The Drowning

13

‘I said there’s nothing wrong with her!’ Mother’s voice was angry and she was on the verge of tears. He slipped away and sat down behind the sofa some distance away. But not so far that he couldn’t hear what they said. Everything having to do with Alice was important.

He liked her better now. She never gave him that look any more that meant she wanted to take something from him. Mostly she lay still and made very little noise, and he thought that was wonderful.

‘She’s eight months old, and she hasn’t made a single attempt to crawl or move about. We need to have a doctor take a look at her.’ Father was speaking in a low voice. The voice he used when he wanted to persuade Mother to do something that she didn’t want to do. He placed his hands on her shoulders so she would be forced to listen to what he was saying.

‘Something isn’t quite right with Alice. The sooner we get help, the better. You’re not doing her any good by closing your eyes to what’s wrong.’

His mother shook her head. Her shiny dark hair hung down her back, and he wished that he could reach out and touch it. But he knew that she wouldn’t like it; she would pull away from his touch.

Mother kept on shaking her head. The tears rolled down her cheeks, and he knew that in spite of everything, she had begun to relent. Father turned to look over his shoulder, casting a swift glance at him as he sat behind the sofa. He smiled at Father, not knowing what he meant. But apparently it was wrong to smile, because Father frowned and looked angry, as if wishing his expression were different.

Nor did he understand why Mother and Father were so worried and sad. Alice was so calm and nice now. Mother didn’t have to carry her around all the time, and she lay peacefully wherever they put her. But Mother and Father weren’t happy. And even though there was now space for him too, they treated him like he was air. He didn’t really care so much that Father did that; Father wasn’t the one who mattered. But Mother didn’t see him either, and if she did, it was only with a look of disgust and loathing on her face.

Because he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He couldn’t resist lifting his fork again and again, stuffing the food in his mouth, chewing, swallowing, taking more, feeling his body filling out. The fear was too great, the fear that she would never see him. He was no longer Mother’s handsome little boy. But he was here, and he took up space.

It was quiet when he came home. Lisbet was probably sleeping. He considered going in to see her right away, but he didn’t want to wake her if she’d just fallen asleep. It would be better to do it just before he left. She needed all the rest she could get.

Kenneth paused in the front hall for a moment. This was the silence that he would soon have to live with. Of course he’d been home alone in the past. Lisbet had been very involved with her job as a teacher, and she’d often worked overtime in the evenings. But it was a different sort of silence when he’d arrived home before she did. It was a silence full of promise, full of anticipation, waiting for that moment when the front door opened and she would come in, saying: ‘Hi, sweetheart, I’m home.’

He would never again hear those words. Lisbet would leave this house, but she would never come home again.

Suddenly he was overcome with grief. He had put so much energy into keeping his sorrow at bay, not wanting to let it in ahead of time. But now he couldn’t stop it. He leaned his forehead against the wall and felt the tears rising. And he let them come, weeping silently, the tears falling to his feet. For the first time he allowed himself to feel what it would be like when she was gone. In many ways she was already gone. Their love was as great as ever, but it was different. Because the Lisbet who lay in the guest-room bed was only a shadow of the woman he had loved. She no longer existed, and he missed her terribly.

He stood there for a long time with his forehead pressed against the wall. After a while his sobs subsided, the tears fell more slowly. When they stopped altogether, he took a deep breath, raised his head, and wiped his wet cheeks with his hand. That was enough. That was all he could allow himself right now.

He went into the workroom. The letters were in the top desk drawer. His first instinct had been to throw them out, to ignore them. But something had stopped him. And when the fourth one arrived the other night, delivered inside his home, he was glad that he’d kept the others. Because now he realized that he needed to take them seriously. Someone wanted to harm him.

He knew that he should have turned over the letters to the police right away, and not worried so much about upsetting Lisbet as she waited to die. He should have protected her by taking the matter seriously. It was lucky that he’d realized this in time, that Erik had made him realize it in time. If anything had happened to her because, as usual, he had failed to act, he would never have forgiven himself.

With trembling fingers he picked up the letters, walked quietly down the hall to the kitchen, and placed all of them inside an ordinary one-gallon plastic bag. He considered leaving immediately so as not to wake Lisbet. But he couldn’t go without looking in on her. He needed to make sure that everything was all right, to see her face, he hoped peacefully asleep.

Cautiously he opened the door to the guest room. It opened without a sound, and gradually more and more of his wife came into view. She was sleeping. Her eyes were closed, and he took in every feature, every detail of her face. She was gaunt and her skin was parched, but she was still beautiful.

He quietly took a few steps inside the room, unable to resist the urge to touch her. But suddenly he sensed that something was wrong. Lisbet looked the way she always did when she slept, but now he realized what was different. It was so silent. He didn’t hear a sound. Not even a breath.

Kenneth rushed forward. He placed two fingers on her throat, moved his fingers to the wrist of her left hand, fumbling, moved his hand back to her throat, wishing with all his heart that he would find the life-giving pulse. But in vain. There was nothing. It was silent in the room and silent in her body. She had left him.

