Martin had been brooding all morning about what yesterday’s strange conversation with the attorney could mean. He stared at the ceiling as Mette drowsily rolled on to his side of the bed and murmured: ‘What time do you have to be there?’
‘Nine,’ he said, glancing at the clock.
He saw that it was almost time.
‘What do you think it’s all about?’ he asked. ‘Is somebody suing me? Do I owe someone money? What could it be?’
He threw out his hands in frustration, and Mette laughed. He loved hearing her laugh. Actually, he loved everything about her, though he hadn’t dared say that yet. Not directly. They were taking things slow, one step at a time.
‘Maybe you’re a multimillionaire. Maybe some filthy rich unknown relative in the United States died and you’re the only heir.’
‘Ha! I knew it!’ he said. ‘You’re only after my money!’
‘Of course! What did you think? That it was because of your huge biceps, or something?’
‘Very funny!’ he said, and began tickling her.
She knew that he was sensitive about his not particularly muscular arms.
‘You probably should think about getting dressed if you’re going to get there on time,’ she said. He nodded and reluctantly got up.
Half an hour later he was in his car, on his way to Fjällbacka. The attorney had refused to say what this was all about, merely repeating that Martin should be at his office at nine o’clock sharp.
He parked in front of the villa that housed the small legal firm, got out, and knocked on the door. A grey-haired man in his sixties opened the door and enthusiastically shook hands.
‘Have a seat,’ he said, pointing to a chair in front of his extremely neat desk.
Martin sat down. He was always suspicious of people who were overly tidy, and in this office everything seemed to be in its proper place.
‘So, I’m wondering what this is about,’ said Martin.
He could feel the palms of his hands had started to sweat, and he realized his face and neck had turned red, which he hated.
‘It’s nothing to worry about,’ said the attorney. ‘In fact quite the opposite.’
Martin raised his eyebrows. Now he was really curious. Maybe Mette was right about that American millionaire.
‘I am the executor for Dagmar Hagelin’s estate,’ said the attorney. Martin gave a start.
He stared at the man.
‘Dagmar?’ he asked, confused. ‘She’s dead? But we talked to her only a week ago.’
He felt a pang in his chest. He had liked the old woman. Liked her very much.
‘She died a few days ago, but it always takes a little time to work out these types of things,’ said the attorney.
Martin had no idea what he was doing here.
‘Dagmar had a very specific wish regarding you.’
‘Me?’ said Martin. ‘We didn’t really know each other. I met her only twice, on police business.’
‘I see,’ said the attorney, surprised.
Then he collected himself.
‘In that case, you must have made quite an impression on those two occasions. Dagmar added a codicil to her will because she wanted you to inherit her house.’
‘Her house? What do you mean?’
Martin was confused. Someone must be joking. But the attorney looked completely serious.
‘According to Dagmar’s will, she wants you to inherit the house. She wrote you a note to say that there are a few things that need repair, but she thinks you’ll like living there.’
Martin couldn’t take in what the attorney was saying. Then something occurred to him.
‘But she has a daughter. Won’t she be upset? Won’t she want the house?’
The attorney pointed to some papers lying on the desk in front of him.
‘I have a document here stating that Dagmar’s daughter has relinquished all claim to the house. When I spoke to her on the phone, she said she was too old to take on such a ramshackle house, and she didn’t need the money. “I have what I need,” she said. “If my mother decided this is what she wanted, I know it’s for the best.”’
‘But …’ said Martin, tears filling his eyes.
Slowly it began to sink in. Dagmar had gifted her lovely red house to him. The house he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. He’d been wondering how he could afford to buy that house for him and Tuva. He’d pictured the whole scene: where he would set up a swing set in the yard, where Tuva could plant a little vegetable garden, how they would have a fire in the fireplace in the wintertime, and how he would shovel the path to the front steps. He’d imagined a thousand and one things, but he’d never been able to work out how they could afford it.
