The Ice Princess

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘Okay, so you loved each other. Beauty and the beast loved each other. How touching. So how long did you “love” each other, then?’

  Anders mumbled something incomprehensible again, and Mellberg had to ask him to repeat it.

  ‘Since we were kids.’

  ‘Oh, I see, okay. But I assume that you weren’t screwing like rabbits since you were five, so let me reformulate that question: how long did you have a sexual relationship? How long was she shagging you on the side? How long did you dance the horizontal tango? Do I have to go on, or have you managed to understand the question?’

  Anders glared with hatred at Mellberg but made a great effort to stay calm.

  ‘I don’t know, off and on over the years. I don’t really know, I didn’t check off the dates on the calendar.’ He picked at some invisible threads on his trousers. ‘She wasn’t here very much back then, so it wasn’t that often. Mostly I just painted her. She was so beautiful.’

  ‘What happened the night she died? Was it a lovers’ quarrel? Didn’t she want to put out? Or was it the fact that she was knocked up that made you so mad? Sure, that must have been it. She was knocked up and you didn’t know whether it was your kid or her husband’s. She probably threatened to make life hell for you too, didn’t she?’

  Mellberg felt extremely pleased with himself. He was convinced that Anders was the killer, and if he just pushed hard enough on the right buttons he would undoubtedly get a confession out of him. No doubt about it. Then Göteborg would beg and plead for him to come back to the force. They would probably try to tempt him with a promotion and a higher salary if he kept them on the hook for a while. He rubbed his belly in pleasure and only now noticed that Anders was staring at him wide-eyed. His face was white, empty of all blood. His hands were twitching in spasms. When Anders raised his head and for the first time looked straight at Mellberg, the superintendent saw that his lower lip was quivering and his eyes were full of tears.

  ‘You’re lying! She couldn’t have been pregnant!’ Snot was dripping from his nose, and Anders wiped it on his sleeve. He gave Mellberg an almost imploring look.

  ‘What do you mean? Condoms aren’t a hundred per cent safe, you know. She was in her third month, so don’t try to get all dramatic on me. She was knocked up and you know very well how it happened. Whether it was you or her high-class husband who delivered the goods, well, we’ll never know, will we? It’s a man’s curse, I have to tell you. I’ve been close to getting nailed a few times, but no fucking bitch has ever got me to sign any papers.’ Mellberg chuckled.

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but we hadn’t had sex in over four months. Now I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Take me back to my cell, because I don’t intend to say another word.’

  Anders gave a big snuffle and the tears kept threatening to spill over. He leaned back in the chair with his arms crossed and glared spitefully from under his mop of hair at Mellberg, who heaved a deep sigh but acquiesced.

  ‘All right, we’ll continue in a couple of hours. And just so you know—I don’t believe a fucking word of what you’re saying! Go think about that while you sit in your cell. The next time we talk I want a complete confession from you.’

  He remained sitting there for a while after Anders was led away to his cell. The stinking drunk hadn’t confessed. Mellberg thought it was utterly incredible. But his trump card was still unplayed and intact. The last time Alexandra Wijkner had been heard alive was at a quarter past seven on Friday, January twenty-second, exactly one week before she was found dead. On that occasion she had talked to her mother on the phone for five minutes and fifty seconds, according to Telia, the phone company. That also matched the time-frame indicated by the medical examiner. Thanks to the neighbour, Dagmar Petrén, he had testimony that Anders Nilsson visited the victim not only on that very evening, just after six-thirty, but that he was also seen going into the house on several occasions during the following week. And by that time Alexandra Wijkner lay dead in the bathtub.

  A confession would have made Mellberg’s work considerably easier, but even if Anders turned out to be obstinate, Mellberg felt sure that he would be able to get a conviction. Not only did he have the testimony from Mrs Petrén, but on his desk he also had a report on the search of Alex Wijkner’s house. Most interesting were the data from the scrupulous examination of the bathroom where she was found. Not only had a footprint been found in the coagulated blood on the floor that matched a pair of shoes confiscated in Anders’s flat, but Anders’s fingerprints had also been found on the victim’s body. Not as clear as they would have been on a hard, even surface, but still clear and identifiable.

