Buried Angels. Camilla Lackberg

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       FJÄLLBACKA 1908

       They arrived early in the morning. Her mother was already up with the little ones, while Dagmar still lolled in bed, savouring the warmth under the covers. That was the difference between being her mother’s real child and one of the bastard kids that she cared for. Dagmar was special.

       ‘What’s going on?’ shouted her father from the bedroom. Both he and Dagmar had been awakened by an insistent pounding on the door.

       ‘Open up! It’s the police!’

       Then whoever it was evidently lost all patience because the door was torn open, and a man wearing a police uniform stormed into the house.

       Frightened, Dagmar sat up in bed, trying to hide behind the blankets.

       ‘The police?’ Her father came into the kitchen, fumbling to button up his trousers. His sunken chest was sparsely covered with grey hair. ‘If you’ll just let me put on a shirt, I’m sure I can straighten everything out. There must be some misunderstanding. This is the home of respectable people.’

       ‘Does Helga Svensson live here?’ asked the policeman. Two more officers were waiting behind him. They had to stand close together because the kitchen was cramped and filled with beds. At the moment they had five young children living in the house.

       ‘My name is Albert Svensson and Helga is my wife,’ said Pappa. By now he had put on his shirt and was standing there with his arms folded.

       ‘Where is your wife?’ There was a note of urgency in the policeman’s voice.

       Dagmar saw the worried furrow that had appeared on her father’s brow. He was so easily upset, her mother always said. Delicate nerves.

       ‘Mamma is in the yard out back. With the children,’ said Dagmar. Only now did the policemen notice her.

       ‘Thank you,’ said the officer who had done all the talking. He turned on his heel and left the room.

       Her father followed close behind. ‘You can’t come storming into the home of decent people, scaring the life out of us. You have to tell us what this is all about.’

       Dagmar threw off the bedclothes, set her feet on the cold kitchen floor and dashed after them, wearing only her nightgown. She came to an abrupt stop behind the men. Two of the officers were gripping her mother by the arms. She was struggling to get free, and the men were straining with the effort to hold on to her. The children were shrieking, and the laundry that her mother had been hanging on the line had fallen off in all the commotion.

       ‘Mamma!’ cried Dagmar, running towards her.

       Then she threw herself at the legs of one of the policemen and bit him in the thigh. He screamed and let go of Helga, turning around to punch Dagmar so hard that the child fell to the ground. In surprise, she sat there on the grass, her hand pressed to her stinging cheek. In the eight years of her life, no one had ever hit her. She’d seen her mother give the children a swat now and then, but she had never raised a hand to Dagmar. And for that reason her father had never dared strike her either.

       ‘What are you doing! Did you hit my daughter?’ Helga kicked out at the men in fury.

       ‘That’s nothing compared to what you’ve done.’ The policeman again gripped Helga’s arm. ‘You are accused of killing a child, and we have the right to search your house. And believe me, we plan to make a thorough job of it.’

       Dagmar watched as her mother seemed to collapse. Her cheek still felt as if it was on fire, and her heart was racing in her chest. All around her the children were screaming as though it was Judgement Day. And perhaps it was. Because even though Dagmar didn’t understand what was happening, the expression on her mother’s face told her that their world had just been torn apart.