LITMIR.BIZ

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patted his stomach and found that yes, there was a tiny little nook that he might be able to fill with a meringue dream.

      ‘Did you see anything else after that? Did you notice when Anders Nilsson left, for example?’

      ‘No, I didn’t see him anymore that evening. But I did see him go into the house several times in the following week. That was odd, I must say. From what I heard in town she was already dead by then. So what in all the world could he have been doing in there?’

      That was precisely what Patrik was wondering. Mrs Petrén gave him an inquiring look. ‘So, did you enjoy those?’

      ‘Probably the best pastries I’ve ever tasted, Mrs Petrén. How is it that you can rustle up a tray of pastries just like that? I mean, I didn’t ring more than fifteen minutes before I came here. You would have had to be as fast as Superman to bake all these goodies.’

      She basked in the compliment and tossed her head proudly.

      ‘For thirty years, my husband and I ran the pastry shop here in Fjällbacka, so one hopes one has learned something over the years. Old habits are hard to break, so I still get up at five in the morning and bake every day. What doesn’t go to the kids and old ladies who come to visit, I feed to the birds. And then it’s always fun to try new recipes. There are so many modern baked goods that are so much better than those dry old Finnish pin rolls we used to bake tons of in the old days. I find recipes in the food magazines, and then I modify them to my liking.’

      She gestured at an enormous stack of food magazines on the floor next to the kitchen bench – there was everything from Amelia Mat to Allt om mat, several years’ worth. Judging by the price per issue, Patrik suspected that Mrs Petrén must have saved a pretty penny during her years at the pastry shop. He had a bright idea.

      ‘Do you know whether there was any connection between the Carlgren family and the Lorentz family, besides the fact that Karl-Erik worked for them? Did they ever get together socially, for example?’

      ‘Goodness gracious, the Lorentzes getting together with the Carlgrens? No, my friend, that would only have happened if there were two Thursdays in one week! They didn’t move in the same circles. The fact that Nelly Lorentz – according to what I heard – showed up at the funeral reception at the Carlgrens’ house, I’d have to call that quite a sensation, nothing less!’

      ‘But what about the son? The one who disappeared, I mean. Did he ever have anything to do with the Carlgrens, as far as you know?’

      ‘No, one would hope not. A nasty boy he was. Always trying to nick pastries behind one’s back in the pastry shop. But my husband taught him a lesson when he caught him red-handed. That boy got the scolding of his life. Then, of course, Nelly came rushing over here to tell us off. She threatened to call the police on my husband. Well, he put a stop to that when he told her that there were witnesses to the pilfering, so she could go right ahead and ring the public prosecutor.’

      ‘But no connection to the Carlgrens, as far as you know, then?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘Well, it was just a thought on my part,’ said Patrik. ‘Next to the murder of Alex, Nils’s disappearance is probably the most dramatic thing that’s ever happened here, and one never knows. Sometimes the most interesting coincidences turn up. So, I don’t think I have any other questions, so I’ll just say thanks for the coffee. Tremendously good pastry, I must say. I’ll have to eat salad for a few days.’ He patted his stomach.

      ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have to eat rabbit food. You’re still a growing boy.’

      Patrik chose to accept the compliment, instead of pointing out that at thirty-five only his waistline was still growing. He got up from the kitchen bench but had to sit right down again. It felt like he had a tonne of concrete in his stomach, and a wave of nausea rose up in his throat. On second thought, it hadn’t been such a good idea to stuff himself with all these pastries.

      He tried to squint a bit as he walked through the living room, and all one thousand four hundred forty-two Santas winked and glittered at him.

      Walking out to the door took as long as it had to come in. He had to restrain himself from running around Mrs Petrén as he shuffled behind her toward the front door. She was a feisty old woman, no doubt about it. She was also a reliable witness, and with her testimony it was only a matter of time before they would be able to add another couple of pieces to the puzzle and build a water-tight case against Anders Nilsson. For the time being, it was mostly circumstantial evidence, but it looked as though the murder of Alexandra Wijkner was now solved. Yet he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, to the extent he could feel anything besides pastry. It was a feeling that the simple solutions were not always the correct ones.

      It was magnificent to breathe fresh air, which somewhat relieved the nausea. He was just thanking Mrs Petrén once more and turning to go when she pressed something into his hand before he pulled the door closed. He looked to see what it was. It was a shopping bag from ICA stuffed full of pastries – and a little Santa Claus. He grabbed his stomach and groaned.

      ‘Well now, Anders, things aren’t looking so good for you.’

      ‘Oh yeah?’

      ‘Oh yeah – is that all you have to say? You’re sitting up to your neck in shit if you haven’t realized that! Have you realized that?’

      ‘I didn’t do anything.’

      ‘Bullshit! Don’t you sit there and shovel bullshit right in my face. I know you murdered her, so you might as well confess and save us all some trouble. If you save me trouble, you’ll save yourself trouble. Do you get what I’m talking about?’

      Mellberg and Anders were sitting in the only interrogation room at Tanumshede police station, and unlike American cop shows, there was no one-way glass wall through which his colleagues could watch the interrogation. Which suited Mellberg just fine. It was completely against regulations to be alone with a subject under interrogation, but what the hell, as long as he delivered, nobody would care about any stupid regulations. And Anders hadn’t asked for an attorney or anyone else to be present, so why should Mellberg insist?

      The room was small and sparsely furnished, with bare walls. The only furniture was a table and two chairs, now occupied by Anders Nilsson and Bertil Mellberg. Anders was leaning back nonchalantly in his chair, with his hands folded in his lap and his long legs stretched out under the table. Mellberg stood leaning halfway over the table with his face as close to Anders’s as he could stand, in view of the suspect’s anything but minty-fresh breath. But it was close enough for tiny drops of saliva to spray in Anders’s face when Mellberg spat out his words. Anders didn’t bother to wipe his face. He chose to pretend that the superintendent was merely an annoying fly, so insignificant that it wasn’t even worth swatting away.

      ‘Both you and I know that you were the one who murdered Alexandra Wijkner. Tricked her into taking sleeping pills, put her in the bathtub and slit her wrists, and then calmly watched as she bled to death. So why don’t we just make this easy on both of us? You confess and I’ll write it down.’

      Mellberg felt very pleased with what he regarded as a powerful start to the interrogation. He sat down on the chair and clasped his hands over his big paunch. He waited. No response from Anders. His head continued to droop forward, his hair concealing any facial expression. A twitch at the corner of Mellberg’s mouth revealed that indifference was not what he considered his preamble deserved. After waiting in silence a bit longer, he slammed his fist on the table to try to rouse Anders out of his torpor. No reaction.

      ‘What the hell, you fucking drunk! Do you think you can get out of this by sitting there and not saying a word? Then you’ve ended up in the hands of the wrong cop, I can tell you that. You’re going to tell me the truth if we have to sit here all day!’

      The sweat stains under Mellberg’s arms were growing larger with each syllable.

      ‘You were jealous, weren’t you? We found some paintings you did of

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