The Girl in the Woods. Camilla Lackberg
I’d like all of you to stay. Try not to move around too much. The techs will want to examine your clothing and shoes, since you’ve been walking around the crime scene.’
The man who seemed to be a foreigner looked puzzled. Harald turned to him and said in halting English:
‘We stay here. Okay, Karim?’
‘Okay,’ said the man with a nod. Patrik realized he was one of the men Rolf had brought from the refugee centre.
No one spoke for a few minutes. They were all struck by the surreal contrast between the reason for their presence and the idyllic surroundings. The birds carried on chirping merrily, as if nothing had happened, as if the dead body of a four-year-old girl wasn’t lying just metres away. The birdsong was accompanied by the rustle of the gentle breeze in the treetops. At this time of day, with the sun’s rays penetrating the trees to light the glade where they stood, it was heartbreakingly beautiful. Patrik’s gaze settled on a patch of chanterelles. Under normal circumstances, his heart would have leapt with excitement at the prospect of harvesting a few to take home. But right now picking mushrooms was the furthest thing from his mind.
Patrik began unwinding the tape. The only thing he could do for the little girl was to carry out his job to the best of his ability. So he worked in silence, and tried to avoid looking at the tree trunk.
Eva was standing at the sink, rinsing out the coffee pot. She’d lost count of how many pots she’d made during the night. The sound of someone quietly clearing his throat made her turn around. When she saw the look in Gösta’s eyes and his tense posture, the coffee pot slipped out of her grasp. The sound of breaking glass was instantly followed by a scream that sounded so close, yet so far away. A scream of grief and loss beyond all comprehension.
The scream came from her own lips.
She fell into Gösta’s arms. His hold on her was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. She gasped for breath as Gösta stroked her hair. She wished Nea was here, laughing as she ran around the room. She wished Nea had never been born, wished she’d never produced a child who would then be taken from her.
Now all was lost. Everything had died with Nea.
‘I’ve notified the pastor,’ said Gösta, leading her over to a kitchen chair.
He must see how broken I am inside, thought Eva, since he’s treating me so carefully.
‘Why did you do that?’ she asked, genuinely confused.
What could a pastor do for her now? She’d never had a strong religious faith. And a child should be with her parents, not with some god up in heaven. What could a pastor say that she and Peter would find the least bit consoling?
‘Peter?’ she said, her voice sounding parched and brittle.
Even her voice had died with Nea.
‘They’re looking for him. He’ll be here soon.’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t tell him.’
Let him stay out there in the woods, she thought. Let him still have hope. Peter was the only one left now. She had died with Nea.
‘He has to be told, Eva,’ said Gösta, putting his arm around her again. ‘There’s no way to avoid it.’
Eva nodded as she leaned against Gösta. Of course Peter couldn’t keep wandering through the woods like some kind of forest creature. They had to tell him, even though that would mean he too would die.
She pulled away from Gösta and leaned forward to lay her head on the table. She’d been awake for twenty-four hours. Hope and fear had kept her going. Now all she wanted was to sleep and escape everything. Pretend it was all a bad dream. Her body relaxed, the wooden tabletop felt as soft as a pillow under her cheek. She slipped further and further away. A warm hand was cautiously patting her back. Warmth spread through her body.
Then someone came in the front door. She didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see Peter standing there. But Gösta gave her shoulder a squeeze, and she had to do it. She looked up and met Peter’s gaze, which was just as shattered as her own.
The cow named Stjärna had recovered by the time Lill-Jan went to see to her the next morning. Preben said nothing to Elin about it, but he looked at her with new interest. She felt him watching her as she prepared breakfast. Britta had been in an unusually good mood when Elin helped her sister to dress. But she was always happiest on Sundays. She loved sitting at the very front of the church during the services, wearing her best clothes and with her hair beautifully coiffed. She loved seeing the pews fill with the members of Preben’s congregation.
It was not a long walk from the vicarage to the church, and the servants went as a group. Preben and Britta had gone ahead in the horse-drawn wagon so Britta’s fine clothes would not be soiled by muck and mire.
Elin held Märta’s hand in a tight grip. The girl scampered more than she walked, and her blond plaits bounced against the back of the old cloak she wore. It was freezing cold, and Elin had carefully stuffed paper inside Märta’s shoes to keep her feet warm and dry, but also because the shoes were hand-me-downs from one of the maids whose feet were much bigger. But Märta did not complain. Shoes were shoes, and she had already learned to be happy with what she had.
Elin’s heart lifted when she saw the church looming before them as they reached Vinbäck. The newly built tower was a stately sight, and the metal roof gleamed in the winter sun. A cemetery wall made of red-painted planks surrounded the church, and there were three big brick entrances with roof tiles, and iron gates to prevent livestock from wandering into the cemetery.
Merely stepping inside the churchyard made Elin’s heart sing, and when they entered the church itself she took a deep breath and allowed the silent atmosphere to seep inside her.
She and Märta took seats at the very back. There were forty-eight pews in all, but lately they were never filled. The crowds of people who had once flocked to the coastal area during the great herring era a hundred years earlier were now only a memory. Elin’s maternal grandmother had told her about the old days, recounting stories she had heard from her own parents and grandparents. Back then, everything had been different. The herring was so abundant they hardly knew what to do with all the fish, and people had come from all over Sweden to settle in the area. But the herring had disappeared and war and famine had depleted the land. Now only the stories remained. And many pews stood empty, while the rest were occupied by the listless, pale, and gaunt residents of Bohuslän. Looking at their faces, Elin saw a defeated people, devoid of hope.
The church had windows only on the south wall, but the light streaming in was so lovely that she felt tears well up in her eyes. The pulpit was also on the south side. The murmuring among the congregation faded as Preben climbed the stairs to the pulpit.
The service began with a hymn, and Elin put extra effort into the song, as she usually did, since she knew she had a beautiful singing voice. It was a small vanity she allowed herself because Märta loved to hear her sing.
She tried hard to understand what Preben was saying. Swedish was the only language permitted in the church, both for the sermon and the prayers. This was a great burden for most members of the congregation, since they were more accustomed to speaking Danish and Norwegian.
But he had a lovely voice. Elin closed her eyes and immediately felt the warmth of Preben’s hand. She opened her eyes and forced herself to stare at the back of Britta’s head, at the very front of the church. Britta wore her hair in a beautiful plait that Elin had fixed for her that morning. The white collar of her dress was freshly starched. She was nodding as Preben preached.
Elin forced her thoughts away from the sound of Preben’s voice and the memory of his hand touching hers. He was Britta’s husband, yet she was sitting here in God’s house thinking these forbidden thoughts. It would come as no