The Ice Princess. Camilla Lackberg
tiny, like a child’s. Erica didn’t know what to answer.
‘Lonely,’ was what finally came out, and she regretted it at once. ‘I didn’t mean …’ The sentence faded away and was absorbed by the silence.
‘She didn’t kill herself!’
Birgit’s voice all at once sounded strong and determined. Karl-Erik squeezed his wife’s hand and nodded in agreement. They probably noticed Erica’s sceptical expression, because Birgit repeated: ‘She didn’t kill herself! I know her better than anyone, and I know that she would never be capable of taking her own life. She would never have had the courage to do it! You must realize that. You knew her too!’
She straightened up a bit more with each syllable, and Erica saw a spark light up in her eyes. Birgit was opening and closing her hands convulsively, over and over, and she looked Erica straight in the eye until one of them was forced to look away. It was Erica who yielded first. She shifted her gaze to look around the room. Anything to avoid fixing her eyes on the grief of Alexandra’s mother.
The room was cosy but a bit over-decorated for Erica’s taste. The curtains had been skilfully hung with enormous flounces matching the sofa pillows that had been sewn from the same floral fabric. Knick-knacks covered every available surface. Hand-carved wooden bowls decorated with ribbons with cross-stitch embroidery shared the room with porcelain dogs with eternally moist eyes. What saved the room was the panoramic window. The view was wonderful. Erica wished that she could freeze the moment and keep looking out the window instead of being drawn into the grief of these people. Instead she turned her gaze back to the Carlgrens.
‘Birgit, I’m really not sure. It was twenty-five years ago that Alexandra and I were friends. I really don’t know a thing about her. Sometimes you just don’t know someone as well as you think you do …’
Even Erica could hear how lame this sounded. Her words seemed to ricochet off the walls. This time Karl-Erik spoke up. He extricated himself from Birgit’s convulsive grip and leaned forward as if wanting to make sure that Erica wouldn’t miss one word of what he intended to say.
‘I know it sounds as if we’re denying what happened, and perhaps we’re not presenting a very coherent impression right now. But even if Alex did take her own life for some reason, she would never, and I repeat never, have done it this way! You probably remember that Alex was always hysterically afraid of blood. If she got the slightest cut she was absolutely uncontrollable until someone put a bandage on it. Sometimes she even fainted when she saw blood. That’s why I’m quite sure that she would have chosen some other method, like sleeping pills, for instance. There is no way in hell that Alex could have managed to take a razor blade and cut herself, first on one arm and then on the other. And then, it’s like my wife says: Alex was fragile. She was not a courageous person. An inner strength is required for someone to decide to take her own life. She didn’t have that kind of strength.’
His voice was compelling. Even though Erica was still convinced that she was listening to the hope of two people in despair, she couldn’t help feeling a flicker of doubt. When she thought about it, there was something that hadn’t felt right when she stepped into that bathroom yesterday morning. Not because it would ever feel right to discover a dead body, but there was something about the atmosphere in the room that didn’t really fit. A presence, a shadow. That was as close to a description as she could come. She still believed that something had driven Alexandra Wijkner to suicide, but she couldn’t deny that something about the Carlgrens’ stubborn insistence had struck a chord.
It suddenly occurred to her how much the adult Alex looked like her mother. Birgit Carlgren was petite and slender, with the same light-blonde hair as her daughter, except that instead of Alex’s long mane she wore hers cut in a chic page-boy. Birgit was dressed all in black, and despite her sorrow she seemed aware of what a startling appearance she made, thanks to the contrast between light and dark. Tiny gestures betrayed her vanity. A hand carefully patting her coiffure, a collar straightened to perfection. Erica recalled that Birgit’s wardrobe had seemed a veritable Mecca to eight-year-olds who loved to dress up, and her jewellery case had been the closest thing to heaven they could imagine in those days.
Next to Birgit, her husband looked ordinary. Far from un-attractive, but simply unremarkable. Karl-Erik Carlgren had a long, narrow face engraved with fine lines. His hairline had receded far up his scalp. He too was dressed all in black, but unlike his wife the colour made him look even greyer. Erica could sense that it was time for her to leave. She wondered what she actually had wanted to accomplish by visiting them.
She stood up and the Carlgrens did too. Birgit gave her husband an urgent look, as if exhorting him to say something. Apparently it was something they had discussed before Erica arrived.
‘We’d like you to write an article about Alex. For publication in Bohusläningen. About her life, her dreams – and her death. A commemoration of her life. It would mean a great deal to Birgit and me.’
‘But wouldn’t you rather have something in Göteborgs-Posten? I mean, she did live in Göteborg, after all. And you do too, for that matter.’
‘Fjällbacka has always been our home, and it always will be. And that was true for Alex too. You can start by talking to her husband Henrik. We spoke with him and he’s willing to help. Of course you’ll be compensated for all your expenses.’
With that they apparently considered the subject closed. Without actually having accepted the assignment, Erica found herself standing outside on the steps, with the telephone number and address of Henrik Wijkner in her hand, as the door closed behind her. Even though she really had no desire to take on this task, to be perfectly honest the germ of an idea had begun to sprout in her writer’s brain. Erica pushed away the thought and felt like a bad person for even thinking it, but it was persistent and refused to go away. An idea for a new book of her own, an idea that she had long been searching for, was right here in front of her. The account of a woman’s path towards her destiny. An explanation of what had driven a young, beautiful, and obviously privileged woman to a self-inflicted death. She would not mention Alex’s name, of course, but it would be a story based on what she could dig up about the path she had taken towards death. To date Erica had published four books, but they were all biographies about other prominent female authors. The courage to create her own stories had not yet emerged, but she knew that there were books inside her just waiting to be put down on paper. This one might give her the push she needed, the inspiration she’d been waiting for. The fact that she had once known Alex would only be to her advantage.
As a human being she writhed with repugnance at the thought, but as a writer she was jubilant.
The brush spread broad swathes of red across the canvas. He had been painting since dawn, and for the first time in several hours he now took a step back to look at what he had created. To the untrained eye it was merely large patches of red, orange and yellow, irregularly arranged over the large canvas. For him it was humiliation and resignation re-created in the colours of passion.
He always painted using the same colours. The past shrieked and mocked him from the canvas, and now he went back to painting with growing frenzy.
After another hour he realized that he had earned the first beer of the morning. He took the tin standing closest to him, ignoring the fact that he had flicked cigarette ashes into it sometime the night before. Flakes of ash stuck to his lips, but he eagerly downed the stale beer, then tossed the tin to the floor after he had slurped the last drop.
His underwear, which was all he was wearing, was yellow in front from beer or dried urine, he couldn’t tell which. Possibly a combination of the two. His greasy hair hung over his shoulders, and his chest was pale and sunken. The overall impression of Anders Nilsson was of a wreck, but the painting that stood on his easel showed a talent that was in sharp contrast to the artist’s own degeneration.
He sank to the floor and leaned against the wall to face the painting. Next to him lay an unopened can of beer, and he liked the popping sound it made when he pulled the tab. The colours shrieked loudly at him, reminding him of something he had spent the greater part of his life trying to forget. Why in hell was she