Erica was not at the library as Patrik thought. She’d been on her way over there, but just as she parked the car an idea had occurred to her. There was another person who’d been close to her mother. And who’d been her friend much more recently than sixty years ago. Actually, she was the only friend that Erica could remember her mother ever having when she and Anna were growing up. Strange that she hadn’t thought about her earlier. But Kristina had such a strong presence as her mother-in-law that Erica had forgotten she’d also been her mother’s friend.
Having made up her mind, she started up the car again and drove towards Tanumshede. This was the first time she’d ever decided on impulse to visit Kristina at home. She glanced at her mobile, considering whether she ought to ring first. No, to hell with it. If Kristina could barge in on them unannounced, she could do the same to her.
Erica was still feeling annoyed when she arrived, and out of sheer contrariness, she touched the doorbell only once before opening the door and stepping inside.
‘Hello?’ she called.
‘Who is it?’ Kristina’s voice came from the kitchen, and she sounded a bit alarmed. A moment later she appeared in the hall.
‘Erica?’ she said in surprise, staring at her daughter-in-law. ‘You’re here? Did you bring Maja with you?’ She glanced behind Erica but didn’t see her granddaughter anywhere.
‘No, she’s home with Patrik,’ said Erica. She took off her shoes and set them neatly on the shoe rack.
‘Well, come on in,’ said Kristina, still looking startled. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’
Erica followed her out to the kitchen, regarding her mother-in-law with surprise. She hardly recognized her. She’d never seen Kristina look anything but well groomed, and she always wore a good deal of make-up. Whenever she came to their house, she was a bundle of energy, talking non-stop and in constant motion. Right now she was like an entirely different woman. Kristina had on an old, worn-out nightgown even though it was late in the morning, and she wasn’t wearing a trace of make-up. That made her look considerably older, with obvious lines and wrinkles on her face. She hadn’t done anything with her hair, either, and it looked flattened from lying in bed.
‘I must look a mess,’ said Kristina, as if she’d read Erica’s mind. She ran her hand through her hair. ‘It just doesn’t seem worth it to get all dressed up if I’m not doing anything special and don’t have to be anywhere.’
‘But it always sounds a though you have such a busy schedule,’ said Erica, sitting down at the table.
At first Kristina didn’t say anything, just set two cups on the table along with some Ballerina biscuits.
‘It’s not easy to be retired after working all your life,’ she said at last as she poured coffee into their cups. ‘Everyone is so busy with their own lives. I suppose there are things I could do, but I just haven’t felt like . . .’ She reached for a biscuit, avoiding Erica’s eye.
‘But why did you tell us that you have so much going on all the time?’
‘Oh, you young people have your own lives. I didn’t want you to feel that you had to be bothered with me. Lord knows I don’t want to be a burden to you. And I can tell that my visits aren’t always that welcome, so I thought it was best if . . .’ She fell silent, and Erica stared at her in astonishment. Kristina looked up and went on: ‘If you must know, I live for the hours that I spend with you and with Maja. Lotta has her own life in Göteborg, and it’s not always so easy for her to come here, or for me to go there, for that matter, since they don’t have much room in their house. And as I said, I know that my visits with you aren’t always so welcome.’ Again she looked away, and Erica felt ashamed.
‘That’s mostly my fault, I have to admit,’ she said gently. ‘But you are always welcome. And you and Maja have so much fun together. The only thing we ask is that you respect our privacy. It’s our home, and you’re welcome to come over as our guest. So we, I, would appreciate it if you’d phone ahead to check if it’s a good time to visit before you come over. Please don’t just walk into the house with no warning, and for God’s sake please don’t tell us how we should run our household or take care of our child. If you can respect those rules, then you’re welcome to come over. I’m sure Patrik would appreciate it if you could lend him a hand while he’s on paternity leave.’
‘Yes, I think he would,’ said Kristina with a laugh that now made her eyes sparkle. ‘How is he doing?’
‘It was a bit touch-and-go at first,’ said Erica. She told Kristina about Patrik taking Maja along to a crime scene and to the police station. ‘But I think we’re now in agreement as to what’s important.’
‘Men,’ said Kristina. ‘I remember when Lars was going to stay home alone with Lotta for the first time. She was about a year old, and I was going out to do the shopping on my own. It took only twenty minutes before the shop manager came to find me, saying that Lars had phoned. He had some sort of crisis and I had to go home. So I left all my groceries and rushed home. And it certainly was a crisis.’
‘Really? What happened?’ asked Erica, wide-eyed.
