The Stone Cutter

by Camilla Lackberg

  Ernst squirmed in the little chair and said, 'We heard that she had one of those problems with initials, DAMP or whatever it's called.'

  His disrespectful tone prompted Beatrice to give him a sharp look, and to Patrik's amusement his colleague actually cringed.

  'Sara did have DAMP, that's correct. She was given special tutoring for it. We have a good deal of experience in this field, so we can give these children what they need to function optimally.' It sounded like a lecture, and Patrik understood that this was something of a pet topic for her.

  'How did the problems manifest themselves for Sara?' Patrik asked.

  'In the way I described. She had a very high energy level and could sometimes throw terrible tantrums. But as I said, she was also a very creative child. She wasn't mean or nasty or badly brought up, as many ignorant people might say of children like Sara. She simply had a hard time controlling her impulses.'

  'How did the other children react to her behaviour?' Patrik was truly curious.

  'It varied. Some couldn't get along with her at all and retreated. Others seemed to be able to handle her outbursts with equanimity and got along fine with her. I would say that her best friend was Frida Karlgren. They happen to live right near each other.'

  'Yes, we've spoken with her,' said Patrik with a nod. He twisted on the chair once again. He had begun to get pins and needles in his legs, and he could feel a cramp forming in his right calf. He sincerely hoped that Ernst was feeling equally uncomfortable.

  'What about her family?' Ernst interjected. 'Do you know if Sara had any problems at home?'

  Patrik had to suppress a smile when he saw that his colleague was indeed massaging his calves.

  'Unfortunately I can't help you there,' said Beatrice, pursing her lips. It was obvious that she wasn't in the habit of telling tales about the home life of her pupils. 'I've only met her parents and her grandmother once. They seemed to be stable, pleasant people. And I never had any indication from Sara that anything was wrong.'

  A bell rang shrilly to signal that recess was over, and a lively commotion in the corridor revealed that the children had obediently responded to the call. Beatrice got up and held out her hand as a sign that the conversation was finished. Patrik managed to extricate himself from the chair and stand up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ernst massaging one leg, which had evidently gone to sleep. Like two old men they tottered out of the classroom after saying goodbye to the teacher.

  'Damn, what uncomfortable chairs,' said Ernst as he limped out to the car.

  'Well, I guess we're not that limber anymore,' said Patrik, sinking into the driver's seat of the car. All of a sudden the comfortable seat with plenty of leg room felt like an incredible luxury.

  'Speak for yourself,' muttered Ernst. 'My physical condition is just as good as when I was a teenager, but nobody is built to sit on that bloody miniature furniture.'

  Patrik changed the subject. 'We certainly didn't find out much of any use from that visit.'

  'Sounds to me like the girl was a hell of a pest,' said Ernst. 'Nowadays it seems that any kid who doesn't know how to behave is excused with some damn variant of DAMP. In my day that sort of behaviour would get you a couple of raps with the ruler. But now the kids have to be medicated and soothed by psychologists and pampered. No wonder society is going to hell.' Ernst stared gloomily out of the window on the passenger side and shook his head.

  Patrik didn't acknowledge his comment with an answer. There was really no point.

  'Are you really going to feed her again? In my day we never nursed more often than every four hours,' said Kristina, giving Erica a critical look as she sat down in the easy chair to nurse Maja after a mere two and a half hours.

  In this situation Erica knew better than to argue, so she simply ignored Krishna's remark. It was only one of many that had been hurled through the air that morning, and Erica felt that soon she would reach her limit. Her failed attempts to clean house adequately had been noticed, just as she had predicted. Now her mother-in- law was dashing about with the vacuum cleaner like a madwoman, muttering comments on her favourite topic: dust causing asthma in small children. Before this she had demonstratively gone into the kitchen and washed all the dishes in the sink and on the drain- board, all the while instructing Erica in the correct way to wash up. The dishes had to be rinsed off promptly so that remnants of food wouldn't stick, and it was just as well to do the washing up at once. Otherwise the dishes would just pile up. Clenching her teeth, Erica tried to focus on the long catnap she'd be able to take when Kristina went out with the pram. Although she was starting to wonder whether it was worth the trouble.

  She made herself comfortable in the easy chair and tried to get Maja to nurse. But the baby sensed the tension in the air. She had fretted and fussed most of the morning, and now she stubbornly resisted the little milk offered to soothe her. Erica was sweating as she fought this battle of wills with her infant daughter. Only when Maja finally gave in and began to nurse did Erica relax. Cautiously, so she wouldn't have struggled in vain, she switched on the TV. The Bold and the Beautiful was on, and Erica tried to immerse herself in Brooke and Ridge's complex relationship. Kristina glanced at the TV screen as she hurried by with the vacuum cleaner.

  'Ugh, how can you stand to watch such trash? Why don't you read a book instead?'

