Agnes hated her life. Even more than she'd thought possible on the day when she'd arrived at her new home. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that everything would be so impoverished and miserable. And as if the physical setting weren't bad enough, her body had swollen up and made her ugly and awkward. She sweated all the time in the summer heat, and her hair, before so carefully coiffed, hung in lank strands. She wished for nothing more than that the creature who had transformed her into this repulsive figure would come out; at the same time she was terrified of the process of childbirth. The mere thought of it made her feel faint.
Living with Anders was also an affliction. If only he'd had a little steel in his backbone! Instead his mournful puppy-dog eyes followed her everywhere, begging for a crumb of attention. She knew that the other women despised her because she didn't spend all day scrubbing her filthy home like they did. Nor did she wait hand and foot on her ungrateful husband. But how could they expect her to act the same way? She was so much better than they were, after all, coming from a superior social class and with such a fine upbringing. It was unreasonable of Anders to demand that she get down on all fours and scour the wretched wooden floor or run to the quarry to bring him lunch. Besides, he had the nerve to complain about the way she handled the few coins he brought home. In her condition she shouldn't have to do anything, and she always craved some fine delicacy when she went to the grocer's. It shouldn't cause such a terrible fuss just because she allowed herself some treat, instead of spending all the money on butter or flour.
Agnes sighed and propped up her swollen feet on the stool in front of her. Many an evening she had sat here by the single small window and dreamt of how different her life might have been. If only her father hadn't been so bull-headed. Occasionally she had considered setting off for Strömstad and throwing herself on her knees before her father to beg for his mercy. If only she had believed that there was the slightest chance this gesture would succeed, she would have done it long before. But she knew her father, and she knew in her heart that it would do no good. She was stuck where she was, and until she thought up some way to extricate herself from her current situation, she would simply have to bide her time.
She heard footsteps on the front porch. With a sigh she realized that it must be Anders coming home. If he expected dinner to be on the table, he was going to be disappointed. Considering the pain and suffering she'd been enduring to bear his child, he should be fixing dinner for her instead. Not that there was much food in the house. The money always ran out a week after he got paid, and it was another week until the next payday. But since he was on such a good footing with the Jansson couple next door, surely he could go over and beg a loaf of bread from them and maybe something he could use to make soup.
'Good evening, Agnes,' said Anders, timidly opening the door. Despite the fact that they had been married more than six months, no homely atmosphere had developed, and he looked bewildered as he stood in the doorway.
'Good evening,' she snorted, frowning at his filthy appearance. 'Do you have to track all that dirt inside? At least take off your shoes.'
Obediently he removed his footwear and set them on the porch steps. 'Is there anything to eat?' he asked, which made Agnes glare at him as though he had just sworn the worst of all oaths.
'Do I look like I can stand around cooking for you? I can hardly stay on my feet, and you expect your dinner to be hot on the table as soon as you come home. And how am I supposed to pay for dinner? You don't bring home enough money for us to eat proper meals, and right now there isn't a single öre left. And the grocer won't give us any more credit, that old skinflint.'
Anders grimaced at the mention of credit. He hated to be in debt, but over the past six months since he and Agnes had moved in, she had bought plenty of things on tick.
'Well, I think we should have a talk about that…' He drawled his words and Agnes began to smell a rat. This didn't sound promising.
Anders went on. 'It's probably best if I take care of the money from now on.'
He didn't look her in the eye when he said it, and she could feel the rage building up inside of her. What did he mean? Was she now going to be robbed of the only joy she had left in life?
Vaguely aware of the storm that his words had provoked, Anders said, 'It's already hard for you to go down to the grocer, and when the baby is born it'll be hard for you to get away at all, so it's probably just as well that I take care of that chore.'
She was so furious that she couldn't say a word. Then her temporary muteness vanished and she told him exactly what she thought of the idea. She could see that he was squirming with discomfort because half the compound could hear what she was saying and the names she called him, but she didn't give a damn. She couldn't care less what these labourers thought of her, but she would damn well see to it that Anders didn't miss what she thought about him, not for a moment.
Despite her cursing he refused to give in, to her great surprise. For the first time he stood firm and let her yell herself out. When she had to pause to catch her breath, he calmly said that she could yell until her lungs exploded, but that was how things were going to be from now on.
Agnes felt herself starting to hyperventilate, and her rage made her see red. Her father had always relented when she began to retch and gasp for breath, but Anders simply gazed at her in silence and made no attempt to console her.
Then she felt a sharp pain in her belly, and she fell silent in horror. She wanted to go home to her father.
* * *
Monica felt the fear as a kick in the stomach.
'Have the police been here?'
Morgan nodded but didn't take his eyes off the screen. She knew that it was actually the wrong time to talk to him. According to his schedule he should be working now, so nobody could talk to him. But she couldn't help herself. Worry was spreading through her body, making her shift from one foot to the other. She wanted to go over and give her son a good shake, make him say more without her having to ask detailed questions about everything, but she knew it was hopeless. She would have to do this with her usual patience.
'What did they want?'
He still refused to look away from the screen, and he replied without his fingers for an instant slowing down as they flew over the keyboard. 'They asked about the girl that died.'
