Buried Angels. Camilla Lackberg
involved. The same would be true of this baby.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Mellberg’s happy shout. ‘Ice-cream time!’
Rita fixed him with a stern glare. ‘I hope you didn’t buy any for yourself.’
‘Only a tiny Magnum. I’ve been so good all week.’ He smiled and gave Rita a wink, in an attempt to get her to relent.
‘Nothing doing,’ she said calmly, taking the ice cream away from him and tossing it into the rubbish bin.
Mellberg muttered something.
‘What did you say?’
He swallowed. ‘Nothing. Not a word.’
‘You know what the doctor said. You’re in the risk group for heart attacks and diabetes.’
‘One Magnum isn’t going to do me any harm. A man’s got to live a little once in a while,’ he said, handing out the other ice cream bars that he’d bought.
‘Another week of holiday left,’ said Paula, closing her eyes to the sun as she ate her Cornetto.
‘I really don’t think you should go back to work,’ said Johanna. ‘The baby’s due soon. I’m sure you could take sick leave if you talked to the midwife. You need to rest.’
‘Stop right there,’ said Mellberg. ‘I heard what you said. Don’t forget that I’m Paula’s boss.’ He pensively scratched his thinning grey hair. ‘But I agree. I don’t think you should be working either.’
‘We’ve already discussed this. I’ll go crazy if I just sit around at home, waiting. Besides, things are pretty quiet at the moment.’
‘What do you mean by quiet?’ Johanna stared at her. ‘This is the most hectic time of the whole year, with drunks and everything else.’
‘I mean that we don’t have any big investigation in progress. The usual summer break-ins, et cetera – I can handle those in my sleep. And I don’t need to go driving around. I can stay at the station and take care of the paperwork. So quit fussing. I’m pregnant, not sick.’
‘We’ll see how things go,’ said Mellberg. ‘But you’re right about one thing. It’s actually nice and quiet at the moment.’
It was their wedding anniversary, and Gösta had brought fresh flowers to put on Maj-Britt’s grave, just as he did every year. Otherwise he wasn’t very good about tending to the grave, but that had nothing to do with his feelings for Maj-Britt. They’d had many happy years together, and not a day went by that he didn’t miss her. Of course he had grown used to his life as a widower, and his days were so regimented that sometimes it felt like a distant dream when he thought about how he’d once shared the small house with someone else. But the fact that he’d got used to life alone didn’t mean that he liked it.
He squatted down and touched the letters etched into the headstone, spelling out the name of their little boy. There were no photos of him. They’d thought that they had all the time in the world to take pictures of him, and it hadn’t occurred to them to take any photos right after the birth. And when he died, no pictures were taken. That just wasn’t done. He understood that they handled things differently these days, but back then a person was supposed to forget and move on.
Have another child as soon as you can. That was the advice they were given as they left the hospital in shock. But that was not to be. The only child they’d ever had was the girl. The lass, as they called her. Maybe they ought to have done more to keep her, but their grief was still too great, and they didn’t think they’d be able to give her what she needed, except for a brief time.
It was Maj-Britt who had finally made the decision. He had tentatively suggested that they should take care of the girl, that she should be allowed to stay. Maj-Britt had replied: ‘She needs siblings.’ And so the little girl had disappeared. They never spoke of her afterwards, but Gösta hadn’t been able to forget her. If he had a one-krona coin for every time he’d thought about her since then, he’d be a wealthy man today.
Gösta got up. He’d pulled out a few weeds that had sprouted up, and the bouquet of flowers looked lovely in the vase. He could hear Maj-Britt’s voice so clearly in his mind: ‘Oh, Gösta, what nonsense. Wasting such gorgeous flowers on me.’ She had never believed that she deserved anything out of the ordinary, and he wished that he had thrown caution to the wind and spoiled her more often. Given her flowers when she could actually enjoy them. Now he could only hope that she was up there somewhere, looking down, and that the beautiful flowers made her happy.
The Sjölins were having another party. Dagmar was grateful for every occasion that they celebrated with a party. She needed the extra income, and it was marvellous to have the chance to see up close all those rich and beautiful people. They lived such wonderful and carefree lives. They ate good food and drank copiously, they danced, sang, and laughed until dawn. She wished that her own life was like that, but so far she would have to settle for waiting on those more fortunate, basking in their presence for a short while.
This party seemed to be something special. Early in the morning she and the other staff had been taken over to an island off Fjällbacka, and all day long boats had shuttled back and forth, bringing food, wine, and guests.
‘Dagmar! You need to fetch more wine from the root cellar!’ shouted Mrs Sjölin, the doctor’s wife. Dagmar hurried off.
She was anxious to stay on good terms with Mrs Sjölin. The last thing she wanted was for the woman to start keeping an eye on her. If that happened, Mrs Sjölin would soon notice the glances and affectionate pinches her husband kept giving Dagmar during their parties. Sometimes he went even further, if his wife excused herself and retired to her room. By then the rest of the revellers would be too drunk or preoccupied with their own merriment to care about anything else going on around them. After those occasions, the doctor would slip Dagmar a little extra when the wages were handed out.
Quickly she plucked up four bottles of wine and dashed back up the steps with them. She was hugging them close to her chest when she ran right into somebody, and the bottles fell to the ground. Two of them broke, and Dagmar realized with anguish that the cost would most likely be deducted from her wages. Tears began rolling down her cheeks as she stared at the man in front of her.
‘Forgive me!’ he said, but the Danish words he spoke sounded strange.
Her distress swiftly turned to anger.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Don’t you know you can’t stand in front of a door like that?’
‘Forgive me,’ he repeated. ‘Ich verstehe nicht,’ he said in German.
Suddenly Dagmar knew who he was. She had collided with the evening’s guest of honour, the German hero, the pilot who had fought bravely during the war. But after Germany’s stinging defeat, he had been making his living by flying in air shows. Everyone had been whispering about him all day. He’d apparently made a home for himself in Copenhagen, but it was rumoured that some scandal had now forced him to come to Sweden.
Dagmar stared at him. He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He didn’t seem to be as drunk as many of the other guests, and his gaze was unwavering as he looked into her eyes. For a long moment they stood there, staring at each other. Dagmar lifted her chin. She knew she was beautiful. She’d had this confirmed so many times by men who ran their hands over her body and panted words in her ear. But never before had she been so pleased with her own beauty.
Without taking his eyes off her, the pilot bent down and began picking up shards of glass from the broken bottles. Carefully he carried them over to a little grove of