  Erica retaliated by turning up the volume on the TV. For a second she permitted herself to enjoy the satisfaction of such a spiteful response. But when she saw her mother-in-law's insulted look, she turned it back down. She knew she would pay a high price for any attempts at rebellion. She glanced at her watch. Good Lord, it was only a little before noon. It would be an eternity until Patrik came home. And then another day just like this one would follow, before Kristina packed her bags and went home, convinced that she had been of invaluable help to her son and daughter-in-law. Two more interminable days…

  * * *

  STRÖMSTAD 1924

  The milder weather worked wonders for the mood of the stonecutters. When Anders arrived at work he could hear how his comrades had already started on their rhythmic work songs that accompanied the sound of their hammers striking the crowbars. They were busy making holes for the gunpowder to blast out the larger blocks of granite. One man held the crowbar, and two took turns striking it until they had made a substantial hole straight into the stone. Then the black powder was poured in and ignited. Attempts had been made with dynamite, but it hadn't worked properly. The pressure of the detonation was too great and pulverized the granite, making it shatter in all directions.

  The men nodded to Anders as he walked by, without interrupting I he rhythm of their work.

  With joy in his heart he went over to the place where he was working on carving out the statue. Progress had been painfully slow during the winter; on many days the cold had made it well-nigh impossible to work the stone. For long periods he had been forced to simply stop and wait for weather to improve, making it difficult to earn enough wages. But now he could get started in earnest on the huge piece of granite, and he wasn't complaining. The winter had brought other reasons to be happy.

  Sometimes he could hardly believe it was true, that such an angel had come down to earth and crept into his bed. Every minute they had spent together was a precious memory that he stored in a special place in his heart. But at times, thoughts of the future could cloud his joy. He had tried to bring up the subject with her on several occasions, but she always silenced him with a kiss. They shouldn't speak of such things, she said, often adding that everything was bound to work out. He had interpreted this to mean that she, like him, still hoped for a future together. Sometimes he actually permitted himself to believe her words, that everything was going to work out. Deep inside he was a true romantic, and the belief that love could conquer all obstacles was firmly rooted in his soul. Of course they didn't belong to the same social class, but he was a skilled, hard-working man. He would undoubtedly be able to provide a good life for her if he only
got the chance. And if she felt for him what he felt for her, then material things would not be so important to her. A life shared with him would be worth some sacrifices on her part. On a day like this, with the spring sunshine warming his fingers, he was convinced that everything would really turn out the way he hoped. Now he was merely waiting to receive her permission to speak with her father. Then he would set about preparing the speech of his life.

  With a pounding heart he meticulously hammered out the statue from the stone. In his head the words kept spinning round. Along with images of Agnes.

  Arne was studying carefully the obituary in the newspaper. He wrinkled his nose. He suspected as much. They had chosen a teddy bear as an illustration, and that was a custom that he really hated. An obituary should contain the symbols of the Christian church, nothing more. A teddy bear was simply ungodly. But he hadn't expected anything else. The boy had been a disappointment from beginning to end, and nothing he did surprised Arne anymore. It was really a crying shame that such a God-fearing person as himself should have progeny who had so stubbornly repudiated the right path. People who didn't know any better had tried to bring about a reconciliation between them. They had said that his son, from what they had heard, was a fine and intelligent man. He also had an honourable profession, since he was a doctor, after all. Mostly it was women who had come to their door spouting such nonsense. Men knew better than to comment on things they knew nothing about. Of course he had to agree that his son had taken on a proper profession and seemed to be doing well. But if he didn't have God in his heart it was all meaningless.

  Arne's greatest dream had been to have a son who would follow his grandfather's footsteps and become a pastor. He himself had been forced to put aside such ambitions early on, since his father drank up all the money that was supposed to go for his seminary training. Instead he'd had to content himself with working as a verger in the church. At least that still allowed him to spend his days in God's house.

  But the church was no longer what it had once been. Things used to be different. Back then everyone knew his place, and the pastor was shown the proper respect. People also followed the words of Pastor Schartus as best they could, and they did not occupy themselves with things that even pastors appeared to enjoy nowadays: dancing, music and living together out of wedlock, to name just a few vices. But the hardest thing for Arne to accept was that females now had the right to act as God's representatives. He just couldn't understand it. The Bible was perfectly clear on this point: 'Woman shall be silent in the congregation.' What was there to discuss? Women had no business being members of the clergy. They could offer good support as pastors' wives or even as deaconesses, but otherwise they should remain silent in the congregation. It had been a sorry time when that female had taken over Fjällbacka Church. Arne had been forced to drive to Kville on Sundays to attend worship service, and he had simply refused to show up for work. He had paid a high price, but it was worth it. Now the hideous creature was gone. Of course, the new pastor was a bit too modern for his taste, but at least he was a man. Now all that remained was to make sure that the female cantor became a temporary chapter in the history of Fjällbacka Church. A female cantor wasn't as bad as a female pastor, of course, but still.