‘Well, just listen to this. He mistook my menstrual pads for Lotta’s nappies. And he couldn’t figure out any sensible way to fasten them, so when I got home he was trying to put them on with duct tape!’
‘You’re kidding!’ said Erica, and they both laughed.
‘He learned after a while. Lars was a good father to Patrik and Lotta when they were growing up. I can’t complain. But those were different times.’
‘Speaking of different times,’ said Erica, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation to the reason for her visit. ‘I’m doing a little research into my mother’s life, her childhood, and so on. I found some old things in the attic, including several old diaries, and well, they got me to thinking.’
‘Diaries?’ said Kristina, staring at Erica. ‘What was in them?’ she asked in a sharp tone of voice. Erica looked at her mother-in-law in surprise.
‘Nothing especially interesting, unfortunately. Mostly teenage musings. But the funny thing is that there’s a lot about her friends from back then. Erik Frankel, Britta Johansson, and Frans Ringholm. And now two of them, Erik and Britta, have both been murdered within a few months of each other. It could just be a coincidence, but it seems strange.’
Kristina was still staring. ‘Britta’s dead?’ she asked, and it was obvious that she was having a hard time taking in the news.
‘Yes, didn’t you hear about it? I thought you would have heard it on the grapevine by now. Her daughter found her dead two days ago, and it seems that she died from suffocation. Her husband claims that he killed her.’
‘So both Erik and Britta are dead?’ said Kristina. Thoughts seemed to be churning in her head.
‘Did you know them?’ asked Erica.
‘No.’ Kristina shook her head. ‘I knew only what Elsy told me about them.’
‘What did she tell you?’ asked Erica, eagerly leaning forward. ‘That’s exactly why I’ve come over here. Because you were my mother’s friend for so many years, I thought that you, of all people, would know things about her. So what did she tell you about those years? And why did she stop writing in her diary so abruptly in 1944? Or are there more diaries somewhere? Did Mamma ever tell you about them? In the last diary she mentions a Norwegian who had come to stay with them, a Hans Olavsen. I found a newspaper clipping that seems to indicate that all four of them spent a lot of time with him. What happened to him?’ The questions came pouring out so fast that even Erica could barely keep up with them. Kristina sat across from her, not saying a word, with a shuttered expression on her face.
‘I can’t answer your questions, Erica,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t. The only thing I can tell you is what happened to Hans Olavsen. Elsy told me that he went back to Norway right after the war ended. After that, she never saw him again.’
‘Were they . . .’ Erica hesitated, not sure how to formulate her query. ‘Did she love him?’
Kristina didn’t speak for a long time. She plucked at the pattern of the oilcloth on the table, weighing what she wanted to say. Finally she looked at Erica.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘she loved him.’
It was a splendid day. Axel hadn’t thought about such things for a very long time. The fact that certain days could be nicer than others. But this one truly was. Right on the cusp between summer and autumn, with a warm, gentle breeze. The light had lost the glare of summer and started to assume the glow of autumn. A truly splendid day.
He went over to the bay window and looked out, his hands clasped behind his back. But he didn’t see the trees outside. Or the grass that had grown a bit too tall and was starting to wither as cooler weather approached. Instead he saw Britta. Lovely, lively Britta, whom he’d never regarded as anything but a little girl back then, during the war. One of Erik’s friends, a sweet but rather vain girl. She hadn’t interested him. She’d been too young. He’d been preoccupied with everything that needed to be done, with what he needed to do. She’d had only a peripheral place in his world.
But he was thinking about her now. The way she was when he saw her the other day. Sixty years later. Still beautiful. Still slightly vain. But the years had changed her. Turned her into a different person than she’d been back then. Axel wondered if he had changed just as much. Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps the years he’d been imprisoned by the Germans had changed him enough for a whole lifetime, so that afterwards he hadn’t managed to change any more. All the things he’d seen, the horrors he’d witnessed – maybe that had changed something deep inside of him which could never be healed or redeemed.
Axel pictured other faces in his mind. Faces of the people he’d hunted and helped to capture. It didn’t happen the way they showed it in the movies, with thrilling high-speed chases. Just hours of laborious work, sitting in his office and indefatigably following up five decades of paper trails, calling into question identities, payments, passenger lists, and possible cities of refuge. And so they’d brought them in, one by one. Made sure that they were punished for their sins, which were receding further and further into the past.
They would never catch them all. He knew that. There were still so many of them out there, and more and more of them were now dying. But instead of dying in prison, in degradation, they were dying the peaceful death of old age, without having to confront their deeds. That was what drove him. That was what made him refuse to give up; he was constantly searching, hunting, going from one meeting to the next, combing through archive after archive. He refused to rest as long as there was a single one of them out there that he might help to catch.
