The Drowning

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘So I suppose that means we won’t be able to work out where or when he was tossed into the water, right?’ Gösta had a gloomy look on his face as he absentmindedly patted Ernst, who was pressed against his leg.

  ‘The ice didn’t set in until December. We’ll have to wait for Pedersen’s report to hear how long he thinks Magnus has been dead, but my guess is that he died right after he went missing.’ Patrik raised an admonitory finger. ‘But as I said, we have no facts to support that theory, so we can’t really use it as a basis for our investigation.’

  ‘But it does sound like a reasonable assumption,’ said Gösta.

  ‘You mentioned stab wounds. What do we know about that?’ Paula’s brown eyes narrowed as she impatiently tapped her pen on the notepad lying on the table in front of her.

  ‘I didn’t find out a lot about that either. You know how Pedersen is. He doesn’t really like to say anything until he’s done a thorough examination. The only thing he told me was that Kjellner had been assaulted and multiple stab wounds had been inflicted.’

  ‘Which seems to indicate that he’d been stabbed with a knife,’ Gösta added.

  ‘Most likely, yes.’

  ‘When are we going to get more information from Pedersen?’ Mellberg now sat at the head of the table and snapped his fingers to summon Ernst to his side. The dog instantly left Gösta and trotted over to place his head on his master’s knee.

  ‘He said he’d get to the post-mortem at the end of the week. So we might know more by the weekend, if we’re lucky. Otherwise early next week.’ Patrik sighed. Sometimes the constraints of the job taxed his patience. He wanted answers now, not in a week.

  ‘All right. What do you know about his disappearance?’ Mellberg made a show of holding up his empty coffee cup towards Annika, who pretended not to notice. Next he tried Martin, with better results. Martin hadn’t yet achieved the status required to ignore his boss. Mellberg leaned back with satisfaction as his youngest colleague got up and headed for the kitchen.

  ‘We know that Kjellner left home just after eight in the morning. Cia had already left at seven thirty to drive to her job in Grebbestad. She works part-time in an estate agents office there. The children had to leave by seven to catch the bus to school.’ Patrik paused to take a sip of his coffee after Martin had refilled everyone’s cups. Paula took the opportunity to jump in with a question.

  ‘How do you know that Magnus Kjellner left just after eight?’

  ‘That’s when a neighbour saw him leaving the house.’

  ‘Did he drive off?’

  ‘No, Cia had taken the family’s only car, and according to her, Magnus usually walked.’

  ‘But he didn’t walk all the way to Tanum, did he?’ asked Martin.

  ‘No, he rode to work with a colleague of his, Ulf Rosander, who lives over by the mini-golf course. That was where he walked. But on that particular morning, he phoned Rosander to say he’d be late. And he never showed up.’

  ‘Do we know that?’ asked Mellberg. ‘Have we taken a proper look at this Rosander? After all, we have only his word that Magnus never turned up.’

  ‘Gösta went out to interview Rosander, and there’s nothing to indicate that he’s lying, either from what he said or the way he acted,’ said Patrik.

  ‘Maybe you haven’t pressured him enough,’ said Mellberg, writing something on his notepad. He glanced up and fixed his gaze on Patrik. ‘Let’s bring him in and grill him a little more.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit drastic? People might hesitate to talk to the police in future if they hear that we’ve started hauling witnesses down to the station,’ Paula objected. ‘How about if you and Patrik drive out to his place in Fjällbacka? Of course, I know that you’re extremely busy at the moment, so I could go with Patrik instead, if you like.’ She gave Patrik a discreet wink.

  ‘Hmmm, that’s true. I do have quite a lot on my plate right now. That’s a good idea, Paula. You and Patrik can drive over there and have another chat with … Rosell.’

  ‘Rosander,’ Patrik corrected him.

  ‘Right. That’s what I said.’ Mellberg glared at Patrik. ‘At any rate, I want you and Paula to talk to him. I think that could be productive.’ He waved his hand impatiently. ‘So, what else? What more do we know?’

