The Ice Princess (15 page)

‘Are you crazy?’ Dan just stared at her, gaping. ‘What the hell business is it of yours? It’s the police’s job to figure out who murdered Alex.’ His voice climbed to a falsetto.

‘Yes, I know. You don’t have to shout, there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. I’m fully aware that it’s really none of my business, but first of all, I’ve already been involved through her family, and second, we were actually very close at one time, and third, I’m having a hard time forgetting about the whole thing since I was the one who found her.’

Erica omitted telling Dan about the book. Somehow it always sounded more crass and cold-blooded when she said it out loud. She also thought that Dan was over-reacting, but he had always been incredibly solicitous of her. She had to admit that it didn’t sound awfully smart to be running around in Alex’s house, considering the circumstances.

‘Erica, promise me you’ll drop all this.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to face him. His clear eyes were unusually steely for Dan.

‘I don’t want anything to happen to you, and if you keep poking about in this I’m afraid you’re going to get in over your head. Let it go.’

Dan’s grip on her shoulders tightened as he stared into her eyes. Erica opened her mouth to reply, dismayed at Dan’s reaction, but before she could say anything she heard Pernilla’s voice from up on the wharf.

‘So, the two of you are having a cosy time, I see.’

Her voice had a coldness that Erica had never heard before. Her eyes were flashing and she kept clenching and unclenching her hands. Both of them had frozen at the sound of Pernilla’s voice; Dan’s hands were still on Erica’s shoulders. Like lightning, as if he’d burned himself, he snatched his hands away and stood at attention.

‘Hello, dear. Did you finish early today? Erica just came by with a little lunch and wanted to talk for a while.’

Dan jabbered on frenetically and Erica looked back and forth between him and Pernilla in astonishment. Erica hardly recognized her. Pernilla gave her a look of pure hatred. Her hands were clenched so hard that her knuckles turned white, and for an instant Erica wondered if she was going to attack her. She didn’t know what was going on. It had been years and years since they’d cleared the air about her and Dan. Pernilla knew that they no longer had feelings for each other, or at least Erica thought she knew. Now she was no longer sure. The question was, what had brought on this reaction? She looked back and forth from Dan to Pernilla. A silent power struggle was going on, and Dan seemed to be losing. There was nothing more for Erica to say, and she decided it would be best to slip away quietly and let them handle it on their own.

She hastily gathered up the cups and thermos and put them back in the basket. When she walked down the wharf, she could hear Dan and Pernilla’s agitated voices breaking through the silence.

He was indescribably lonely. The world was empty and cold without her, and there was nothing he could do to thaw the cold. The pain had been easier to bear when he could share it with her. After she vanished it was as if he had to endure both their pain, and it was more than he thought he could bear. He dragged himself through the days minute by minute, second by second. Reality outside him did not exist; all he had was the consciousness that she was gone forever
.

The guilt could be divided up into equal bits and portioned out among the guilty. He did not intend to bear it all alone. He had never intended to bear it alone
.

He looked at his hands. How he hated his hands. They carried both beauty and death - an incompatibility duality that he had learned to live with. Only when he caressed her had his hands been entirely good. His skin against her skin had driven away all the evil, forced it to flee for a while. At the same time they had nourished each other’s hidden wish. Love and death, hatred and life. Opposites that turned them into moths flying in circles closer and closer to the flame. She was burned first
.

He felt the heat from the fire on the back of his neck. It was close now
.

She was tired. Tired of cleaning up other people’s filth. Tired of her joyless existence. One day followed another with no differentiation. She was tired of bearing the guilt that weighed her down day in and day out. Tired of waking up each morning and going to bed each night and wondering how Anders was doing.

Vera put the coffee on the stove to boil. The ticking of the kitchen clock was the only sound to be heard. She sat down at the kitchen table to wait for the coffee to be ready.

She had spent today cleaning at the Lorentz family’s house. The house was so big that it took all day. Sometimes she missed the old days. Missed the security of going to the same place to work, the status that went along with being the housekeeper for the wealthiest family in northern Bohuslän. But she didn’t always feel that way. Most often she was glad that she didn’t have to go there every day. That she no longer needed to bow and scrape to Nelly Lorentz. The woman she hated beyond all rhyme and reason. And yet Vera had continued to work for her, year in and year out, until time finally caught up with her. Housekeepers went out of style. For over thirty years, she had lowered her eyes and muttered ‘yes, thank you, Mrs Lorentz, certainly, Mrs Lorentz, right away, Mrs Lorentz,’ at the same time as she repressed a desire to put her strong hands around Nelly’s frail neck and squeeze until that woman breathed no more. Sometimes the desire had been so overwhelming that she hid her hands underneath her apron so that Nelly wouldn’t see how they shook.

The kettle whistled to signal that the coffee was ready. With an effort Vera got up and straightened her back before she took out a battered old cup and poured the coffee. The cup was the last remnant of the wedding service they had received from Arvid’s parents when they got married. It was fine Danish porcelain. A white background with blue flowers that had scarcely lost any colour at all over the years. Now this cup was the only piece left. When Arvid was alive they had used the dishes as their good porcelain, but after his death it didn’t seem to make much sense to distinguish between the everyday and special occasions. Normal wear and tear had taken their toll over the years, and the rest Anders had smashed during an attack of delirium more than ten years ago. This last cup was her most prized possession.