Axel stared unseeing out the window. He knew that it had become an obsession with him. The work had consumed everything. It had become a lifeline that he could grab hold of whenever he doubted himself or his humanity. As long as he was engaged in the hunt, he didn’t need to question who he was. As long as he was working to serve the cause, he could slowly but surely chip away at his guilt. Only by refusing to stand still was he able to shake off everything that he didn’t want to think about.
He turned around. The doorbell was ringing. For a moment he couldn’t tear himself away from all those faces flickering before his eyes. Then he blinked them away and went to open the door.
‘Oh, so it’s you,’ Axel said when he caught sight of Paula and Martin. For a second he felt overwhelmed by fatigue. Sometimes it seemed this would never end.
‘Could we come in and talk to you for a few minutes?’ asked Martin in a kindly tone of voice.
‘Of course. Come in,’ said Axel, again leading the way to the veranda. ‘Is there any news? I heard about Britta, by the way. Dreadful business. I saw her and Herman just a couple of days ago, you know. It’s so hard for me to imagine that he would . . .’ Axel shook his head.
‘Yes, it’s really tragic,’ said Paula. ‘But we’re not about to jump to any hasty conclusions.’
‘But from what I heard, Herman has confessed. Isn’t that true?’ asked Axel.
‘Well, yes,’ said Martin hesitantly. ‘But until we’re able to interview him . . .’ He threw out his hands. ‘That’s actually why we’ve come to talk to you.’
‘All right. Although I don’t really see how I can help.’
‘We’ve taken a look at the phone records – calls that were made from Britta and Herman’s house – and your number appears on three occasions.’
‘Well, I can tell you about at least one of them. Herman phoned me a few days ago and asked me to come over to see Britta. We haven’t had any contact for years and years, so it was a little surprising. But from what I understood, she had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. And Herman seemed to want her to see someone from the old days, in case that might help.’
‘And that’s why you went over there?’ asked Paula, studying him intently. ‘So that Britta could see someone from the old days?’
‘Yes. At least, that’s the reason Herman gave me. Of course, we weren’t exactly close back then. She was actually my brother Erik’s friend, but I didn’t think it would do any harm. And at my age, it’s always pleasant to talk about old memories.’
‘So what happened while you were there?’ Martin leaned forward.
‘She was quite clear-headed for a while, and we chatted a bit about the old days. But then she got confused, and, well, it didn’t make any sense for me to stay, so I excused myself and left. Incredibly tragic. Alzheimer’s is a horrible illness.’
‘What about the phone calls in early June?’ Martin looked at his notes. ‘First one from your phone on the second, then an incoming call from Britta or Herman on the third, and finally another one from their phone on the fourth.’
Axel shook his head. ‘I don’t know anything about that. They must have talked to Erik. But it was probably the same sort of request. And it was actually more natural for Britta to want to see Erik if she’d started regressing into the past. They used to be friends, as I said before.’
‘But the first call was made from your house,’ Martin persisted. ‘Do you know why Erik might have phoned them?’
‘As I also said before, my brother and I may have lived under the same roof, but we didn’t interfere in each other’s business. I have no idea why Erik would have wanted to contact Britta. But maybe he wanted to renew their friendship. People get a little strange in that way, the older they get. Things from the distant past suddenly seem to get closer and assume greater importance.’
Axel realized how true this was as soon as he’d said it. In his mind’s eye he saw jeering people from the past come bounding towards him. He took a firm grip on the armrests of his chair. This wasn’t the right time to allow himself to feel overwhelmed.
‘So you think it was Erik who wanted to see them, for the sake of old friendship?’ asked Martin sceptically.
‘As I said,’ replied Axel, relaxing his grip on the armrests, ‘I have absolutely no idea. But that seems the most logical explanation.’
Martin exchanged a glance with Paula. It seemed unlikely that they’d get any further. Yet he still had a nagging feeling that he was being given only tiny crumbs of something much bigger.
After they left, Axel went back to stand at the window. The same faces began dancing in front of him.
‘Hi, how did it go at the library?’ Patrik’s face lit up when he saw Erica come in the front door.
‘Er . . . I . . . didn’t actually go to the library,’ said Erica, with a strange expression on her face.
‘Where did you go then?’ asked Patrik. Maja was taking her afternoon nap and he was cleaning up after their lunch.
‘To see Kristina,’ she said, coming into the kitchen to join him.
‘Kristina who? Oh, you mean my mother?’ said Patrik, astonished. ‘Why did you do that? I’d better check to see that you’re not running a fever.’ He went over to Erica and pressed his hand to her forehead. She waved him away.