‘But why?’ he said, no longer able to hold back the tears, because now he was thinking about Pia and how she had always wanted Tuva to grow up in a little red house out in the country, with swings in the yard and her very own garden patch.
He was crying not only because Pia wouldn’t see this, but because he knew she would be happy for all the new things in his life, even though she was no longer here.
The attorney handed Martin a tissue and then said quietly:
‘Dagmar said that you and the house needed each other. And do you know, I believe she was right.’
Bill and Gun had taken care of Khalil when he was discharged from hospital. When he was overcome with grief. They had given him a nice, bright guestroom on the ground floor. His belongings had already been brought over from his basement lodgings. Along with Adnan’s things. Bill had promised to help him get a letter to Adnan’s parents. Khalil wanted them to know that their son had died a hero. That every single person in his new country now knew his name and had seen his picture. He had become a symbol, a bridge to the Swedes. The prime minister had even mentioned his name in a speech on TV. He had talked about how Adnan had shown that human compassion was not about national borders or skin colour. Adnan hadn’t thought about the nationality of the kids or their colour when he sacrificed his life to save so many of them. The prime minister had said much more. He had talked for a long time. But that was what Khalil wanted to say in the letter to Adnan’s parents.
The prime minister had also talked about Khalil. But by then he had stopped listening. He didn’t feel like a hero. He didn’t want to be a hero. He just wanted to be one of them. At night he had nightmares about the faces of the kids. The fear in their eyes, their terror and panic. He’d thought he would never have to experience that again. But the fear in the kids’ eyes was exactly the same as back home. There was no difference.
In the evening Bill and Gun sat in front of the TV. Sometimes they held hands. Sometimes they simply sat side by side as the glow from the TV lit up their faces. They hadn’t yet been allowed to bury their son Nils. The police couldn’t say when they would be finished with their investigation. Their older sons came to visit but then returned to their own homes, their own families. They couldn’t ease their parents’ sorrow, and they were dealing with their own grief.
Khalil had assumed they wouldn’t enter the sailing competition. Not without Adnan. Or Karim. He missed him and wondered where he and the children were now. They had simply disappeared.
On the third morning in Bill and Gun’s home, Bill told Khalil that he’d talked to the others, and they were going to meet at the sailboat at ten o’clock. That’s all he said. He hadn’t asked. He had just announced they would be sailing in the regatta. Without Adnan. And without Karim.
So here they were now, waiting for the starting gun. Several other classes of boats had already competed, and Dannholmen was packed with spectators. The organizers had had great luck with the weather, and the sun was shining in a clear blue sky. Lots of people were there to witness Bill’s project. Journalists and curiosity-seekers, local residents and tourists. It actually looked as if all of Fjällbacka and the surrounding area had gathered on the small, bare island. Khalil had read on the Internet that a Swedish film star used to live
here. The same one whose statue stood in the little square in Fjällbacka. It wasn’t someone he knew, but Bill and Gun had played a DVD of one of her films last night. A film called Casablanca. She was beautiful. A little sad but beautiful. In that cool, Swedish sort of way.
Khalil had seen the island before, but he’d never gone ashore. They had trained intensively during the few days left before the competition, trying out the stretch of water around the island. From the beginning, the regatta had been intended only for small boats, for the children and youths of the Fjällbacka sailing school. But when the competition was re-instituted a few years back, their class of boat had been added. Bill said it was called class C55.
Khalil looked at Bill as he stood at the wheel. They were moving back and forth along with the seven other boats in their class, eyeing the clock in order to get in the best possible position when the starting gun sounded. No one spoke of Adnan. Yet they all knew this was no longer just a competition, a way of spending time as they waited to find out whether they would have a new home in Sweden.
