The Stonecutter
For the first time in English, the third psychological thriller from No 1 bestselling Swedish crime sensation Camilla Läckberg.The remote resort of Fjällbacka has seen its share of tragedy, though perhaps none worse than that of the little girl found in a fisherman's net. But this was no accidental drowning…Local detective Patrik Hedström has just become a father. It is his grim task to discover who could be behind the murder of a child both he and his partner Erica knew well.What he does not know is how the case will reach into the dark heart of Fjällbacka and tear aside its idyllic façade, perhaps forever.
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CAMILLA LACKBERG
The Stonecutter
Translated from the Swedish
by Steven T. Murray
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010
Copyright © Camilla Lackberg 2005
Published by agreement with Nordin Agency, Sweden
English translation © Steven T. Murray 2008
Camilla Lackberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover Design © www.blacksheep-uk.com
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780007253975
Ebook Edition © MARCH 2010 ISBN: 9780007351855 Version: 2017-10-18
To UlleAll possible happiness
Table of Contents
1
The lobster fishery was not what it once was. Back then, hard-working, professional lobstermen trapped the black crustaceans. Now, summertime visitors spent a week fishing for lobsters purely for their own enjoyment. And they didnât obey the regulations either. He had seen plenty of it over the years. Brushes discreetly used to remove the visible roe from the females to make the lobsters look legal, poaching from other peopleâs pots. Some people even dived into the water and plucked the lobsters right out of the pots. Sometimes he wondered where it would all end and whether there was any honour left among lobstermen. On one occasion there had even been a bottle of cognac in the pot he pulled up, instead of the unknown number of lobsters that had been stolen from it. At least that thief had some honour, or a sense of humour.
Frans Bengtsson sighed deeply as he stood hauling up his lobster-pots, but his face brightened when he saw two marvellous lobsters in the first pot. He had a good eye for where lobsters tended to congregate, as well as a number of favourite spots where the pots could be placed with the same luck from one year to the next.
Three pots later and he had accumulated a passable heap of the valuable creatures. He didnât really understand why they commanded such scandalous prices. Not that they were unappetizing in any way, but if he had to choose heâd rather have herring for dinner. They were tastier and a better buy. But the income from the lobster fishery was a more than welcome addition to his pension at this time of the year.
The last pot seemed to be stuck, and he stood with his foot on the rail of the boat for a bit more support as he tried to wrench it loose. He felt the pot slowly begin to give, and he hoped it wasnât damaged. He peered over the rail of his old wooden snipa to see what sort of shape it was in. But it wasnât the pot that came up first. A white hand broke the heaving surface of the water, looking for a moment like it was pointing at the sky.
His first instinct was to release the line and let whatever was floating beneath the surface vanish into the depths again along with the lobster-pot. But then his expertise took over, and he resumed pulling on the line that was attached to the pot. He still had a good deal of strength in his body, and he needed it. He had to haul with all his might to manoeuvre his macabre find over the rail. He didnât lose his composure until the pale, lifeless body fell to the deck with a thud. It was a child heâd pulled up from the sea. A girl, with her long hair plastered round her face, and lips just as blue as her eyes, which now stared unseeing at the sky.
Bengtsson threw himself against the rail and vomited.
Patrik was more exhausted than heâd ever thought possible. All his illusions that babies slept a lot had been thoroughly crushed in the past two months. He ran his hands through his short brown hair but managed only to make it look even more tousled. And if he thought
