‘Stop it, you’re horrible,’ said Erica, punching him in the arm. ‘We’re going to live with Maja when we’re old, you know that. Which means that we’re going to have to chase off all her future suitors.’
‘No problem. I’ve got a licence to carry a gun.’
They reached the church and stopped for a moment. They both looked up at the steeple towering high above them. The church was a solid structure, built of granite and located high above the town of Fjällbacka, with a view of the water that stretched for miles.
‘When I was little I dreamed about what it would be like to get married here,’ Erica said. ‘And that day always felt so far away. But now I’m here. Now I’m grown up, have a child, and I’m getting married. Doesn’t it feel a bit absurd sometimes?’
‘Absurd is only the start of it,’ said Patrik. ‘Don’t forget that I’m also divorced. That counts for the most grown-up points.’
‘How could I forget Karin?’ Erica said with a laugh. And yet there was a bitterness in her voice, as there always was when she spoke of Patrik’s ex-wife. Erica wasn’t jealous by nature, and she certainly wouldn’t have wanted Patrik to have been a thirty-five-year-old virgin when she met him, but she still didn’t like to think of him with another woman.
‘Shall we see if it’s open?’ said Patrik, walking towards the church door.
They found it unlocked and cautiously went inside, unsure if they were breaking some unwritten rule. A figure up by the altar turned round.
‘Well, hello there.’ It was Fjällbacka’s pastor Harald Spjuth, and he looked as cheerful as always. Patrik and Erica had heard only good things about him and looked forward to having him marry them.
‘Are you here to practise a bit?’ he said, coming to greet them.
‘No, we were out walking and just thought we’d drop in,’ said Patrik, shaking the pastor’s hand.
‘Well, don’t let me bother you,’ said Harald. ‘I’m just pottering about, so make yourselves at home. And if you have any questions before the wedding ceremony, feel free to ask. I thought we’d have a rehearsal about a week before.’
‘That sounds great,’ said Erica, growing more and more fond of him by the minute. She’d heard that he’d found love at a mature age, and that pleased her. Not even the oldest and most devout ladies had expressed any complaints about the fact that he still hadn’t married Margareta, whom he had met through a personals ad. They were ‘living in sin’ together in the parsonage. Such general tolerance said a lot about how popular he was.
‘I thought we’d have red and pink roses decorating the church. What do you think of that?’ said Erica, looking around.
‘That sounds great,’ said Patrik absentmindedly. When he saw the expression on her face he felt a pang of guilt. ‘Erica, I’m so sorry you have to carry such a heavy load. I wish I were more involved in the wedding plans, but . . .’ Erica took his hand.
‘I know, Patrik. And you don’t have to keep apologizing. I have Anna to help out. We’re going to take care of everything. I mean, it’s only a small wedding, how hard could it be?’
Patrik raised an eyebrow and she laughed. ‘Okay, it’s taking a lot of work. And planning. And trying to keep your mother in check isn’t easy. But it’s fun too. Really it is.’
‘All right then,’ said Patrik, feeling bit less guilty.
When they left the church, twilight had given way to evening. They walked slowly back the way they had come, down Långbacken and south in the direction of Sälvik. They had both enjoyed the walk and the time to talk, but they were eager to get home before it was time to put Maja to bed.
It had been a long time since Patrik had felt so content with his life. Thank goodness there were things that outweighed all the evil. That filled him with enough light and energy to be able to go on.
Darkness was descending over Fjällbacka. The church steeple loomed over the town. Watching. Protecting.
Mellberg was dashing about with the frenzy of a madman. He was now feeling how idiotic it had been to invite Rose-Marie to his place for dinner with so little time to prepare. But he had such an intense longing for her. He wanted to find out her voice, talk with her, find out how her day had been, know what she was thinking. So he had phoned her. And heard himself asking whether she’d like to come over for dinner at eight.
