The Preacher. Camilla Lackberg
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it was rather nice not to have him underfoot all day.
Ernst and Martin had come back to the station from the call they’d been on, and Patrik decided to start by getting them up to speed in the case. He called them into his office, and they sat down in the chairs in front of his desk. He couldn’t help noticing that Ernst was beet-red with anger because a younger detective had been assigned to lead the investigation, but Patrik chose to ignore it. That was something Mellberg would have to handle. In the worst-case scenario Patrik could manage without Ernst’s help if his colleague refused to work with him.
‘I assume you’ve already heard about what happened.’
‘Yes, we heard it on the police radio,’ said Martin. Unlike Ernst, he was young and enthusiastic and sat bolt upright in his chair with a notebook in his lap and his pen poised.
‘A woman was found murdered in the King’s Cleft in Fjällbacka. She was naked and looks to be somewhere between twenty and thirty. Underneath her were found two human skeletons of unknown origin and age. Unofficially, Karlström in CSI told me that they weren’t exactly fresh. So we seem to have been given a lot on our plate, besides all the usual pub fights and drink-drivers we’re up to our necks in. And both Annika and Gösta are on holiday, so we’ll have to roll up our sleeves and get busy. I’m actually on holiday this week as well, but I agreed to come in and work. Mellberg has asked me to lead this investigation. Any questions?’
This was aimed primarily at Ernst, who chose not to confront him. No doubt he would grumble about things behind his back instead.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Martin was like a restless horse, now impatiently circling his pen above his notebook.
‘I want you to start by checking with the Schengen Information System for missing-persons reports about women who’ve disappeared during, let’s say, the past two months. It’s better to expand the time interval until we hear more from the forensic medicine lab. Although I suspect that the time of death is much more recent, maybe just a couple of days ago.’
‘Haven’t you heard?’ asked Martin.
‘Heard what?’
‘The database is down. We’ll have to forget about SIS and do things the good old-fashioned way.’
‘Damn. Great bloody timing. Well, according to Mellberg we don’t seem to have any missing-persons reports outstanding from before I went on holiday. So I suggest that you ring round to all the nearby districts. Start with the closest districts and work your way out. Understood?’
‘All right. How far out should I go?’
‘As far as you need to until we find someone who matches. And ring Uddevalla right after the meeting to get a preliminary description of the victim to use in your enquiries.’
‘So what should I do?’ The enthusiasm in Ernst’s voice was not exactly contagious.
Patrik glanced over the notes he had jotted down after his conversation with Mellberg.
‘I’d like you to start by talking to the people who live near the entrance to the King’s Cleft. Find out whether they saw or heard anything last night or early this morning. The Cleft is full of tourists in the daytime, so the body, or the bodies if we’re going to be precise, must have been transported there sometime during the night or early morning. We can assume that the remains were brought there via the larger entrance; they could hardly have been carried up the steps from Ingrid Bergman’s Square. The little boy discovered the woman at about six o’clock, so you should focus on the hours between nine at night and six in the morning. I thought I’d go down to the archives and take a look myself. There’s something about those two skeletons that is tugging at my memory. I have the feeling that I should know what it is, but … can you think of anything? Isn’t there something that jogs your memory?’
Patrik threw out his hands and waited with raised eyebrows for an answer, but Martin and Ernst just shook their heads. He sighed. Well, there was nothing to do but go to the catacombs …
Wondering whether he might be in disfavour, and not sure whether he even would have known if he’d had time to ponder the matter, Patrik sat deep in the bowels of the Tanumshede police station and dug through old documents. Dust had settled on most of the folders, but thank goodness they still seemed to be in good order. Most of the files were archived in chronological order, and even though he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, he knew that it had to be there somewhere.
He sat on the stone floor with his legs crossed and methodically went through box after box. Decades of human fates passed through his hands, and after a while it struck him how many people and families kept reappearing in the police registers. It was as if a life of crime were being passed down from parents to children and even to grandchildren, he thought when he saw the same family names popping up again and again.
His mobile phone rang and he saw from the display that it was Erica.
‘Hi, darling, is everything all right?’ He knew what the answer was going to be. ‘Yes, I know that it’s hot. Just sit by the fan, there isn’t much else to be done … Erica, we’ve got a homicide on our hands here, and Mellberg wants me to lead the investigation. Would you be very upset if I came in and worked a couple of days?’
Patrik held his breath. He knew he should have rung her earlier to say that he might have to work, but like a typical man he had evaded the issue, trying to put off the inevitable. On the other hand, she was well aware of the demands made by his profession. Summertime was the most hectic season for the Tanum police, and they had to take turns going on holiday. It was never guaranteed that they could even take a few days in a row; it all depended on how many drunks, fights, and other side-effects of tourism the station had to handle. And homicide, of course, took precedence over everything else.
Erica said something that he almost missed.
‘Coming to visit, you say? Who? Your cousin?’ Patrik sighed. ‘No, what can I say? Sure, it would have been nicer if we could be alone tonight, but if they’re already on the way … They’re just staying for one night, I hope? Okay, then I’ll pick up some shrimp to serve them. Something simple, so you won’t have to cook. I’ll be home around seven. Kiss, kiss.’
He stuck the phone back in his pocket and continued going through the contents of the boxes in front of him. A file marked ’Missing’ caught his interest. Some ambitious person had at one time collected all the missing-persons reports resulting from police investigations. Patrik knew that this was what he’d been looking for. His fingers were filthy from all the dust, so he wiped them on his shorts before he opened the thin file. After a few minutes’ reading, his memory received the jog it required. He should have remembered this straight away, considering how few people in the district had actually gone missing without being found again. His age must be starting to take its toll. At least now he had the relevant reports in front of him, and he had a feeling that it was no coincidence that two women were reported missing in 1979 and were never seen again. Then two skeletons turn up now in the King’s Cleft.
He took the file with him upstairs to the daylight and placed it on his desk.
The horses were the only reason she stayed. With a practised hand she curried the coat of the brown gelding with steady strokes. The physical labour acted as a safety-valve for her to get rid of some of her frustration. It was shit to be seventeen years old and not have any say about your own life. As soon as she came of age she was going to get the hell out of this hole. Then she’d accept the offer she’d received from the photographer who’d come up to her when she was walking about in downtown Göteborg. When she became a model in Paris and was making tons of money she would tell them all where they could stuff their fucking education. The photographer had told her that with each passing year her value as a model decreased. A whole year of her life would be wasted before she ever got the chance to model, just because the old man had education on the brain. It didn’t take much education to strut down the runway. Later, when she was around twenty-five and starting to get too old, she’d marry a millionaire. Then she could laugh at the old man’s threat to cut her out of