Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 1-3: The Ice Princess, The Preacher, The Stonecutter
up at the sky. On rare, precious occasions she would take their hands in hers and for a moment it was as if they were one instead of three.
They were careful not to let anyone ever see them together. That would ruin the magic. The spell would be broken and they would no longer be able to keep reality at bay. Reality was something that had to be warded off at all costs. It was ugly and grey and had nothing to do with the sun-drenched dream-world they could construct when they were together. Reality was nothing they ever spoke about. Instead their days were filled with frivolous games and frivolous conversation. Nothing could be taken seriously. Then they could pretend that they were invulnerable, unconquerable, unreachable. Each of them alone was nothing. Together they were the Three Musketeers.
The grown-ups were only peripheral dream creatures, mere extras who moved about in their world without affecting them. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out. They made gestures and faces that supposedly had meaning but seemed stilted and meaningless, taken out of context.
Anders smiled faintly at the memories, but slowly he was forced out of his catatonic dream state. Nature called, and he was once again back in his own anxiety. He got up to take care of the problem.
The toilet was located below a mirror covered with dust and dirt. When he relieved his bladder he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass, and for the first time in many years he saw himself the way other people saw him. His hair was greasy and matted. His face was pale with a sickly grey hue to his skin. Years of neglect had given him a couple of gaps in his front teeth, which made him look decades older than he actually was.
The decision was made without him really being aware of it. As he fumbled to do up his fly, he understood what the next step would have to be. The look in his eyes was resolute when he went into the kitchen. After searching through the drawers he found a big kitchen knife that he wiped off on his trouser leg. Then he went into the living room and began methodically taking down the paintings from the walls. One by one, he lifted down the paintings that were the result of many years’ work. Those he had kept and hung up were only the ones he was most satisfied with. He had thrown out many others because they didn’t really pass muster in his eyes. Now the knife slashed through the canvas of one painting after another. He worked slowly and with a steady hand, slicing the paintings into thin strips until it was impossible to see what they had once depicted. It was surprisingly hard work to cut through the canvases, and when he was done beads of sweat lined his brow. The room looked like a battlefield of colours. Strips of canvas covered the living room floor, and frames gaped empty like toothless gums. He looked around in satisfaction.
‘How do you know that it wasn’t Anders who murdered Alex?’ asked Erica.
‘A girl who lives in the same building as Anders saw him coming home just before seven o’clock, and Alex talked to her mother at quarter past. It would have been impossible for him to make it back there in such a short time. Which means that Dagmar Petrén’s testimony can only tie him to the house while Alex was still alive.’
‘But what about the fingerprints and footprints you found in the bathroom?’
‘Those don’t prove that he murdered her, only that he was in the house after she died. In any case it’s not enough to hold him in custody any longer. Mellberg will no doubt bring him in again; he’s still convinced that Anders is the killer, but for the time being he has to release him, otherwise an attorney could make mincemeat of him. I’ve always thought that something didn’t feel quite right, and this confirms it. Anders is still under suspicion, but there are enough question marks that there’s reason to keep looking.’
‘And that’s why we’re on the way to Alex’s house? What is it you hope to find there?’ asked Erica.
‘I don’t really know. I just feel that I need to get a clearer picture of how things happened.’
‘Birgit said that Alex couldn’t talk to her because she had a visitor. If it wasn’t Anders, then who was it?’
‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?’
Patrik was driving a bit too fast for Erica’s taste. She was holding on tight to the handle over the door. He almost missed the turn-off by the sailing club and turned right at the very last second, which meant he was a hair’s-breadth from taking out a fence as they zipped past.
‘Are you afraid that the house might not be there if we don’t get there fast?’ Erica gave him a wan smile.
‘Oops, sorry. I just got a little excited.’
He slowed down considerably, and on the last bit of road to Alex’s house Erica dared let go of the handle. She still didn’t understand why he wanted her to come along, but she had agreed. It might provide some information for her book.
Outside the door Patrik stopped with a sheepish look on his face.
‘I forgot that I don’t have a key. I’m afraid we won’t be able to get in. Mellberg wouldn’t appreciate it if one of his cops was caught red-handed climbing in through a window.’
Erica gave a deep sigh and bent down to feel under the mat. With a mocking smile she held up the key to Patrik and then opened the door and let him go in first.
Someone had got the furnace started again; the temperature inside was now considerably warmer than outside, and they took off their coats and hung them on the rack by the stairs leading to the top floor.
‘Now what do we do?’ Erica crossed her arms and gave Patrik a questioning look.
‘Some time after quarter past seven, when she was talking to her mother on the phone, Alex ingested a large quantity of sedatives. There was no sign that anyone broke in, so in all probability that means that she had a visit from someone she knew. Someone who then had the opportunity to give her the sedatives. How did this someone manage to do that? Well, they must have had something to eat or drink together.’
Patrik was pacing up and down in the living room as he spoke. Erica sat down on the sofa and watched with interest.
‘Actually,’ he stopped pacing and raised an index finger in the air, ‘the medical examiner was able to tell us what she last ate, based on the contents of her stomach. What did Alexandra eat on the evening of the murder? According to the ME, her stomach contained fish casserole and cider. In the rubbish bin was found an empty packet of Findus fish casserole, and there was an empty cider bottle on the worktop, so that seems to match. What seems a bit strange is that in the fridge there were two large beef fillets, and in the oven there was a frozen potato dish. But the oven was not on, and the potato dish was still raw. There was also a bottle of white wine on the worktop. It was opened, and about five ounces were gone. That corresponds to about one glass.’
Patrik measured the amount between his thumb and index finger.
‘But there was no wine in Alex’s stomach?’ Erica was leaning forward with interest, resting her elbows on her knees.
‘No, precisely. Since she was pregnant she must have drunk cider instead of wine, but the question is, who drank the wine?’
‘Were there any dirty dishes?’
‘Yes, there was a plate, a fork and a knife with remnants of fish casserole on it. There were also two glasses in the sink. One glass was full of fingerprints – Alex’s. But there were no prints on the other glass.’
He stopped pacing and sat down in the easy chair facing Erica, stretching out his long legs and clasping his hands on his stomach.
‘Which must mean that someone wiped off the fingerprints on the glass,’ said Erica.
She was feeling incredibly intelligent as she sat there coming up with deductions, and Patrik was polite enough to try to look as though he hadn’t already thought of all this before.
‘Yes, that’s what it looks like. Since the inside of the glasses had been rinsed out we found no residue of sedative in either of them, but my guess is that Alex drank it in her cider.’
‘But why would she eat fish casserole all alone