Camilla Lackberg - The Ice Child

Slap! Marta’s hand struck her cheek before she even saw it coming. Molly touched her face in disbelief. It was the first time her mother had hit her. The first time anyone had ever hit her. Her tears stopped abruptly as she stared at Marta, who was again utterly calm. She stood there motionless, her arms crossed over the green quilted riding vest she wore.

‘That’s enough now,’ she said. ‘You can stop begging like some spoiled brat and behave decently.’ Marta’s words cut just as deep as the slap. Molly had never been called a spoiled brat. Well, the other girls in the stable might have called her that behind her back, but that was only because they were jealous.

Still holding her hand to her cheek, Molly kept on staring at Marta. Then she turned on her heel and ran out of the stable. The other girls began whispering to each other when they saw her crying as she ran across the yard, but she didn’t care. They probably thought she was crying about Victoria, like everyone else had been doing since yesterday.

Molly ran for home, going around back to the door to her father’s veterinary clinic, but it was locked. There were no lights on, and Jonas wasn’t there. Molly wondered where he could be as she stood in the snow for a moment, stomping her feet to stay warm. Then she took off running again.

She tore open the door to her grandparents’ house.

‘Grandma!’

‘Good Lord, where’s the fire?’ Helga came out to the front hall, drying her hands on a dish towel.

‘Is Jonas here? I need to talk to him.’

‘Calm down. You’re crying so hard I can barely understand you. Is this about the girl that Marta found yesterday?’

Molly shook her head. Helga led her into the kitchen and got her to sit down at the table.

‘I … I …’ Molly stammered, but then she had to stop and take several deep breaths. Just being in her grandmother’s kitchen helped her to calm down. In this house, time stood still. Nothing ever changed in here while outside the world continued to rush onward.

‘I need to talk to Jonas. Marta says I can’t take part in the competition on the weekend.’ She hiccupped and then fell silent so her grandmother had time to take in how unfair the situation was.

Helga sat down. ‘Well, Marta likes to make the decisions. You’ll have to wait and see what your father says. Is it an important competition?’

‘Yes, it is. But Marta says it wouldn’t be appropriate to compete after what happened to Victoria. And of course I think it’s sad, but I don’t see why that’s any reason for me to miss the competition. That cow Linda Bergvall is bound to win if I’m not there, and then she’ll be so annoying, even though she knows I could have beat her. I’ll die if I’m not allowed to go!’ With a dramatic expression, she leaned over the kitchen table, rested her face on her arms, and began to sob.

Helga patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘Now, now, it’s not the end of the world, and your parents are the ones who make the decisions. They’d do anything for you, but if they think you shouldn’t compete … well, then there’s not much to be done about it.’

‘But don’t you think Jonas would understand?’ said Molly, giving Helga a pleading look.

‘I’ve known your father since he was this big,’ said Helga, holding her thumb and index finger only a centimetre apart. ‘And I’ve known your mother for a long time too. Believe me when I say that it’s impossible to make them change their minds, once they’ve made a decision. So if I were you, I’d stop complaining and look forward to the next competition instead.’

Molly dried her face on the paper napkin that Helga handed her.

She blew her nose and then got up to toss the napkin in the bin. The worst thing was that her grandmother was right. It was hopeless to try and talk to her parents once they’d decided. But she was still planning to try. Maybe Jonas would take her side, in spite of everything.

It had taken Patrik a whole hour to thaw out, and it was going to take Mellberg even longer. It had been sheer madness to go out in the woods when the temperature was minus seventeen degrees Celsius and he was wearing thin shoes and only a windproof jacket instead of a proper winter coat. Mellberg’s lips were blue as he stood in a corner of the conference room.

‘How’s it going, Bertil? Are you still cold?’ asked Patrik.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Mellberg, slapping his arms against his body. ‘I could use a stiff whisky. That might warm me up from the inside.’

Patrik shuddered at the thought of an intoxicated Bertil Mellberg at the press conference. Although that might actually be an improvement over the sober version.

‘So what approach do you think we should take?’ Patrik asked.

‘I thought I’d take charge, and you can back me up. The reporters like to see a strong leader, someone they can turn to in situations like this.’ Mellberg tried to sound as authoritative as he could with his teeth chattering.

‘Of course,’ said Patrik, sighing to himself so heavily that he thought Mellberg might hear. Always the same story. Getting Mellberg to do anything useful in an investigation was about as easy as trying to catch flies with a pair of chopsticks. But the minute he had the chance to step into the spotlight, or claim credit for work done by the rest of the team, no one could keep Bertil away.

‘How about letting in the hyenas?’ said Mellberg, turning to Annika, who got up and went over to the door. She had made all the arrangements while they were out in the woods. She’d given Mellberg a quick rundown of the most important points and also printed out key words on a piece of paper for him. Now they could only cross their fingers and hope that he didn’t embarrass them any more than necessary.

The journalists shambled into the room, and Patrik greeted several that he knew – some from the local media and some who worked at the national level, reporters that he’d run into on various occasions. As usual there were also a few new faces. The newspapers seemed to have a high turnover rate where journalists were concerned.

They all sat down, exchanging a few murmured remarks, while the photographers good-naturedly jostled for the best positions. Patrik hoped that Mellberg’s lips wouldn’t look quite so blue in the photos; at the moment he looked as though he belonged in the morgue.

‘Everybody here?’ said Mellberg, shivering. The reporters had already started waving their hands in the air, but he motioned for them to stop. ‘We’ll take questions in a moment, but first I want to turn over the floor to Patrik Hedström, who will give you a brief report on what has happened.’

Patrik gave his boss a surprised look. Maybe Mellberg realized after all that he didn’t have a grasp of the big picture, which was what this crowd of reporters needed to hear.

‘Thank you. All right then,’ Patrik replied. He cleared his throat and came over to stand next to Mellberg. He paused to gather his thoughts, trying to work out what he should tell them and what he should withhold. An unguarded word to the media could destroy so much, and yet the journalists were their link to one of the greatest assets any investigation could have: the public. He needed to give the press enough information to trigger a ripple effect that would start tips coming in from ordinary people. There was always someone who had seen or heard something that might turn out to be relevant even though that person might not think so. But handing out the wrong information, or revealing too many details, could give the perpetrator an advantage. If he or she knew what sort of leads the police were following, it would be easier to hide their tracks or simply refrain from making the same mistake next time. And that was everyone’s greatest fear right now, that this horrific crime would be repeated. A serial criminal rarely stopped of his own accord. Most likely not in this instance, at any rate. Patrik had a bad feeling about this one.