The Stone Cutter

by Camilla Lackberg

  The prosecutor still seemed dubious, and Patrik felt irritation creeping over him. With a hint of sharpness in his voice he said, 'We're investigating the homicide of a child, and another person's life may be at risk. This is not a request that I make lightly. I'm doing so after careful consideration and only because the continued progress of the investigation requires it. So I'm counting on your office to pull out all the stops to process this as fast as humanly possible. I would like a reply before lunch. Regarding both matters.'

  Then he hung up and hoped that his little outburst wouldn't have the opposite effect and put the brakes on the whole thing. But that was the chance he had to take.

  With the worst task behind him, he made a third call. Pedersen sounded tired when he answered. 'Hello, Hedström,' he said.

  'Good morning, good morning. Sounds like you had to work last night.'

  'Yes, things really piled up here in the wee hours. But we're about to see the end of it, just some paperwork left and then I'm out of here.'

  'Sounds like a rough night,' said Patrik and felt a little guilty because he'd rung the M.E. to nag him after what had obviously been a really tough shift.

  'I assume you want the test results from the ashes on the shirt and overalls. I actually got them in late yesterday afternoon, but then things got crazy here.' He gave an exhausted sigh. 'Did I hear right that the overalls belong to your daughter?'

  'Yes, that's right,' said Patrik. 'We had a nasty incident at home the other day, but thank goodness she wasn't hurt.'

  'That's good to hear,' said Pedersen. 'I can understand why you're on pins and needles waiting for the result.'

  'I won't deny it. But I actually didn't think that you'd have the results back already. So, what did you find out?'

  Pedersen cleared his throat. 'Let's see… Yes, there doesn't seem to be any doubt. The composition of the ashes is identical with those we found in the girl's lungs.'

  Patrik exhaled and then realized how tense he had been. 'So that's it, then.'

  'That's it,' said Pedersen.

  'Were you able to confirm the origin of the ashes? Are they from an animal or a human being?'

  'Unfortunately we're not able to determine that. The remains have decayed too much, and the ash is too fine. With a bigger sample we might be able to trace it, but

  'I'll wait for the news from a house search we're doing. Looking for the ashes is at the top of our list. If we find them, I'll send some over at once for analysis. Maybe you can find some larger particles,' Patrik said hopefully.

  'Sure, but don't count on it,' said Pedersen.

  'I don't count on anything any longer. But I can always hope.'

  With the formalities taken care of, Patrik drummed his feet impatiently on the floor. Before the decision arrived from the prosecutor there wasn't much of a practical nature he could accomplish. But he knew that he wouldn't be able to sit in his office for a couple of hours twiddling his thumbs.

  He'd heard the others show up at work one by one, so he decided to call a meeting. They all had to be brought up to date, and he realized that more than one of his colleagues would probably raise an eyebrow at what he had set in motion last night and this morning.

  He was right. He got a lot of questions. Patrik replied as best he could, but there was still so much he couldn't explain. Way too much.

  Charlotte rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She and Lilian had each been given a bed in a little room near the intensive care unit, but neither of them got much sleep. Since Charlotte hadn't brought anything with her from home, she'd slept in her clothes, and she felt incredibly rumpled and grubby when she sat up and began to stretch.

  'Have you got a comb?' she asked her mother, who had also sat up.

  'Yes, I think so,' said Lilian, digging in her worn handbag. She found one in the very bottom and handed it to Charlotte.

  In the bathroom Charlotte stood in front of the mirror and studied herself critically. The light was mercilessly bright, clearly showing the dark circles under her eyes, and her hair stood on end in an odd, psychedelic hairdo. She carefully combed out the tangles until her hair had more or less regained her normal style. At the same time, everything to do with her appearance seemed so meaningless now. Sara kept hovering in the periphery of her vision, holding her heart in an iron grip.

