The Drowning

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘The Mermaid.’

  ‘In the book?’ Erica didn’t understand. What was he trying to say? And where was he? Not here, at any rate. Not in the present moment, not with her. He was someplace else, and she sincerely wished she knew where that was.

  The next instant the mood had passed. Christian took a deep breath and turned to face her. He was back.

  ‘I want to focus on my new manuscript. Not sit around giving interviews and writing birthday greetings in the books that I’m asked to sign.’

  ‘That’s all part of the job, Christian,’ Erica calmly pointed out. She couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed at his arrogance.

  ‘You mean I have no choice in the matter?’ He spoke calmly, but there was still an underlying tension.

  ‘If you weren’t prepared to take on that part of the job, you should have said so from the beginning. The publisher, the marketplace, and the readers – and, for God’s sake, they’re the most important of all – expect us to devote some of our time to them. If an author doesn’t want to do that, he needs to make it clear right from the start. You can’t change the rules in the middle of the game.’

  Christian looked down at the floor, and she saw that he was listening carefully, taking in what she was saying. When he raised his head, he had tears in his eyes.

  ‘I can’t, Erica. It’s impossible for me to explain, but …’ He shook his head and tried again. ‘I can’t. They can ostracize me, blacklist me, I don’t care. I’ll keep on writing, because that’s what I have to do. But I can’t play their game.’ He began vigorously scratching his arms as if there were ants swarming under his skin.

  Erica looked at him with concern. Christian was like a taut string that might snap at any moment. But she realized that there was nothing she could do about it. He didn’t want to talk to her. If she was going to solve the mystery of the letters, she would have to look for answers on her own, without his help.

  He stared at her for a moment and then abruptly pulled his chair closer to the table with the computer.

  ‘I have to get back to work now.’ His face was expression less. Closed.

  Erica stood up. She wished she could see inside his head and pluck out his secrets, which she knew had to be in there. She was sure they were the key to everything. But he had turned his attention to the computer screen, focusing intently on the words that he’d written, as if they were the last things he would ever read.

  She left without saying another word. Not even goodbye.

  Patrik sat in his office, trying to fight off an overwhelming sense of fatigue. He needed to concentrate and be alert, now that the investigation had reached a critical stage. Paula stuck her head in the door.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked, taking in Patrik’s unhealthy pallor and the beads of sweat on his forehead. She was worried about him. It was impossible not to notice that he’d been looking worn-out lately.

  Patrik took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to the latest development.

  ‘Lisbet Bengtsson’s body has been taken to Göteborg for a post-mortem. I haven’t talked to Pedersen, but considering that it’ll be a few days yet before we have the results on Magnus Kjellner, I’m not counting on anything regarding Lisbet until the beginning of next week, at the earliest.’

  ‘So what do you think? Was she murdered?’

  Patrik hesitated. ‘When it comes to Magnus, I’m sure it was homicide. The injuries he sustained couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted; they could only be the result of an assault. As for Lisbet … I don’t really know what to say. She had no visible injuries that I could see, and she was seriously ill, so she could have simply died from her disease. If it weren’t for that note, that is. Someone had been in her room and put that piece of paper in her hand. But whether that was done before she died, as she was dying, or after her death, it’s impossible to say. We’ll have to wait for Pedersen to give us more information.’

  ‘What about the letters? What did Erik and Kenneth say? Did they have any theory about who might have sent them? Or why?’

  ‘No. They both say they haven’t a clue. And right now I see no reason not to believe them. But it seems incredible that three people would be selected at random to receive letters like that. They know each other and spend time together. There must be some sort of common denominator. Something that we’ve overlooked.’

  ‘In that case, why didn’t Magnus receive any letters?’ Paula asked.

  ‘I don’t know. He may have got some but didn’t tell anyone about them.’

  ‘Have you asked Cia?’

  ‘Yes, I asked her as soon as I heard about the threatening letters that had been sent to Christian. She claimed that her husband hadn’t received any such thing. If he had, she would have known about it and reported it to us in the very beginning. But it’s hard to know for sure. Magnus may have kept quiet in order to protect her.’

  ‘It feels like the whole thing has started to escalate. Entering someone’s house in the middle of the night is a lot more serious than sending a letter in the post.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Patrik. ‘I’d like to give Kenneth police protection, but we just don’t have the staff to do that.’

  ‘No, we really don’t,’ Paula agreed. ‘But if it turns out that his wife was actually murdered, then …’

  ‘We’ll have to rethink the whole case if that’s true,’ replied Patrik wearily.

  ‘Have you sent the letters to the lab for analysis, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, I sent them off at once. And I included the letter that Erica took from Christian.’

  ‘That Erica stole, you mean,’ said Paula, trying to hide her smile. She’d teased Patrik mercilessly when he’d tried to defend his wife’s actions.

  ‘Okay, yes, she stole the letter.’ Patrik blushed. ‘But I don’t think we should get our hopes up. So many people have already handled those letters, and it’s hard to trace ordinary white paper and black ink. You can buy them just about anywhere in Sweden.’

  ‘True,’ said Paula. ‘There’s also a risk that we’re dealing with someone who is very careful to erase their tracks.’

