Camilla Lackberg - Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 1 and 2 - The Ice Princess, The Preacher

‘As you know, I’m a tax attorney, not a family rights attorney, so I can’t give you an answer straight off. But let’s do this. I’ll check with the experts in the office and ring you later today. You’re not alone, Erica. We’ll help you with this, I promise you.’

It was great to hear Marianne’s confident assurances, and when they said good-bye life seemed brighter, even though Erica actually knew no more than before she had called.

Restlessness set in almost at once. She forced herself to take up her work on the biography, but it was slow going. She had more than half of the book left to write, and the publishers were growing impatient because they hadn’t received a rough draft yet. After filling up almost two pages she read through what she had written, saw it was crap and quickly deleted several hours of work. The biography only made her feel depressed; the joy of working on it had vanished long ago. Instead, she finished writing the article about Alexandra and put it in an envelope addressed to Bohusläningen newspaper. Then it was time to ring Dan and rib him a bit about the near-fatal psychological wound he seemed to have suffered after Sweden’s spectacular loss the night before.

Feeling content, Superintendent Mellberg patted his large paunch and debated whether to take a little nap. There was still almost nothing to do, and he didn’t ascribe any great importance to the little there was.

He decided that it would be nice to doze for a moment so that his substantial lunch could be digested in peace and quiet. But he barely managed to close his eyes before a determined knocking announced that Annika Jansson, the station’s secretary, wanted something.

‘What the hell? Can’t you see I’m busy?’

In an attempt to look busy he rummaged aimlessly among the papers lying in stacks on his desk, but succeeded only in tipping over a cup of coffee. The coffee flowed towards all the papers and he grabbed the closest thing he could find to wipe up the mess – which happened to be his shirttail, since it was seldom tucked into his trousers anymore.

‘Damn it all, I’m the bloody boss of this place! Haven’t you learned to show a little respect for your superiors and knock before you come barging in?’

She didn’t feel like pointing out that she had actually done just that. With the wisdom born of age and experience, she waited calmly until the worst of his outburst was over.

‘I presume you have something to tell me,’ Mellberg seethed.

Annika answered in a restrained voice. ‘Forensic Medicine in Göteborg has been looking for you. Forensic Pathologist Tord Pedersen, to be precise. You can ring him at this number.’

She held out a piece of paper with the number carefully printed on it.

‘Did he say what it’s about?’

Curiosity was giving him a tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach. They didn’t hear from Forensic Medicine very often out here in the sticks. Perhaps there would be a chance for some inspired police work for a change.

He waved Annika away distractedly and clamped the telephone receiver between his ear and shoulder. Then he eagerly began dialling the number.

Annika quickly backed out of the room and closed the door loudly behind her. She sat down at her own desk and cursed, as she had so many times before, the decision that had sent Mellberg to the tiny police station in Tanumshede. According to rampant rumours at the station, he had made himself unwelcome in Göteborg by abusing a refugee who was in his custody. That was clearly not the only mistake he had made, but it was the worst. His superior finally got fed up. An internal investigation had been unable to prove anything, but there was concern about what else Mellberg might do, so he was immediately moved to the post of superintendent in Tanumshede. Each and every one of the community’s twelve thousand mostly law-abiding citizens served as a constant reminder to him of his demotion. His former superiors in Göteborg reckoned he wouldn’t be able to do much damage there. Up until now this assessment had been correct. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing much good, either.

Previously Annika had got on well at her job, but that was all over now with Mellberg as her boss. It wasn’t enough that he was perpetually rude, he also saw himself as God’s gift to women, and Annika was the one who suffered the brunt of it. Snide insinuations, pinches on the behind, and improper remarks were only a fraction of what she had to put up with at work nowadays. What she considered his most repulsive feature, however, was the atrocious comb-over he had constructed to hide his bald pate. He had let the remaining strands of hair grow out – his employees could only guess how long they must be – and then he wound the hair round atop his head in an arrangement that most resembled an abandoned crow’s nest.

Annika shuddered at the thought of how it must look when not combed over. She was grateful that she would never need to find out.

She wondered what Forensic Medicine wanted. Oh well, she would find out soon enough. The station was so small that any information of interest would spread through the whole place within an hour.

Bertil Mellberg heard the phone ring as he watched Annika retreat from his office.

A mighty good-looking woman, that one. Firm and fine, but with curves in all the right places. Long blonde hair, nice high tits and a substantial arse. Too bad she always wore those long skirts and loose blouses. Maybe he should point out that clothes a bit tighter might suit her better. As the boss he was entitled to have opinions on the way his staff dressed. Thirty-seven years old – he knew that from checking her personnel file. A little more than twenty years younger than himself, which was precisely his taste. Let someone else deal with the old ladies. He was man enough for the younger talent – mature and experienced, with an attractive stoutness, and surely no one could tell that his hair may have thinned a bit over the years. He touched the top of his head cautiously. All well, his hair was as it should be.

‘Tord Pedersen.’

‘Yes, hello. This is Superintendent Bertil Mellberg, Tanumshede police station. You were looking for me?’

‘Yes, that’s right. It’s about the body we got in from you. A woman by the name of Alexandra Wijkner. It looked like suicide.’

‘Yes?’ Mellberg’s interest was definitely piqued.

‘I performed the post-mortem yesterday and established that it was definitely not a suicide. Someone murdered her.’

‘Bloody hell!’ In his excitement Mellberg tipped over his coffee cup again and the little that was left in it ran out across the desk. He used his shirttail as a rag again and got a new set of spots on it.

‘How do you know that? I mean, what sort of proof do you have that it was murder?’

‘I can fax the autopsy report over to you, but it’s doubtful whether you would get much out of it. However, let me give you a summary of the most salient points. Just a moment while I put my glasses on,’ said Pedersen.

Mellberg heard him humming as he scanned the report. He waited eagerly for the information.

‘All right, let’s see. Female, thirty-five years old, good general physical condition. But you know all that already. The woman has been dead for about a week, but her body is nevertheless in very good condition, primarily thanks to the low temperature in the room where the body was found. The ice around the lower half of the body also helped preserve it.

‘Deep incisions through the arteries of both wrists made with a razor blade, which was found at the scene. This was where I began to get suspicious. Both the incisions are the same depth and very straight, which is quite unusual. I would even venture to say that it never happens in a suicide. It’s because people are either right-handed or left-handed. The incision on the left arm will be much straighter and more powerful for a right-handed person than the wound on the right. That’s what happens when you’re forced to use the “wrong” hand, so to speak. I then examined the fingers on both hands and had my suspicion confirmed. The edge of a razor blade is so sharp that in most cases it leaves microscopic cuts on the hands. Alexandra Wijkner had nothing of the sort. This indicated that it was someone else who slashed her wrists, probably with the aim of making it look like suicide.’