  Her stomach growled, but before she went down to the cafeteria she wanted to get hold of a doctor who could tell her how Stig was doing. Every time she heard footsteps outside the door during the night she had woken up, prepared to see a doctor come in with a serious expression on his face. No one had disturbed them, so she assumed that no news was good news in this case. But she still wanted to hear something, so she went out in the corridor, wondering which way to go. A nurse who passed by showed her the way to the staff lounge.

  She pondered whether she should turn on her mobile and ring home to Niclas first, but decided to wait until after she talked to the doctor. He and Albin were probably still asleep, and she didn't want to risk waking them too early. Then Albin would be in a grumpy mood the rest of the day.

  She stuck her head in the doorway that the nurse pointed out and cleared her throat quietly. A tall man sat drinking coffee and leafing through a magazine. From what Niclas had said it was unusual for a doctor to be able to sit down even for a moment, and she felt almost embarrassed at bothering him. Then Charlotte reminded herself why she was here and cleared her throat a little louder. This time he heard her and turned with an inquiring glance.

  'Yes?'

  'Excuse me, but my stepfather, Stig Florin, was admitted yesterday and we haven't heard anything since late last night. Do you know how he's doing?'

  Was she imagining things, or did the doctor get a strange look on his face? If so, it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  'Stig Florin? Oh yes, we stabilized his vital signs during the night and he's awake now.'

  'He is?' said Charlotte, beaming with joy. 'Could we go in and see him? My mother's here too.'

  Once again that strange expression. Charlotte was starting to get uneasy despite the good news. Was there something he wasn't telling her?'

  The reply came hesitantly. 'I… I don't think it's a very good idea just yet. He's still weak and needs to rest.'

  'Yes, but you could let my mother in for a moment, couldn't you? It couldn't hurt, and it might even help. They're very close.'

  'I can imagine,' said the doctor. 'But I'm afraid you'll have to wait. Right now nobody is being let in to see Mr Florin.'

  'But why…?'

  'You'll just have to wait,' the doctor said brusquely, and she began to get really annoyed with him. Didn't they have to undergo some sort of training in medical school about how to handle relatives? He was on the verge of being rude. He could thank his lucky stars that she was the one who had come to talk to him and not Lilian. If he'd treated her mother like this, he would have got such a talking-to that his ears would have fallen off. Charlotte knew that she herself was altogether too compliant in these types of situations, so she merely muttered something and then retreated to the corridor.

  She thought about what she was going to say to her mother. Something had felt very odd. Things weren't as they should be, but she couldn't for the life of her understand what was wrong. Maybe Niclas could explain. She decided to take the risk and wake them up at home. She dialled the number on her mobile. Hopefully he'd be able to reassure her. She already sensed that she was probably imagining things.

  After the meeting Patrik got into his car and drove to Uddevalla. It had felt impossible just to sit and wait; he had to do something. The whole way there he kept turning over his options in his mind. They were all equally unpleasant.

  He'd been given directions to the ICU, but still got lost a couple of times before he found it. Why should it be so damned hard to find his way in a hospital? It must have to do with his unusually lousy sense of direction. Erica was the navigator in the family. Sometimes he thought she had some kind of sixth sense
for steering them in the right direction.

  He stopped a nurse. 'I'm looking for Rolf Wiesel. Where can I find him?'

  She pointed down the corridor. A tall man in a white coat was walking away from him, and he called out, 'Doctor Wiesel?'

  The man turned round. 'Yes?'

  Patrik hurried up to him and held out his hand. 'Patrik Hedström, Tanumshede Police. We spoke last night.'

  'Ah, yes,' said the doctor, pumping Patrik's hand. 'You rang in the nick of time, I have to say. We wouldn't have had any idea what sort of treatment to use otherwise, and without the right treatment we probably would have lost him.'

  'I'm so glad I could help,' said Patrik, feeling embarrassed by the man's enthusiasm. But a little proud too. It wasn't every day he saved somebody's life.