‘Hey, it’s not all that odd. She’s my mother-in-law, after all. Why shouldn’t I go over to visit her on the spur of the moment?’
‘Oh, right,’ said Patrik, laughing. ‘Okay, out with it. Why did you want to see my mother?’
Erica told him about the sudden brainwave she’d had outside the library about Kristina’s friendship with her mother. And then she told him about Kristina’s peculiar reaction, and how she’d revealed that Elsy had had a love affair with the Norwegian who had fled from the Germans. ‘But she refused to tell me anything else,’ said Erica, sounding frustrated. ‘Or maybe that’s all she knew. I’m not sure. But it seemed that Hans Olavsen abandoned my mother in some way. He left Fjällbacka and, according to Kristina, Elsy told her that he’d gone back to Norway.’
‘So what are you going to do now?’ asked Patrik, putting the lunch leftovers in the refrigerator.
‘I’m going to track him down, of course,’ said Erica, heading for the living room. ‘By the way, I think we should invite Kristina over on Sunday. So she can spend some time with Maja.’
‘Now I’m positive that you must have a fever,’ laughed Patrik. ‘But all right, I’ll ring Mamma later and ask her if she’d like to come over for coffee on Sunday. But she may not be able to. You know how busy she always is.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he heard Erica say from the living room in a strange tone of voice. Patrik shook his head. Women. He would never understand them. But maybe that was the whole point.
‘What’s this?’ called Erica.
Patrik went to see what she was talking about. She was pointing at the folder on the coffee table, and for a second Patrik wanted to kick himself for not hiding it away before she came home. But he knew her well enough to realize that it was too late to keep it from her now.
‘That’s all the investigative material from the Erik Frankel murder case,’ he told her, raising an admonitory finger. ‘And you’re not to tell anybody about what you happen to read in that file. All right?’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Erica with amusement as she waved him away like an annoying fly. Then she sat down on the sofa and started leafing through the documents and photographs.
An hour later she’d gone through all the material in the folder and started over again. Patrik had looked in on her several times, but eventually gave up any attempt to get her attention. Instead, he sat down with the morning newspaper, which he hadn’t yet had time to read.
‘You don’t have much physical evidence to go on,’ said Erica, running her finger over the techs’ report.
‘No, it seems pretty scanty,’ said Patrik, putting down the newspaper. ‘In their library there were no fingerprints other than those belonging to Erik and Axel and the two boys who found the body. Nothing seems to be missing, and the footprints don’t belong to anyone else either. The murder weapon was under the desk. A weapon that was already on the scene, so to speak.’
‘Not a premeditated murder, in other words. Most likely committed on impulse,’ mused Erica.
‘Right, unless, of course, somebody knew about the stone bust on the window sill.’ Patrik was again struck by an idea that had occurred to him a couple of days ago. ‘Tell me again, when exactly did you go see Erik Frankel to show him the medal?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Erica, still sounding as if she were far away.
‘I’m not sure. It might not be important at all. But it would be good to know.’
‘It was the day before we went to visit Nordens Ark wild animal park with Maja,’ said Erica, still looking through the documents. ‘Wasn’t that on the third of June? In that case, it was on the second that I visited Erik.’
‘Did you ever get any information about the medal? Did he say anything while you were there?’
‘I would have told you as soon as I got home if he had,’ said Erica. ‘No, he just said that he wanted to do some more checking before he told me anything about it.’
‘So you still don’t know what kind of Nazi medal it is?’
‘No,’ said Erica, giving Patrik a meditative look. ‘But that’s definitely something I need to find out. I’ll figure out tomorrow where I should start looking.’ She turned her attention back to the folder and studied the photos from the crime scene. She picked up the picture on top and squinted.
‘It’s impossible to . . .’ she muttered, then got to her feet and headed upstairs.
‘What is it?’ asked Patrik, but she didn’t reply. A moment later Erica returned, brandishing a magnifying glass.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked, peering at his wife over the top of his newspaper.
‘I’m not sure. It’s probably nothing, but . . . it looks like somebody scribbled something on the notepad on Erik’s desk. But I can’t really see . . .’ She bent closer to the photo, putting the magnifying glass on top of a little white patch, which was the notepad in the picture.
‘I think it says . . .’ She squinted again. ‘I think it says “Ignoto Militi”.’
‘Really? And what’s that supposed to mean?’ said Patrik.
‘I don’t know. Something to do with the military, I imagine. It’s probably nothing. Just scribbles,’ she said, sounding disappointed.
