Ernst had gone back to studying his shoes and didn't feel like getting drawn into an argument. Patrik sighed and sat down. He folded his hands and gave Ernst a sombre look.
'Well, there isn't much we can do about it now. We've received all the data from Göteborg and will be bringing him in for questioning. We've also got a warrant to search his home. You'd better pray on bended knee that he hasn't got wind of this and managed to clean out all the evidence. And Mellberg has been informed. I'm sure he'll want to have a talk with you.'
Ernst didn't say a word when he got up from his chair. He knew that he had probably committed the worst blunder of his career. And in his case that was saying a lot.
'Mamma, if I promised to keep a secret, how long do I have to keep it?'
'I don't know,' replied Veronika. 'You shouldn't really ever tell anyone's secret, should you?'
'Hmm,' said Frida, drawing circles in her yoghurt with her spoon.
'Don't play with your food,' said Veronika, wiping off the drainboard with annoyance. Then she stopped in the middle of what she was doing and turned to her daughter.
'Why do you ask, anyway?'
'Dunno,' said Frida with a shrug.
'You certainly do know. Now tell me, why do you ask?' Veronika sat down on a kitchen chair next to her daughter and gazed at her thoughtfully.
'If you shouldn't ever tell someone's secret, then I can't say anything, can I? But -'
'What do you mean?' Veronika coaxed her cautiously.
'But if somebody you promised something to is dead, do you still have to keep the secret? What if you say something and then the person who's dead comes back and gets really mad?'
'Sweetheart, is it Sara who made you promise to keep something secret?' Frida kept drawing circles in her bowl of yoghurt. 'We talked about this before, and you have to believe me when I say that I'm really sorry, but Sara is never coming back. Sara is in heaven and she's going to stay there for ever and ever.'
'For ever and ever, for all the eternities of eternity? A thousand million million years?'
'Yes, a thousand million million years. And as far as the secret goes, I don't think Sara would be mad if you only told it to me.'
'Are you sure?' Frida looked nervously up at the grey sky she could see out of the kitchen window.
'I'm completely sure.' Veronika placed a hand on her daughter's arm to reassure her.
After a moment of silence as Frida apparently pondered what her mother had told her, she said hesitantly, 'Sara was super- scared. There was a nasty old man who scared her.'
'A nasty old man? When was that?' Veronika waited tensely for her daughter's reply.
'The day before she went to heaven.'
'Are you sure that's when it was?'
Upset that her mother would doubt her, Frida frowned. 'Ye-e-es, I'm absolutely sure. I know all the days of the week. I'm not a baby.'
'No, no, I know that. You're a big girl, and of course you know what day it was,' Veronika said soothingly.
Then she cautiously tried to coax out more information. Frida was still sulking over her mistrust, but the temptation to share the secret was finally too strong.
'Sara said that the old man was really disgusting. He came and talked to her when she was playing down by the water and he was mean.'
'Did Sara say that he was mean?'
'Mm-hmm,' said Frida, thinking that was enough of an answer.
Veronika continued patiently. 'What exactly did she say? How was he mean?'
'He grabbed her by the arm so it hurt. Like this, she said.' Frida demonstrated by taking a hard grip with her right hand on her upper left arm. 'And then he said dumb things too.'
'What kind of dumb things?'
'Sara didn't understand all of it. She just said that she knew it was nasty. It sounded like "double pawn" or something like that.'
'Double pawn?' said Veronika, looking bewildered.
'I told you it was dumb and Sara didn't understand. But it was nasty, that's what she said. And he didn't talk regular with her, he yelled at her. Really loud. So it made her ears hurt.' Now Frida demonstrated by holding her hands over her ears.
Carefully Veronika took her hands away and said, 'You know, this may be a secret that you'll have to tell other people besides me.'
'But you said…' Frida sounded upset and her eyes once again nervously sought out the grey sky outdoors.
'I know I said that, but you know what? I really think that Sara would want you to tell this secret to the police.'
'Why?' asked Frida, still looking worried.