  'Come with me,' said Dr Wiesel, gesturing towards a door that led to the staff lounge. The doctor went first and Patrik followed.

  'Would you like some coffee?'

  'Yes, please,' said Patrik, realizing that he'd forgotten to get a cup at the station. There had been so many thoughts buzzing round in his head that he'd even missed such a crucial part of his morning routine.

  They sat down at the sticky kitchen table and sipped their coffee, which tasted almost as bad as the coffee at the station.

  'Sorry, I think it's been sitting in the pot too long,' said Dr Wiesel, but Patrik raised his hand as a sign that it didn't matter.

  'So, how did you reach the conclusion that our patient had arsenic poisoning?' the doctor asked with curiosity. Patrik told him how he'd been watching a programme on the Discovery Channel and then put it together with certain information he'd received earlier.

  'Well, it's not the most common toxin, which is why we had a hard time identifying it,' said Dr Wiesel, shaking his head.

  'How does the prognosis look now?'

  'He'll survive. But he'll suffer the after-effects for the rest of his life. He's probably been ingesting arsenic for a long time, and it seems as though the last dose he got was massive. But we'll be able to determine that later.'

  'By analysing his hair and nails?' said Patrik, who had gleaned that much from the programme last night.

  'Yes, precisely. Arsenic remains in the body in the hair and nails.

  By analysing the quantity and comparing it with the speed at which hair and nails grow, we can see almost exactly when he received the doses of arsenic and even how big they were.'

  'And you've seen to it that he has no visitors?'

  'Yes, we did that last night when we confirmed that it was indeed arsenic poisoning. No visitors are allowed at all, except the relevant medical personnel. His stepdaughter was just here and asked after him. I told her only that his condition was stable and that they couldn't see him yet.'

  'Good,' said Patrik.

  'Do you know who did it?' the doctor asked cautiously.

  Patrik thought for a moment before he replied. 'We have our suspicions. Hopefully we'll have them confirmed today.'

  'I hope so. Anyone capable of something like this shouldn't be on the loose. Arsenic poisoning causes particularly painful symptoms before the onset of death. The victim goes through terrible suffering.'

  'So I understand,' said Patrik grimly. 'I hear there's a disease that can be mistaken for arsenic poisoning.'

  The doctor nodded. 'Guillain-Barre, yes. The body's own immune system begins to attack the nerves and destroys the myelin sheath. That produces very similar symptoms to arsenic poisoning. If you hadn't phoned us it's not too far-fetched to believe that we might have come up with that diagnosis.'

  Patrik smiled. 'Well, it's nice to get lucky sometimes.' Then he turned serious again. 'But as I said, make sure that no one is allowed in his room. Then we'll do our job as best we can this afternoon.'

  They shook hands, and Patrik went back out to the corridor. He thought for a moment that he glimpsed Charlotte in the distance. Then the door closed behind him.

  * * *

  GÖTEBORG 1958

  It was on a Tuesday when her life reached its absolute nadir. A cold, grey, foggy Tuesday in November that would be eternally imprinted in her memory. Although actually she didn't remember very many details. She mostly recalled that friends of her father came and told her that Mother had done something terrible and that Mary would have to go with the lady from social welfare. She had seen in their faces that they felt qualms of conscience that they couldn't take her home with them at least for a few days. But none of Father's snooty friends probably wanted to have such a disgustingly fat girl like herself in their homes. So in the absence of any relatives, she'd had to pack a bag with the bare necessities and go with the little old lady who came to collect her.

  The years that followed she later remembered only in her dreams. Not really nightmares; she actually had no reason to complain about the three foster homes where she ended up until she turned eighteen. But they left her with an all-consuming feeling that she meant nothing to anyone, other than as a curiosity. For that was what a girl became if she was fourteen, obscenely fat, and the daughter of a murderess. Her various foster parents had neither the desire nor the energy to get to know the girl who had been assigned to them by social welfare. On the other hand, they had nothing against gossiping about her mother when their curiosity- seeking friends and acquaintances came to visit to gawk at Mary. She hated every last one of them.

