The Girl in the Woods

For the first time since arriving in Sweden, Karim had found himself talking about his family and homeland. He was aware of the longing in his own voice as he spoke of the city he’d left behind, maybe never to return. But he knew the picture he presented was not entirely accurate. The place and people he longed for had nothing to do with terrorism.

How could any Swede comprehend what it was like to spend your days constantly looking over your shoulder, fearful that at any moment someone might betray you? It might be a friend, a neighbour, even a family member – the government had eyes everywhere. Everyone was trying to protect their own interests, everyone did whatever was necessary to save their own skin. Everyone had lost somebody. Everyone had seen loved ones die, and that meant they would do anything to protect whoever they had left. As a journalist, he’d been especially targeted.

‘You okay?’ asked Harald, his hand still resting on Karim’s arm.

Karim could see his own thoughts mirrored in the other man’s face. He had let down his guard, revealing the longing and frustration, and it unnerved him. He slammed the lid shut on his memories.

‘I’m okay. I’m thinking about the girl’s parents,’ he said, seeing for a second the faces of his own children.

Amina was probably worried by now, and her uneasiness always affected the children. But there was no reception out here, so he hadn’t been able to phone her. She would be cross when he returned. Amina was always angry whenever she felt anxious. But it didn’t matter. She was even more beautiful when she was angry.

‘Those poor people,’ said Harald, and Karim saw that his eyes were shiny with tears.

A short distance away the men in white plastic overalls were kneeling on the ground near the little girl, carrying out their work. One of the techs had photographed Karim’s shoes. He’d also taken pictures of the shoes Johannes and Harald were wearing. And he’d pressed tape against their clothing, then carefully placed the pieces of tape in plastic bags, which he sealed and labelled. Karim understood why he did this, even though he’d never seen it happen before. The technicians wanted to rule out any traces that he and the two other men might have left behind when they entered the area where the little girl lay.

Johannes said something in Swedish to the older man, and they both nodded. Johannes then translated:

‘We thought maybe we could ask the policeman if we can go home now. They seem to be done with us.’

Karim nodded. He wanted to get away from this place where the dead girl lay. Away from the sight of her blond hair and her little hand covering her face. Away from where she had been stuffed into a hollow in the ground, lying in a foetal position.

Harald went to talk to the officer standing on the other side of the police tape. They spoke for a moment in low voices, and then Karim saw the policeman nod.

‘We can go,’ said Harald when he rejoined the others.

Karim noticed he had started to shake, now that the tension had eased. He wanted to go home. Back to his children. And to Amina’s flashing eyes.

Sanna closed her eyes at the sound of Vendela pounding up the stairs. She had a splitting headache today, and she couldn’t help flinching when the door slammed. She could picture the wood panelling cracking.

All Sanna had done was suggest that Vendela should go with her to the garden centre. Vendela had never been exactly thrilled about being there, but nowadays she seemed to regard it as a form of punishment. Sanna knew she ought to take a sterner hand with Vendela, but she just didn’t have the energy. It felt as if all her strength had vanished when she heard about Nea’s disappearance.

The sound of throbbing bass came from upstairs now, so loud it made the walls vibrate. Sanna wondered how her daughter planned to spend the day. She mostly seemed to hang out with those two boys, and they were probably not the best companions for her. A fifteen-year-old girl and two boys the same age could only mean trouble.

Sanna pushed aside her breakfast plate. Vendela had eaten only an egg. The bread she’d always had for breakfast, ever since she was little, contained too much sugar for Vendela these days. Sanna toasted a slice of the bread and spread on a thick layer of orange marmalade. She was already so late that five more minutes would make no difference.

She didn’t mind that Vendela was in one of her defiant moods today. At least it was a distraction from thoughts of Nea. And she hadn’t had time to think about Stella. But now, as she sat alone in the kitchen, all the memories came flooding in. She remembered that day down to the smallest detail. How happy she’d been to go with her mother to Uddevalla to buy new clothes for school. How she’d felt torn between joy at having a shopping expedition with her mother and envy of Stella, who had those two cool older girls babysitting her. But her jealousy was forgotten as soon as they had waved goodbye and she and her mother drove off in the Volvo, headed for the big city.

