The Hidden Child (34 page)

‘There’s a boy from here in town who was taken by the Germans. That was more than a year ago, but maybe you . . .’ Elof threw out his hands, fixing his eyes on the boy across the table.

‘Well, it’s not likely that I’d know anything about him. There are so many people coming and going. What’s his name?’

‘Axel Frankel,’ said Elof. But the hope in his eyes turned to disappointment when the boy, after thinking for a moment, shook his head.

‘No, I’m afraid not. We haven’t come across him. At least I don’t think so. You haven’t heard anything about what happened to him? Nothing that would supply a little more information?’

‘Unfortunately, no,’ said Elof, shaking his head. ‘The Germans took him in Kristiansand, and since then we haven’t heard a peep. For all we know, he might be –’

‘No, Pappa. I don’t believe it!’ Elsy’s eyes filled with tears, and feeling embarrassed she ran upstairs to her room. She couldn’t believe that she’d humiliated herself and her parents that way. Crying like a baby in front of a complete stranger.

‘Does your daughter know this . . . Axel?’ asked the Norwegian, looking concerned as he stared after her.

‘She’s friends with his younger brother. And it’s been hard for Erik. For Axel’s whole family,’ said Elof with a sigh.

A shadow passed over Hans’s eyes. ‘Many people have been sorely tested by this war,’ he said.

Elof could tell that this boy had seen things that no one his age ought to have witnessed.

‘What about your own family?’ he asked cautiously. Hilma was standing at the counter drying a plate, but she stopped what she was doing.

‘I don’t know where they are,’ said Hans at last, his eyes fixed on the table. ‘When the war is over – if it’s ever over – I’ll go back to look for them. Until then, I can’t return to Norway.’

Hilma met Elof’s eyes over the boy’s blond head. After carrying on a silent conversation, based solely on an exchange of glances, they reached an agreement. Elof cleared his throat.

‘Well, you see, we usually rent out our house to summer visitors and live in the basement room ourselves while they’re here. But the room is empty the rest of the year. Maybe you’d like to . . . stay here for a while and rest up, before you decide what to do next. I can probably find you some work too. Maybe not full-time, but at least enough so you’d have money in your pocket. First I’ll have to report to the district police that I’ve brought you into the country, but if I promise to look after you, there shouldn’t be any problem.’

‘Only if you let me pay rent with the money that I earn,’ said Hans, looking at him with a mixture of gratitude and guilt.

Elof glanced at Hilma again and he nodded.

‘That would be fine. Any contribution is welcome during these times of war.’

‘I’ll go downstairs and put things in order for you,’ said Hilma, putting on her coat.

‘I can’t thank you enough. I really can’t,’ said the boy in his lilting Norwegian as he bowed his head, but not fast enough. Elof managed to catch a glimpse of the tears in his eyes.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘It’s nothing.’

Chapter 27

‘Help!’

Erica gave a start when she heard the scream from upstairs. She rushed towards the sound, taking the stairs in a few bounds.

‘What’s wrong?’ she cried, but stopped short when she caught sight of Margareta’s face as she stood in the doorway to one of the rooms. Erica went closer and then inhaled sharply when a big double bed came into view.

‘Pappa,’ said Margareta with a whimper, and then went into the room. Erica stayed in the doorway, uncertain what she was looking at or what she should do.

‘Pappa,’ repeated Margareta.

Herman lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and he didn’t react to his daughter’s cries. Next to him on the bed was Britta. Her face was pale and rigid, and there was no doubt that she was dead. Herman lay close to her, with his arms wrapped tightly around her lifeless body.

‘I killed her,’ he said in a low voice.

Margareta gasped. ‘What are you saying, Pappa? Of course you didn’t kill her!’

‘I killed her,’ he repeated dully, hugging his dead wife even harder.

His daughter walked around the bed and sat down next to him. Cautiously she tried to loosen his grip, and after a few attempts she succeeded. She stroked his forehead as she spoke to him.

‘Pappa, it’s not your fault. Mamma wasn’t well. Her heart must have given up. It’s not your fault. You need to understand that.’