  Arne morosely turned the page in the regional paper, Bohuslaningen. Asta was continuing to go about the house with a long face. He knew that it was for the little girl's sake. It bothered her that their son now lived so close by. But he had explained that she had to be strong in her faith and true to their conviction. He could agree that it was a shame about the girl, but that just proved his point. Their son had not kept to the straight and narrow, and sooner or later he was bound to be punished. He paged back to look again at the teddy bear in the obituary. It was a crying shame, it certainly was…

  Mellberg didn't feel the same sense of satisfaction that he usually did when he was the focus of media attention. He hadn't even called a press conference, but had simply gathered some reporters from the local newspapers in his office. The memory of the letter he'd received overshadowed everything else right now, and he was having a hard time concentrating on anything else.

  'Do you have any solid leads to follow up on?' A cub reporter was eagerly awaiting his reply.

  'Nothing that we can comment on in the present situation,' the chief said.

  'Is anyone in the family a suspect?' The question came from a reporter from the competing paper.

  'We're keeping all our options open right now, but we have nothing concrete that points in a specific direction.'

  'Was it a sex crime?' The same reporter again.

  'I can't go into that,' Mellberg said vaguely.

  'How did you confirm it was murder?' the third journalist interjected. 'Did she have external injuries that indicated it was homicide?'

  'For investigative reasons I can't comment on that,' said Mellberg, seeing how the frustration was growing on the reporters' faces. It was always like walking a slack line where the press was concerned. Give them just enough so that they felt the police were doing their job, but not so much that it hurt the investigation. Usually he regarded himself as a master of this balancing act, but today he was having a hard time with it. He didn't know what to do about the information he had received in the letter. Could it really be true?

  One of the reporters gave him a querulous look, and Mellberg realized he'd missed a question.

  'Pardon me, could you please repeat the question?' he said in confusion, and the reporter's expression turned quizzical. They had met at several of these types of meetings, and the superintendent usually acted grandiose and boastful, rather than low-key and absent-minded as he was today.

  'All right. I asked whether there is any reason for parents in the area to worry about the safety of their children.'

  'We always recommend that parents keep a close eye on their children, but I want to emphasize that this shouldn't lead to any sort of mass hysteria. I'm convinced that this is an isolated event and that we will soon have a suspect in custody.'

  He stood up as a sign that the meeting was over. The reporters obediently put away their notebooks and pens and thanked him. They all felt that they might have questioned the superintendent a bit harder, but at the same time it was important for the regional press to maintain a good relationship with the local police. They would leave the hard-hitting questions to their colleagues in the big cities. Here in Bohuslän they were often neighbours of the subjects of their interviews. They had children in the same sports leagues and schools, so they had to forgo any desire to get the big scoop for the sake of harmony in the community.

  Mellberg leaned back contentedly. Despite his lack of focus, the newspapers hadn't received more information than he intended to give, and tomorrow the news would be plastered on the front pages of all the papers in the area. Hopefully that would make the general public wake up and start calling in tips. If the police were lucky, there might even be something they could use among all the gossip that usually came in.

  He pulled out the letter and began reading it again. He still couldn't believe his eyes.

  * * *

  STRÖMSTAD 1924

  She lay in her room with a cold, damp washcloth on her forehead. The doctor had examined her carefully and then ordered bed rest. Now he was downstairs in the parlour talking with her father, and for a moment she worried that there might be something seriously wrong with her. An expression of alarm had appeared in his eyes, but it was gone the next instant. Then he patted her hand and told her that everything would be all right. She just needed to rest for a while.

  She couldn't tell the good doctor the real reason for her malaise. All those late nights during the winter had affected her health. That was the diagnosis she had come up with herself, but she had to keep it a secret. Hopefully Dr Fern would write a prescription for some restorative drops for her. Since she had now decided to terminate her escapades with Anders, she should soon be her old self again. In the meantime it couldn't hurt to s
tay in bed and be waited on for a week or two. Agnes pondered what she should ask to have for lunch. Now that she had lost yesterday's dinner in the WC, she could feel her stomach growling and asking to be filled. Maybe pancakes, or those excellent meatballs the cook made, with boiled potatoes, cream gravy and lingonberries.

  Footsteps on the stairs made her shrink a little farther under the covers and moan a bit. She would ask for meatballs, she decided, the second before the door to her room opened.

  * * *

  Anger had been growing inside him since the previous day. The nerve of her, that damned woman really had no scruples at all. Fingering him to the police. Kaj wasn't stupid; he knew full well that the rumours would soon start flying all over town, so it really didn't make any difference what he said. The only thing that would slick in people's minds was that the police had been to his house to ask questions about the girl's death. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. After a moment of hesitation he put on his jacket and went outside, walking with determined steps. The plank fence he'd put up between the lots prevented him from cutting straight across, so he went out to the street and then up the drive toward the Florins' house. He had checked that both Niclas and Charlotte had left the house before he approached. He was going to give her a piece of his mind, that bitch. Since he assumed that she, like everyone else in town, seldom locked her front door, he walked right in without knocking and went straight to the kitchen. She jumped when he came in but quickly collected herself, and her face took on that snippy, holier-than-thou expression. She really thought she was somebody. As if she were a bloody queen and not just an ordinary old bag in a fucking small town.