Patrick Hedstrom 07: The Lost Boy

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘It won’t change a thing. I want to assure you all of that. Matte put so many hours into Project Badis, and he would have been the first to say that we must press on. Everything will proceed exactly according to plan, and I will personally be taking charge of the finances until we can find a replacement for Mats.’

  ‘How can you already be talking about a replacement?’ said Gunilla, sobbing loudly.

  ‘Now, now, Gunilla.’ Erling was at a loss faced with such an emotional outburst, which even under the circumstances seemed to him highly inappropriate. ‘We have a responsibility to the town, to the citizens, and to everyone who has put their heart and soul not only into this project but into all that we’re doing to make sure the community thrives.’ He paused, both surprised and satisfied with the way he had managed to formulate his thoughts. Then he continued: ‘As tragic as it is that a young man’s life should be prematurely ended, we cannot simply stop everything. The show must go on, as they say in Hollywood.’

  Silence had descended over the others in the conference room, and the last phrase had sounded so good to Erling that he couldn’t help repeating it. He straightened his shoulders, thrust out his chest, and with a strong western Swedish accent, he said in English:

  ‘The show must go on, people. The show must go on.’

  In utter bewilderment they sat at the table across from one another. They had been sitting that way since one of the kindly police officers had given them a ride home. Gunnar would have preferred to drive himself, but they had insisted. So his vehicle was still in the car park, and he’d have to walk over there to retrieve it. But of course then he might have a chance to go up and visit …

  Gunnar gasped for breath. How could he have forgotten so quickly? How could he forget even for a second that Matte was dead? They had seen him lying there on his stomach on the striped rag-rug that Signe had woven for him. Lying on his stomach with a hole in the back of his head. How could he forget the sight of all that blood?

  ‘Shall I put on some coffee?’ Gunnar forced himself to break the silence. The only sound he heard was his own heart, and he’d give anything to stop listening to those steady beats, which made him realize that he was alive and taking one breath after another while his son was dead.

  ‘I’ll get you a cup.’ He stood up even though Signe hadn’t answered. She was still under the effects of the sedative as she sat there, motionless, with a blank look on her face and her hands clasped on the oilcloth covering the table.

  Gunnar moved mechanically, putting in the filter, pouring in the water, opening the coffee container, measuring out the grounds, and then pressing the button. A hissing and bubbling started up at once.

  ‘Would you like something with your coffee? A piece of sponge-cake, maybe?’ His voice sounded oddly normal. He went over to the refrigerator and took out the sponge-cake that Signe had baked the day before. Carefully he removed the plastic, set the cake on the cutting board, and cut two thick slices. He put them on plates and set one in front of Signe, the other at his own place at the table. She didn’t react, but he didn’t allow himself to worry about that now. He heard only the thudding inside his chest, drowned out briefly by the clattering of the plates and the sputtering of the coffee maker.

  When the coffee was ready, he reached up to take down two cups. Their daily habits seemed to have become more entrenched with every passing year, and they each had a favourite cup. Signe always drank her coffee from a delicate white cup with roses adorning the edge, while he preferred a sturdy ceramic cup that they had bought on a coach trip to Gränna. Black coffee with one sugar cube for him; coffee with milk and two sugar cubes for Signe.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said, setting her cup next to the plate with the piece of cake.

  She didn’t move. The coffee burned his throat when he took too big a sip, and he coughed until the stinging sensation subsided. He took a bite of the sponge-cake, but it seemed to swell inside his mouth, forming a big lump of sugar and egg and flour. Then he felt bile rising up in his throat, and he knew that he had to get rid of that lump, which was getting bigger and bigger.

  Gunnar dashed past Signe out to the bathroom down the hall, and dropped to his knees to lean over the toilet. He watched as coffee, cake crumbs, and bile poured into the water that was always green from the cleaning fluid that Signe insisted on fastening to the side of the porcelain toilet bowl.

  When his stomach was virtually empty, he again heard the sound of his own heart. Thump, thump, thump. Once more he leaned forward and threw up. Out in the kitchen, Signe’s coffee was growing cold in the white cup decorated with roses.