‘I was the one who killed her,’ he repeated, staring at a spot on the wall.

Margareta turned to Erica. ‘Could you please ring for an ambulance?’

Erica hesitated. ‘Should I call the police too?’

‘Pappa’s in shock. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. We don’t need the police,’ said Margareta sharply. Then she turned back to her father and took his hand.

‘I’ll take care of everything, Pappa. I’m going to call Anna-Greta and Birgitta, and we’ll all help you. We’re here for you.’

Herman didn’t reply, just lay there motionless, letting her hold his hand, but without squeezing it in return.

Erica went downstairs and took out her mobile. She paused for a moment before punching in a phone number.

‘Hi, Martin. It’s Erica. Patrik’s wife. Well, I think we need your help here. I’m at the home of Britta Johansson, and she’s dead. Her husband says that he killed her. It looks like death by natural causes, but . . . Oh, okay. I’ll wait here. Will you ring for an ambulance, or should I? Okay.’

Erica ended the conversation, hoping that she hadn’t done something stupid. Of course it looked as if Margareta was right, that Britta had simply died in her sleep. But then why did Herman keep saying that he’d killed her? And besides, it was an odd coincidence that yet another one of her mother’s childhood friends was suddenly dead, only a few months after Erik was killed. No, she’d done the right thing.

Erica went back upstairs.

‘I’ve called for help,’ she said. ‘Is there anything else I can do?’

‘Could you make some coffee? I’ll see if I can get Pappa to come downstairs.’

Margareta gently pulled Herman into a sitting position.

‘All right, Pappa, come on now. Let’s go downstairs and wait for the ambulance.’

Erica went into the kitchen. She searched the cupboards for what she needed and then set about making a big pot of coffee. A few minutes later she heard footsteps on the stairs and then saw Margareta escorting Herman into the room. She led him over to a kitchen chair, and he dropped on to it like a sack of flour.

‘I hope the medics have something they can give him,’ said Margareta, sounding worried. ‘He must have been lying next to her since yesterday. I don’t understand why he didn’t phone one of us.’

‘I’ve also . . .’ Erica hesitated, but then started over. ‘I’ve also notified the police. I’m sure you’re right, but I felt I had to. I couldn’t just . . .’ She failed to find the right words, and Margareta stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

‘You phoned the police? Do you think my father was serious? Are you crazy? He’s in shock after finding his wife dead, and now he’s going to have to answer questions from the police? How dare you!’ Margareta took a step towards Erica, who was holding the coffee pot, but just then the doorbell rang.

‘That must be them. I’ll go and open the door,’ said Erica, keeping her eyes lowered as she put down the coffee pot before she dashed out to the hall.

When she opened the door, Martin was the first person she saw.

He nodded grimly. ‘Hi, Erica.’

‘Hi,’ she replied quietly, stepping aside. What if she was wrong? What if she was subjecting a grieving man to unnecessary torment? But it was too late now.

‘Britta’s upstairs, in the bedroom,’ she said, and then nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Her husband is in there. With the daughter. She was the one who found . . . It looks like she’s been dead for a while.’

‘Okay, we’ll take a look,’ said Martin, motioning for Paula to come inside along with the ambulance medics. He quickly introduced Paula to Erica and then went into the kitchen. Margareta had her arm around her father’s shoulders.

‘This is absurd,’ she said, staring at Martin. ‘My mother died in her sleep, and my father is in shock. Is all this really necessary?’

Martin held up his hands. ‘I’m sure it happened just as you say. But now that we’re here, we’ll just have a look, and then it will be over with. And may I offer my condolences.’ He gave her a resolute look, and reluctantly she nodded her assent.

‘She’s upstairs. Could I phone my sisters? And my husband?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Martin and then headed upstairs.

Erica hesitated but then fell in behind him and the medics. She stood to one side and said to Martin in a low voice:

‘I came over to talk to her about a few things, including Erik Frankel. It might be just a coincidence, but it seems a little strange, don’t you think?’

