‘Don’t stand there puffing, son. Come in and have a cup of coffee.’
Her voice was surprisingly powerful, and Patrik suddenly felt like a schoolboy as he followed her obediently inside. He resisted a strong urge to bow and struggled to maintain the snail’s pace so as not to run over Mrs Petrén. Inside the door he stopped short. Never in his entire life had he seen so many Santa Clauses. Everywhere, on every available surface, there they were. Big ones, little ones, old ones, young ones, winking ones and grey ones. He felt his brain go into overdrive to handle all the sensory input flowing towards him.
‘What do you think? Aren’t they magnificent!’
Patrik didn’t know quite what to say, and after a moment he managed to stammer a reply.
‘Yes, absolutely. Fantastic.’
He gave Mrs Petrén an anxious look to see whether she could hear that his words didn’t really match his tone of voice. To his amazement she gave him a roguish smile that made her eyes flash.
‘Don’t worry, boy. I’m well aware that it’s not really your taste, but when one gets old it involves certain responsibilities, you understand.’
‘Responsibilities?’
‘One is expected to show a bit of eccentricity to be interesting. Otherwise one is simply a sad old crone, and no one wants that, you know.’
‘But, why gnomes?’
Patrik still didn’t quite understand. Mrs Petrén explained it to him as if she were speaking to a child.
‘Well, the best thing, you see, is that one only needs to put them up once a year. The rest of the year I can keep the place nice and tidy. Then there’s the advantage that it brings a pack of children running up here at Christmastime. And for an old crone who doesn’t have many visitors, it’s a joy to the soul when the little creatures come and ring my bell to see the Santas.’
‘But how long do you keep them up, Mrs Petrén? We’re in the middle of February now.’
‘Well, I start putting them up in October and then take them down around April. Although you must realize that it probably takes a week or two to put them up and take them down.’
Patrik had no difficulty at all visualizing that it would take time. He tried doing a quick calculation in his head, but his brain hadn’t really recovered from the shock of the whole scene. Instead he turned to Mrs Petrén with a direct question.
‘How many do you actually have here?’
The reply was instant. ‘One thousand four hundred and forty-three, no excuse me, one thousand four hundred and forty-two—I happened to break one yesterday. And one of the nicest ones at that,’ said Mrs Petrén with a sad expression.
But she pulled herself together, her eyes flashing again. With astonishing strength she tugged on Patrik’s sleeve and more or less dragged him to the kitchen, where in contrast there was not a Santa to be seen. Patrik discreetly smoothed out his jacket but had a feeling that she would have grabbed hold of his ear instead if she could reach that high.
‘We’ll sit here. One gets a bit testy always having a bunch of old men around one. Here in the kitchen they’re banned.’
He sat down on the hard kitchen bench after all his offers of assistance were brusquely refused. Steeling himself at the thought of some thin, wretched boiled coffee, his mouth fell open for the second time at the sight of the huge, stainless-steel, hypermodern coffee brewer enthroned on the worktop.
‘What would you like? Cappuccino? Café au lait? Maybe a doppio espresso—you look like you could use it.’
Patrik managed only a nod. Mrs Petrén was apparently enjoying his amazement.
‘What did you expect? An old percolator from ’43 and hand-ground beans? No, just because I’m an old crone doesn’t mean that one can’t enjoy the good things in life. I got this from my son as a Christmas present a couple of years ago, and it’s always running, I can tell you that. Sometimes there’s a queue of old ladies from the neighbourhood waiting to have a drop.’
She patted the machine tenderly, which was now sputtering and fizzing as it whipped up milk to an airy froth.
As the coffee was being prepared, one fantastic pastry after another materialized on the table in front of Patrik. Not a Finnish pin roll or Karlsbad kruller as far as the eye could see; instead big cinnamon buns, stunning muffins, sticky chocolate biscuits, and fluffy meringue cakes were set out as Patrik’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. His mouth started watering so much that saliva threatened to run out the corners of his mouth. Mrs Petrén chuckled when she saw the expression on his face, and sat down across from him on one of the Windsor chairs. She served them each a cup of hot, aromatic, freshly brewed coffee.
