The Hidden Child (19 page)

‘Ignorant fool? I beg to differ. The fools are the ones who talk about “not being aware that people are suffering”. You sound like you’re eighty years old. At least. All those books you read aren’t good for your health. They’re making you weird up here.’ Frans tapped his finger on his temple.

‘Oh, don’t pay any attention to him,’ said Elsy wearily. Sometimes the boys’ constant squabbling got her down. They were so childish.

A sound from downstairs made her face light up. ‘Pappa’s home!’ She smiled happily at her three friends and headed downstairs to see him. But halfway down she stopped, realizing that the cheerful tones that she usually heard when her father came home were missing entirely. Instead their voices rose and fell, sounding upset. As soon as she saw him, she knew that something was terribly wrong. His face was ashen, and he was running one hand over his hair, the way he always did when he was especially worried.

‘Pappa?’ she said hesitantly, feeling her heart pounding. What could have happened? She tried to catch his eye, but she saw that his gaze was fixed on Erik, who had come down behind her. He opened his mouth several times to speak, but then closed it again, unable to utter a word. Finally he managed to say, ‘Erik, I think you should go home. Your mother and father . . . are going to need you.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’ Then Erik clapped his hand over his mouth as he realized that Elsy’s father was about to give him bad news. ‘Axel? Is he . . .?’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, but kept swallowing hard as if to make the lump in his throat go away. An image of Axel’s lifeless body raced through his mind. How could he face his mother and father? How could he . . .?

‘He’s not dead,’ said Elof, when he realized what the boy was thinking. ‘He’s not dead,’ he repeated. ‘But the Germans have him.’

Erik’s expression turned to bewilderment. The relief and joy he had felt upon hearing that Axel wasn’t dead were quickly replaced by worry and dismay at the thought of his brother in the hands of the enemy.

‘Come on, I’ll walk you home,’ said Elof. His whole body seemed weighed down by the responsibility of telling Axel’s parents that their son wasn’t coming back this time.

Chapter 15

Paula smiled contentedly as she sat in the back seat. There was something so pleasant and familiar about the way Patrik and Martin were bickering with each other in the front seat. At the moment Martin was in the middle of a long diatribe about Patrik’s driving; putting up with it was not something he’d missed. But it was obvious that the two men were fond of each other, and already she had formed a great respect for Patrik.

Thus far, Tanumshede seemed to have been a good move. From the moment she arrived, it felt as if she’d come home. She had lived in Stockholm for so many years that she’d forgotten what it was like to live in a small town. Maybe Tanumshede in some way reminded her of the little town in Chile where she’d spent her early years. She couldn’t find any other explanation for why she’d so quickly adapted to the place. There was nothing she missed about Stockholm. Perhaps that wasn’t Stockholm’s fault; as a police officer, she’d seen the worst of the worst, and that had tainted her view of the city. But in truth she’d never felt at home there, even as a child. She and her mother had been part of an early wave of immigrants; they were assigned a tiny flat on the outskirts of Stockholm, in a neighbourhood where their dark eyes and black hair set them apart. She was the only one in her class who hadn’t been born in Sweden. And she’d had to pay for that. Every day, every minute, she’d paid for the fact that she’d been born in a different country. It didn’t help that after only a year she could speak perfect Swedish, without a trace of an accent. She was an outsider.

Contrary to popular belief, racism on the police force had ceased to be a problem by the time she joined. Swedes had finally grown used to people from other countries, and she wasn’t really considered an immigrant any more. Partly because she’d lived so many years in Sweden, partly because, with her South American background, she didn’t fall into the same category as refugees from the Middle East and Africa. She’d often thought it absurd that she’d lost her immigrant status by virtue of seeming less foreign than the more recent refugees.

She found men like Frans Ringholm frightening. They didn’t see nuances, didn’t see variations. After only a second’s glance they were ready to target someone on the basis of their appearance. It was the same kind of indiscriminate prejudice that had forced her and her mother to flee Chile. Centuries-old beliefs that decreed only one way, only one type of person was the right one and everything else was anathema, a threat to their world order. People like Ringholm had always existed. People who believed that they possessed the intelligence or the power or the force to determine the norm.

‘What number did you say it was?’ Martin turned to Paula, interrupting her thoughts. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand.

‘Number seven.’

‘Over there,’ said Martin, pointing to the building. Patrik turned in and parked. They were in the Kullen district, in front of a block of flats right across from the sports field.

The usual sign on the door had been replaced with a much more personal sign made of wood, with the name Viola Pettersson elegantly printed inside a circle of hand-painted flowers. And the woman who opened the door matched the sign. Viola was plump but well-proportioned, and her face radiated warmth. When Paula saw her romantic, floral-print dress, she thought that a straw hat would suit her perfectly, perched atop the grey hair that was pinned up in a bun.

‘Come in,’ said Viola, stepping aside. Paula glanced appreciatively at the entry hall. The flat was very different to her own, but she liked it. She’d never been to Provence, but this was how she thought it must look. Rustic country furniture combined with fabric and paintings with flower motifs. She peered into the living room, and saw that the same style prevailed.

‘I’ve made us some coffee,’ said Viola, leading the way. On the coffee table stood a delicate pink-floral coffee service, with biscuits arranged on a plate.

‘Thank you,’ said Patrik, perching cautiously on the sofa. After the introductions were out of the way, Viola poured everyone coffee and then seemed to be waiting for them to go on.

‘How do you get those geraniums to look so beautiful?’ Paula found herself asking as she sipped the coffee. Patrik and Martin glanced at her in surprise. ‘Mine always seem to rot away or dry up,’ she explained. Patrik and Martin raised their eyebrows even higher.

