The Ice Princess

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘Thanks for listening. I really appreciate it.’

  Their eyes met. Less than an hour had passed since Pernilla rang the doorbell, but Erica felt that she had learned a lot in that time, especially about herself.

  ‘Can you manage? Do you have anywhere to go?’

  ‘I’m going home.’ Pernilla’s voice was clear and firm. ‘She’s not going to drive me away from my home and my family. I won’t give her that satisfaction. I’m going home to my husband, and we’re going to work this out. But not without demands. Things will have to be done differently from now on.’

  Erica couldn’t help smiling in the midst of all the misery. Dan was going to have a good deal to wrestle with, that much was clear. But it was nothing he didn’t deserve.

  They embraced awkwardly at the door. With all her heart Erica wished Pernilla and Dan only the best as she watched Pernilla get into her car and drive down the road. At the same time, she couldn’t help feeling a gnawing uneasiness. The image of Pernilla’s hate-filled eyes still lingered in her mind. In those eyes there was no mercy.

  All the photos lay spread out on the kitchen table in front of her. All Vera had left of Anders now were pictures. Most of them were old and yellowed. It was many years since there had been any reason to take pictures of him. His baby pictures were in black-and-white, and then there were faded colour photos when he grew older. He had been a happy child. A little wild, but always happy. Considerate and polite. He had gravely assumed his role as the man of the house. Sometimes a bit too seriously perhaps, but she had let him have his way. Right or wrong. It was so hard to know. Perhaps there was much she should have done differently, perhaps it hadn’t mattered? Who could tell?

  Vera smiled when she saw one of her favourite photos. Anders was sitting on his bicycle, proud as a peacock. She had worked a lot of extra evenings and weekends to buy him that bike. It was dark-blue and had a seat that was called a banana seat. According to Anders, it was the only thing he would ever want in his whole life. He had longed for that bike more than anything, and she would never forget the expression on his face when he finally got it on his eighth birthday. He spent every free moment riding around on that bike, and in this picture she had managed to catch him in motion. His hair was long and curly, hanging below the collar of his shiny, tight Adidas jacket with the stripes on the sleeves. This was the way she would always remember him. Before everything began to go wrong.

  She had been waiting a long time for this day. Every telephone call, every knock on the door had brought the fear. Maybe this particular call, or this knock, would bring the news that she had dreaded for so long. Until now she had hoped that this day would never come. It was unnatural for a child to die before his parent, and that was probably why it was so hard to imagine the possibility. Hope was the last thing to die, and she had continued to believe that things would work out somehow. Even if it took a miracle. But there was no miracle. And there was no hope. The only thing left now was hopelessness, and a pile of old yellowed photographs.

  The kitchen clock was ticking in the silence. For the first time, she saw how shabby her home looked. For all these years, she had done nothing to the house, and it was obvious. She had held the dirt at bay, but she couldn’t clean away the indifference that clung to the walls and ceiling. Everything was grey and lifeless. Wasted. That was what depressed her the most. Everything that had been wasted and squandered.

  Anders’s happy face mocked her from the pictures. It spoke more clearly than anything else of how she had failed. It had been her task to keep him smiling, to give him faith, hope, and above all love to face the future. Instead she had mutely watched as everything was stripped away from him. She had neglected her job as a mother, and she would never be able to rid herself of the shame.

  It occurred to her how little evidence there was that Anders had ever lived. The paintings were gone, the few pieces of furniture he’d had in the flat would soon be discarded if no one wanted them. In her home, none of his things remained. He had either sold them or destroyed them over the years. The only thing that proved that he had really existed was a handful of photos lying on the table in front of her. And her memories. Of course, he would exist in the memories of others as well, but as a drunken wino, not someone to be missed or mourned over. She was the only one who had happy memories of him. Sometimes it had been hard to summon them up, but they were still there. On a day like today they were the only memories of him that surfaced. Nothing else was allowed.

