The Girl in the Woods (Patrik Hedstrom and Erica Falck, Book 10)

by Camilla Lackberg

  A blonde came towards them. Her hair was pulled into a topknot and held in place with a fine brush. Around her waist she wore a carpenter’s belt filled with cosmetic brushes and applicators.

  ‘Hi. Who are you looking for?’

  ‘We’re police officers, and we’d like to speak to Marie,’ said Paula.

  ‘They’re shooting a scene, but I’ll tell her you’re here as soon as they’re done. Is it urgent?’

  ‘No, that’s okay. We can wait.’

  ‘Great. Have a seat and help yourself to coffee.’

  They sat down after getting coffee and some snacks from the table next to the sofa.

  ‘So, you’re right. It’s not very glamorous,’ said Martin, looking around.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Paula, tossing some nuts into her mouth.

  They looked in the direction of the stage set, where they could vaguely hear the sound of voices delivering lines. After a while they heard a man’s voice shout: ‘Cut!’ Several minutes later the woman with all the make-up paraphernalia came towards them, accompanied by the star, Marie Wall. The room suddenly seemed significantly more glamorous. She wore a white shirt and tight shorts, and she had a white ribbon in her hair. Martin couldn’t help noticing what great legs she had for someone her age, but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He’d always been easily distracted by beautiful women. Before he met Pia, that had caused a number of problems for him, and there were still certain places in Tanumshede he avoided so as not to run into one of his exes.

  ‘How lovely to see such a handsome man in uniform this morning,’ said Marie in that husky voice that brought goosebumps to Martin’s arms.

  It was easy to see why she’d gained a reputation as one of Hollywood’s most famous man-eaters. He wouldn’t mind falling under her spell.

  Paula gave him an annoyed look, and Martin realized to his embarrassment that he was staring with his mouth open. He cleared his throat while Paula stood up to make the introductions.

  ‘I’m Paula Morales, and this is my colleague, Martin Molin. We’re from Tanumshede police station, and we’re investigating the murder of a little girl who was found dead in Fjällbacka. We’d like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Marie, sitting down on the sofa next to Martin.

  She shook hands with him, holding his hand a few seconds too long. He had no objection, but he was conscious of Paula glaring at him.

  ‘I assume you want to talk to me because of what happened thirty years ago.’

  Martin again cleared his throat and nodded. ‘There are such striking similarities between the two cases, we felt we had to talk to you. And to Helen.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said calmly. ‘But I’m sure you know that Helen and I have maintained our innocence all these years. And for most of our lives, we’ve had to suffer the consequences for something we didn’t do.’

  She leaned back and lit a cigarette. Martin gazed at her, hypnotized, as she crossed one leg over the other.

  ‘We may not have landed in prison, but in the eyes of society, that didn’t make any difference,’ she went on. ‘Everybody was convinced we were guilty of murder. Our pictures were in all the newspapers, I was taken away from my family, and our lives were never the same.’

  She blew a smoke ring as she looked Paula in the eye. ‘If that’s not a prison, I don’t know what is.’

  Paula didn’t say a word.

  ‘First of all, we need to ask whether you have an alibi from eight p.m. on Sunday until Monday afternoon,’ said Martin.

  Marie took another drag on her cigarette before replying.

  ‘Sunday evening I was out with the entire crew. We had an impromptu get-together at the Stora Hotel.’

  ‘When did you get home?’ asked Martin, taking out a notebook and pen.

  ‘Hmm … Actually, I stayed overnight at the hotel.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can confirm that?’ asked Paula.

  ‘Jörgen? Darling? Come over here.’

  Marie called to a tall, dark-haired man who was talking loudly and waving his arms on the set. He stopped abruptly when he heard Marie call his name and came over to them.

  ‘This is Jörgen Holmlund. The director.’

  He nodded and shook hands, then cast an enquiring look at Marie, who seemed to be enjoying the situation.

  ‘Darling, could you tell the officers where I was Sunday night and early Monday morning?’