So now he was in full panic mode. He had rushed home from the station at five and stood in bewilderment as he stared at all the wares in the Konsum supermarket. His brain was utterly paralysed. Not a single idea for dinner had popped into his mind, and considering his limited skills in cooking, that was perhaps not so odd. Mellberg had enough sense of self-preservation to realize that he probably shouldn’t try any sort of haute cuisine; something ready-cooked was more like it. He wandered up and down the aisles helplessly until the friendly little Mona who worked there came over and asked if he was looking for something in particular. Abruptly he spilled out his dilemma, and she piloted him calmly over to the deli counter. Starting with grilled chicken she then helped him locate potato salad, lettuce and veggies for a tossed salad, fresh-baked baguettes, and Carte d’Or ice cream for dessert. It might not be gourmet fare, but at least it was something that even he couldn’t ruin.
When he got home he rushed about for an hour in an attempt to restore the order in his flat that had prevailed as recently as the previous Friday. Now he stood there trying to make as charming a presentation as possible. It turned out to be a bigger challenge than he thought. With sticky hands he glared at the grilled chicken, which seemed to be staring back at him with contempt. Quite a feat seeing that its head had been chopped off long ago.
‘How the hell . . .’ he swore, pulling at a wing. How was he going to arrange this thing in an appetizing manner on the serving platter? It was as slippery as an eel. At last he grew tired of trying to do it neatly and simply tore off a breast and a drumstick for each of them and placed them on the platter. That would have to do. Then he spooned a hefty portion of potato salad next to it and started on the salad. Slicing cucumbers and tomatoes was at least something he could handle. He dumped the salad into a big plastic bowl. It was red and slightly scratched, but he didn’t have much else in the way of serving dishes. Besides, the most important thing was the wine. He uncorked a bottle of red and set it on the table. Just in case, he had another two bottles in the cupboard. He didn’t intend to leave anything to chance. Tonight’s the night, he thought, whistling contentedly. At least she couldn’t complain that he hadn’t made an effort. He had never gone to this much trouble for a woman. Ever. Not even if you put all of them together.
The last detail required for the sake of the mood was the music. His CD collection was fairly meagre, but he did have one with Sinatra’s greatest hits. He’d bought it on sale at the Statoil petrol station. At the last moment he thought he should light some candles too, then he took a step back and admired the scene. Mellberg congratulated himself on a job well done.
He had just managed to change his shirt when the doorbell rang. He saw by the clock that she was ten minutes early, so he quickly tucked the tail of his shirt into his trousers. ‘Damn it,’ he swore as his comb-over flopped down. When the doorbell rang again he dashed into the bathroom to try and coil up his hair. He was used to doing this, so in no time he’d managed a careful concealment of his bald pate. After one last look in the mirror he though he looked very stylish.
From the admiring look he got from Rose-Marie when he opened the door he knew that she shared that view. The mere sight of her took his breath away. She wore a shimmering red dress, with a heavy gold necklace as her only jewellery. As he took her coat he inhaled the scent of her perfume and closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t know what it was about this woman that affected him so much. He felt his hands trembling when he hung up her coat, and he forced himself to take a few deep breaths to collect himself. It wouldn’t do to act like a nervous teenager.
Their conversation flowed easily during dinner. Rose-Marie’s eyes d
anced in the glow of the candles. Mellberg told her many stories from his police career, encouraged by her obvious interest. They polished off two bottles of wine as they ate the entrée and dessert. Then they moved over to the living-room sofa for coffee and cognac. Mellberg felt the tension in the air and felt pretty sure that she would take him for a ride tonight. Rose-Marie gave him a look that could mean only one thing. But he didn’t want to risk making his move at the wrong moment. He knew how sensitive women were to timing. Finally he couldn’t resist any longer. He looked at the sparkle in Rose-Marie’s eyes, took a big gulp of cognac, and launched himself.
Oh yes, she took him for a ride all right. Mellberg thought that he’d died and gone to heaven. That night he fell asleep with a smile on his lips, as he floated off at once into a lovely dream about Rose-Marie. For the first time in his life Mellberg was happy in the arms of a woman. He turned over on his back and began to snore. In the dark next to him lay Rose-Marie looking up at the ceiling. She was smiling too.