On their way home, she kept glancing in the back seat at the shopping bags with her new clothes. Such amazing clothes. She’d been so happy it was all she could do to sit still. Her mother had scolded her, but she’d been laughing as she did so.

That was the last time she ever saw her mother laugh.

Sanna set the rest of her toast on the table. The bread seemed to swell inside her mouth. She remembered getting out of the car and seeing her father’s expression when he greeted them. Nausea suddenly overwhelmed Sanna, and she had to rush for the toilet, making it there just in time. Pieces of orange marmalade floated in the toilet bowl, and she began to retch again.

Afterwards she sank on to the cold tile floor, shaking all over.

Upstairs, the music was still thudding.

The bullet slammed into one of the targets nailed to a tree in the forest glade behind their yard.

‘Good,’ said James curtly.

Sam had to force himself not to smile. This was the only thing for which he ever received praise. It seemed his only talent as a son was being a good shot.

‘You’re getting better and better,’ James told him, giving a satisfied nod as he peered over the rims of his sunglasses.

He wore aviator shades. Sam thought his father looked like a parody of an American sheriff.

‘See if you can hit the target from a little further away,’ said James, motioning for Sam to back up.

Sam moved away from the tree.

‘Steady your hand. Exhale at the precise moment you squeeze the trigger. Focus.’

James had trained elite Swedish military units for years, and Sam knew his father was a highly respected professional. That he was also a cold bastard probably added to his reputation, but it made Sam long for the next time James would be deployed abroad.

The months when James was away, often to unknown destinations, seemed like a breath of fresh air to Sam. Both he and his mother were more relaxed. She laughed more, and Sam loved seeing her happy. As soon as James stepped in the door, the laughter vanished, and she went out running more often. She lost weight, but instead of looking healthier, she just looked stressed. Sam hated that version of his mother as much as he loved the happier one. He knew he was being unfair, but she was the one who had chosen to have a child with that man. Sam refused to call him Father. Or Pappa.

He quickly fired off a few shots. He knew his aim was right on.

James nodded with satisfaction.

‘Hell, if only you had a backbone, I could make a fine soldier out of you,’ said James, chuckling.

Helen came into the backyard.

‘I’m going out for a run,’ she called to James and Sam, but neither of them answered.

Sam thought she’d already left. She usually went running right after breakfast in order to avoid the worst heat of the day, but it was nearly ten o’clock.

‘Back up another couple of metres,’ said James.

Sam knew he’d be able to hit the target, even at that distance. He’d been practising at greater distances during the periods when James was away. But for some reason he didn’t want to show his father exactly how good a shot he was. He didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking his son had inherited something from him. He didn’t deserve any credit. Everything in Sam’s life was in spite of James, not thanks to him.

‘Nice!’ his father shouted when he made the next series of shots.

That was something Sam hated. The way James would switch to English, speaking with a distinct American accent. He had no American ancestors; his grandfather had been a fan of James Dean when he was young. But James had spent so much time with Americans that he’d picked up their accent. Thick and mushy. Sam found it embarrassing every time James failed to speak Swedish.

‘One more time,’ said James in English, as if he could read Sam’s thoughts and wanted to provoke him.

Sam aimed the gun at the target and pulled the trigger. Bullseye.

BOHUSLÄN 1671

‘The girl was inside the big house yesterday. And you know what I have said about that, Elin!’

Britta’s words were spoken harshly, and Elin bowed her head.

‘I will speak to her,’ she said quietly.

Britta swung her legs over the side of the bed.

‘We are receiving a special visitor today,’ she went on. ‘Everything must be perfect. Have you washed and starched my blue dress? The silk brocade?’

She stuck her feet into the slippers next to the bed. Their warmth was welcome. Even though the vicarage was a more splendid house than any Elin had ever seen, it was still cold and draughty, and the floor was ice-cold in the wintertime.

