'No-o-o-o!' he shrieked in panic.
Then came the thud and everything was quiet.
Martin wondered what it was that Charlotte and Niclas had been in such a hurry to talk to Patrik about. He hoped it was something that would allow them to remove Niclas from the list of suspects. The thought that the murderer might be the girl's own father was too horrendous to contemplate.
He couldn't get a handle on Niclas. Albin's medical reports were pretty serious, and Niclas hadn't managed to convince him that he was innocent of inflicting injuries on the boy. And yet there was something that didn't fit. Niclas was a complex man, to say the least. He gave the impression of a kind and stable person when you sat eye to eye with him, but he seemed to have made a total mess of his private life. Although Martin had been no angel in his swinging single days, now that he was living with someone he couldn't understand how anyone could betray his better half like that. What did Niclas tell Charlotte when he came home after being with Jeanette? How could he make his tone of voice sound natural? How could he look her in the eye after rolling around in bed with his lover only a few hours earlier? Martin simply couldn't understand it.
Niclas had displayed a temperament that was difficult to pinpoint. Martin had seen the look in his eyes when he turned up at his father's house earlier in the day. Niclas looked like he'd wanted to kill his father. God knows what might have happened if Martin hadn't shown up.
And yet. Despite Niclas's contradictory nature Martin didn't believe that he knowingly and willingly would have drowned his own daughter. And what would have been his motive for doing so?
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard footsteps in the corridor and saw Charlotte and Niclas hurry past. He was curious to know what the rush was.
Patrik appeared in the doorway, and Martin raised his eyebrows as he gave his colleague an inquiring look.
'It was Sara who hurt Albin,' Patrik said, sitting down in the visitor's chair.
Whatever Martin was expecting, it certainly wasn't that. 'How do we know they're telling the truth? Couldn't Niclas be trying to divert attention from himself?'
'Yeah, he could be, of course,' said Patrik wearily. 'But I have to say that I believe them. Even though we do have to substantiate their story. They gave me names and phone numbers of people we can contact. And Niclas's alibi does seem to hold up after all. He claims that Jeanette lied when she said he wasn't with her, as a way to get back at him after he dumped her. And there too I'm inclined to take him at his word, although naturally we'll have to have a serious talk with Jeanette.'
'What a screwed-up…' said Martin, and he didn't have to finish his sentence before Patrik agreed.
'Yes, humanity has not shown its noblest side in this investigation,' he said, shaking his head. 'And apropos that very subject, should we get started on that interview now?'
Martin nodded, took his notebook and got up to follow Patrik, who was already on his way out the door. To his back he said, 'By the way, have you heard anything from Pedersen yet? About the ashes on the little boy's shirt?'
'No,' replied Patrik without turning round. 'But they were going to shift into high gear and analyse both the shirt and Maja's overalls ASAP. I'd be willing to bet that they'll find the ashes came from the same source.'
'Whatever that may be,' said Martin.
'Yeah, whatever that may be.'
They entered the interrogation room and sat down across from Kaj. No one said a word at first as Patrik calmly leafed through his papers. He saw to his satisfaction that Kaj was nervously wringing his hands, and that tiny drops of sweat had formed on his upper lip. Good, he was scared. That would make the questioning easier. And considering how much evidence they'd gathered from the search of the house, Patrik didn't feel worried in the least. If only they had evidence this good in all their investigations, life would be much easier.
Then his mood shifted. He'd come to a photostat of the boy's suicide note, and it was an abrupt reminder of why they did this job, and who the man before them was. Patrik clenched his fists in determination. He looked at Kaj, who averted his eyes.
'We actually don't need to talk to you. We have plenty of evidence from the search of your house to put you behind lock and key for a long, long time. But we still want to give you a chance to explain your side of the story. Because that's the way we are. Nice guys.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' said Kaj in a quavering voice. 'This is a miscarriage of justice. You can't hold me here. I'm innocent.'
Patrik merely nodded sympathetically. 'You know, I almost believe you. And I might even do so if it weren't for these.' He took some photos out of his thick folder and pushed them over to Kaj. He was pleased to see Kaj first turn pale and then red. He gave Patrik a bewildered look.