  It was evening by the time they finished their work at Mats Sverin’s flat. Though it was still light outside, the hustle and bustle of the day had begun to taper off, and the number of people passing by had diminished.

  ‘His body just arrived at the forensics lab,’ reported Torbjörn Ruud.

  The head of the crime tech team looked tired as he came over to Patrik, holding his mobile in his hand. Patrik had worked with Torbjörn and his team on several homicide investigations, and he had tremendous respect for the grey-bearded man.

  ‘How soon do you think they’ll get to the post-mortem?’ asked Patrik, massaging the bridge of his nose. He was beginning to feel the effects of what was turning out to be a very long day.

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Pedersen about that.’

  ‘What’s your preliminary assessment?’ Patrik shivered in the cold wind blowing across the small patch of lawn in front of the building. He pulled his jacket tighter around him.

  ‘It’s not all that complicated, from what I can see. A gunshot wound in the back of the head. One shot, killing him instantly. The bullet is still inside the skull. The casing we found indicates a nine-millimetre pistol.’

  ‘Did you find any evidence in the flat?’

  ‘We’ve taken fingerprints from all the rooms, and also a few fibre samples. That will give us something to go on, once we have a suspect.’

  ‘Provided that the suspect actually left any prints or fibres,’ said Patrik. Technical evidence was all fine and good, but from experience he knew that a large helping of luck was needed to solve a murder case. People came and went, and it could just as well have been friends or family members who left traces behind in the flat. If the killer was among them, the police would be faced with a whole different set of problems in terms of trying to link the perpetrator to the crime scene.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit too early to be taking such a pessimistic view?’ said Torbjörn, giving Patrik a poke in the side.

  ‘Sorry.’ Patrik laughed. ‘I must be getting tired.’

  ‘You’re taking it easy, aren’t you? I heard that you hit the wall hard, so to speak. It can take a while to recover from something like that.’

  ‘I don’t really like that phrase “hit the wall”,’ muttered Patrik. ‘But you’re right. It was definitely a warning signal.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re paying attention. You’re not exactly old and decrepit yet, and we’re hoping you’ll be working with the police for many years to come.’

  ‘What do you make of the evidence you’ve collected so far?’ asked Patrik, attempting to steer the conversation away from his health.

  ‘As I said, we’ve collected a few things. Everything will be sent over to the lab now. It’s going to take a while to get the results, but I’m owed a few favours, so with a bit of luck, I’ll be able to speed things along.’

  ‘We’d be grateful to get the results as fast as possible.’ Patrik was freezing. It was much too cold for June, and the weather continued to be unpredictable. At the moment it felt like early spring, yet during the day it had been so warm that he and Erica had been able to sit in the garden without putting on a sweater or jacket.

  ‘So what about you? Have you and your colleagues made any progress? Did anyone hear or see anything?’ Torbjörn nodded towards the block of flats.

  ‘We’ve knocked on every single
door, but so far with only limited results. One of the neighbours thinks that he heard a sound in the early hours on Saturday, only he was asleep in bed when it woke him, so he’s not sure what it was. Other than that, nothing. Mats Sverin appears to have kept to himself, at least when he was at home. Because he grew up in Fjällbacka and his parents still live here, most people knew who he was and were aware that he worked for the town, and so on, but no one seems to have really known him. His neighbours were nodding acquaintances, nothing more.’

  ‘At least the gossip mill is alive and well in Fjällbacka,’ said Torbjörn. ‘With luck, that should give you a few leads.’

  ‘Perhaps. At this point it seems he lived a hermit’s existence, but we’ll try to drum up some new leads tomorrow.’

  ‘Go home and get some rest.’ Torbjörn gave Patrik a friendly slap on the back.

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ Patrik lied. He had already phoned Erica to say that he would be home late. The investigative team needed to devise a strategy tonight. And after a couple of hours’ sleep, he’d be back at the station early in the morning. He knew that he ought to have learned his lesson after what he’d just been through. But his job came first. He couldn’t help it.

