The Stonecutter: A Novel (Pegasus Crime)

by Camilla Lackberg

  Annika gave Patrik a questioning look when he and Martin passed the reception desk, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He just wanted to go to his office and close the door. They ran into Ernst Lundgren in the corridor, but he didn’t say anything either, so Patrik quickly slipped into the silence of his little den and Martin did the same. There was nothing in their professional training that could have helped prepare any of them for situations like this. Informing someone of a death was one of the most odious tasks of their profession. Informing parents of the death of a child was worse than anything else. It defied all sense and all decency. No one should have to be forced to deliver such news. Especially not to a friend.

  Patrik sat down at his desk, rested his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. Soon he opened his eyes again, because all he could see in the dark behind his eyelids was Sara’s bluish, pale skin and her eyes staring unseeing at the sky. Instead he picked up the picture frame that stood before him and brought the glass as close to his face as possible. The first picture of Maja. Exhausted and bruised, resting in Erica’s arms in the maternity ward. Ugly, yet beautiful in a way that only new parents can understand. And Erica, worn out but smiling feebly with a new sense of resolve and pride at having accomplished something that could only be described as a miracle.

  Patrik knew that he was being sentimental and maudlin. But it was only now, this morning, that he had understood the scope of the responsibility that had been placed in his hands with his daughter’s birth. Only now did he realize the extent of both his love and his fear. When he saw the drowned girl lying like a statue on the deck of the boat, for a moment he wished that Maja had never been born. Because how could he live with the risk of losing her?

  He put the photograph carefully back on his desk and leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. It suddenly felt utterly meaningless to continue with the tasks he’d been working on before they got the call from Fjällbacka. Most of all he wanted to drive home, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over his head for the rest of the day. A knock on the door interrupted his dismal ruminations. He called, ‘Come in!’ and Annika cautiously pushed open the door.

  ‘Hi, Patrik, excuse me for disturbing you. But I just wanted to tell you that Forensic Medicine called and said they’d received the body. We’ll have the autopsy report the day after tomorrow.’

  Patrik gave a weary nod. ‘Thanks, Annika.’

  She hesitated. ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve met the girl, Sara, and her mother a few times recently. Charlotte and Erica have been spending a good deal of time together since Maja was born.’

  ‘How do you think it happened?’

  He sighed and fidgeted absently with the papers before him without looking up. ‘She drowned, as I’m sure you heard. Apparently she went down to the wharf to play, fell in the water, and then couldn’t get out. The water is so cold that she probably got hypothermia very quickly. But driving out to tell Charlotte, that was the most terrible …’ His voice broke and he turned away so that Annika wouldn’t see his tears.

  She tactfully closed the door to his office and left him in peace. She wasn’t going to get much done on a day like this, either.

  Erica looked at the clock again. Charlotte should have been here half an hour ago. She carefully shifted Maja, who was snoozing at her breast, and reached for the telephone. It rang many times at Charlotte’s house, but no one answered. How odd. She must have gone out and forgotten that they were supposed to get together that afternoon. Although that really wasn’t like her, and besides, the storm was picking up outside.

  Erica felt that they had become close friends quite quickly. Maybe because they both were in a fragile time of their lives, maybe because they had so much in common. It was funny, really. She and Charlotte seemed more like sisters than she and Anna ever had. She knew that Charlotte worried about her, and that helped her feel secure in the midst of all the chaos. Her whole life, Erica had worried about other people, especially Anna, so to be viewed for once as the person who needed protection felt strangely liberating.

  Still, she knew that Charlotte had her own problems. It wasn’t just that she and her family were forced to live with Charlotte’s parents—though Lilian especially didn’t seem easy to live with—but a tension came over Charlotte’s face each time she talked about her husband, too. Erica had only met Niclas briefly on a few occasions, but her spontaneous impression was that there was something unreliable about the man. Or perhaps unreliable was too strong a word. Maybe it was more a feeling that Niclas was one of those people who has good intentions but in the end will always allow his own needs and desires to take precedence over everyone else’s. Charlotte had told her a few things that had confirmed this impression, even though she mostly had to read between the lines, since her friend usually spoke adoringly of her husband. Charlotte looked up to Niclas and occasionally even said straight out that she couldn’t understand how she had been so lucky. It seemed inconceivable to her that she was married to someone like him.

