An Elegant Death: A Short Story

HarperCollins
Publishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollins
Publishers
2014

Copyright © Camilla Lackberg 2012

Published by agreement with Nordin Agency, Sweden

Translation copyright © Tiina Nunnally 2014

Cover design layout © HarperCollins
Publishers
2014

Cover photographs © Rupert Vandervell/Getty Images (woman); Steven Hayes/Getty Images (tree and graveyard)

Camilla Lackberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007479054

Version: 2014-10-24

Table of Contents

Cover

Copyright

An Elegant Death

About the Author

Also by Camilla Lackberg

About the Publisher

‘This is bad. Looks like a robbery gone wrong,’ said Patrik Hedström as he surveyed the small break room. There was blood everywhere, and a woman’s body lay between the kitchen table and the refrigerator. Her eyes stared up at them unseeing, and her skull had been bashed in. Blood had sprayed over the white walls and formed a big pool under the victim’s head and torso.

‘Yeah. It’s bad, all right,’ agreed Martin Molin from his position standing behind Patrik.

‘Hell of a lot of blood.’

Patrik shook his head. It didn’t matter how many times he saw a dead body. It was always the blood that made his stomach heave.

‘Somebody must have seen the guy who did this.’ Martin’s face had lost all colour.

‘How do we know it’s a guy?’ said Patrik. ‘It’s too early to make that kind of assumption.’

‘Sure, I know that, but I was just thinking … with all this violence … well, it doesn’t seem like something a woman would—’

He stopped himself there. Patrik was right.

‘Do you know who she is?’ Martin asked instead.

‘Lisbeth Wåhlberg. Originally from Fjällbacka, but she’s been living in Göteborg for years. Her husband died of a heart attack not too long ago, and then she moved back here. She lives upstairs. Opened this shop only a few weeks ago.’

‘So there probably wasn’t a lot of cash in the till. At least, not enough to make someone beat her to death to get it.’

‘No,’ said Patrik. ‘You’re right about that.’

He ran his eyes over the cramped space. The room next to the shop was sparsely furnished. A cramped kitchen nook with a sink, a coffee maker, and a dish rack that held some cups set out to dry. Near the window stood a small white table with two chairs, and against the wall across from the worktop was a refrigerator. That was it. Except for all the blood. So much blood. And there was something about the blood that gave Patrik pause. Whoever killed Lisbeth must have been in a fit of uncontrollable rage.

Beads of perspiration ran down Erica Falck’s face as she struggled to squeeze into the pair of jeans. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get them on.

‘Useless crap jeans!’ she yelled as she pulled them off and threw them across the room. Before she’d had children, she’d virtually lived in those jeans. Now she could barely get them past her knees.

She sank down on to the bed wearing only her knickers. A pair of practical white cotton knickers from Sloggi, as she noted in despair. She had to put an end to this slow decline. At the rate things were going, she’d turn into an old lady before she hit forty, with a sensible haircut and fingernails clipped short. She already had the felt slippers, so she could tick off that item. In fact, she had three pairs.

Ten minutes later, having decided that a brisk walk while her mother-in-law Kristina watched the kids would mark the beginning of her new life, she was on her way towards town. As she rounded the corner near the old telegraph office, she came to an abrupt halt. Up ahead there seemed to be something going on, with more police vehicles and more officers than the local department could ever muster. They were gathered outside the small vintage clothing shop that had opened only a few weeks ago. Erica and her sister Anna had both attended the grand opening hosted by the owner.

‘Patrik?’

She saw her husband come out of the shop with a grim look on his face. Erica’s curiosity got the better of her, and she hurried over to talk to him.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Patrik with a frown.

‘I was out taking a walk. What happened?’ Erica craned her neck in an attempt to peek inside the shop. ‘Was it a burglary?’ She paid no attention to the fact that Patrik clearly wanted her to leave. By now he ought to have known better than to try to chase her away.

‘Erica, I can’t—’ He was cut off mid-sentence by the appearance of a car that suddenly pulled up at the kerb. Two women jumped out.

‘What happened? Where is she?’ screamed one of them, an immaculately dressed woman in her forties. The woman behind her looked a bit younger. Concern and alarm were written all over her face.

Erica remembered the two women from the opening. They were Lisbeth Wåhlberg’s daughters.

‘We can’t give out information at this stage,’ Patrik began, blocking their way as he took up position in front of the shop door.

‘Is Mamma …? Is she inside?’

The older sister pointed towards the shop. Patrik took a deep breath.

‘I’m sorry to tell you that your mother is dead.’

The older sister let out a shriek. The anguish on the younger sister’s face made Erica’s heart ache for her.

‘We want to talk to both of you as soon as possible,’ said Patrik. ‘But right now I wonder if there’s someone you’d like to phone. Or would you like us to contact the vicar here in Fjällbacka?’

As Patrik waited for a reply, Erica stepped forward to place her hand on the older sister’s shoulder.