She sipped the coffee with pleasure. When there were just a few drops left, she poured the coffee into the saucer and drank it with a lump of sugar between her teeth so the coffee filtered through. Her legs were tired and sore after a whole day of cleaning; she had propped them up on the chair in front of her for a little relief.

The house was small and simple. Here she had lived for almost forty years, and here she intended to stay until the day she died. It wasn’t actually very practical. The house stood high up on a steep hill, and she often had to stop and catch her breath several times on her way home. It was also much the worse for wear and looked shabby and run-down both inside and out. The location was good enough that she could get a pretty penny if she sold the house and moved into a flat instead, but the thought had never entered her mind. She would rather it rot away around her than move. Here she had lived with Arvid, after all, those few happy years of their marriage. In that bed in the bedroom she had slept outside her parents’ house for the first time. Her wedding night. In that same bed Anders had been conceived. And when she was very pregnant and couldn’t lie in any other position but on her side, Arvid had crept close to her and lain behind her back, caressing her belly. In her ear he had whispered words about how their life together was going to be. About all the children who would grow up in their house. All the happy laughter that would fill this house in the years to come. And when they grew old and the children had moved out, they would sit in their rocking chairs in front of the fireplace and talk about what a wonderful life they’d had together. They were in their twenties back then, incapable of imagining what was waiting for them beyond the horizon.

It was at this kitchen table she’d been sitting when she got the news. Constable Pohl had knocked on the front door with his cap in hand, and as soon as she saw him she knew what was coming. She had held her finger to her lips to stop him from speaking, and instead motioned him to come into the kitchen. She waddled after him, in her ninth month of pregnancy, and slowly and methodically made a pot of coffee. As they waited for the coffee to boil, she had sat staring at the man across the table. He, for his part, could not look at her. Instead, he let his eyes wander around the walls as he compulsively tugged at his collar. Not until they each had a cup of steaming hot coffee before them did she gesture to the constable to continue. She herself had not yet uttered a word. She listened to a humming sound in her head that grew louder and louder. She saw the constable’s mouth moving, but not a word penetrated the cacophony in her head. She didn’t need to hear. She knew that Arvid now was on the bottom of the sea, swaying in time with the seaweed. No words could change that. No words could chase away the clouds that now gathered in the sky until all that was visible was a murky grey.

Vera sighed as she sat now at the kitchen table, many years later. Others who had lost loved ones said that the image of them faded as the years passed. For her it had been just the opposite. The image of Arvid grew clearer and clearer; sometimes she saw him so clearly before her that the pain felt like an iron band round her heart. The fact that Anders was the spitting image of Arvid was both a curse and a blessing. She knew that if Arvid had lived, the evil never would have happened. He had been her strength; with him beside her she could have been as strong as she should have been.

Vera gave a start when the telephone rang. She had been deeply immersed in old memories and didn’t like being disturbed by the shrill ring of the phone. She had to lift her legs down from the chair where they had gone to sleep. Then she hobbled to the phone that was out in the hall.

‘Mamma, it’s me.’

Anders was slurring his words, and from years of experience she knew precisely what stage of intoxication he was in. About halfway to passing out. She sighed.

‘Hello, Anders. How’s it going?’

He ignored the question. She’d had countless conversations like this.

Vera could see herself in the hall mirror as she stood with the receiver to her ear. The mirror was old and worn, with dark spots on the glass; she thought how much she was like that mirror. Her hair was shabby and grey, with its original dark colour still visible here and there. She always combed her hair straight back and cut it herself with nail scissors in front of the bathroom mirror. No sense throwing money away on a hairdresser. Her face was furrowed and wrinkled with years of worry. Her clothes matched her appearance: almost colourless but practical, most often grey or green. Many years of hard work and a lack of interest in food had prevented her from becoming stout like many other women her age. Instead she looked wiry and strong. Like a work horse.

She suddenly registered what Anders was saying on the other end of the line and looked away from the mirror in shock.

‘Mamma, there are police cars outside. It’s a hell of an escort. It must be me they’re after. It has to be. What the hell should I do?’

Vera heard his voice getting more frantic; his panic was rising with each syllable. An icy cold spread through her body. In the mirror she saw that she was holding the phone with white knuckles.

‘Don’t do anything, Anders. Just wait there. I’m coming.’

‘Okay, but hurry for God’s sake. This isn’t the usual way the cops arrive, Mamma, they usually come in one car. Now there are three cars outside with all their blue lights and sirens going. Damn…’

‘Anders, listen to me now. Take a deep breath and calm down. I’m going to hang up now and I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

She could hear that she’d managed to calm him a little, but as soon as she hung up she threw on her coat and ran out the door, not bothering to lock it.

She ran across the car park beyond the old taxi stand and took the short-cut behind the loading dock of Eva’s Foods. She had to slow down after that, and it took her almost ten minutes to reach the block of flats where Anders lived.

