Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 4-6: The Stranger, The Hidden Child, The Drowning. Camilla Lackberg
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Viveca when he was interrupted by the telephone. For a moment he considered letting it ring, but then he turned towards the cordless phone on the coffee table. It might be something important.
Five minutes later he sat there mutely holding the receiver in his hand. The consequences of what he’d heard were tumbling round in his head, and his brain was already trying to formulate possible solutions. He stood up and called upstairs, ‘Viveca, I have to go into the office. Something’s happened and I have to deal with it.’
A muttered answer from upstairs confirmed that she’d heard him, and he pulled on his jacket and grabbed the car keys hanging on the hook by the front door. This was something he hadn’t reckoned with. What the hell was he going to do now?
On a day like today it felt good to be the chief. Mellberg had to consciously rearrange his expression to conceal the satisfaction he was feeling inside. Instead he needed to show a combination of empathy and resolve. But there was something about standing in the spotlight that appealed to him. It simply suited him. And he couldn’t help wondering how Rose-Marie would react at seeing him on the evening news, heading up the investigation. He puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders, assuming a pose that exuded power. The flashes of the cameras almost blinded him, but he maintained his serious demeanour. This was an opportunity he couldn’t let slip out of his hands.
‘I’ll give you one more minute to take pictures, then you’ll have to settle down. The flashes from the cameras went on for another few moments until he held up his hand and looked out over the attentive faces of the reporters.
‘As you already know, we discovered the body of Lillemor Persson this morning.’ A sea of hands went up in the air, and he nodded benevolently at the reporter from Expressen.
‘Has it been established that she was murdered?’ Everyone waited for his answer with their pens hovering over their notebooks. Mellberg cleared his throat.
‘Before the autopsy report is finished, we can’t say that for certain. But all indications are that she was a victim of homicide.’ His reply was followed by a murmur and the scratching of pens on notepads. The TV cameras, marked with the call letters of their channels, were humming, and the bright lights were all aimed at him. Mellberg pondered which of them he should give priority. After careful consideration he chose to turn his best side to the camera from TV4. Questions were hurled at him, and he nodded to another reporter from an evening newspaper.
‘Do you have a suspect yet?’ Another tense silence in anticipation of Mellberg’s reply. He squinted into the spotlights.
‘We have brought in several individuals for questioning,’ he said, ‘but we have no definite suspect at this time.’
‘Will Sodding Tanum be curtailing their shoot because of this?’ This time it was a reporter from Aktuellt TV news who asked the question.
‘As things now stand, we have no right, or reason, to make that decision. That’s something to be determined by the programme’s producers and the management of the broadcasting company.’
‘But can a programme that’s supposed to be entertainment really continue to shoot after one of its cast members has been murdered?’ asked the same TV reporter.
With noticeable irritation Mellberg said, ‘As I said, we have no say in this matter. You’ll have to talk to the TV station about that.’
‘Was she raped?’ No one was waiting for Mellberg’s nod any longer; the questions came flying at him like small projectiles.
‘That’s a question for the medical examiner.’
‘But were there any indications of sexual assault?’
‘She was naked when we found her, so you can draw your own conclusions.’ As soon as he said that, Mellberg realized that it probably wasn’t such a good idea to release that information. But he was feeling overwhelmed by the pressure of the situation, and some of his excitement about the press conference began to abate. This was something quite different than answering questions from the local press.
‘Was the place where she was found connected to the crime?’ This time it was one of the local reporters who finally managed to squeeze in a question. The big-city papers and TV seemed to have considerably sharper elbows.
Mellberg thought carefully about his answer. He didn’t want to put his foot in his mouth again. ‘There is nothing to indicate that at the present time,’ he said at last.
‘So where was she found?’ The evening press now jumped in. ‘There’s a rumour that she was found in a rubbish truck. Is that correct?’ Once more everyone’s eyes were fixed on Mellberg’s face. He licked his lips nervously. ‘No comment.’ Damn, they would know that such an answer meant that they had heard correctly. Maybe he should have taken Hedström up on his offer and let him handle the press conference. But Mellberg wasn’t about to give up his moment in the limelight. Merely thinking about Hedström made him so annoyed that he straightened up again. ‘Yes?’ He pointed to a female reporter who’d been waving her hand for a long time to be given the floor.
‘Have any of the participants in Sodding Tanum been questioned?’
Mellberg nodded. Those types loved to flaunt themselves in the media, so it didn’t bother him in the least to share that information. ‘We have interviewed them, yes.’
‘Are any of them considered suspects?’ Rapport was filming, and the reporter held out his big microphone to capture Mellberg’s answer.
‘First of all, it has not yet been confirmed that this is a homicide, and no, we have no information pointing to any specific individual at this time.’ A white lie. He had read Molin’s and Kruse’s report, and he already had a clear picture of who the guilty party was. But he wasn’t so bloody stupid as to share this little nugget until everything was wrapped up and ready.
The questions now lost steam, and Mellberg heard himself repeating the same answers over and over. Finally he’d had enough, and he declared the press conference over. With the cameras flashing behind him, he walked as authoritatively as he could out of the room. He wanted Rose-Marie to see a man of power when she turned on the news this evening.
Several times in the days that had passed since Barbie’s death, Jonna had seen people whispering and pointing at her. Ever since she’d been on Big Brother, she’d got used to being scrutinized. But this was something of an entirely different order. It wasn’t due to curiosity or admiration because she’d been on TV. This was the lust of sensationalism and a kind of media bloodthirstiness that made her skin crawl.
As soon as she heard about Barbie, she wanted to go home. Her first instinct was to flee, to go back to the only place she knew. But she realized that wasn’t an option. At home she would encounter only the same emptiness, the same loneliness. No one would be there to hold her or stroke her hair. All those small consoling gestures that her body was screaming for. But there was nobody who could fill that need. Neither at home nor here. So she decided that she might as well stay.
The checkout stand behind her felt empty. Another girl was sitting there now, one of the usual employees. But it still felt as if there was nobody there. Jonna was astonished at what a void Barbie had left. She had scoffed at the girl, brushed her aside. She’d hardly considered her a human being. But afterwards, now that she was gone, Jonna realized what joy Barbie had radiated, in spite of all her uncertainty, her blonde vapidness, her desire for attention. Barbie had always been the one who kept their spirits up. She was always laughing, excited about the programme, and trying to cheer up everyone else. As thanks they had scorned her and rejected her as a dumb bimbo who didn’t deserve their respect. Only now did they notice what she had actually contributed.
Jonna pulled down the sleeves of her jumper. Today she had no desire to get any funny looks, conveying both sympathy and disgusted amazement. The wounds on her arms were deeper than usual. She had cut herself every day since Barbie died. Harder and more brutal than ever before. Slicing deeper into her flesh, until she saw her skin open and spill blood. But the sight of the pulsating red fluid