‘Erica . . .’ Patrik put down his newspaper and tilted his head. ‘I had a little talk with Martin when he brought that folder over here. And he asked me to do him a favour.’ Okay, to be honest, he was the one who had offered to help out, but he didn’t need to tell Erica that. He cleared his throat and went on. ‘He asked me to check up on somebody in Göteborg who was receiving regular bank payments from Erik Frankel. Every month for fifty years.’
‘Fifty years?’ said Erica, raising her eyebrows. ‘He’d been paying somebody for fifty years? What was it? Blackmail?’ She couldn’t hide the fact that she found the idea rather exciting.
‘Nobody knows. And it’s probably nothing, but . . . Well, Martin wondered if I could go to Göteborg and check it out.’
‘Of course. I’ll go with you,’ said Erica enthusiastically.
Patrik stared at her. That wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d been expecting.
‘Er, well, maybe . . .’ he stammered as he pondered whether there was any reason why he shouldn’t take his wife along. After all, it was just a routine assignment, checking on some bank payments, so there shouldn’t be any problem.
‘Okay, come with me. Then we’ll drop by and visit Lotta afterwards so Maja can see her cousins.’
‘Great,’ said Erica. She liked Patrik’s sister. ‘And maybe I can find somebody in Göteborg who can tell me about the medal.’
‘That seems possible. Make a few calls this afternoon and see if you can find anyone who knows about that sort of thing.’ He picked up the newspaper and went back to reading. Best to make good use of his time before Maja woke up.
Erica picked up the magnifying glass and took another look at the notepad on Erik’s desk. Ignoto Militi. Something was stirring in her subconscious.
This time it took only half an hour before he got the hang of the steps.
‘Good, Bertil,’ said Rita appreciatively, giving his hand an extra little squeeze. I can feel that you’re getting into the rhythm now.’
‘Not bad, huh?’ said Mellberg modestly. ‘I’ve always had a talent for dancing.’
‘Indeed you do,’ she said with a wink. ‘I heard that you and Johanna had coffee together.’ She smiled as she looked up at him. That was something else he found attractive about Rita. He’d never been particularly tall, but since she was so petite, he felt like a giant.
‘I just happened to walk past your block of flats . . .’ he said, embarrassed. ‘And then I saw Johanna, and she asked if I’d like to come upstairs for coffee.’
‘Ah, I see. You just happened to be walking past,’ laughed Rita, as they continued to sway in time to the salsa music. ‘It’s too bad I wasn’t home when you happened to walk past. But Johanna said you had a very nice time.’
‘Yes, well, she’s a sweet girl,’ said Mellberg, again recalling the feel of the baby’s foot kicking against his hand. ‘A really sweet girl.’
‘It hasn’t always been easy for them.’ Rita sighed. ‘And I had a hard time getting used to the idea in the beginning. But I probably knew even before Paula brought Johanna home to meet me. And now they’ve been together for almost ten years, and, well, I can honestly say that there’s nobody else I’d rather see Paula with. They’re perfect for each other, so the fact that they’re both female doesn’t really seem to matter.’
‘But it must have been easier in Stockholm. Being accepted, I mean,’ said Mellberg cautiously. Then he swore as he stepped on Rita’s foot. ‘It’s more common there, I mean. When I watch TV, I sometimes get the impression that every other person in Stockholm is gay.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ Rita laughed. ‘But of course we were a little nervous about moving here. I have to say that I’ve been pleasantly surprised. I don’t think the girls have run into any problems so far. Or maybe people just haven’t noticed. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What are they supposed to do? Stop living? Decide not to move where they want to? No, sometimes a person has to dare to take a leap into the unknown.’ She suddenly looked sad, as if she were staring at something far away over Mellberg’s shoulder. He thought he knew what she was thinking about.
‘Was it hard? Having to flee?’ he asked cautiously. Usually he did his best to avoid sensitive questions, or he would ask them only because it was expected of him, and he never cared what the answer might be. But right now he really wanted to know.
‘It was both hard and easy,’ Rita told him, and in her dark eyes he could see that she’d been through experiences that he couldn’t even imagine. ‘It was easy to leave what had become of my country. But hard to leave the country that it once had been.’
For a moment she lost the rhythm of the dance and stopped, her hands still in Mellberg’s. Then her eyes flashed, and she pulled her hands away and clapped loudly.
‘So, now it’s time to learn the next step. The twirl. Bertil, help me demonstrate.’ She took his hands again and slowly showed him the steps he needed to do in order to twirl her under his arm. It wasn’t simple, and he got his hands and feet all tangled up. But Rita didn’t lose patience. She just kept at it, over and over, until Bertil and the other couples figured it out.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she said, looking up at Mellberg. He wondered whether she meant only the dance. Or something else as well. He hoped it was the latter.
