The Scent of Almonds and Other Stories. Camilla Lackberg

face.

      ‘It’s so awful,’ she said, her lower lip quivering. Martin had to restrain an urge to put his arms around her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. He was annoyed with himself. That sort of reaction was totally unprofessional.

      ‘Yes, it certainly is,’ he said instead as he lightly tapped his pen on the notepad. ‘What can you tell me about who might be a suspect in your grandfather’s death?’

      ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing,’ sobbed Miranda. ‘I don’t understand how this could have happened! How could anyone do something so horrible?’

      With some embarrassment Martin handed her a tissue from the box on top of the desk. Weeping women always made him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.

      ‘From what I gathered at dinner, your grandfather was not especially pleased with the way all of you have handled your finances.’ He could hear how stilted his words sounded.

      ‘Grandpa has always been so generous towards his children and grandchildren,’ she said, still crying. ‘He loaned me the funds I needed to start my design company, and if only I’d had a little more time … and maybe a little more money, I know I could have made it a success. But I’ve had such terrible bad luck along the way, and the customers have never really discovered my work, and …’ Her words gave way to sobbing.

      ‘So your grandfather loaned you some money. And now it’s all gone, and you were thinking of asking him for more? Is that correct?’

      Miranda nodded. ‘Yes. I only needed a million. That would have given me the necessary time to make a go of things. The fashion industry is tough, and you have to take big risks if you want to succeed.’ She tossed her head, and her lip stopped quivering.

      ‘So you were planning to ask your grandfather for a million kronor?’

      ‘Yes.’ Again that stubborn toss of the head. ‘That’s pocket change for him. Do you have any idea how much the old man had in the bank?’ She rolled her eyes but then realized what she’d just said. Again her lip started quivering.

      ‘But you hadn’t yet asked him for the loan?’ Martin now felt considerably less sympathy for the woman as he watched the crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks.

      ‘No, no,’ she assured him, leaning forward. ‘I was planning to ask him during the weekend.’

      ‘What about the other family members?’

      ‘What do you mean? What about them?’

      ‘Ruben seemed to have strong opinions about them as well. Do you think any of them might have had a more violent response than—’

      Miranda cut him off. Her eyes were flashing with anger.

      ‘Do you seriously imagine I would sit here and accuse a member of my own family of murder? Is that what you think? Is it?’

      ‘I merely asked whether anyone might have had a more violent response than the rest of the family.’

      ‘But isn’t that the same thing as asking me who I think killed Grandpa?’ replied Miranda coldly.

      Martin had to admit to himself that she was right. He suddenly felt extremely tired. For weeks he’d been dreading coming out here with Lisette, and he could now say that everything had turned out a hundred times worse than he could possibly have imagined. He glanced at his watch. It was gone eleven p.m.

      ‘I think we’ll stop here,’ he said. ‘It’s getting late. We’ll continue tomorrow.’

      A relieved expression appeared on Miranda’s face. But she merely nodded as she got to her feet. Martin followed her into the library to speak to the others. The mood was so oppressive that he almost felt as if he’d walked into a wall.

      ‘I’m going to stop the interviews for tonight. I know everyone is tired, and I think it would be more productive to continue in the morning, after we’ve all had some rest.’

      No one replied, but everyone looked relieved.

      ‘Would you like a cognac?’ asked Lisette as she came over to Martin and put her hand on his arm. His first instinct was to decline. In a practical sense, he was officially on duty. But exhaustion and the weight of responsibility had taken their toll, and he found himself nodding as he sank into the nearest armchair. Outside, the snow was still coming down hard. A branch could be heard banging against a windowpane at the other end of the building.

      ‘Is it true that we can’t get over to the mainland?’ Vivi’s voice broke, and her hand shook as she again raised it to her neck where her pearls had been.

      ‘Didn’t you hear what they said? It’s impossible!’ Gustav’s voice was a bit too shrill, and he went on in a more muted tone: ‘We can’t do it, Vivi. We’ll have to wait until morning. Maybe by then the worst of the storm will be over, and we can make the crossing.’

      ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Harald. ‘The weather forecast says that the storm is going to last until Sunday. So I suppose we’ll just have to sit tight and wait.’

      ‘But I can’t stay here for two days. Not with a … corpse!’ cried Vivi. Everyone was now looking at her.

      ‘So what do you suggest we do? Skate across the ice to Fjällbacka?’ Harald yelled.

      Gustav sprang to his feet and put his arm around his wife.

      ‘I won’t have you speaking to Vivi in that tone of voice. Can’t you see that she’s in shock? We’re all in shock.’

      Harald merely snorted. Instead of replying, he poured himself a generous amount of cognac.

      A faint voice now piped up from the chair closest to the window.

      ‘How can all of you keep on arguing like this? Nobody has said a word about the fact that Grandpa is dead. He’s gone! Don’t you understand that? But none of you care. The only thing that matters to you is to keep on with your damn bickering. About such petty things! And about money! Grandpa was ashamed of all of you, and I can understand why.’ Matte held back a sob as he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt.

      ‘Listen to that,’ sneered Bernard. He was lounging at one end of the sofa, twirling his cognac glass in his hand. ‘Always Grandpa’s favourite. Always ready to sit like a lapdog and listen to the old man’s endless stories. You even pretended to be interested in that drivel about the Sherlock Holmes club. And yet you never hesitated to take his money.’

      ‘Bernard …’ pleaded Lisette, but her cousin paid no attention.

      ‘He gave you that flat in the city when you started at the university. What was it worth? Three million? Four?’

      ‘I never asked for anything!’ retorted Matte, glaring at Bernard. ‘Unlike the rest of you, I wasn’t constantly begging him for money. The flat belonged to Grandpa, and I was allowed to live there while I studied, but as soon as I graduated, I would have to make it on my own. That was the agreement. And I didn’t want it any other way. Grandpa knew that.’

      Again he used his shirtsleeve to dry his tears. Then he turned to look out of the window, clearly embarrassed that they’d seen him crying.

      ‘Matte, we know how close you were to Grandpa. And all of us are sad. We’re just a little … shocked … as Uncle Gustav said.’ Britten perched on the armrest of Matte’s chair and gently stroked his arm. He didn’t push her away, but he kept his gaze fixed on the winter darkness.

      ‘Well, maybe we should all turn in for the night,’ said Harald, standing up. ‘Before we say anything that we’ll regret tomorrow.’

      The others murmured their agreement, and the library quickly emptied. Only Vivi stayed behind.

      ‘Our room is upstairs,’ said Lisette as she took Martin’s arm. ‘Why don’t you fetch your bag? I’ve already put mine in the room.’

      He did as she