‘I understand that it’s the girl in the house across the way that you want to talk to me about. Well, I already spoke with your superintendent and told him what little I know.’
With an effort Patrik detached himself from the sticky bun he had just sunk his teeth into. He had to clean his front teeth with his tongue before he could open his mouth.
‘Yes, Mrs Petrén, perhaps you would be so kind as to recount what you said? Is it all right if I turn on the tape recorder, by the way?’
He pressed the red button on the tape recorder and made sure to chew thoroughly while waiting for her reply.
‘Yes, of course you may. Well, it was Friday, the twenty-second of January, at six thirty. And please don’t be so formal. It makes me feel ancient.’
‘How can you be so sure of the date and time? It’s been a couple of weeks since then.’
Patrik took another bite.
‘Well, you see, it was my birthday that day, so my son and his family were here. We had cake and they brought me presents. Then they left just before the six-thirty news on channel 4, and that was when I heard a devil of a row outside. I rushed to the window that faces out back and over by the lass’s house, and that’s when I saw him.’
‘Anders?’
‘Anders the painter, yes. Drunk as a lord he was, standing there yelling like a madman and banging on the door. Finally she let him in and then it was quiet. Well, he may have kept yelling, I don’t know anything about that. It’s impossible to hear what goes on inside these houses.’
Mrs Petrén noticed that Patrik’s plate was empty, so she pushed over the tray of cinnamon buns to tempt him. He didn’t need a great deal of persuasion. He quickly helped himself to one on top.
‘And you’re quite sure, Mrs Petrén, that it was Anders Nilsson? No doubts on that point?’
‘Oh no, I’d know that rascal anywhere. He used to come over at all hours, and if he wasn’t here then he’d be down with the drunks on the square. I never did understand what he had to do with Alexandra Wijkner. That girl had class, I have to tell you. Both good-looking and well-brought-up. When she was little she’d often come over for juice and buns. She used to sit right there on the bench, often together with Tore’s little girl, what was her name now…?’
‘Erica,’ said Patrik with his mouth full of cinnamon bun, and he felt a tingle in the pit of his stomach just from saying her name.
‘Erica, that’s right. She was a nice girl too, but there was something special about Alexandra. She had a radiance about her. But then something happened…she stopped coming by and hardly ever said hello. A couple of months later they moved to Göteborg, and then I didn’t see her until she started coming here on weekends a couple of years ago.’
‘Weren’t the Carlgrens ever here during the years in between?’
‘No, never. But they kept the house in order. Painters and carpenters would come by, and Vera Nilsson came twice a month to clean.’
‘And you have no idea, Mrs Petrén, what happened before the Carlgrens moved to Göteborg, what might have changed Alex, I mean? No fight in the family or anything like that?’
‘There were rumours, of course, there always are here, but nothing I’d put much store in. Even though plenty of folks here in Fjällbacka claim to know most of what’s going on with everyone else, one thing you should be clear about: nobody ever knows
what goes on inside the four walls of anyone else’s home. That’s why I won’t speculate about it either. It serves no purpose. Look, take another pastry, you still haven’t tasted my meringue dreams.’
Patrik patted his stomach and found that yes, there was a tiny little nook that he might be able to fill with a meringue dream.
‘Did you see anything else after that? Did you notice when Anders Nilsson left, for example?’
‘No, I didn’t see him anymore that evening. But I did see him go into the house several times in the following week. That was odd, I must say. From what I heard in town she was already dead by then. So what in all the world could he have been doing in there?’
That was precisely what Patrik was wondering. Mrs Petrén gave him an inquiring look. ‘So, did you enjoy those?’
‘Probably the best pastries I’ve ever tasted, Mrs Petrén. How is it that you can rustle up a tray of pastries just like that? I mean, I didn’t ring more than fifteen minutes before I came here. You would have had to be as fast as Superman to bake all these goodies.’
She basked in the compliment and tossed her head proudly.
