The Girl in the Woods. Camilla Lackberg
worst mother.’
‘No, no, don’t say that. He was doing fine. Are you sure you’re okay?’
Martin didn’t mean to pry, but she looked so miserable.
‘Well, it’s not like somebody died, or anything. It’s just that my ex is such an idiot. His new girlfriend apparently isn’t interested in the “baggage” of his marriage, so he’s cancelled the three days he was supposed to have Jon. And his excuse was that she “was looking forward to the two of them spending some alone-time together”.’
‘How pathetic,’ said Martin, irate on her behalf. ‘What an arsehole!’
She smiled and he felt his gaze drawn to her dimples.
‘So what about you?’
‘Oh, I’m okay,’ he replied, and she laughed.
‘No, I meant which one is yours?’
She nodded towards the playground, and he slapped his hand to his forehead.
‘Oh, right. That’s what you meant. Well, my daughter’s over there – the little girl on the swing who’s looking a bit grumpy about not swinging any more.’
‘Oops. You’d better go over and give her swing a push. Or is her mother here too?’
Martin blushed. Was she flirting with him? He caught himself hoping she was. He didn’t know what to say in reply, but he realized he might as well tell her the truth.
‘No, I’m a widower,’ he said.
‘Oh, forgive me,’ she said, putting her hand to her mouth. ‘Trust me to go and make some crass remark like “it’s not like somebody died”.’
She touched his arm, and he gave her as reassuring a smile as he could muster. Something inside him didn’t want her to be sad or upset. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to see those dimples again.
‘It’s okay,’ he said and felt her relax.
Behind him, Tuva was calling: ‘Pappaaaa!’ Her voice was getting shriller and more demanding.
‘Looks like you’d better go over and give your little girl’s swing a push,’ the woman said, wiping the snot and sand off Jon’s face.
‘Maybe I’ll see you here again,’ said Martin.
He could hear the hope in his voice. She smiled, and her dimples were even more visible than before.
‘Sure, we come here often. In fact, we’ll probably be back tomorrow,’ she said. Martin nodded happily as he started backing away to rejoin Tuva.
‘We’ll most likely see you then,’ he said, trying not to grin too much.
He took another step and felt his heels bump into something. This was immediately followed by a piercing shriek. Over by the swings he heard Tuva sigh.
‘Pappa, watch out …’
In the midst of the chaos Martin’s mobile rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the display: Gösta.
‘Where on earth did you find this person?’
Marie pushed away the woman who’d spent the past hour making up her face and turned to look at the film director, Jörgen Holmlund.
‘Yvonne is really good at her job,’ said Jörgen with that irritating quaver in his voice. ‘She’s worked on most of my films.’
Behind her, Yvonne was quietly sobbing. The headache that had plagued Marie since she arrived at her trailer was getting worse.
‘I’m supposed to be Ingrid Bergman down to her fingertips in every single scene. She was always flawless. I can’t look like one of the Kardashians. Contouring? Have you ever heard of anything so dreadful! My features are perfect. I don’t need fucking contouring!’
She pointed at her face, which had distinct patches of white and dark brown.
‘They’ll be blended together. It’s not going to look like that when I’m finished,’ said Yvonne, so faintly Marie barely heard her.
‘I don’t give a shit. My features don’t need fixing!’
‘I’m sure Yvonne can do it over,’ said Jörgen. ‘Just tell her what you want.’
Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead even though it was cool inside the trailer.
The big film team and the production office were being housed at TanumStrand, a tourist and conference centre situated between Fjällbacka and Grebbestad. But on location in Fjällbacka, various trailers served as the make-up and wardrobe quarters.
‘Okay, take it off and start over. Then we’ll see,’ she said, and she couldn’t help smiling when she saw how relieved Yvonne looked.
During her early days in Hollywood, Marie had always complied with other people’s wishes, doing whatever was asked of her. But she was a different person nowadays, and she knew how her role should be shaped, how she should look.
‘We need to be ready in an hour, at the latest,’ said Jörgen. ‘We’re going to film some of the easier scenes this week.’
Marie turned to look at him. Yvonne had used a damp cloth to remove an hour’s worth of work in ten seconds, and her face was clean of all make-up.
‘You mean we’re doing the cheaper scenes this week? I thought we had a green light from everybody.’
She couldn’t keep the concern from creeping into her voice. This was not one of those obvious film projects with investors queuing up in their eagerness to be part of it. The film climate had changed in Sweden, with priorities shifting to indie films, while the bigger pictures went begging. This project had already come close to folding several times.
‘They’re still having discussions about … priorities …’ Again the irritating quaver in his voice. ‘But that’s nothing for you to worry about. Concentrate on doing an amazing job on the scenes we film. That’s the only thing you need to think about.’
Marie turned back towards the mirror.
‘There are lots of reporters who want to interview you,’ said Jörgen. ‘About your connection to Fjällbacka, and the fact this is the first time you’ve been back in thirty years. I can understand if it feels … uncomfortable to talk about that time, but if you’d like to—’
‘Go ahead and schedule them,’ said Marie without taking her eyes off the mirror. ‘I have nothing to hide.’
If there was one thing she’d learned, it was that any publicity was good publicity. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Maybe the damned headache was finally starting to fade.
After relieving Patrik, Erica had packed up the children and then they slowly walked up the hill towards home. Patrik had taken off as soon as she arrived, and she’d noticed a trace of worry in his eyes. Erica shared his concern. Just considering the possibility of something happening to a child was like falling into an abyss.
She had given her own kids a few extra kisses when they reached home. She put the twins down for their afternoon nap and turned on the DVD player so Maja could watch Frozen. Now she was sitting in her home office. When Patrik had told her the name of the farm where the missing girl lived and the uncanny similarity in age, Erica had immediately felt a pressing need to go over her research material. She was a long way from being ready to start writing the book, but her desk was covered with maps, photocopies of newspaper articles, and handwritten notes about Stella’s death. She sat for a moment, staring at the piles of papers. At this stage, she was still gathering facts, making no effort to shape, arrange, or sort through all the material. That would be the next step in the long and winding path that would lead to a completed book. She reached for the copy of an article and studied the two girls in the black-and-white photographs. Helen and Marie. Their expressions sullen and truculent. It was difficult