He heard a sobbing sound, as if from an animal. Guttural and filled with despair. And he realized that the sound was coming from him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and lifted her up, cautiously, as if she could still feel pain.

Her head rested heavily on his lap. He stroked her cheek and felt his tears return. Grief overcame him with a force that erased everything he had ever felt before; he was consumed by sorrow. It was a physical sorrow that spread through his whole body, wringing every nerve. The pain made him scream out loud. The sound of his cries echoed through the small room, bouncing off the floral coverlet and the pale wallpaper to be thrown back at him.

Her hands were clasped over her breast, and gently he pulled them apart. He wanted to hold her hand one last time. He felt her rough skin against his own. Her skin had lost its softness after the treatments, but it still felt so familiar.

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, as his tears fell on both of their hands, joining them together. He closed his eyes and tasted the salt of his tears mixing with her scent. He would have liked to sit there for ever, never letting go. But he knew that was impossible. Lisbet was no longer his, she was no longer here, and he had to let her go. At least she was no longer in pain; that was over now. The cancer had won, but it had also lost because it was forced to die with her.

He put her hand down, placing it gently at her side. Her right hand still lay on her breast, and he picked it up to move it to her other side.

But he gave a start when he noticed something in her hand, something white. His heart began pounding wildly. He wanted to clasp her hands again and hide what he saw, but he couldn’t. With trembling fingers he opened her right hand. The white object tumbled out and fell on to the coverlet. A small piece of paper, folded in half so the message was hidden. But he knew what it was. He could feel the presence of evil in the room.

Kenneth reached for the slip of paper. He hesitated for a moment, and then he read what it said.

Anna had just left when the doorbell rang. At first Erica thought that her sister must have forgotten something, but Anna never bothered about such trivial matters as waiting for permission to enter the house. She usually just opened the door and walked in.

Erica put down the cups she had started to clear away and went to open the door.

‘Gaby? What are you doing here?’ She stepped aside to allow the publishing director to enter. Today she lit up the drab of winter with a bright turquoise coat and enormous glittery gold earrings.

‘I was in Göteborg for a meeting, so I thought I’d just drop by and have a little chat.’

Drop by? It was an hour-and-a-half drive from Göteborg, and she hadn’t even phoned ahead to make sure that Erica would be home. What could possibly be so urgent?

‘I wanted to talk to you about Christian,’ Gaby said, answering Erica’s unspoken question as she came inside. ‘Do you have any coffee?’

‘Oh, of course.’

As usual, dealing with Gaby felt like being hit by a train. She didn’t bother to take off her boots, just gave them a superficial wipe on the rug before stepping on to the hardwood floor with her clacking heels. Erica cast a nervous glance at the polished planks of her floor, hoping her publisher wasn’t going to leave any ugly marks behind. But it would be fruitless to say anything to Gaby. Erica couldn’t recall ever seeing her in her stocking-feet, and she wondered if Gaby even took off her boots when she went to bed.

‘How… cosy you’ve made things here,’ said Gaby, smiling broadly. But Erica could tell that she was actually horrified by the sight of all the toys, Maja’s clothes, Patrik’s papers, and everything else scattered all over. Gaby had visited them before, but on those occasions, Erica had expected her arrival and had cleaned up ahead of time.

The publishing director brushed a few crumbs from a chair before sitting down at the kitchen table. Erica quickly grabbed a dishcloth and ran it over the tabletop, which she hadn’t had time to do since breakfast and then Anna had come to visit.

‘My sister was just here,’ she explained, removing the empty ice-cream container.

‘I hope you know it’s a myth that you can eat for two when you’re pregnant,’ said Gaby, staring at Erica’s enormous stomach.

‘Hmm,’ said Erica, restraining herself from giving a caustic reply. Gaby wasn’t known for being particularly tactful. Her own slender figure was the result of a disciplined diet and regular workouts with a personal trainer at the downtown Stockholm health club Sturebadet three times a week. Nor did her body show any signs of past pregnancies. Her career had always been her highest priority.

Out of pure spite, Erica set a platter of pastries on the table and pushed it over towards Gaby.

‘Wouldn’t you like a pastry?’ She watched as Gaby was torn between her desire to be polite and a desperate urge to say ‘No, thanks.’ Finally she reached a compromise.

‘I’ll take half of one, if you don’t mind.’ Gaby carefully broke off a piece, with a look on her face as if she were about to stuff a cockroach in her mouth.

‘So you said you wanted to talk to me about Christian, right?’ said Erica. She couldn’t restrain her curiosity.

‘Yes. I can’t understand what’s going on with him.’ Gaby seemed relieved that the pastry dilemma was over, and she took a big gulp of coffee to wash down the piece she had eaten. ‘He says he refuses to do any more promotion for his book, but that’s just not right. It’s unprofessional!’

‘He does seem to be taking all the media attention rather hard,’ Erica ventured, again feeling guilty about her own part in the whole affair.