‘Everything is ready and waiting,’ replied Elin. ‘We have scrubbed every nook and cranny of the house, and Boel from Holta arrived yesterday and has already begun to prepare the food. She will start by serving stuffed codheads, followed by capon with gooseberries as the main course, and bread custard for dessert.’

‘Excellent,’ said Britta. ‘Harald Stake’s envoy should be served a meal befitting a lord. After all, Harald Stake is the governor of the county of Bohuslän, and he has been ordered by the king himself to speak to the vicars about this plague of witchcraft. Only a few days ago, Preben told me of a witch who has been imprisoned in Marstrand.’

Britta’s cheeks had flushed crimson with indignation.

Elin nodded. People could talk of nothing else these days. The recently formed witchcraft council had busied itself imprisoning witches all over Bohuslän and soon the trials would begin. All over Sweden, strong measures were being taken against this wickedness. Elin shuddered. Witches and sorcerers. Travels to Blåkulla, witch mountain, and alliances with the devil himself. It appalled her that such evil existed so close to home.

‘I heard from Ida-Stina that it is because of you that Svea of Hult is now with child,’ said Britta as Elin helped her dress. ‘Whatever it is you did for her, I want you to do the same for me.’

‘I can do only what my maternal grandmother taught me,’ said Elin, tightly lacing Britta’s bodice in the back.

She was not surprised by the request. Britta was nearing twenty, and she and Preben had been married for two years, yet her belly had not yet swollen with child.

‘Do whatever you did for Svea. It is time for me to give Preben a child. He has started asking when this might happen.’

‘I made Svea a herbal mixture from one of Grandmother’s recipes,’ said Elin, as she began brushing Britta’s long hair.

The two sisters were very different in appearance. Elin had inherited her mother’s blond hair and pale blue eyes. Britta had dark hair, and her dark blue eyes were like those of the woman who had taken Elin’s mother’s place even before she died. Gossiping tongues in the village still whispered that Elin’s mother Kerstin had died of a broken heart. Even if this were true, Elin wasted no time thinking about it. Their father had died a year ago, and Britta was the only one who could save her and Märta from death by starvation.

‘She also taught me certain words to speak,’ said Elin cautiously. ‘If you are not opposed, I could prepare the mixture for you and say the appropriate prayers. I have everything I need to brew the concoction. I dried plenty of herbs during the summer so that I would have enough to last the winter.’

Britta waved her slender white hand dismissively.

‘Do as you please. I need to give birth to a child for my husband or risk bringing misfortune upon us.’

Elin was about to say in that case perhaps it would be a good idea for her to share the marriage bed with him. But she was wise enough to keep quiet. She had seen the consequences of arousing Britta’s ire. For a moment she wondered how a man as kind as Preben could have married someone like Britta. No doubt their father had had a hand in it, eager as he was to see his daughter make a good match.

‘You may go now,’ said Britta, standing up. ‘I am sure there must be countless things you need to attend to before Stake’s envoy arrives. And speak to that girl of yours, or I shall have to let the rod do the talking.’

Elin nodded, though her sister’s threat of beating Märta made her blood boil. So far Britta had not lifted a hand against the girl, but when she did, Elin knew she would not be able to answer for her actions. She would have to impress upon her daughter the importance of heeding her warning not to enter the big house.

Elin went out to the yard and looked around uneasily.

‘Märta?’ she called.

Britta took a dim view of any servant who spoke too loudly. Yet another thing to remember if Elin did not want to fall into disfavour.

‘Märta?’ she called a little louder as she went into the stable.

This was the most likely place to find Märta, but she wasn’t there either. Unfortunately, Elin’s daughter had inherited not only her father’s green eyes, but also his stubbornness. The girl never seemed to listen to her mother’s admonitions.

‘We are here,’ she heard a familiar voice say.

Preben. She stopped abruptly.

‘Come over here, Elin,’ he said kindly from the darkness of the last stall.

‘Yes, come here, Mother,’ said Märta eagerly.

Elin hesitated but then picked up her skirts to avoid soiling the hem with muck from the ground and quickly moved in the direction of their voices.

‘Look, Mother,’ said Märta, awe in her voice.