  Physically, it was true that Niclas was more attractive than Charlotte. Women were invariably drawn to the tall, blond, and handsome new doctor. And he had certainly had an extensive academic background, unlike his wife. But Erica knew that if one looked at their inner qualities, it was Niclas who was lucky to have found someone like Charlotte. She was a loving, wise, gentle human being, and as soon as Erica managed to pull herself out of this listless state she was going to do everything she could to help her friend appreciate her own strong points. Unfortunately, though, at the moment Erica had no extra energy.

  A couple of hours later darkness had fallen, and the storm had reached full force outside her window. Erica realized she must have dozed off for an hour or two with Maja, who was still passed out on her breast. She was just about to reach for the phone to call Charlotte again when she heard the front door open.

  ‘Hello?’ she called. Patrik wasn’t due home for an hour or two, so perhaps it was Charlotte who finally saw fit to show up.

  ‘It’s me.’ Patrik’s voice had an empty sound to it, and Erica was instantly uneasy.

  When he entered the living room she grew even more concerned. His face was gray, and his eyes had a dead expression that didn’t vanish until he caught sight of Maja, asleep in Erica’s arms. With two long strides he came over to them, and before Erica could react he had swept up the sleeping baby, pressing her hard to his chest. He didn’t even stop when Maja woke up from the shock of being picked up so abruptly and started shrieking.

  ‘What are you doing? You’re scaring her!’

  Erica tried to take the screaming baby from Patrik to calm her down, but he fended off her attempt and just hugged the infant even harder. Maja was now screaming hysterically, and, at a loss, Erica slapped him on the arm and said, ‘Stop that! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you see that she’s terrified?’

  Finally Patrik snapped out of it. He cast a confused look at his daughter, whose face was bright red from anger and fright.

  ‘Sorry.’ He handed Maja over to Erica, who did her best to soothe the baby. After a few minutes Maja’s screams gave way to low sobs. Erica looked at Patrik, who had collapsed onto the sofa and was staring out at the storm.

  ‘What’s happened, Patrik?’ said Erica. She was trying for a kinder tone, but she couldn’t prevent a hint of uneasiness from creeping into her voice.

  ‘We got a report of a drowned child today. From here in Fjällbacka. Martin and I took the call.’ He paused, unable to go on.

  ‘Oh my God, what happened? Who was it?’

  Before he could answer her thoughts began whirling until they all fell into place at once, like tiny puzzle pieces.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she repeated. ‘It’s Sara, isn’t it? Charlotte was supposed to come over for coffee this afternoon, but she never showed up and there was no answer when I called her at home. That’s it, isn’t it? It was Sara you found, right?’

  Patrik could only nod.
Erica sank into the easy chair to prevent her legs from buckling under her. Before her she could see Sara jumping on their living room sofa as recently as two days ago. With her long red hair flying about her head and laughter bubbling up inside her like an unstoppable primal force.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Erica said again, putting her hand to her mouth as she felt her heart sink. Patrik just stared out of the window, and she saw in profile his jaws clenching tight.

  ‘It was so horrible, Erica. I haven’t seen Sara that many times, but seeing her lying there in that boat, totally lifeless … I kept picturing Maja. Since then my thoughts have been churning. I can’t stop imagining if something like that happened to Maja. And then having to tell Charlotte what happened …’

  Erica uttered a whimpering, tormented sound. She had no words to describe the depth of the sympathy she felt for Charlotte, and Niclas too. She understood at once Patrik’s reaction, and found herself holding Maja even closer. She was never going to let her go. She would sit here holding her tight, keeping her safe, for ever. But Maja squirmed restlessly, intuiting that something was wrong.

  Outside, the storm continued to rage. Patrik and Erica sat in silence for a long time, watching the wild play of nature, and thinking about the child who was taken by the sea.

