Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 1 and 2: The Ice Princess, The Preacher. Camilla Lackberg

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      With an effort Patrik detached himself from the sticky bun he had just sunk his teeth into. He had to clean his front teeth with his tongue before he could open his mouth.

      ‘Yes, Mrs Petrén, perhaps you would be so kind as to recount what you said? Is it all right if I turn on the tape recorder, by the way?’

      He pressed the red button on the tape recorder and made sure to chew thoroughly while waiting for her reply.

      ‘Yes, of course you may. Well, it was Friday, the twenty-second of January, at six thirty. And please don’t be so formal. It makes me feel ancient.’

      ‘How can you be so sure of the date and time? It’s been a couple of weeks since then.’

      Patrik took another bite.

      ‘Well, you see, it was my birthday that day, so my son and his family were here. We had cake and they brought me presents. Then they left just before the six-thirty news on channel 4, and that was when I heard a devil of a row outside. I rushed to the window that faces out back and over by the lass’s house, and that’s when I saw him.’

      ‘Anders?’

      ‘Anders the painter, yes. Drunk as a lord he was, standing there yelling like a madman and banging on the door. Finally she let him in and then it was quiet. Well, he may have kept yelling, I don’t know anything about that. It’s impossible to hear what goes on inside these houses.’

      Mrs Petrén noticed that Patrik’s plate was empty, so she pushed over the tray of cinnamon buns to tempt him. He didn’t need a great deal of persuasion. He quickly helped himself to one on top.

      ‘And you’re quite sure, Mrs Petrén, that it was Anders Nilsson? No doubts on that point?’

      ‘Oh no, I’d know that rascal anywhere. He used to come over at all hours, and if he wasn’t here then he’d be down with the drunks on the square. I never did understand what he had to do with Alexandra Wijkner. That girl had class, I have to tell you. Both good-looking and well-brought-up. When she was little she’d often come over for juice and buns. She used to sit right there on the bench, often together with Tore’s little girl, what was her name now …?’

      ‘Erica,’ said Patrik with his mouth full of cinnamon bun, and he felt a tingle in the pit of his stomach just from saying her name.

      ‘Erica, that’s right. She was a nice girl too, but there was something special about Alexandra. She had a radiance about her. But then something happened … she stopped coming by and hardly ever said hello. A couple of months later they moved to Göteborg, and then I didn’t see her until she started coming here on weekends a couple of years ago.’

      ‘Weren’t the Carlgrens ever here during the years in between?’

      ‘No, never. But they kept the house in order. Painters and carpenters would come by, and Vera Nilsson came twice a month to clean.’

      ‘And you have no idea, Mrs Petrén, what happened before the Carlgrens moved to Göteborg, what might have changed Alex, I mean? No fight in the family or anything like that?’

      ‘There were rumours, of course, there always are here, but nothing I’d put much store in. Even though plenty of folks here in Fjällbacka claim to know most of what’s going on with everyone else, one thing you should be clear about: nobody ever knows what goes on inside the four walls of anyone else’s home. That’s why I won’t speculate about it either. It serves no purpose. Look, take another pastry, you still haven’t tasted my meringue dreams.’

      Patrik patted his stomach and found that yes, there was a tiny little nook that he might be able to fill with a meringue dream.

      ‘Did you see anything else after that? Did you notice when Anders Nilsson left, for example?’

      ‘No, I didn’t see him anymore that evening. But I did see him go into the house several times in the following week. That was odd, I must say. From what I heard in town she was already dead by then. So what in all the world could he have been doing in there?’

      That was precisely what Patrik was wondering. Mrs Petrén gave him an inquiring look. ‘So, did you enjoy those?’

      ‘Probably the best pastries I’ve ever tasted, Mrs Petrén. How is it that you can rustle up a tray of pastries just like that? I mean, I didn’t ring more than fifteen minutes before I came here. You would have had to be as fast as Superman to bake all these goodies.’

      She basked in the compliment and tossed her head proudly.

      ‘For thirty years, my husband and I ran the pastry shop here in Fjällbacka, so one hopes one has learned something over the years. Old habits are hard to break, so I still get up at five in the morning and bake every day. What doesn’t go to the kids and old ladies who come to visit, I feed to the birds. And then it’s always fun to try new recipes. There are so many modern baked goods that are so much better than those dry old Finnish pin rolls we used to bake tons of in the old days. I find recipes in the food magazines, and then I modify them to my liking.’

      She gestured at an enormous stack of food magazines on the floor next to the kitchen bench – there was everything from Amelia Mat to Allt om mat, several years’ worth. Judging by the price per issue, Patrik suspected that Mrs Petrén must have saved a pretty penny during her years at the pastry shop. He had a bright idea.

      ‘Do you know whether there was any connection between the Carlgren family and the Lorentz family, besides the fact that Karl-Erik worked for them? Did they ever get together socially, for example?’

      ‘Goodness gracious, the Lorentzes getting together with the Carlgrens? No, my friend, that would only have happened if there were two Thursdays in one week! They didn’t move in the same circles. The fact that Nelly Lorentz – according to what I heard – showed up at the funeral reception at the Carlgrens’ house, I’d have to call that quite a sensation, nothing less!’

      ‘But what about the son? The one who disappeared, I mean. Did he ever have anything to do with the Carlgrens, as far as you know?’

      ‘No, one would hope not. A nasty boy he was. Always trying to nick pastries behind one’s back in the pastry shop. But my husband taught him a lesson when he caught him red-handed. That boy got the scolding of his life. Then, of course, Nelly came rushing over here to tell us off. She threatened to call the police on my husband. Well, he put a stop to that when he told her that there were witnesses to the pilfering, so she could go right ahead and ring the public prosecutor.’

      ‘But no connection to the Carlgrens, as far as you know, then?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘Well, it was just a thought on my part,’ said Patrik. ‘Next to the murder of Alex, Nils’s disappearance is probably the most dramatic thing that’s ever happened here, and one never knows. Sometimes the most interesting coincidences turn up. So, I don’t think I have any other questions, so I’ll just say thanks for the coffee. Tremendously good pastry, I must say. I’ll have to eat salad for a few days.’ He patted his stomach.

      ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have to eat rabbit food. You’re still a growing boy.’

      Patrik chose to accept the compliment, instead of pointing out that at thirty-five only his waistline was still growing. СКАЧАТЬ