It was starting to get dark outside. The sheet on the hospital bed rustled faintly whenever he moved, so he tried to stay still. He preferred absolute silence. He could do nothing to control the sounds outside – the sound of voices, of people walking past, of trays clattering. But in here he would make sure that it was as quiet as possible. That the silence wasn’t disturbed by rustling sheets.
Herman stared out of the window. As it grew darker, he was gradually able to see his own image reflected in the pane, and he noted how pitiful the figure in the bed looked. A small, grey old man with thinning hair and furrowed cheeks, wearing a white hospital gown. As if Britta had been the one who had lent him any air of authority. She had given him a dignity that filled him. She had given his life meaning. And now it was his fault that she was gone.
His daughters had come over to see him today. Fussed over him, hugged him, stared at him with worried eyes and talked to him in concerned voices. But he hadn’t had the energy even to look at them. He was afraid they would see the guilt in his eyes. See what he had done. What he had caused.
They had kept the secret for a long time. He and Britta. Shared it, concealed it, atoned for it. That was what he’d thought, at any rate. But when she fell ill and her defences started to crumble, he’d realized in a moment of clarity that it was hopeless to try to atone for anything. Sooner or later, time and fate caught up with a person. It was impossible to hide. It was impossible to flee. They had foolishly believed that it was enough to live a good life, to be good people. To love their children and raise them so they would be capable of giving love, in turn. And finally, they had convinced themselves that the good they’d created had overshadowed the bad.
He had killed Britta. Why couldn’t they understand that? He knew that they would talk to him, ask him about things, question him. Why couldn’t they just accept the situation?
He had killed Britta. And now he had nothing left.
* * *
‘Do you have any idea who this person is? Or why Erik paid him money for all those years?’ asked Erica as they were approaching Göteborg. Maja had behaved beautifully, sitting on the back seat, and since they’d left home just before eight thirty, it was only ten o’clock by the time they drove into the city.
‘No, the only information we have is what you’ve already seen.’ Patrik nodded at the document in the plastic sleeve that Erica was holding on her lap.
‘Wilhelm Fridén, Vasagatan 38, Göteborg. Born third of October 1924,’ Erica read aloud.
‘That’s all we know. I talked briefly to Martin last night, and he hadn’t found any connections to Fjällbacka, and no criminal record. Nothing. So it’s really a shot in the dark. Speaking of which, what time is your appointment to see that guy about the medal?’
‘At noon, in his antique shop,’ said Erica, touching the pocket in which she had put the medal for safekeeping, wrapped in a soft piece of cloth.
‘Do you and Maja want to stay in the car while I talk to Wilhelm Fridén, or would you rather take a walk?’ asked Patrik as he pulled into a parking place on Vasagatan.
‘What do you mean?’ said Erica, sounding insulted. ‘I want to go with you, of course.’
‘But you can’t. What about Maja?’ Patrik replied awkwardly, even though he could already tell how this conversation was going to go. And how it would end.
‘If you can take her along to crime scenes and the police station, then she can come with us to talk to a man who is over eighty years old,’ she said, her tone of voice making it clear that there was no room for discussion.
‘Okay,’ said Patrik with a sigh. He knew when he was beaten.
The flat was on the third floor of a turn-of-the-century apartment building. The doorbell was answered by a man in his sixties. He gave them an enquiring look as he opened the door. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
Patrik held out his police ID. ‘My name is Patrik Hedström, and I’m from the Tanumshede police. I have a few questions regarding a man named Wilhelm Fridén.’
‘Who is it?’ They heard a faint female voice from inside the flat. The man turned around and shouted, ‘It’s the police. They want to ask some questions about Pappa!’
He turned back to Patrik. ‘I can’t imagine why on earth the police would be interested in Pappa, but come on in.’ He stepped aside to let them in and then raised his eyebrows in surprise when he saw Maja in Erica’s arms.
‘The police are starting them young these days,’ he remarked with amusement.
Patrik smiled, embarrassed. ‘This is my wife, Erica Falck, and our daughter Maja. They . . . er . . . my wife has a personal interest in the case that we’re investigating, and . . .’ He stopped. There didn’t seem to be any good way to explain why a police officer would drag along his wife and child to an interview.
‘I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Göran Fridén, and it’s my father that you’re asking about.’
Patrik studied him with curiosity. He was of medium height with grey, slightly curly hair and friendly blue eyes.
