The Hidden Child (29 page)

‘It sounds as though you’re getting really interested in the subject,’ said Patrik as he served Erica some more soup.

‘I haven’t told you the half of it. I asked Christian to dig out anything that might mention my mother and her friends, never thinking he’d get anywhere with it, given that they were so young back then. But wait until you see this –’ Erica’s voice shook with excitement as she got up to fetch her briefcase. She set it on the kitchen table and took out a thick wad of papers.

‘Wow, that’s quite a stack you’ve got there.’

‘I’ve spent three hours reading it all,’ said Erica, leafing through the documents, her fingers trembling. Finally she found what she was looking for. ‘Here! Look at this!’ She pointed to an article with a big black-and-white photograph.

Patrik studied the article she handed him. The picture was the first thing that drew his attention. Five people, standing next to each other. He squinted to make out the caption, recognizing four of the names: Elsy Moström, Frans Ringholm, Erik Frankel, and Britta Johansson. But the fifth person he’d never heard of before. A boy, about the same age as the others, by the name of Hans Olavsen. Patrik silently read the article as Erica fixed her eyes on his face.

‘So? What do you think? I don’t know what it means, but it can’t be a coincidence. Look at the date. He came to Fjällbacka on almost the same day that my mother seems to have ended her diary. That can’t be a coincidence! It must mean something!’ Erica paced back and forth in the kitchen.

Patrik bent his head to examine the photo again. He studied the images of the five young people. Elsy had died in a car crash four years ago. Now one more of them was dead, murdered sixty years after this picture was taken. He had a gut feeling that Erica was right. It must mean something.

Paula’s thoughts were in turmoil as she walked back to the station. Her mother had mentioned that she’d met a nice man who had been keeping her company on her walks, and that she’d then persuaded him to take her salsa class. But Paula never would have dreamed that the man would be her new boss. And it was no exaggeration to say that she wasn’t exactly pleased. Mellberg was just about the last man on earth that she would have chosen for her mother. Mind you, she had to admit that he had handled the news about her and Johanna rather well. Surprisingly. Narrow-mindedness had been her foremost argument for not moving to Tanumshede. It had been hard enough for her and Johanna to be accepted as a family in Stockholm. And in a little town like this . . . Well, it could be disastrous. But she’d talked over everything with Johanna and her mother, and they had all agreed that if things didn’t work out they could simply move back to Stockholm.

So far, everything had gone much better than expected. She liked her job at the station, her mother had settled in with her salsa classes and a part-time job at the Konsum supermarket, and even though Johanna was on sick leave at the moment and would then have a lengthy maternity leave, she’d talked to a number of local businesses who’d shown interest in enlisting her help with their finances. Yet the minute Paula saw Mellberg’s expression when she put her arm around Johanna, it had felt as though everything might fall apart like a house of cards. At that moment, their whole life could have collapsed. But Mellberg had surprised her. Maybe he wasn’t as hopeless as she’d assumed.

Paula exchanged a few words with Annika in the reception area. Then she knocked on Martin’s door and went in.

‘How are things going?’ she asked when he looked up from his paperwork.

‘With the assault case? Well, the boy admitted to doing it – not that he had much choice in the matter. His mother took him home, but Gösta has informed social services. It doesn’t appear to be a very stable home situation.’

‘That’s often the case,’ said Paula, sitting down.

‘But what was really interesting was the reason for the assault in the first place. It turns out that Per broke into Erik Frankel’s house in early June.’

Paula raised an eyebrow but let Martin continue without commenting. After he’d told her the whole story, they were both quiet for a moment.

‘I wonder what Erik had that would have interested Kjell,’ said Paula. ‘Could it have it been something about Frans ?’

Martin shrugged. ‘That’s what the boy said. I thought it might be worth asking Kjell. We still have to go to Uddevalla to interview some of the members of Sweden’s Friends, and
Bohusläningen
has its main editorial office there. And we can call in on Axel on the way.’

‘No sooner said than done,’ said Paula, getting up.

Twenty minutes later they were again standing outside the front door of the Frankel brothers’ house.

Axel looks older than last time, Paula thought. Thinner, almost transparent in some way. He gave them a friendly smile as he let them in. He didn’t ask why they had come, just led the way to the veranda.

‘Have you made any progress?’ he asked as they sat down. ‘With the investigation, that is,’ he clarified unnecessarily.

