Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 4-6: The Stranger, The Hidden Child, The Drowning. Camilla Lackberg

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СКАЧАТЬ Just a bunch of shit.’

      ‘Do you think this is healthy? To keep filming after a girl was killed? It seems a bit –’

      ‘A bit what?’ said Mehmet. ‘A bit unfeeling? A bit tasteless?’ He raised his voice. ‘And we’re just a bunch of brain-dead cretins who get drunk and fuck on TV and make fools of ourselves. Right? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Did you ever think that it might be a better option than what we have at home? That it’s a chance to escape from something that’s going to catch up with us in the end?’ The words stuck in his throat, and Simon gently pushed him down onto a chair in the back of the bakery.

      ‘What’s all this about, anyway? For you, I mean,’ said Simon, and sat down facing him.

      ‘For me?’ Mehmet’s voice was filled with bitterness. ‘It’s about rebelling. Trampling everything that has any value. Trampling everything to bits until they can’t try to make me glue all the pieces back together.’ He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. Simon ran his hand down Mehmet’s back with soft, rhythmic strokes.

      ‘You don’t want to live the life they want you to live?’

      ‘Yes and no.’ Mehmet raised his eyes and looked at Simon. ‘It’s not that they’re forcing me, or threatening to send me back to Turkey or anything like that. Not the sort of thing you Swedes always think is foremost on the mind of every immigrant. It’s more a matter of expectations. And sacrifices. Mamma and Pappa have sacrificed so much for us, for me. So that we, their children, could have a better life in a country where we have all sorts of opportunities. They left everything behind. Their home, their families, the respect they had from their peers, their professions, everything. Solely so that we could have a better life than they did. For them it only got worse. I can see that. I see the longing in their eyes. I see Turkey in their eyes. That country doesn’t mean the same thing to me. I was born here in Sweden. Turkey is a place we go to in the summertime, but it’s not inside my heart. But I don’t belong here either. Here in this country where I’m supposed to fulfil their dreams, their hopes. I’m not a studious type. My sisters are, but oddly enough I, the son, am not. Yet I’m the bearer of my father’s name. The one who will carry it forward to the next generation. I just want to work. With my hands. I don’t have any great ambitions. It’s enough for me to go home and feel that I’ve done good work with my hands. But my parents refuse to understand. So I have to crush their dream, once and for all. Stamp it out. Until there’s nothing left.’ The tears were streaming down Mehmet’s cheeks, and the warmth he felt from Simon’s hands only intensified the pain. He was so tired of it all. He was so tired of never being good enough. He was so tired of lying about who he was.

      He slowly raised his head. Simon’s face was only a few inches from his own. Simon gave him a questioning look as his warm hands that smelled like fresh bread wiped away Mehmet’s tears. Then Simon gently brushed his lips against his. Mehmet was surprised how right it felt, with Simon’s lips pressed to his. Then he lost himself in a reality that he’d always glimpsed but never dared see.

      ‘I’d like to have a word with Bertil. Is he in?’ said Erling, winking at Annika.

      ‘Go on through,’ she said curtly. ‘You know where his office is.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Erling, winking again. He couldn’t understand why his charm didn’t seem to work on Annika.

      He hurried off to Mellberg’s office and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he knocked again. Now a vague mumbling was heard, followed by what sounded like something being knocked over, then more mumbling. Finally the door opened. Mellberg looked groggy. Behind him a blanket and pillow lay on the sofa. There was also a clear impression left by the pillow on Mellberg’s face.

      ‘Bertil, are you taking a nap in the middle of the morning?’ Erling had given a lot of thought to what sort of attitude he should take with the chief of police, and had decided to start with a light, comradely tone and then transition to a more serious approach. He didn’t usually have much trouble handling Mellberg. Whenever matters landed on his desk that involved the police, he had always secured a painless and smooth cooperation with the help of flattery and an occasional bottle of fine whisky. He saw no reason it should be any different this time.

      ‘Well, you know,’ said Mellberg, looking embarrassed. ‘There’s been a lot going on lately, and it’s rather exhausting.’

      ‘Yes, I understand that you’ve been working hard,’ said Erling. To his surprise he saw a deep blush spread over the chief’s face.

      ‘How can I assist you?’ said Mellberg, pointing to a chair.

      Erling sat down and said with a deeply concerned expression, ‘Well, I just got a phone call from the producer of Sodding Tanum. Evidently some of your officers threatened to shut down the production. I have to say that I was both surprised and dismayed when I heard about it. I thought we’d established good cooperation. So, Bertil, I was very disappointed. Do you have any explanation?’

      Far from looking suitably cowed, the chief stared back at him, making no attempt to reply to the accusation. Erling began to feel uneasy. Maybe he should have brought along a bottle of whisky. Just in case.

      ‘Erling …’ Mellberg said, and his tone of voice gave Erling W. Larson a feeling that maybe he’d gone a bit too far this time. ‘We’re conducting a homicide investigation. In case you had forgotten, a young woman has been brutally murdered. Someone associated with the production has not only withheld important evidence from us but also sold it to the press. Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with my colleagues that the best solution would be to shut the whole thing down.’

      Erling could feel himself starting to sweat. Rehn had omitted to mention this minor detail. This was bad. He stammered, ‘Is it … Is it in today’s paper?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Mellberg. ‘On the front page and then in the centre section of the paper. Extracts from a diary that the murdered woman apparently was keeping, although we didn’t know about it. Someone withheld the information from us. Instead, the individual chose to go to the Evening News and sell the diary.’

      ‘I had no idea,’ said Larson, going over in his mind the conversation he was going to have with Rehn as soon as he left the police station.

      ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t pull the plug on this project this instant.’

      For once, Erling was lost for words. He looked at Mellberg, who chuckled.

      ‘Defenceless at last. I never thought I’d see the day. But I’ll be fair. I know there are plenty of people who enjoy looking at this shit. So we’ll let it continue for a while yet. But at the first sign of trouble …’ Mellberg pointed a threatening finger and Erling nodded gratefully. He’d been lucky. He shuddered at the thought of how humiliating it would have been to stand before the town council and confess that the project couldn’t go on.

      He was on his way out the door when he heard Mellberg say something. He turned round.

      ‘You know, my supply of whisky at home is running low. You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle to spare, would you?’

      Mellberg winked, and Erling gave him a strained smile. He would have liked to ram the bottle down Mellberg’s throat. Instead he heard himself say, ‘Certainly, Bertil, I’ll take care of it.’

      The last thing he saw before the door closed behind him was Mellberg’s satisfied smile.

      ‘Talk СКАЧАТЬ