The Hidden Child (11 page)

Erica set the diary on her lap as she brooded over what she’d just read. Why hadn’t Erik Frankel mentioned that he’d known her mother when they were young? Erica had told him where she’d found the Nazi medal, and who it had belonged to. Yet he hadn’t said a word. Again Erica recalled the strange silence that had ensued. She was right. There was something that he’d been keeping from her.

The shrill sound of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts. With a sigh she swung her legs down from the desk and pushed back her chair. Who could that be? Her question was immediately answered by someone calling ‘Hello?’ in the hall. Erica sighed again, now with even greater emphasis. Kristina. Her mother-in-law. She took a deep breath, opened the door, and went over to the staircase. ‘Hello?’ she heard again, the tone of voice even more insistent, and Erica felt herself clenching her jaw with annoyance.

‘Hello,’ she said, as cheerfully as she could manage, although she was aware how false it sounded. Thank goodness Kristina was not particularly attuned to nuances.

‘Just popped into say hello!’ replied her mother-in-law happily as she hung up her jacket. ‘I brought along some cookies for coffee. Baked them myself. Thought you’d appreciate it, since you career girls don’t have time for such things.’

Erica was gnashing her teeth. Kristina had an unbelievable talent for issuing veiled criticisms. Was she born that way or was it something she’d perfected through long years of practice?

‘Oh, that sounds nice,’ she said politely as she went into the kitchen where Kristina was already making coffee, as if it were her house and not Erica’s.

‘Sit down. I’ll fix the coffee,’ she said. ‘I know where everything is.’

‘You certainly do,’ said Erica, knowing that Kristina wouldn’t pick up on the sarcasm.

‘Patrik and Maja are out taking a walk. They probably won’t be back for a while,’ she said, hoping that might make her mother-in-law cut her visit short.

‘I know,’ said Kristina as she measured out scoops of coffee. ‘Two, three, four . . .’ She put the scoop back in the tin and then turned her attention to Erica. ‘They’ll be home any minute. I drove past them on the way over. It’s so nice that Karin has moved back, and that Patrik has some company in the daytime. It’s boring to go out walking all alone, especially for someone like Patrik, who’s used to working and being productive. It looked as though they were enjoying each other’s company.’

Struggling to process this information, Erica stared at Kristina. What was she on about? Karin? Karin who?

The moment Patrik stepped through the door, a light went on in Erica’s head. Oh,
that
Karin.

Patrik smiled sheepishly, and after a strained pause he said, ‘How nice – coffee.’

They’d gathered in the kitchen for a run-through of the case. It was getting close to lunchtime, and Mellberg’s stomach was growling loudly.

‘Okay then, what do we have so far?’ He reached for one of the buns that Annika had set out on a platter. Just a little appetizer before lunch. ‘Paula and Martin? You talked to the victim’s brother this morning – did you find out anything interesting?’ He chewed on the bun as he talked, dropping crumbs on to the table.

‘That’s right, we picked him up at Landvetter airport,’ said Paula. ‘But he doesn’t seem to know very much. We asked him about the letters from Sweden’s Friends, but the only thing he was able to clarify was that Frans Ringholm was apparently one of Erik’s childhood friends. Axel didn’t know about any specific threats from that organization; it seems that threats were something of an occupational hazard, given the work that he and Erik did.’

‘Axel received threats?’ asked Mellberg, spraying more crumbs across the table.

‘Quite a few, from what he said,’ said Martin. ‘They’re all on file with the organization that he works for.’

‘Had he received any from Sweden’s Friends?’

Paula shook her head. ‘He couldn’t tell us whether he had or not. And I can understand that. He must get so much of that junk in the post, why would he pay any attention to it?’

‘What was your impression of him? I’ve heard that he was something of a hero in his youth.’ Annika gave Martin and Paula an inquisitive look.

‘Stylish, distinguished . . .’ said Paula, ‘but very subdued, which is only natural in the circumstances. He definitely seemed upset by his brother’s death. Did you have the same impression?’ She turned to Martin, who nodded.

‘Yes, I thought so too.’

‘I assume that you’re going to question him again,’ said Mellberg, looking at Martin. ‘And I understand you’ve been in touch with Pedersen, is that right?’ He cleared his throat. ‘A bit odd that he didn’t want to talk to me.’