  Erica stared at the wood burning in the fireplace. She had tried not to sound concerned when Patrik called. Although she kept telling herself he was looking much better, with some colour in his face again, and even though she knew this was one of those times when he needed to stay late at work, it worried her that he seemed to have forgotten his promise to take it easy.

  She wondered who the dead man was. Patrik hadn’t wanted to say much on the phone. All he told her was that a man had been found dead in Fjällbacka. She was eager to hear more. As a writer, a keen sense of curiosity was essential. She always wanted to find out the inside story of people and events. In time, she was sure that she’d hear all about it. Even if Patrik declined to tell her, the news would soon spread. That was both the advantage and disadvantage of living in a small town like Fjällbacka.

  The thought of all the support they’d received after the car accident still moved her to tears. Everyone had offered help, be they close friends or people they hardly knew. Some had babysat for Maja and kept an eye on the house; others had left food on the doorstep when she and Patrik had finally come home from the hospital. And at the hospital they had practically drowned in all the flowers, boxes of chocolates, and toys for the children. All gifts from people in town. That was the way it was. In Fjällbacka, everyone stuck together.

  Tonight, however, Erica was feeling lonely. Her first impulse after talking to Patrik had been to ring Anna. She felt a pang in her heart, as usual, when she realized that she couldn’t do that, and slowly she set the cordless phone back down on the table.

  The children were asleep upstairs. The fire was crackling in the fireplace, and outside dusk was gathering. During the past few months she had felt frightened many times, yet never lonely. On the contrary, for she’d been constantly surrounded by other people. But not tonight.

  When she heard the babies crying upstairs, she quickly got to her feet. It was going to take a while to feed the twins and get them to fall asleep again, but at least that would keep her from worrying about Patrik.

  ‘It’s been a long day, but I thought we should spend some time comparing notes and coming up with a plan before we all go home to rest.’

  Patrik glanced at the others. Everyone looked tired but focused. They had long ago given up any thought of meeting in any room other than the station’s kitchen. And Gösta had proven to be unusually considerate tonight by making sure that everybody had a cup of hot coffee.

  ‘Martin, could you summarize what we’ve learned by knocking on doors today?’

  ‘We went round to all the other flats and actually managed to find most of the tenants at home. There are only a few that we still need to talk to. Obviously our first objective has been to find out whether anyone heard noises coming from Mats Sverin’s flat. Loud voices, shots, or any other sort of commotion. But on that point we pretty much came up empty-handed. The one person who might have heard something was the man in the next-door flat. His name is Leandersson. He was awakened early on Saturday by a sound that could have been a gunshot, but his memory of the sound is very vague. All he can say for sure is that he remembers being awakened by something.’

  ‘And no one saw anybody arriving or leaving?’ asked Mellberg.

  Annika was furiously taking notes as the others talked.

  ‘Nobody recalls seeing any visitors at Sverin’s flat during the whole time he lived there.’

  ‘How long is that?’

  ‘His father said that he had only recently moved here from Göteborg. I’m planning to have another talk with the parents tomorrow, when they’ve calmed down a bit. I’ll ask them for a more precise date then,’ said Patrik.

  ‘So we didn’t get any useful information from knocking on doors,’ Mellberg concluded, staring at Martin as if holding him responsible.

  ‘No, not much, at any rate,’ said Martin, staring back at his boss. Although still the youngest person at the station, he had lost the timid respect he’d had for Mellberg when he first joined the force.

  ‘Let’s move on.’ Patrik once again took charge of the meeting. ‘I talked to the father, but the mother was in such a state of shock that I wasn’t able to interview her. As I mentioned, I plan to drive over to see them tomorrow and conduct a longer interview. I hope to find out a lot more, but according to the father, Gunnar Sverin, he and his wife have no idea who might want to harm their son. Apparently Mats hadn’t acquired many friends since moving back to Fjällbacka, even though he was originally from here. I’d like someone to talk to his work colleagues tomorrow. Paula and Gösta, could you take care of that?’