Martin glanced at Paula but then said, ‘We have several leads that we’re following. Most importantly, we’ve managed to pinpoint the probable time when your brother died.’

‘Well, that’s a major development,’ said Axel, smiling, although the smile didn’t dislodge any of the grief or fatigue from his eyes. ‘So when do you think it was?’

‘He went to see his . . . woman friend, Viola Ellmander, on the fifteenth of June; that seems to be the last time he was seen alive. On the seventeenth of June, the cleaning woman . . .’

‘Laila,’ said Axel, seeing that Martin was struggling to recall the name.

‘Laila, right. She came here on the seventeenth to clean the house, as usual, but no one came to the door when she rang, and no one had left her a key, as the two of you were in the habit of doing if you weren’t going to be at home.’

‘Yes, Erik was very meticulous about leaving a key for Laila. As far as I know, he never forgot to do that. So if he didn’t open the door, and there was no key, then . . .’ Axel fell silent and rubbed his eyes, as if he were seeing visions of his brother that he’d prefer to dismiss at once.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Paula gently, ‘but we have to ask you where you were between the fifteenth and seventeenth of June. I assure you, it’s just a formality.’

Axel waved away her attempt to reassure him. ‘No need to apologize. I know you’re only doing your job. And besides, don’t the statistics say that most murders are committed by someone in the family?’

Martin nodded. ‘True. But we need to gather information for the investigation and it will help if we can rule you out as a suspect.’

‘Of course. I’ll get my calendar.’

Axel was gone a few minutes. He returned carrying a thick diary. ‘Let’s see now . . .’ He sat down again and began leafing through it. ‘I left Sweden and went directly to Paris on the third of June, and I didn’t come back here until you . . . were kind enough to collect me at the airport. But from the fifteenth to the seventeenth . . . ah, here we are: I had a meeting in Brussels on the fifteenth, went to Frankfurt on the sixteenth, and then returned to the head office in Paris on the seventeenth. I can get you photocopies of my tickets if you like.’ He handed the diary to Paula.

She studied it closely, but after casting an enquiring glance at Martin, who shook his head, she pushed the diary back across the table.

‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you remember anything about these dates that might have significance with regard to Erik? Anything specific? A phone conversation? Something he may have mentioned?’

Axel shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry. As I said, my brother and I weren’t in the habit of phoning each other very often when I was abroad. Erik would only have called me if the house was on fire.’ He laughed but then abruptly fell silent and again rubbed his eyes. ‘So, was that all? Is there anything else I can help you with?’ he asked, carefully closing the diary.

‘Actually, there is one other thing . . .’ said Martin, fixing his eyes on Axel. ‘We’ve interviewed a young man named Per Ringholm in connection with an assault case today. He told us that he broke into your house a few months ago. And that Erik caught him, locked him up in the library, and rang his father, Kjell Ringholm.’

‘Frans’s son,’ said Axel.

Martin nodded. ‘Exactly. And Per overheard Erik and Kjell making arrangements to meet later. It seems Erik had some information that he thought would interest Kjell. Does any of this ring a bell?’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Axel, vigorously shaking his head.

‘What about the information that Erik wanted to pass on? Do you have any idea what that might have been?’

Axel was silent for a while, as if considering the question. Then he shook his head again. ‘No, I can’t imagine what it could have been. Erik spent a lot of time studying the period leading up to the Second World War, and of course he’d personally experienced what Nazism was like during that period. Kjell, on the other hand, has devoted himself to writing about the resurgence of Nazism in Sweden today. So maybe Erik had found some kind of connection, something of historical interest that would give Kjell background material. But why don’t you just ask Kjell?’

‘We’re on our way to Uddevalla to see him now. But why don’t I give you my mobile number, just in case you happen to think of something.’ Martin wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to Axel, who slipped it inside his diary.

Paula and Martin got back in the car and continued their journey without speaking. But they were both thinking the same thing: What was it they were not seeing?

‘We can’t put it off any more. She won’t be able to stay here at home much longer.’ Herman looked at his daughters with such deep despair that they could hardly stand to return his gaze.

‘We know that, Pappa. You’re doing the right thing. There’s no other option. You’ve taken care of Mamma for as long as you could, but now others will have to step in. We’ll find a really great place for her.’ Anna-Greta went to stand behind her father’s chair, wrapping her arms around him. She shuddered to feel how gaunt his body felt under his shirt. Their mother’s illness had taken a heavy toll on him. Perhaps more than they’d known. Or wanted to see. She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against Herman’s.

