Buried Angels by Camilla Läckberg Page A

time for that?’ He fixed Judith with a piercing stare and saw how the eagerness was extinguished from her eyes. She wanted him to acknowledge her and offer some words of praise, but if he gave the children the impression that what they were doing was good enough, then they’d stop making an effort. And he couldn’t let that happen.
    He didn’t wait for Judith to reply before he turned to Daniel. ‘I talked to the course instructor last week, and he said that you’d missed two days of class. Why was that?’
    ‘I had stomach problems,’ said Daniel. ‘I don’t think they’d have been too pleased if I’d sat there in the lecture hall, throwing up into a paper bag.’
    ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
    ‘No. That’s my honest answer.’
    ‘You know that I can always find out if you’re lying,’ said Josef. His knife and fork were still sitting on his plate. He’d lost his appetite. He hated the fact that he no longer had control over his children the way he had when they lived at home.
    ‘I had stomach problems,’ Daniel repeated, lowering his eyes. He too seemed to have lost his appetite.
    Josef hastily rose to his feet. ‘I need to get back to work.’
    As he retreated to his study, he thought they were probably glad to be rid of his presence. Through the door he could hear their voices and the clatter of china. Then Judith laughed, a loud, carefree laugh, sounding as clear as if she were sitting next to him. All of a sudden he realized that the children’s laughter, their joy, always became muted whenever he entered the room. Judith laughed again, and it felt like a knife turning in his heart. She never laughed like that around him, and he wondered whether things could have been different. At the same time, he had no idea how that might have been accomplished. He loved them so much that it caused him physical pain, but he could never be the father they wished for. He could only be the father that life had taught him to be and love them in his own way, by carrying on his heritage through them.
     
    Gösta was staring at the flickering screen of the television. He could see people coming and going, and since he was watching
Midsummer Murders
, no doubt somebody was being murdered. But he had lost interest in the plot some time ago. His thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
    On the coffee table in front of him was a plate with two open-face sandwiches. Skogaholm rye bread with butter and salami. Generally that was all he ever ate at home. It took too much effort and it was too depressing to cook for only one person.
    The sofa he was sitting on was getting old, but he didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. He remembered how proud Maj-Britt had been when they brought it home. Several times he had caught her running her hand over the smooth, floral upholstery as if petting a kitten. He was barely allowed to sit on it during that first year. But the little lass had bounced and slid all over it. Laughing, Maj-Britt had held her hands as she jumped higher and higher on the groaning springs.
    Now the upholstery was worn smooth, with big holes. In one place, next to the right armrest, a spring was sticking out. But he always sat on the left-hand side. That was his place, while the other side had belonged to Maj-Britt. In the evenings during that summer, the little lass had sat between them. She’d never seen a TV before, so she shrieked with delight whenever it was on. Her favourite programme had been the puppet show
Drutten and Gena
. And she could never sit still as she watched; she would squirm with sheer pleasure.
    No one had bounced on the sofa in a very long time. After the lass disappeared, it was as if she took part of the joy with her, and many silent evenings followed. Neither of them could have imagined that regret could hurt so much. They’d thought they were doing the right thing, and when they realized that they’d made the wrong decision, it was too late.
    Gösta gazed vacantly at Inspector