Her heart skipped not only one beat but several. In a hoarse voice she said, 'So what did they ask about?'
'Whether I'd seen her when she left in the morning.'
'Had you?'
'Had I what?' Morgan replied absentmindedly.
'Seen her?'
He ignored the question. 'Why are you asking me now? You know that it doesn't fit into my schedule. You usually come here when I'm not working.' His high, shrill voice contained no hint of whining; he was merely stating a fact. She had deviated from their usual routines, interrupted his rhythm, and she knew that it must be confusing him. But she couldn't help it. She had to know.
'Did you see when she left?'
'Yes, I saw when she left,' he said. 'I told the police about it, answered all their questions. Although they interrupted my routine too.'
Now he turned halfway towards her and looked at her with his intelligent but peculiar gaze. His eyes were always the same. They never changed, never showed any emotion. At least not recently. By now he had learned to have some control over his life. When he was younger he could succumb to enormous outbursts of rage in frustration over things he couldn't control, or choices he was unable to make. It could involve anything from deciding which day he would take a shower to choosing what he wanted to eat for dinner. But Monica and Morgan had both learned to deal with it. Now life was compartmentalized and the choices already made. He showered every other day, he had four different dishes that she alternated according to a rolling schedule, and breakfast and lunch were always the same. His work had also become something of a salvation for him. It was something he was good at, something that gave him an outlet for his high intelligence an
d that suited the special temperament of someone with Asperger's.
It was extremely rare that Monica came to see him at the wrong time in his schedule. She couldn't recall the last time she had done so. But now she had already disturbed him, so she might as well continue.
She followed one of the paths through the stacks of magazines and sat down on the edge of the bed.
'I don't want you to talk to them anymore unless I'm with you.'
Morgan just nodded. Then he turned all the way round to face her. He was now sitting astride the chair backwards, with his arms crossed and resting on the back.
'Do you think I could have seen her if I asked to?'
'Seen who?' asked Monica, surprised.
'Sara.'
'What do you mean?' Monica could feel the room spinning.
The stress of the past few days had upset her equilibrium, and Morgan's question made her lose her self-control.
'Why would you want to see her?' She couldn't keep the anger out of her voice, but as usual he didn't react to it. She wasn't even sure that he understood that her raised voice meant she was angry.
'To see how she looks now,' he replied calmly.
'Why?' Her voice rose even higher, and she could feel her fists clenching. The fear had her in a tight grip, and every word from Morgan felt like another step towards the darkness that terrified her.
'To see how dead she looks,' he said with his gaze fixed on her.
Monica was having a hard time breathing. It felt as though the walls of the little cabin were closing in on her. She couldn't stand it any longer. She had to get some air.
Without saying a word she rushed out the door and slammed it behind her. The raw, cold air stung her throat as she took long, deep breaths. After a while she could feel her pulse begin to slow.
She cautiously peered through one of the windows. Morgan had turned round. His hands were flying over the keyboard. She pressed her face to the glass and looked at the back of his neck. She loved him so much it hurt.
There was nothing that gave Lilian as much pleasure as cleaning house. The rest of the family claimed she was manic, but that didn't particularly bother her. As long as they stayed away and didn't try to help, she was happy.
She began with the kitchen, as usual. Every day the same routine. Wipe off all surfaces, vacuum, mop the floor, and once a week take everything out of the cupboards and cabinets and wipe them inside. When she was done with the kitchen she cleaned the hall, the living room, and the veranda. The only room on the ground floor that she couldn't clean at the moment was the little guest room where Albin was asleep. She would have to do it later.
She dragged the vacuum cleaner up the stairs. Stig had wanted to buy her a smaller model; she had politely but firmly declined. She'd had this one for fifteen years and it still worked like new. Much better than the newer models that broke down every fifteen minutes. But it was definitely heavy. She was panting a bit by the time she reached the upstairs hall. Stig was awake and turned his head towards her.
'You're going to wear yourself out,' he said in a feeble voice.
'Better than sitting and twiddling my thumbs.'
It was an old ritual they went through. He would tell her to take it easy, and she would come back with some snappy response. He would certainly change his tune if she stopped taking care of everything in the house and transferred some of the responsibility to the others. Without her this house would go downhill fast. Everything would just crumble away. She was the glue that kept it all together, and they knew it. If only they would show a little gratitude sometimes. No, instead they all kept nagging her to take it easy. Lilian could feel the old familiar irritation building up. She went into Stig's room. He looked a little paler today, she saw.
'You look worse,' she said, helping him to lift his head far enough off the bed so that she could pull out the pillow. She fluffed it up and placed it under his head again.
'I know. Today is not a good day.'
'Where does it hurt the most?' she asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
'Everywhere, it feels like,' said Stig faintly, attempting a smile.
'Can't you be more precise than that?' Lilian said, annoyed. She plucked at the knots on the bedspread and gave him an imperious look.
'My stomach,' said Stig. 'It's churning about somehow, and there's a sharp pain sometimes.'
'Well, Niclas is going to have to take a look at you tonight when he comes home. You can't lie here in this condition.'
'Just no hospital.' Stig waved his hand to fend off the idea.
