Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 4-6: The Stranger, The Hidden Child, The Drowning. Camilla Lackberg
‘We’ve interviewed all of Lillemor’s fellow cast members, we’ve examined the video from the night of the party when she disappeared, and we’re checking out every tip we get from the public. I think we’ve been doing a hell of a job. The fact that things have been extra chaotic because of Sodding Tanum, well, there isn’t much we can do about that.’
‘Can you believe that they decided to keep broadcasting that crap?’ Patrik threw his hands in the air. ‘A girl is murdered and they use it as entertainment in prime time. And the rest of Sweden sits back and watches it. I think it shows an incredible lack of respect.’
‘True,’ said Martin. ‘But what can we do about it? Mellberg and the odious Erling W. Larson are so intent on sucking up to the media that they didn’t even consider shutting down the production. The rest of us just have to keep doing our job. The situation isn’t going to change. And I still say that both you and the investigation would benefit from a short break.’
‘I’m not going home, if that’s what you’re hinting at. I don’t have time. But we could have lunch at the Gestgifveri. Would that count as a break?’ He glared at Martin but knew that his colleague had a point.
‘It’ll have to do, I suppose,’ said Martin, getting up. ‘And make sure you apologize to Annika on the way out.’
‘Yes, Mamma,’ said Patrik. He took his jacket and followed Martin down the hall. Only now did he realize how hungry he was.
All around them the telephones were ringing.
Kerstin couldn’t face going to work. She didn’t really have to, because she was still on sick leave and the doctor had told her to take it easy. But she had been brought up with a strong work ethic that compelled her to tend to her job, no matter what the cost. According to her father, the only valid reason for not going to work was if you were at death’s door. The only problem was, she actually felt that way. Her body was functioning; it moved, ate food, washed itself, and did everything it should, but mechanically. Inside she might just as well have been dead. Nothing seemed important any longer. Nothing aroused any feeling of joy, or even interest. Everything seemed cold and dead. The only thing left inside her was a pain that was sometimes so strong it made her double over.
Two weeks had passed since the police had delivered the news. Every night when she went to bed and tried to sleep, the argument she’d had with Marit played back in her head. She would never be able to escape the knowledge that the last conversation they’d had was in anger. Kerstin wished that she could have taken back at least some of the harsh words she’d flung at Marit. But what did it matter now? Why couldn’t she have just let her be? Why had she wanted Marit to take a stand and make their relationship public? The most important thing should have been that they were together. What other people knew or thought or said had now become so insignificant. And she couldn’t understand why, in the distant past that was actually only two weeks ago, she had thought it crucial.
Unable to decide what to do, Kerstin lay down on the sofa and turned on the TV with the remote. She pulled a blanket over herself, the blanket that Marit had bought during one of her infrequent visits home to Norway. It smelled of wool and Marit’s perfume. Kerstin buried her face in the blanket and breathed deeply, hoping that the fragrance might fill up the emptiness inside her. A few bits of woollen fluff went up her nose and made her sneeze.
She suddenly longed for Sofie. The girl who reminded her so much of Marit, and very little of Ola. Sofie had come by to see Kerstin twice. She’d done what she could to console Kerstin, in spite of the fact that she looked as if she would break down at any moment. The girl had suddenly acquired an adult look which had never been apparent before. A hint of painful maturity that was new. Kerstin wished she could take it away, wished that she could turn back the clock and bring back the naïve callowness that girls of Sofie’s age were supposed to have. But it was gone for good. And Kerstin also knew that she was going to lose Sofie. The girl didn’t yet realize it; no doubt she had every intention of sticking by her mother’s partner. But life would not permit that. There were so many other things pulling at her, things that would take over as the grief faded: friends, boyfriends, parties, school, all the things that should be part of a teenager’s life. And besides, Ola would make it hard for her to stay in touch. Over time Sofie wouldn’t be able to keep fighting. The visits would grow less frequent and finally stop altogether. In a year or two Kerstin and Sofie might say hi if they ran into each other on the street, maybe exchange a few words, but then turn away and go on about their business. The only thing left would be the memories of another lifetime, memories that like wisps of fog would scatter if they tried to hold on to them. She was going to lose Sofie. That’s the way it was.
Kerstin flipped listlessly through the channels. It was mostly a bunch of programmes where the viewers were supposed to ring in and guess words. Terribly boring. Her thoughts moved on to the subject that had preoccupied her over the past two weeks. Who had wanted to harm Marit? Who had snatched her in the midst of her despair over their argument, in the midst of her anger? Had she been scared? Was her death quick or slow? Had it been painful? Did she know she was going to die? All these questions tumbled about in Kerstin’s head without finding any answers. She had followed the reports on the murder of the girl in the reality show, both in the papers and on TV, but she felt oddly removed from it all; she was already filled to the brim with her own pain. Instead she had worried that this second murder might be taking resources away from the investigation of Marit’s death. The media attention would make the police spend all their time on trying to find the girl’s killer, and they would no longer care about Marit.
Kerstin sat up and reached for the phone on the coffee table. If no one else was going to do anything, she would at least see to it that Marit’s interests were protected. She owed her that much.
Since Barbie’s death they had gathered in a circle in the middle of the community centre once a day. At first this had been met with protests. Sullen silence had been followed by scathing remarks, but after Fredrik had explained that this was what it would take for them to continue with the shoot, they had all reluctantly agreed to cooperate. After about a week they had even begun in some awkward way to look forward to the group meeting with Lars. He didn’t talk down to them, he listened, made comments that didn’t seem misplaced, and spoke with them on their own terms. Even Uffe had reluctantly begun to like Lars, although he would rather die than admit it openly. The group sessions had also been supplemented with individual counselling, and though no one in the group was exactly jubilant about the therapy process, an air of resigned acceptance now prevailed.
‘How have you felt about the past few days? With all that’s happened?’ Lars looked from one person to the next, waiting for someone to start talking. His eyes stopped on Mehmet.
‘I think it’s been okay,’ Mehmet said after a moment. ‘It’s been such chaos that we, like, almost haven’t had time to think.’
‘Think about what?’ said Lars.
‘About what happened. About Barbie.’ Mehmet looked down at his hands. Lars moved his gaze from him and let it sweep over the others.
‘Do you think that’s a good thing? That you don’t have to think about it? Is that how the rest of you have experienced it? That the chaos has been positive?’
Another moment’s silence.
‘Not me,’ said Jonna gloomily. ‘I think it’s been tough. Really tough.’
‘In what way? What aspect of it has been tough?’ Lars cocked his head to one side.
‘Thinking about what happened to her. Seeing the images in my mind. How she must have died and things like that. And the way she was dumped there in that … rubbish bin. That was disgusting.’
‘Do the rest of you see images too?’ Lars’s gaze stopped on Calle.
‘‘Course we do. But thinking about it won’t do any good. Barbie is still going to be dead.’
‘So you don’t think it would be better for you to deal with these images? Confront them?’
‘Shit, it’s better to just have another beer.