Martin coughed. ‘I think you must have been out walking the dog when he called. I’m sure you were at the top of his list.’

‘Hmm, well, you’re probably right. Okay, go on. What did he say?’

Martin summarized Pedersen’s findings. Then he told them: ‘Apparently Pedersen rang Patrik first. Sounds as though he isn’t entirely happy about being a stay-at-home father: he got Pedersen to give him a full report. Considering how easy it was to entice him over to the crime scene, I bet we’ll be seeing him and Maja here at the station very soon.’

Annika laughed. ‘Yes, I talked to him yesterday. He was trying to be diplomatic, saying that it would probably take him some time to get adjusted.’

‘I believe it,’ snorted Mellberg. ‘What a stupid idea: grown men changing nappies and making baby food! My generation didn’t have to put up with that sort of rubbish. We could devote ourselves to things we were better suited for, while the women took care of the kids.’

‘I would have gladly changed nappies,’ said Gösta quietly, looking down at the table.

Patrik and Annika glanced at him; they’d only recently found out that Gösta and his late wife had had a son who died shortly after birth. There had been no other children. Everyone sat in silence for a moment and avoided looking at Gösta. Then Annika said:

‘Well, I happen to think it’s a good thing. You men get to find out how much work is involved. I don’t have any of my own’ – now it was Annika’s turn to look sad – ‘but all my women friends have children, and it’s not like they lie around eating bonbons all day long because they’re at home with the kids. So this will probably be good for Patrik.’

‘You’ll never convince me of that,’ said Mellberg. Then he frowned impatiently and peered down at the papers lying on the table in front of him. Brushing off all the crumbs, he read a few sentences before he spoke again.

‘Okay, here’s the report from Torbjörn and his boys . . .’

‘And girls,’ added Annika. Mellberg sighed loudly.

‘And girls. You’re certainly on some sort of feminist warpath today! Shall we get on with this investigation, or should we just sing “Kumbaya” and debate the feminist agenda?’ He shook his head before proceeding:

‘As I said, I have here the report from Torbjörn and his
team
. And I can sum it up in two words: “no surprises”. They found a number of shoe prints and fingerprints, and of course we’ll have to follow up on those. Gösta, make sure that we get the boys’ prints so we can eliminate them, and the brothers’ too. By the way’ – he hesitated as he read a few lines to himself again – ‘it seems they’ve established that the victim received a blow to the head, delivered by some kind of blunt instrument.’

‘So, no other injuries? Just the one blow to the head?’ said Paula.

‘Uh, yes, that’s right: one blow. I asked Torbjörn that very question, and apparently it’s possible to tell by analysing the blood spatter on the walls. At any rate, the conclusion is quite clear: a powerful blow to the head.’

‘That agrees with the post-mortem results,’ said Martin, nodding. ‘What about the weapon? Pedersen thought it was a heavy object made of stone.’

‘Exactly!’ said Mellberg triumphantly, jabbing his finger at the middle of the document. ‘Under the desk they found a heavy stone bust. It had traces of blood and hair and brain matter on it, and I’m convinced that the stone fragments embedded in the wound will match the stone that the bust is made of.’

‘So we have the murder weapon. At least that’s something,’ said Gösta gloomily, taking a gulp of his coffee, which had gone cold.

Mellberg glanced at his subordinates sitting around the table. ‘Any suggestions as to how we should proceed?’ He made it sound as if the question were merely a formality and that he had already devised a long list of suitable investigative measures. Which was not the case.

‘I think we should talk to Frans Ringholm. Find out more about those threats.’

‘And talk to the people who live in the neighbourhood, to see if anyone noticed anything around the time of the murder,’ Paula added.

Annika looked up from her notebook. ‘Somebody should also interview the cleaning woman who worked for the brothers. Find out when she was last there, whether she spoke to Erik, and why she hasn’t been over to clean all summer.’

‘Good.’ Mellberg nodded. ‘So, why are you all sitting here? Let’s get to work!’ He glared at the officers and continued to do so until they trooped out of the room. Then he reached for another bun.

Delegation. That was the mark of a good leader.

