The Stonecutter (35 page)

Veronika laughed gently. ‘No, I don’t think the police need to know that secret.’

‘I don’t mean while I’m alive, but if I die, would you have to tell them about that?’

The smile vanished from Veronika’s face. ‘You don’t have to worry about that, because you’re not going to die.’

‘How do you know that, Mamma?’ asked Frida.

‘I just know.’ Veronika got up abruptly from her chair and went out to the hall. Without turning round, so that her daughter couldn’t see her tears, she called, in a voice that came out unnecessarily brusque, ‘Put on your coat and shoes. We’re going to talk to the police right now.’

Frida obeyed. But when they went out to the car, she looked up suspiciously at the heavy gray sky. She hoped that Mamma was right. She hoped that Sara wouldn’t be mad.

21

Fjällbacka 1928

Lovingly he dressed the boys and combed their hair. It was Sunday, and he was going to take the boys out for a walk in the sunshine. It was hard to get their clothes on because they were crazed with joy at being able to go out with their father, but at last they were dressed and ready to set off. Agnes didn’t answer when the boys called good-bye to her. It cut Anders to the quick to see the thirsting, disappointed look in their eyes when they were with their mother. She didn’t seem to understand it, but they longed for her—longed to feel her arms around them. The idea that she might be aware of this but deliberately denied them was a possibility he didn’t even want to imagine, though it did occur to him. Now that the boys were four years old, he could only surmise that there was something unnatural about the way she related to them. As the years passed, she still hadn’t seemed to bond with them at all.

He himself never felt so rich as when he walked off down the hill with a little child’s hand firmly gripped in each of his own. The boys were still so small that they would rather run than walk. Sometimes he had to jog to keep up with them, even though his legs were so much longer than theirs. People smiled and tipped their hats when they came scurrying along the main street. He knew that they made a pleasant sight—the father, big and tall in his Sunday best, and the boys, as finely dressed as a stonecutter’s sons could be, with their tousled blond hair exactly the same shade as his own. They even had his brown eyes. Anders was often told how they were his spitting image, and he swelled with pride every time. Sometimes he permitted himself a sigh of gratitude that they didn’t take after Agnes. Over the years he’d noticed a hardness in her, which he sincerely hoped the children wouldn’t inherit.

When he passed by the village shop, he hastened his steps and carefully avoided looking in. Naturally he had to go there now and then to buy the things they needed, but since he’d heard the gossip about his wife he tried to limit his visits as much as possible. If only he believed that there was no truth to it, he could have walked in there with his head held high. But he didn’t doubt the rumors for a minute, and even if he had, the shopkeeper’s superior smile would have been enough to convince him. Sometimes Anders wondered if there was any limit to how much he had to take. If it hadn’t been for the boys, he would have cleared out long ago. But he believed he had finally found another option. Anders had a plan. It had taken a year of hard work to carry it out, but now, as soon as some last pieces fell into place, he would be able to offer his family a new beginning, a chance to make everything right. Maybe then he would then be able to clear the darkness from Agnes’s heart. Their new life would offer all of them so much more than this one.

He squeezed the boys’ hands and smiled at them when they tilted their heads back to look up at him.

‘Pappa, could we get a cola?’ said Johan hopefully, seeing his father’s good mood. Anders nodded his assent, and the boys whooped and jumped up and down in anticipation. Buying a couple of colas would necessitate a visit to the village shop, of course, but for his sons’ happiness it was worth it. Besides, soon he would be quit of all that.

Gösta sat in his office, slumped at his desk. The mood at the station had been tense since Patrik had discovered Ernst’s screw-up. Gösta shook his head. His colleague had made any number of mistakes over the years, but this time he’d gone too far in ignoring his most basic police duties. For the first time, Gösta believed that Ernst actually might be fired. Not even Mellberg could back him up after this.

