Camilla Lackberg Crime Thrillers 4-6: The Stranger, The Hidden Child, The Drowning

They were in luck, because the voice that told them to come in unquestionably belonged to Fredrik Rehn. He was going over the morning’s broadcast with one of the technicians and turned round in annoyance when they entered.

‘What is it this time?’ he said, not hiding the fact that he viewed the police investigation as a disruptive intrusion into his work. Much as he loved the attention that the investigation brought to the series, he hated the fact that the police occasionally had to take up his time and also bother the cast members.

‘We’d like to have a talk with you. And the cast members. Call together the whole group and tell them to come to the community centre. Immediately.’ Patrik’s patience was waning, and he had no intention of wasting time on polite phrases.

Fredrik Rehn, failing to grasp the gravity of the anger he was facing, began to object in a whining voice: ‘But they’re working. And we’re shooting. You can’t just –’

‘NOW!’ yelled Patrik, and both Rehn and the techs jumped in fright.

Muttering, the producer took his mobile and began ringing round to the mobile phones the cast were equipped with. After five calls he turned to Patrik and Martin and said sourly, ‘Assignment complete. They’ll be here in a few minutes. May I ask what is so bloody important that you barge in here and interrupt me in the middle of a million-kronor project? Which by the way happens to have the full support of your local leadership because it’s of great benefit to this very community!’

‘I’ll tell you in a few minutes,’ said Patrik as he left the bus with Martin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rehn snatch up the phone again.

One by one the cast members trooped into the community centre. Some seemed annoyed at being pulled away from work on such short notice, while others, such as Uffe and Calle, seemed to welcome the interruption.

‘What’s this all about?’ said Uffe, sitting down on the edge of the big stage. He took out a pack of cigarettes and began to light one. Patrik snatched the unlit fag out of his mouth and tossed it in a wastepaper bin.

‘No smoking in here.’

‘What the fuck?’ said Uffe angrily, but didn’t dare protest anymore vigorously. Something about Patrik and Martin’s expressions told him they weren’t here to talk about the fire regulations.

Exactly eight minutes after Patrik had knocked on the bus door, the last participant sauntered in.

‘What now? God it’s like a funeral in here,’ said Tina with a laugh as she dropped onto one of the beds.

‘Shut up, Tina,’ said Rehn leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He intended to make sure that this interruption was as brief as possible. And he’d already begun ringing his contacts. He was in no mind to put up with any bloody police harassment. He was much too well paid for that.

‘You’re all here because we want to know one thing.’ Patrik looked round the room, locking eyes with each and every cast member in turn. ‘I want to know who found Lillemor’s diary. And who sold it to an evening newspaper.’

Rehn frowned. He looked taken aback. ‘Diary? What diary?’

‘The diary that the Evening News published extracts from today,’ said Patrik without looking at him. ‘All over the front page.’

‘Are we on the front page today?’ said Rehn, brightening up. ‘Wow, that’s great, I’ve got to see that …’

A look from Martin shut him up. But he couldn’t repress a smile. A headline was pure gold. Nothing else jacked up the ratings so high.

All the cast sat in silence. Uffe and Tina were the only ones who looked at the officers. Jonna, Calle and Mehmet stared at the floor, looking uncomfortable.

‘Either you tell me where this diary came from,’ Patrik continued, ‘who found it and where it is now, or I’m going to do everything in my power to shut you down. You’ve been able to continue filming only because we’ve allowed you to do so, but if you don’t tell me now …’ He left the words hanging in the air.

‘Jeez, somebody speak up,’ said Rehn, sounding stressed out. ‘If you know something, spit it out. If you know about it but refuse to talk, I’m going to squeeze the shit out of you and see to it that you never get near a television camera again.’ He lowered his voice and hissed, ‘I mean it. Spill the beans this minute or you’re terminated. Get it?’

Everyone squirmed. The silence was total in the big hall of the community centre. Finally Mehmet cleared his throat.

‘It was Tina. I saw her take it. Barbie kept it under her mattress.’

‘Shut the fuck up, you wanker!’ Tina snarled, her eyes shooting daggers at Mehmet. ‘They can’t do anything. Don’t you get it? Oh, you’re such a moron – all you had to do was keep your mouth shut.’

‘Now it’s your turn to shut up!’ yelled Patrik, walking over to Tina. She stopped talking as ordered and for the first time looked scared.

‘Who did you give the diary to?’

‘I can’t reveal my sources,’ Tina muttered in one last attempt to act cocky.

Jonna sighed and said, ‘You’re the one who’s the source, you prat.’ She was still looking at the floor and didn’t seem bothered that Tina turned and glared at her.

Patrik repeated his question, stressing every word, as if talking to a child. ‘Who – did – you – give – the – diary – to?’

