The Stonecutter. Camilla Lackberg
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as close to the enemy as possible.
Anna knew this, and yet it felt as though she were going from the frying pan into the fire. She was practically a prisoner in her own home, her jailer an aggressive and irrational Lucas. First, he forced her to quit her part-time job at Stockholm Auction House, a job she had loved and found deeply satisfying. He wouldn’t allow her to leave the flat except to shop for food or take the kids to day care. Meanwhile he hadn’t been able to find another job, nor did he even try. He’d had to give up the big, elegant flat in Östermalm, and now they were squeezed into a little two-room flat outside the city. But as long as he didn’t hit the children, she could put up with anything. She herself once again had bruises on her body, but in a way it felt like putting on an old, familiar dress. She had lived that way for so many years that her brief period of freedom now seemed unreal, a dream that just happened one time. Anna also did her best to hide what was going on from the children. She had managed to convince Lucas that they should keep going to daycare, and she tried to pretend that their daily life was the same as always. But she wasn’t sure that she was fooling them. At least not Emma, who was now four years old. At first she’d been ecstatic that they were moving in with Pappa again, but Anna had begun to notice her daughter giving her puzzled looks.
Despite the fact that Anna kept trying to convince herself that she had made the right decision, she still realized that they couldn’t live the rest of their lives this way. The more irrational Lucas got, the more frightened of him she became. She was sure that one day he would cross the line and actually kill her. The question was how she could make her escape. She had thought about ringing Erica and asking for help, but Lucas watched the telephone like a hawk. And there was something inside her that held her back. She had relied on Erica so many times before, and for once she felt that she had to tackle this problem herself, like an adult. Gradually, she had worked out a plan. She needed to gather enough evidence against Lucas so that the abuse could no longer be denied. Then she and the children would be given safe haven and new identities. Sometimes she was overwhelmed by the desire to take the kids and simply flee to the nearest women’s shelter, but she knew full well that without evidence against Lucas it would only be a temporary solution. Then they would be back in hell again.
So she had started to document everything she could. In one of the department stores on her way to the day-care centre, there was a photo booth. She would sneak in there and take pictures of her injuries. She wrote down the date and time when she received them and hid the notes and photos inside the frame of the wedding photo of her and Lucas. There was a symbolism in this that she appreciated. Soon she would have enough material to entrust her fate and that of her children to the authorities. Until then she simply had to put up with Lucas. And survive.
It was recess when Patrik and Ernst turned into the car park at the school. Crowds of children were outside playing in the biting wind, bundled up and seemingly unconcerned with the cold. But Patrik shivered and hurried to get inside.
Their daughter would be going to this school in a few years. It was a pleasant thought, and he could picture Maja scampering about, here in the hall, with blonde pigtails and a gap between her front teeth, just the way Erica looked in the picture taken when she was a kid. He hoped that Maja would be like her mother. Erica had been incredibly cute as a little girl. She still was, in his eyes.
They took a chance and headed for the first classroom they saw, knocking on the door which stood open. The room was bright and pleasant, with big windows and children’s drawings on the walls. A young teacher sat at a desk immersed in the papers in front of her. She jumped when she heard the knock.
‘Yes?’ Despite her young age she had already managed to acquire that perfect teacher’s tone of voice, which made Patrik suppress a desire to stand at attention and bow.
‘We’re from the police. We’re looking for Sara Klinga’s teacher.’
A shadow crept over her face and she nodded. ‘That’s me.’ She got up and came over to shake their hands. ‘Beatrice Lind. I teach first through third grade.’ She motioned for them to take a seat on one of the small chairs next to the school desks. Patrik felt like a giant as he cautiously sat down. The sight of Ernst trying to co-ordinate all parts of his gangly frame to fit in the tiny chair made him smirk. But as soon as Patrik turned his gaze to the teacher his expression turned sombre again and he focused on the task at hand.
‘It’s so terribly tragic,’ said Beatrice, her voice quavering. ‘That a child can be here one day and gone the next …’ Now her lower lip was trembling too. ‘And drowned …’
‘Yes, especially since it turns out that her death was not an accident.’ Patrik had thought the news would have spread to everyone in town, but Beatrice looked undeniably shocked.
‘What? What do you mean? No accident? But she drowned, didn’t she?’
‘Sara was murdered,’ said Patrik, hearing how brusque that sounded. In a gentler tone of voice he added, ‘She didn’t die from an accident, so we have to find out more about Sara. What she was like as a person, whether there were any problems in the family, that sort of thing.’
He could see that Beatrice was still upset at the news, but she seemed to be pondering what it might mean. After a while she collected herself and said, ‘Well, what is there to say about Sara? She was …’ she searched for the right word, ‘a very lively child. And that was both good and bad. There wasn’t a quiet moment when Sara was around, and to be honest it could be difficult to maintain order in the classroom sometimes. She was something of a leader, pulling the others along, and if I didn’t put a stop to it, utter chaos could result. At the same time …’ Beatrice hesitated again and looked as though she were weighing each word very carefully, ‘at the same time, it was precisely that energy that made her so creative. She was incredibly talented in drawing and every other artistic pursuit, and she had the most active imagination I’ve ever seen. She was quite simply a very creative child, whether she was playing pranks or producing a work of art.’
Ernst squirmed in the little chair and said, ‘We heard that she had one of those problems with initials, DAMP or whatever it’s called.’
His disrespectful tone prompted Beatrice to give him a sharp look, and to Patrik’s amusement his colleague actually cringed.
‘Sara did have DAMP, that’s correct. She was given special tutoring for it. We have a good deal of experience in this field, so we can give these children what they need to function optimally.’ It sounded like a lecture, and Patrik understood that this was something of a pet topic for her.
‘How did the problems manifest themselves for Sara?’ Patrik asked.
‘In the way I described. She had a very high energy level and could sometimes throw terrible tantrums. But as I said, she was also a very creative child. She wasn’t mean or nasty or badly brought up, as many ignorant people might say of children like her. She simply had a hard time controlling her impulses.’
‘How did the other children react to her behaviour?’ Patrik was truly curious.
‘It varied. Some couldn’t get along with her at all and retreated. Others seemed to be able to handle her outbursts with equanimity and got along fine with her. I would say that her best friend was Frida Karlgren. They happened to live near each other.’
‘Yes, we’ve spoken with her,’ said Patrik with a nod. He twisted on the chair once again. He had begun to get pins and needles in his legs, and he could feel a cramp forming in his right calf. He sincerely hoped that Ernst was feeling equally uncomfortable.
‘What about her family?’ Ernst interjected. ‘Do you know if Sara had any problems at home?’
Patrik had to suppress a smile when he saw that his colleague was indeed massaging his calves.
‘Unfortunately, I can’t help you there,’ said Beatrice, pursing her lips. It was obvious that she wasn’t in the habit of telling tales about the home life of her pupils. ‘I’ve only met her parents and her grandmother once. They seemed to be stable, pleasant people. And I never had any indication from Sara that