‘Let’s go have a coffee,’ she said. Then she led both sisters back to their car. ‘Give me the keys, and I’ll drive.’

Five minutes later they were sitting in Josefina’s café with a cup of strong, hot coffee in front of each of them.

‘The neighbours rang us,’ said the older sister, who now introduced herself as Tina. ‘My husband and I have a summer house on the other side of town, and my sister just happened to be visiting. She’s staying in our guest cottage.’ She nodded at the younger woman, who was sitting silently beside her and staring down at her coffee cup. ‘She was supposed to stay one week, but as usual she’s mucked things up, so God only knows how long she’ll be here.’

The younger sister looked at Erica. ‘The person I rented a flat from came home earlier than expected. I’m doing my best to find another place to live.’

‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name,’ said Erica, whose dislike for Tina, the older sister, was growing by the minute.

‘Linnea,’ said the woman quietly. She lifted her cup with trembling fingers.

‘Is Mamma really dead?’ she said. And now the tears spilled down her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘I hardly think the police would lie about something like that,’ snapped Tina as she got up to fetch more coffee.

She didn’t ask Erica or her sister whether they’d care for a refill.

‘Tell me about your mother,’ said Erica.

‘She had just realized her biggest dream,’ said Linnea, slowly wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. ‘Mamma has always loved clothes. She worked for years as a seamstress. She was such an expert; most of her customers belonged to the upper crust of Göteborg and she did a lot of alterations for the big, exclusive fashion houses. For years she dreamed of opening a small vintage clothing shop that would sell only the best – Dior, Chanel, Hermès, Louis Vuitton …’

‘Your mother certainly had lovely things in her shop,’ said Erica. ‘But they weren’t exactly cheap. I couldn’t really understand how she was going to make ends meet here in Fjällbacka.’

‘Precisely what I told her,’ Tina said with a snort as she came back to join them at the table. ‘It was the most idiotic idea I ever heard of! She might as well have tossed all of Pappa’s money into the fireplace.’

‘So what?’ said Linnea. ‘Pappa left the money to her. Why shouldn’t she spend it on whatever she liked? Mamma wasn’t stupid. She knew it was going to be a labour of love, and that the business would never pay back what she put into it. That wasn’t why she did it. She wasn’t interested in making money. She wanted to have a house here in Fjällbacka, where she grew up, and a little shop on the ground floor filled with things that she loved. That’s why Mamma opened the shop. To live her dream. Not to earn money.’

‘But financially it was crazy!’

Tina’s voice had risen to a falsetto.

‘So what?’ Linnea repeated. ‘The money belonged to her.’

Tina shook her head and abruptly stood up. ‘I refuse to sit here and listen to any more of this idiocy. Besides, we have important practical matters to attend to.’

Erica looked at Linnea’s sad expression and saw that she was undoubtedly thinking the same thing. That it was too soon – their mother’s body was hardly even cold.

‘Probably one of the local drug addicts who thought there’d be cash in the till,’ said Mellberg, scratching his scalp.

‘Well, er, I’m not so sure about that,’ said Patrik. He leaned down to pet Ernst. The dog was sitting next to his chair in the station’s break room, begging with his head cocked to one side.

‘No buns for you, my boy. Your mummy says you’re getting too fat,’ Mellberg said to the dog, who replied with a pitiful whine. ‘Oh, what the hell. A few little buns aren’t going to make anybody fat. Just look at me. I’m in great shape, and I eat at least two or three a day.’

Mellberg patted his huge paunch with satisfaction and then tossed a bun to Ernst. Patrik and Annika couldn’t help exchanging an amused glance. If self-indulgence had been an Olympic sport, Mellberg would have won every gold medal going.

‘I have a hard time imagining one of our local boys carrying out such a vicious assault. It seemed more … personal,’ said Patrik.

‘What do we know about the murder weapon?’ asked Martin as he gave Ernst another bun.

None of them could resist Ernst’s pleading brown eyes, and that was why the dog would soon be dragging his big belly along the ground.

‘It’s only been two days, so I haven’t heard anything conclusive from the crime lab yet. It always takes a while, you know. But I asked if they could give me some idea, however vague, and unofficially of course. So they told me she’d been killed with something heavy that had sharp edges,’ Patrik reported.

‘Heavy with sharp edges. That could be lots of things,’ said Mellberg gloomily. ‘Any concrete evidence from the techs’ examination of the shop?’

‘No, nothing,’ said Patrik. ‘Any footprints were obliterated by the customers who came in and found her.’

‘And nobody saw anyone coming out of the place? Seems strange. The perp must have had a car parked outside. And there’s nothing missing from Lisbeth’s private flat in the building?’

Martin reached for another bun and nodded when Annika asked if he’d like more coffee.

‘The door to the flat upstairs was locked, so no one could have gone in. And the daughters report that nothing had been moved or taken. But …’ And here Patrik hesitated. ‘I’d still like to carry out a forensic examination of the flat.’