Tina reluctantly gave the name of the journalist, and Patrik turned on his heel without wasting another word on her.

As he swept past Fredrik Rehn, the producer said wretchedly, ‘Now what happens? You didn’t really mean anything by … I mean, we can keep on shooting, can’t we? My boss …’ Rehn realized he was talking to deaf ears and shut up.

At the door Patrik turned round. ‘You can keep on making fools of yourselves on TV. But if you interfere with this investigation again in any way whatsoever …’ He let the threat hang in the air without finishing it.

Behind him he left a silent, depressed cast. Tina looked crushed, but she gave Mehmet a glare that told him she had more to say to him.

‘Back to work. We have camera time to make up.’ Rehn waved them out of the community centre. They shuffled off in the direction of the street. The show had to go on.

‘What happened?’ Simon cast a worried look at Mehmet as he put his apron back on.

‘Nothing. Just a bunch of shit.’

‘Do you think this is healthy? To keep filming after a girl was killed? It seems a bit –’

‘A bit what?’ said Mehmet. ‘A bit unfeeling? A bit tasteless?’ He raised his voice. ‘And we’re just a bunch of brain-dead cretins who get drunk and fuck on TV and make fools of ourselves. Right? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Did you ever think that it might be a better option than what we have at home? That it’s a chance to escape from something that’s going to catch up with us in the end?’ The words stuck in his throat, and Simon gently pushed him down onto a chair in the back of the bakery.

‘What’s all this about, anyway? For you, I mean,’ said Simon, and sat down facing him.

‘For me?’ Mehmet’s voice was filled with bitterness. ‘It’s about rebelling. Trampling everything that has any value. Trampling everything to bits until they can’t try to make me glue all the pieces back together.’ He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. Simon ran his hand down Mehmet’s back with soft, rhythmic strokes.

‘You don’t want to live the life they want you to live?’

‘Yes and no.’ Mehmet raised his eyes and looked at Simon. ‘It’s not that they’re forcing me, or threatening to send me back to Turkey or anything like that. Not the sort of thing you Swedes always think is foremost on the mind of every immigrant. It’s more a matter of expectations. And sacrifices. Mamma and Pappa have sacrificed so much for us, for me. So that we, their children, could have a better life in a country where we have all sorts of opportunities. They left everything behind. Their home, their families, the respect they had from their peers, their professions, everything. Solely so that we could have a better life than they did. For them it only got worse. I can see that. I see the longing in their eyes. I see Turkey in their eyes. That country doesn’t mean the same thing to me. I was born here in Sweden. Turkey is a place we go to in the summertime, but it’s not inside my heart. But I don’t belong here either. Here in this country where I’m supposed to fulfil their dreams, their hopes. I’m not a studious type. My sisters are, but oddly enough I, the son, am not. Yet I’m the bearer of my father’s name. The one who will carry it forward to the next generation. I just want to work. With my hands. I don’t have any great ambitions. It’s enough for me to go home and feel that I’ve done good work with my hands. But my parents refuse to understand. So I have to crush their dream, once and for all. Stamp it out. Until there’s nothing left.’ The tears were streaming down Mehmet’s cheeks, and the warmth he felt from Simon’s hands only intensified the pain. He was so tired of it all. He was so tired of never being good enough. He was so tired of lying about who he was.

He slowly raised his head. Simon’s face was only a few inches from his own. Simon gave him a questioning look as his warm hands that smelled like fresh bread wiped away Mehmet’s tears. Then Simon gently brushed his lips against his. Mehmet was surprised how right it felt, with Simon’s lips pressed to his. Then he lost himself in a reality that he’d always glimpsed but never dared see.

‘I’d like to have a word with Bertil. Is he in?’ said Erling, winking at Annika.

‘Go on through,’ she said curtly. ‘You know where his office is.’

‘Thank you,’ said Erling, winking again. He couldn’t understand why his charm didn’t seem to work on Annika.

He hurried off to Mellberg’s office and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he knocked again. Now a vague mumbling was heard, followed by what sounded like something being knocked over, then more mumbling. Finally the door opened. Mellberg looked groggy. Behind him a blanket and pillow lay on the sofa. There was also a clear impression left by the pillow on Mellberg’s face.

‘Bertil, are you taking a nap in the middle of the morning?’ Erling had given a lot of thought to what sort of attitude he should take with the chief of police, and had decided to start with a light, comradely tone and then transition to a more serious approach. He didn’t usually have much trouble handling Mellberg. Whenever matters landed on his desk that involved the police, he had always secured a painless and smooth cooperation with the help of flattery and an occasional bottle of fine whisky. He saw no reason it should be any different this time.

‘Well, you know,’ said Mellberg, looking embarrassed. ‘There’s been a lot going on lately, and it’s rather exhausting.’