'Because when somebody dies and goes to heaven, the police want to know all the secrets that person had. And people usually want the police to know all their secrets too. It's the job of the police to find out everything.'
'So they're supposed to know all the secrets?' said Frida in amazement. 'Do I have to tell them about the time I didn't want to eat all my sandwich and hid it under the sofa cushion?'
Veronika couldn't help smiling. 'No, I don't think the police need to know that secret.'
'I don't mean while I'm alive, but if I die, would you have to tell them about that?'
The smile vanished from Veronika's face. She shook her head. The conversation had taken an unpleasant turn. Gently she stroked her daughter's blonde hair and whispered, 'You don't have to worry about that, because you're not going to die.'
'How do you know that, Mamma?' asked Frida.
'I just know.' Veronika got up abruptly from her chair and with her heart clenched up so hard that she had difficulty breathing, she went out to the hall. Without turning round, so that her daughter couldn't see her tears, she called in a voice that came out unnecessarily brusque, 'Put on your coat and shoes. We're going to talk to the police right now.'
Frida obeyed. But when they went out to the car she involuntarily flinched beneath the heavy grey sky. She hoped that Mamma was right. She hoped that Sara wouldn't be mad.
* * *
FJÅLLBACKA 1928
Lovingly he dressed the boys and combed their hair. It was Sunday, and he was going to take the boys out for a walk in the sunshine. It was hard to get their clothes on because they were jumping up and down with joy at being able to go out with their father, but at last they were dressed and ready to set off. Agnes didn't answer when the boys called goodbye to her. It cut Anders to the quick to see once more the thirsting, disappointed look in their eyes when they looked at their mother. She didn't seem to understand it, but they longed for her - longed to smell her close to them and to feel her arms around them. The idea that she might be aware of this but deliberately denied them was a possibility he didn't even want to imagine, but it was a thought that kept intruding more and more often. Now that the boys were four years old, he could only surmise that there was something unnatural about the way she related to them. At first he'd thought that it was because of the difficult childbirth, but as the years passed she still hadn't seemed to bond with them.
He himself never felt so rich as when he walked off down the hill with a little child's hand firmly gripped in each of his own. The boys were still so small that they would rather run than walk. Sometimes he had to jog to keep up with them, even though his legs were so much longer than theirs. People smiled and tipped their hats when they came scurrying along the main street. He knew that they made a pleasant sight - the father, big and tall in his Sunday best, and the boys, also as finely dressed as a stonecutter's sons could be, and with their tousled blond hair that was exactly the same shade as his own. They even had his brown eyes. Anders was often told how they were his spitting image, and he swelled with pride every time. Sometimes he permitted himself a sigh of gratitude that they didn't take after Agnes either in appearance or manner. Over the years he'd noticed a hardness in her, which he sincerely hoped the children wouldn't inherit.
When he passed by the village shop he hastened his steps and carefully avoided looking in that direction. Naturally he had to go there now and then to buy the th
ings they needed, but since he'd heard what people were saying he tried to limit his visits as much as possible. If only he believed that there was no truth to what the gossips were saying, he could have walked in there with his head held high. The worst thing was that he didn't doubt the rumours for a minute. And even if he had doubted, the shopkeeper's superior smile and bold tone of voice would have been enough to convince him. Sometimes Anders wondered if there was any limit to how much he had to take. If it hadn't been for the boys he would have cleared out long ago. But the twins forced him to look for another option to leaving his wife, and he believed that he had found it. Anders had a plan. It had taken a year of hard work to carry it out, but now he was getting close. As soon as some last pieces fell into place he would be able to offer his family a new beginning, a chance to make everything right. Maybe he would then be able to give Agnes more of what she longed for so that the darkness that seemed to be growing inside her heart would disappear. He thought he could already see how their new life would look and how it would offer all of them so much more than this one here.
He squeezed the boys' hands extra hard and smiled at them when they tilted their heads back to look up at him.
