Buried Angels by Camilla Läckberg Page B

something.
    ‘What did you say?’
    He swallowed. ‘Nothing. Not a word.’
    ‘You know what the doctor said. You’re in the risk group for heart attacks and diabetes.’
    ‘One Magnum isn’t going to do me any harm. A man’s got to live a little once in a while,’ he said, handing out the other ice cream bars that he’d bought.
    ‘Another week of holiday left,’ said Paula, closing her eyes to the sun as she ate her Cornetto.
    ‘I really don’t think you should go back to work,’ said Johanna. ‘The baby’s due soon. I’m sure you could take sick leave if you talked to the midwife. You need to rest.’
    ‘Stop right there,’ said Mellberg. ‘I heard what you said. Don’t forget that I’m Paula’s boss.’ He pensively scratched his thinning grey hair. ‘But I agree. I don’t think you should be working either.’
    ‘We’ve already discussed this. I’ll go crazy if I just sit around at home, waiting. Besides, things are pretty quiet at the moment.’
    ‘What do you mean by quiet?’ Johanna stared at her. ‘This is the most hectic time of the whole year, with drunks and everything else.’
    ‘I mean that we don’t have any big investigation in progress. The usual summer break-ins, et cetera – I can handle those in my sleep. And I don’t need to go driving around. I can stay at the station and take care of the paperwork. So quit fussing. I’m pregnant, not sick.’
    ‘We’ll see how things go,’ said Mellberg. ‘But you’re right about one thing. It’s actually nice and quiet at the moment.’
     
    It was their wedding anniversary, and Gösta had brought fresh flowers to put on Maj-Britt’s grave, just as he did every year. Otherwise he wasn’t very good about tending to the grave, but that had nothing to do with his feelings for Maj-Britt. They’d had many happy years together, and not a day went by that he didn’t miss her. Of course he had grown used to his life as a widower, and his days were so regimented that sometimes it felt like a distant dream when he thought about how he’d once shared the small house with someone else. But the fact that he’d got used to life alone didn’t mean that he liked it.
    He squatted down and touched the letters etched into the headstone, spelling out the name of their little boy. There were no photos of him. They’d thought that they had all the time in the world to take pictures of him, and it hadn’t occurred to them to take any photos right after the birth. And when he died, no pictures were taken. That just wasn’t done. He understood that they handled things differently these days, but back then a person was supposed to forget and move on.
    Have another child as soon as you can. That was the advice they were given as they left the hospital in shock. But that was not to be. The only child they’d ever had was the girl. The lass, as they called her. Maybe they ought to have done more to keep her, but their grief was still too great, and they didn’t think they’d be able to give her what she needed, except for a brief time.
    It was Maj-Britt who had finally made the decision. He had tentatively suggested that they should take care of the girl, that she should be allowed to stay. Maj-Britt had replied: ‘She needs siblings.’ And so the little girl had disappeared. They never spoke of her afterwards, but Gösta hadn’t been able to forget her. If he had a one-krona coin for every time he’d thought about her since then, he’d be a wealthy man today.
    Gösta got up. He’d pulled out a few weeds that had sprouted up, and the bouquet of flowers looked lovely in the vase. He could hear Maj-Britt’s voice so clearly in his mind: ‘Oh, Gösta, what nonsense. Wasting such gorgeous flowers on me.’ She had never believed that she deserved anything out of the ordinary, and he wished that he had thrown caution to the wind and spoiled her more often. Given her flowers when she could actually enjoy them. Now he could only hope that she