  The minutes turned to hours, and Vera sat at her kitchen table with the photographs in front of her. Her joints grew stiff. Her eyes began to have a hard time distinguishing the details of the photos as the winter darkness slowly strangled the light. But it didn’t matter. She was now completely, mercilessly alone.

  The doorbell echoed through the house. It took such a long time before he heard anyone inside that he was about to turn round and go back to the car. But after waiting a while he heard someone cautiously coming to the door. The door opened slowly inward and he saw Nelly Lorentz giving him a puzzled look. He was surprised that she answered the door herself. He had envisioned a stiff butler in livery who would graciously invite him in. But maybe nobody had butlers anymore.

  ‘My name is Patrik Hedström, and I’m from the police in Tanumshede. I’m looking for your son Jan.’

  He had rung the office first but was told that Jan was working at home today.

  The old lady didn’t raise an eyebrow but merely stepped aside and let him in.

  ‘I’ll call Jan, just a minute.’

  Slowly but elegantly, Nelly walked in the direction of a door that opened onto a staircase to the floor below. Patrik had heard that Jan had the cellar flat in the luxurious house.

  ‘Jan, you have a visitor. The police.’

  Patrik doubted that Nelly’s frail old voice could really be heard downstairs, but footsteps on the stairs proved him wrong. A look filled with hidden meanings passed between mother and son when Jan came up the stairs into the front hall. Nelly nodded to Patrik and went into her room, and Jan came towards Patrik with outstretched hand and a smile showing a lot of teeth. Patrik had the sudden image of an alligator in his mind. A smiling alligator.

  ‘Hello. Patrik Hedström, Tanumshede police station.’

  ‘Jan Lorentz. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of Alex Wijkner, and I have a few questions I’d like to ask you, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course. I don’t know how I can help, but that’s your job to decide, not mine, isn’t it?’

  The alligator grin again. Patrik felt his fingers itching; he wanted nothing better than to wipe that smile off his face. There was something about it that drove him crazy.

  ‘We can go down to my flat, then we won’t disturb Mother up here.’

  ‘Certainly, that would be fine.’

  Patrik had to say that the living arrangements seemed a bit strange. First of all, he had a hard time understanding grown men who still lived at home with their mothers. And second, he couldn’t comprehend why Jan put up with being banished to a cellar while the old lady lived upstairs in extravagant luxury in a house of at least two thousand square feet. Jan wouldn’t be human if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind that Nils would certainly not have been banished to the cellar if he were here today.

  Patrik followed Jan down the stairs. He had to admit that for a cellar flat it wasn’t half bad. No expense had been spared. The flat had been furnished by someone who believed in an ostentatious display of prosperity. There was a lot of gold fringe, velvet and brocade—no doubt furniture of the finest brands, but unfortunately the decor didn’t show itself to best advantage without daylight. The effect was instead a bit like a bordello. Patrik knew that Jan had a wife and wondered which of them had insisted on the decor. Based on his own experience, he would guess the wife.

  Jan showed him into a small office. Besides a desk and computer there was also a sofa. They sat down at opposite en
ds and Patrik took a notebook out of his bag. He had decided to wait to mention Anders Nilsson’s death; he didn’t want to say anything to Jan about it before he had to. Strategy and timing were important if he hoped to get anything useful out of Jan Lorentz.

  He scrutinized the man facing him. He looked too perfect. There wasn’t a wrinkle in his shirt or suit. His tie was perfectly tied and he was freshly shaven. Not a hair was out of place, and he radiated calm and self-confidence. Too much calm and self-confidence. Patrik’s experience told him that everyone who was questioned by the police behaved nervously, more or less, even if they had nothing to hide. A totally calm exterior indicated that the person in question did have something to hide—that was Patrik’s very own home-grown theory. It had proven to be right a remarkable number of times.

  ‘Nice place you have here.’ It never hurt to be polite.

  ‘Yes, it was Lisa, my wife, who did the decorating. I think she did rather a good job.’

