The Scent of Almonds: A Novella. Camilla Lackberg
the big room on the left. In Martin’s memories from his childhood, this had once been a dorm room crowded with bunk beds. Now it had been meticulously transformed into a living-room-cum-library. In the middle towered the giant Christmas tree, decorated according to the latest artistic trends.
‘Here he is!’ exclaimed Lisette triumphantly. Her relatives all turned to stare at Martin. He resisted an urge to tug at his shirt collar and instead gave a rather comical wave. When Lisette poked him in the side, he realized that something more was apparently expected of him, so he began methodically making his way around the room, moving from left to right. Lisette accompanied him so that she could introduce each person as they shook hands.
‘This is my father, Harald.’ A large man with bushy hair and an equally bushy moustache stood up to shake Martin’s hand with great energy.
‘And this is my mother, Britten.’
‘My name is actually Britt-Marie, but nobody has called me anything but Britten ever since I was five years old.’ Lisette’s mother also stood up to greet him, and Martin was struck by how alike the mother and daughter were. The same trim figure, the same nut-brown eyes and dark hair, even though Britten’s had quite a few streaks of grey.
‘How wonderful to meet you at last,’ said Lisette’s mother as she sat down.
Martin murmured something similar in reply, hoping the white lie wasn’t too obvious.
‘And here is Uncle Gustav,’ said Lisette. It was clear from her expression that this shorter and skinnier version of her father was not among her favourite relatives.
‘My pleasure, my pleasure,’ said Gustav Liljecrona politely, even offering a slight bow. Martin wondered if he was expected to bow in return, but decided that a brief nod would suffice. Gustav’s wife, who was the next person in line, also failed to evoke any genuine regard from Lisette, judging by her tone of voice.
‘My aunt Vivi.’
Martin grasped a dry, shrivelled hand. A hand that was in sharp contrast to the woman’s face, which was so devoid of wrinkles that her skin seemed to be stretched as taut as the head of a drum. He was convinced that he’d see the traces of multiple surgical procedures if he tried to look behind her ears, but he managed to resist the impulse.
Clearly there was more familial affection between Lisette and the man sitting next to Aunt Vivi, since she announced ‘my cousin Bernard’ with both warmth and joy. Yet Martin felt an instinctive dislike for the elegantly dressed man in his thirties. His hair was slicked back in the style that for some inexplicable reason was so popular among members of the financial sector.
‘So, this is Lisette’s policeman,’ he smirked, sounding like a real Stockholmer. Even though the statement was both correct and highly innocuous, Martin sensed that something else was lurking under the man’s nonchalant tone. Something derogatory, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
‘That’s right,’ he replied, shifting his gaze to the young woman next to Cousin Bernard.
‘Bernard’s sister, Miranda,’ Lisette told Martin, who couldn’t help feeling startled as he took her outstretched hand. Cousin Miranda was breathtakingly beautiful. About twenty-five or so, with the same pitch-black hair as her brother, although her tresses were longer, and with dazzling blue eyes that she now fixed on Martin. For a moment he lost all focus. A slight cough from Lisette made him realize that he may have held on to her cousin’s hand too long, and he let go as if he’d burned himself.
‘My brother, Mattias. Although everyone calls him Matte,’ said Lisette with ice in her voice. Martin hurried to shift his attention to Lisette’s older brother. He had an open and pleasant face, and he shook Martin’s hand with enthusiasm.
‘I’ve heard so much about you. Lisette has hardly talked about anybody else since summer. It’s very, very nice to meet you finally.’
A dramatic pause followed, and then Lisette said:
‘Last but not least – Grandpa Ruben.’
Martin found himself standing in front of an elderly man seated in a wheelchair. Ruben had passed on his facial features to both sons, but over time he had shrunk to the size of a child. A checked blanket covered his lap and legs as he sat in his wheelchair. Yet his handshake was surprisingly strong, his eyes alert.
‘So … this is your young man,’ he said with an amused expression. Martin felt like a schoolboy standing before the headmaster. There was something extremely impressive about the old man, and Martin was familiar with his story. Ruben had been born as poor as a church mouse. From nothing he’d built an empire that today earned billions all around the world. It was a story that most Swedes knew.
‘Time for dinner!’ said a woman’s voice from the doorway, and everyone turned in that direction. A woman wearing an old-fashioned white apron stood there, motioning towards the dining room. Martin assumed she was Börje’s wife.
‘Good. I could use some food about now,’ said Harald, immediately heading for the table. The others followed close behind, and Martin watched with amusement as several family members rushed for Ruben’s wheelchair, battling to get there first. Lisette, who was the closest, emerged victorious, casting a triumphant glance at Aunt Vivi. Obviously there were some underlying family conflicts that he, the outsider, knew nothing about. Again he sighed. It was going to be a very long weekend.
Lisette felt the others staring at her as she pushed Grandpa Ruben’s wheelchair towards the dining room. Her successful effort made her cheeks flush, and she hoped that this minor victory was an indication of who would emerge the winner from the bigger battle: the one being fought over her grandfather’s money. Sometimes she felt almost dizzy at the thought of how much money would one day be hers. It wasn’t a question of millions, but rather billions of Swedish kronor. What mattered now was staying close to the old man and hoping that the others would make fools of themselves, one after the other – which wasn’t all that unlikely. She knew for a fact that her father and uncle were on the verge of burning their bridges; neither would prove much of an obstacle. Nor would Bernard and Miranda, for that matter. No, her strongest competitor for the inheritance was Matte. As things stood, she had to admit that he was her grandfather’s favourite. Even more than she was. But she was convinced that was only temporary. All she had to do was bide her time, and Matte would no doubt reveal some weakness that she’d be able to exploit.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ She had just pushed the wheelchair into Martin’s shin, and she stopped to let him pass. For a moment she wondered whether it had been a good idea to invite him. But she’d been so determined to show her grandfather that she was now a mature adult, and having a steady boyfriend who also happened to be a police officer suited the image perfectly. Yet she wished Martin hadn’t behaved in such a clumsy manner when she introduced him to everyone. It took only one glance at Bernard to see what he thought of her boyfriend, and she suspected the others shared his opinion. Martin was a nice person, and very sweet, but it was obvious that he wasn’t exactly a man of the world. Well, she’d simply have to make the best of the situation in order to survive the weekend. She pushed her grandfather’s wheelchair into the dining room.
The sight of all the food piled up on platters on the sideboard was overwhelming. A vast array of mouth-watering offerings: ham, spiced pork roll, herring salad, pickled herring, meatballs, small sausages, and so on. Everything that anyone could want from a Christmas buffet, and Martin was embarrassed to hear his stomach growling loudly.
‘Sounds like the boy is hungry,’ laughed Harald, slapping Martin on the back.
‘You’re right. I suppose I am,’ he replied with a strained smile. He hoped to God that Lisette’s father wouldn’t make a habit of calling him ‘the boy’ and slapping him on the back.
A short time later everyone had filled their plates and then taken seats at the beautifully set dining-room table. Outside the window the snowfall had increased, turning into almost blizzard-like conditions. As Börje moved around the table pouring cold schnapps into everyone’s glass, he seemed worried.
‘It’s