Martin glanced at Erica as he allowed the doctor in charge to enter the room first. ‘You think there’s some kind of connection?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Erica, shaking her head. ‘But I’ve been researching my mother’s past and, when she was young, she was friends with Erik Frankel, and with Britta. There was also somebody named Frans Ringholm in their group.’

‘Frans Ringholm?’ said Martin, looking startled.

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘Er, well . . . we’ve run into him in our investigation of Erik’s murder,’ said Martin, the wheels turning in his head.

‘Then isn’t it a little strange that Britta should also die suddenly? Less than three months after Erik Frankel was killed?’ Erica persisted.

Martin was still looking hesitant. ‘We’re not talking about youngsters here. I mean, at their age, a lot could happen. Stroke, heart attack, all sorts of things.’

‘Well, I can tell you right now that this was not a heart attack or a stroke,’ said the doctor from inside the bedroom. Martin and Erica looked round in surprise.

‘Then what was it?’ asked Martin. He went into the room and stood behind the doctor at Britta’s bedside. Erica chose to remain in the doorway, but craned her neck to see better.

‘This woman has been suffocated,’ said the doctor, pointing at Britta’s eyes with one hand as he used the other to lift one of her eyelids. ‘Look – petechiae.’

‘Petechiae?’ Martin repeated, uncomprehending.

‘Red spots in the whites of the eyes that occur when tiny little blood vessels burst as a consequence of increased pressure in the blood system. Typical with suffocation, strangulation, and the like.’

‘But couldn’t she have had some sort of attack that made it hard for her to breathe? Wouldn’t that produce the same symptoms?’ asked Erica.

‘Yes, that’s possible. Absolutely,’ said the doctor. ‘But upon first inspection I noticed a feather in her throat, so I’d bet that this is the murder weapon.’ He pointed to a white pillow lying next to Britta’s head. ‘Petechiae can also indicate that pressure was applied directly to the throat, for example if someone used their hands to choke her. But the post-mortem will give us a definitive answer. One thing is certain, though. I won’t be writing this up as “death by natural causes” unless the ME can convince me that I’m wrong. We need to consider this a crime scene.’ He straightened up and cautiously exited the room.

Martin did the same, then pulled his mobile out of his pocket to ring for the techs, so they could make a thorough examination of the room.

After ushering everyone downstairs, he went back to the kitchen and sat down across from Herman. Margareta glanced at him, and a frown appeared on her face as she saw that everything wasn’t as it should be.

‘What’s your father’s name?’ Martin asked.

‘Herman,’ she told him. Her concern grew.

‘Herman,’ said Martin. ‘Can you tell me what happened here?’

At first the man didn’t answer. The only sound was the medics talking quietly to each other out in the living room. Then Herman looked up and said very clearly:

‘I killed her.’

Friday arrived, and with it came glorious late summer weather. Mellberg stretched out his legs, taking big strides, as he let Ernst pull him along. Even the dog seemed to appreciate the warm day.

‘Hey, Ernst,’ said Mellberg, waiting for the dog to lift his leg on a shrub. ‘Tonight your pappa is going out dancing again.’

Ernst tilted his head and gave him a quizzical look for a moment, but then returned to his toilet activities.

Mellberg found himself whistling as he thought about the evening’s class and the feeling of Rita’s body close to his own. One thing was certain: he could get used to this salsa dancing.

His expression darkened as thoughts of hot rhythms slipped away to be replaced by thoughts of the investigation. Or rather, investigations. Why was it that they never got to enjoy a bit of peace and quiet in this town? Why did people have to go on killing each other? Well, at least one of the cases seemed straightforward. The husband had confessed. Now they were just waiting for the ME’s report to confirm that it was murder, and then that case would be solved. Martin Molin was going around muttering that it was a bit strange that someone with connections to Erik Frankel should also have been murdered, but Mellberg didn’t give much credence to that. Good Lord, from what he’d understood, the victims had been friends when they were kids. And that was more than sixty years ago, which was an eternity, so it couldn’t have anything to do with the murder investigation. No, the idea was absurd. But just in case, he’d given his permission for Molin to check things out, go through phone lists, et cetera, to see if he could find a link. Most likely he wouldn’t find anything. But at least it would shut him up.