'I told you we had skilled computer guys, didn't I?' Patrik said. 'And didn't I say that things don't disappear just because you delete them? You've been very efficient at erasing stuff from your computer, but unfortunately not efficient enough. We got hold of everything you downloaded and shared with your paedo-pals. Photos, email, video files. All of it. Lock, stock and barrel.'
Kaj opened and closed his mouth. It looked as though he was trying to shape words, but they stubbornly stuck to his tongue.
'Not so much to say now, is there? Two colleagues from Göteborg are coming here tomorrow and they'd like to talk to you as well. They consider our discoveries to be extremely interesting.'
Kaj didn't say a word, so Patrik continued, determined to shake him in some way. He detested the man in front of him; he detested everything he represented, everything he had done. But he didn't let it show. Calmly and in a matter-of-fact tone he went on talking to him as if discussing the weather, not child abuse. For a moment he considered taking up the matter of Sara's jacket directly, but decided at last to wait a while with that. Instead he leaned across the table, looked Kaj in the eye and said, 'Do you people ever think about the children who are your victims? Do you give them the slightest thought, or are you too wrapped up in satisfying your own needs?'
He hadn't expected a reply, nor did he get one. In the ensuing silence he went on, 'Do you know anything about what goes on inside a young boy's head when he comes up against somebody like you? Do you know what goes to pieces, what you steal from him?'
Only a slight twitch in Kaj's face showed that he'd heard him. Without taking his eyes off the man, Patrik took a sheet of paper and pushed it slowly across the table. At first Kaj refused to look down, but then he slowly lowered his gaze to the sheet of paper and began to read. With an incredulous expression on his face he looked at Patrik, who merely nodded grimly.
'Yes, that's precisely what it looks like it is. A suicide note. Sebastian Ryden took his life this morning. His stepfather found him hanging in the garage. I was there when they cut him down.'
'You're lying.' Kaj's hand shook as he picked up the letter. But Patrik could see that he knew it was true.
'Wouldn't it feel good to stop lying?' Patrik asked him softly. 'You must have cared for Sebastian, I'm sure of that - so do it for his sake. You can see what he wrote. He wanted it to end. You can end it.'
His tone was treacherously sympathetic. Patrik glanced quickly at Martin, who sat ready with his pen poised over his notebook. The tape recorder was humming like a little bumblebee in the room as well, but Martin was in the habit of always taking his own notes.
Kaj smoothed out the letter with his fingers and opened his mouth to say something. Martin held his pen, ready to start writing.
At that very instant Annika tore open the door.
'There's been an accident outside, hurry!'
Then she ran off down the hall. After a second of shocked silence, Patrik and Martin ran after her.
At the last moment Patrik remembered to lock the door. They'd have to resume with Kaj later. He only hoped that the moment hadn't passed them by.
Mellberg couldn't deny that he felt a bit worried. It had only been a couple of days, of cour
se, but he didn't sense that they had any real father-son contact yet. Sure, maybe he should be a little more patient, but he really didn't think he was getting the appreciation he deserved. The respect due a father. The unconditional love that all parents spoke of, perhaps combined with a little healthy fear. The boy seemed absolutely indifferent. He loafed about on Mellberg's sofa all day long, eating enormous quantities of crisps and playing his video games. Mellberg couldn't understand where he'd got such a slacker attitude. It must be from his mother. Mellberg could remember being a bundle of energy as a youth. Even with the best effort he couldn't actually recall the achievements in sports he must have made - in fact he couldn't summon up a single memory of himself in any sort of sports context - but he ascribed that failing to the toll of time. His image of himself as a youth was definitely that of a muscular boy with a spring in his step.
He looked at the clock. Not yet noon. His fingers drummed impatiently on the desktop. Maybe he ought to go home instead and spend a little quality time with Simon. It would probably make the boy happy. When Mellberg thought about it, he realized that his son was probably just shy. Inside he was undoubtedly longing for his pappa, who had been absent for so long, to come and drag him out of his shell. That must be it. Mellberg sighed with relief. It was lucky that he understood kids, otherwise he probably would have given up by now and let the boy sit there on the sofa feeling miserable. But Simon would soon find how lucky he was in the father lottery.