  Jörgen clenched his jaw. Marie took a drag on her cigarette and blew out the smoke.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. I don’t think they have any intention of ringing your wife.’

  He snorted and said:

  ‘The crew got together at the Stora Hotel on Sunday evening, and afterwards Marie stayed overnight in my room.’

  ‘When did you get home in the morning?’ Paula asked Marie.

  ‘I didn’t go home. Jörgen and I came to the studio together. We got here around eight thirty and at nine I was having my make-up done.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’ Jörgen asked. He turned on his heel and left when they answered in the negative.

  Marie seemed amused by his discomfort.

  ‘Poor Jörgen,’ she said, pointing her cigarette at the back of the retreating director. ‘He spends way too much time trying to make sure his wife doesn’t find out about his little escapades. He’s one of those men possessed of an unfortunate combination of guilty conscience and an insatiable libido.’

  Marie leaned forward to put out her cigarette in a soda can on the table.

  ‘Anything else? No questions about my alibi, I assume.’

  ‘We’d also like to speak to your daughter. Since she’s a minor, we need your permission.’

  Martin gave a little cough because of the cloud of smoke now surrounding them.

  ‘Sure,’ said Marie with a shrug. ‘Look, I’m well aware of the seriousness of the situation, but if you don’t have any more questions for me, I really need to get back. Jörgen is going to break out in hives from stress if we don’t stick to the shooting schedule.’

  She stood up and shook hands with them. Then she reached for Martin’s notebook and pen. She wrote something down before handing them back with a smile before striding off towards the set.

  Paula rolled her eyes. ‘Let me guess. She gave you her phone number.’

  Martin looked at the notebook and nodded. He couldn’t hide a foolish smile.

  Bohuslän 1671–72

  During the days following the visit, it was as if no one could talk of anything else but Lars Hierne and the witchcraft council. Britta’s relish for the topic was in stark contrast to Preben’s obvious distaste for the task ahead of him, but soon daily life resumed and the talk faded. Everyone had duties to perform, both the servants on the farm and Preben, who was responsible for church business in both Tanum and Lur parish.

  The winter days came and went with monotonous regularity, broken only by the occasional visitor to the vicarage, and Preben’s comings and goings as he travelled around the parish on church business. He brought home stories of conflicts that needed to be resolved, glad tidings to be celebrated, and sorrows to be mourned. He officiated at weddings, christenings, and funerals; he offered advice on matters regarding God and family. Elin sometimes eavesdropped when he talked to members of the congregation, and she always found his advice wise and thoughtful, though it tended to be somewhat cautious. He was not a daring man, not like her Per had been, and he also lacked the proud stubbornness her husband had possessed. Preben was not as sharp-edged, and his eyes were gentler. Per had always harboured a darkness inside, which at times had made his outlook gloomy, while Preben seemed to have no trace of despondency whatsoever. Britta frequently moaned that she had married a child, nagging him for coming home with his clothes soiled from working with the livestock or toiling alongside the farm labourers. He merely smiled and shrugged and carried on as before.

  Märta had begun her lessons with the parish clerk along with t
he other children. Elin was uncertain how to respond to the eagerness and joy her daughter displayed as she attempted to master all the strange squiggles that she herself found so incomprehensible. She agreed it was a gift to learn to write, but of what use would such knowledge be for the child? Elin was a poor servant, and that meant Märta would be the same. For the likes of them, there was no other option. She was not Britta. She was Elin, the daughter their father had never loved, widow of a man who had been lost at sea. These were facts that could not be changed by a pastor who insisted Märta should learn to read. Her daughter would have greater use for the skills that had been passed on to Elin by her maternal grandmother. Though they would not put food on the table or earn in payment in riksdaler, they would bring her respect, and that was not without value.

  Elin was often summoned to attend a birth, or to aid someone suffering from toothache or melancholy. She was the first person to be summoned whenever anyone fell ill, easing any number of ailments with her herbs and words of supplication. People called upon her help when heartsick from unrequited love or plagued by unsought wooing, as well as more mundane matters such as illnesses afflicting livestock. Surely that should be the role Märta aspired to. Far better than being filled with learning she could never use, knowledge that would give her dangerous ideas about being superior to others.