‘What the hell is this?!’ Mellberg came storming into the station at ten o’clock. He was no morning person, but today he looked more worn-out than usual.
‘Did you see this?’ He waved a newspaper and stormed past Annika, flinging open Patrik’s door without knocking.
Annika craned her neck to get a better view of what was happening but she could hear only scattered oaths coming from Patrik’s office.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Patrik calmly once Mellberg stopped spewing abuse. He gestured to his boss to have a seat. Mellberg looked as thought he might have a heart attack any second, and even though Patrik in his weaker moments might have wished the man dead, he didn’t want him to expire in his office.
‘Have you seen this? Those bloody . . .’ Mellberg was so furious that he couldn’t even get any words out. Instead he slammed the newspaper down on Patrik’s desk. Unsure what he was supposed to look at, but filled with foreboding, Patrik turned the paper round so that he could read the front page. When he saw the black headline he felt anger begin to boil within him as well.
‘What the hell?’ he said, and Mellberg could only nod and fall into the chair facing Patrik’s desk with a thud.
‘Where did they get it from?’ said Patrik, waving the paper.
‘I have no idea,’ said Mellberg. ‘But when I get hold of that –’
‘What else does it say? Let’s see, centre section.’ With trembling fingers Patrik turned to the centre section and began reading, his expression getting angrier by the second. ‘Those . . . those . . . fucking –’
‘Yes, it’s a fine establishment, the fourth estate,’ said Mellberg with a shake of his head.
‘Martin has got to see this,’ said Patrik, getting up. He went to the door, called his colleague, and then sat back down.
A few seconds later Martin was standing in the doorway. ‘Yes?’ Without a word Patrik held up the front page of the evening paper.
Martin read aloud: ‘Today: Exclusive – excerpt from the murder victim’s diary. Did she know her killer?’ He was struck speechless and gave Patrik and Mellberg an incredulous look.
‘In the centre section there’s an excerpt from her diary,’ Patrik said grimly. ‘Here, read it.’ He handed the paper to Martin. No one said a word as he read.
‘Can this be real? Did she have a diary? Or did the newspaper just make it all up?’
‘We’ll have to find out. Do you want to come with us, Bertil?’ he asked dutifully.
Mellberg seemed to consider it for a moment but then shook his head. ‘No, I’ve got important matters to attend to. You two go.’
As tired as Mellberg looked, the important matters probably consisted of taking a nap, Patrik thought. But he was glad Mellberg wasn’t coming along.
‘Okay we’re off,’ said Patrik, nodding at Martin.
They walked rapidly over to the community centre. The police station stood at one end of Tanumshede’s short high street and the community centre at the other, so it took less than five minutes to walk there. The first thing they did was knock on the door of the bus that was parked outside. If they were in luck, the producer would be there; otherwise they’d have to phone him.
They were in luck, because the voice that told them to come in unquestionably belonged to Fredrik Rehn. He was going over the morning’s broadcast with one of the technicians and turned round in annoyance when they entered.
‘What is it this time?’ he said, not hiding the fact that he viewed the police investigation as a disruptive intrusion into his work. Much as he loved the attention that the investigation brought to the series, he hated the fact that the police occasionally had to take up his time and also bother the cast members.
‘We’d like to have a talk with you. And the cast members. Call together the whole group and tell them to come to the community centre. Immediately.’ Patrik’s patience was waning, and he had no intention of wasting time on polite phrases.
Fredrik Rehn, failing to grasp the gravity of the anger he was facing, began to object in a whining voice: ‘But they’re working. And we’re shooting. You can’t just –’
‘NOW!’ yelled Patrik, and both Rehn and the techs jumped in fright.
Muttering, the producer took his mobile and began ringing round to the mobile phones the cast were equipped with. After five calls he turned to Patrik and Martin and said sourly, ‘Assignment complete. They’ll be here in a few minutes. May I ask what is so bloody important that you barge in here and interrupt me in the middle of a million-kronor project? Which by the way happens to have the full support of your local leadership because it’s of great benefit to this very community!’