  He hadn’t wanted to use all his options today, but at the next interrogation he would bring out the big guns. And damn if he wouldn’t crack this bastard then.

  Pleased with himself, Mellberg spat on his palm and smoothed back his hair with saliva.

  The telephone call interrupted her just as she was typing up an account of her conversation with Henrik Wijkner. Annoyed, Erica took her hands off the keyboard and reached for the phone.

  ‘Yes?’ She sounded more irritated than she had intended.

  ‘Hello, it’s Patrik. Am I interrupting you?’

  Erica sat bolt upright in her chair and regretted that she hadn’t sounded nicer when she answered.

  ‘No, absolutely not. I’m just sitting here writing, and I was so into what I was doing that I jumped when the phone rang, so I might have sounded a bit…but you’re not bothering me at all, it’s quite all right, I mean…’

  She slapped her forehead when she heard herself rambling on like a fourteen-year-old girl on the phone. Time to pull herself together and control those hormones, she thought. This is ridiculous.

  ‘Well, I’m in Fjällbacka and just thought I’d see if you were at home and whether I could drop by for a while.’

  He sounded self-confident, manly, secure and calm, and Erica felt even more idiotic for stammering like a teenager. She looked down at what she was wearing, which today consisted of a slightly dirty jogging suit. At the same time she felt her hair. Yep, just as she feared. Her hair was pulled into a knot on top of her head with loose strands sticking out in every direction. The situation could almost be called disastrous.

  ‘Hello, Erica—are you still there?’ Patrik sounded puzzled.

  ‘Uh yes, I’m still here. I just thought it sounded like your mobile dropped the call.’

  Erica slapped her forehead for the second time in about ten seconds. God in heaven, you’d think she was a beginner at this.

  ‘Hello-o-o, Erica—can you hear me? Hello?’

  ‘Uh, of course I can. Come on over. Just give me fifteen minutes, because I’m busy…uhh…writing a very important part of my book that I’d like to finish first.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. Are you sure I’m not bothering you? I mean, we’re seeing each other tomorrow night so—’

  ‘No, absolutely not. I’m sure. Just give me fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Okay. See you then.’

  Erica carefully put down the receiver and took a deep breath full of anticipation. Her heart was beating so hard that she could hear it. Patrik was on his way to her place. Patrik was on…She gave a start as if someone had tossed a bucket of cold water on her, and jumped out of her chair. He was going to be here in fifteen minutes and she looked like she hadn’t washed or combed her hair in a week. She went upstairs two steps at a time as she pulled the jogging sweatshirt over her head. In the bedroom she wriggled out of her sweatpants, tripped and almost fell on her face.

  In the bathroom she washed under her arms and sent a silent prayer of thanks that she had shaved her underarms when she showered this morning. She dabbed perfume on her wrists, between her breasts, and at her throat where she felt her pulse beating so strong beneath her fingers. She threw open the wardrobe and tossed most of the contents on the bed before she managed to decide on a simple black Filippa top and matching tight black skirt that came dow
n to her ankles. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes left. Bathroom again. Powder, mascara, lip gloss and a light eye shadow. No need for rouge, her face was red enough already. The effect she was going for was the fresh, unpainted look, and with every year that passed it seemed to take more and more make-up to achieve.

  The doorbell rang. As she cast one last look in the mirror she realized in panic that her hair was still up in a slovenly top-knot, held in place with a neon-yellow elastic. She ripped off the elastic and with a brush and a little mousse she managed to make her hair look presentable. Another ring, more insistent this time, and she hurried downstairs but stopped halfway to catch her breath and compose herself for a second. With the coolest expression she could muster, she opened the door with a big smile.