With great enthusiasm Mellberg pulled on his jacket, thinking about what they might dream up as a suitable father-son activity. Unfortunately there wasn't much for two real men to do in this Godforsaken hole. If they'd been in Göteborg he could have taken his son on his first visit to a strip club, or taught him about roulette. As it was, he didn't quite know what they should do. Oh well, he'd think of something.
As he passed Hedström's door he thought that it was damned unpleasant about what happened to his daughter. It was another sign that you never knew when something might occur, and it was best to enjoy your children while there was still time. With that in mind he convinced himself that nobody would blame him for going home early today.
Whistling, he walked towards the reception, but stopped short when he saw doors flying open and his men running towards the front entrance. Something was going on, and as usual nobody had bothered to tell him.
'What's going on?' he shouted to Gösta, who wasn't as fast as the others and was bringing up the rear.
'Somebody's been run over right outside.'
'Oh shit,' said Mellberg, and he also started running as best he could.
Right outside the entrance he stopped. A big black mini-van stood in the middle of the street. A man who was probably the driver was wandering about holding his head. The air bag had deployed on the driver's side, and he looked uninjured but confused. In front of the vehicle a heap lay in the street. Patrik and Annika were kneeling next to it, while Martin tried to calm the driver. Ernst stood a bit to the side, with his long arms hanging down and his face as white as a sheet. Gösta joined him, and Mellberg saw them talking quietly with each other. Gösta's worried expression bothered Mellberg. He got an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.
'Did anyone call an ambulance?' he asked, and Annika answered yes. Awkward and unsure what to do next, he went over to Ernst and Gösta. 'What happened? Do you know?'
An ominous silence from both of them told him that he wasn't going to like the answer. He saw that Ernst was blinking nervously, so Mellberg fixed his gaze on him.
'Well, is anyone going to answer, or do I have to drag it out of you?'
'It was an accident,' said Ernst in a shrill voice.
'Could you give me some details about this "accident"?' Mellberg asked, still glaring at his subordinate.
'I was just going to ask him some questions, and he flipped out. He was a total fucking psycho, that guy. I couldn't help it, could I?' Ernst raised his voice belligerently in a desperate attempt to take control of the situation that had so suddenly slipped out of his hands.
The ominous feeling in Mellberg's stomach grew. He looked at the heap lying in the street.
'Who is it lying under that vehicle, Ernst? Tell me.' He was whispering, almost snarling the words, and that more than anything else told Ernst what deep shit he was in.
Taking a deep breath he whispered, 'Morgan. Morgan Wiberg.'
'What the fuck are you saying?' roared Mellberg so loud that both Ernst and Gösta shrank back, and Patrik and Annika turned round.
'Did you know about this, Hedström?' asked Mellberg.
Patrik shook his head grimly. 'No, I didn't give any instructions for Morgan to be brought in for questioning.'
'So-o-o, you thought you'd show off a little.' Mellberg had lowered his voice to a treacherously calm tone.
'You said that we should look at the idiot first. And unlike certain colleagues,' Ernst nodded in Patrik's direction, 'I have complete confidence in your opinion and always listen to what you say.'
In a normal situation flattery would have been the proper path to take, but this time Ernst had made such a mess of things that not even compliments could make Mellberg favourably disposed towards him.
'Did I specifically say that Morgan should be brought in? Well, did I say that?'
Ernst seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then whispered, 'No.'
'All right then,' Mellberg yelled. 'Now where the hell is the fucking ambulance? Are they taking a coffee break on the way, or what?'
He felt his frustration flying in all directions, and it didn't help when Hedström said calmly, 'I don't think they need to hurry. He hasn't breathed since we got here. I think death was instantaneous.'
Mellberg shut his eyes. In his mind he saw his whole career slipping away. All the years of hard work… maybe not with the daily police work, but with navigating the political jungle and staying on good terms with those who had influence while stepping on those who might put obstacles in his way. All this rendered meaningless because of a stupid fucking hick cop.
Slowly he turned back to Ernst. In an icy voice he said, 'You are suspended pending investigation. And if I were you, I wouldn't expect to be coming back.'