She was sitting at the very back of an empty stall, holding three kittens on her lap. They looked to be no more than a day old. They were turning their heads back and forth, blind to the world. Next to Märta sat Preben. He too had a lapful of kittens.

‘Truly one of God’s miracles,’ he said, petting a tiny grey kitten.

The creature meowed pitifully, rubbing its head on his sleeve.

‘Here, take one, Mother,’ said Märta, handing Elin a black-and-white spotted kitten that flailed its paws in the air.

Elin hesitated. She looked over her shoulder. Britta would not be pleased to find her and Märta here. And with Preben.

‘Sit down, Elin.’ Preben gave her a small smile. ‘My dear wife is fully occupied with preparations for our grand visitor this evening.’

Still Elin hesitated. But unable to resist the helpless appeal of the black-and-white kitten, she reached out and took it from Märta, then sat down on the straw and set the kitten on her lap.

‘The vicar says I can choose one to be mine, all mine.’

Märta gave Preben a delighted look. Elin glanced at him as well. He was smiling – a smile that reached all the way to his blue eyes.

‘You must baptize the kitten too,’ he said. ‘But as we have agreed, this must be a secret, just between the two of us.’

He held a finger to his lips and gave the girl a solemn look. Märta nodded, her expression equally solemn.

‘I will tell no one. It will be my most precious secret,’ she said, looking at the kittens. ‘That is the one I want.’

She stroked the head of a tiny grey kitten. It was the smallest of the litter. Elin looked over at Preben, trying to shake her head without drawing Märta’s attention. The poor little thing looked so scrawny, she doubted it would survive. But Preben calmly returned her look.

‘Märta has a fine eye for cats,’ he said, scratching the grey kitten behind the ear. ‘I would have made the very same choice.’

Märta gave the vicar a look that Elin had not seen since misfortune had befallen them, and it made her heart ache. Per was the only one who had ever received such looks from Märta. Yet there was something about Preben that reminded her of Per. A kindness in his eyes that was soothing and invited trust.

‘Her name will be Viola,’ said Märta, ‘since violets are my favourite flowers.’

‘A splendid name,’ said Preben.

He looked at Elin. They had to hope the kitten did not turn out to be a male.

‘Märta wants to learn to read,’ said Preben, patting the girl’s blond head. ‘My parish clerk gives the children lessons twice a week.’

‘I do not see what use she would have for that,’ said Elin.

If there was one thing life had taught her, it was that womenfolk did best not to draw attention. Or to entertain great hopes. Disappointment was all they could expect in life.

‘She must be able to read her catechism,’ said Preben, and Elin felt ashamed.

How could she argue with the vicar? If he thought it beneficial or even advisable for her daughter to learn to read, who was she to object?

‘In that case, Märta may attend the lessons,’ said Elin, bowing her head.

She herself had never learned to read. She had managed to handle the repeated catechism questions because she had learned everything by rote.

‘That is decided then,’ said Preben happily, giving Märta one last pat on the head.

He stood up and brushed the straw from his trousers. Elin tried not to look at him. There was something about him that attracted her, and she was ashamed the thought had even entered her mind. Preben was her sister’s husband and the vicar of the church. To feel anything but gratitude and reverence for such a man was a sin, and she deserved God’s punishment.

‘I suppose I had better go in and help Britta with the preparations now, before she runs all the servants ragged,’ he said cheerfully. Then he turned to Märta. ‘Take care of Viola now. You have a good eye for who needs a helping hand.’

‘Thank you,’ said Märta, giving Preben such an adoring look that Elin’s heart melted.

And ached. The longing she felt for Per struck her with such force she had to turn away. Listening to Preben’s retreating footsteps, she banished the memories from her mind. Per was gone. There was nothing to be done about it. She and Märta had only each other now. And Viola.

Chapter Nine

‘This is a very sad day,’ said Patrik, looking around at his colleagues in the conference room.

No one spoke, no one looked at him. He supposed that, like him, they were thinking about their own children. Or grandchildren.

‘Bertil and I are cancelling all leave. As of now, everyone is back on the job,’ he said. ‘I hope you will understand.’