Gaby gestured with her well-manicured fingers. ‘I know. And I do understand that. But it’ll soon blow over, and all the fuss has given book sales a real boost. People are curious about him and about his novel. I mean, in the end, Christian is going to reap the benefits. And he must realize that we’ve put a tremendous amount of time and money into launching him and his work. So we expect some cooperation from him in return.’

‘Sure, of course,’ murmured Erica, although she was unsure of her own stand on this issue. On the one hand, she understood Christian’s attitude. It must be awful to have his personal life exposed in the media like that. He was just starting his writing career, and the attention he received at this point was supposed to serve him well for many years to come.

‘Why don’t you talk to him about this yourself?’ she asked cautiously. ‘Shouldn’t you be having this discussion with Christian?’

‘We had a meeting yesterday,’ replied Gaby curtly. ‘And you might say that it didn’t go very well.’ She pressed her lips together as if to underscore what she’d just said. Erica realized that it must have been a real disaster.

‘Oh, that’s unfortunate. But I think Christian is under a lot of stress right now, and maybe we should overlook -’

‘I understand, but at the same time, I’m running a business and we have a contract with Christian. Even though it doesn’t spell out in detail what his obligations are regarding dealing with the press, helping with marketing efforts, and so on, it’s understood that we expect certain things from him. Some authors may get away with acting like hermits and not participating in events that they consider beneath them. But those writers are already established and have a big audience for their books. Christian isn’t there yet, not by a long shot. He may reach that position some day, but an author’s career isn’t built overnight, and with the flying start that he’s had with The Mermaid, he owes it to himself and to his publishing house to make certain sacrifices.’ Gaby paused, giving Erica a stern look. ‘I was hoping that you might explain this to him.’

‘Me?’ Erica didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t at all convinced that she was the right person to persuade Christian to throw himself to the wolves again. Especially since she was the one who had lured them to his door in the first place.

‘I don’t know if that would be such a good -’ She searched for a diplomatic way of declining the task, but Gaby cut her off.

‘Excellent. Then that’s decided. You’ll go see him and explain what we expect from him.’

‘But what…’ Erica looked at Gaby, wondering what on earth she had said that might be interpreted as an affirmative response. But Gaby was already getting to her feet. She smoothed down her skirt, picked up her purse, and slung the strap over her shoulder.

‘Thanks for the coffee and the chat. I’m glad we have such a great working relationship, you and I.’ She leaned down and air-kissed Erica on both cheeks and then clacked across the floor, heading for the front door.

‘Don’t bother getting up. I can find my way out,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Bye bye.’

‘Bye bye,’ replied Erica with a wave. This time it wasn’t like being hit by a train – it was like being completely smashed flat.

Patrik and Gösta jumped in the car and headed out within five minutes of receiving the call. At first Kenneth Bengtsson could hardly manage more than a few words, but after a moment Patrik understood what he was trying to say. His wife had been murdered.

‘What the hell is going on here anyway?’ Gösta shook his head, keeping a tight grip on the handle fastened above the window on the passenger side of the car. He always did that when Patrik was driving. ‘Do you really need to take the curves so fast? I’m practically plastered to the windscreen.’

‘Sorry.’ Patrik slowed down a bit, but it wasn’t long before his foot was again pressing down on the accelerator. ‘What’s going on, you ask? That’s what I’d like to know too,’ he said with a grimace as he cast a glance in the rear-view mirror to make sure that Paula and Martin were close behind.

‘What did he say? Did she have stab wounds too?’ asked Gösta.

‘I couldn’t get much out of him. He sounded like he was in shock. He just said that he came home to find his wife murdered.’

‘From what I’ve heard, she didn’t have long to live,’ said Gösta. He loathed anything having to do with illness and death. For most of his life he’d been waiting to come down with some sort of incurable disease. All he wanted was to get in as many games of golf as possible before that happened. But right now Patrik looked more like a victim of ill health than he did.

‘You don’t look so good, by the way.’

‘You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ said Patrik, annoyed. ‘You have no idea what it’s like to have both a full-time job and a toddler at home. Impossible to keep up, impossible to get enough sleep.’ Patrik regretted his words as soon as they left his lips. He knew that the greatest sorrow in Gösta’s life was that his son had died shortly after birth.

‘Forgive me. That was stupid,’ he said.

Gösta nodded. ‘That’s okay.’

Neither of them spoke for a while. They listened to the sound of the tyres on the road as they drove along the motorway, heading for Fjällbacka.

‘It’s nice about Annika and the little girl she’s going to adopt,’ said Gösta at last, his expression softening.

‘Yes, but it certainly is a long wait,’ said Patrik, glad to talk about something else.

‘I’m surprised it takes so long. I had no idea. I mean, the child is there, so what’s the problem?’ Gösta was almost as frustrated about it as Annika and her husband Lennart were.

‘Bureaucracy,’ said Patrik. ‘And I suppose we should be grateful that they check up on everyone properly and don’t hand over the children to just anybody.’

‘You’re right about that.’

