Now it was Eva’s turn to shake her head.
‘No. Besides, we receive notifications on our mobile phones about any activity related to the alarm system.’
She got up to fetch her iPhone, which was being charged on the worktop. She tapped in her password, scrolled through some files and then held up the phone towards Gösta.
‘See, this is that night. We switched on the alarm when we went to bed around ten, and it wasn’t turned off until three minutes past six when Peter got up in the morning.’
‘I can’t believe we didn’t think of that,’ said Peter in a low voice.
‘I’m the one who should have thought of it,’ said Gösta. ‘The security pad is right there on the wall. But in these situations … well, in situations like this all logic goes by the wayside. At least we now know that we can rule out anyone breaking into the house during the night.’
‘Have you investigated those people in Tanumshede?’ asked Bengt.
Ulla tugged at his arm and leaned forward to whisper something to him. Angrily he pulled his arm away.
‘If nobody else dares mention it, I will!’ he said. ‘There’s been a lot of talk about criminal elements at that place in Tanumshede. And some of those men apparently took part in the search. Don’t you realize what a golden opportunity it would have been for them to destroy any evidence? I heard one of them was even present when she was found. Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence?’
Gösta wasn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t counted on the discussion taking a turn like this even though over the past few years he’d realized more and more that people who harboured animosity towards foreigners could no longer be identified by their shaved heads and boots. Sometimes they looked like perfectly ordinary retirees. He wondered whether Eva and Peter shared Bengt’s views.
‘We’re not ruling out anything, but there has been no indication whatsoever that we should direct our attention to anyone at the refugee centre.’
‘But is it true? Are there criminal elements at that place?’
It was hard to tell whether Peter was asking the question based on his personal conviction or as a desperate man grasping at straws.
‘Shouldn’t the local police do a background check on those people when they arrive here? There might be murderers, thieves, rapists, even paedophiles among them!’
Bengt raised his voice, and his wife again tugged at his arm.
‘Hush, Bengt. This is not the right time to—’
But her husband was not about to be stopped.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with this damn country. It’s precisely because of Swedish naivety that we moved to Spain! People are pouring across the borders, and we’re supposed to give them food and clothing and a roof over their heads, and then they have the gall to complain about their living quarters! They claim to be fleeing from war and torture, yet they moan because there’s no Wi-Fi!’
‘Please excuse my husband,’ said Ulla, tugging even harder at his sleeve. ‘But nobody knows for sure what sort of people are living at the centre, and when we’ve gone into town to buy groceries … well, there’s a lot of talk. Everyone’s afraid that more children will go missing.’
‘We have other leads that we consider a priority,’ said Gösta.
He felt genuinely sickened by the turn the conversation had taken.
‘Are you talking about what happened thirty years ago? With Helen and that actress who’s back here now? Do you really think there’s a connection?’ Eva looked up and met Gösta’s eye. ‘We know Helen. She’s our neighbour, and she would never harm Nea. And that actress? Good lord, why would she want to hurt our child? Those girls were kids when it happened. No, I don’t believe it for a moment. If anything, I’m more inclined to believe … what Bengt is saying.’
Gösta paused, trying to formulate a reply. He found he had nothing to say. Given the desperate situation Nea’s parents found themselves in, this was not the time to get into a discussion about ideologies.
‘We’re not ruling out anything, but it would be dangerous to leap to conclusions,’ he said. ‘The investigation is at an early stage. We’re waiting for the pathology report and the technical analysis. Believe me when I say that we’re not locked into any one theory, but it won’t help matters if we waste our time following up on baseless rumours. So I beg you not to make things more difficult for us by … well, by causing people to jump to the wrong conclusion.’
‘We hear what you’re saying,’ replied Peter, his hands clasped tightly on the table before him. ‘But promise us that you won’t rule out things for the wrong reasons. If someone has a bad name, and people are talking about him, there may be a reason for it. No smoke without fire.’
‘I promise,’ said Gösta, but the sick feeling of apprehension was getting worse.
He had an unpleasant feeling that something had been set in motion, and it would be very difficult to stop. The last thing he saw before he left was the dark, dead look in Peter’s eyes.
Bohuslän 1672
The last of the snow melted away, making the streams ripple with life and turning the vegetation lush. The farm was emerging from winter too, and they spent an entire week cleaning in order to welcome the warmer half of the year. All the feather beds and mattresses were washed and hung outside to dry. The rag rugs were beaten and the floors scrubbed. The windows were washed so the sun could seep into the small rooms and chase out the shadows from the corners. Warmth settled into everyone’s chests, thawing the frost still lingering from the long winter nights. And Märta’s legs seemed filled with dance as she ran around the farm with Viola in tow. Elin found herself humming as she knelt on the floor scrubbing the wooden planks, and even Britta seemed in a kinder mood.