Three minutes left before the start, and Khalil again cast a glance at the island. The buzz of voices from people having coffee, from the children running around and chattering to each other, from the groups of photographers and journalists conversing, had suddenly stopped. Everyone had moved to the side of the island where the boats would start off. Grown-ups. Children. Journalists. Residents of Fjällbacka. Tourists. Khalil saw some people from the refugee centre. Rolf was there. Gun was there with her two older sons. Familiar and unfamiliar faces. Several of the officers from the police station. Everyone stood there in silence, looking at their boat. Not a sound was heard other than the lapping of the water against the side of the boat and the sail fluttering in the wind. Bill was holding the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white, and his jaw was clenched.
A young child started waving. Then another person waved. And another. Everyone on Dannholmen was now waving to their crew as they sailed past. Khalil felt it hit him right in the heart. This was not a language he had to struggle to understand. It was the same the world over. A universal gesture of love. He waved to show that they saw, that they understood. Ibrahim and Farid waved too, but Bill kept his eyes fixed ahead as he stood, straight-backed, in the stern. His tear-filled eyes were the only indication that he had noticed.
Then the signal flare went up. With perfect precision, they broke from the starting line. On Dannholmen the spectators continued to wave, and some cheered and whistled. The sound rose up to the clear blue sky. The sail filled with wind and grew taut, and the boat keeled and cut through the waves. For a moment Khalil thought he saw their faces in the crowd. Amina. Karim. Adnan. But when he looked again, they were gone.
‘I’m glad you like the food,’ said Erica, serving her sister another helping of potato au gratin.
Anna could apparently eat as much as a six-foot man when she was pregnant.
‘You’re not the only one,’ said Patrik, reaching for the platter of fish filets. ‘I’m finally getting my appetite back.’
‘How are you doing?’ asked Dan. ‘We’ve all been affected by the tragedy at the community centre, but for you it must be … awful.’
He nodded at Erica, who was holding up a bottle of Ramlösa mineral water towards him. She knew Dan didn’t dare drink any wine in case he had to drive Anna to the maternity clinic.
Patrik put down his fork and knife. Erica knew he didn’t want to answer that question. So many had lost so much, so many were grieving, and there were so many victims.
‘We’re getting counselling,’ he said, twirling his wine glass. ‘It feels strange to be talking to a psychologist, but then … well, maybe we shouldn’t dismiss it so quickly.’
‘I heard there’s buzz the film might get a Guldbagge Award,’ said Anna, wanting to change the subject. ‘For Marie.’
‘Well, considering all the media attention, I’m not surprised,’ said Erica. ‘But Marie seems to have changed since Jessie died. She hasn’t given a single interview.’
‘I heard she’s going to publish her own book about what happened,’ said Dan, reaching for the salad bowl.
‘She says she wants to tell her own version,’ said Erica. ‘But she and Helen have promised to talk to me some more. Sanna too.’
‘How is Sanna doing?’ asked Patrik.
‘I talked to her yesterday,’ she said, thinking about the poor woman who had now lost her daughter too. ‘What can I say? She’s coping as best she can.’
‘And what about Helen?’ asked Dan.
‘Presumably she’ll be given a prison sentence for obstructing justice and harbouring a criminal,’ said Patrik. ‘I’m not sure how I feel about that. It seems to me she’s as much a victim as many others in this tragic case. But the law is the law.’
‘How are Nea’s parents doing?’ asked Anna, putting down her fork.
‘They’re going to sell the farm,’ said Patrik tersely.
Erica gave him a sympathetic look. She knew how personally he had taken everything about this case, how many sleepless nights he’d tossed and turned, plagued by thoughts and memories that would never leave him. She loved him for that. He was compassionate. He was brave. He was strong and loyal. He was a better husband than she’d ever dreamed of having and an amazing father to their children. Their life together wasn’t always rosy or romantic or easy. It was stress-filled and tumultuous, with all the little everyday conflicts that went with being parents to children who were at a stubborn age. They didn’t get enough sleep, they didn’t have enough sex; they had too little time for themselves and too little time to talk about things that were important. But it was their life. Their children were doing well, they were loved, they were happy. She reached out to take Patrik’s hand and felt him squeeze her hand in return. They were a team. A unit.