  Patrik looked round the dark little office, which was sumptuously decorated with shiny marble and pillows with gold tassels. An excellent example of what too little taste in combination with too much money could buy.

  ‘Have you come any closer to a solution?’

  ‘We’ve uncovered a good bit of information and are beginning to get a sense of what might have happened.’

  Not entirely true, but it was worth a try to shake him up a bit.

  ‘Did you know Alex Wijkner?’ Patrik asked. ‘I heard for instance that your mother went to the funeral reception.’

  ‘No, I can’t say that I knew her. Naturally I knew who she was, and in Fjällbacka everyone knows everyone, more or less. But her family moved away many years ago. We used to say hello on the street if we met, but never more than that. As far as Mother is concerned, I can’t answer for her actions. You’ll have to ask her.’

  ‘One of the things that has come out during the investigation is that Alex Wijkner had a, what should I call it…relationship with Anders Nilsson. You know him, I assume?’

  Jan smiled. A crooked, condescending smile.

  ‘Yes, in this town nobody could avoid knowing who Anders is. He’s infamous rather than famous, I would say. He and Alex had an affair, you say? You have to excuse me, but I have a hard time imagining that. A rather odd couple, to put it mildly. I can understand what he would see in her, but I find it very difficult to see why she would want to have anything to do with him. Are you sure you haven’t got hold of the wrong end of the stick?’

  ‘We’re sure that they did have a relationship. What about Anders? Do you know him?’

  Once again he saw a superior smile on Jan’s lips, but this time it was even broader. He shook his head in amusement.

  ‘You know what? One could safely say that we don’t exactly move in the same circles. I see him down at the square sometimes with the other alkies, but do I know him? No, actually I don’t.’

  His tone clearly revealed how absurd he thought the question was.

  ‘We associate with people of a quite different social class, and winos aren’t normally included,’ he went on.

  Jan waved off Patrik’s question as if it were a joke, but Patrik thought he saw a flash of uneasiness in his eyes. It vanished as soon as it appeared, but Patrik was sure he’d seen something. Jan was bothered by questions about Anders. Good, then Patrik knew he was on the right track.

  He permitted himself to enjoy his next question even before he asked it, pausing for effect and then asking with feigned surprise: ‘But if that’s true, why did Anders recently place a large number of calls to your number?’

  To his great satisfaction, Patrik saw the smile vanish from Jan’s lips. The question apparently made him lose his train of thought, and for a moment Patrik could see behind the dandy image that Jan so assiduously cultivated. Behind the artifice, he now saw unalloyed terror. As Jan collected himself, he tried to buy time by lighting a cigar with great care while he avoided looking Patrik in the eye.

  ‘Will you pardon me for smoking?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, nor did Patrik give him one.

  ‘If Anders rang here I certainly don’t understand why. I haven’t spoken with him, and I don’t think my wife has either. No, that’s truly odd.’

  He sucked on his cigar and leaned back against the sofa with his arm nonchalantly stretched out along the sofa pillows.

  Patrik said nothing. In his experience, the best way to get people to say more than they intended to was simply to keep quiet. They would feel a need to fill in the silence if it lasted too long. This was a game that Patrik had mastered. He waited.

  ‘Come to think of it, I think I know what happened.’ Jan leaned forward and waved his cigar.

  ‘Someone called our answering machine and didn’t say anything. All we heard was breathing on the tape. And several times when I answered the phone there was nobody on the other end. It must have been Anders who somehow got hold of our number.’

  ‘Why would he call you?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Jan threw out his arms. ‘Envy perhaps. We have plenty of money and that grates on some people. People like Anders are always ready to blame their misfortune on others, especially on people who have actually managed to make something of their lives.’

  Patrik thought that sounded a bit far-fetched. It would be difficult to refute what Jan was saying, but he didn’t believe him for a minute.

  ‘I assume that you don’t still have those calls you mentioned on the answering machine tape.’

