Summertime Death by Mons Kallentoft Read Free Book Online Page B

out,’ Malin replies. ‘But she’ll turn up, you’ll see. In statistical terms, the probability of that is almost one hundred per cent.’
    Then Malin thinks: If she doesn’t turn up, what will you do then with my encouraging words? But in that case my words here and now will be the least of your problems. Yet my words do more good now than harm then.
    Agneta Eckeved comes back with a number of colourful packs of photographs in her hand.
    She puts them on the table in front of Malin and Zeke.
    ‘Have a look and take whatever pictures you want.’
     
    Everyone always says I’m a pretty girl.
    But how can I believe them and trust that it’s not just something they’re saying, and anyway, I don’t care about being pretty.
    Who the hell wants to be pretty?
    Pretty is for other people.
    I’m grown-up now.
    And you spoke to me in a new way that made me blush, but it was cold in the water so no one noticed anything.
    Dirt.
    Is it dirty here? And where do the pictures come from? How can I see them, I don’t understand.
    I’ve seen most of them before. They’re from this year, just a few of all the ones Mum takes so manically of us as a family. Stop taking pictures all the time, Mum.
    Just come.
    Come and get me.
    I’m scared, Dad.
    The beach in Majorca last summer.
    Winter in St Anton, sun in a blue sky, perfect snow.
    Christmas and Easter.
    How can I see the pictures and hear what you’re saying even though I’m not there? And the water? What water? And why is it so sludgy, so thick, like frozen clay when it ought to be nice and warm against my body?
    Give me the rubber ring, Mum!
    ‘She’s a very pretty girl, isn’t she?’
    And then a female voice, a bit older.
    Very pretty, don’t you think so, Reke? Reke? Who’s that?
    I’m so tired, Dad. There’s something slippery and sticky against my skin.
    Why aren’t you saying anything? I can see you at the table in the conservatory, how the sun reflected in the water of the pool throws patterns on your cheeks. But here, with me, where I am, it’s dark and cold and lonely. Damp.
    I’m not supposed to be here. I realise that much.
    I don’t want to be here. I want to be with you, I can see you but it’s like you don’t exist, as if I don’t exist.
    Don’t I exist?
    When I think about it I get scared in a way I’ve never been before. When I think about you, Dad, I feel warm.
    But also afraid.
    Why don’t you come?
     
    Malin chooses a picture that shows Theresa Eckeved’s face clearly: small mouth, full lips, chubby teenage cheeks and lively, almost black eyes, medium-length dark hair.
    No point asking what sort of clothes she had with her. What about how she usually dresses?
    ‘Jeans. And a shirt. Never skirts, not ever. She thinks they’re stupid,’ Agneta Eckeved says.
    ‘In the pictures she looks quite girly.’
    ‘Appearances can be deceptive. She’s a bit of a tomboy,’ Sigvard Eckeved says.
    ‘You don’t have any suspicions about where she might be? Any special friends?’ Zeke asks.
    Both parents shake their heads.
    ‘She doesn’t have that many friends,’ Agneta Eckeved says. ‘I mean, she knows lots of people, but I wouldn’t say many of them are real friends.’
    ‘We’d like phone numbers for her boyfriend and any friends that you happen to have numbers for,’ Malin says. ‘And anyone else who means a lot to her. Teachers, sports coaches and so on.’
    ‘She’s never really liked sports,’ Sigvard Eckeved says. ‘But there’s a girl who used to come and swim here sometimes, some new friend who lives in the city. Do you remember her name, Agneta?’
    ‘Nathalie. But I’ve no idea what her surname might be.’
    ‘What about a phone number?’
    ‘Sorry, no. But her name is Nathalie. I’m sure about that.’
    ‘If you do remember, we’d like to know,’ Malin says.
    ‘Does Theresa have a computer?’ Zeke asks.
    ‘Yes. In her room. She doesn’t use it much.’
    ‘Can we take it with us? To check her emails and so