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

by Camilla Lackberg

  In his mind he pictured Jessie’s body and whimpered. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. He had nightmares about her. And he kept remembering more details. He heard his own panting breath as he thrust inside her again and again, bellowing when his body exploded.

  He recalled the feeling of pleasure at doing something forbidden, and because of her complete helplessness. The power he’d felt at doing whatever he liked with her. Even now the emotions he had were so contradictory it sickened him.

  Everyone had been sent pictures. He’d lost count of how many texts he’d received. Nils and Vendela were satisfied because their plan to humiliate Jessie once and for all had worked.

  No one had either seen or heard from Jessie. Nothing but silence. Also from Sam. Nobody else seemed to think that was odd. He was the one sitting in a ruined house with a sinking feeling in his stomach that grew worse every day. Whatever Nils and Vendela said, this was not the end of it. It was too quiet. Like the calm before the storm.

  Erica backed out of the car park, thinking what luck she’d had lately. She’d worked hard on her book while the kids played, and now it felt as if the puzzle pieces were finally falling into place.

  She’d hardly dared hope that Sanna would talk to her. All the same, she’d taken a chance and phoned her as soon as Kristina left with the children for the amusement park in Strömstad. There had been a moment of silence after she made the request, and Erica had held her breath until Sanna’s voice came over the line agreeing to an interview. So now Erica was on her way to the garden centre to meet one of the people who had known Stella best.

  And something told Erica that she would soon find out who was behind the initials ‘SS’.

  She looked around as she parked the car in a gravel parking area and then got out to walk towards a rose trellis that seemed to function as the entrance to the garden centre. It was only ten minutes from Fjällbacka, but Erica had never had any reason to come here. She had no interest in gardening, and after several valiant attempts to keep alive an orchid that was a gift from Kristina, she had given up pretending to have green fingers. It seemed unlikely any flowers or shrubs would survive the wild romping of the twins, so their own yard was more a playground than a garden.

  Sanna came forward to greet her, pulling off a pair of soiled gardening gloves. They’d run into each other in town over the years and said hello, the way people do in a small community where everyone knows everyone else. But this was the first time they’d properly introduced themselves.

  ‘Hi,’ said Sanna, shaking Erica’s hand. ‘Let’s sit in the arbour. Cornelia will watch the shop.’

  She headed for some ornate white patio chairs surrounded by bushes and roses. Erica was taken aback when she happened to glance at the price tag on the furniture. Tourist prices.

  ‘I supposed it’s about time we met,’ said Sanna, studying Erica as if trying to read her thoughts.

  Erica shifted position a bit nervously under Sanna’s intense scrutiny, but she was used to dealing with scepticism. Family members often had to fend off ghouls drawn by their tragic situation. Sanna had every reason to suspect that Erica was no different.

  ‘You know that I’m writing a book about the Stella case, right?’ said Erica. Sanna nodded.

  Erica had taken an instant liking to her. There was something so down-to-earth, so grounded, about Sanna. Her blond hair was pulled back in a casual ponytail, and she wore no make-up. Erica surmised that even on festive occasions she would be reluctant to use much make-up. The clothing she wore suited her occupation. Boots, jeans, and a loose-fitting denim shirt. There was nothing frivolous or superficial about Sanna.

  ‘What do you think about me writing this book?’ asked Erica, getting right to the point.

  This was often the key question in her interviews. She needed to know how the person would react to the project.

  ‘I have nothing against it,’ said Sanna. ‘Though it’s not something I’m in favour of either. I’m … neutral. It’s not important to me. Stella is not your book. And I’ve lived so long with what happened back then, whether you write the book or not doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I will try to do her justice,’ said Erica. ‘And I would really value your help. I want to describe Stella as vividly as possible for the reader. And you’re the one who can best do that.’

  Erica got out her mobile and held it up for Sanna to see.

  ‘Is it okay if I record our conversation?’

  ‘Sure, go ahead,’ said Sanna.

