The Hidden Child (46 page)

‘Sure,’ said Gösta, getting up reluctantly. ‘Paula too?’

‘Of course,’ said Martin. He went to get her. Mellberg was out taking Ernst for a walk, and Annika appeared to be busy in the reception area, so it was just the three of them who sat down in the kitchen with all the existing investigative materials in front of them.

‘Erik Frankel,’ said Martin, setting the point of his pen on a fresh page of his notepad.

‘He was murdered in his home, with an object that has already been found on the scene,’ said Paula, as Martin feverishly started writing.

‘That seems to indicate that it was not premeditated,’ said Gösta, and Martin nodded.

‘There were no fingerprints on the bust that was used as the murder weapon, but it doesn’t seem to have been wiped clean, so the killer must have been wearing gloves, which actually contradicts the idea that it was not premeditated,’ interjected Paula. She glanced at the words that Martin was writing on the notepad.

‘Can you really read what you’ve written?’ she asked sceptically, since his writing looked mostly like hieroglyphics. Or shorthand.

‘Only if I type it up on the computer straight away,’ said Martin, smiling as he continued to write. ‘Otherwise I’m screwed.’

‘Erik Frankel died from a violent blow to the temple,’ said Gösta, taking out photographs from the crime scene. ‘The perp then left the murder weapon behind.’

‘Again, these are not the hallmarks of a particularly cold-blooded or calculated murder,’ said Paula, getting up to pour coffee for herself and her colleagues.

‘The only potential threat we’ve been able to identify came from the neo-Nazi organization Sweden’s Friends, who targeted Frankel because he was an expert on Nazism.’ Martin reached for the five letters enclosed in plastic sleeves and spread them out on the table. ‘In addition, he had a personal connection to the organization through his childhood friend, Frans Ringholm.’

‘Do we have anything that might link Frans to the murder? Anything at all?’ Paula stared at the letters as if she wanted to make them speak.

‘Well, three of his Nazi pals claim that he was in Denmark with them on the days in question. It’s not a watertight alibi, if such a thing even exists, but we don’t have much physical evidence to go on. The footprints found at the scene belonged to the boys who discovered the body. There were no other footprints or fingerprints or anything else besides what we would expect to find there.’

‘Are you going to pour the coffee, or are you just planning to stand there holding the pot?’ Gösta said to Paula.

‘Say please, and I’ll give you some coffee,’ Paula teased him, and Gösta reluctantly grunted ‘please’.

‘Then there’s the date of the murder,’ said Martin, nodding to Paula to thank her for filling his coffee cup. ‘We’ve been able to establish with relative certainty that Erik Frankel died sometime between the fifteenth and the seventeenth of June. So we have three days to play with. And then his body remained there, undiscovered, because his brother was away and no one expected to hear from Erik, except possibly Viola – but as she saw it, he had broken off their relationship. And that happened just before he was killed.

‘And nobody saw anything? Gösta, did you talk to all the neighbours? Did anyone see any strange cars? Any suspicious people?’ Martin looked at his colleague.

‘There aren’t many neighbours to talk to out there,’ muttered Gösta.

‘Should I take that as a no?’

‘I did talk to all the neighbours, and nobody saw anything.’

‘Okay, we’ll drop that for the moment.’ Martin sighed and took a sip of his coffee.

‘What about Britta Johansson? It’s quite a coincidence that she had a connection to Erik Frankel. And to Frans Ringholm, for that matter. Of course it was a long time ago, but we have phone records showing that there was actually contact between them in June, and both Frans and Erik also went to see Britta around that time.’ Again Martin looked to his colleagues for answers: ‘Why choose that particular moment to resume contact after sixty years? Should we believe Britta’s husband, who says that it was because her mental condition was deteriorating, and she wanted to recall the old days?’

‘Personally, I reckon that’s bullshit,’ said Paula, reaching for an unopened packet of Ballerina biscuits. She removed the plastic tape on one end and helped herself to three biscuits before she offered some to the others. ‘I think that if we could only work out the real reason why they met, the whole case would crack wide open. But Frans is as silent as a tomb, and Axel is sticking with the same story that Herman gave us.’

‘And let’s not forget about the monthly payments,’ said Gösta, pausing for a moment as he painstakingly removed the vanilla top layer of his biscuit and licked off the chocolate filling, then continuing: ‘What do they have to do with Frankel’s murder?’

