The Girl in the Woods. Camilla Lackberg

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      ‘And I need to get ready,’ said Mellberg, reaching up to pat his hair in place.

      ‘All right. We’ve got a lot of work to do,’ said Patrik, signalling the meeting was over.

      The small conference room was now unbearably stuffy and hot. He was desperate to get out of there, and he suspected his colleagues felt the same way.

      The first thing he did was ring Erica. He wasn’t sure it was wise to let her get involved in the investigation, but as he saw it, he had no choice. On the other hand, it would be a real bonus if she had information that could help them find Nea’s killer.

      The first kilometre was always tough, in spite of all the years she’d been running. But after that it got easier. Helen felt her body respond and her breathing became more regular.

      She had started running as soon as the court hearing was over. The first day she ran five kilometres to rid her body of all the frustration. The pounding of her footsteps on the gravel, the wind blowing through her hair, the sounds all around her – those were the only things that could silence the rest of the world.

      She ran a little further each time, and she got better and better. Over the years she’d run in more than thirty marathons. But only in Sweden. She dreamed of being in a marathon in New York, Sydney, or Rio, but she was grateful that James at least let her take part in the Swedish races.

      The fact that she was allowed to cultivate this interest of hers, allowed to spend a couple of hours every day on her running, was solely because he appreciated the discipline of the sport. It was the only thing he respected about her – that every morning she ran tens of kilometres, that her psyche was able to conquer the limitations of her body. But she could never explain to anyone how, when she ran, everything that had happened was erased, becoming hazy and distant, nothing more than a dream she had once had.

      In her peripheral vision she saw the house built on the site where Marie’s childhood home had once stood. By the time Helen returned to Fjällbacka, the new house was already there. Her parents chose to move away immediately after everything fell apart. Her mother, Harriet, couldn’t handle all the gossip, the surreptitious stares, and the whispering.

      James and her father, KG, had seen each other often until KG died. Sometimes she and Sam would go along when James drove to Marstrand, but only so Sam could visit his grandparents. Helen had no wish to see either of her parents. They had failed her when she needed them most, and that was something she could never forgive.

      Her legs were starting to tighten, and she reminded herself to correct her stride. Like so much else, she’d had to struggle to develop a good stride. Nothing had ever come naturally to her.

      No, now she was lying to herself. Until that day, life had been easy, they had still been a family. She couldn’t recall any problems or setbacks. Nothing but bright summer days and the scent of her mother’s perfume when she tucked her in at night. And love. She remembered the love.

      She picked up speed in order to drown out her thoughts. All those thoughts that running usually erased. Why were they appearing in her mind now? Was she going to have to give up even this temporary reprieve? Had Marie’s return ruined everything?

      With each breath, Helen noticed how different everything felt. Her lungs were straining, and in the end she had to stop. Her legs felt so tight, and her body was weak from lactic acid. For the first time her body had defeated her will.

      Helen didn’t notice she was falling until she landed on the ground.

      Bill looked around the restaurant in the TanumStrand hotel and conference centre. Only five people had turned up. He saw five weary faces. He knew they had been out searching for little Nea all night. He and Gun had talked about it on their way over, wondering whether they should postpone the meeting. But Bill was convinced this was exactly what was needed at the moment.

      Yet it had never occurred to him that only five people would come.

      Rolf had arranged for Thermoses of coffee and rolls with cheese and paprika to be set on a side table, and Bill had already helped himself. He took a sip of coffee. Gun sat on a chair next to him, sipping her coffee as well.

      Bill looked from the exhausted faces to Rolf, who was standing at the entrance to the restaurant.

      ‘Maybe you’d like to introduce everyone?’ he asked.

      Rolf nodded.

      ‘This is Karim. He came here with his wife and two children. He worked as a journalist in Damascus. Then we have Adnan and Khalil, sixteen and eighteen, respectively. They came to Sweden alone and have become friends at the refugee centre. And this is Ibrahim, the oldest of the group.’ Rolf switched to English. ‘How old are you, Ibrahim?’

      The man next to Rolf had a big beard. Smiling, he held up five fingers.

      ‘Fifty.’

      ‘That’s right. Ibrahim is fifty, and he arrived here with his wife. Finally, we have Farid. He came to Sweden with his mother.’

      Bill nodded to the man with the shaved head and the huge body. He looked to be in his thirties and, judging by his girth, he spent a large part of his time eating. Bill thought it might be tricky to get the weight distribution right in a sailboat with someone who weighed at least three times as much as the others, but they’d find a way. He needed to stay positive. If he hadn’t stayed positive he never would have survived that time when his boat capsized off the coast of South Africa and the great white sharks began circling.

      ‘And my name is Bill,’ he said, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘I’m going to speak Swedish with you as much as possible.’

      He and Rolf had agreed that would be best. The whole point was for the refugees to learn the language so they could more rapidly become part of society.

      Everyone except Farid had a puzzled expression. He replied in broken but understandable Swedish:

      ‘I am the only one who understands Swedish okay. I have been here the longest and I have studied hard, very hard. I can maybe help to translate in the beginning. So the boys will understand?’

      Bill nodded. That seemed sensible. All the new words and specialized sailing terms would be challenging even for a native Swede. Farid switched to Arabic and quickly explained what Bill had said. The others nodded.

      ‘We try … understand … Swedish … and learn,’ said the man named Karim.

      ‘Great! Excellent!’ said Bill, giving them a thumbs up. ‘Do all of you know how to swim?’

      He made swimming motions with his arms, and Farid repeated his question in Arabic. The five men spoke among themselves, then Karim replied for all of them, again in laborious Swedish.

      ‘We can … that is why we take this course. Otherwise not.’

      ‘Where did you learn to swim?’ asked Bill, both relieved and surprised. ‘Have you spent a lot of time on the coast?’

      Farid quickly translated. His words were greeted with laughter.

      ‘At the leisure centre,’ he said with a smile.

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