and answer to anyone. I answer only to the Lord,' said Arne bombastically, turning his back to his wife and son.

  'Don't even
try that. You answer me now!'

  Niclas looked in astonishment as his mother followed Arne into the living room with her hands on her hips, ready for a fight. Arne too seemed shocked that his wife dared defy him. He was opening and closing his mouth without any sound coming out.

  'Answer me,' Asta continued, backing Arne farther into the room as she came closer. 'Did you see Sara?'

  'Yes, I did,' said Arne defiantly in a last attempt to assert the authority he'd taken for granted for forty years.

  'And what did you say to her?' Asta seemed to grow a foot taller before their eyes. Niclas thought she was terrifying, and from the look in his father's eyes he could see that he thought the same thing.

  'I had to see whether she was made of sterner stuff than her father. If she'd taken after my side of the family.'

  'Your side,' Asta snorted. 'Oh yes, that would be something. Sanctimonious fawners and stuck-up females, that's what you have on your side of the family. Is that supposed to be something worth emulating? So what was your conclusion?'

  With a hurt expression on his face Arne said, 'Silence, woman, I come from God-fearing folk. And it didn't take long to work out that the girl was not made of good stock. Impudent and obstinate and noisy, not the way girls should be. I tried to talk to her about God, I did, and she stuck out her tongue at me. So I told her a few truths. I still believe I was within my full right to do so. Someone had obviously not bothered to raise the child properly; it was high time somebody took her in hand.'

  'So you scared the wits out of her,' said Niclas, clenching his fists.

  'I saw the Devil in her recoil,' Arne said proudly.

  'You God-damned…' Niclas took a step towards him, but stopped when a hard knock was heard at the door.

  Time stood still for a second and then the moment passed. Niclas knew that he had been standing at the edge of the abyss and then retreated. If he'd gone after his father, he wouldn't have been able to stop. Not this time.