The Ice Princess. Camilla Lackberg
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tears flowed even harder, but after a few moments of sobbing she calmed down enough to wipe her eyes.
‘That’s incredibly nice of you, but I’m okay. Really. It’s just all been a bit too much lately. It was very traumatic to sort through Mamma and Pappa’s things, and now I’m late with my book and the publisher is after me and then all this with the house … and to top it all off, last Friday I discovered my best friend from childhood, dead.’
Laughter began bubbling inside her and with tears still in her eyes she began to laugh hysterically. It took her a while to recover.
‘Did you say ‘dead’, or did I hear you wrong?’
‘Unfortunately you heard right. I’m sorry, it must sound terrible that I’m laughing. It’s just been a bit too much. She was my best friend from when I was little, Alexandra Wijkner. She committed suicide in the bathtub of her family’s house in Fjällbacka. You probably knew her, didn’t you? She and her husband, Henrik Wijkner, apparently moved in the best circles in Göteborg, and those are the sorts of people you hobnob with these days, right?’
She smiled and knew that Marianne was doing the same at her end of the line. When they were both young students Marianne had lived in the Majorna district of Göteborg and fought for the rights of the working class. They were both aware that over the years she had been forced to think about completely different issues in order to fit in with the circles that came with her job at the venerable old law firm. Now it was chic suits and blouses with bows. It was the cocktail party in Örgryte that counted, but Erica knew that in Marianne that only served as a thin veneer over a rebellious temperament.
‘Henrik Wijkner. Yes, I do know who he is. We even share some of the same acquaintances, but I’ve never had the opportunity to meet him. A ruthless businessman, so it’s said. The type that could sack a hundred employees before breakfast without losing his appetite. His wife ran a boutique, I think?’
‘A gallery. Abstract art.’
Marianne’s words about Henrik shocked her. Erica had always considered herself a good judge of people, and he seemed anything but her idea of a ruthless businessman.
She dropped the subject of Alex and started talking about the real reason she was calling.
‘I got a letter today. From Lucas’s attorney. They’re summoning me to a meeting in Stockholm on Friday regarding the sale of Mamma and Pappa’s house, and I’m completely clueless when it comes to the law. What are my rights? Do I even have any rights? Can Lucas really do this?’
She could feel her lower lip start to quiver again and took a deep breath to calm herself down. Outside the kitchen window the ice on the bay was glistening after the last couple of days of thawing rain, followed by freezing temperatures at night. She saw a sparrow land on the window-sill and reminded herself to buy a ball of suet to put out for the birds. The sparrow cocked its head inquisitively and pecked lightly at the window. After making sure that there wasn’t anything edible being handed out, the bird flew off.
‘As you know, I’m a tax attorney, not a family rights attorney, so I can’t give you an answer straight off. But let’s do this. I’ll check with the experts in the office and ring you later today. You’re not alone, Erica. We’ll help you with this, I promise you.’
It was great to hear Marianne’s confident assurances, and when they said good-bye life seemed brighter, even though Erica actually knew no more than before she had called.
Restlessness set in almost at once. She forced herself to take up her work on the biography, but it was slow going. She had more than half of the book left to write, and the publishers were growing impatient because they hadn’t received a rough draft yet. After filling up almost two pages she read through what she had written, saw it was crap and quickly deleted several hours of work. The biography only made her feel depressed; the joy of working on it had vanished long ago. Instead, she finished writing the article about Alexandra and put it in an envelope addressed to Bohusläningen newspaper. Then it was time to ring Dan and rib him a bit about the near-fatal psychological wound he seemed to have suffered after Sweden’s spectacular loss the night before.
Feeling content, Superintendent Mellberg patted his large paunch and debated whether to take a little nap. There was still almost nothing to do, and he didn’t ascribe any great importance to the little there was.
He decided that it would be nice to doze for a moment so that his substantial lunch could be digested in peace and quiet. But he barely managed to close his eyes before a determined knocking announced that Annika Jansson, the station’s secretary, wanted something.
‘What the hell? Can’t you see I’m busy?’
In an attempt to look busy he rummaged aimlessly among the papers lying in stacks on his desk, but succeeded only in tipping over a cup of coffee. The coffee flowed towards all the papers and he grabbed the closest thing he could find to wipe up the mess – which happened to be his shirttail, since it was seldom tucked into his trousers anymore.
‘Damn it all, I’m the bloody boss of this place! Haven’t you learned to show a little respect for your superiors and knock before you come barging in?’
She didn’t feel like pointing out that she had actually done just that. With the wisdom born of age and experience, she waited calmly until the worst of his outburst was over.
‘I presume you have something to tell me,’ Mellberg seethed.
Annika answered in a restrained voice. ‘Forensic Medicine in Göteborg has been looking for you. Forensic Pathologist Tord Pedersen, to be precise. You can ring him at this number.’
She held out a piece of paper with the number carefully printed on it.
‘Did he say what it’s about?’
Curiosity was giving him a tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach. They didn’t hear from Forensic Medicine very often out here in the sticks. Perhaps there would be a chance for some inspired police work for a change.
He waved Annika away distractedly and clamped the telephone receiver between his ear and shoulder. Then he eagerly began dialling the number.
Annika quickly backed out of the room and closed the door loudly behind her. She sat down at her own desk and cursed, as she had so many times before, the decision that had sent Mellberg to the tiny police station in Tanumshede. According to rampant rumours at the station, he had made himself un-welcome in Göteborg by abusing a refugee who was in his custody. That was clearly not the only mistake he had made, but it was the worst. His superior finally got fed up. An internal investigation had been unable to prove anything, but there was concern about what else Mellberg might do, so he was immediately moved to the post of superintendent in Tanumshede. Each and every one of the community’s twelve thousand mostly law-abiding citizens served as a constant reminder to him of his demotion. His former superiors in Göteborg reckoned he wouldn’t be able to do much damage there. Up until now this assessment had been correct. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing much good, either.
Previously Annika had got on well at her job, but that was all over now with Mellberg as her boss. It wasn’t enough that he was perpetually rude, he also saw himself as God’s gift to women, and Annika was the one who suffered the brunt of it. Snide insinuations, pinches on the behind, and improper remarks were only a fraction of what she had to put up with at work nowadays. What she considered his most repulsive feature, however, was the atrocious comb-over he had constructed to hide his bald pate. He had let the remaining strands of hair grow out – his employees could only guess how long they must be – and then he wound the hair round atop his head in an arrangement that most resembled an abandoned crow’s nest.
Annika shuddered at the thought of how it must look when not combed over. She was grateful that she would never need to find out.
She wondered what Forensic Medicine wanted. Oh well, she would find out soon enough. The station was so small that any information of interest would spread through the whole place within an hour.
Bertil