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

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      Mellberg felt extremely pleased with himself. He was convinced that Anders was the killer, and if he just pushed hard enough on the right buttons he would undoubtedly get a confession out of him. No doubt about it. Then Göteborg would beg and plead for him to come back to the force. They would probably try to tempt him with a promotion and a higher salary if he kept them on the hook for a while. He rubbed his belly in pleasure and only now noticed that Anders was staring at him wide-eyed. His face was white, empty of all blood. His hands were twitching in spasms. When Anders raised his head and for the first time looked straight at Mellberg, the superintendent saw that his lower lip was quivering and his eyes were full of tears.

      ‘You’re lying! She couldn’t have been pregnant!’ Snot was dripping from his nose, and Anders wiped it on his sleeve. He gave Mellberg an almost imploring look.

      ‘What do you mean? Condoms aren’t a hundred per cent safe, you know. She was in her third month, so don’t try to get all dramatic on me. She was knocked up and you know very well how it happened. Whether it was you or her high-class husband who delivered the goods, well, we’ll never know, will we? It’s a man’s curse, I have to tell you. I’ve been close to getting nailed a few times, but no fucking bitch has ever got me to sign any papers.’ Mellberg chuckled.

      ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but we hadn’t had sex in over four months. Now I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Take me back to my cell, because I don’t intend to say another word.’

      Anders gave a big snuffle and the tears kept threatening to spill over. He leaned back in the chair with his arms crossed and glared spitefully from under his mop of hair at Mellberg, who heaved a deep sigh but acquiesced.

      ‘All right, we’ll continue in a couple of hours. And just so you know – I don’t believe a fucking word of what you’re saying! Go think about that while you sit in your cell. The next time we talk I want a complete confession from you.’

      He remained sitting there for a while after Anders was led away to his cell. The stinking drunk hadn’t confessed. Mellberg thought it was utterly incredible. But his trump card was still unplayed and intact. The last time Alexandra Wijkner had been heard alive was at a quarter past seven on Friday, January twenty-second, exactly one week before she was found dead. On that occasion she had talked to her mother on the phone for five minutes and fifty seconds, according to Telia, the phone company. That also matched the time-frame indicated by the medical examiner. Thanks to the neighbour, Dagmar Petrén, he had testimony that Anders Nilsson visited the victim not only on that very evening, just after six-thirty, but that he was also seen going into the house on several occasions during the following week. And by that time Alexandra Wijkner lay dead in the bathtub.

      A confession would have made Mellberg’s work considerably easier, but even if Anders turned out to be obstinate, Mellberg felt sure that he would be able to get a conviction. Not only did he have the testimony from Mrs Petrén, but on his desk he also had a report on the search of Alex Wijkner’s house. Most interesting were the data from the scrupulous examination of the bathroom where she was found. Not only had a footprint been found in the coagulated blood on the floor that matched a pair of shoes confiscated in Anders’s flat, but Anders’s fingerprints had also been found on the victim’s body. Not as clear as they would have been on a hard, even surface, but still clear and identifiable.

      He hadn’t wanted to use all his options today, but at the next interrogation he would bring out the big guns. And damn if he wouldn’t crack this bastard then.

      Pleased with himself, Mellberg spat on his palm and smoothed back his hair with saliva.

      The telephone call interrupted her just as she was typing up an account of her conversation with Henrik Wijkner. Annoyed, Erica took her hands off the keyboard and reached for the phone.

      ‘Yes?’ She sounded more irritated than she had intended.

      ‘Hello, it’s Patrik. Am I interrupting you?’

      Erica sat bolt upright in her chair and regretted that she hadn’t sounded nicer when she answered.

      ‘No, absolutely not. I’m just sitting here writing, and I was so into what I was doing that I jumped when the phone rang, so I might have sounded a bit … but you’re not bothering me at all, it’s quite all right, I mean …’

      She slapped her forehead when she heard herself rambling on like a fourteen-year-old girl on the phone. Time to pull herself together and control those hormones, she thought. This is ridiculous.

      ‘Well, I’m in Fjällbacka and just thought I’d see if you were at home and whether I could drop by for a while.’

      He sounded self-confident, manly, secure and calm, and Erica felt even more idiotic for stammering like a teenager. She looked down at what she was wearing, which today consisted of a slightly dirty jogging suit. At the same time she felt her hair. Yep, just as she feared. Her hair was pulled into a knot on top of her head with loose strands sticking out in every direction. The situation could almost be called disastrous.

      ‘Hello, Erica – are you still there?’ Patrik sounded puzzled.

      ‘Uh yes, I’m still here. I just thought it sounded like your mobile dropped the call.’

      Erica slapped her forehead for the second time in about ten seconds. God in heaven, you’d think she was a beginner at this.

      ‘Hello-o-o, Erica – can you hear me? Hello?’

      ‘Uh, of course I can. Come on over. Just give me fifteen minutes, because I’m busy … uhh … writing a very important part of my book that I’d like to finish first.’

      ‘Sure, no problem. Are you sure I’m not bothering you? I mean, we’re seeing each other tomorrow night so –’

      ‘No, absolutely not. I’m sure. Just give me fifteen minutes.’

      ‘Okay. See you then.’

      Erica carefully put down the receiver and took a deep breath full of anticipation. Her heart was beating so hard that she could hear it. Patrik was on his way to her place. Patrik was on … She gave a start as if someone had tossed a bucket of cold water on her, and jumped out of her chair. He was going to be here in fifteen minutes and she looked like she hadn’t washed or combed her hair in a week. She went upstairs two steps at a time as she pulled the jogging sweatshirt over her head. In the bedroom she wriggled out of her sweatpants, tripped and almost fell on her face.

      In the bathroom she washed under her arms and sent a silent prayer of thanks that she had shaved her underarms when she showered this morning. She dabbed perfume on her wrists, between her breasts, and at her throat where she felt her pulse beating so strong beneath her fingers. She threw open the wardrobe and tossed most of the contents on the bed before she managed to decide on a simple black Filippa top and matching tight black skirt that came down to her ankles. She looked at the clock. Ten minutes left. Bathroom again. Powder, mascara, lip gloss and a light eye shadow. No need for rouge, her face was red enough already. The effect she was going for was the fresh, unpainted look, and with every year that passed it seemed to take more and more make-up to achieve.

      The doorbell rang. As she cast one last look in the mirror she realized in panic that her hair was still up in a slovenly top-knot, held in place with a neon-yellow elastic. She ripped off the elastic and with a brush and a little mousse she managed to make her hair look presentable. Another ring, more insistent this time, and she hurried downstairs but stopped СКАЧАТЬ