Martin looked at Gösta in surprise. He didn’t know that Gösta was up to speed on that part of the investigation, since his usual strategy was to sit back waiting for information to be fed to him.

‘Well, Hedström tried checking out that angle on Saturday,’ said Martin, taking out the notes he’d made when Patrik phoned to report on his visit to the home of Wilhelm Fridén.

‘So, what did he find out?’ Gösta took another biscuit and the others watched, transfixed, as he repeated his dissecting manoeuvre. Off came the vanilla top layer, then he scooped out the chocolate filling with his tongue. The remaining layers of biscuit were then discarded.

‘Hey, Gösta, you can’t just lick off the chocolate and leave the rest,’ said Paula indignantly.

‘What are you? The biscuit police?’ replied Gösta, making a show of taking yet another biscuit. Paula merely snorted and picked up the packet of biscuits to put it on the counter, out of Gösta’s reach.

‘Unfortunately, he didn’t find out much,’ said Martin. ‘Wilhelm Fridén died just a couple of weeks ago, and neither his widow nor his son knew anything about the payments. Of course, it’s hard to say whether they were telling the truth, but Patrik seemed to think they were. At any rate, the son has promised to ask their lawyer to send over all of his father’s papers, and if we’re lucky we’ll find something there.’

‘What about Erik’s brother? Did he know anything about the payments?’ Gösta glanced greedily at the biscuits on the counter and seemed to be considering actually getting up off his rear to fetch it.

‘We phoned Axel to ask him about the payments,’ said Paula, with a warning look to Gösta. ‘But he said he had no idea what it was all about.’

‘And do we believe him?’ Gösta was measuring the distance from his chair to the counter. A quick lunge, and he might be able to do it.

‘I don’t really know. He’s hard to read. What do you think, Paula?’ said Martin, turning to her.

While she thought about the question, Gösta seized his chance. He jumped up and launched himself towards the packet, but Paula’s left hand shot out at lightning speed and snatched it away.

‘Uh-uh, no way . . .’ She gave Gösta a mischievous wink, and he couldn’t help smiling back. He was starting to appreciate their banter.

The packet of biscuits safely in her lap, Paula turned to Martin. ‘No, I agree. I can’t really make him out. So, no, I’m not sure.’

‘Let’s go back to Britta,’ said Martin, printing BRITTA in big letters on his notepad, and then underscoring the name.

‘What I judge to be our best evidence is the discovery of what is most likely the murderer’s DNA under her fingernails. And the fact that she evidently managed to leave deep scratches on the face or arms of the person who was suffocating her. We were able to interview Herman briefly this morning, and he had no scratch marks. He also said that Britta was already dead when he came home. That she was lying in bed with a pillow over her face.’

‘But he still claims that her death was his fault,’ Paula interjected.

‘So what does he mean by that?’ Gösta frowned. ‘Is he protecting somebody?’

‘Yes, that’s what we think too.’ Paula relented and put the packet of biscuits back on the table, sliding it towards Gösta. ‘Here, knock yourself out,’ she said in English.

‘What?’ said Gösta, whose knowledge of that language was limited to golf-related terms, although even in those instances his pronunciation left a lot to be desired.

‘Never mind. Go ahead and lick off the chocolate,’ said Paula.

‘And then we have the thumbprint,’ said Martin, listening with amusement to Gösta and Paula’s friendly squabbling. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said his old colleague was actually enjoying being at work.

‘A single thumbprint on one button – not much to write home about,’ said Gösta gloomily.

‘No, not by itself, but if that thumbprint comes from the same person who left his DNA under Britta’s fingernails, then I think there’s cause for optimism.’ Martin underscored the letters ‘DNA’ on his notepad.

‘When will the DNA profile be ready?’ asked Paula.

‘The lab is estimating we’ll have it by Thursday,’ replied Martin.

‘Okay, then we’ll run a DNA sampling afterwards.’ Paula stretched out her legs. Sometimes she wondered whether Johanna’s pregnancy symptoms were contagious. So far she had shooting pains in her legs, strange little twinges, and a ravenous appetite.

‘So do we have any candidates for DNA sampling?’ Gösta was well into his third biscuit.

‘I was thinking of Axel and Frans,’ said Paula.

‘Are we really going to wait till Thursday? It’ll take a while to get the results, and scratches heal pretty fast, so we might as well take the samples as soon as possible,’ said Gösta.