‘I’ll tell you in a few minutes,’ said Patrik as he left the bus with Martin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rehn snatch up the phone again.
One by one the cast members trooped into the community centre. Some seemed annoyed at being pulled away from work on such short notice, while others, such as Uffe and Calle, seemed to welcome the interruption.
‘What’s this all about?’ said Uffe, sitting down on the edge of the big stage. He took out a pack of cigarettes and began to light one. Patrik snatched the unlit fag out of his mouth and tossed it in a wastepaper bin.
‘No smoking in here.’
‘What the fuck?’ said Uffe angrily, but didn’t dare protest anymore vigorously. Something about Patrik and Martin’s expressions told him they weren’t here to talk about the fire regulations.
Exactly eight minutes after Patrik had knocked on the bus door, the last participant sauntered in.
‘What now? God it’s like a funeral in here,’ said Tina with a laugh as she dropped onto one of the beds.
‘Shut up, Tina,’ said Rehn leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He intended to make sure that this interruption was as brief as possible. And he’d already begun ringing his contacts. He was in no mind to put up with any bloody police harassment. He was much too well paid for that.
‘You’re all here because we want to know one thing.’ Patrik looked round the room, locking eyes with each and every cast member in turn. ‘I want to know who found Lillemor’s diary. And who sold it to an evening newspaper.’
Rehn frowned. He looked taken aback. ‘Diary? What diary?’
‘The diary that the Evening News published extracts from today,’ said Patrik without looking at him. ‘All over the front page.’
‘Are we on the front page today?’ said Rehn, brightening up. ‘Wow, that’s great, I’ve got to see that . . .’
A look from Martin shut him up. But he couldn’t repress a smile. A headline was pure gold. Nothing else jacked up the ratings so high.
All the cast sat in silence. Uffe and Tina were the only ones who looked at the officers. Jonna, Calle and Mehmet stared at the floor, looking uncomfortable.
‘Either you tell me where this diary came from,’ Patrik continued, ‘who found it and where it is now, or I’m going to do everything in my power to shut you down. You’ve
been able to continue filming only because we’ve allowed you to do so, but if you don’t tell me now . . .’ He left the words hanging in the air.
‘Jeez, somebody speak up,’ said Rehn, sounding stressed out. ‘If you know something, spit it out. If you know about it but refuse to talk, I’m going to squeeze the shit out of you and see to it that you never get near a television camera again.’ He lowered his voice and hissed, ‘I mean it. Spill the beans this minute or you’re terminated. Get it?’
Everyone squirmed. The silence was total in the big hall of the community centre. Finally Mehmet cleared his throat.
‘It was Tina. I saw her take it. Barbie kept it under her mattress.’
‘Shut the fuck up, you wanker!’ Tina snarled, her eyes shooting daggers at Mehmet. ‘They can’t do anything. Don’t you get it? Oh, you’re such a moron – all you had to do was keep your mouth shut.’
‘Now it’s your turn to shut up!’ yelled Patrik, walking over to Tina. She stopped talking as ordered and for the first time looked scared.
‘Who did you give the diary to?’
‘I can’t reveal my sources,’ Tina muttered in one last attempt to act cocky.
Jonna sighed and said, ‘You’re the one who’s the source, you prat.’ She was still looking at the floor and didn’t seem bothered that Tina turned and glared at her.
Patrik repeated his question, stressing every word, as if talking to a child. ‘Who – did – you – give – the – diary – to?’
Tina reluctantly gave the name of the journalist, and Patrik turned on his heel without wasting another word on her.
As he swept past Fredrik Rehn, the producer said wretch-edly, ‘Now what happens? You didn’t really mean anything by . . . I mean, we can keep on shooting, can’t we? My boss . . .’ Rehn realized he was talking to deaf ears and shut up.
At the door Patrik turned round. ‘You can keep on making fools of yourselves on TV. But if you interfere with this investigation again in any way whatsoever . . .’ He let the threat hang in the air without finishing it.
The Gallows Bird Page 24
