The Ice Princess (20 page)

In his memory the sun was always shining. The asphalt felt warm on his bare feet, and his lips were still salty from swimming in the sea. Oddly enough he could never remember anything but summertime. No winters. No overcast days. No rain. Only sunshine from a clear blue sky and a light breeze that broke the shining mirror of the sea.

Alex in her light summer dresses that clung to her legs. Her hair that she refused to cut, so it hung blonde and straight all the way down to the small of her back. Sometimes he could even recall her fragrance so strongly that he felt it in his nostrils, tickling and awakening a sense of longing. Strawberries, salt water, shampoo with Timothy-grass. Sometimes mixed with a smell of sweat that was not at all unpleasant as they raced their bicycles or climbed the rocky hills until their legs gave out. Then they might lie on their backs at the top of Veddeberget, with their feet pointing out to sea and their hands clasped on their stomachs. Alex in the middle between them, with her hair spread out and her eyes looking up at the sky. On rare, precious occasions she would take their hands in hers and for a moment it was as if they were one instead of three.

They were careful not to let anyone ever see them together. That would ruin the magic. The spell would be broken and they would no longer be able to keep reality at bay. Reality was something that had to be warded off at all costs. It was ugly and grey and had nothing to do with the sun-drenched dream-world they could construct when they were together. Reality was nothing they ever spoke about. Instead their days were filled with frivolous games and frivolous conversation. Nothing could be taken seriously. Then they could pretend that they were invulnerable, unconquerable, unreachable. Each of them alone was nothing. Together they were the Three Musketeers.

The grown-ups were only peripheral dream creatures, mere extras who moved about in their world without affecting them. Their mouths moved, but no sound came out. They made gestures and faces that supposedly had meaning but seemed stilted and meaningless, taken out of context.

Anders smiled faintly at the memories, but slowly he was forced out of his catatonic dream state. Nature called, and he was once again back in his own anxiety. He got up to take care of the problem.

The toilet was located below a mirror covered with dust and dirt. When he relieved his bladder he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass, and for the first time in many years he saw himself the way other people saw him. His hair was greasy and matted. His face was pale with a sickly grey hue to his skin. Years of neglect had given him a couple of gaps in his front teeth, which made him look decades older than he actually was.

The decision was made without him really being aware of it. As he fumbled to do up his fly, he understood what the next step would have to be. The look in his eyes was resolute when he went into the kitchen. After searching through the drawers he found a big kitchen knife that he wiped off on his trouser leg. Then he went into the living room and began methodically taking down the paintings from the walls. One by one, he lifted down the paintings that were the result of many years’ work. Those he had kept and hung up were only the ones he was most satisfied with. He had thrown out many others because they didn’t really pass muster in his eyes. Now the knife slashed through the canvas of one painting after another. He worked slowly and with a steady hand, slicing the paintings into thin strips until it was impossible to see what they had once depicted. It was surprisingly hard work to cut through the canvases, and when he was done beads of sweat lined his brow. The room looked like a battlefield of colours. Strips of canvas covered the living room floor, and frames gaped empty like toothless gums. He looked around in satisfaction.

‘How do you know that it wasn’t Anders who murdered Alex?’ asked Erica.

‘A girl who lives in the same building as Anders saw him coming home just before seven o’clock, and Alex talked to her mother at quarter past. It would have been impossible for him to make it back there in such a short time. Which means that Dagmar Petrén’s testimony can only tie him to the house while Alex was still alive.’

‘But what about the fingerprints and footprints you found in the bathroom?’

‘Those don’t prove that he murdered her, only that he was in the house after she died. In any case it’s not enough to hold him in custody any longer. Mellberg will no doubt bring him in again; he’s still convinced that Anders is the killer, but for the time being he has to release him, otherwise an attorney could make mincemeat of him. I’ve always thought that something didn’t feel quite right, and this confirms it. Anders is still under suspicion, but there are enough question marks that there’s reason to keep looking.’

‘And that’s why we’re on the way to Alex’s house? What is it you hope to find there?’ asked Erica.