  They glanced at each other and nodded.

  ‘Martin, you’ll keep chasing down the neighbours that we haven’t yet talked to. Oh, and I forgot to say that Gunnar mentioned his son had been the victim of a serious assault in Göteborg shortly before he moved here. I’ll check up on that myself.’

  Then Patrik turned to his boss. It had become routine to make sure that Mellberg’s often damaging interference in an investigation was kept to a minimum.

  ‘Bertil,’ he now said solemnly. ‘We need you here at the station in your capacity as chief of police. You’re the best person to deal with the media, and there’s no way of knowing when an important lead will turn up.’

  Mellberg immediately cheered up.

  ‘Of course. Absolutely. I have an excellent relationship with the media and a lot of experience in dealing with them.’

  ‘Great,’ said Patrik, without a trace of sarcasm. ‘So we all have assignments to get started on tomorrow. Annika, we’ll submit our reports to you, since we need someone to collate all the information.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ said Annika, closing her notebook.

  ‘Good. Now let’s all go home to our loved ones and grab a few hours’ sleep.’

  As he spoke those words, Patrik felt an intense longing to be home with Erica and the children. It was late, and he felt exhausted. Ten minutes later he was on his way to Fjällbacka.

  FJÄLLBACKA 1870

  Karl still hadn’t touched her in that way, and Emelie was feeling confused. She didn’t know much about such matters, but she was aware that certain things went on between a man and a woman that hadn’t yet taken place.

  She wished that Edith were here and that they hadn’t parted under strained circumstances when she left the farm. Then she would have been able to talk to Edith about all this, or at least she could have written to her and asked for advice. Because a wife couldn’t very well venture to discuss this type of thing with her husband. It simply wasn’t done. Nevertheless, she did think it was all a bit strange.

  Her initial delight with Gråskär had also diminished. The autumn sunshine had been replaced by strong winds that brought the sea crashing against the cliffs. The flowers had withered so tha
t now only bare, sorry-looking stalks filled the flowerbeds. And the sky seemed to be forever hidden behind a thick layer of grey. She spent most of her time indoors. Outdoors she shivered with the cold, no matter how warmly she tried to dress. Indoors, the house was so small that it felt as if the walls were slowly closing in on her.

  Sometimes she caught Julian glaring at her, but whenever she met his eye, he would look away. He hadn’t yet spoken a word to her, and she couldn’t understand why he was so antagonistic. Maybe she reminded him of some woman who had treated him badly. But at least he seemed to like the food she cooked. Both he and Karl ate their meals with good appetites, and she had to give herself credit for her ability to put together delicious dishes from limited ingredients, which at the moment was mostly mackerel. Every day Karl and Julian went out in the boat and usually came back with a large number of the silvery fish. She fried up some of them for dinner and served them with potatoes. The rest she salted so that they’d last all winter, since she’d heard that there would be even colder days ahead.

  If only Karl would give her a friendly word once in a while – that would make her life on the island seem so much easier. But he never looked her in the eye, never gave her an endearing pat as he passed. It was as if she didn’t exist, as if he hardly realized that he had a wife at all. Nothing had turned out as she’d imagined, and occasionally she would hear Edith’s words of warning echoing in her mind. That she needed to take heed.

  Emelie always shook off such thoughts as soon as they came. Life was hard out here, but she had no intention of complaining. This was the lot that she had been dealt, and she had to make the best of it. That was what her mother had taught her before she died, and that was the advice she planned to follow. Nothing ever turned out the way people thought it would.

  6

  Martin hated knocking on doors. It reminded him too much of when he was a kid and had been forced to go around selling lottery tickets, socks, and other idiotic rubbish in order to make money for school expeditions. Still, it was a necessary part of the job, all this trudging in and out of blocks of flats, going up and down stairs, and knocking on every single door. Thankfully, he’d dealt with most of them the day before. He glanced at the list he’d pulled out of his pocket to see who was left and decided to start with the most promising candidate: the third tenant who lived on the same floor as Mats Sverin.