  His finger was shaking a little as he pressed the doorbell. He’d been about to turn round several times and phone her with some excuse, but the car practically drove itself towards Sälvik. Of course he remembered where she lived and automatically took the tight curve to the right on the hill before the campground on the way up to her house. Although it was only afternoon it was black as night out, but the streetlights were bright enough that he could glimpse a view of the sea. All at once he understood how Erica felt about her parents’ house. He also understood the pain she must feel at the thought of losing it. And he realized the impossibility of his feelings for her. She and Anna would sell the house and then there would be nothing to keep Erica in Fjällbacka. She would move back to Stockholm, and a provincial cop from Tanumshede wouldn’t make much of an impression compared with the lounge lizards of Stureplan. He plodded with Moloch-like steps up to the front door and rang the bell.

  No one came to the door, so he rang the doorbell again. This was definitely starting to feel like a bad idea, not the way he had first imagined on the way from Mrs Petrén’s house. He simply couldn’t resist calling Erica since she was so close. But he was beginning to regret the whole thing as soon as she answered the phone. She sounded so busy, even irritated when he rang. Oh well, it was too late to worry about that now. The chime of the doorbell echoed for the second time through the house.

  He could hear someone coming down the stairs. The footsteps paused for a moment before they continued the rest of the way to the door. The door opened and there she stood with a big smile. She took his breath away. He couldn’t understand how she always managed to look so fresh. Her face was bare of any make-up, with the natural beauty that he found most attractive in a woman. Karin had never dreamed of showing her face without make-up, but Erica looked so amazing in his eyes that he couldn’t imagine anything that could possibly improve her appearance.

  The house looked exactly the same as always, the way he remembered it from his visits as a child. Here the furniture and the house had been allowed to age together with dignity. Wood and white paint predominated, with light-coloured fabrics in blue and white that harmonized with the ageing patina of the furniture. She had lighted candles to drive away the winter darkness. The whole place breathed calm and tranquillity. He followed Erica out to the kitchen.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please. Oh, and I brought these.’ Patrik handed over the bag of pastries. ‘Although I should really take some back to the station. I’m sure there’s enough for everybody, and then some.’

  Erica peeked into the plastic bag. She smiled. ‘I see you’ve been visiting Mrs Petrén.’

  ‘Yep. And I’m so full I can hardly move.’

  ‘A charming old lady, don’t you think?’

  ‘Incredible. If I were around ninety-two I’d marry her.’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘So, how are you doing?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  A moment of silence made them both squirm. Erica poured coffee into two cups and then poured the rest into a table thermos.

  ‘Let’s sit on the veranda.’

  They took their first sips and the silence no longer felt uncomfortable, but rather pleasant. Erica sat on the wicker sofa across from him. He cleared his throat.

  ‘How’s it going with the book?’

  ‘Good, thanks. And what about you? How’s the investigation going?’

  Patrik thought for a moment and decided to tell her a little more than he actually should. Erica was already involved anyway, and he couldn’t see that it would hurt any.

  ‘It looks like we’ve probably solved it. We actually have a suspect in custody. He’s being interrogated right now, and the evidence is as watertight as it could possibly be.’

  Erica leaned forward with an inquisitive expression. ‘Who is it?’

  Patrik hesitated a moment. ‘Anders Nilsson.’

  ‘So it was Anders after all. Strange, but that doesn’t feel quite right.’

  Patrik was inclined to agree with her. There were simply too many loose ends that couldn’t be tied up by Anders’s arrest. But the physical evidence from the murder scene and the testimony of witnesses—that he was in the house not only just before the time Alex was presumably murdered, but also on a number of other occasions after she was killed—didn’t leave much room for doubt. And yet…

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s over then. Funny, I thought I’d feel more relieved. What about the article I found? The one about Nils’s disappearance, I mean. How does that fit into the picture if Anders is the killer?’

  Patrik shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, palms up.

  ‘I just don’t know, Erica. I don’t know. Maybe it had nothing to do with the murder. Pure coincidence. In any case there’s no reason to rummage through everything anymore. Alex took her secrets with her to the grave.’