‘I don’t really know. I just feel that I need to get a clearer picture of how things happened.’

‘Birgit said that Alex couldn’t talk to her because she had a visitor. If it wasn’t Anders, then who was it?’

‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?’

Patrik was driving a bit too fast for Erica’s taste. She was holding on tight to the handle over the door. He almost missed the turn-off by the sailing club and turned right at the very last second, which meant he was a hair’s-breadth from taking out a fence as they zipped past.

‘Are you afraid that the house might not be there if we don’t get there fast?’ Erica gave him a wan smile.

‘Oops, sorry. I just got a little excited.’

He slowed down considerably, and on the last bit of road to Alex’s house Erica dared let go of the handle. She still didn’t understand why he wanted her to come along, but she had agreed. It might provide some information for her book.

Outside the door Patrik stopped with a sheepish look on his face.

‘I forgot that I don’t have a key. I’m afraid we won’t be able to get in. Mellberg wouldn’t appreciate it if one of his cops was caught red-handed climbing in through a window.’

Erica gave a deep sigh and bent down to feel under the mat. With a mocking smile she held up the key to Patrik and then opened the door and let him go in first.

Someone had got the furnace started again; the temperature inside was now considerably warmer than outside, and they took off their coats and hung them on the rack by the stairs leading to the top floor.

‘Now what do we do?’ Erica crossed her arms and gave Patrik a questioning look.

‘Some time after quarter past seven, when she was talking to her mother on the phone, Alex ingested a large quantity of sedatives. There was no sign that anyone broke in, so in all probability that means that she had a visit from someone she knew. Someone who then had the opportunity to give her the sedatives. How did this someone manage to do that? Well, they must have had something to eat or drink together.’

Patrik was pacing up and down in the living room as he spoke. Erica sat down on the sofa and watched with interest.

‘Actually,’ he stopped pacing and raised an index finger in the air, ‘the medical examiner was able to tell us what she last ate, based on the contents of her stomach. What did Alexandra eat on the evening of the murder? According to the ME, her stomach contained fish casserole and cider. In the rubbish bin was found an empty packet of Findus fish casserole, and there was an empty cider bottle on the worktop, so that seems to match. What seems a bit strange is that in the fridge there were two large beef fillets, and in the oven there was a frozen potato dish. But the oven was not on, and the potato dish was still raw. There was also a bottle of white wine on the worktop. It was opened, and about five ounces were gone. That corresponds to about one glass.’

Patrik measured the amount between his thumb and index finger.

‘But there was no wine in Alex’s stomach?’ Erica was leaning forward with interest, resting her elbows on her knees.

‘No, precisely. Since she was pregnant she must have drunk cider instead of wine, but the question is, who drank the wine?’

‘Were there any dirty dishes?’

‘Yes, there was a plate, a fork and a knife with remnants of fish casserole on it. There were also two glasses in the sink. One glass was full of fingerprints—Alex’s. But there were no prints on the other glass.’

He stopped pacing and sat down in the easy chair facing Erica, stretching out his long legs and clasping his hands on his stomach.

‘Which must mean that someone wiped off the fingerprints on the glass,’ said Erica.

She was feeling incredibly intelligent as she sat there coming up with deductions, and Patrik was polite enough to try to look as though he hadn’t already thought of all this before.

‘Yes, that’s what it looks like. Since the inside of the glasses had been rinsed out we found no residue of sedative in either of them, but my guess is that Alex drank it in her cider.’

‘But why would she eat fish casserole all alone if she had a smashing dinner of beef fillets for two under way in the kitchen?’

‘Yes, that’s the question, all right. Why would a woman abandon a feast and instead heat up something in the microwave?’

‘Because she planned a romantic dinner for two, but her date never showed up.’

That’s my guess too. She waited and waited, but finally gave up and tossed something from the freezer into the nuker. I completely understand. It’s not much fun eating beef fillet by yourself.’

‘Anders actually came here for a visit, so it could hardly be him she was waiting for. How about the child’s father?’ said Patrik.