  Medical examiner Tord Pedersen began his task feeling unusually resolute. After many years in his profession, he had developed a toughness—either admirable or loathsome, depending on how one wanted to view it—that meant that most of the ghastly things he observed left little trace at the end of the day. But there was something about cutting open a child that conflicted with a primal instinct and disrupted all routine, undermining his hardened professionalism. His hand shook a bit as he moved it toward the girl’s chest.

  When she was brought in, he had been told that drowning was the presumed cause of death. So far, there was nothing he could see with the naked eye to contradict that hypothesis, but he would soon be able to formally confirm or reject it.

  The mercilessly bright glare in the post-mortem room emphasized the girl’s blue pallor so that it looked like she was frozen. The cold aluminum table beneath her seemed to reflect the cold, and Pedersen shivered in his green scrubs. She was naked as she lay there, and he felt as though he were violating her as he prized open the flesh and cut into the defenseless body. But he forced himself to go on. He knew that the task he was performing was important, both for the girl and her parents, even if they didn’t realize it themselves. It was necessary for the grieving process to have a final determination of the cause of death. Even though there didn’t seem to be any ambiguities in this case, the rules were in place for a reason. He knew this on a professional level; but as a human being and father with two boys at home, he sometimes wondered in cases like this how much humanity there was in the work he was doing.

  4

  Strömstad 1923

  ‘Agnes, I have nothing but tedious meetings today. It’s not a good idea for you to come along.’

  ‘But I want to go with you today. I’m so bored. There’s nothing to do.’

  ‘What about your girlfriends?’

  ‘They’re all busy,’ Agnes replied, sulking. ‘Britta’s getting ready for her wedding, Laila’s going to Halden with her parents to visit her brother, and Sonja has to help her mother.’ Sadly she added, ‘Imagine having a mother to help …’

  He sighed. ‘Well, then, come along if you like. But you have to promise to sit still and be quiet, and not run about like a whirlwind talking to the staff. The last time, you completely confused those poor old men; it took them several days to get over it.’ He couldn’t help smiling at his daughter. She was unruly, certainly, but a more dazzling girl could not be found on this side of the Norwegian border.

  Agnes gave a happy laugh and rewarded her father with a hug and a pat on his big belly.

  ‘Nobody has a father like mine,’ she cooed, and August Stjernkvist chuckled with pleasure.

  ‘What would I do without you?’ he said half in earnest, half in jest, pulling her close.

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘No, not at the moment, anyway,’ he said somberly, caressing her hair. ‘But it won’t be long before some man is going to come and steal you away from me. If you can find one who’s good enough, that is,’ he laughed. ‘Up until now it’s been slim pickings, I must say.’

  ‘Well, I can’t just take any man who comes along,’ Agnes laughed in reply. ‘Not with the example I’ve had. So it’s no wonder I’m particular.’

  ‘Look here, my girl, enough flattery,’ August preened. ‘Get a move on if you’re coming with me to the office. It wouldn’t do for the boss to arrive late.’

  Despite his admonishing words it took almost an hour before they were on their way. First there was the whole business of tending to her hair and clothes, but by the time Agnes was ready, her father had to admit that the result was worth it. So they arrived at the office half an hour late.

  ‘I’m sorry for the delay,’ said August as he swept into the room where three men were sitting and waiting. ‘But I hope you’ll forgive me when you see the reason for my tardiness.’ He gestured toward Agnes, who was close behind him. She was wearing a red dress that clung to her body and accentuated her slim waist. Although many girls had bobbed their hair according to the new fashion, Agnes had been smart enough to resist the temptation. Her thick black hair was done up in a simple chignon at her neck. She was well aware of the impression she made, thanks to the mirror at home. Now she exploited it fully as she paused in front of the men, slowly removed her gloves, and then let them shake her hand, one by one.