  ‘We’ve knocked on doors all along the route that Magnus used to take when he walked over to Rosander’s house. Nobody saw anything, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. People are always busy with their own morning routines,’ said Patrik.

  ‘It seems Magnus just disappeared in a puff of smoke the minute he stepped out the front door. Until we found him in the ice, that is.’ Martin had a resigned expression on his face as he looked at Patrik, who made an effort to sound more positive than he actually felt.

  ‘No one just disappears. Somewhere there are traces of what happened. We just have to find them.’

  Patrik could hear the platitudes rolling a bit too glibly from his lips, but he had nothing else to offer.

  ‘What about his personal life? Have we dug deep enough? Pulled all the skeletons out of the wardrobe?’ Mellberg laughed at his own joke, but no one joined in.

  ‘Magnus and Cia’s closest friends are Erik Lind, Kenneth Bengtsson, and Christian Thydell. And their wives. We’ve talked to all of them, along with Magnus’s family members. But the only thing we’ve learned is that Magnus was a devoted father and a good friend. No gossip, no secrets, no rumours.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Mellberg snorted. ‘Everybody has something to hide. It’s just a matter of digging it out. You clearly haven’t tried hard enough.’

  ‘Of course …’ Patrik began. But then he fell silent as he realized that Mellberg might actually be right, for a change. Maybe they hadn’t dug deep enough, maybe they hadn’t asked the right questions. ‘Of course we’ll do another round of interviews with his family and friends,’ he went on. He suddenly pictured Christian Thydell, and the letter that lay in the top drawer of his desk. But Patrik didn’t want to say anything about that yet, not until he had something more concrete to go on. So far it was just a gut feeling.

  ‘Okay then. Let’s do it over, and do it right!’ Mellberg stood up so fast that Ernst, who had been resting his head on his master’s knee, almost toppled over. The police chief was halfway out of the door when he turned and gave his subordinates a stern look as they sat around the table. ‘And let’s pick up the pace a bit too.’

  Dark had fallen outside the train windows. He’d got up so early that morning that it now felt more like evening, even though his watch told him it was only late afternoon. In his pocket his mobile stubbornly buzzed again and again, but he ignored it. No matter who was trying to call, it was bound to be someone who wanted something from him. Someone trying to chase him down and make demands.

  Christian stared out of the window. They had just passed Herrljunga. He’d left his car in Uddevalla. From there it was about a forty-five-minute drive home to Fjällbacka. He leaned his forehead on the pane and closed his eyes. The glass felt cold against his skin. The darkness outside seemed to be forcing its way inward, towards him. He gasped for breath, opened his eyes, and moved his head back. His forehead and the tip of his nose had left a visible print on the windowpane. He raised his hand and rubbed it off. He didn’t want to look at that, didn’t want to see any trace of himself.

  When the train arrived in Uddevalla, he was so tired that he could barely see straight. He’d tried to doze off during the last hour of the trip, but images kept flickering through his mind, keeping him awake. He stopped at the McDonald’s on the road to Torp and bought a large coffee, which he quickly downed for the sake of the caffeine.

  His mobile was buzzing again, but he didn’t feel like taking the phone out of his pocket, much less talking to whoever was so persistently trying to reach him. It was probably Sanna. She would be annoyed with him when he finally got home, but he didn’t care.

  He could feel a prickling sensation in his body, and he shifted positi
on in the driver’s seat. The headlamps from the car behind him were shining in his rear-view mirror, and he was temporarily blinded when he shifted his gaze to the road ahead. There was something about those headlamps – the steadily maintained distance, and the glare – that made him glance in the rear-view mirror again. It was the same car that had been behind him ever since he stopped in Torp. Or was it? He rubbed his eyes. He was no longer sure about anything.

