The Ice Princess

enough. He forced himself to focus on the stack of papers Annika had placed before him. After quickly leafing through them, he could tell that it was going to take him the rest of the day to read all the material. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and picked up the first article.

Six hours later, he massaged his weary neck and felt his eyes itching and stinging. He had read the articles in chronological order, starting with the oldest newspaper clip first. It was fascinating reading. A lot had been written about Fabian Lorentz and his successes over the years. The great majority of it was positive, and for a long time life seemed to have dealt Fabian a winning hand. The company took off with astonishing speed. Fabian seemed to be a very talented, if not to say a brilliant, businessman. His marriage to Nelly was reported in the society columns with accompanying photos showing the handsome couple in evening attire. Then photos of Nelly and her son Nils began appearing in the papers. Nelly seemed to have been unflagging in her work for various charity and society events, and Nils was always at her side-often with a frightened expression and his hand securely held in his mother’s.

Even when he reached his teens and should have been a bit more reluctant to be seen with his mother in public, he was unfailingly there by her side, now with her arm tucked under his and with a proud expression on his face. Patrik thought he looked extremely proprietary. Fabian was seen less and less often; he was mentioned only when news of some big business deal was reported.

One article was different from the others and caught Patrik’s attention. Allers had a whole feature about Nelly in the mid-seventies when she took in a foster child, a boy who came from a ‘tragic family background’, as the Allers reporter described it. The article showed Nelly, carefully made-up and dressed to the nines in her elegant living room, with her arm around a boy of twelve. He had a defiant and sulky expression on his face. When the picture was snapped he looked as if he were about to shake off her bony arm. Nils, who was then a young man in his mid-twenties, was standing behind his mother, and he wasn’t smiling either. Serious and ramrod straight in a dark suit and slicked-back hair, he seemed to blend into the elegant atmosphere completely, while the younger boy stuck out like a sore thumb.

The article was full of praise about the sacrifice and great social contribution Nelly was making by taking in this child. It was hinted that the boy had been involved in some terrible tragedy in his childhood, a trauma that Nelly was quoted as saying she had helped him overcome. She was confident that the healthy and loving environment they were offering him would heal the boy and turn him into a productive human being. Patrik found himself feeling sorry for the boy. What naivete.

About a year later, the glamorous society photos and enviable ‘at-home-with’ reports were replaced by big black headlines: ‘Heir to Lorentz family fortune missing’. For several weeks the local newspapers trumpeted the news, and it was even considered important enough for the Goteborgs-Posten to report. The eye-catching headlines were accompanied by an abundance of more or less well-founded speculations about what might have happened to young Lorentz. Every conceivable and inconceivable alternative was aired-he had embezzled his father’s entire fortune and was now in an undisclosed location living the life of luxury. Or he had taken his own life because he discovered that he was not actually the son of Fabian Lorentz, who had made it clear that he didn’t intend to let a bastard inherit his considerable fortune. Most of these rumours were not published in so many words, merely intimated discreetly. But anyone who had the least bit of sense could easily read between the lines.

Patrik scratched his head. For the life of him he couldn’t understand how he was going to link a disappearance from twenty-five years ago to the current murder case, but he had a strong feeling that there was a connection.

He rubbed his eyes wearily and continued going through the stack of papers, now nearing the bottom. After a while, with no new information about Nils’s fate, public interest had begun to flag and the disappearance was seldom mentioned anymore. Even Nelly made the society columns only rarely after that; she wasn’t written about even once during the Nineties. Fabian’s death in 1978 had prompted a large obituary in Bhuslaningen, with the usual rhetoric about being a pillar of society, and that was the last time he was mentioned.

Their adopted son Jan, however, was in the papers more and more frequently. After Nils vanished, he became the sole heir to the family business, and when he turned twenty-one he stepped in at once as CEO. The company had continued to flourish under his leadership, and now it was he and his wife Lisa who were constantly written up in the society columns.

Patrik paused. A paper had fluttered to the floor. He bent down to pick it up and began reading with interest. The article was over twenty years old. It provided Patrik with a great deal of interesting information about Jan and his life before he ended up with the Lorentz family. Disturbing information, but fascinating. His life had changed radically when he became part of the Lorentz family. The question was whether Jan himself had changed just as radically.

Patrik resolutely gathered up all the papers and tapped the stack on the desk to even out the edges. He pondered what he should do now. So far he had no more than his-and Erica’s-intuition to go on. He leaned back in his office chair, put his feet up on the desk and clasped his hands behind his head. With his eyes closed, he tried to create some sort of order in his thoughts so he could weigh one alternative against another. Closing his eyes was a mistake. Ever since their dinner on Saturday, all he could see was Erica.

He forced himself to open his eyes and focused instead on the depressing light-green concrete of the wall. The police station was from the early Seventies, and presumably designed by someone who specialized in government institutions, with their predilection for ninety-degree angles, concrete and dirty green paint. He had tried to liven up the office a bit with a couple of potted plants in the window and some framed pictures on the walls. When he was married he had kept a photo of Karin on his desk. Even though the desk had been dusted many times since then, he still thought he could see a mark where it had stood. He obstinately set his pen-holder in that spot and quickly went back to weighing his options. What should he do about the material he had in front of him?

There were really only two courses of action. The first was to investigate this lead on his own, which would mean doing it in his free time. Mellberg always saw to it that his workload was enough to make him run about like a scalded rat all day long. He actually hadn’t managed to look at the articles during work hours, but only because of a rebellious desire to make trouble. He would have to pay for it by working a good part of the evening. He wasn’t very eager to spend the little free time he had doing the work Mellberg had assigned to him, so option two should at least be tried.

If he went to Mellberg and presented the matter the right way, perhaps he could get permission to follow up on these leads during working hours. Mellberg’s vanity was his weak point, and if it was massaged correctly he might be able to win his consent. Patrik was aware that the superintendent viewed the case of Alex Wijkner as a guaranteed return ticket to the Goteborg force. Based on all the rumours he’d heard, Patrik believed that Mellberg had burned all his bridges, but he still might be able to exploit the man’s vanity for his own ends. If he could exaggerate the connection to the Lorentz family a little, perhaps hint that he’d received tips that Jan was the father of Alex’s child, it might get Mellberg to go along with him. Not particularly ethical perhaps, but he felt deep in the pit of his stomach that the connection to Alex’s death could be found in the piles of papers in front of him.

With one fluid motion, he took down his feet from the desk and shoved back the chair so hard that it continued backwards on its wheels and banged into the wall behind him. Patrik picked up all the photocopies and went down to the other end of the bunker-like corridor. Before he could change his mind he pounded hard on Mellberg’s door and thought he heard him say, ‘Come in.’

As always he was shocked at how a man who did absolutely nothing could manage to amass such a huge amount of paper. Stacks of paper covered every inch of his desk. In the window, on all the chairs, and above all on the desk, thick piles of paper were collecting dust. The bookshelf behind the superintendent was sagging with binders, and Patrik wondered how long it had been since the documents had seen the light of day. Mellberg was on the telephone but waved for Patrik to come in. Patrik wondered in amazement what was going on. Mellberg was beaming like a star in the window on Christmas Eve. It’s a good thing his ears are in the way, thought Patrik, or that smile would wrap all the way round his head.

Mellberg’s half of the phone conversation was terse.

‘Yes.

‘Yes, of course.

‘Not at all.

‘Yes, that’s obvious.

‘You did the right thing.