‘Okay, we’re here.’ Patrik turned into the drive in front of the Bengtssons’ house and parked the car. A second later the other police car pulled up, with Paula at the wheel. When she turned off the engine, the only sound was the soughing of the wind in the nearby woods.

Kenneth Bengtsson opened the front door. His face was pale, and he looked confused.

‘Patrik Hedström,’ said Patrik, shaking hands with Kenneth. ‘Where is she?’ He motioned for his colleagues to wait outside. It would create problems for the crime-scene techs if they all tromped about inside the house. Kenneth opened the door wider and pointed down the hallway.

‘In there. I… would it be all right if I stay here?’ He was looking at Patrik, but his eyes had a blank look.

‘Stay here with my colleagues, and I’ll go inside,’ said Patrik, glancing at Gösta to get him to take charge of the victim’s spouse. Gösta’s skills as a police officer left a lot to be desired, but he had a talent for dealing with people, and Patrik knew that Kenneth would be in good hands. The medics would be arriving any minute. He had phoned them before leaving the station, so the ambulance should be here soon.

Patrik cautiously stepped inside and took off his shoes. He headed in the direction that Kenneth had indicated, assuming he meant the door at the end of the hall. It was closed, and Patrik stopped himself as he was about to touch the door handle. There might be fingerprints. Using his elbow, he pushed down on the handle and opened the door by leaning against it.

She was lying in bed with her eyes closed and her arms at her sides. She looked like she was sleeping. He took a couple of steps closer, looking for any injuries on the body. There was no blood, no wounds. But her body did show clear signs of her illness. Her bones were visible under the taut, dry skin, and her head looked bald under the scarf she was wearing. His heart ached at the thought of what she must have suffered, and what Kenneth must have suffered as he was forced to see his wife in this state. But there was nothing to indicate anything except that she had died in her sleep. Patrik carefully backed out of the room.

When he stepped outside into the cold again, Gösta was speaking in a soothing voice to Kenneth while Paula and Martin were helping the ambulance driver back his vehicle into the drive.

‘I went in to see her,’ Patrik told Kenneth in a low voice, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘And I don’t see any sign that she was murdered, as you said on the phone. From what I understand, your wife was seriously ill. Is that right?’

Kenneth nodded mutely.

‘Isn’t it more likely that she simply died in her sleep?’

‘No, she was murdered,’ Kenneth replied vehemently.

Patrik exchanged glances with Gösta. It wasn’t unusual for someone in shock to react oddly and say strange things.

‘Why do you think so? As I said, I just went in to see your wife, and there are no obvious injuries to her body, nothing to indicate anything… out of the ordinary.’

‘She was murdered!’ Kenneth insisted, and Patrik began to realize that there was nothing more they could do here. He would ask the medics to tend to the poor man.

‘Take a look at this!’ Kenneth pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to Patrik, who took it without thinking. It was a small white piece of paper, folded in half. Patrik gave Kenneth an inquisitive look and then opened the paper. In black cursive script it said: The truth about you killed her.

Patrik instantly recognized the handwriting.

‘Where did you find this?’

‘In Lisbet’s hand. I took it out of her hand,’ Kenneth stammered.

‘And she didn’t write this herself?’ Patrik already knew the answer, but he still felt that he had to ask the question to remove any doubt. The handwriting was the same. And the few words conveyed the same sense of evil as the letter that Erica had taken from Christian.

As expected, Kenneth shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, holding up something else that Patrik hadn’t noticed he was clutching in his hand. ‘The same person sent these.’

Inside the plastic bag were several white envelopes. The address had been written with black ink in an elegant script. The same as on the piece of paper that Patrik was holding.

‘When did you get these?’ he asked, feeling his heart pounding hard.

‘We were just going to turn them over to the police,’ said Kenneth quietly, handing the plastic bag to Patrik.

‘Who do you mean by “we”?’

‘Erik and I. He received similar letters.’

‘Erik Lind? He has letters too?’ Patrik repeated, wanting to make sure that he’d heard correctly.

Kenneth nodded.

‘Why didn’t you tell the police about this before?’ Patrik tried to keep his frustration out of his voice. The man standing in front of him had just lost his wife, so this was not the proper time for reproaches.

‘I… we… It wasn’t until today that Erik and I realized that we’d both received these sorts of letters. And we only heard about Christian getting threats when we read about it in the paper this weekend. I can’t speak for Erik, but for my part, I didn’t want to upset…’ His voice trailed off.

Patrik took another look at the letters inside the plastic bag. ‘Only three of them have an address and postmark on them. One of them just has your name on the envelope. How did that letter arrive?’

‘Someone came into the house last night and left it on the kitchen table.’ He hesitated, but Patrik didn’t speak, sensing that Kenneth had more to say. ‘And there was a knife lying next to the letter. One of our kitchen knives. I suppose that’s a message that could be interpreted several different ways.’ He began to cry as he went on. ‘I thought it was me that someone wanted to harm. Why Lisbet? Why kill Lisbet?’ He wiped away a tear with the back of his hand, apparently embarrassed to be crying in front of Patrik and the other officers.

