The Preacher. Camilla Lackberg

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Knocking was not an option, so he called her name a bit hesitantly. The tent zipper opened and Liese’s blonde head appeared in the opening.

      Two hours later the two police officers drove off without having found out anything new. Liese had nothing more to contribute than what she had already told Patrik at the station, and none of the other campers had noticed anything of interest regarding Tanja or Liese.

      But something else had caught Martin’s attention and was hovering at the back of his mind. He feverishly searched through the sensory impressions from his visit to the campground but remained puzzled. There was something he’d seen that should have registered. Annoyed, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, but he finally had to give up trying to pin down the elusive memory.

      They rode home in silence.

      Patrik hoped that he would be like Albert Thernblad when he got old. Not as alone, of course, but just as stylish. Albert hadn’t let himself go after his wife’s death, as so many older men did who ended up living alone. Instead he was well-dressed in both shirt and vest, and his white hair and beard were well-groomed. Despite his difficulties walking, he moved with dignity, with his head held high, and from the little Patrik got to see of the house it seemed that it was kept neat and tidy. He was also impressed by the way Albert handled the news that his daughter had been found. He seemed to have made peace with his fate and was living his life as best he could under the circumstances.

      Patrik had been deeply moved by the photographs of Mona that Albert had shown him. Like so many times before, he had realized that it was all too easy to view the crime victims as just another statistic, or to label them ‘the plaintiff’ or ‘the victim’. It didn’t matter whether the person had been robbed or, as in this case, murdered. Albert had done the right thing by showing him the photographs. He’d seen Mona progress from the maternity ward to chubby baby, from schoolgirl to student. Then he’d seen her as the happy, healthy girl she was just before she disappeared.

      But there was another girl that he needed to find out more about. Besides, he knew the town well enough to realize that rumours were already flying with the speed of lightning through the community. It would be best to head them off and have a talk with Siv Lantin’s mother, even though they had no confirmation of Siv’s identity as yet. For safety’s sake he had checked on her address before he left the station. It had been a little harder to locate Siv’s mother, since Gun was no longer called Lantin. She must have married, or remarried, as the case may be. After a little detective work he had discovered that her surname was now Struwer and that there was a summer house registered to Gun and Lars Struwer in Norra Hamngatan in Fjällbacka. The name Struwer sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.

      He was in luck and found a parking place on Planarna down from the Badrestaurant, and he walked the last hundred metres. There was one-way traffic along Norra Hamngatan in the summertime, but in the short stretch he walked he saw three idiot drivers fail to read the road signs. He had to press himself up against the stone wall as they tried to squeeze past the oncoming traffic. The terrain was apparently so rugged where they lived that they felt the need to drive a big four-wheel-drive Jeep. That type of vehicle was far too common among the summer visitors. Patrik surmised that in this case the Stockholm region was considered rugged terrain.

      He had a good mind to whip out his badge and read them the riot act but refrained. If the police spent their time trying to teach all beachgoers common sense they wouldn’t get much else done.

      Patrik finally reached the right residence, a white house with blue trim on the left side of the street, across from the red boat-houses that gave Fjällbacka its characteristic silhouette. The owners of the house were busy unloading a couple of huge suitcases from a gold-coloured Volvo V70. To be more precise, an older gentleman in a double-breasted suit was lifting the suitcases out with a groan, while a short, heavily made-up woman stood by and gesticulated. They were both tanned, verging on sunburned, and if the Swedish summer hadn’t been so sunny Patrik would have guessed that they’d been on holiday abroad. This year the rocky skerries of Fjällbacka could have served as a tanning parlour.

      He walked up to the couple and hesitated a second before he cleared his throat to attract their attention. Both of them stopped what they were doing and turned.

      ‘Yes?’ Gun Struwer’s voice was a touch too shrill, and Patrik noticed a peevish expression on her face.

      ‘My name is Patrik Hedström and I’m with the police. Could I have a few words with you?’

      ‘At last!’ She raised her hands with the red-manicured nails and rolled her eyes. ‘To think that it would take so long. I don’t understand what our tax money is going for. All summer we’ve been reporting that people have been parking illegally in our parking spot, but we haven’t heard a peep from the police. Are you finally going to do something about this nuisance? We paid a lot of money for this house, and think we have the right to use our own parking place. But maybe that’s too much to ask!’

      She put her hands on her hips and squinted at Patrik. Behind her stood her husband, looking as though he’d like to sink into the ground. Apparently he didn’t think the matter was quite so important.

      ‘Actually, I’m not here about a parking infraction,’ said Patrik. ‘But first I have to ask you: was your maiden name Gun Lantin? And do you have a daughter named Siv?’

      Gun fell silent instantly and put her hand to her mouth. No other reply was necessary. Her husband was the first to gather his wits and accompanied Patrik to the front door, which was standing open. It seemed a bit risky to leave the bags out on the street, so Patrik grabbed two of them and helped Lars Struwer carry the luggage inside. Gun hurried into the house ahead of them.

      They sat down in the living room, Gun and Lars next to each other on the sofa, while Patrik chose the easy chair. Gun was clinging to Lars, but his comforting pats seemed almost mechanical, something that he knew the situation required of him.

      ‘What’s happened? What have you found out? It’s been over twenty years. How can anything have come out so long afterwards?’ she babbled on nervously.

      ‘I have to emphasize that we don’t have a positive identification yet, but it’s possible that we may have found Siv.’

      Gun’s hand flew up to her throat and for once she seemed speechless.

      Patrik went on, ‘We’re still waiting for the medical examiner to make a positive identification, but it seems most likely that it’s Siv.’

      ‘But how, where …?’ she stammered. The questions were the same ones that Mona’s father had asked.

      ‘A young woman was found dead in the King’s Cleft. The remains of two other victims were found with her. Mona Thernblad, and probably Siv.’

      Just as he had explained to Albert Thernblad, Patrik told Gun that the girls had been transported to the site and that the police were now doing all they could to find out who could have committed the murders.

      Gun leaned her face against her husband’s chest, but Patrik noticed that she was sobbing with dry eyes. He got the impression that her expressions of grief were largely play-acting, but it was just a hunch.

      When Gun had pulled herself together she took a little hand mirror out of her purse and checked her make-up. Then she asked Patrik, ‘What happens now? When can we claim our poor little Siv’s remains?’ Without waiting for his reply she turned to her husband. ‘We have to have a proper funeral for my poor darling, Lars. We could have coffee and refreshments for the guests afterwards in the ballroom СКАЧАТЬ