  ‘That’s possible, but we might also get a lucky break.’

  ‘So far that hasn’t happened,’ muttered Paula.

  ‘No, it hasn’t …’ Patrik sank back on his chair, and they both pondered the case in silence.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll make a fresh start. We’ll meet at seven o’clock to go over all the material and then proceed from there.’

  ‘A fresh start tomorrow,’ Paula repeated and then went back to her own office. They really needed some sort of breakthrough right now. And Patrik looked as though he needed a good night’s rest. She resolved to keep an eye on him. He didn’t look at all well.

  The writing was going slowly. Words collected in his head but without forming into sentences. The cursor on the screen was annoying as it kept blinking at him. This book was proving much harder to write; it contained very little of himself. On the other hand, The Mermaid had contained too much. It surprised Christian that no one had noticed that. They had read the book as a story, a dark fantasy. His greatest fear had proved baseless. The whole time he had carried out the difficult but necessary work on the novel, he had struggled with the fear of what might happen when he lifted up the rock. What would crawl out when the light of day touched what was hiding underneath?

  But nothing had happened. People were so naive, so used to being fed fictionalized accounts, that they couldn’t recognize reality even under the skimpiest of disguises. He looked at the computer screen again. Tried to summon forth the words, get back to what was truly a made-up story. It was like he’d told Erica: there was no sequel to The Mermaid. That story was over.

  He had played with fire, and the flames had burned his feet. She was very close now; he knew that. She had found him, and he had only himself to blame.

  With a sigh he turned off the computer. He needed to clear his mind. He threw on his jacket and zi
pped it up to his chin. Then he left the boathouse, and with his hands in his pockets he set off at a brisk pace for Ingrid Bergman Square. The streets were crowded and lively during the summer, but right now they were deserted. That actually suited him better.

  He had no idea where he was going until he turned off at the wharf where the Coast Guard boats were docked. His feet had carried him to Badholmen, and the diving tower, which loomed against the grey winter sky. The wind was blowing hard. As he walked along the stone jetty that took him over to the little island, a strong gust seized hold of his jacket, making it billow like a sail. He found shelter between the wooden walls separating the changing booths, but as soon as he stepped out on to the rocks facing the tower, the wind again struck him full force. He stood still, allowing himself to be buffeted back and forth as he tilted his head back to stare up at the tower. It wasn’t exactly beautiful, but it definitely had a certain presence. From the uppermost platform, there was an impressive view of all of Fjällbacka and the bay opening on to the sea. And it still had a worn dignity about it. Like an old woman who had lived a long life, and lived it well, and wasn’t ashamed to show it.

  He hesitated for a moment before moving forward to climb the first step. He held on to the railing with cold hands. The tower creaked and protested. In the summertime it withstood hordes of eager teenagers running up and down, but right now the wind was tearing at it with such force that he wasn’t sure it would even hold his weight. But that didn’t matter. He had to go up to the top.

  Christian climbed higher. Now there was no doubt that the tower was actually swaying in the wind. It was moving like a pendulum, swinging his body from side to side. But he kept on going until he reached the top. He closed his eyes for a moment as he sat down on the platform and exhaled. Then he opened his eyes.

  She was there, wearing the blue dress. She was dancing on the ice, holding the child in her arms, without leaving any tracks in the snow. Even though she was barefoot, just like on that Midsummer day, she didn’t seem to be cold. And the child was wearing light clothes, white trousers and a little shirt, but smiling in the wintry wind as if nothing could touch him.

  Christian stood up, his legs unsteady. His eyes were fixed on her. He wanted to scream a warning. The ice was thin, she shouldn’t be out there, she shouldn’t be dancing on the ice. He saw the cracks, some of them spreading, some of them opening wide. But she kept on dancing with the child in her arms, her dress fluttering around her legs. She laughed and waved, and the dark hair framed her face.

  The tower swayed. But he stood upright, countering the movement by holding out his arms to either side. He tried shouting to her, but only a raspy sound came out of his throat. Then he saw her. A soft white hand. It rose out of the water, trying to catch hold of the feet of the woman who was dancing, trying to grab her dress, wanting to drag her down into the deep. He saw the Mermaid. Her pale face that covetously reached for the woman and the child, reached for what he loved.

  But the woman didn’t see her. She just kept on dancing, took the child’s hand and waved to him, moving her feet across the ice, sometimes only centimetres from the white hand trying to catch her.

  Something flashed inside his head. There was nothing he could do. He was helpless. Christian pressed his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. And then came the scream. Loud and shrill, it rose out of his throat, bouncing off the ice and the rocks below, ripping open the wound in his chest. When he stopped screaming, he cautiously took his hands away from his ears. Then he opened his eyes. The woman and the child were gone. But now he knew. She would never give up until she had taken everything that was his.

  14

  Alice still demanded so much. Mother devoted hours to training her, bending her joints, doing exercises with pictures and music. She had moved heaven and earth before she finally accepted the situation. Things were not as they should be with Alice.

