explained that it had turned out to be a suicide note, and then he gave an account of what he’d done yesterday and why. Patrik then summed it all up for an unusually quiet Mellberg.
‘So one of our murders has turned out to be a suicide, and as for the other, we still have no idea who did it or why. I have a feeling that it has something to do with what Alexandra’s parents told me, but I have absolutely no evidence or actual facts to support that theory. So now you know everything that I know. Do you have any ideas about how to proceed?’
After another moment of silence, Mellberg managed to regain his composure. ‘Well, that was certainly an amazing story. I would have put my money on that guy she was screwing, rather than a rehash of some old incident from twenty-five years ago. I suggest you talk to Alex’s lover boy and tighten the thumb-screws a little extra this time around. I think that would prove to be a considerably better use of our resources.’
As soon as Patrik told him who the child’s father was, Mellberg had moved Dan up to the top of the list of suspects.
Patrik nodded, a bit too willingly in Mellberg’s suspicious mind, and stood up to go.
‘Oh, uh, good job, Hedstrom,’ Mellberg said reluctantly. ‘Are you following up on that now?’
‘Absolutely, Chief, consider it done.’
Did he catch a trace of sarcasm there? But Patrik looked at him with an innocent expression and Mellberg waved off the suspicion. The fellow probably had enough sense between his ears to recognize the voice of experience when he heard it.
The purpose of a yawn was to get more oxygen to the brain. Patrik was very doubtful whether it was doing him any good. The fatigue from the night he’d spent at home tossing and turning had caught up with him, and sleeping with Erica had been vetoed by a majority decision. He looked wearily at the by now familiar piles of paper on his desk and had to quell an impulse to take all the documents and toss them in the wastebasket. He was sincerely sick of this whole investigation by now. It felt as if months had passed, while actually it had been no more than two weeks. So much had happened and yet he hadn’t made any progress. Annika went past his office and saw him rubbing his eyes. She came back with a much-needed cup of coffee and set it in front of him.
‘Feeling bogged down?’
‘Yes, I have to admit that it’s a little rough going just now. But all I have to do is start over from the beginning. Somewhere in these stacks of paper is the answer, I know it. All I need is a tiny little lead that I missed before.’ He tossed his pencil on top of the piles in resignation.
‘Anything else?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, how’s life, apart from the job? You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, Annika, I know exactly what you mean. What do you want to know?’
‘Is it still bingo?’
Patrik wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, but against his better judgement he asked anyway. ‘Bingo?’
‘Yes, you know. Five in a row…’ Then she left, shutting the door with a mischievous smile on her lips.
Patrik chuckled to himself. Yes, you could probably call it that.
He forced his thoughts back to the task at hand and scratched his head meditatively with a pencil. There was something that didn’t fit. Something that Vera had said just didn’t seem right. He took out the notebook he’d been writing in during their conversation and went through his notes methodically, word for word. An idea was slowly forming. It was only a small detail, but it might be important. He pulled out a sheet of paper from one of the piles on his desk. The impression of chaos was deceptive. He knew precisely where everything was.
He read over this item with great meticulousness and circumspection, and then reached for the telephone.
‘Yes, hello, this is Patrik Hedstrom from the police in Tanumshede. I was wondering if you’ll be home for a while, I have a few questions. You will be? That’s great, then I’ll be over there in twenty minutes. Where exactly do you live? Just on the way into Fjallbacka. Take a right just after the steep hill and it’s the third house on the left. A red house with white trim? Okay, I should be able to find it. Otherwise I’ll call you back. See you soon.’
Scarcely twenty minutes later Patrik stood outside the door. He’d had no problem finding the little house, where he guessed that Eilert had lived for many, many years with his family. When he knocked on the door it was opened almost at once by a woman with a pinched-looking face. She introduced herself effusively as Svea Berg, Eilert’s wife, and showed him into a small living room. Patrik could see that his call had triggered feverish activity. The good china was on the dining-room table, and seven kinds of pastry were piled on a tall three-level cake plate. This case was going to give him a real spare tyre by the time it was over, Patrik sighed to himself.
Even though he instinctively took a dislike to Svea Berg, he instantly liked her husband when he encountered a pair of lively, clear-blue eyes above a firm handshake. He could feel the calluses on Eilert’s hand and knew that this was a man who had worked hard his whole life.
The sofa cover looked wrinkled when Eilert got up, and with a deep frown Svea was there to smooth it out with a reproachful glance at her husband. The whole house was squeaky clean, without a wrinkle, and it was hard to believe that anyone actually lived in the place. Patrik felt sorry for Eilert. He looked lost in his own home.
The effect turned almost comical when Svea quickly alternated between the ingratiating smile when she was facing Patrik to the reproachful grimace when she turned to her husband. Patrik wondered what it was her husband had done to bring on such disapproval. He suspected that Eilert’s mere presence was a source of vexation for Svea.
‘Well, Constable, take a seat and have some coffee and cakes.’
Patrik sat down obediently on the chair facing the window, and Eilert made a move to sit on the chair across from him.
‘Not there, Eilert, you know that. Sit over there.’
Svea pointed dictatorially to the chair at the head of the table, and Eilert obeyed politely. Patrik looked around as Svea dashed about like a lost soul, pouring coffee as she simultaneously smoothed out invisible wrinkles in the tablecloth and curtains. The home had apparently been decorated by someone who wanted to give the appearance of a prosperity that did not exist. Everything was a bad copy of the real thing, from the curtains that were supposed to look like silk with plenty of flounces and rosettes in a ‘progressive’ design to the plethora of knick-knacks made of silver plate and imitation gold. Eilert looked like a fish out of water in all this simulated pomp.
To Patrik’s frustration, it took a while before he could get on to his actual business. Svea babbled incessantly as she slurped loudly from her coffee cup.
‘This coffee service, you understand, was sent to me by my sister in America. She married a wealthy man there and she’s always sending me such fine presents. It’s very expensive, this service.’
She raised her elegantly decorated coffee cup with great ostentation. Patrik was rather sceptical of the value of the service, but wisely chose not to comment.
‘Yes, I would have gone to America as well, if I weren’t always in such delicate health. If it hadn’t been for that, I probably would have married a rich man there too, instead of sitting in this hovel for fifty years.’
Svea cast an accusatory eye at Eilert, who calmly let the comment pass. It was undoubtedly a tune he’d heard many times before.
‘It’s gout, the constable should know. My joints are all used up, and I’m in pain from morning till night. It’s lucky I’m not the type to complain. With my terrible migraines as well, there would be plenty to complain about, but it’s not in my nature to complain, you understand. No, one must bear one’s afflictions with equanimity, as they say. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard, “How strong you are, Svea, going on day in and day out with your infirmities.” But that’s the way I am.’
She modestly lowered her eyelids as she made a great show of wringing her hands, which in Patrik’s layman’s eyes looked anything but gout-ridden. What a damned harpy, he thought. Painted and dolled up with far too much cheap jewellery and a thick layer of make-up. The only positive thing he could say about her appearance was that at least it matched the decor. How on earth could such a mismatched couple as Eilert and Svea have stayed married for fifty years? But he assumed it was a generational thing. Their generation got divorced only for considerably worse reasons than mutual differences, But it was a shame. Eilert couldn’t have had much fun in his life.
Patrik cleared his throat to interrupt Svea’s torrent of words. She obediently fell silent, and her eyes hung on his lips to hear what exciting news he might come out with. The gossip grapevine was going to start up as soon as he stepped out the door.
‘Well, I have a few questions about the days before you found Alexandra Wijkner’s body. When you were there