‘For thirty years, my husband and I ran the pastry shop here in Fjällbacka, so one hopes one has learned something over the years. Old habits are hard to break, so I still get up at five in the morning and bake every day. What doesn’t go to the kids and old ladies who come to visit, I feed to the birds. And then it’s always fun to try new recipes. There are so many modern baked goods that are so much better than those dry old Finnish pin rolls we used to bake tons of in the old days. I find recipes in the food magazines, and then I modify them to my liking.’
She gestured at an enormous stack of food magazines on the floor next to the kitchen bench—there was everything from Amelia Mat to Allt om mat, several years’ worth. Judging by the price per issue, Patrik suspected that Mrs Petrén must have saved a pretty penny during her years at the pastry shop. He had a bright idea.
‘Do you know whether there was any connection between the Carlgren family and the Lorentz family, besides the fact that Karl-Erik worked for them? Did they ever get together socially, for example?’
‘Goodness gracious, the Lorentzes getting together with the Carlgrens? No, my friend, that would only have happened if there were two Thursdays in one week! They didn’t move in the same circles. The fact that Nelly Lorentz—according to what I heard—showed up at the funeral reception at the Carlgrens’ house, I’d have to call that quite a sensation, nothing less!’
‘But what about the son? The one who disappeared, I mean. Did he ever have anything to do with the Carlgrens, as far as you know?’
‘No, one would hope not. A nasty boy he was. Always trying to nick pastries behind one’s back in the pastry shop. But my husband taught him a lesson when he caught him red-handed. That boy got the scolding of his life. Then, of course, Nelly came rushing over here to tell us off. She threatened to call the police on my husband. Well, he put a stop to that when he told her that there were witnesses to the pilfering, so she could go right ahead and ring the public prosecutor.’
‘But no connection to the Carlgrens, as far as you know, then?’
She shook her head.
‘Well, it was just a thought on my part,’ said Patrik. ‘Next to the murder of Alex, Nils’s disappearance is probably the most dramatic thing that’s ever happened here, and one never knows. Sometimes the most interesting coincidences turn up. So, I don’t think I have any other questions, so I’ll just say thanks for the coffee. Tremendously good pastry, I must say. I’ll have to eat salad for a few days.’ He patted his stomach.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t have to eat rabbit food. You’re still a growing boy.’
Patrik chose to accept the compliment, instead of pointing out that at thirty-five only his waistline was still growing. He got up from the kitchen bench but had to sit right down again. It felt like he had a tonne of concrete in his stomach, and a wave of nausea rose up in his throat. On second thought, it hadn’t been such a good idea to stuff himself with all these pastries.
He tried to squint a bit as he walked through the living room, and all one thousand four hundred forty-two Santas winked and glittered at him.
Walking out to the door took as long as it had to come in. He had to restrain himself from running around Mrs Petrén as he shuffled behind her toward the front door. She was a feisty old woman, no doubt about it. She was also a reliable witness, and with her testimony it was only a matter of time before they would be able to add another couple of pieces to the puzzle and build a water-tight case against Anders Nilsson. For the time being, it was mostly circumstantial evidence, but it looked as though the murder of Alexandra Wijkner was now solved. Yet he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, to the extent he could feel anything besides pastry. It was a feeling that the simple solutions were not always the correct ones.
It was magnificent to breathe fresh air, which somewhat relieved the nausea. He was just thanking Mrs Petrén once more and turning to go when she pressed something into his hand before he pulled the door closed. He looked to see what it was. It was a shopping bag from ICA stuffed full of pastries—and a little Santa Claus. He grabbed his stomach and groaned.
‘Well now, Anders, things aren’t looking so good for you.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Oh yeah—is that all you have to say? You’re sitting up to your neck in shit if you haven’t realized that! Have you realized that?’
‘I didn’t do anything.’
‘Bullshit! Don’t you sit there and shovel bullshit right in my face. I know you murdered her, so you might as well confess and save us all some trouble. If you save me trouble, you’ll save yourself trouble. Do you get what I’m talking about?’