‘Is your father at home?’ asked Patrik as they followed Göran Fridén down a long hall.
‘I’m afraid you’re too late if you want to ask my father any questions. He died two weeks ago.’
‘Oh,’ said Patrik, surprised. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. He had been convinced that the man, in spite of his age, was still alive, since his name wasn’t on the list of deceased in the public registry. But that was no doubt because he’d died so recently. It was common knowledge that it took time before information was entered into the registry. He felt extremely disappointed. Had this lead, which his intuition told him was important, already gone cold?
‘But you could talk to my mother, if you like,’ said Göran, motioning them towards the living room. ‘I don’t know what this is about, but after you’ve told us, maybe she’ll be able to help.’
A small, frail woman with snow-white hair got up from the sofa and came across to shake hands.
‘Märta Fridén.’ She studied them quizzically and then broke into a big smile when she saw Maja. ‘Hi, there! Oh, what an adorable little girl! What’s her name?’
‘Maja,’ said Erica proudly, taking an instant liking to Märta Fridén.
‘Hi, Maja,’ said Märta, patting her cheek. Maja beamed happily at all the attention, but then started kicking to get down when she caught sight of an old doll sitting on the sofa.
‘No, Maja,’ said Erica sternly, trying to restrain her daughter.
‘It’s all right. Let her take a look at it,’ said Märta, with a wave of her hand. ‘There’s nothing here that she shouldn’t touch. Since Wilhelm passed away, I’ve realized that we can’t take anything with us when we die.’ Her eyes took on a sorrowful expression, and her son stepped close to put his arm around her.
‘Sit down, Mamma. I’ll make our guests some coffee while you have a talk with them in peace and quiet.’
Märta watched him as he left the room, heading for the kitchen. ‘He’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be a burden to him; children should be allowed to live their own lives. But sometimes he’s too nice for his own good. Wilhelm was so proud of him.’ She seemed to get lost in her memories for a moment, but then turned to Patrik.
‘So, why would the police want to talk to my Wilhelm?’
Patrik cleared his throat. He felt that he was treading on thin ice. Maybe he was about to bring a lot of things into the light which this sweet old lady would rather not know about. But he had no choice. Hesitantly he said:
‘Well, the thing is, we’re investigating a murder up north in Fjällbacka. I’m from the Tanumshede police station, you see, and Fjällbacka belongs to the Tanum police district.’
‘Oh, good heavens. A murder?’ said Märta, frowning.
‘Yes, a man by the name of Erik Frankel was killed,’ said Patrik, pausing to see whether the name would prompt any reaction. But from what he could tell, Märta didn’t seem to recognize it.
‘Erik Frankel? That doesn’t sound familiar. What led you to Wilhelm?’ She leaned forward, looking interested.
‘Ah, er . . . you see,’ Patrik hesitated. ‘The thing is, for almost fifty years this Erik Frankel has been making monthly payments to Wilhelm Fridén. Your husband. And of course we’re wondering why he did that, and what sort of connection there was between the two men.’
‘Wilhelm got money from . . . from a man in Fjällbacka by the name of Erik Frankel?’ Märta looked genuinely surprised. At that moment Göran came back, carrying a tray with coffee cups. ‘So what’s this all about?’ he asked, giving them an enquiring look.
His mother was the one who replied. ‘These officers say that a man by the name of Erik Frankel, who was found murdered, was paying your father money every month for the past fifty years.’
‘What’s this?’ exclaimed Göran as he sat down on the sofa next to his mother. ‘To Pappa? Why?’
‘Well, that’s what we’d like to find out,’ said Patrik. ‘We were hoping that Wilhelm could answer the question himself.’
‘Dolly,’ said Maja with delight as she held out the old doll towards Märta.
‘Yes, it’s a doll,’ said Märta, smiling. ‘It was mine when I was little.’
Maja gave the doll a tender hug. Märta could hardly take her eyes off the girl.
‘What an enchanting child,’ she said, and Erica nodded enthusiastically.
‘What kind of sums are we talking about?’ asked Göran, staring at Patrik.
‘Not large sums of money. Two thousand kronor a month during the past few years. But it had gradually increased over time, apparently keeping pace with inflation. So even though the amount changed, the actual value seems to have remained constant.’
‘Why didn’t Pappa ever tell us about this?’ Göran asked his mother. She shook her head.
‘I have no idea. But Wilhelm and I never discussed financial matters. He took care of all those sorts of things while I took care of the house. That was customary for our generation. It was how we divided up the work load. If it weren’t for you, Göran, I’d be completely lost trying to take care of bank accounts and loans and that sort of thing.’ She squeezed her son’s hand.
