on to the bed to weep, she had no idea how those words would continue to haunt her, even into death.
Jessie turned over in bed. Her mother had left for the film shoot before six a.m., and Jessie was enjoying having the house to herself. She stretched out her arms, then sucked in her stomach. It felt wonderfully smooth. Not at all fat and doughy the way it normally did. It was flat and smooth, like Vendela’s.
But eventually she had to exhale, making her stomach bulge out. She removed her hand in disgust. She hated her stomach. She hated her whole body and everything else in her life. The only thing she didn’t hate was Sam. She could still taste his kiss on her lips.
Jessie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She could hear the water lapping below the house. She pushed aside the curtains. Brilliant sunshine again. She hoped Sam would want to go out in the boat today too, in spite of the video he’d shown her.
She’d known kids like Nils, Basse and Vendela all her life, at various schools, in different countries in different parts of the world. She knew what they wanted. And what they were capable of doing.
Yet for some reason they didn’t seem interested in doing anything to her.
Jessie had always known the moment when news about her mother began to spread through a new school. First the smiles, the pride at having the daughter of a film star at their school. But that changed as soon as somebody googled her mother’s name and found out who she was: the murderer who became an actress. Then came the stares. And the whispering. She would never be one of the popular girls – because of the way she looked and because of who she was.
Her mother didn’t understand. For her, attention was always a good thing. No matter how bad the situation was for Jessie at school, she had to hang on in there until her mother started making a new film somewhere else.
It was the same for Sam. What had happened to their mothers thirty years ago hovered like a dark cloud over both of them.
Jessie went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. As usual, there was no food, just bottles of champagne. Eating was never a priority for her mother. She was too concerned about keeping her slim figure to take any interest in food. Jessie survived on the generous monthly allowance her mother gave her, spending most of the money on fast food and sweets.
She ran her hand over the bottles, feeling the cold glass under her fingertips. She took one out of the fridge – it was surprising how heavy it was – and set it on the marble countertop. She had never tasted champagne, but her mother – Marie – drank it all the time.
She tore off the metal wrapper and for several seconds stared at the wire surrounding the cork before she cautiously took it off. She pulled at the cork but didn’t hear the familiar ‘pop’. It seemed to be firmly wedged in the top of the bottle. Jessie glanced around before recalling the way Marie always wrapped a dishtowel around the cork in order to pull it out. Jessie reached for one of the white kitchen towels, then twisted the cork at the same time as she pulled on it. Finally it began to come loose. Another tug and Jessie heard the ‘pop’ as the cork flew out of the bottle.
Foam gushed out, and Jessie hurriedly stepped back to avoid being drenched with champagne. Quickly she poured some of the bubbly into a water glass she found on the counter. Hesitantly she took a sip and then grimaced. It tasted awful. But Marie usually added juice, which probably made it taste better, and she always used proper champagne glasses. Jessie took a tall, slender glass from the cupboard and then found the only container of juice in the fridge. She had no idea how much juice to use, but she filled the glass two-thirds full with champagne before adding peach juice. The concoction threatened to overflow, so Jessie slurped it up. Now it tasted much better. It was actually good.
Jessie put the open bottle back in the fridge along with the juice and then took her glass out to the dock in front of the house. Her mother was going to be away filming all day, so she could do whatever she liked.
She reached for her mobile. Maybe Sam would come over and have some champagne.
‘Knock, knock?’ Erica called through the open door, which was framed by an enormous trellis of pink climbing roses. They smelled marvellous, and she’d spent a few minutes admiring them.
‘Come in!’ said a cheerful voice from somewhere inside, so Erica took off her shoes in the hall and went in.
‘Oh my, is that really you?’ said a woman in her sixties when she saw Erica. She was holding a dishtowel in one hand and a plate in the other.
Erica always felt strange when people recognized her even though they’d never met. The success of her books had made her somewhat of a celebrity, and occasionally she was even stopped on the street by someone wanting to take her picture or ask for an autograph.
‘Hi. Yes, I’m Erica Falck,’ she said, shaking hands with the woman.
‘Viola,’ said the woman, giving her a big smile.
She had a delicate network of laughter lines at her eyes, revealing that she smiled often.
‘Do you have a few minutes?’ asked Erica. ‘I’m working on a book about one of your father’s old cases, and since he’s no longer with us—’
‘You thought you’d find out what I know,’ Viola interjected, smiling again. ‘Come in. I was just making a fresh pot of coffee. And I think I know which case you’re talking about.’
Viola led the way to the kitchen, which was off the hallway. A bright and airy room with watercolour paintings on the walls offering spots of colour. Erica paused to admire one of the paintings. She didn’t know much about art, nor was she particularly interested, but it was clear the artist was talented and she felt drawn to the image.
‘What lovely paintings,’ she said, looking at them one after the other.
‘Thank you,’ said Viola, blushing. ‘It has long been a hobby of mine, but recently I’ve started exhibiting a few of them. And it turns out people actually want to buy my work. I have a show on Friday at Stora Hotel, if you’d like to come.’
‘I may just do that. I can see why people like them. They’re wonderful,’ said Erica as she sat down at the big white kitchen table which was positioned in front of a huge mullioned window.
She loved old windows. There was something about the irregularity of the glass that made them seem much more alive than modern factory-made windows.
‘Milk?’ asked Viola, and Erica nodded.
‘Please.’
Viola brought over a sponge cake from the counter and cut two thick slices. Erica could feel her mouth watering.
‘I assume you want to talk about my father’s investigation into little Stella’s murder,’ said Viola as she sat down across from Erica.
‘Yes. I’m writing about the case, and your father Leif is an important piece of the puzzle.’
‘It’s been nearly fifteen years since Pappa died. I suppose you know that he committed suicide. It was a terrible shock, even though we should have known it might happen. He’d been terribly depressed ever since our mother passed away from lung cancer. He said he no longer had any reason to live. But I remember that up until his death he talked a lot about that particular case.’
‘Do you recall what he said?’
Erica resisted the impulse to close her eyes out of sheer pleasure as she took a big bite of sponge cake. The butter and sugar melted in her mouth.
‘It was so long ago, I can’t remember the details. Maybe they’ll come back to me if I give it some thought. But I do remember that the case bothered him. He was starting to have doubts.’
‘Doubts