She got there in time to see two husky policemen lead him away in handcuffs. A shriek surged up in her chest, but she forced it back when she saw all the neighbours hanging out their windows like snooping vultures. There was no way she was going to give them more of a show than what they had already witnessed. Her pride was all she had left. Vera hated the gossip that she knew clung to her and Anders like chewing-gum. There was always a lot of whispering going on, and now it would gather speed. She knew what they were going to say: ‘Poor Vera, first her husband drowns and then her son ruins his life with booze. And she’s such a dependable person.’ Yes, she knew exactly what they were going to say. But she also knew that she would do everything in her power to limit the damage. She just couldn’t break down now. Then everything would collapse like a house of cards. Vera turned to the closest police officer, a small blonde woman Vera thought looked ill-suited to the severe police uniform. She still hadn’t got used to the newfangled arrangement that women could apparently do any job they liked.

‘I’m Anders Nilsson’s mother. What’s happening here? Where are you taking him?’

‘Unfortunately I can’t give you any information. You’ll have to check with the police station in Tanumshede. They’re taking him there under arrest.’

Her heart sank with every word. She understood that it wasn’t about a drunken fight this time. The police cars began driving off one by one. In the last one she saw Anders sitting between two officers. He turned round as they pulled away and looked at her until they drove out of sight.

Patrik saw the car with Anders Nilsson drive off in the direction of Tanumshede. The massive police presence had been a little overdone, he thought. But Mellberg wanted a show, so there was a show. Extra resources from Uddevalla had been called in to assist in the arrest. In Patrik’s opinion the only result was that, of the six men present, it was a waste of time for at least four of them.

A woman was still standing in the car park, gazing after the police cars.

‘The perp’s mother,’ said senior constable Lena Waltin from the Uddevalla police, who had also stayed behind to help Patrik search Anders Nilsson’s flat.

‘You know better, Lena—he’s not a “perp” before he’s found guilty and convicted. Until then he’s just as innocent as the rest of us.’

‘I sure as hell doubt that. I’d bet a year’s salary that he’s guilty.’

‘If you’re so sure, then you would bet more than such a negligible sum.’

‘Ha ha, very funny. Joking with a cop about salary is like tripping a cripple, for God’s sake.’

Patrik had to agree. ‘No, there’s probably not much to expect. Shall we go up?’

He saw that Anders’s mother was still standing there gazing after the squad cars, even though they had long since disappeared from view. He felt genuinely sorry for her and considered for a moment going over to offer some words of solace. But Lena pulled on his sleeve and motioned towards the entrance to the building. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders and followed her inside to execute the search warrant.

They tried the door to Anders Nilsson’s flat. It was unlocked and they could walk straight into the hall. Patrik looked around and sighed for the second time in a minute. The flat was in sad shape, and he wondered how they would ever find anything of value in this mess. They stepped over empty bottles in the hall and surveyed the living room and kitchen.

‘Damn.’ Lena shook her head in disgust.

They took thin plastic gloves out of their pockets and pulled them on. In silent agreement, Patrik started in the living room while Lena took the kitchen.

It was a slightly schizophrenic feeling to be in Anders Nilsson’s living room. Filthy, filled with trash, and with an almost total lack of furniture and personal objects, it looked like a classic crash pad for a drunk. And Patrik had seen plenty of those during his years on the force. But he had never been inside a drunk’s flat where the walls were covered with art. The paintings were so close together that they completely filled the walls, from three feet above the floor all the way to the ceiling. It was an explosion of colour that made Patrik’s eyes hurt, and he had to stifle an impulse to put up his hand to shield them. The paintings were abstract, painted only in warm colours, and they struck Patrik like a kick in the stomach. The feeling was so physical that he had to fight to stand upright. He had to force himself to turn away from the paintings because they seemed to be jumping off the walls at him.

Cautiously he began looking through Anders’s things. There wasn’t that much to look at. For a moment Patrik felt very grateful for the privileged life he led in comparison. His own problems all at once seemed very small. It fascinated him that the human will to survive was so strong that despite the complete absence of any quality of life, one still chose to go on, day after day, year after year. Was there any cause for rejoicing left in a life like Anders Nilsson’s? Did he ever experience the emotions that made life worth living: joy, anticipation, happiness, elation? Or was everything merely a stop on the way to the next shot of alcohol?

Patrik went through everything in the living room. He felt the mattress to see if anything was hidden inside, pulled out the drawers in the only cabinet and checked underneath. He carefully unhooked all the paintings one by one and looked behind them. Nothing. Absolutely nothing aroused his interest. He went out to the kitchen to see whether Lena had had better luck.

‘What a pig sty. How the hell can anybody live like this?’

With a disgusted expression she went through the contents of a rubbish bin that she emptied onto a newspaper.

‘Have you found anything interesting?’ Patrik asked.

‘Yes and no. I found some receipts in the trash. The list of calls on the telephone bill might be something to look at more closely. Otherwise the rest just seems to be garbage.’ She pulled off her plastic gloves with a snap. ‘What do you say? Should we call it a day?’