  Yet for all her healing skills, Elin’s concoctions seemed to have no effect on Britta. Month after month the bleeding still came, and each time it did her sister grew more resentful. She insisted that Elin must have done something wrong, that she was not as skilled as she claimed. One morning Britta threw the tankard at the wall when Elin offered her the concoction to drink, and the green liquid slowly ran down the wall to form a puddle on the floor. Sobbing, Britta collapsed in a heap.

  Elin was not a bad person, yet she could not help taking some little pleasure in her sister’s despair. Britta was often mean, not only to the servants but also to Märta. And sometimes Elin wondered whether it was the meanness inside Britta that was preventing a child from growing in her womb. Inevitably she would curse herself for harbouring such bad thoughts. Elin did not want to seem ungrateful. Who knew where she and Märta would have ended up if Britta had not taken pity on them and brought them under her protection. Only a few days earlier, Elin had heard that Ebba of Mörhult had landed in the poorhouse with her two youngest children. Without Britta, she and Märta would have been destined for the poorhouse too.

  But it was not easy to behave in a god-fearing manner when it came to Britta. There was something so hard and cold about her, and not even a good man like Preben could make her mend her ways. Elin thought that he deserved a better wife, someone with a warm heart and a cheerful disposition, instead of a shrew with a beautiful face and billowing dark hair. But it was not her place to judge.

  Elin would often catch Preben secretly looking at her. She tried to avoid him, but it was not easy. He moved as confidently among the servants as if he were one of them, and he was often to be found in the barnyard or out in the pastures tending to the animals. He had a real knack for dealing with all living creatures, and Märta always followed close on his heels, clasping her hands behind her back as she tried to take big steps to keep pace with him. Whenever Elin begged forgiveness because her daughter was such a bother, he merely laughed and shook his head, saying he would be hard pressed to find more pleasant company. It was true that Preben and Märta always seemed to have much to talk about, for they were constantly conversing. Elin had tried asking her daughter what they discussed, but Märta had merely shrugged and said they talked about everything. About animals, about God, and about what Märta was reading. Preben was in the habit of constantly lending her books from his library at the vicarage. As soon as the girl finished with her chores, if she was not following Preben around, she would be found sitting down with a book he had lent her. Elin was amazed that all those squiggles on the pages could be of such interest to Märta, but she reluctantly allowed her to keep reading, even though she was convinced nothing good would ever come of it.

  And then there was Britta. For every passing day, she became more sullen as she saw how much interest Preben took in the child. Many times Elin caught her looking out the window and jealously observing the two. She had heard several heated discussions between husband and wife on this matter, but for once Preben refused to give in to his wife. Märta was allowed to accompany him wherever he went. And Viola followed. The kitten had grown during the winter, and she went everywhere with her mistress, just as Märta went with Preben. They were a cheerful trio, walking about the farm, and Elin couldn’t help but smile at the sight even though she knew there was gossip about the master’s interest in the girl. She cared little for what the maids or farmhands might think; regardless how much they might whisper behind her back, as soon as they had a headache or toothache, they would turn to her. And when they murmured their query about what payment she wanted for her trouble, she would always ask for something for her daughter. An extra portion of food. A pair of discarded shoes. A skirt she could remake into a dress. Märta was her whole world; if she was happy, Elin was happy. Britta could think whatever she liked.

  When Märta came to her, crying that the mistress had pinched her or pulled her hair, Elin could only bite her tongue. She told herself these cruelties were a small price to pay for having a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. When she and Britta were growing up, her sister had often pinched her, and she had endured it with no lasting harm done. Preben would protect Märta. He would also protect Elin. She was confident of that, because of the way his kind eyes would often rest on her when he thought she would not notice. And sometimes when their eyes met, for only a second though it seemed an eternity, she would feel the ground sway beneath her feet.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Erica could feel her excitement growing as she approached Marstrand. She’d read so much about Helen’s parents, and in her mind she’d created an image of them, based on the interviews they’d given. Helen’s father, KG, had died long ago, but she was at least going to be able to interview her mother.

