The Girl in the Woods. Camilla Lackberg
had known the question would come, but he still felt unprepared for it. He looked down at his clenched fists.
‘For some reason, my wife refuses to discuss her projects, even with the excellent resources she has at home,’ he said, drawing a ripple of laughter from the reporters. ‘So I’ve only heard a few things about it in passing. I don’t know how far along she is in her research. I’m usually kept out of the creative process, and I don’t get involved until she asks me to read the completed manuscript.’
That wasn’t entirely true, but almost. He knew roughly what stage Erica had reached in the project, but only because of a few casual remarks she’d let slip. She was always reluctant to talk about her books while she was working on them, and he usually got involved only if she needed to ask him about any police-related issues. But she rarely supplied any context when putting her questions, so they were little help in getting a sense of the book itself.
‘Could that have been a contributing factor? For another murder?’
The young woman from the evening paper was looking at him expectantly, and he could see the gleam in her eye. What the hell did she mean? Was she saying his wife might have provoked the death of the little girl?
He was about to open his mouth to deliver a scathing reply when he heard Mellberg’s calm admonition:
‘I consider that question both tasteless and irrelevant. And no, there is nothing to suggest any connection whatsoever between Erica Falck’s book and the murder of Linnea Berg. And if you can’t refrain from such outrageous questions during the next’ – Mellberg glanced at his watch – ‘ten minutes that remain of this press conference, I won’t hesitate to cut it short. Understood?’
Patrik exchanged astonished glances with Annika. And to his great surprise, the journalists behaved themselves for the rest of the press conference.
After Annika had ushered everyone out, overriding their mild protests and attempts to ask a few more questions, Patrik and Mellberg remained behind in the conference room.
‘Thank you,’ said Patrik simply.
‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let them go after Erica,’ muttered Mellberg, and turned away.
He called to Ernst, who had been lying under the table where Annika had set out coffee for the reporters, and then left the room.
Patrik laughed quietly to himself. Amazing. The old guy had a streak of loyalty in him after all!
Elin had to admit that Britta looked enchanting. Her dark eyes were beautifully offset by the blue fabric of her gown, and her hair had been brushed to a glossy sheen. She wore her hair loose, held back from her face by a lovely silk ribbon. It was not often that they received such a grand visitor. Actually never, if truth be told. Such dignitaries had no reason to visit a simple vicarage in Tanumshede parish, but the king’s edict issued to Harald Stake, governor of Bohuslän, had been quite clear. All the representatives of the church in the county were to be involved in the battle against sorcery and the forces of evil. The government and the church had joined together to fight the devil, and for that reason the vicarage in Tanumshede was to be honoured with a visit. The message was to be spread to all corners of the realm; that was what the king had decreed. And Britta was quick to understand and exploit the opportunity. They would offer the very best in food, lodging, and conversation during Lars Hierne’s visit. He had politely suggested he might stay at the local inn, but Preben had told him that would be out of the question. At the vicarage they would be delighted to receive such an esteemed guest. Even though the inn had a separate section for noble and refined guests, the Tanumshede vicarage would see to it that the governor’s envoy would be offered all the comforts he might desire.
Britta and Preben were waiting at the door when the carriage arrived. Elin and the other servants kept to the background, their heads bowed and their eyes fixed on their feet. Everyone had been ordered to appear neat and tidy, dressed in clean clothing. And the girls had all combed their hair so carefully that not a strand escaped from beneath their kerchiefs. The air was filled with the fresh scent of soap and the pine boughs the servant boy had used to decorate the rooms that morning.
When the vicar and his wife were seated at the table with their guest, Elin poured wine into the big tankards her father had always used to serve wine when she was growing up. They had been passed on to Britta as a wedding gift. When she married, Elin had received several of the tablecloths her mother had embroidered. Her father had not wanted the finer things from his home to end up in the poor hovel of a fisherman. And Elin had actually agreed with his decision. What would she and Per have done with such frills and finery? Those things were better suited to the vicarage than Elin’s simple home. But she treasured her mother’s tablecloths. She kept them in a small chest along with the herbs she gathered and dried every summer. She always wrapped the herbs in paper so as not to stain the white cloths.
Ever since she was little, Märta had been sternly warned never to open the chest. Elin did not want her child’s sticky fingers touching her mother’s tablecloths, but the admonition was also because some of the herbs could be poisonous if not handled properly. Her maternal grandmother had taught her the uses of the various herbs, along with the words of supplication to be used. There could be no confusion, or disaster might ensue. Elin was ten years old when her grandmother began teaching her, and she had decided to wait until Märta was the same age before she passed on her knowledge.
‘Oh, how terrible it is with all these wives of the devil,’ said Britta, giving Lars Hierne a gentle smile.
Enchanted, he stared at her lovely features glowing in the light of the many tallow candles. Britta had chosen well when she decided to wear the blue brocade dress; the fabric gleamed and sparkled against the backdrop of the dark walls in the vicarage dining room, making Britta’s eyes look as blue as the sea on a sunny day in July.
Elin silently wondered how Preben was reacting to the way their visitor was immodestly staring at his wife, but he appeared completely unaffected. He seemed to pay no attention at all. Instead, Elin felt him looking at her, and she quickly lowered her gaze. She had already noticed that he too looked exceptionally stylish. When he was not wearing his clerical garb, he dressed most often in dirty work clothes. For a man of his position, he had an odd fondness for doing manual labour on the farm and taking care of the livestock. On her very first day at the vicarage, Elin had asked one of the other maids about this and was told it was indeed strange, but the master often worked side by side with his servants. They had simply grown accustomed to this unusual behaviour. Yet the maid had gone on to say that the mistress did not favour her husband’s conduct, which had led to many quarrels at the farm. When the maid suddenly realized who Elin was, her whole face turned red. This sort of response occurred frequently. Elin held a strange position on the farm, since she was both a maid and the sister of the vicar’s wife. She belonged and yet did not belong. When she entered the servants’ quarters the others would often stop talking and refuse to look in her direction. In that sense, she felt even lonelier, but it did not greatly concern her. She had never been friends with many women, most of whom she regarded as spending far too much time gossiping and squabbling.
‘Yes, these are troubling times,’ said Lars Hierne. ‘Yet we are fortunate to have a king who refuses to turn a blind eye, a king who dares to enter the battle against the evil forces we are now fighting. This has been a difficult year for the realm, and the ravages of Satan have been greater than for many generations. The more of these women we can find and bring to trial, the faster we can quell the devil’s power.’
He took a bite of bread and ate it with pleasure. Britta’s gaze was fixed on his lips, and her face shone with both fascination and alarm.
Elin listened closely as she carefully refilled his tankard with wine. The first course had been served, and Boel of Holta need not feel shame for the meal she had prepared. They were all eating with great appetite, and Lars Hierne praised the food many times, which caused Britta to modestly throw out her hands.
‘But