  ‘And the baby she was expecting? Was it Anders’s?’

  ‘Who knows? Anders’s, Henrik’s…Your guess is as good as mine. I really wonder what got those two together. Talk about odd couples. It’s true that there’s nothing unusual about people having someone on the side, but Alexandra Wijkner and Anders Nilsson? I mean, I find it hard to believe that he could get anyone in bed, and Alexandra Wijkner was…well, cute as hell is the only thing I can think of to describe her.’

  For a moment Patrik thought he saw a furrow form between Erica’s eyebrows, but the next second it was gone and she was her usual polite, agreeable self. At least he imagined as much. She was just opening her mouth to say something when the theme song from an ice-cream advert was heard from the hall. Both Patrik and Erica gave a start.

  ‘It’s my mobile,’ Patrik said. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’

  He rushed out to the hall to take the call, and after rummaging in his jacket pocket he took out his mobile.

  ‘Patrik Hedström.

  ‘Hmm…okay…I get it…Well, then we’re back at square one again. Yeah, I know. Oh, so he said that? Well, you couldn’t have known about that. Okay, Superintendent, see you later.’ He flipped his phone closed with a decisive click and went back to Erica.

  ‘Throw on a jacket and let’s take a ride.’

  ‘Where to?’ Erica gave him a quizzical look with the coffee cup halfway to her mouth.

  ‘There’s new information about Anders’s involvement. It looks like we have to cross him off the suspect list.’

  ‘Really? But where are we going?’

  ‘Both you and I could feel that there was something wrong about this. You found the article about Nils’s disappearance at Alex’s house, and there may be more things to find there.’

  ‘But didn’t the police already go through the house?’

  ‘Sure, but I’m not sure we were looking for the right things. I just want to test an idea I have. Come on.’

  Patrik was already halfway out the door. Erica had to throw on her jacket and run after him.

  The house looked small and dilapidated. It was beyond her comprehension that people could live like this. That anyone could endure such a dreary and grey existence, so—impoverished. But that was the way of the world. Some were rich and some were poor. Nelly thanked her lucky stars that
she belonged to the former category and not the latter. It wasn’t in her nature to be poor. A woman like her was made for furs and diamonds.

  The woman who opened the door had probably never even seen a real diamond. Everything about her was grey and brown. Nelly viewed with disgust Vera’s shabby cardigan and the chapped hands holding it closed over her breast. Vera said nothing, just stood in the doorway.

  After nervously looking around, Nelly finally had to say, ‘Well, are you going to invite me in, or shall we stand here all day? I’m sure neither you nor I wants anyone to see me visiting you, am I right?’

  Vera still said nothing, just backed into the hallway so that Nelly could come in.

  ‘We have to talk, you and I, don’t we?’

  Nelly elegantly removed the gloves she always wore outdoors and took a look around the house with distaste. The hallway, the living room, the kitchen, and a small bedroom. Vera walked behind her with her eyes cast down. The rooms were dark and dismal. The wallpaper had long since seen its best days. No one had bothered to take up the linoleum to reveal the hardwood floors underneath, as most people did with old houses these days. But everything was shiny clean and neat. No dirt in the corners, only a depressing hopelessness that permeated the house from floor to ceiling.

  Nelly sat down cautiously on the very edge of the old wing chair in the living room. As if she were the one who lived there, she motioned to Vera to take a seat on the sofa. Vera obeyed, also sitting on the very edge. She didn’t make a sound, but her hands nervously fidgeted in her lap.

  ‘It’s important that we continue to keep this to ourselves. You understand that, don’t you?’ Nelly’s voice was urgent. Vera nodded as she kept her eyes on her lap.

  ‘Well, I can’t say that I feel sorry about what happened to Alex. She got what she deserved, and I think you’ll agree with me about that. That hussy was going to come to grief sooner or later, I’ve always known that.’