  Most of all she hated Mother. Hated her because she had abandoned her only daughter. Hated her because Mary had meant so little to her compared with a man; she was prepared to sacrifice everything for him, but nothing for her daughter. When she thought about what she'd sacrificed for Mother, the humiliation felt even greater. Mother had merely been using her, she saw that now. During her fourteenth year she also understood what she should have realized long ago. That Mother had never loved her. She had tried to convince herself that what Mother said was true. That she did what she did because she loved Mary. The beatings, the cellar, and the spoonfuls of Humility. But it wasn't true. Mother had enjoyed hurting Mary because she really despised her and laughed at her behind her back.

  That's why Mary had chosen to take only one thing with her from home. They had let her go around the flat for an hour to select a few things; the rest would be sold, just like the flat. She had wandered through the rooms as the memories passed through her mind: Father in his easy chair with his glasses on the tip of his nose, deeply engrossed in a newspaper; Mother at her dressing table, busy getting ready for a party; herself, sneaking down to the kitchen to try and find something to stuff in her mouth. All the images came over Mary as if in a crazy kaleidoscope, and she felt her stomach turn over. The next second she rushed to the toilet and vomited up a foul-smelling mess that brought tears to her eyes. Sniffling she wiped off her mouth with the back of her hand, sat down with her back to the wall and cried with her head between her knees.

  When she left the flat she only took along a single thing. The blue wooden spoon. Full of Humility.

  * * *

  No one had voiced any objections to Niclas taking a day off. Aina had even muttered something to the effect that it was about time, and then cancelled all his appointments for the day.

  Niclas crawled about on the floor chasing Albin, who was running around like mad among all the things scattered on the floor. He was still dressed in pyjamas although it was past noon. But it didn't matter. It was going to be one of those days; even Niclas was still dressed in the same T-shirt and jogging trousers he'd slept in. Albin laughed heartily in a way Niclas had never heard him do before, which made him crawl even faster after him and roughhouse even more.

  With a pang in his chest he realized that he had no memory of himself playing with Sara the same way. He had always been so busy. So full of his own importance and everything he wanted to do and achieve. Feeling a little superior, he had left all that playing and fooling around with the kids to Charlotte, who did it so well. But for the first time he wondered whether he wasn't the one who'd drawn the blank lot.
Something suddenly occurred to him that made him stop short and take a quick breath. He didn't know what Sara's favourite game had been. Or what kids' show she most liked to watch on TV, or if she liked colouring with a blue or red crayon. Or what was her favourite subject in school, or which book she most liked for Charlotte to read to her at bedtime. He knew nothing of importance about his daughter. Absolutely nothing. She could just as well have been the neighbours' daughter, judging by how little he knew about her. The only thing he thought he'd known was that she was difficult, obstinate and aggressive. That she hurt her little brother, destroyed things in their home, and attacked her schoolmates. But none of those things had been Sara - they were just things she did.

  The realization made him curl up on the floor in torment. Now it was too late to get to know her. She was gone.

  Albin seemed to feel that something was wrong. He stopped his wild hooting, crept close to Niclas and curled up like a little animal against his body. Then they lay there, next to each other.

  Several minutes later the doorbell rang. Niclas gave a start and Albin looked around nervously.

  'Don't worry,' said Niclas to him. 'It's probably just some stranger selling something.'

  He picked the boy up and went to open the door. Outside stood Patrik with some unfamiliar men behind him.

  'What it is now?' said Niclas wearily.

  'We have a warrant to search the house,' said Patrik, holding out a document as proof.

  'But you've already been here once,' said Niclas, bewildered, as he scanned the document. When he was halfway through his eyes grew wide and he gave Patrik a confused look. 'What the hell is this? Attempted murder of Stig Florin? You've got to be kidding.'