The Ice Princess. Camilla Lackberg
The undertone was feverishly cheerful. When she looked at the people around her, they all seemed to be wearing strained expressions as they conversed. The thought that Alex had been murdered hovered just beneath the surface.
Erica scanned the room, looking from one face to the next. Birgit was sitting on the edge of the sofa, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. Karl-Erik stood behind her with one hand placed awkwardly on her shoulder and a plate of food in the other. Henrik was working the room like a pro. He went from one group to another, shaking hands, nodding in reply to condolences, reminding people that there was also coffee and cake. In every respect he was the perfect host. As if he were at a cocktail party, instead of his wife’s funeral reception. The only thing that showed what an effort it was for him was the deep breath he took and a brief moment of hesitation, as if to gather new strength before he went on to the next group.
The only person who was behaving out of sync with everyone else was Julia. She had sat down on the windowsill on the veranda. One knee was drawn up and she was staring out to sea. Anyone who tried to approach her with a little kindness or some words of sympathy was firmly rebuffed. She ignored all attempts at conversation and kept staring out at the big expanse of whiteness.
Erica felt a light touch on her arm and gave an involuntary start so that a little coffee splashed onto her plate.
‘Excuse me, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ Francine was smiling.
‘Oh, that’s okay. I was just thinking.’
‘About Julia?’ Francine nodded towards the figure in the window. ‘I saw you watching her.’
‘Yes, I must admit that she interests me. She’s so totally cut off from the rest of the family. I can’t figure out whether she’s grieving for Alex or whether she’s been cast out for some reason I don’t understand.’
‘Probably nobody understands Julia. But she couldn’t have had an easy time of it. The ugly duckling growing up with two beautiful swans. Always shoved aside and ignored. It wasn’t that they were outright mean to her, she was just – unwanted. Alex, for example, never mentioned her during the time we lived in France. I was very surprised when I moved to Sweden and discovered that Alex had a little sister. She talked about you more than she talked about Julia. You must have had a very special relationship, didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know, actually. We were children. Like all kids of that age, we were blood sisters and never wanted to be separated and all that. But if Alex hadn’t moved away, the same thing probably would have happened to us. The same thing that happens to other little girls who grow up and turn into teenagers. We would have fought over the same boyfriends, had different taste in clothes, ended up on different rungs of the social pecking order, and abandoned one another for different friends who better suited the phase we were in – or wanted to be in. But sure, Alex had a big influence on my life, even as an adult. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to shake off that feeling of being betrayed. I always wondered whether I was the one who said or did something wrong. She just retreated more and more and then one day she was gone. When we met again as adults, she was a stranger. In some odd way it feels as though now I’m getting to know her again.’
Erica thought about the book pages that were piling up at home. So far she only had a collection of impressions and episodes mixed with her own thoughts and reflections. She didn’t even know how she would shape the material; all she knew was that it was something she had to do. Her writer’s instinct told her that this was a chance to write something genuine, but where the boundary lay between her needs as a writer and her personal connection to Alex, she had no idea. The sense of curiosity that was crucial to writing something also impelled her to seek the answer to the riddle of Alex’s death on a much more personal level. She could have chosen to dismiss Alex and her fate, turn her back on the whole sad clan surrounding Alex and devote herself to her own affairs. Instead she was standing in a room full of people she really didn’t know.
It suddenly occurred to her that she had almost forgotten the painting she found in Alex’s wardrobe. Now she realized why the warm tones used to depict Alex’s nude form on the canvas were so familiar. She turned to Francine.
‘You know, when I met you at the gallery …’
‘Yes?’
‘There was a painting right by the door. A big canvas all in warm colours – yellows, reds, oranges …’
‘Yes, I know the one you mean. What about it? Don’t tell me you’re a collector?’ Francine smiled.
‘No, but I’m wondering – who painted it?’
‘Well, that’s a very sad story. The painter’s name is Anders Nilsson. He’s actually from here in Fjällbacka. It was Alex who discovered him. He’s incredibly talented. Unfortunately he’s also a serious alcoholic, which apparently will ruin his chances as an artist. Today it’s not enough to hand in your paintings to a gallery and hope for success. As an artist you also have to be clever at marketing yourself. You need to show up at openings, go to functions, and live up to the image of an artist in every respect. Anders Nilsson is a drunken wino who isn’t fit for civilized company. We sell a painting now and then to customers who know talent when they see it, but Anders will never be a big star in the firmament of art. To be completely crass about it, he’d have the most potential if he drank himself to death. Dead painters have always been a hit with the general public.’
Erica gave the delicate creature in front of her a look of astonishment.
Francine saw her expression and added, ‘I didn’t mean to sound so cynical. It just burns me up that someone can have so much talent and squander it on booze. Tragic is only his first name. He was lucky that Alex discovered his paintings. Otherwise the only ones who would have enjoyed them would be the winos of Fjällbacka. And I have a hard time believing that they’re capable of appreciating the finer aspects of art.’
One piece of the puzzle was in place, but Erica couldn’t for the life of her see how it fit with the rest of the pattern. Why did Alex have a nude portrait of herself painted by Anders Nilsson hidden in her wardrobe? One explanation was that it was intended as a present for Henrik, or maybe for her lover, and that Alex had commissioned the portrait from an artist whose talent she admired. Yet it didn’t quite ring true. There had been a sensuality and sexuality about the portrait that belied a relationship between strangers. There was some sort of bond between Alex and Anders. On the other hand, Erica was well aware that she was no art connoisseur, and her gut feeling could be all wrong.
A murmur spread through the room. It began in the group closest to the front door and rippled through the rest of the guests. Everyone’s eyes turned towards the door, where a highly unexpected guest was making a grandiose entrance. When Nelly Lorentz stepped through the door, the others held their breath from sheer astonishment. Erica thought of the newspaper article she’d found in Alex’s bedroom. She could feel how all the apparently disconnected facts were spinning round in her head without making any sense.
Since the early fifties, the continued livelihood of Fjällbacka had waxed or waned with the Lorentz cannery. Almost half of the able-bodied residents of Fjällbacka were employed at the factory, and the Lorentz family was regarded as royalty in the little town. Since Fjällbacka wasn’t exactly a hotbed of high society, the Lorentz family were in a class all by themselves. From their elevated position in the enormous villa at the top of the hill they looked down on Fjällbacka with guarded superiority.
The factory was started in 1952 by Fabian Lorentz. He came from a long line of fishermen and was expected to follow in his forefathers’ footsteps. But the stock of fish was running out, and young Fabian was both ambitious and intelligent, with no intention of scraping by on the same meagre earnings of his father.
He started the cannery with his two bare hands, and when he died in the late seventies he left his wife Nelly both a robust business and a considerable fortune. Unlike her husband, who was very well liked, Nelly Lorentz had a reputation for being haughty and cold. She never showed herself in town anymore, but like a queen held audiences for those specially invited. So it was a sensation of a high order to see her step through the door. This