News of the witches who had been burned at the stake in the Bohuslän area had contributed to a feeling of exhilaration in the whole community, and stories spread from house to house, to be told and retold in the candlelight. Tales about evil women journeying to Blåkulla mountain for the witches’ sabbath, and cavorting with the devil were embroidered with more details every time the stories were told. The maids and farmhands with whom they shared their living quarters competed to describe the devilish goings on at these gatherings: dinners served in reverse order, upside-down candles, flying cows and goats, and children who were lured away by witches to serve Satan. Elin would look on indulgently as Märta listened, wide-eyed. She could not deny that the stories were exciting, but she secretly wondered how much was true. They reminded Elin of the fairy tales her grandmother used to tell her when she was a child. But she did not intervene. People needed stories to endure the hardships of life, and Märta’s eager expression gave her joy. Who was she to take away her happiness? Märta would learn soon enough the difference between fairy tales and real life, and the longer she could stay in the fairy-tale world, the better.
Britta had been unusually kind towards Märta over the past few days. She had stroked the girl’s blond hair, offered her sweets, and asked if she might pet Viola. Elin could not put her finger on why it should be so, but this made her uneasy. Perhaps it was because she knew her sister too well. Britta never did anything out of the goodness of her heart. But the child welcomed any kindness shown to her and, beaming with delight, she had shown her mother the sweets she had received from her mistress. So Elin tried to push all anxious thoughts to the back of her mind. Especially because on this particular day they had more work to do than usual. Britta’s Aunt Ingeborg was coming to visit, which meant the spring cleaning they had already begun must now be hurried along so that everything would be ready by the time she arrived.
Elin had been so busy scrubbing and cleaning, she had not seen Märta all day. In the afternoon she began to worry about her daughter. She called the girl’s name as she walked about the farm, looking in the servants’ quarters, the barn, and the other buildings belonging to the vicarage, but Märta was nowhere in sight. Her stomach clenched with fear, and she called louder and louder. She asked everyone she saw, but n
o one had seen the girl.
The door to the house flew open.
‘What is the trouble, Elin?’ asked Preben as he came running out with his hair standing on end. He was tucking his white shirt into his trousers.
Distraught, Elin ran over to him as she scanned the farm area, hoping to see her daughter’s fair plaits.
‘I cannot find Märta, and I have looked everywhere!’
‘Calm yourself, Elin,’ said Preben, placing his hands on her shoulders.
She felt the warmth from his hands through her dress, and she could not stop herself from collapsing in his arms. She stood like that for several seconds before tearing herself away and wiping her tears on her sleeve.
‘I have to find her. She is so little, and she is the dearest and most precious thing I have.’
‘We will find her, Elin,’ said Preben, and he strode resolutely towards the stable.
‘I have already looked there,’ said Elin in despair.
‘I saw Lill-Jan in there. And he, more than anyone else, knows everything that goes on here at the farm.’
He opened the stable door and went inside. Elin lifted her skirts and ran after him. In the dim light of the stable, she heard the murmuring voices of the two men, though the only word she could make out was ‘Britta’. Her heart began pounding. She forced herself to wait while Preben and Lill-Jan finished their conversation, but when she saw Preben’s face, she knew that her fears were justified.
‘Lill-Jan saw Britta take Märta into the woods some time ago.’
‘The woods? What would they be doing there? Britta never goes into the woods. And why would she take Märta?’
She could hear how shrill her voice sounded, and Preben hushed her.
‘Now is not the time for hysterics. We must find the girl. I saw Britta in the library. I will go and speak to her.’
Preben dashed inside the house. Feeling at a loss, Elin waited outside. Memories from her childhood washed over her. Everything she had ever held dear her sister had taken from her, with their father’s blessing. The doll her mother had given her was found in the mire of the privy with its hair cut off and the eyelashes torn away. The puppy the farmhand had given her simply disappeared, but she knew in her heart that Britta was somehow involved. There was something rotten inside her sister. She could not bear for anyone to have anything she herself did not possess. She had always been that way.
And now Britta had no child, while Elin had the dearest of little girls. A girl whom Britta’s husband looked at with love in his eyes, as if she were his own. Elin had known that this did not bode well, but what could she do? She lived at the mercy of her sister, and there was nowhere else she and her daughter could go. Not after the words she had spoken, which caused many to regard her with hatred and contempt. Britta had been their only salvation. And now it may have cost Elin her daughter.
Preben came running back, his expression dark.
‘They went to the lake,’ he said.
Elin had no thought for what must have played out inside the vicarage. Her only concern was that Märta was at the lake, and she did not know how to swim.
With her heart pounding, and murmuring prayers to God, she raced after Preben as he ran into the woods and headed for the lake. If the Lord had any mercy at all, He would allow them to find Märta alive. If not, she might as well perish in the dark waters along with her child.
Chapter Sixteen
Nils put the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag. Next to him Vendela also lit a cigarette. Basse rustled the bag of sweets he’d bought from Eva at the Centrum Kiosk.
They were sitting at the top of the ridge, at the viewpoint above the local landmark called Kungsklyftan. Below, a group of tourists was taking pictures of the cleft which was the entrance to Fjällbacka.
‘Do you think your father will succeed?’ asked Basse. ‘Teaching the Arabs to sail, I mean?’
He closed his eyes and turned towards the sun. His freckled face would soon turn beet red if he sat there much longer.