Mellberg and Anders were sitting in the only interrogation room at Tanumshede police station, and unlike American cop shows, there was no one-way glass wall through which his colleagues could watch the interrogation. Which suited Mellberg just fine. It was completely against regulations to be alone with a subject under interrogation, but what the hell, as long as he delivered, nobody would care about any stupid regulations. And Anders hadn’t asked for an attorney or anyone else to be present, so why should Mellberg insist?
The room was small and sparsely furnished, with bare walls. The only furniture was a table and two chairs, now occupied by Anders Nilsson and Bertil Mellberg. Anders was leaning back nonchalantly in his chair, with his hands folded in his lap and his long legs stretched out under the table. Mellberg stood leaning halfway over the table with his face as close to Anders’s as he could stand, in view of the suspect’s anything but minty-fresh breath. But it was close enough for tiny drops of saliva to spray in Anders’s face when Mellberg spat out his words. Anders didn’t bother to wipe his face. He chose to pretend that the superintendent was merely an annoying fly, so insignificant that it wasn’t even worth swatting away.
‘Both you and I know that you were the one who murdered Alexandra Wijkner. Tricked her into taking sleeping pills, put her in the bathtub and slit her wrists, and then calmly watched as she bled to death. So why don’t we just make this easy on both of us? You confess and I’ll write it down.’
Mellberg felt very pleased with what he regarded as a powerful start to the interrogation. He sat down on the chair and clasped his hands over his big paunch. He waited. No response from Anders. His head continued to droop forward, his hair concealing any facial expression. A twitch at the corner of Mellberg’s mouth revealed that indifference was not what he considered his preamble deserved. After waiting in silence a bit longer, he slammed his fist on the table to try to rouse Anders out of his torpor. No reaction.
‘What the hell, you fucking drunk! Do you think you can get out of this by sitting there and not saying a word? Then you’ve ended up in the hands of the wrong cop, I can tell you that. You’re going to tell me the truth if we have to sit here all day!’
The sweat stains under Mellberg’s arms were growing larger wit
h each syllable.
‘You were jealous, weren’t you? We found some paintings you did of her, and it’s quite obvious that you were fucking each other. And to dispel any further doubt, we also found your letters to her. Your sickly sweet, pathetic love letters. Jesus, what fucking crap. What did she see in you, anyway? I mean, just look at you. You’re filthy and disgusting and as far from any Don Juan as you could get. The only explanation would have to be that she was some kind of pervert. That she was turned on by filth and revolting old drunks. Did she take on the other winos in Fjällbacka too, or were you the only one she serviced?’
Quick as a weasel Anders was on his feet. He launched himself across the table and had his hands around Mellberg’s neck.
‘You fuck, I’m going to kill you, you cop son of a bitch!’
Mellberg tried in vain to prise off Anders’s hands. His face got redder and redder, and his hair fell out of its nest and hung down over his right ear. From sheer astonishment Anders loosened his grip on Mellberg’s neck, and the superintendent was able to take a deep breath. Anders fell back in his chair and glowered at Mellberg.
Mellberg had to cough and clear his throat to recover his voice. ‘Don’t you ever do that again! Do you hear me, never! Now you’re going to sit still, damn it, or I’ll toss you in a cell and throw away the key, do you hear me?’
Mellberg sat back down on his chair but kept his eyes vigilantly on Anders. There was a hint of fear in Mellberg’s eyes that wasn’t there before. He discovered that his meticulously arranged hairdo had suffered a real blow, and with a practised motion he swung the hair up onto the shiny patch in the middle of his scalp, at the same time as he tried to pretend that nothing had happened.
‘Now, back to business. So you had a sexual relationship with the victim, Alexandra Wijkner?’
Anders muttered something into his lap.
‘Excuse me, what did you say?’ Mellberg leaned forward across the table with his hands clasped in front of him.
‘I said we loved each other!’
The words echoed and bounced off the bare walls. Mellberg gave Anders a contemptuous smile.
The Ice Princess Page 15