‘Yes, that seems the most plausible. How tragic. Here she’s prepared the world’s greatest dinner and put wine in the fridge to cool, maybe to celebrate the baby, what do I know, and then he doesn’t show up. So she sits here waiting and waiting. The question is, who came over instead?’

‘We can’t rule out the person she was waiting for,’ said Patrik. ‘He could have still shown up later than expected.’

‘Yes, that’s true. Oh, this is so frustrating! If only the walls could talk.’ Erica looked around the room.

It was a very lovely room. It felt new and fresh. When she sniffed the air she could even smell a hint of paint. The paint on the walls was one of Erica’s favourite colours, light-blue with a hint of grey, crisply contrasted with the white of the window-frames and furniture. A sense of calm filled the room, making her want to lean her head back against the sofa and close her eyes. She had seen this sofa at the House boutique in Stockholm, but on her income she could only dream about it. It was big and puffy and sort of flowed over all the edges. New furniture was mixed with antiques in an especially tasteful blend. Alex must have found the antiques during her work restoring the house in Göteborg. Most of the antique furniture was in the Gustavian style of the 1770s–80s. Erica thanked IKEA for the fact that she could even identify the style. She had often wished that she could buy a couple of pieces from their series of reproductions based on precisely this style. She gave a deep, envious sigh and then reminded herself why they were here. That quickly quashed any feeling of envy.

‘So what you’re saying is that someone she knew, her lover or somebody else, came here and they had a glass together and then this someone put a sedative in Alex’s cider glass,’ Erica said.

‘Yes, that’s the most plausible scenario.’

‘And then what? What do you think happened after that? How did she end up in the bathtub?’

Erica burrowed even deeper into the sofa and propped her feet up on the coffee table. She really had to save up for a sofa like this! For a moment the thought occurred to her that if they sold her parents’ house she would have enough money to buy any furniture she wanted. She instantly pushed that thought away.

‘I think that the killer waited until Alex fell asleep, undressed her, and dragged her into the bathroom.’

‘Why do you think the killer dragged her and didn’t carry her into the bathroom?’

‘The autopsy report showed that she had scrape marks on her heels and bruises under her upper arms.’

Patrik sat bolt upright in the easy chair and gave Erica a hopeful look. ‘Could I try something?’

Erica said sceptically, ‘It depends on what it is.’

‘I was thinking you could play murder victim.’

‘Oh, thanks a lot. Do you really think my acting talents can handle such a stretch?’ She laughed but willingly stood up.

‘No, no, sit back down. The likely scenario is that they sat here and Alex fell asleep on the sofa. So could you please collapse into a lifeless heap?’

Erica grunted but did her best to act like an unconscious person. When Patrik began pulling on her she opened one eye and said, ‘I hope you’re not thinking of taking my clothes off too.’

‘Oh no, absolutely not, I wouldn’t, I hadn’t intended to, I mean…’ he stammered and blushed.

‘That’s cool, I was only kidding. Go ahead, murder away.’

She felt him drag her onto the floor after first shoving aside the coffee table a bit. He started by trying to drag her by her wrists, but when that didn’t work very well he grabbed her under her armpits and dragged her towards the bathroom. All at once she felt extremely conscious of her weight. Patrik must think that she weighed half a tonne. She tried to cheat a little and push so she wouldn’t feel so heavy, but received a reprimand from Patrik. Oh, why hadn’t she followed the Weight Watchers diet a little more strictly the past few weeks? To be honest, she hadn’t even tried to follow it; instead she had devoted herself to unrestrained comfort eating. To top it off her jumper rode up when Patrik dragged her, and a treacherous spare tyre threatened to spill out of her waistband. She tried to suck in her stomach by taking a deep breath, but was forced to exhale after only a second.

The tiled floor in the bathroom was cold against her back and she shivered involuntarily, but not only from the cold. When Patrik had dragged her all the way over to the bathtub, he carefully set her down.

‘Well, that went smoothly enough. Rather heavy, but not impossible. And Alex weighed less than you do.’

Thanks a lot for that, Erica thought as she lay on the floor discreetly trying to pull her jumper down over her stomach.