‘We’re here to help you, Pappa. Birgitta and Maggan and our families. You know we’re here for you. You never need to feel alone.’

‘Without your mother, I do feel alone. But there’s nothing to be done about it,’ said Herman listlessly, quickly wiping away a tear with his shirtsleeve. ‘Still, I know that this is best for Britta. I know that.’

His daughters exchanged glances over their father’s head. Herman and Britta had been the centre of all their lives, a solid rock that they could always depend on. Now the very foundation of their lives was crumbling, and they reached out as if to steady each other. It was frightening to watch their mother shrink, becoming more and more diminished until she seemed smaller than themselves. Now it was necessary for them to step in and be the adults, taking on the burden of the ones they had always regarded, throughout their entire childhood and adolescence, as infallible, indestructible. Of course, they had long since ceased to look upon their parents as godlike creatures who had the answer to everything, but it was still painful to watch Britta and Herman fading this way.

Anna-Greta hugged her father’s gaunt form a few more times and then sat down at the kitchen table again.

‘Will she manage all right while you’re here?’ asked Maggan, looking worried. ‘Should I run over and look in on her?’

‘She had just fallen asleep when I left,’ said Herman. ‘But she usually doesn’t sleep more than an hour, so I’d better go back home.’ Wearily he got to his feet.

‘Why don’t we go over there and stay with her for a couple of hours? Then you can take a rest,’ said Birgitta. ‘Pappa could lie down in your guest room, couldn’t he?’ she asked Maggan, since it was at her house they had gathered in to talk about their mother.

‘That’s an excellent idea,’ said Maggan, nodding eagerly at her father. ‘Go in and rest for a while, and we’ll nip over to be with Mamma.’

‘Thank you, girls,’ said Herman, as he headed for the hall. ‘But your mother and I have taken care of each other for over fifty years, and I’d like to continue to take care of her for the short time that we have left. Once she’s settled in the nursing home, then . . .’ He didn’t finish his sentence but instead rushed out the door before his daughters could see his tears.

Britta smiled in her sleep. The lucid moments that her brain denied her when she was awake became all the more frequent when she slept. Then she saw everything clearly. Some of the memories were not welcome but forced themselves upon her nevertheless. Like the sound of her father’s belt striking a child’s bare behind. Or the sight of her mother’s tear-stained cheeks. Or the cramped confines of the little house on the hill, where the shrill cries of a child echoed in the space, making her want to clap her hands over her ears and scream too. But there were other things that were more pleasant to recall. Like the summers when they played merrily, racing over the rocks warmed by the sun. Elsy in one of the floral dresses that her mother had made by hand. Erik in his short pants, with his solemn face. Frans with his curly blond hair. She had always longed to run her fingers through his curls, even back when they were so young that there seemed no significant difference between boys and girls.

A voice forced its way through the memories as she slept. A voice that was all too familiar. It had been speaking to her more and more often lately. Not allowing her any peace, whether she was awake, asleep, or wrapped in a haze. The voice that penetrated through everything, wanted everything, insisted on taking a place in her world. The voice that denied her respite, refused to let her forget. The voice that she thought she’d never hear again. Yet here it was. So strange. And so frightening.

She rolled her head from side to side in her sleep, trying to shake off the voice, shake off the memories that were disturbing her rest. Finally she succeeded. Happy memories came to the fore. The first time she saw Herman. The moment when she knew that the two of them would spend their lives together. Their wedding, walking down the aisle in her white gown, giddy with happiness. The labour pains and then the love when Anna-Greta was born. And Birgitta and Margareta, whom she loved just as much. Herman taking care of the children, doing it out of love, not out of duty or obligation. She smiled. Her eyelids fluttered. This was where she wanted to stay. Here, with these memories. If she had to choose a single memory to fill her mind for the rest of her life, it was the image of Herman bathing their youngest daughter in the little bathtub. He was humming as he carefully supported her small head with his hand. With infinite gentleness he rubbed her chubby body with a washcloth, looking into his daughter’s eyes as she followed his every move. Britta saw herself standing in the doorway, watching without drawing her husband’s attention. Even if she forgot everything else, she would fight to hold on to that memory. Herman and Margareta, his hand under her head, the tenderness and closeness.