  She enjoyed the effect. Two of them sat there gaping like fish and holding on to her hand a trifle too long. But the third man was different. To her astonishment, Agnes felt her heart give a leap. The big, burly man hardly looked up at her and only took her hand quite briefly. The hands of the other two men had felt soft and almost feminine against hers, but this man’s hand was different. She could feel the calluses scraping against her palm, and his fingers were long and strong. For a moment she considered not letting go of his hand, but she caught herself and merely nodded to him demurely. His eyes, which only looked into hers fleetingly, were brown, and she guessed there was Walloon blood in his family.

  After the introductions, she hurried to sit down on a chair in the corner and clasped her hands in her lap. She could see that her father hesitated for a moment. He probably would rather have sent her out of the room, but she put on her most angelic expression, and wordlessly he nodded that she could stay. She decided for a change to sit quietly so as not to risk being sent out of the room like a child. She didn’t want to be subjected to that sort of treatment in front of this man.

  Normally, after an hour of silence she would have been almost in tears from boredom, but not this time. The hour flew past as she watched the men discussing business, and by the time the meeting was over, Agnes was sure of her cause. She wanted this man, more than she had ever wanted anything else.

  And what she wanted, she usually got.

  ‘Shouldn’t we visit Niclas?’ Asta implored her husband. But she saw no sign of sympathy in his stony expression.

  ‘I told you his name must never be mentioned in my house again!’ Arne stared hard out of the kitchen window, and there was nothing but granite in his gaze.

  ‘But after what happened to the girl …’

  ‘God’s punishment. Didn’t I tell you that would happen someday? No, this is all his own fault. If he’d listened to me it never would have happened. Nothing bad happens to God-fearing people. And now we shall speak no more of this!’ His fist slammed the table.

  Asta sighed to herself. Of course she respected her husband, and he did usually know best, but in this case she wondered if he might not be wrong. Something in her heart told her that this couldn’t be consistent with God’s wishes. Surely they should rush to their son’s side after such a terrible tragedy.
True, she had never gotten to know her granddaughter, but she was still their own flesh and blood, and children did belong to the kingdom of God, that’s what it said in the Bible. But these were only the thoughts of a lowly woman. Arne was a man, after all, and he knew best. It had always been that way. So, as usual, she kept her thoughts to herself and got up to clear the table.

  Too many years had passed since she had spoken to her son. They did see each other occasionally on the street, of course; that was unavoidable now that he had moved back to Fjällbacka, but she knew better than to stop and talk to him. He had tried to speak to her a few times, but she always looked away and just walked off briskly, as she had been instructed to do. But she hadn’t cast down her eyes quickly enough to avoid seeing the hurt in her son’s eyes.

  The Bible did say that one should honor one’s father and mother, and what had happened on that day so long ago was, as far as she could see, a breach of God’s word. That’s why she shouldn’t let him back into her heart.

  She gazed at Arne as he sat at the table. His back was still as straight as a fir tree, and his dark hair had not thinned, in spite of a few flecks of gray. But they were both over seventy. She remembered how all the girls had run after him when they were young, but Arne had never seemed the least bit interested. He had married her when she was just eighteen, and as far as she knew he had never even looked at another woman. For that matter he hadn’t been particularly keen on carnal matters at home either. Asta’s mother had always said it was a woman’s duty to endure that aspect of marriage. It was not something to enjoy, so Asta had no great expectations and considered herself fortunate.

  Nevertheless, they did have a son. A big, splendid, blond boy, the spitting image of his mother. Maybe that was why things had gone so wrong. If he’d been more like his father, then Arne might have felt more of a connection with his son. But the boy had been hers from the start. She had loved him as much as she could, but it wasn’t enough. When the decisive day arrived and she was forced to choose between the boy and his father, she had let her son down. How could she have done otherwise? A wife must stand by her husband, she had been taught that since childhood. But sometimes, in bleak moments, when the lamp was off and she lay in bed looking up at the ceiling, she let the thoughts come. She wondered how something she knew to be right could feel so wrong. It a relief then that Arne always knew exactly how things should be. Many times he had told her that a woman’s judgment was not to be trusted; it was the man’s job to lead the woman. There was security in that. Since her father had been like Arne in many ways, a world in which the man decided was the only world she knew. And he was so smart, her Arne. Everyone agreed about that.