'But, sir…' said Ernst, preparing to protest. He shut up abruptly when Mellberg raised his index finger in the air.
'Shut up,' was all he said, and with that Ernst knew that the game was lost. He might as well just go home.
* * *
GÖTEBORG 1957
Agnes stretched out lazily in the big bed. There was something about the glow right after making love with a man that made her feel alive and vibrant. She looked at Per-Erik's broad back as he sat on the edge of the bed pulling on his well-pressed suit trousers.
'Well, when are you going to tell Elisabeth?' she said, scrutinizing her red-painted fingernails for imperfections. She found none. The lack of a reply from him made her look up from her nails.
'Per-Erik?'
He cleared his throat. 'I think it's a bit early. It's hardly been a month since Äke died, and what would people say if…' he let the rest of the sentence remain unspoken.
'I thought that what we have meant more to you than what "people" might think,' she said with a sharpness he hadn't heard before.
'It does, darling, it does. I just think we ought to… wait a little,' he said, turning to caress her bare legs.
Agnes gave him a suspicious look. His expression was inscrutable. It bothered her that she could never really read him, the way she'd always been able to read other men. Yet that might be why, for the first time in her life, she felt that she'd met a man who could live up to her expectations. And it was about time. Of course she looked extremely good for fifty-three, but the years had brought unwelcome changes even for her. Soon she might not be able to rely on her looks any longer. The thought frightened her, and that's why it was so important for Per-Erik to keep all the promises he'd made to her. During the years their relationship had lasted, she had always been the on
e who was in control. At least that was how she viewed it. But for the first time Agnes felt a pang of doubt. Maybe she had let herself be duped. She hoped for his sake that wasn't the case.
* * *
Harald Spjuth was content with his life as a pastor. But as a human being he sometimes felt a little lonesome. Although he was forty years old, he had not yet found anyone to share his life with, and that was something that pained him deeply Perhaps his pastor's collar had created an obstacle, because nothing in his personality indicated that he would have any difficulties in finding love. He was a genuinely pleasant and good person, even if those might not be the terms he would use to describe himself, since he was also both humble and shy. Nor could his looks be blamed for his loneliness. While he didn't exactly qualify as a cinema hero up on the silver screen, he had pleasant features and a full head of hair. He also possessed the enviable trait of never gaining an ounce despite his fondness for good food and the many coffee klatsches that life as a pastor in a small town entailed. And yet things hadn't really gone his way.
But Harald had not despaired. He wondered what his congregation would say if they knew how industrious he had been when it came to placing personals ads recently. After trying both square dancing and cooking courses with no success, he had sat down in the late spring and written his first classified ad. Since then things had just rolled along. He hadn't met the love of his life yet, but he had gone to several enjoyable lunch meetings and had acquired a couple of very nice pen pals in the bargain. At home on the kitchen table lay three more letters waiting for him to have time to read them. But duty first.
He'd been to visit some of the elderly folks who appreciated the opportunity to chat for a while and often passed by the parsonage on their way to church. Many of his more ambitious colleagues would probably have thought that the congregation was a trifle too small, but Harald was flourishing. The yellow parsonage was a lovely home, and he was always struck by how imposing the church was as he walked up the little hill on the tree-lined lane. When he passed the old church school that stood across from the parsonage, he reflected for a moment over the vitriolic debate that had flared up in town. An estate developer wanted to tear down the extremely dilapidated building and put up a block of flats. But the project had immediately generated a number of articles written in protest, as well as letters to the editor from people who wanted the building to be preserved as it was at any cost. In a way Harald could understand both sides, but it was still remarkable that most of the opponents were not year-round residents but summer visitors with residences in Fjällbacka. Naturally they wanted their retreat to remain as gloriously picturesque and cute as possible. They enjoyed wandering about town on the weekends and counted themselves fortunate that they had such a pleasant refuge far from the workaday world in the big city. The only problem was that a town that did not develop would die sooner or later; the image couldn't be frozen for ever. Flats were needed, and it was impossible to make everything in Fjällbacka a national landmark without affecting the very lifeblood of the town. Tourism was fine, of course, but there was a life after summertime as well, Harald reflected as he ambled up the hill towards the church.
The Stone Cutter Page 38