They had all agreed that it was a total waste of time to go to classes, so they only showed up sporadically, whenever the spirit happened to move them. Which wasn’t very often. Today they’d gathered around ten o’clock. There wasn’t much to do in Tanumshede. They mostly sat around, talking. And smoking.

‘Did you hear about that old fart in Fjällbacka?’ Nicke took a drag on his cigarette and laughed. ‘It was probably your grandfather and his pal who killed him.’

Vanessa giggled.

‘Hey,’ said Per crossly, though not without a certain pride. ‘Grandpa had nothing to do with that. He wouldn’t risk prison time just to kill some geriatric fossil. Sweden’s Friends has better things to do, and bigger goals in mind.’

‘Have you talked to the old guy yet? About letting us come to a meeting?’ Nicke had stopped laughing, an eager expression now on his face.

‘Not yet,’ said Per reluctantly. He enjoyed a special status in the group because he was the grandson of Frans Ringholm, and in a weak moment he’d promised the others that he’d get them into one of the Friends’ meetings in Uddevalla. But he hadn’t found the right occasion to bring it up with his grandfather. Besides, he knew what Frans would say. They were too young. They needed a couple more years to ‘develop their full potential’. What that meant, he had no idea. He and his friends understood the issues just as well as the older people did, the ones who had already been accepted. It was simple, after all. What was there to misunderstand?

And that was what appealed to him: the fact that it was simple. Black and white. No grey areas. Per couldn’t understand why people had to complicate matters, to study things first from one angle and then from another, when the whole thing was so very, very simple. It was us versus them – that’s all there was to it. Us and them. If they’d only keep to their own kind, there wouldn’t be a problem. But they would insist on forcing their way into territory that didn’t belong to them, crossing boundaries that ought to be obvious. The differences couldn’t be any clearer. White or yellow. White or brown. White or that disgusting blue-black skin of the ones who came from the darkest jungles of Africa. So bloody simple. Until they started mixing and jumbling everything up until it was one great muddy mess. He looked at his friends listlessly slumped on the bench next to him. Did he really know what their bloodlines were? Who knew what the whores in their family had been up to? Maybe impure blood ran through them too. Per shuddered.

Nicke gave him a questioning look. ‘What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve swallowed something nasty.’

Per snorted. ‘It’s nothing.’ But the thought and the feeling of revulsion wouldn’t leave him. He stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Come on, let’s go get some coffee. It’s making me depressed, just sitting here.’ He cocked his head towards the school building and then set off at a brisk pace without waiting to see whether the others followed. He knew they would.

For a moment he thought about the murdered man. Then he shrugged. The old boy wasn’t important.

Chapter 8
Fjällbacka 1943

The cutlery clinked against their plates as they ate. All three of them tried not to look at the empty chair at the dining-room table, but they couldn’t help themselves.

‘I can’t believe he had to leave again so soon.’ Gertrud frowned as she handed the bowl to Erik, and he put yet another potato on his plate, even though it was already full. It was easier to do that, otherwise his mother would keep urging him to take more food until he gave in. But when he looked down at his brimming plate, he wondered how on earth he was ever going to eat it all. Food didn’t interest him. He ate only because he was forced to do so. And because his mother kept saying that she was ashamed at how skinny he was. She said that people were going to think she was starving him.

Axel, on the other hand, ate everything with a healthy appetite. Erik cast a glance at the empty chair as he reluctantly raised the fork to his lips. The food seemed to swell in his mouth. The gravy transformed the potatoes into a soft mush, and he chewed mechanically to get rid of what was in his mouth as quickly as possible.

‘He has to do his part.’ Hugo Frankel gave his wife a stern look. But he too glanced at the empty chair.

‘I just thought he could have a few days of peace and quiet here at home.’

‘That’s up to him. Nobody can tell Axel what to do, except Axel himself.’ Hugo’s voice swelled with pride, and Erik felt a stab of pain in his chest, as he did whenever his mother and father talked about Axel. Sometimes Erik felt as if he were almost invisible, a mere shadow of the dazzling Axel, who was always the focal point, even though he wasn’t trying to be. Erik stuffed another forkful into his mouth. If only dinner would be over so he could go to his room and read. Mostly he read history books. There was something about all the facts, the names and dates and places, that he loved. Those things didn’t change; they were something he could rely on, depend on.