‘Oh, it’s not really that hard,’ said Viola proudly. ‘Just make sure that the soil dries out properly between waterings; you must never over-water them. I got a marvellous tip from Lasse Anrell. He told me to fertilize them with a bit of urine every once in a while. That does the trick if they’re giving you any trouble.’

‘Lasse Anrell?’ said Martin. ‘Isn’t he the sports writer for
Aftonbladet
? What does he have to do with geraniums?’

Viola looked as if she could hardly be bothered to answer such a silly question. For her, Lasse was first and foremost an expert on geraniums; the fact that he was also a sports writer and TV personality had barely entered her consciousness.

Patrik cleared his throat. ‘From what we understand, you and Erik Frankel saw each other fairly regularly.’ He paused but then went on. ‘I’m . . . I’m very sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you,’ said Viola, looking down at her coffee cup. ‘Yes, we used to see each other. Erik sometimes stayed here, maybe twice a month.’

‘How did you meet?’ asked Paula. It was difficult to imagine how these two people had come together, seeing how different their homes were.

Viola smiled. Paula noted that she had two charming dimples.

‘Erik gave a lecture at the library a few years ago. When was it exactly? Four years . . .? It was a talk about Bohuslän and the Second World War, as I recall. Afterwards we got to talking and, well . . . one thing led to another.’ She smiled at the memory.

‘You never met at his house?’ Martin reached for a biscuit.

‘No. Erik thought it was easier to meet here. He shares . . . shared the house with his brother, you know, and even though Axel was gone a lot . . . No, Erik preferred to come here.’

‘Did he ever mention receiving threats?’ asked Patrik.

Viola shook her head vigorously. ‘No, never. I can’t even imagine . . . I mean, why would anyone want to threaten Erik, a retired history teacher? It’s absurd even to think such a thing.’

‘But the fact of the matter is that he did receive threats, at least indirectly, because of his interest in the Second World War and Nazism. Certain organizations don’t appreciate it when people paint a picture of history that they don’t agree with.’

‘Erik didn’t “paint a picture”, as you so carelessly express it,’ said Viola, anger suddenly flashing in her eyes. ‘He was a dedicated historian, meticulous about facts and extremely finicky about portraying the truth as it really was, not the way he or anyone else would have liked it to be. Erik didn’t paint. He pieced together puzzles. Ever so slowly, piece by piece, he would work out how things would have looked in the past. A piece of blue sky here, a piece of green meadow there, until at last he could show the results to the rest of us. Not that he was ever really finished,’ she said. The gentle look had returned to her eyes. ‘There are always more facts, more reality to uncover.’

‘Why was he so passionate about the Second World War?’ asked Paula.

‘Why is anyone interested in anything? Why do I love geraniums? Why not roses?’ Viola threw out her hands, but at the same time her expression turned pensive. ‘In Erik’s case, you don’t have to be Einstein to figure it out. What happened to his brother during the war marked him. He never talked to me about it, or at least, only once – and that was also the only time I ever saw Erik drunk. It was the last time we saw each other.’ Her voice broke, and it took a few minutes for Viola to pull herself together enough to go on. ‘Erik showed up here without telling me he was coming. That alone was unusual, but he’d obviously had too much to drink, and that was unheard of. The first thing he did when he came in was to go to the drinks cabinet and pour himself a big whisky. Then he sat down here on the sofa and started talking as he gulped down his drink. I didn’t understand much of what he was saying; it sounded like drunken ramblings to me. But I did understand that it had to do with Axel. And what he’d been through when he was a prisoner. How it had affected the family.’

‘You said that was the last time you saw Erik. Why was that? Why didn’t you see each other during the summer? Didn’t you wonder where he was?’

Viola’s face contorted as she fought back the tears. Finally, in a husky voice she said, ‘Because Erik said goodbye. He walked out of here around midnight – staggered might be a better description – and the last thing he said was that we would have to say goodbye. He thanked me for our time together and kissed me on the cheek. Then he left. I thought it was just drunken nonsense. I behaved like a real fool the next day, sitting and staring at the telephone all day long, waiting for him to ring and explain, or to apologize, or . . . whatever . . . But I didn’t hear from him. And because of my stupid, stupid pride, I refused to call him. If I had, he might not have been left alone there . . .’ Sobs took over, preventing her from finishing her sentence.

But Paula understood. She put her hand over Viola’s and said gently, ‘There was nothing you could have done. How could you have known?’

Viola nodded reluctantly and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

‘Do you remember what day he was here?’ asked Patrik.

‘I’ll check the calendar,’ said Viola and got up, grateful for the distraction. ‘I always make notes for each day, so I should be able to find out for you.’ She left the room and was gone for a while.

‘It was June fifteenth,’ she said when she returned. ‘I remember I’d been to the dentist in the afternoon, so I’m positive that was the day.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ said Patrik, standing up.

After they’d said goodbye to Viola and were back out on the street, they all had the same thought. What happened on 15 June that made Erik, quite uncharacteristically, get drunk and then end his relationship with Viola? What could have happened?

‘She obviously has no control over her!’

‘But, Dan, you’re being unfair! How can you be so sure that you wouldn’t have fallen for the same thing?’ Anna was leaning on the counter with her arms folded, glaring at him.

‘Oh, no. Absolutely not!’ Dan’s blond hair stood on end because he kept running his hands through it out of sheer frustration.

‘Right. And you’re the one who seriously thought that someone had broken in during the night and eaten all the chocolate in the pantry. If I hadn’t found the chocolate wrappers under Lina’s pillow, you’d still be out there looking for a thief with smears of chocolate around his mouth.’ Anna choked back a laugh and felt some of her anger fade. Looking at her, Dan felt a smile tugging at his own lips.