'Pappa, could we get a cola?' said Johan in the hope that his father's good mood would make him favourably disposed to such a request. And it did. After pondering for a moment Anders nodded his assent, and the boys whooped and jumped up and down in anticipation. Buying a couple of colas would necessitate a visit to the village shop, of course, but it would be worth it. Soon he would be done with all that.
* * *
Gösta sat in his office, slumped at his desk. The mood had been tense to say the least since Ernst's screw-up had been revealed. Gösta shook his head. His colleague had made any number of mistakes over the years, but this time he'd gone too far in ignoring how a police officer should carry out his job. For the first time Gösta believed that Ernst actually might be fired because of his actions. Not even Mellberg could back him up after this.
Despondently he looked out of the window. This was the time of year he hated most. It was even worse than winter. He still had the memory of summer fresh in his mind, and he could still reel off the scores of pretty much every round of golf he'd played. By the time winter arrived at least a merciful forgetfulness had begun to roll in, and he sometimes wondered whether he'd really made those perfect shots on the golf course, or whether it was all just a beautiful dream.
The telephone interrupted his ruminations.
'Gösta Flygare.'
'Hi, Gösta, it's Annika. Look, I've got Pedersen on the line and he's looking for Patrik, but I can't get hold of him right now. Could you talk to Pedersen?'
'Sure, put him on.' He waited a couple of seconds. Then he heard the click on the line and the medical examiner's voice.
'Hello?'
'Yes, I'm here. It's Gösta Flygare.'
'I heard that Patrik was out on a job. But you're working on the investigation of the murder of the little girl too, aren't you?'
'Everyone at the station is, more or less.'
'Good, then you can take down the information we just got in, but it's important that everything be sent on to Hedström.'
Gösta wondered for a second whether Pedersen had heard about Ernst's fiasco, but then realized it was impossible. He probably just wanted to emphasize that the head of the investigation should get all the information. And Gösta had no intention of making the same mistake as Lundgren, that's for sure. Hedström was going to hear about everything, even the slightest clearing of his throat.
'I'll take notes, and you'll fax me as usual, right?'
'Of course,' said Pedersen. 'We've got the analysis of the ashes now. That is, the ashes the girl had in her stomach and lungs.'
'I'm familiar with the details,' said Gösta, who couldn't keep a hint of irritation from sneaking into his reply. Did Pedersen think he was simply some bloody errand boy at the station, or what?
If he heard Gösta's annoyance, Pedersen ignored it and went on calmly, 'Well, we've found out a few interesting things. First, the ashes aren't exactly fresh. The contents, at least certain portions, might be characterized as…' he paused, 'rather old.'
'Rather old?' said Gösta, still sounding peevish. But he couldn't deny that he was curious. 'What exactly does "rather old" mean? Are we talking Stone Age, or the Swinging Sixties?'
'Well, that's the snag. According to SFL it's incredibly difficult to pin down. The best estimate I could get was that the ashes are somewhere between fifty and a hundred years old.'
'Hundred-year-old ashes?' said Gösta, astonished.
'Yes, or maybe fifty. Or somewhere in between. But that wasn't the only remarkable thing they found. There were also fine particles of stone in the ashes. Granite, to be precise.'
'Granite? Where the hell are the ashes from then? It couldn't have been a piece of granite that burned, could it?'
'No, stone doesn't burn, as we all know. The stone must have been in fine particles from the start. They're still working on analysing the material to be able to say something more definite. But…'
Gösta could hear that something big was brewing. 'Yes?' he said.
'What they can tell, at this point, is that it seems to be a mixture. They've found remnants of wood mixed in with…' he paused but then went on, 'organic matter.'
'Organic matter? Are you saying what I think you are? Are they ashes from a human body?'
'Well, that's what further analyses will show. It's not yet possible to determined whether they're human or the remains of some animal. And it's not certain they'll even be able to determine that, but SFL is going to try. And as I said, in any case it's mixed with other substances: wood and granite.'
'I'll be damned,' said Gösta. 'So somebody saved these old ashes.'
'Yes, or found them somewhere.'
'That's right, it could be that too.'