Anna whimpered. She had eaten four helpings of pork and potatoes au gratin, so it wasn’t strange if her stomach was protesting. But then her face contorted even more. Dan stiffened and looked at Anna, who slowly lowered her head to look down. She looked up again, breathing rapidly.
‘I’m bleeding,’ she said. ‘Help me. I’m bleeding.’
Erica felt her heart stop for a second. Then she lunged for the phone.
BOHUSLÄNINGEN
THE WITCH’S CURSE
A coincidence? Or a witch’s curse from nearly three hundred years ago that has once again claimed a victim?
The discoveries made by Lisa Hjalmarsson, aged fifteen, are guaranteed to make the reader’s blood run cold. Lisa, a student in 9B at the Hamburgsund secondary school, has written an essay about Elin Jonsdotter of Fjällbacka – a woman who was convicted of witchcraft and executed in 1672. At the executioner’s block, Jonsdotter hurled a vicious curse at her accusers: her sister Britta Willumsen, her brother-in-law Preben, and a woman by the name of Ebba of Mörhult.
Jonsdotter’s gripping and bloody story has now been given a nasty but titillating sequel because of Lisa Hjalmarsson’s research.
It turns out that descendants of the seventeenth-century accusers have been involved in every sort of unthinkable human tragedy: murder, suicide, and fatal accidents.
Tragedies that culminated in a horrifying event this past summer.
The tragedy in Tanumshede, which we reported in this newspaper, can be directly linked to Elin Jonsdotter’s curse from more than three hundred years ago. Lisa Hjalmarsson has been able to prove that the teenagers who set fire to the community centre and shot to death so many young people were direct descendants of Preben and Britta Willumsen, as well as Ebba of Mörhult.
A coincidence?
Or is Elin Jonsdotter’s curse still very much in force today?
Acknowledgements
Writing about the seventeenth century was both difficult and challenging, but also incredibly enjoyable. I’ve ploughed through a ton of books, read articles on the Internet, and consulted experts. Yet I have barely scratched the surface of this fascinating period, and all er
rors, both conscious and unconscious, are entirely my own. The same applies to the present-day story. I have taken certain liberties in order to make historical events and facts fit the story. That’s the prerogative of authors and storytellers.
As always when I write a book, there are many people I’d like to thank. A book is not written in a vacuum; it requires teamwork, even though I’m the one sitting at the keyboard.
I’m always conscious of the risk I might leave out someone who played an important role, but I’d like to thank a number of key individuals, both in my professional and my personal life.
My Swedish publisher Karin Linge Nordh and my editor John Häggblom have done a tremendous job with the manuscript of The Girl in the Woods – a job that was more demanding than ever because of the sheer length of the book. With meticulous attention and love they have pruned the weeds from the flower garden and trimmed what needed more care. I am mindful of their amazing input, and I am immensely grateful. I would also like to thank Sara Lindegren at Forum publishing company, and Thérèse Cederblad and Göran Wiberg at Bonniers publishing company. I also received help with fact-checking from Niklas Ytterberg, Miriam Säfström, Ralf Tibblin, Anders Torewi, Michael Tärnfalk, Kassem Hamadè, Lars Forsberg and Christian Glaumann. Your help was invaluable!
I want to thank everyone who helps me keep my life on track. My mother Gunnel Läckberg, Anette and Christer Sköld, Christina Melin, Sandra Wirström, Andreea Toba and Moa Braun. And my amazing older children Wille, Meja and Charlie, who were always willing to lend a hand by washing dishes or babysitting for Polly when I needed to work. What wonderful, wonderful children!
Joakim and the gang at Nordin Agency: You rock! I look forward to more great things in the future.
I also want to thank my friend and sister (although not by birth) Christina Saliba, as well as Sean Canning who has become not only an amazing resource on my team but also a good friend. And my thanks to all your delightful and talented co-workers.
The Girl in the Woods (Patrik Hedstrom and Erica Falck, Book 10) Page 67