‘I don’t know, but he’s completely obsessed,’ replied Nils.
His father had always been like that. If he wanted something badly enough, he would work 24/7 to make it happen. He seemed to have unlimited energy. On the walls at home there were photographs of Bill carrying Nils’s older brothers on his shoulders, teaching them to sail, and reading to them.
But when it came to Nils, half the time his father couldn’t even be bothered to ask him how he was.
Vendela was distracted, staring at her mobile. She spent most of her waking hours looking at her phone; she might as well have it grafted on to her hand as a permanent fixture.
‘Hey, look how cute she was,’ she said now.
She held up her phone towards the boys. They squinted to see the display in the sunlight.
‘Fucking cute,’ said Basse, devouring the photo with his eyes.
It was a picture from the early 1990s of Marie Wall standing next to Bruce Willis. Nils had seen the film several times. She was really hot back then.
‘So how come she has such an ugly daughter?’ he asked, shaking his head. ‘Jessie’s father must have been someone she met in a horror movie.’
‘Hell, at least she’s got big boobs,’ said Basse. ‘Bigger than her mother’s. I wonder what it’s like to fuck her? Ugly girls compensate by being awesome in bed.’
He pointed his cigarette at Vendela.
‘Could you google Jessie too? See what you can find about her.’
Vendela nodded. As she fiddled with her mobile, Nils lay down on his back and turned his face towards the sky.
‘Holy shit!’ said Vendela, reaching out to shake his arm. ‘You’ve got to see this!’
She held up the phone towards Nils and Basse.
‘Are you kidding?’ said Nils, feeling excitement race through him. ‘Is that on the Internet?’
‘Yup. It was super easy to find,’ said Vendela.
‘Huh. Fuck. Good.’
Basse gasped.
‘What should we do? Should we put it on Snapchat?’
Vendela smiled at Nils.
He paused to give himself time to think. Then a big smile spread across his face.
‘We don’t do anything. Not yet.’
At first Basse and Vendela looked disappointed. Then he told them his plan, and Basse laughed loudly. It was brilliant. Simple, but brilliant.
The children peppered Karim with questions when he sat down at the kitchen table, but he didn’t have the energy to answer. He merely grunted. So much information had been stuffed into his head in such a short time. He hadn’t felt this mentally exhausted since his first year at university. Sailing itself wasn’t that complicated – he’d studied far more difficult subjects – but it wasn’t easy to grasp when it was being taught in a language he hadn’t yet mastered, and when all the terminology and techniques involved were completely alien. And frightening.
Memories of the voyage across the Mediterranean had come back with a force that had surprised him. Only now did he realize how scared he’d been on the boat. While it was happening, there was no time or space for fear. He and Amina had been too focused on keeping the children safe and sound. But this morning, out in the dinghy with Bill, he’d remembered every wave, every scream from those who landed in the water. And he saw once more the eyes of those who suddenly stopped screaming and quietly slipped below the surface, never to come up again. He had repressed it all, telling himself the only thing that mattered was that they were now safe. They had a new country. A new home.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ asked Amina, stroking his hair.
He shook his head. It wasn’t because he didn’t think he could confide in her. He knew she wouldn’t judge him or doubt him. But she had been strong for such a long time. During that last period in Syria, and during the long journey to Sweden. Now it was his turn to be strong.
‘I’m just tired,’ he said, helping himself to more of her baba ganoush.
&nbs
p; It was as good as his mother’s had been, though that was not something he would ever have said to his mother. She had been as hot-tempered as Amina.
His mother died while Karim was in prison, and after that they’d been forced to leave. They hadn’t dared tell anyone. Syria was now a country built on informers, and you never knew who might try to save his own skin by turning in someone else. Neighbours, friends, family members – you couldn’t trust anyone.
He was astounded by the naivety of those Swedes who believed they had left Syria in the hope of finding a life of luxury. How could they believe anybody would leave everything behind in the belief that he would be swimming in gold in the West? He wished people would understand that they had been forced to leave their homes in order to save the lives of their families. And now they wanted to contribute everything they could to this country that had taken them in.
Amina stroked the scars on his arms, and he looked up from his plate. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything because he’d been so immersed in memories he thought he had repressed.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?’ She smiled at him encouragingly.
‘It’s difficult,’ he said.
Samia kicked Hassan, and Amina gave them a stern look. That was usually enough.
‘There was so much new information,’ said Karim. ‘So many strange words, and I’m wondering whether he might be slightly crazy.’
‘Bill?’
‘Yes. I don’t know, but maybe he’s a crazy person who wants to do something impossible.’
‘Everything is possible. Isn’t that what you always tell the children?’
Amina put her hand on his knee. It was unusual for them to show affection in front of the children, who were now looking wide-eyed at their parents. But she seemed to sense that he needed her right now.
‘Are you going to use your husband’s own words against him?’ he said, brushing a lock of hair back from her face.
Her thick, black hair fell halfway down her back. It was one of the many things he loved about her.
The Girl in the Woods (Patrik Hedstrom and Erica Falck, Book 10) Page 25