  The lights stayed with him as he turned off the motorway at the sign for Fjällbacka. Christian squinted, trying to make out what model car was following him. But it was too dark, and the headlamps were too bright. His hands were sweaty as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He was holding on so hard that his hands started to ache, and he briefly let go to flex his fingers.

  He pictured her in his mind. She was wearing the blue dress, holding the child in her arms. The scent of strawberries, the taste of her lips. The feeling of the dress fabric against his skin. Her hair, long and brown.

  Something jumped out in front of his car. Christian braked hard and for several seconds, the tyres lost contact with the road. The car slid towards the ditch, and he could feel that he’d lost control of the vehicle; he just let it happen. But a few centimetres from the edge, the car came to a halt. The white rump of a deer was clearly visible in the light of the headlamps, and he watched the animal leaping with fright across the field.

  The engine was still running, but the sound was drowned out by the roar inside his head. In his rear-view mirror he noticed that the car behind him had also stopped, and he knew that he ought to get going. Away from those headlamps shining in the mirror.

  A car door opened and someone got out of the other vehicle. Who was that coming towards him? It was so dark outside, and he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman approaching. A few more steps and the dark figure would reach his door.

  Christian’s hands began shaking as he continued to grip the wheel. He looked away from the mirror to stare out across the open field at the edge of the forest, which was vaguely discernible a short distance away. He stared and waited. The door on the passenger side of his car opened.

  ‘Are you all right? Everything okay? It looks like you almost hit that deer.’

  Christian turned his head towards the voice. A white-haired man in his sixties was standing there, looking at him.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Christian muttered. ‘I was just a bit shocked. That’s all.’

  ‘I can understand that. It’s awful when something jumps out in front of your car like that. Are you sure you’re all right though?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m going to head for home now. I’m on my way to Fjällbacka.’

  ‘Ah, I see. I’m going to Hamburgsund. Drive carefully.’

  The man shut the door, and Christian could feel his pulse begin to slow down. It was only ghosts, memories from the past. Nothing that could harm him.

  A little voice in his head tried to talk about the letters. They were not figments of his imagination. But he turned a deaf ear, refusing to listen to the voice. If he started thinking about that, she would be in control again. And that was something he could not allow. He had worked so hard to forget. She wasn’t going to get hold of him again.

  He started driving, headed for Fjällbacka. In his jacket pocket his mobile was buzzing.

  10

  Alice kept on crying, both day and night. He heard Mother and Father talking about it. They said she had something called colic. No matter what that meant, it was unbearable listening to the racket she made. The sound was encroaching on his whole life, taking everything away from him.

  Why didn’t Mother hate her when she cried so much? Why did she hold her, sing to her, rock her to sleep, and look at her with such a gentle expression, as if she felt sorry for the baby?

  There was no reason to feel sorry for Alice. She behaved that way on purpose. He was convinced of that. Sometimes when he leaned over her cot and peered down at her as she lay there like an ugly little beetle, she would stare back at him. She gave him a look that said she didn’t want Mother to love him. That was why she cried and demanded everything from her. So that there would be nothing left for him.

  Now and then he could see that Father felt the same way. That he too knew that Alice was acting like that on purpose, so that Father would have no share of Mother either. Yet Father did nothing. Why didn’t he do anything? He was big and grown up. He should be able to make Alice stop.

  Father was hardly allowed to touch the baby either. Occasionally he would try, picking her up and patting her bottom and stroking her back to get her to calm down. But Mother always said that he was doing it wrong, that he should leave Alice to her. And then Father would retreat again.

  But one day Father decided to take charge of her. Alice had been crying worse than ever, for three whole nights in a row.

  He had lain awake in his room, pressing the pillow over his head to block out the sound. And under the pillow his hatred had grown. It began spreading, settling so heavily on top of him that he could hardly breathe, and he had to lift the pillow away to gasp for air. By now Mother was worn out after being awake for three nights. So she had made an exception, leaving the baby to Father while she went to bed. And Father had decided to give Alice a bath, asking him if he’d like to watch.