‘We don’t know whether she was actually murdered,’ said Patrik gently. ‘But someone has definitely been inside your house. Do you have any idea who that might be? Or who would have sent you these letters?’ He kept his eyes fixed on Kenneth, wanting to see if there was any change in his expression. As far as he could tell, Kenneth was speaking the truth when he said:

‘I’ve thought a lot about it ever since the first letter appeared. That was right before Christmas. But I can’t think of anyone who would want to harm me. No one at all. I’ve never made any enemies in that way. I’m too… unimportant.’

‘What about Erik? How long has he been getting these letters?’

‘About the same as me. He has them over at the office. I was just coming home to pick mine up and then we were going to contact the police…’ His voice faded again, and Patrik could see his thoughts were back in that room where he’d found his wife dead.

‘What do you think the message on this note means?’ asked Patrik cautiously. ‘It refers to a “truth about yourself” – what do you think that could be?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Kenneth quietly. ‘I really have no idea.’ Then he took a deep breath. ‘What will you do with her now?’

‘She’ll be taken to Göteborg for closer examination.’

‘Closer examination? Do you mean a post-mortem?’ Kenneth grimaced.

‘Yes. A post-mortem. I’m afraid it’s necessary so we can work out what actually happened here.’

Kenneth nodded, but his eyes were glazed, and his lips were looking slightly blue. Realizing that they’d been standing outdoors in the cold too long, considering the thin clothing that Kenneth was wearing, Patrick added:

‘It’s cold out here, and you need to go inside.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Would you like to drive over to the office with me? To your office, I mean? Then we can have a talk with Erik. Feel free to say no if you’re not up to it, and I’ll go over there myself. Is there anyone you’d like to phone, by the way?’

‘No. I’d like to go with you,’ said Kenneth, almost defiantly. ‘I want to know who did this.’

‘All right, then.’ Patrik took him lightly by the arm to steer him towards the car. He opened the door on the passenger side so Kenneth could get in. Then he went over to Martin and Paula to give them some brief instructions. He went inside to get a jacket for Kenneth before he motioned for Gösta to come with him. The tech team was on its way, and Patrik hoped to get back before they were finished. Otherwise he’d have to talk to them later. Right now going to see Erik was so urgent that it couldn’t wait.

As they backed out of the driveway, Kenneth cast a long look at the house. His lips moved, as if forming the words of a silent farewell.

Nothing had really changed; it felt just as empty as before. The only difference was that now there was a body to bury and the last glimmer of hope had vanished. Cia’s premonitions had turned out to be right, after all. Dear God, how she wished she’d been wrong.

How was she going to live without Magnus? How would her life look without him? It seemed so unreal that her husband, the father of her children, would be lying in a grave in the cemetery. Magnus, who had always been so full of life, who had always wanted to have fun and make sure that everyone else enjoyed themselves too. Of course she had been annoyed with him on occasion, irritated by his carefree attitude and constant teasing. It drove her crazy whenever she wanted to talk about something serious and he just played about and teased her until she couldn’t help laughing even though she didn’t want to. At the same time, she had never wanted to change anything about him.

What she wouldn’t give for just one more hour with him! Half an hour, even one minute! They weren’t finished with their life together; in fact, they had just begun. They’d only had the chance to make half the journey they’d envisioned for themselves. The exhilarating first meeting when they were nineteen. The first years when they were so in love. Magnus proposing to her, and then their wedding in Fjällbacka church. The children. The nights filled with crying infants, when they’d taken turns getting some sleep. All the hours of playing and laughing with Elin and Ludvig. The nights when they had made love or just fallen asleep, holding hands. And the last few years when the children were getting older and she and Magnus had been able to get to know each other again.

But there was so much more they had wanted to do; the road ahead had seemed long and filled with anticipated experiences. Magnus was looking forward to teasing his children’s first boyfriend and girlfriend, respectively, who would turn up at their house to be introduced, awkward and shy and stammering. They were planning to help Elin and Ludvig when they moved into their first flats, carrying in furniture, painting the walls, and sewing curtains. As the father, Magnus would give a speech when each of his children married. He would talk too long, get too sentimental, and tell too many details about their childhood. Cia and Magnus had even imagined their first grandchild, even though it would be years until that happened. But it was there in the future, like a promise, sparkling like a jewel. And they would be the world’s best grandparents. Always ready to lend a hand and spoil the grandchildren. Give them cake for dinner and buy them far too many toys. Offering their time, all the time that they had.

All of that was now gone. Their dreams for the future would never be realized. Suddenly Cia felt a hand on her shoulder. She heard his voice, but it sounded so unbearably like Magnus that she shut it out, refused to listen. After a while the voice fell silent and the hand was taken away. In front of her she saw that the road had vanished, as if it had never existed.

