Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 4-6: The Stranger, The Hidden Child, The Drowning. Camilla Lackberg
So we have to keep it up until then.’
‘Then we can gorge ourselves and get fat together,’ said Patrik, turning left at Eva’s Grocery.
‘And old. We can grow old together.’
He pulled her closer and said seriously, ‘And grow old together. You and me. At the old folks’ home. And Maja will come to visit once a year. Because we’ll threaten to cut her out of the will if she doesn’t.’
‘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 hear 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