Despondently he looked out of the window. This was the time of year he hated most. It was even worse than winter. He still had the memory of summer fresh in his mind, which meant he could still reel off the scores of pretty much every round of golf he’d played. By the time winter arrived, at least a merciful forgetfulness had begun to roll in, and he sometimes wondered whether he’d really made those perfect shots on the golf course, or whether it was all just a beautiful dream.

The telephone interrupted his ruminations.

‘Gösta Flygare.’

‘Hi, Gösta, it’s Annika. Look, I’ve got Pedersen on the line and he’s looking for Patrik, but I can’t get hold of him right now. Could you talk to Pedersen?’

‘Sure, put him on.’ He heard the click on the line, followed by the medical examiner’s voice.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, I’m here. It’s Gösta Flygare.’

‘I heard that Patrik was out on a job. But you’re working on the investigation of the murder of the little girl too, aren’t you?’

‘Everyone at the station is, more or less.’

‘Good, then you can take down the information we just got in, but it’s important that everything be sent on to Hedström.’

Gösta wondered for a second whether Pedersen had heard about Ernst’s fiasco, but then realized it was impossible. He probably just wanted to emphasize that the head of the investigation should get all the information. And Gösta had no intention of making the same mistake as Lundgren, that was for sure. Hedström was going to hear about everything, even the slightest clearing of his throat.

‘I’ll take notes, and you’ll fax me as usual, right?’

‘Of course,’ said Pedersen. ‘We’ve got the analysis of the ashes now. That is, the ashes the girl had in her stomach and lungs.’

‘I’m familiar with the details,’ said Gösta, who couldn’t keep a hint of irritation from sneaking into his reply. Did Pedersen think he was simply some bloody errand boy at the station, or what?

If he heard Gösta’s annoyance, Pedersen ignored it and went on calmly. ‘Well, we’ve found out a few interesting things. First, the ashes aren’t exactly fresh. The contents, at least certain portions, might be characterized as …’ he paused, ‘rather old.’

‘Rather old?’ said Gösta, still peevish. ‘What exactly does “rather old” mean? Are we talking stone age, or the swinging sixties?’

‘Well, that’s the snag. According to SFL, it’s incredibly difficult to pin down. The best estimate I could get was that the ashes are somewhere between fifty and a hundred years old.’

‘Hundred-year-old ashes?’ said Gösta, astonished, and suddenly quite curious.

‘Yes, or maybe fifty. Or somewhere in between. But that wasn’t the only remarkable thing they found. There were also fine particles of stone in the ashes. Granite, to be precise.’

‘Granite? Where the hell are the ashes from then? It couldn’t have been a piece of granite that burned, could it?’

‘No, stone doesn’t burn, as we all know. The stone must have been in fine particles from the start. They’re still working on analyzing the material to be able to say something more definite. But …’

Gösta could hear that something big was brewing. ‘Yes?’ he said.

‘What they can tell, at this point, is that it seems to be a mixture. They’ve found remnants of wood mixed in with …’ he paused but then went on, ‘organic matter.’

‘Organic matter? Are you saying these are ashes from a human body?’

‘Well, that’s what further analyses will show. It’s not yet possible to determine whether the remains are human or animal. And it’s not certain they’ll even be able to determine that, but SFL is going to try. And as I said, in any case it’s mixed with other substances: wood and granite.’

‘I’ll be damned,’ said Gösta. ‘So somebody saved these old ashes.’

‘Yes, or found them somewhere.’

‘That’s right, it could be that too.’

‘So this should give you something to think about,’ said Pedersen dryly. ‘Hopefully we’ll know more in a few days. Until then, this will have to do.’

‘Yes, it will,’ said Gösta, already imagining his colleague’s face when he told him what he’d found out. The question was how in the world the information could be used.

He put down the receiver and went over to the fax machine. The granite particles, he thought, were the most likely to provide a lead.

But the thought slipped away.

Asta groaned as she straightened up. The old wooden floor had been laid when the house was built and could only be cleaned with soap and water. But with every year that passed, it got harder for her to kneel down and scrub. Although her old body would probably last for a while yet.

