Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 4-6: The Stranger, The Hidden Child, The Drowning. Camilla Lackberg
themselves be restricted. Why would they need anyone else? Why should they be burdened with all the nastiness that they knew existed out there? He wouldn’t be able to cope out there. That’s what she said. He was so accident-prone. He regularly dropped things, knocked things over, broke things to bits. If she let them go out in the world, terrible things would happen. Someone who was such a klutz would never be able to manage. But she always said it so lovingly. ‘My klutz,’ she said. ‘My little klutz.’
Her love was enough for him. And it was enough for his sister. Most of the time, at least.
This whole set-up sucked. Jonna listlessly lifted the goods onto the conveyor belt so that she could read off the code. Big Brother had been a regular Hultsfred Music Festival compared to this. This sucked! Although she really couldn’t complain. She had seen earlier seasons of the show, so she knew that they would have to live and work in this dump they’d ended up in. But sitting at the checkout in a fucking ICA supermarket! She hadn’t expected that. Her only consolation was that Barbie had ended up there too. She was at the register behind Jonna’s, with her silicone boobs squeezed into the red apron. And all morning Jonna had been forced to listen to her stupid chatter and to all the customers, from immature teens with squeaky voices to disgusting old men who tried to chat up Barbie. Didn’t they get it that they didn’t have to talk to a girl like Barbie? Just buy her a couple of drinks and then it was full speed ahead. Idiots.
‘Oh, it’s going to be such fun to see you on TV. And our little town, of course. I never would have imagined that we’d be nationwide celebrities here in Tanumshede.’ The silly old woman stood preening herself in front of the checkout, occasionally giving an enchanted smile at the camera fastened to the ceiling. She was so stupid that she didn’t realize that it was the best way to ensure that she wouldn’t be used in any of the segments. Looking straight at the camera was an absolute no-no.
‘That’ll be three hundred and fifty kronor and fifty öre,’ said Jonna wearily, staring at the old lady.
‘All right, I see, yes, here’s my card,’ said the TV-obsessed woman, sliding her VISA card through the scanner. ‘And, now I have to punch in the code,’ she chirped.
Jonna sighed. She wondered whether she could get away with starting to play hooky today. The producers usually loved arguments with the casting directors and stuff like that, but maybe it was a bit early for that. She should probably just grit her teeth for a week. After that she might be able to get away with a few shenanigans.
She wondered whether Mamma and Pappa would be sitting on the sofa watching the TV on Monday. Probably not. They never had time for such trivial pastimes as watching TV. They were doctors, so their time was more valuable than everyone else’s. The time that they spent watching Survivor, or being with her for that matter, was time that could otherwise be spent doing a bypass operation or a kidney transplant. Jonna was just being selfish for not understanding that. Pappa had even taken her along to the hospital so she could watch open-heart surgery on a ten-year-old child. He wanted her to understand why their jobs were so important, he said; why they couldn’t spend as much time with her as they would like. He and Mamma had a gift, the gift of being able to help other people, and it was their obligation to put it to good use.
What a fucking load of crap. Why did they even have kids if they didn’t have time for them? Why didn’t they say to hell with kids, so that they could spend twenty-four hours a day with their hands inside somebody else’s chest?
The day after the visit to the hospital she had started cutting herself. It had been so fucking cool. As soon as the knife made the first cut in her skin, she had felt the anxiety recede. It felt like it ran out of the wound on her arm. Disappeared along with the blood that slowly trickled out, red and hot. She loved the sight of her own blood. Loved the feeling of the knife, or a razor blade or whatever the fuck else she could find within reach that would cut away the anxiety that sat so firmly anchored in her chest.
She also discovered that this was the only time they noticed her. The blood made them turn their attention to her and really see her. But the kick had proven to be less intense each time. With each wound, each scar, the effect on her anxiety diminished. And instead of looking at her with concern, as they had done at first, now her parents just looked at her with resignation. They had lost their grip on her, and decided to help those they could save instead. People with damaged hearts and internal organs that had stopped functioning and needed to be replaced. She had nothing of the sort to offer. It was her soul that was broken, and that was not something they could fix with a scalpel. So they stopped trying.
The only love now available to her was from the cameras, and the people who sat night after night in front of their television sets watching her. Seeing the real Jonna.
Behind her she heard a guy asking Barbie if he could touch her silicone implants. The viewers would love it. Jonna deliberately raised her arms so the scars were visible. It was the only way she could compete.
‘Martin, can I come in for a minute? We have to talk.’
‘Of course, come on in, I’m just finishing up some reports.’ He waved Patrik inside. ‘What is it? You look worried.’
‘Well, I’m not quite sure what to think about this. We received the autopsy report on Marit Kaspersen this morning, and I must say there’s something that seems very odd.’
‘What’s that?’ Martin leaned forward with interest. He remembered that Patrik had muttered something along those lines on the day the accident occurred, but then he’d honestly forgotten about it. Patrik hadn’t mentioned it since then either.
‘Well, Pedersen wrote down everything he found, and I talked with him on the phone too, but there’s something we simply can’t explain.’
‘Tell me.’ Martin’s curiosity was mounting by the second.
‘First of all, Marit didn’t die in the car crash. She was already dead when it happened.’
‘Already dead? How? What was it, a heart attack or something?’
‘No, not exactly.’ Patrik scratched his head as he studied the report. ‘She died of alcohol poisoning. She had a point six-one blood alcohol level.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding. Point six-one is enough to kill a horse!’
‘Exactly. According to Pedersen she must have drunk a whole bottle of vodka. In a very short time.’
‘And those who knew her said that she never drank.’
‘Precisely. There was no sign of alcohol abuse in her body either, which probably means that she had built up absolutely no tolerance. According to Pedersen she would have reacted very rapidly.’
‘So she got herself plastered for some reason. It’s tragic, of course, but unfortunately something that happens from time to time,’ Martin said, puzzled by Patrik’s obvious concern.
‘Yes, that’s what it looks like. But Pedersen found something else that makes the whole thing a bit more complicated.’ Patrik crossed his legs and skimmed through the report to find the place. ‘Here it is. I’ll try to translate it into layman’s terms. Everything Pedersen writes is so cryptic. It seems she had an odd bruise around her mouth. There are also signs of trauma inside her mouth and throat.’
‘So, what are you getting at?’
‘I don’t know.’ Patrik sighed. ‘There wasn’t enough for Pedersen to make any definitive conclusions. He can’t say for sure that she didn’t guzzle a whole bottle of booze in the car, die of alcohol poisoning, and then veer off the road.’
‘But she must have been totally pissed before the accident happened. Do we have any reports of anyone driving erratically last Sunday evening?’
‘Not that I can find. Which just adds to the fact that the whole thing seems