  Though Erica always did her best to rid herself of preconceived notions about her subjects, it was a struggle in Harriet Persson’s case, given the way she and her husband had placed all the blame on Marie while painting Helen as a victim. The Perssons had belonged to the upper echelons of society; KG owned a chain of office supply stores, while Harriet had been a fashion model before she married; he was rich, she was beautiful – the usual combination. In their world, appearances were everything. They had gone from being the envy of Fjällbacka to the reviled parents of little Stella’s murderer.

  Erica drove into the car park at Koön. It was a hot, sunny day, and she was looking forward to this excursion. She hadn’t been out to the island in a long time, and she was struck by how lovely the little coastal community looked.

  She enjoyed the short crossing to Marstrand, but as soon as she stepped ashore, she focused all her attention on the interview. The questions she wanted to ask began whirling through her mind as she walked up the hill towards Harriet’s home. When she found the right address, she paused for a moment to catch her breath and admire the house. It was enchanting. Painted white, trimmed with beautiful old carvings in the wood, with dazzling roses and pink and lavender lupins out front, and a big terrace facing the sea. Erica surmised that if Harriet ever wanted to sell the house, she’d get millions for it. Double-digit millions.

  She opened the wooden, white-painted gate and followed the narrow gravel path to the front door. There was no doorbell, just an old-fashioned knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, which she let fall against the wooden panel. The door was opened almost at once by a stylish woman in her sixties.

  ‘Erica Falck! How nice to meet you at last! Oh, I’ve read all your books, and I think you’re such a gifted writer. I’m glad you’ve had such success abroad too.’

  She ushered Erica into the entryway without letting her get a word in.<
br />
  ‘I hope you’ll stay for coffee. I don’t often have such a celebrated visitor,’ she said, leading the way to the terrace through a spacious living room.

  Erica was no interior design expert, but she recognized furniture from Josef Frank, Bruno Mathsson, and Carl Malmsten. It had the look of a place that had been put together by a skilled interior designer; Erica doubted whether Harriet had chosen any of the pieces herself.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ said Erica as she sat down on the chair Harriet indicated.

  ‘You’re welcome. After all these years of waiting for the truth to come out, for poor Helen’s sake, I’m delighted a writer of your calibre has decided to write about the case. Especially after friends in Stockholm told me that horrible person is planning to release her own book.’

  ‘But would that be such a bad thing?’ asked Erica cautiously, nodding when Harriet held up the coffee pot. ‘Like Helen, Marie has always maintained her innocence, so her book might actually reinforce Helen’s version of what happened.’

  Harriet pursed her lips as she poured the coffee, which looked distressingly pale.

  ‘I don’t believe for a moment she’s innocent. I think she’s the one who killed that poor little girl, and then she tried to pin the blame on Helen.’

  ‘Even though Marie was the first to confess to the murder?’

  Erica took a sip of the coffee, which was definitely too weak.

  ‘That was part of her plan all along!’

  Harriet’s voice had suddenly turned shrill, and she swallowed hard several times.

  ‘She wanted to trick Helen into confessing,’ she said. ‘Helen was always so easily led, so gullible, and that Marie was a sly girl from a horrible family. From the beginning we were worried about the bad influence she would have on Helen. Our daughter changed so much after she started spending time with that girl. Against our better judgement, we allowed them to be friends. We didn’t want to be accused of snobbishness, and of course it’s important for children to be exposed to different types of people, but that family …’ She shuddered at the recollection. ‘We should have put a stop to it right away. I said as much to KG. But you know how men are, they won’t listen once they’ve got some idea in their heads, so he refused to intervene until it was too late. And look what it led to! Over the years he said to me so many times: “Why didn’t I listen to you, Harriet?”’