  ‘Unfortunately, no.’ Jan frowned in an attempt to look regretful. ‘Other messages were recorded over them. I’m sorry, I wish I could help you. But if he rings again I’ll make sure to save the tape.’

  ‘You can rest assured that Anders won’t be ringing your home again.’

  ‘Oh? And why is that?’

  Patrik couldn’t tell whether his puzzled expression was genuine or phoney.

  ‘Because Anders has been murdered.’

  A trail of ashes dribbled onto Jan’s lap from the cigar. ‘Anders was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, his body was found this morning.’

  Patrik studied Jan closely. If only he could hear what was going on in Jan’s head right now, it would all be so much easier. Was his surprise genuine, or was he just an excellent actor?

  ‘Is the perpetrator the same person who murdered Alex?’

  ‘It’s too early to say.’ He didn’t want to let Jan off the hook just yet. ‘So you’re quite sure that you don’t know either Alexandra Wijkner or Anders Nilsson?’

  ‘I’m actually quite aware of the people I associate with and those I don’t. I knew them both by sight, but no more than that.’ Jan was again back to his smiling, calm self.

  Patrik decided to try another line of questioning.

  ‘In Alex Wijkner’s home we found an article that she had clipped out of Bohusläningen about your brother’s disappearance. Do you know why she might have been interested in saving that article?’

  Once again, Jan threw out his arms and opened his eyes wide as if to say that he had absolutely no idea. ‘It was the big topic of conversation here in Fjällbacka many years ago. Perhaps she saved the article as a curiosity.’

  ‘Perhaps. What’s your view about your brother’s disappearance? There are a number of different theories.’

  ‘Well, I think that Nils is having the time of his life in some nice hot country. Mother, on the other hand, is completely convinced that he met with an accident.’

  ‘Were you very close?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. Nils was quite a bit older, and he wasn’t entirely enchanted to have a foster brother to share his Mamma’s attention. But we weren’t mortal enemies either. I think we were mostly indifferent to each other.’

  ‘It was after Nils disappeared that you were adopted by Nelly, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. About a year later.’

  ‘And with it came half the kingdom.’

  ‘Yes, one could
perhaps say that.’

  There was only a bit left of the cigar, and it was threatening to burn Jan’s fingers. He stubbed it out brusquely in a gaudy ashtray.

  ‘It’s not exactly pleasant that it happened at the expense of someone else, but I can honestly say that I’ve paid my dues over the years. When I took over the management of the cannery it was going downhill. I restructured the whole company from the ground up, and now we export canned fish and seafood all over the world—to the United States, Australia, South America…’

  ‘Why do you think that Nils fled abroad?’

  ‘I really shouldn’t be talking about this, but a large sum of money disappeared from the factory right after Nils vanished. In addition, some of his clothes, a suitcase and his passport were all missing.’

  ‘Why wasn’t the missing money ever reported to the police?’

  ‘Mother refused. She claimed that it had to be a mistake, that Nils would never have done anything like that. You know how mothers are. It’s their job to believe only the best about their children.’

  He lit another cigar. Patrik thought it was starting to get rather smoky in the little room but said nothing.

  ‘Would you like one, by the way? They’re Cuban. Hand-rolled.’

  ‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You don’t know what you’re missing.’ Jan studied his cigar with pleasure.

  ‘I read in our archives about the fire that killed your parents. That must have been terrible. How old were you? Nine, ten?’

  ‘I was ten. And you’re right, it was terrible. But I was lucky. Most orphans aren’t taken in hand by a family like the Lorentzes.’

  Patrik thought it a bit tasteless to talk about luck in that context.

  ‘From what I understand, arson was suspected. Was anything else ever discovered?’

  ‘No, you’ve read the reports. The police never got any further with the case. Personally, I think my father was smoking in bed as usual and fell asleep.’ For the first time during the conversation he showed his impatience. ‘May I ask what this has to do with the murders? I’ve already said that I didn’t know either of the victims, and I can’t really see how my difficult childhood comes into this.’