'That's for Niclas to decide, not you.' Lilian plucked little bits of lint from the bedspread and looked around the room, searching. 'Where's the breakfast tray?'
He pointed to the floor. Lilian leaned over him and looked.
'You haven't eaten a thing,' she said crossly.
'Couldn't face it.'
'You've got to eat or you'll never get well, you know that. Now I'm going downstairs to fix you some tomato soup. You have to get some nourishment inside you.'
He merely nodded. There was no point in arguing with Lilian when she was in this mood.
Furiously she stomped down the stairs. Why did she always have to do everything?
The reception was empty when Martin and Gösta came back to the station. Annika must have taken an early lunch. Martin saw that there was a big pile of note papers in Annika's handwriting on the desk. Probably tips that had started coming in from the public.
'Are you going to lunch soon?' Gösta asked.
'Not quite yet,' said Martin. 'Can we eat at noon?'
'I'll probably starve to death by then, but it beats eating alone.'
'Okay, it's a deal,' said Martin and went into his office. He'd had a brainstorm on the way back from Fjällbacka. After checking in the telephone book he found what he was searching for.
'I'm looking for Eva Nestler,' he told the receptionist who answered. He was told that there were calls ahead of him, and he waited patiently in the phone queue. As usual, some off-putting canned music was playing, but after a while he started thinking that it sounded pretty good. Martin glanced at the clock. He'd been waiting for almost a quarter of an hour. He decided to give it five more minutes, then he'd hang up and try again later. Just then he heard Eva's voice in the receiver.
'Eva Nestler.'
'Hello, my name is Martin Molin. I don't know if you remember me, but we met a couple of months ago in connection with an investigation of suspected child abuse. I'm ringing from the Tanumshede police station,' he hastened to add.
'Yes, I remember. You work with Patrik Hedström,' said Eva. 'I've mostly been in contact with Patrik, but I recall meeting you as well.' There was a moment's silence. 'What can I help you with?'
Martin cleared his throat. 'Are you familiar with something called Asperger's?'
'Asperger's syndrome. Yes, I'm familiar with it.'
'We have a…' he fell silent and wondered how to express himself. Morgan wasn't quite classifiable as a suspect, rather as a person of interest. He started over. 'We've encountered Asperger's in a case we're working on right now, and I'd like a little more information about what it involves. Do you think you could help me?'
'Well,' said Eva hesitantly, 'I think I'd need a little time to refresh my knowledge.' Martin could hear her paging through something that must be an appointment diary. 'I'd actually set aside an hour after lunch to do some errands, but for the police…' She paused. 'Otherwise I don't have a slot free until Tuesday.'
'Right now would be fine,' Martin hurried to say. He'd actually hoped to be able to do it on the phone, but it wasn't much trouble to drive over to Strömstad.
'So I'll see you in about 45 minutes then?'
'Of course,' said Martin. Then a thought occurred to him. 'Should I bring you some lunch?'
'Sure, why not? A little return on my taxes wouldn't hurt. I'm just joking,' she added quickly, in case Martin misunderstood.
'No problem,' Martin laughed. '
Any special requests for what sort of food your tax should generate?'
'Something light would be good, maybe a salad. Most people try to slim down for summertime, but I seem to be doing the opposite. I'm trying to lose weight for winter instead.'
'A salad it is,' said Martin and hung up.
He took his jacket and stopped outside Gösta's door.
'Hey, we'll have to skip lunch today. I have to drive up to Strömstad and talk to Eva Nestler, the psychologist we usually consult.' Gösta's expression forced him to add, 'Of course, you can come along if you like.'
For a moment Gösta looked as though he wanted to do just that. Then the skies opened up outside and he shook his head.
'Heck no. I'm staying inside in this weather. I guess I'll give Patrik and Ernst a ring and see if they can bring back something edible.'
'You do that. I'm off now.'
Gösta had already turned his back and didn't reply. Martin hesitated a moment inside the front doors before he turned up his collar and jogged over to his car. Even though it wasn't parked very far away, he still managed to get soaked.
Half an hour later, he was parked by the river a stone's throw from Eva's office. It was located in the same building as the Strömstad police station, and he assumed they had a good deal to do with each other. The police often had occasion to avail themselves of a psychologist's services, for example when a victim of abuse needed professional help after an investigation was concluded. There weren't many practising psychologists in the county; Eva was one of the few. She had an excellent reputation and was considered highly skilled. Patrik had nothing but good things to say about her, and Martin hoped she could also help him.
In reality he wasn't quite sure why he wanted to consult her. Morgan was not a suspect, after all, but Martin's curiosity had been aroused by what lay behind his strange behaviour and character. Asperger's was something altogether new for Martin, and it couldn't hurt to know more about it.
He shook the rain off his jacket before he hung it in the cloakroom. His shirt underneath was also damp, and he shivered a bit. In a paper bag he had two salads that he'd bought at Coffee and Buns, and Eva Nestler's receptionist had apparently been forewarned of his arrival. She merely nodded in the direction of the door with Eva's nameplate. He knocked discreetly and heard a voice call out, 'Come in.'
The Stone Cutter Page 19
