The Girl in the Woods. Camilla Lackberg

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СКАЧАТЬ – 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 about what?’

      ‘About whether those girls really did it.’

      Viola looked pensive as she took a sip of coffee from the white ceramic mug.

      ‘You mean he thought they were innocent?’

      This was news to Erica. Her pulse quickened. After living with a police officer for many years, she knew that gut instincts often turned out to be right. If Leif had doubted the girls’ guilt, he must have had good reason.

      ‘Did he say why he was having doubts?’

      Viola held her coffee mug in both hands, caressing the grooves on the sides with her thumbs.

      ‘No,’ she said, frowning. ‘He never mentioned anything specific. But I suppose it didn’t help that both girls retracted their confessions and continued to proclaim their innocence all these years.’

      ‘But no one believed them,’ said Erica, recalling the many articles she’d read about the case, and the response from local residents whenever the case happened to come up in conversation.

      Everybody seemed to be in agreement: the girls had killed Stella.

      ‘Right before he died, he started talking about re-opening the case, but he killed himself before he could do anything. Besides, he was retired, so he would have had to persuade the new chief of police, who I don’t think would have been especially keen on the idea. The case was solved. The question of guilt had been established, even though there was never a proper trial because the girls were so young.’

      ‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but …’ Erica began, glancing at her mobile. Still no word from Patrik. ‘A little girl went missing yesterday afternoon, or possibly even since the night before, from the same farm where Stella lived.’

      Viola stared at her.

      ‘What? No, I haven’t heard a thing. I’ve been in my studio, working on the paintings СКАЧАТЬ