She looked around the house. For forty years, she had lived here. She and Arne. Before that, he had lived here with his parents, who had remained living with the newly-weds. Suddenly both parents passed away within the space of a few months. She was ashamed for even thinking it, but those had been hard years. Arne’s father had been as gruff as a general, and his mother wasn’t much better. Arne had never discussed it with her, but she gathered from random comments that he’d been beaten a lot when he was little. Maybe that’s why he’d been so hard on Niclas. A boy who thinks he’s loved with the whip will probably dispense love with the whip when that day comes. Although in Arne’s case it had been a belt, of course. The big brown belt that hung on the inside of the pantry door and was used whenever their son had done something that didn’t suit his father. But who was she to question the way Arne had brought up their son? Certainly it had broken her heart to hear Niclas’s muffled screams of pain, and she had used a gentle hand to wipe away his tears when the ordeal was over, but Arne had always known best.

Laboriously she climbed up on a kitchen chair and took down the curtains. She couldn’t see any dirt on them yet, but as Arne always said, by the time something looks dirty it should have been cleaned long ago. She stopped abruptly, with her hands raised above her head, just as she was about to lift off the curtain rod. Hadn’t she done the same thing on that horrible day? Yes, she believed she had. She had stood there changing the curtains when she heard raised voices coming from outside in the garden. Naturally she was used to hearing Arne’s angry voice, but what was unusual was that Niclas had also raised his voice. It was so inconceivable, and the possible consequences so dire, that she had jumped down from the chair and hurried out to the garden. They were standing facing each other, like two combatants. Their voices, which had already sounded loud from inside the house, now hurt her eardrums. Incapable of stopping, she had run up to Arne and grabbed his arm.

‘What’s going on here?’ She could still hear how desperate her voice had sounded. And as soon as she took hold of Arne’s arm, she knew it was the wrong thing to do. He fell silent and turned toward her with eyes that were completely empty of emotion. Then he raised his hand and slapped her hard. The silence that followed was ominous. They had stood utterly still, like a three-headed stone statue. Then she saw as if in slow motion how Niclas drew his arm back, clenched his fist, and aimed it at his father’s head. The sound of his fist slamming into Arne’s face had abruptly broken the eerie silence and set everything in motion again. In disbelief Arne put his hand up to his cheek and stared at his son. Then Asta saw Niclas’s arm draw back and fly at Arne again. After that it seemed it would never stop. Niclas moved like an automaton, punching him over and over. Arne took the blows without seeming to understand what was happening. Finally his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. Niclas was breathing hard. He looked down at his kneeling father, blood running out of his nose. Then he turned and ran.

After that day, she was not allowed to mention Niclas’s name again. He had been seventeen years old.

Asta climbed down carefully from the chair with the curtains in her arms. Lately she’d had so many disquieting thoughts, and it was probably no accident that the memories of that day were intruding just now. The girl’s death had stirred up so many feelings, so much that she’d tried to forget over the years. A realization of how much she’d lost because of Arne’s stubbornness had come sneaking up on her, awakening emotions that would only make life more difficult for her. But as soon as she went to visit her son at the clinic she’d begun to question much of what she’d taken for granted over the years. Maybe Arne didn’t know everything after all. Maybe Arne wasn’t the one who should decide how everything should be, even for her. Maybe she could start making her own decisions. The thoughts made her nervous, and she pushed them aside until later. For now, she had curtains to wash.

Patrik knocked on the door with an authoritative rap. He was already having to work to keep his expression neutral, as repugnance welled up inside. This was the lowest of the low. The most loathsome type of person he could imagine. The only consolation, and this was not something Patrik would ever say out loud, was that once this type of person ended up behind lock and key, he wouldn’t have it easy in prison. Pedophiles were at the bottom of the pecking order and were treated accordingly. And rightfully so.