  She frowned. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Just tell me in your own words,’ said Erica. ‘About Stella, about your family. And, if you can bear to talk about it, I’d like to hear what the whole experience was like for you.’

  ‘Thirty years have passed,’ said Sanna brusquely. ‘Life has gone on. I’ve tried not to think too often about what happened. The past can so easily consume the present. But I’ll try.’

  Sanna talked for two hours. And the more she talked, the more Stella became a real person for Erica. Not just the victim she’d read about in the investigative documents and newspaper articles. She was a real, live four-year-old who loved to watch the kids’ TV show Five Ants Are More Than Four Elephants. She had a hard time getting up in the morning, and she never wanted to go to bed at night. She liked hot rice cereal with sugar and cinnamon. She liked to wear her hair in two pigtails, not a ponytail. At night she liked to crawl into her big sister’s bed, and she’d given every one of her freckles a name. Her favourite was Hubert, the freckle on the tip of her nose.

  ‘She was a real pest sometimes, but she was also the most fun person you’d ever meet. She often got on my nerves, because she was such a little snoop. Her favourite game was sneaking up on people and eavesdropping. Then she’d run off and tell everybody what she’d heard, and once in a while that made me want to strangle her.’

  Sanna stopped abruptly, clearly regretting her choice of words. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I was always being sent off into the woods to look for her,’ she went on. ‘I never dared go very far. I thought it was a creepy place. But Stella was never scared. She loved the woods and went there whenever she could. That was probably why it was so hard to comprehend that something horrible had actually happened. She’d been gone so many times, but she always came back – no thanks to me, because I never made a proper search. I would only go far enough into the woods so my parents thought I was looking for Stella. Instead of searching, I would sit down next to a big oak tree right behind the house, maybe only fifty metres inside the woods, and I’d wait. Sooner or later Stella would show up. She always found her way home. Except that last time.’

  Sanna suddenly laughed.

  ‘Stella didn’t have many friends, but she did have an imaginary playmate. Strangely enough, that’s what has been haunting my dreams lately. I’ve dreamed of him several times.’

  ‘Him?’ asked Erica.

  ‘Yes. Stella called him the green man, so I’m guessing it was some moss-covered tree or bush that had captured her imagination. She could create entire worlds in her head. Sometimes I wonder if there were as many imaginary people in her world as real people.’

  ‘My eldest child is the same way,’ said Erica with a smile. ‘Most often it’s her imaginary friend Molly who thinks she should have cakes and sweets whenever Maja has some.’

  ‘Ah, yes. A brilliant way to get twice the treats,’ said Sanna. Her smile softened her features. ‘Personally, I have a teenage monster at home. I’m starting to wonder whether teenagers ever become human.’

  ‘How many children do you have?’ asked Erica.

  ‘Just the one,’ said Sanna with a sigh. ‘But sometimes it feels like there are twenty of her!’

  ‘I’m dreading those years. At the moment it’s so hard to imagine them as stroppy teens, storming up to their bedrooms and calling me a bitch because they can’t get their own way.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, I’ve been called much worse,’ chuckled
Sanna. ‘Especially because I’m clearly ruining her life by making her work here in the garden centre. We had a little incident over the weekend that required some sort of punishment, and forcing her to do a day’s work is child abuse in her eyes.’

  They both laughed, but then Sanna’s expression turned serious. ‘So what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Is it a coincidence that the little girl who lived on our old farm has been murdered too?’

  Erica didn’t know what to say. Common sense said one thing. Her gut instinct said another. If she was careful about how she answered, she might be able to find out whether her suspicion was correct about the identity of ‘SS’.

  ‘I believe there’s a connection,’ she said at last, ‘but I don’t know what it is. I think it’s too easy to point fingers at Helen and Marie. I don’t want to re-open old wounds, because I know your family felt the case was solved when Marie and Helen were found guilty. But there are still a number of questions unanswered. And Leif Hermansson, the officer in charge of the investigation, told his daughter a short time before he died that he had begun to have doubts. But we don’t know why.’