  Father carefully tested the temperature of the water before filling the bathtub. He looked at Alice, who for once was quiet, with the same expression on his face as Mother usually had. Never before had Father seemed so important. He was usually an invisible figure who disappeared in Mother’s radiance, someone who had also been shut out from the relationship that Mother and Alice shared. But now he was suddenly important. He smiled at Alice, and she smiled back.

  Father cautiously lowered the tiny naked body into the water. He placed her in a baby bath seat lined with terry-cloth, almost like a little hammock, so she was partially sitting up. Tenderly he washed her arms, her legs, her plump little belly. She waved her hands and kicked her feet. She wasn’t crying. Finally she had stopped crying. But that didn’t matter. She had won. Even Father had left his place of refuge behind the newspaper to come out and smile at her.

  He stood quietly in the doorway. Couldn’t take his eyes off Father’s hands touching that little body. Father, who had been the closest thing to an ally after Mother had stopped looking at him. The doorbell rang and he gave a start. Father looked from the bathroom door to Alice, unsure what to do. Finally he said:

  ‘Could you look after your little sister for a minute? I just need to go see who that is. I’ll be right back.’

  He hesitated a second. Then he felt his head nodding. Father got up from where he was kneeling beside the tub and told him to come closer. His feet moved automatically to carry him the short distance over to the tub. Alice looked up at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Father leave the bathroom.

  They were alone now, he and Alice.

  Erica stared at Patrik in disbelief.

  ‘In the ice?’

  ‘Yes, the poor man who found him must have had a real shock.’ Patrik had given Erica a brief summary of the day’s events.

  ‘I guess he did!’ She dropped heavily on to the sofa, and Maja immediately tried to climb on to her lap. And that was not an easy task.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’ shouted Maja, pressing her mouth against her mother’s stomach. Ever since they’d explained to her that the babies could hear her, she’d seized every opportunity to communicate with them. Since her vocabulary was limited, and that was putting it mildly, there wasn’t much variety to her conversations.

  ‘They’re probably sleeping, so let’s not wake them,’ said Erica, holding her finger to her lips.

  Maja imitated the gesture, and then pressed her ear against her mother’s stomach to hear if the babies really were asleep.

  ‘Sounds like it was a terrible day,’ said Erica in a low voice.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ said Patrik, trying to push aside his memory of the expressions
he’d seen on the faces of Cia and her children. Especially the look in Ludvig’s eyes. He was so much like Magnus, and that look was going to stay with Patrik for a very long time. ‘At least now they know. Sometimes I think that uncertainty is worse,’ he said, sitting down next to Erica so that Maja ended up between them. She slid happily on to his lap, which offered a little more room, and burrowed her head into his chest. He stroked her blonde hair.

  ‘You’re probably right. At the same time, it’s hard when hope disappears.’ Erica hesitated, then asked, ‘Do the police have any idea what happened?’

  Patrik shook his head. ‘No, at this point we know nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘What about the letters that were sent to Christian?’ she asked, wrestling a bit with herself. Should she say anything about her excursion to the library today and what she’d been thinking about Christian’s past? She decided not to mention either of those things until she’d found out a bit more.

  ‘I still haven’t had time to think about the letters. But we’re going to have another talk with Magnus’s family and friends, so I can take up the subject when I interview Christian.’

  ‘They asked him about the letters this morning on the TV talk show,’ said Erica, shuddering when she thought about her own role in provoking the questions that Christian had been subjected to on live television.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He dismissed the whole thing, even when they pressured him to discuss it.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Patrik kissed his daughter on the top of her head. ‘So, what do you think, Maja? Shall we go and cook dinner for Mamma and the babies?’ He got up, holding Maja in his arms. She nodded eagerly. ‘What shall we make? Poop sausages with onions?’

  Maja laughed so hard that she hiccupped. She was bright for her age and had recently discovered the pleasures of poop and pee humour.