The Stonecutter. Camilla Lackberg
ever. But Maja squirmed restlessly, intuiting as most children can that things were not as they should be.
Outside the storm continued to rage. Patrik and Erica just sat there for a long time, watching the wild play of nature. Neither of them could stop thinking about the child who was taken by the sea.
Medical examiner Tord Pedersen began the task with an unusually resolute expression on his face. After many years in his profession he had developed a hardened attitude – either desirable or loathsome, depending on how one wanted to view it – which meant that most of the ghastly things he observed in his work left little trace at the end of the day. But there was something about cutting open a child that conflicted with primal instinct and disrupted all routine, undermining the objective professionalism that his years as a medical examiner had given him. The defencelessness of a child tore down all the defensive walls that his psyche could put up, so his hand shook a bit as he moved it towards the girl’s chest.
When she was brought in he had been told that drowning was the presumed cause of death. Now it was up to him to confirm or reject that hypothesis. But so far there was nothing he could see with the naked eye to contradict it.
The mercilessly bright glare in the post-mortem room emphasized her blue pallor so that it looked like she was freezing. The aluminium table beneath her seemed to reflect the cold, and Pedersen shivered in his green scrubs. She was naked as she lay there, and he felt as though he were violating her as he prized open and cut into the defenceless body. But he forced himself to shake off that feeling. He knew that the task he was performing was important, both for the girl and her parents, even if they didn’t realize it themselves. It was necessary for the grieving process to have a final determination of the cause of death. Even though there didn’t seem to be any ambiguities in this case, the rules were in place for a reason. He knew this on a professional level, but as a human being and father with two boys at home, he sometimes wondered in cases like this how much humanity there was in the work he was doing.
STRÖMSTAD 1923
‘Agnes, I have nothing but tedious meetings today. It’s not a good idea for you to come along.’
‘But I want to go with you today. I’m so bored. There’s nothing to do.’
‘What about your girlfriends?’
‘They’re all busy,’ Agnes replied, sulking. ‘Britta’s getting ready for her wedding, Laila’s going to Halden with her parents to visit her brother, and Sonja has to help her mother.’ In a sad voice she added, ‘Imagine having a mother to help …’ She peered at her father from under her fringe. Yes, the ploy had worked, as usual.
He sighed. ‘Well then, come along if you like. But you have to promise to sit still and be quiet, and not run about like a whirlwind talking to the staff. The last time you completely confused those poor old men; it took them several days to get over it.’ He couldn’t help smiling at his daughter. She was unruly, certainly, but a more dazzling girl could not be found on this side of the Norwegian border.
Agnes gave a happy laugh, having once again emerged victorious, and she rewarded her father with a hug and a pat on his big belly.
‘Nobody has a father like mine,’ she cooed, and August Stjernkvist chuckled with pleasure.
‘What would I do without you?’ he said half in earnest, half in jest, pulling her close.
‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘No, not at the moment, anyway,’ he said sombrely, caressing her dark hair. ‘But it won’t be long before some man is going to come and steal you away from me. If you can find one who’s good enough, that is,’ he laughed.
‘Well, I can’t just take any man who comes along,’ Agnes laughed in reply. ‘Not with the example I’ve had. So it’s no wonder I’m particular.’
‘Look here, my girl, enough flattery,’ August preened. ‘Get a move on if you’re coming with me to the office. It wouldn’t do for the boss to arrive late.’
Despite his admonishing words it took almost an hour before they were on their way. First there was the whole business of tending to her hair and clothes, but by the time Agnes was ready, her father had to admit that the result was worth it.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ said August as he swept into the room where three men were sat waiting. ‘But I hope you’ll forgive me when you see the reason for my tardiness.’ He gestured towards Agnes, who was close behind him. She was wearing a red dress that clung to her body, accentuating her slim waist. Although many girls had let their hair fall to the scissors in a bob, as was the fashion in the twenties, Agnes had been smart enough to resist the temptation. Her thick black hair was done up in a simple chignon at her neck. She was well aware of the impression she made, thanks to the mirror at home. Now she exploited it fully as she paused in front of the men, slowly removing her gloves, and then letting them shake her hand, one by one.
With great satisfaction she could tell she was having an effect. Two of them sat there gaping like fish, as they held on to her hand a trifle too long. But the third man was different. To her astonishment Agnes felt her heart give a leap. The big, burly man hardly looked up at her and only took her hand briefly. The hands of the other two men had felt soft and almost feminine against hers, but this man’s hand was different. She could feel the calluses scraping against her palm, and his fingers were long and strong. For a moment she considered not letting go of his hand, but she caught herself and merely nodded to him demurely. His eyes, which only looked into hers fleetingly, were brown, and she guessed there was Walloon blood in his family.
After the introductions, she hurried to sit down on a chair in the corner and clasped her hands in her lap. She could see that her father hesitated for a moment. He probably would rather have sent her out of the room, but she put on her most angelic expression and gave him an entreating look. As usual he did as she wished. Wordlessly he nodded that she could stay. She decided for a change to sit as quiet as a little church mouse so as not to risk being sent out of the room like a child. She didn’t want to be subjected to that sort of treatment in front of this man.
Normally, after an hour of silent participation she would have been almost in tears from boredom, but not this time. The hour flew past, and by the time the meeting was over, Agnes was sure of her cause. She wanted this man, more than she had ever wanted anything else.
And what she wanted, she usually got.
4
‘Shouldn’t we visit Niclas?’ Asta implored her husband. But she saw no sign of sympathy in his stony expression.
‘I told you his name must never be mentioned in my house again!’ Arne stared hard out of the kitchen window, and there was nothing but granite in his gaze.
‘But after what happened to the girl …’
‘God’s punishment. Didn’t I tell you that would happen someday? No, this is all his own fault. If he’d listened to me it would never have happened. Nothing bad happens to God-fearing people. And now we shall speak no more of this!’ His fist slammed the table.
Asta sighed to herself. Of course she respected her husband, and he did usually know best, but in this case she wondered if he might not be wrong. Something in her heart told her that this couldn’t be consistent with God’s wishes. Surely they should rush to their son’s side when such a terrible blow had struck him. True, she had never got to know the girl, but she was still their own flesh and blood, and children did belong to the kingdom of God, that’s what it said in the Bible. But these were only the thoughts of a lowly woman. Arne was a man, after all, and he knew best. It had always been that way. Like so many times before, she kept her thoughts to herself and got up to clear the table.
Too many years had