On the last stretch of the drive to Christian’s house Erica felt as if she were heading towards Golgotha. She had phoned the library to speak to him, but was told that he’d gone home. So she had squeezed herself in behind the wheel to drive over there. She still wasn’t sure that it was a good idea to do as Gaby had asked. At the same time, she didn’t really see how she could get out of the situation. Gaby never took no for an answer.

‘What do you want?’ asked Sanna when she opened the door. She looked even sadder than usual.

‘I need to talk to Christian,’ Erica told her, hoping that she wouldn’t be asked to explain why.

‘He’s not home.’

‘When do you expect him?’ asked Erica patiently, feeling almost grateful for the chance to postpone the meeting.

‘He’s writing. Over in the boathouse. You can go down there if you want to, but you’ll be disturbing him at your own risk.’

‘That’s okay. I’ll take the risk.’ Erica hesitated. ‘It’s important,’ she added.

Sanna shrugged. ‘Do whatever you like. Do you know where it is?’

Erica nodded. She had visited Christian in his little writer’s den a couple of times before.

Five minutes later she parked the car next to the row of boathouses. The one Christian was working in had been inherited from Sanna’s family. Her maternal grandfather had bought it for a song, and now it was one of the few still owned by someone who lived in Fjällbacka year-round.

Christian must have heard her car, because he opened the door even before she could knock. Erica noticed that he had a cut on his forehead, but she decided that it wasn’t the right time to ask him about it.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked with the same lack of enthusiasm that Sanna had displayed.

Erica was starting to feel as if she were carrying the plague. ‘It’s just me and a couple of others,’ she tried to joke, but Christian didn’t look amused.

‘I’m working,’ he said, making no sign of inviting her inside.

‘I’ll only bother you for a few minutes.’

‘You of all people should know what it’s like to be in the middle of writing something,’ he said.

This was going a lot worse than Erica had expected. ‘I had a visit from Gaby a while ago. She told me about your meeting.’

Christian’s shoulders sagged and he sighed. ‘She came all the way here just to tell you about that?’

‘She was in Göteborg for a meeting. She’s really upset. And she thought that I could… Er, couldn’t we go inside to talk instead of just standing here in the doorway?’

Without saying a word, Christian finally stepped aside and let her come in. The ceiling was so low that he had to bow his head a bit, but Erica, who was half a head shorter, was able to stand up straight. He turned his back to her and led the way into the room facing the sea. The computer was on and manuscript pages lay strewn over the drop-leaf table in front of the window, indicating that he really had been working.

‘All right, what did she say?’ He sat down, crossed his long legs and folded his arms. His whole body radiated antipathy.

‘As I mentioned, she’s very upset. Or maybe concerned is a better word. She says that you refuse to do any more interviews or other promotion for your book.’

‘That’s right,’ replied Christian, looking even more defiant.

‘May I ask why?’

‘I’m sure you know why,’ he snapped, and Erica gave a start. He noticed her reaction and seemed to regret his tone of voice. ‘You know why,’ he repeated dully. ‘I can’t… I just can’t. Not after everything that has been said in the media.’

‘Are you worried about attracting more attention? Is that it? Have you received more threats? Do you know who’s sending them?’ The questions poured out of her.

Christian shook his head vigorously. ‘I have no idea. His voice rose again. ‘I have absolutely no idea! I just want a little peace and quiet so I can work undisturbed and not have to…’ He turned away.

Erica studied Christian in silence. He didn’t really fit in with this setting. That was something she’d thought about before, when she met him here at the boathouse, and the feeling was even stronger this time. He looked so out of place among all the fishing gear and nets adorning the walls. The little shed seemed like a doll’s house into which he had squeezed his long limbs and then got stuck so he couldn’t get out. In a sense, that might have been exactly what happened. She glanced at the manuscript on the table. It was impossible to see what the text was about, but she estimated that there were nearly a hundred pages.

‘Is that a new book?’ She had no intention of dropping the topic that seemed to upset him so much, but she was willing to give him a short breathing space so he could calm down.

‘Yes,’ he said, and seemed to relax a bit.

‘Is it a sequel? To The Mermaid?’

Christian smiled. ‘There is no sequel to The Mermaid,’ he told her, turning to look out at the sea. Then he added, hesitantly, ‘I don’t understand how anyone would dare.’

‘Sorry?’ Erica didn’t think she’d said anything that would cause him to smile. ‘What do you mean by “dare”?’

‘Dive.’

Erica turned to see what he was looking at, and suddenly she understood what he meant.

‘You mean from the diving tower? At Badholmen?’

‘Yes.’ Christian was staring at it without blinking.

‘I’ve never dared. But on the other hand, I have to admit that I’m afraid of the water, which is rather embarrassing considering that I grew up here.’

‘I’ve never dared either.’ Christian spoke in a voice that sounded far away, almost dreamy. Erica waited anxiously for him to say more. There was something in the air, a tension that seemed close to bursting point. She didn’t dare move, she hardly dared breathe. After a few moments Christian went on. But he no longer seemed aware of her presence.

‘She dared.’

