Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 1 and 2: The Ice Princess, The Preacher. Camilla Lackberg
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into a knot on top of her head with loose strands sticking out in every direction. The situation could almost be called disastrous.
‘Hello, Erica – are you still there?’ Patrik sounded puzzled.
‘Uh yes, I’m still here. I just thought it sounded like your mobile dropped the call.’
Erica slapped her forehead for the second time in about ten seconds. God in heaven, you’d think she was a beginner at this.
‘Hello-o-o, Erica – can you hear me? Hello?’
‘Uh, of course I can. Come on over. Just give me fifteen minutes, because I’m busy … uhh … writing a very important part of my book that I’d like to finish first.’
‘Sure, no problem. Are you sure I’m not bothering you? I mean, we’re seeing each other tomorrow night so –’
‘No, absolutely not. I’m sure. Just give me fifteen minutes.’
‘Okay. See you then.’
Erica carefully put down the receiver and took a deep breath full of anticipation. Her heart was beating so hard that she could hear it. Patrik was on his way to her place. Patrik was on … She gave a start as if someone had tossed a bucket of cold water on her, and jumped out of her chair. He was going to be here in fifteen minutes and she looked like she hadn’t washed or combed her hair in a week. She went upstairs two steps at a time as she pulled the jogging sweatshirt over her head. In the bedroom she wriggled out of her sweatpants, tripped and almost fell on her face.
In the bathroom she washed under her arms and sent a silent prayer of thanks that she had shaved her underarms when she showered this morning. She dabbed perfume on her wrists, between her breasts, and at her throat where she felt her pulse beating so strong beneath her fingers. She threw open the wardrobe and tossed most of the contents on the bed before she managed to decide on a simple black Filippa top and matching tight black skirt that came down to her ankles. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes left. Bathroom again. Powder, mascara, lip gloss and a light eye shadow. No need for rouge, her face was red enough already. The effect she was going for was the fresh, unpainted look, and with every year that passed it seemed to take more and more make-up to achieve.
The doorbell rang. As she cast one last look in the mirror she realized in panic that her hair was still up in a slovenly top-knot, held in place with a neon-yellow elastic. She ripped off the elastic and with a brush and a little mousse she managed to make her hair look presentable. Another ring, more insistent this time, and she hurried downstairs but stopped halfway to catch her breath and compose herself for a second. With the coolest expression she could muster, she opened the door with a big smile.
His finger was shaking a little as he pressed the doorbell. He’d been about to turn round several times and phone her with some excuse, but the car practically drove itself towards Sälvik. Of course he remembered where she lived and automatically took the tight curve to the right on the hill before the campground on the way up to her house. Although it was only afternoon it was black as night out, but the streetlights were bright enough that he could glimpse a view of the sea. All at once he understood how Erica felt about her parents’ house. He also understood the pain she must feel at the thought of losing it. And he realized the impossibility of his feelings for her. She and Anna would sell the house and then there would be nothing to keep Erica in Fjällbacka. She would move back to Stockholm, and a provincial cop from Tanumshede wouldn’t make much of an impression compared with the lounge lizards of Stureplan. He plodded with Moloch-like steps up to the front door and rang the bell.
No one came to the door, so he rang the doorbell again. This was definitely starting to feel like a bad idea, not the way he had first imagined on the way from Mrs Petrén’s house. He simply couldn’t resist calling Erica since she was so close. But he was beginning to regret the whole thing as soon as she answered the phone. She sounded so busy, even irritated when he rang. Oh well, it was too late to worry about that now. The chime of the doorbell echoed for the second time through the house.
He could hear someone coming down the stairs. The footsteps paused for a moment before they continued the rest of the way to the door. The door opened and there she stood with a big smile. She took his breath away. He couldn’t understand how she always managed to look so fresh. Her face was bare of any make-up, with the natural beauty that he found most attractive in a woman. Karin had never dreamed of showing her face without make-up, but Erica looked so amazing in his eyes that he couldn’t imagine anything that could possibly improve her appearance.
The house looked exactly the same as always, the way he remembered it from his visits as a child. Here the furniture and the house had been allowed to age together with dignity. Wood and white paint predominated, with light-coloured fabrics in blue and white that harmonized with the ageing patina of the furniture. She had lighted candles to drive away the winter darkness. The whole place breathed calm and tranquillity. He followed Erica out to the kitchen.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘Yes, please. Oh, and I brought these.’ Patrik handed over the bag of pastries. ‘Although I should really take some back to the station. I’m sure there’s enough for everybody, and then some.’
Erica peeked into the plastic bag. She smiled. ‘I see you’ve been visiting Mrs Petrén.’
‘Yep. And I’m so full I can hardly move.’
‘A charming old lady, don’t you think?’
‘Incredible. If I were around ninety-two I’d marry her.’
They smiled at each other.
‘So, how are you doing?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
A moment of silence made them both squirm. Erica poured coffee into two cups and then poured the rest into a table thermos.
‘Let’s sit on the veranda.’
They took their first sips and the silence no longer felt uncomfortable, but rather pleasant. Erica sat on the wicker sofa across from him. He cleared his throat.
‘How’s it going with the book?’
‘Good, thanks. And what about you? How’s the investigation going?’
Patrik thought for a moment and decided to tell her a little more than he actually should. Erica was already involved anyway, and he couldn’t see that it would hurt any.
‘It looks like we’ve probably solved it. We actually have a suspect in custody. He’s being interrogated right now, and the evidence is as watertight as it could possibly be.’
Erica leaned forward with an inquisitive expression. ‘Who is it?’
Patrik hesitated a moment. ‘Anders Nilsson.’
‘So it was Anders after all. Strange, but that doesn’t feel quite right.’
Patrik was inclined to agree with her. There were simply too many loose ends that couldn’t be tied up by Anders’s arrest. But the physical evidence from the murder scene and the testimony of witnesses – that he was in the house not only just before the time Alex was presumably murdered, but also on a number of other occasions after she was killed – didn’t leave much room for doubt. And yet …
‘Well, I suppose it’s over then. Funny, I thought I’d feel more relieved. What about the article I found? The one about Nils’s disappearance, I mean. How does that fit into the picture if Anders is the killer?’
Patrik shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, palms up.
‘I just don’t know, Erica. I don’t know. Maybe it had nothing to do with the murder. Pure coincidence. In any case there’s no reason to rummage through everything anymore. Alex took her secrets with her to the grave.’
‘And the baby she was expecting? Was it Anders’s?’
‘Who knows? Anders’s, Henrik’s … Your guess is as good as mine. I really wonder what got those two