Buried Angels. Camilla Lackberg

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      ‘What about your research? Do you still have time for that?’ He fixed Judith with a piercing stare and saw how the eagerness was extinguished from her eyes. She wanted him to acknowledge her and offer some words of praise, but if he gave the children the impression that what they were doing was good enough, then they’d stop making an effort. And he couldn’t let that happen.

      He didn’t wait for Judith to reply before he turned to Daniel. ‘I talked to the course instructor last week, and he said that you’d missed two days of class. Why was that?’

      ‘I had stomach problems,’ said Daniel. ‘I don’t think they’d have been too pleased if I’d sat there in the lecture hall, throwing up into a paper bag.’

      ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

      ‘No. That’s my honest answer.’

      ‘You know that I can always find out if you’re lying,’ said Josef. His knife and fork were still sitting on his plate. He’d lost his appetite. He hated the fact that he no longer had control over his children the way he had when they lived at home.

      ‘I had stomach problems,’ Daniel repeated, lowering his eyes. He too seemed to have lost his appetite.

      Josef hastily rose to his feet. ‘I need to get back to work.’

      As he retreated to his study, he thought they were probably glad to be rid of his presence. Through the door he could hear their voices and the clatter of china. Then Judith laughed, a loud, carefree laugh, sounding as clear as if she were sitting next to him. All of a sudden he realized that the children’s laughter, their joy, always became muted whenever he entered the room. Judith laughed again, and it felt like a knife turning in his heart. She never laughed like that around him, and he wondered whether things could have been different. At the same time, he had no idea how that might have been accomplished. He loved them so much that it caused him physical pain, but he could never be the father they wished for. He could only be the father that life had taught him to be and love them in his own way, by carrying on his heritage through them.

      Gösta was staring at the flickering screen of the television. He could see people coming and going, and since he was watching Midsummer Murders, no doubt somebody was being murdered. But he had lost interest in the plot some time ago. His thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

      On the coffee table in front of him was a plate with two open-face sandwiches. Skogaholm rye bread with butter and salami. Generally that was all he ever ate at home. It took too much effort and it was too depressing to cook for only one person.

      The sofa he was sitting on was getting old, but he didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. He remembered how proud Maj-Britt had been when they brought it home. Several times he had caught her running her hand over the smooth, floral upholstery as if petting a kitten. He was barely allowed to sit on it during that first year. But the little lass had bounced and slid all over it. Laughing, Maj-Britt had held her hands as she jumped higher and higher on the groaning springs.

      Now the upholstery was worn smooth, with big holes. In one place, next to the right armrest, a spring was sticking out. But he always sat on the left-hand side. That was his place, while the other side had belonged to Maj-Britt. In the evenings during that summer, the little lass had sat between them. She’d never seen a TV before, so she shrieked with delight whenever it was on. Her favourite programme had been the puppet show Drutten and Gena. And she could never sit still as she watched; she would squirm with sheer pleasure.

      No one had bounced on the sofa in a very long time. After the lass disappeared, it was as if she took part of the joy with her, and many silent evenings followed. Neither of them could have imagined that regret could hurt so much. They’d thought they were doing the right thing, and when they realized that they’d made the wrong decision, it was too late.

      Gösta gazed vacantly at Inspector Barnaby, who had just discovered yet another body. He picked up one of the salami sandwiches and took a bite. It was an evening like so many others. And it would be followed by so many more.

       FJÄLLBACKA 1919

       It would not do for them to be seen in the servants’ sleeping quarters, so Dagmar waited for a signal from him to withdraw to his room. Earlier she had made up the bed and tidied the room for him, not knowing that she would long so fervently to slip between those lovely cotton sheets.

       The party was still in full swing when she received the signal she’d been waiting for. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, his blond hair was dishevelled, and his eyes glazed with drink. But he was not so intoxicated that he couldn’t slip her a key to his room. The brief touch of his hand made her heart race; without meeting his eye she hid the key in her apron pocket. At this stage no one would notice if she left. The hosts and the guests were all too drunk to care about anything besides refilling their glasses, and there were plenty of other servants to see to that.

       Yet she still paused to glance around before unlocking the door to the large guest room, and when she stepped inside, she stopped with her back to the door and took several deep breaths. The mere sight of the bed with the white sheets and the elegant coverlet made her tingle all over. He could arrive at any moment, so she dashed into the small bathroom. Quickly she smoothed her hair, took off her servant’s clothing, and washed under her arms. Then she bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to make them rosier, since that was the fashion among the city girls.

       When she heard the door handle turn, she hastened back into the room and sat down on the bed, wearing only her slip. She draped her hair over her shoulders, fully aware of how glossy it looked in the pale light of the summer night coming through the window.

       She was not disappointed. When he saw her, his eyes opened wide, and he swiftly shut the door behind him. He studied her for a moment before he came over to the bed and placed his hand under her chin, lifting her face. Then he bent down and their lips met in a kiss. Cautiously, as if wanting to tease her, he slid the tip of his tongue between her parted lips.

       Dagmar responded passionately to his kisses. She had never experienced anything like this before. It felt as if this man had been sent by some divine power to unite with her and make her whole. For a brief moment everything went black before her eyes, and images of the past were conjured up in her mind. The children who were placed in a basin, with a weight on top until they stopped moving. The policemen who rushed in and seized her mother and father. The tiny bodies that were dug up in the cellar at home. The witch and her foster father. The men who had groaned on top of her with their breath stinking of liquor and cigars. Everybody who had used her and derided her – now they would be forced to bow and ask forgiveness. When they saw her walking beside this blond hero, they would regret every word they had ever whispered behind her back.

       Slowly he pulled her slip up over her stomach, and Dagmar raised her arms above her head to help him take off the garment. She wanted nothing more than to feel his skin against hers. She undid the buttons on his shirt one by one, until he finally tore it off. When all of his clothes were in a heap on the floor, he lay down on top of her. Nothing more separated them.

       As their two bodies joined, Dagmar closed her eyes. At that moment she was no longer the Angelmaker’s daughter. She was a woman whom fate had finally blessed.

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