‘I think I speak for everybody here when I say you couldn’t keep us away,’ said Paula.

‘That’s what I thought,’ replied Patrik, moved by his colleagues’ response. Even Mellberg was eager to get to work.

‘So let’s tend to the practical matters first. I know that several of you have children who aren’t in school at the moment.’

He looked at Martin as he said this.

‘Pia’s parents will take care of Tuva while I’m at work.’

‘Good,’ said Patrik.

Since no one else spoke, he assumed that Paula and Annika had also made arrangements at home. The death of a child took priority over everything else. It was all hands on deck, and he knew they had many hours of work ahead of them.

‘Gösta, how are the parents doing?’ asked Patrik, sitting down in a chair next to the whiteboard at the front of the room.

‘As well as could be expected,’ said Gösta, blinking several times. ‘The pastor came over, and I called in the doctor as well. When I left, both parents had been given a sedative to help them sleep.’

‘Do they have any relatives who can come over?’ asked Annika, who had a big family and was used to having lots of people around, lending their support in a crisis.

‘Eva’s parents are dead. Peter’s parents live in Spain, but they’re on a plane as we speak. They should be here in a few hours.’

‘What has Torbjörn told you so far? How is their work coming along?’ asked Martin, reaching for the large Thermos jug that Annika had filled with coffee before the meeting began.

‘The girl’s body is being taken to Gothenburg for the post-mortem,’ said Patrik quietly.

The memory of lifting Nea’s small body out from underneath the tree trunk would stay with him forever. Wild animals had not been able to reach her as she lay there in the hollow, but insects had poured out when they lifted her. Images flashed through his mind in rapid progression; he knew the same sequence would be replayed in his mind every night for the foreseeable future. He had observed many post-mortems in the course of his career, so he was familiar with what went on. All too familiar. He didn’t want to picture the little girl lying naked and exposed on the steel table. He didn’t want to know where Pedersen would make the incisions, how her organs would be removed, how everything that had once given her life would be weighed and measured. He didn’t want to know how the stitches would then form a ‘Y’ on her chest.

‘How did it go at the crime scene?’ Gösta asked. ‘Did they find anything useful?’

Patrik gave a start as he tried to shake off the visions of Nea on the autopsy table.

‘They collected a lot of material, but we don’t know yet how significant it will be.’

‘What sort of things did they find?’ Martin wanted to know.

‘Footprints, though they might be from the three men who found her or the previous search parties. Everyone who took part in the search has been asked to provide footprints. Did any of you search that particular area? If so, we need footprints from you too.’

‘No, none of us was in the area where the girl was found,’ said Gösta, helping himself to a cup of coffee.

‘Okay, footprints. What else?’ asked Paula.

‘I’m not sure. The techs were putting a lot of things in plastic bags, but I won’t know the details until Torbjörn’s report comes in. He doesn’t like to give out any information until he’s had a chance to take a close look at all the collected material.’

Mellberg stood up and went over to the window.

‘Damn, it’s hot in here.’

He tugged at his shirt collar as if he couldn’t breathe. There were big patches of sweat under his arms, and his comb-over had slid down over one ear. He opened the window. The traffic noise was a little intrusive, but no one objected to having fresh air sweep through the stuffy room. Ernst, the station’s dog, had been lying at Mellberg’s feet, panting. Now he got up and padded over to the window to sniff at the air.

‘So Torbjörn didn’t tell you anything?’ asked Paula.

Patrik shook his head. ‘No, we’ll have to wait for his preliminary report. And I need to find out from Pedersen when we can expect the results of the post-mortem. I’m afraid there are other cases ahead of this one, but I’ll talk to him and see what he can do.’

‘You were there at the scene. Did you notice anything?’ Paula persisted. ‘Anything on her body or—’

Martin grimaced.

‘No. And it’s not worth speculating until Pedersen has time to examine her.’

‘Are there any obvious suspects?’ asked Martin, tapping his pen on the table. ‘What do we know about the parents? It wouldn’t be the first time parents killed their own child and then tried to make it look like someone else had done it.’