  But he no longer got so angry. He didn’t hate his sister, in spite of all the time she required from Mother. Because the look of triumph in her eyes was gone. She was calm and quiet. She mostly sat by herself, plucking at something, repeating the same movement for hours, staring out of the window or straight at the wall, looking at something only she could see.

  And she did learn things. First how to sit up, then how to wriggle forward, finally how to walk. The same as other children. It just took longer for Alice.

  Now and then Father would happen to look at him over her head. For a moment, just an instant, their eyes would meet, and there was something in Father’s expression that he couldn’t decipher. But he understood that Father was keeping watch over him, keeping watch over Alice. He wanted to tell Father that it wasn’t necessary. Why would he do anything to her, now that she was so nice?

  He didn’t love her. He loved only Mother. But he tolerated her. Alice was now part of his world, a small part of his reality, in the same way as the TV set with its noise, the bed he crawled into at night, or the rustling of the newspapers that Father read. She was just as much a natural part of daily life, and she meant just as little.

  Alice, on the other hand, adored him. He couldn’t understand it. Why had she chosen him instead of their beautiful mother? Alice’s face lit up whenever she saw him, and she would stretch out her arms to him, wanting to be picked up. Otherwise she didn’t like to be touched. She often recoiled and pulled away when Mother came near, wanting to caress her and hold her. He didn’t understand it. If Mother had wanted to touch him and caress him in that way, he would have crept into her embrace and closed his eyes, never wanting to leave.

  Alice’s unconditional love for him was surprising. And yet it gave him a certain feeling of satisfaction that at least somebody wanted him. Sometimes he would test her love. On those few occasions when Father forgot to keep an eye on them and went to the toilet or out to the kitchen to get something, he would test how far her love extended. He would see how far he could go before the light in her eyes was extinguished. Sometimes he would pinch her, sometimes he would pull her hair. Once he had cautiously removed her shoe and scratched the sole of her foot with the little pocket knife he had found and always carried in his pocket.

  He didn’t really like hurting her, but he knew how shallow love could be, and how easily it could be blown away. To his great amazement, Alice never cried; she didn’t even give him a reproachful look. She simply put up with whatever he did. Silently, with those bright eyes staring at him.

  And no one ever took any notice of the little black and blue marks or the tiny cuts on her body. She was constantly getting bumps and bruises, toppling over, running into things, and cutting herself. It was as if she moved about with a couple of seconds’ time lag in her awareness, and she often didn’t react until she was already knocking into something. But she never cried, even then.

  There were no signs on the outside, nothing that was visible. Even he had to admit that she looked like an angel. If Mother took Alice out in her pushchair – and she was really too big for it by now, but she was still allowed to ride in it because she took so long to walk anywhere on her own – strangers would always comment on the way Alice looked.

  ‘What a lovely child,’ they would chirp. Leaning over her, they would look at Alice with hungry eyes, as if they wanted to inhale all her sweetness. And he used to glance up at Mother, noticing how for a second she would beam with pride as she nodded.

  Then everything would be destroyed in an instant. Alice would reach out towards her admirers with drool hanging from her lips. Then they would abruptly step back, casting first a shocked and then a sympathetic glance at Mother, while her proud expression vanished.

  They never looked at him at all. He was just somebody walking behind Mother and Alice, if he was even allowed to go along. A fat, shapeless mass, and no one gave him a thought. But he didn’t care. It was as if the anger that had burned inside his chest had died the moment the water had covered Alice’s face. He never noticed the smell in his nostrils any more. That sweet smell had di
sappeared, as if it had never existed. That too the water had washed away. Although the memory was still there. Not like a memory of something real, but more like a feeling of something displaced. He was someone else now. Someone who knew that Mother no longer loved him.

  They got started early. Patrik had refused to listen to any protests about holding the meeting at seven o’clock sharp.

  ‘I have a very ambiguous picture of who’s behind all of this,’ he said after having summarized the case. ‘We seem to be dealing with an individual who is seriously mentally unbalanced, but at the same time extremely cautious and well organized. And that’s a dangerous combination.’

  ‘We don’t know for sure that the same person who killed Magnus is also responsible for the letters and the break-in at Kenneth’s house,’ said Martin.

  ‘No, but there’s nothing to contradict that theory either. I suggest that for the present we assume there’s a connection.’ Patrik rubbed his face with his hand. He’d lain in bed tossing and turning most of the night, and he felt more tired than ever. ‘I’ll phone Pedersen after we’re done here and find out if we can get a definitive answer about the cause of death for Magnus.’

  ‘It’s probably going to take a few more days to get Pedersen’s report,’ said Paula.

  ‘I know, but it doesn’t hurt to lean on him a bit.’ Patrik pointed at the corkboard on the wall. ‘We’ve wasted far too much time already. It’s been three months since Magnus disappeared, but only in the past few days did we find out about the threats to other individuals.’

  Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the photographs that were pinned up next to each other.

  ‘We have four friends: Magnus Kjellner, Christian Thydell, Kenneth Bengtsson, and Erik Lind. One is dead. The other three have received threatening letters from someone who we believe to be a woman. Unfortunately we don’t know whether Magnus received similar letters. At any rate his wife, Cia, isn’t aware of any. So it’s unlikely we’ll ever know for sure.’