  Sanna fixed her gaze on her feet. Some idea seemed to be forming in her mind. She raised her head and looked at Erica.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I thought about this, but what you’re saying reminded me of something. Leif contacted me, and we met for coffee, not long before he died.’

  And with that, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. At the police station they had thought of Sanna as Sanna Lundgren. But for Leif, she would have been Sanna Strand.

  ‘What did he want to talk about?’ asked Erica.

  ‘That’s what was so strange. He asked me about the green man. I had mentioned the imaginary friend back when Stella died. And now, all these years later, a police officer suddenly wanted to talk about him.’

  Erica stared at her. Why had Leif wanted to know about Stella’s imaginary friend?

  ‘Hello! Anybody home?’ called Paula as she cautiously opened the door.

  They’d knocked several times without getting any response. She’d noted with satisfaction that Martin had looked at the ‘For Sale’ sign when they drove up to the house.

  ‘I’m here! Come on in!’ they heard a hoarse voice call from inside the house. They took off their shoes and placed them on the doormat before going in.

  Dagmar was sitting in her usual place at the kitchen window. She looked up from the crossword puzzle she was doing.

  ‘There you are again!’ she said. ‘What fun!’

  ‘So you’re selling the house?’ asked Paula. ‘I saw the sign out front.’

  ‘Yes, I think it’s best. Sometimes it takes a while for a stubborn woman like me to make up her mind. But my daughter is right. It’s off the beaten track, and I’m not twenty any more. And I should count myself lucky that I have a daughter who wants me to come and live with her. It seems like most people can’t wait to throw their old parents into some nursing home.’

  ‘I know. I was saying to my colleague only the other day that Swedes aren’t very good about taking care of the elderly. Has there been much interest in your house?’

  ‘No prospective buyers yet,’ said Dagmar, motioning for them to sit down. ‘Most people don’t want to live way out here. Too rural and old-fashioned. Everything has to be new and in the thick of things, and no crooked walls or slanting floors. But I think that’s a shame. I love this house. There’s a lot of love in these old walls, let me tell you.’

  ‘I think it’s marvellous,’ said Martin.

  Paula bit her tongue to keep from saying anything. Certain things needed to take their time.

  ‘So, enough about an old woman’s crazy philosophies. I assume you came here to talk about my notebook, not about my house. I just can’t understand how I forgot to tell you about it last time.’

  ‘It’s easily done,’ said Martin. ‘The news about Nea must have come as a terrible shock. It’s hard to think rationally when you’re hit by something like that.’

  ‘What’s important is that you did remember and you phoned us,’ said Paula. ‘So tell me, what sort of notebook is it?’

  ‘Well, I remembered that you wanted to know if I saw anything out of the ordinary on the morning when Nea disappeared. I still can’t recall anything, but this morning I realized you might be better at seeing a pattern than I am. So I thought you could have a look at the notes I write down, just to pass the time. They help me to focus on my crossword puzzles. If I only do one thing at a time, I have real trouble concentrating. I need some type of distraction. So I jot down notes about what goes on outside my window.’

  She handed the notebook to Paula, who quickly found the page from the morning when Nea disappeared. There weren’t many items. Nothing that jumped off the page at her. Three cars had driven past and two cyclists. The cyclists were described as: ‘Two fat German tourists out for a bike ride.’ So Paula dismissed them at once. That left the cars. Dagmar had merely noted the colour and make of each vehicle, but it was better than nothing.

  ‘Could I take this back to the station?’ she asked, and Dagmar nodded.

  ‘Take it. Be my guest.’

  ‘I was just wondering when your house was built,’ Martin said.

  ‘In 1902. My father built it himself. I was born on a kitchen bench next to that wall.’

  ‘Have you had a survey done?’ asked Martin.

  Dagmar gave him a sly look and said, ‘You’re certainly asking a lot of questions.’

  ‘Just wondering,’ replied Martin.

  He avoided looking at Paula.