‘Good thinking, Gösta,’ said Martin, surprised. ‘We’ll do it tomorrow. Anything else? Anything we’ve forgotten or left out?’

‘What do you mean, “left out”?’ said a voice from the doorway. Mellberg came in with a panting Ernst in tow. The dog immediately smelled Gösta’s stack of biscuit remains and lunged forward to sit at his feet. His begging had the desired result, and the biscuits were disposed of in a flash.

‘We’re just going over a few things, making sure we haven’t overlooked anything,’ explained Martin, pointing at the documents lying on the table in front of them. ‘We were just saying that we need to take samples from Axel and Frans tomorrow.’

‘Oh right, do that,’ said Mellberg impatiently, afraid that he might get drawn into the actual work that needed to be done. ‘Just carry on with what you were doing. It looks good.’ He called Ernst who, tail wagging, followed him back to his office where he lay down in his usual place at his master’s feet under the desk.

‘I see that the idea of finding someone to adopt that dog has been put on ice,’ said Paula, amused.

‘I think we can consider Ernst ‘taken’. Although damned if I know who’s actually taking care of whom. There are also rumours that Mellberg has turned into quite the salsa king in his old age.’ Gösta chuckled.

Martin lowered his voice and whispered: ‘I’ve heard that too . . . And this morning when I went into his office, he was on the floor doing stretches.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ said Gösta, wide-eyed. ‘How was it going?’

‘It wasn’t.’ Martin laughed. ‘He was trying to touch his toes, but his stomach got in the way. Just to name one reason.’

‘All right, you two. It’s actually my mother who teaches the salsa class that Mellberg is taking,’ Paula admonished them. Gösta and Martin stared at her in astonishment.

‘Mamma invited him over for lunch a few days ago, and he was . . . really quite pleasant,’ she told them.

Now Martin and Gösta were openly gawping at her.

‘Mellberg is taking salsa classes from your mother? And he’s been over to your place for lunch? Pretty soon you’ll be calling him “Pappa”!’ Martin laughed loudly, and Gösta joined in.

‘Cut it out, you guys,’ said Paula crossly as she stood up. ‘We’re done here, right?’ She strode out of the room. Martin and Gösta exchanged disconcerted glances, but then couldn’t help howling with laughter again. It was too good to be true.

The weekend had brought full-fledged warfare. Dan and Belinda had shouted non-stop at each other, until Anna thought her head was going to explode from all the ruckus. She had admonished them several times, asking them to show some consideration for Adrian and Emma, and luckily that argument seemed to have an effect on both of them. Even though Belinda would never openly admit it, Anna could tell that she liked her kids, and because of that Anna was willing to overlook some of her defiant teenage behaviour. She also thought that Dan didn’t really understand what things were like for his eldest daughter, or why she reacted the way she did. It was as if the two of them had arrived at a stalemate, and neither knew what to do about it. Anna sighed as she walked about the living room, picking up toys which the kids seemed to have spread over every inch of the floor.

Over the past few days she had also been trying to come to terms with the discovery that she and Dan were going to have a child together. Her mind was still in a whirl, but she had managed to suppress the worst of her fears. She had also started feeling just as sick as she’d felt during her first two pregnancies. She didn’t throw up very often, but she did go around with a queasy, seesawing feeling in her stomach, as if she were constantly seasick. Dan had noticed that she’d lost her usual appetite, and like a worried mother hen, he kept trying to tempt her with all sorts of food.

She sat down on the sofa and put her head between her knees, focusing on her breathing in an effort to bring the nausea under control. The last time, when she was pregnant with Adrian, it had lasted until her sixth month, which had seemed like for ever. Upstairs she could hear agitated voices rising and falling to the accompaniment of Belinda’s pounding music. She couldn’t cope with all this. She just couldn’t cope. The nausea was getting worse, and her gag reflex made sour bile rise to her mouth. She leapt up and ran for the bathroom, knelt down in front of the toilet, and tried to spit out what was surging up and down her throat. But nothing came out.

After several minutes of dry heaves, which brought her no relief, she gave up and got to her feet to wipe her mouth on a towel. As she did, she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. What she saw alarmed her. She was as pale as the white towel she was holding, and her eyes were big and scared. Just the way she’d looked when she was with Lucas. And yet everything was so different now. So much better. She ran her hand over her stomach, which was still flat. So much hope. And so much fear. All gathered in one little spot inside her womb. So dependent, so tiny.