It didn't surprise Patrik that Bengtsson knew how a dead body would react to the effect of the sea. All the old-timers knew that a body first sank, then slowly came up to the surface after it was filled with gases, until finally, after more time passed, it sank back into the deep. In the old days drowning had been a real risk for a fisherman, and Bengtsson had surely been out searching for unfortunate victims before.
As if to confirm this the lobsterman said, 'She couldn't have been down there long. She hadn't begun to float yet.'
Patrik nodded. 'You said that when you called in the report. Well, I suppose we'd better have a look.'
Martin and Patrik walked very slowly out to the end of the wharf where the boat was moored. Not until they were almost there did they have enough of a view over the rail to discern what was lying on the deck. The girl had landed on her back when the old man pulled her into the boat, and her wet, tangled hair covered most of her face.
'The ambulance is here,' said Patrik.
Martin nodded feebly. His freckles and reddish-blond hair seemed several shades redder against his white face, and he was fighting to keep his nausea in check.
The greyness of the weather and the wind that had begun to gust created a ghastly backdrop. Patrik waved to the ambulance team, who seemed in no hurry to unload a gurney from the vehicle and roll it towards them.
'Drowning accident?' The first of the two EMTs nodded inquiringly towards the boat.
'Looks like it,' replied Patrik. 'But the Medical Examiner will have to make that call. There's nothing you can do for her, in any case, besides transporting her.'
'No, we heard that,' said the man. 'We'll start by getting her up on the gurney.'
Patrik nodded. He had always thought that situations in which children had fallen victim to misfortune were the worst things a police officer could encounter on the job. Ever since Maja was born the discomfort he felt seemed multiplied a thousandfold. Now his heart ached at the thought of the task that lay before them. As soon as the girl had been identified they would have to destroy her parents' lives.
The medics had hopped down into the boat. They carefully picked the girl up and lifted her onto the wharf. Her wet red hair fell on the planking like a fan around her pale face, and her glazed eyes seemed to be watching the scudding grey clouds.
At first Patrik had turned away, but now he reluctantly looked down at the girl. Then a cold hand gripped his heart.
'Oh no, oh no, Jesus God.'
Martin looked at him in dismay. Then it dawned on him what Patrik meant. 'You know who she is?'
Patrik nodded mutely.
STROMSTAD 1923
Agnes never would have dared to say it out loud, but sometimes she thought it was lucky that her mother had died when she was born. That way she'd had her father all to herself, and considering what she'd heard about her mother, she wouldn't have been able to wrap her round her little finger so easily. But her father didn't have the heart to deny his motherless daughter anything. Agnes was well aware of this fact and exploited it to the utmost. Certain well-meaning relatives and friends had tried to point this out to her father, but even if he made half-hearted attempts to say no to his darling, sooner or later her lovely face won out. Those big eyes of hers could so easily well up with heavy tears that would run down her cheeks. When things reached that point, his heart would relent, and she usually got what she wanted.
As a result she was now, at the age of nineteen, an exceptionally spoiled girl. Many of the people who had known her over the years would probably venture to say that she had quite a nasty side to her. It was mostly girls who dared say that. The boys, Agnes had discovered, seldom looked further than at her beautiful face, big eyes, and long, thick hair, all of which had made her father give her anything she wanted.
Their villa in Stromstad was one of the grandest in town. It stood high up on the hill, with a view over the water. It had been paid for partly with her mother's inherited fortune and partly with I he money her father had made in the granite business. He had been close to losing everything once, during the strike of 1914, when to a man the stonecutters rose up against the big companies. But order was eventually restored; after the war, business had begun flourishing anew. The quarry in Krokstrand outside Stromstad, in particular, began pulling in big profits with deliveries primarily to France.
Agnes didn't care much about where the money came from. She was born rich and had always lived as rich people do. It made no difference whether the money was inherited or earned, as long as she could buy jewellery and fine clothes. She knew that not everyone viewed things this way. Her mother's parents had been horrified when their daughter married Agnes's father. His wealth was newly acquired, and his parents had been poor folk. They didn't fit in at big dinner parties; they were only invited when no one outside the immediate family was present. Even these gatherings were embarrassing. The poor things had no idea how to behave in the finer salons, and their contributions to the conversation were hopelessly meagre. Agnes's maternal grandparents had never understood what their daughter could see in August Stjernkvist, or rather Persson, which was his surname at birth. His attempt to move up the social ladder by simply changing his last name was nothing that could fool them. But they were enchanted with their granddaughter, and they competed with her father in spoiling Agnes after her mother died so suddenly after giving birth.
'Sweetheart, I'm driving down to the office.'
Agnes turned round when her father came into the room. She had been playing the grand piano that stood facing the window, mostly because she knew how lovely she looked sitting there. Musicality was not her strong point. Despite the expensive piano lessons she had taken since she was little, she could only struggle passably through the sheet music on the stand in front of her.
'Father, have you thought about that dress I showed you the other day?' She gave him an entreating look and saw how he was torn, as usual, between his desire to say no and his inability to do so.
'My dear, I just bought you a new dress in Oslo…'
'But it had a quilted lining, Father. You can't expect me to wear a dress with a quilted lining to the party on Saturday, when it's so warm outside, can you?'
She gave him a vexed frown and waited for his reaction. If contrary to habit he put up more resistance, she would have to make her lip quiver, and if that didn't help, well, a few tears usually did the trick. But today he looked tired, and she didn't think it would take any more effort on her part. As usual she was correct.
'Yes, all right, run down to the shop tomorrow and order it, then. But you're going to give your old father grey hair one day.' He shook his head but couldn't help smiling when she bounded over to him and kissed him on the cheek.
'Now look,' he said, 'you'd better sit down and practice your scales. It's possible that they might ask you to play a little on Saturday, so you'd better be prepared.'
Satisfied, Agnes sat back down on the piano bench and obediently began practising. She could already picture the scene. Everyone's eyes would be fixed on her as she sat at the piano in the flickering candlelight, wearing her new red dress.
The migraine was finally beginning to subside. The iron band across her forehead was gradually releasing its grip, and she could cautiously open her eyes. It was quiet upstairs. Good.