  ‘A surveyor’s been round. He said what needs fixing most urgently is the roof. There’s also some mould in the basement, but he said that could be dealt with later. The estate agent has all the paperwork. But if anyone is interested, they’re welcome to have a look around.’

  ‘Hmm …’ said Martin, looking down.

  Dagmar studied him for a moment. The sun was shining on her face, revealing all the friendly wrinkles etched into her skin. She put her hand on his arm and waited for him to look up and meet her eye.

  ‘This house is a fine place to start fresh,’ she said. ‘And it needs to be filled with life again. And love.’

  Martin quickly turned away. But Paula saw that his eyes had filled with tears.

  ‘There’s someone from forensics on the phone, it’s about the tape of the anonymous tip-off. Shall I ring Paula? She and Martin are handling the investigation.’

  Annika had stuck her head in Mellberg’s office, waking him from a deep slumber.

  ‘What? What is it? Oh, the phone call,’ he said, sitting up. ‘No, put it through to me.’

  In a fraction of a second Mellberg was wide awake and determined to get his mitts on the bastard who had started this whole thing. If somebody hadn’t tried to frame Karim, the fire would never have happened. He was sure about that.

  ‘Mellberg,’ he said authoritatively when he picked up the phone.

  To his surprise, he heard a woman’s voice speaking. Since this was a technical matter, he had expected to talk to a man.

  ‘Oh, hi, I’m calling regarding the audio file you needed help with.’

  Her voice was bright and girlish, and Mellberg suspected she was hardly more than a teenager.

  ‘That’s right. And I suppose you’re going to tell me you couldn’t do anything with it.’

  He sighed. They must really be short-staffed if they let some young girl take on such a difficult and important task. He’d probably have to ring her boss and ask for someone more competent to handle the matter. Preferably a man.

  ‘Well, actually, I did solve the problem. The sound was a little rough, but I was able to adjust … well, I won’t bore you with the technicalities. But I think I’ve got as close to the original voice as it’s possible to get, given current technology.’

  ‘Oh, well, er …’

  Mellberg didn’t know what to say. In his mind he’d already carried on an entire
conversation with her boss.

  ‘So, let’s hear it,’ he said. ‘Who’s hiding behind the anonymous identity?’

  ‘Would you like me to play the conversation for you right now on the phone? Then I can email you the file afterwards.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll play the recording now.’

  Mellberg heard a voice on the phone, speaking the same words he’d heard before. But now the anonymous voice was no longer deep and fuzzy but bright and clear. Mellberg frowned as he tried to listen for anything that might tell him the caller’s identity. He couldn’t honestly say he recognized the voice, but that was probably expecting too much.

  ‘Okay, email it to me,’ he said after the brief recording ended.

  He rattled off his email address and only a moment later his computer pinged to announce the file had arrived. He played it several more times. An idea began to take shape in his mind. For a moment he considered checking with Patrik first, but he and Gösta had gone out for lunch and it would be a shame to disturb them. Besides, his idea was brilliant, so why would Patrik have any objections? Far better to wait until the meeting Patrik had called at two o’clock and present them all with his findings. Mellberg was already looking forward to the praise he would receive for taking the initiative. This was the sort of thing that separated a good police officer from a great police officer. Thinking outside the box. Coming up with a new way of looking at things. Trying new approaches and making use of modern technology.

  With a satisfied smile, Mellberg tapped in a number he’d saved on his mobile. Now things were really going to take off.

  ‘You’re getting better,’ said Sam, making a slight adjustment to Jessie’s stance. ‘But you’re still squeezing the trigger a little too hard and too fast when you fire. You need to caress the trigger.’

  Jessie nodded. She kept her gaze focused on the target fastened to the tree. This time she did caress the trigger, and the bullet struck close to dead centre.

  ‘Awesome!’

  He meant it. She was a natural. But shooting at a fixed target wasn’t enough.

  ‘You need to practise firing at moving targets too,’ he said, and she nodded.