‘Who?’ Erica whispered the question. At first she didn’t think she’d get an answer. Silence settled between then. Then Christian said in such a low voice that his words were barely audible:

‘The Mermaid.’

‘In the book?’ Erica didn’t understand. What was he trying to say? And where was he? Not here, at any rate. Not in the present moment, not with her. He was someplace else, and she sincerely wished she knew where that was.

The next instant the mood had passed. Christian took a deep breath and turned to face her. He was back.

‘I want to focus on my new manuscript. Not sit around giving interviews and writing birthday greetings in the books that I’m asked to sign.’

‘That’s all part of the job, Christian,’ Erica calmly pointed out. She couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed at his arrogance.

‘You mean I have no choice in the matter?’ He spoke calmly, but there was still an underlying tension.

‘If you weren’t prepared to take on that part of the job, you should have said so from the beginning. The publisher, the marketplace, and the readers – and, for God’s sake, they’re the most important of all – expect us to devote some of our time to them. If an author doesn’t want to do that, he needs to make it clear right from the start. You can’t change the rules in the middle of the game.’

Christian looked down at the floor, and she saw that he was listening carefully, taking in what she was saying. When he raised his head, he had tears in his eyes.

‘I can’t, Erica. It’s impossible for me to explain, but…’ He shook his head and tried again. ‘I can’t. They can ostracize me, blacklist me, I don’t care. I’ll keep on writing, because that’s what I have to do. But I can’t play their game.’ He began vigorously scratching his arms as if there were ants swarming under his skin.

Erica looked at him with concern. Christian was like a taut string that might snap at any moment. But she realized that there was nothing she could do about it. He didn’t want to talk to her. If she was going to solve the mystery of the letters, she would have to look for answers on her own, without his help.

He stared at her for a moment and then abruptly pulled his chair closer to the table with the computer.

‘I have to get back to work now.’ His face was expression less. Closed.

Erica stood up. She wished she could see inside his head and pluck out his secrets, which she knew had to be in there. She was sure they were the key to everything. But he had turned his attention to the computer screen, focusing intently on the words that he’d written, as if they were the last things he would ever read.

She left without saying another word. Not even goodbye.

Patrik sat in his office, trying to fight off an overwhelming sense of fatigue. He needed to concentrate and be alert, now that the investigation had reached a critical stage. Paula stuck her head in the door.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked, taking in Patrik’s unhealthy pallor and the beads of sweat on his forehead. She was worried about him. It was impossible not to notice that he’d been looking worn-out lately.

Patrik took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to the latest development.

‘Lisbet Bengtsson’s body has been taken to Göteborg for a post-mortem. I haven’t talked to Pedersen, but considering that it’ll be a few days yet before we have the results on Magnus Kjellner, I’m not counting on anything regarding Lisbet until the beginning of next week, at the earliest.’

‘So what do you think? Was she murdered?’

Patrik hesitated. ‘When it comes to Magnus, I’m sure it was homicide. The injuries he sustained couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted; they could only be the result of an assault. As for Lisbet… I don’t really know what to say. She had no visible injuries that I could see, and she was seriously ill, so she could have simply died from her disease. If it weren’t for that note, that is. Someone had been in her room and put that piece of paper in her hand. But whether that was done before she died, as she was dying, or after her death, it’s impossible to say. We’ll have to wait for Pedersen to give us more information.’

‘What about the letters? What did Erik and Kenneth say? Did they have any theory about who might have sent them? Or why?’

‘No. They both say they haven’t a clue. And right now I see no reason not to believe them. But it seems incredible that three people would be selected at random to receive letters like that. They know each other and spend time together. There must be some sort of common denominator. Something that we’ve overlooked.’

‘In that case, why didn’t Magnus receive any letters?’ Paula asked.

‘I don’t know. He may have got some but didn’t tell anyone about them.’

‘Have you asked Cia?’

‘Yes, I asked her as soon as I heard about the threatening letters that had been sent to Christian. She claimed that her husband hadn’t received any such thing. If he had, she would have known about it and reported it to us in the very beginning. But it’s hard to know for sure. Magnus may have kept quiet in order to protect her.’

‘It feels like the whole thing has started to escalate. Entering someone’s house in the middle of the night is a lot more serious than sending a letter in the post.’

‘You’re right,’ said Patrik. ‘I’d like to give Kenneth police protection, but we just don’t have the staff to do that.’

‘No, we really don’t,’ Paula agreed. ‘But if it turns out that his wife was actually murdered, then…’

‘We’ll have to rethink the whole case if that’s true,’ replied Patrik wearily.

‘Have you sent the letters to the lab for analysis, by the way?’

‘Yes, I sent them off at once. And I included the letter that Erica took from Christian.’

‘That Erica stole, you mean,’ said Paula, trying to hide her smile. She’d teased Patrik mercilessly when he’d tried to defend his wife’s actions.

‘Okay, yes, she stole the letter.’ Patrik blushed. ‘But I don’t think we should get our hopes up. So many people have already handled those letters, and it’s hard to trace ordinary white paper and black ink. You can buy them just about anywhere in Sweden.’