'So this should give you a little to go on,' said Pedersen dryly. 'Hopefully we can find out more in a few days, such as whether there are actually human remains in the ashes. Until then this will have to do.'
'Yes, it will,' said Gösta, already imagining his colleagues' faces when he told them what he'd found out. The question was how in the world the information could be used.
He put down the receiver and went over to the fax machine. What was whirling in his head was the news of the granite particles Pedersen had mentioned. They should provide a lead.
But the thought slipped away.
Asta groaned as she straightened up. The old wooden floor had been laid when the house was built and could only be cleaned with soap and water. Although her body would probably last for a while yet, with every year that passed it got harder for her to kneel down and scrub.
She looked around the house. For forty years she had lived here. She and Arne. Before that he had lived here with his parents, who had remained living with the newlyweds. Suddenly both parents passed away within the space of a few months. She was ashamed of even thinking it, but those had been hard years. Arne's father had been as gruff as a general, and his mother wasn't much better. Arne had never discussed it with her, but she gathered from random comments that he'd been beaten a lot when he was little. Maybe that's why he'd been so hard on Niclas. A boy who thinks he's loved with the whip will probably dispense love with the whip when that day comes. Although in Arne's case it had been a belt, of course. The big brown belt that hung on the inside of the pantry door and was used whenever their son had done something that didn't suit his father. But who was she to question the way Arne had brought up their son? Certainly it had broken her heart to hear her son's muffled screams of pain, and she had used a gentle hand to wipe away his tears when the ordeal was over, but Arne had always known best.
Laboriously she climbed up on a kitchen chair and took down the curtains. She couldn't see any dirt on them yet, but as Arne always said, if anything ever gets dirty it should have been cleaned long ago. She stopped abruptly, with her hands r
aised above her head, just as she was about to lift off the curtain rod. Hadn't she done the same thing on that horrible day? Yes, she believed she had. She had stood there changing the curtains when she heard raised voices coming from outside in the garden. Naturally she was used to hearing Arne's angry voice, but what was unusual was that Niclas had also raised his voice. It was so inconceivable, and the possible consequences so dire, that she hurried to jump down from the chair and run out to the garden. They were standing facing each other, like two combatants. Their voices, which had sounded loud from inside the house, now hurt her eardrums. Incapable of stopping, she had run up to Arne and grabbed his arm.
'What's going on here?' She could still hear how desperate her voice had sounded. And as soon as she took hold of Arne's arm she knew it was the wrong thing to do. He fell silent and turned towards her with eyes that were completely empty of emotion. Then he raised his hand and slapped her hard. The silence that followed was ominous. They had stood utterly still, like a three- headed stone statue. Then she saw as if in slow motion how Niclas drew his arm back, clenched his fist, and aimed it at his father's head. The sound of his fist slamming into Arne's face had abruptly broken the eerie silence and set everything in motion again. In disbelief Arne put his hand up to his cheek and stared at his son. Then Asta saw Niclas's arm draw back and fly at Arne again.
After that it seemed it would never stop. Niclas moved like an automaton, punching him over and over. Arne took the blows without seeming to understand what was happening. Finally his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. Niclas was breathing hard. He looked at his father on his knees before him, with blood running out of his nose. Then he turned and ran.
After that day she was not allowed to mention Niclas's name again. He was seventeen years old.
Asta climbed down carefully from the chair with the curtains in her arms. Lately she'd had so many disquieting thoughts, and it was probably no accident that the memories of that day were intruding just now. The girl's death had stirred up so many feelings, so much that she'd tried to forget over the years. A realization of how much she'd lost because of Arne's stubbornness had come sneaking up on her, awakening emotions that would only make life more difficult for her. But as soon as she went to visit her son at the clinic she'd begun to question much of what she'd taken for granted over the years. Maybe Arne didn't know everything after all. Maybe Arne wasn't the one who could decide how everything should be, even for her. Maybe she could start making her own decisions about her life. The thoughts made her nervous, and she pushed them aside until later. Right now she had curtains to wash.
The Stone Cutter Page 27