‘True,’ said Paula. ‘There’s also a risk that we’re dealing with someone who is very careful to erase their tracks.’

‘That’s possible, but we might also get a lucky break.’

‘So far that hasn’t happened,’ muttered Paula.

‘No, it hasn’t…’ Patrik sank back on his chair, and they both pondered the case in silence.

‘Tomorrow we’ll make a fresh start. We’ll meet at seven o’clock to go over all the material and then proceed from there.’

‘A fresh start tomorrow,’ Paula repeated and then went back to her own office. They really needed some sort of breakthrough right now. And Patrik looked as though he needed a good night’s rest. She resolved to keep an eye on him. He didn’t look at all well.

The writing was going slowly. Words collected in his head but without forming into sentences. The cursor on the screen was annoying as it kept blinking at him. This book was proving much harder to write; it contained very little of himself. On the other hand, The Mermaid had contained too much. It surprised Christian that no one had noticed that. They had read the book as a story, a dark fantasy. His greatest fear had proved baseless. The whole time he had carried out the difficult but necessary work on the novel, he had struggled with the fear of what might happen when he lifted up the rock. What would crawl out when the light of day touched what was hiding underneath?

But nothing had happened. People were so naive, so used to being fed fictionalized accounts, that they couldn’t recognize reality even under the skimpiest of disguises. He looked at the computer screen again. Tried to summon forth the words, get back to what was truly a made-up story. It was like he’d told Erica: there was no sequel to The Mermaid. That story was over.

He had played with fire, and the flames had burned his feet. She was very close now; he knew that. She had found him, and he had only himself to blame.

With a sigh he turned off the computer. He needed to clear his mind. He threw on his jacket and zipped it up to his chin. Then he left the boathouse, and with his hands in his pockets he set off at a brisk pace for Ingrid Bergman Square. The streets were crowded and lively during the summer, but right now they were deserted. That actually suited him better.

He had no idea where he was going until he turned off at the wharf where the Coast Guard boats were docked. His feet had carried him to Badholmen, and the diving tower, which loomed against the grey winter sky. The wind was blowing hard. As he walked along the stone jetty that took him over to the little island, a strong gust seized hold of his jacket, making it billow like a sail. He found shelter between the wooden walls separating the changing booths, but as soon as he stepped out on to the rocks facing the tower, the wind again struck him full force. He stood still, allowing himself to be buffeted back and forth as he tilted his head back to stare up at the tower. It wasn’t exactly beautiful, but it definitely had a certain presence. From the uppermost platform, there was an impressive view of all of Fjällbacka and the bay opening on to the sea. And it still had a worn dignity about it. Like an old woman who had lived a long life, and lived it well, and wasn’t ashamed to show it.

He hesitated for a moment before moving forward to climb the first step. He held on to the railing with cold hands. The tower creaked and protested. In the summertime it withstood hordes of eager teenagers running up and down, but right now the wind was tearing at it with such force that he wasn’t sure it would even hold his weight. But that didn’t matter. He had to go up to the top.

Christian climbed higher. Now there was no doubt that the tower was actually swaying in the wind. It was moving like a pendulum, swinging his body from side to side. But he kept on going until he reached the top. He closed his eyes for a moment as he sat down on the platform and exhaled. Then he opened his eyes.

She was there, wearing the blue dress. She was dancing on the ice, holding the child in her arms, without leaving any tracks in the snow. Even though she was barefoot, just like on that Midsummer day, she didn’t seem to be cold. And the child was wearing light clothes, white trousers and a little shirt, but smiling in the wintry wind as if nothing could touch him.

Christian stood up, his legs unsteady. His eyes were fixed on her. He wanted to scream a warning. The ice was thin, she shouldn’t be out there, she shouldn’t be dancing on the ice. He saw the cracks, some of them spreading, some of them opening wide. But she kept on dancing with the child in her arms, her dress fluttering around her legs. She laughed and waved, and the dark hair framed her face.

The tower swayed. But he stood upright, countering the movement by holding out his arms to either side. He tried shouting to her, but only a raspy sound came out of his throat. Then he saw her. A soft white hand. It rose out of the water, trying to catch hold of the feet of the woman who was dancing, trying to grab her dress, wanting to drag her down into the deep. He saw the Mermaid. Her pale face that covetously reached for the woman and the child, reached for what he loved.

But the woman didn’t see her. She just kept on dancing, took the child’s hand and waved to him, moving her feet across the ice, sometimes only centimetres from the white hand trying to catch her.

Something flashed inside his head. There was nothing he could do. He was helpless. Christian pressed his hands over his ears and shut his eyes. And then came the scream. Loud and shrill, it rose out of his throat, bouncing off the ice and the rocks below, ripping open the wound in his chest. When he stopped screaming, he cautiously took his hands away from his ears. Then he opened his eyes. The woman and the child were gone. But now he knew. She would never give up until she had taken everything that was his.