‘I’m happy to help you, Mamma, you know that.’
‘Do you have any financial statements that we might have a look at?’ asked Patrik, sounding a bit discouraged. He’d been hoping to get answers to all his questions about these strange monthly payments, but he seemed to have reached a dead end.
‘We don’t have any documents here at home. Our lawyers have everything,’ said Göran apologetically. ‘But I can ask them to make copies and send them to you.’
‘We would really appreciate that,’ said Patrik, feeling more hopeful. Maybe they’d still be able to get to the bottom of this.
‘Oh, forgive me, I completely forgot about the coffee,’ said Göran, getting up from the sofa.
‘We need to get going anyway,’ said Patrik, glancing at his watch. ‘So please don’t go to any trouble for our sake.’
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.’ Märta tilted her head and smiled at Patrik.
‘Don’t worry, that’s how things go sometimes. And again, please accept my condolences,’ said Patrik. ‘I hope we haven’t caused you too much distress by coming here to ask questions so soon after . . . Well, we didn’t know . . .’
‘That’s quite all right, my dear,’ she replied, waving away his apologies. ‘I knew my Wilhelm inside and out, and whatever these payments were for, I can guarantee that there was nothing criminal or unethical involved. So ask all the questions you want, and as Göran said, we’ll make sure the documents are sent over to you. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t help you.’
Everyone got up and went out to the hall. Maja was still holding the doll, hugging it to her chest.
‘Maja, sweetie, you need to leave the doll here.’ Erica steeled herself for the inevitable outburst.
‘Let the child keep the doll,’ said Märta, patting Maja on the head as she walked past. ‘As I said, I can’t take anything with me when I go, and I’m too old to be playing with dolls.’
‘Are you sure?’ stammered Erica. ‘It’s so old, and I’m sure you have fond memories of . . .’
‘Memories are stored up here,’ said Märta, tapping her forehead. ‘Not in tangible objects. Nothing would make me happier than to know that a little girl will be playing with Greta again. I’m sure that poor doll has been terribly bored sitting on the sofa next to an old lady.’
‘Well, thank you. Thank you so much,’ said Erica, embarrassed to find herself so touched that she had to blink back tears.
‘You’re very welcome.’ Märta patted Maja on the head again, and then she and her son escorted them to the door.
The last thing Erica and Patrik saw before the door closed behind them was Göran gently putting his arm around his mother’s shoulder and kissing her on top of her head.
Martin was at home, restlessly roaming about. Pia was at work, and since he was alone in the flat, he couldn’t stop thinking about the case. It was as if his feeling of responsibility had increased tenfold because Patrik was on leave, and he wasn’t quite sure that he was up to the task. He thought of it as a weakness on his part that he needed to ask Patrik for help. But he relied so heavily on his colleague’s judgement, maybe even more than on his own. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever feel confident about his work. There was always a sense of doubt hovering in the background, an uncertainty that had been with him since he graduated from the police academy. Was he really suited to this job? Was he capable of doing what was expected of him?
He wandered from room to room as he brooded. He realized that his uncertainty about his profession was exacerbated by the fact that he was about to face the greatest challenge of his life, and he wasn’t convinced he could handle that responsibility either. What if he didn’t measure up? What if he couldn’t offer Pia the support that she needed? What if he couldn’t deal with what was expected of him as a father? What if, what if . . . The thoughts whirled through his mind faster and faster, and finally he realized that he had to get out and do something or he’d go crazy. He grabbed his jacket, got in the car, and headed south.
At first he didn’t know where he was going, but as he approached Grebbestad, it became clear to him. It was that phone call made from Britta and Herman’s house to Frans Ringholm that had been bothering him. They kept running into the same group of people in the two investigations, and even though the cases seemed to be running parallel, Martin had a gut feeling that they intersected at some point. Why had Herman or Britta phoned Frans in June before Erik died? There was only one call from them on the list, from the fourth of June. It hadn’t lasted very long. Two minutes and thirty-three seconds. Martin had memorized the information from the phone lists. But why had they contacted Frans? Was it as simple as Axel had suggested? That Britta’s illness had made her want to renew friendships from the past? Reconnect with people who, by all accounts, she hadn’t spoken to in sixty years? The brain was certainly capable of playing tricks on a person, but . . . No, there was something else. Something that kept eluding him. And he wasn’t about to give up until he found out what it was.
Frans was on his way out when Martin met him at the door of his flat.
‘So how can I help you today?’ he asked politely.
‘Just a few supplementary questions.’
‘I was just going out for my daily walk. If you want to talk to me, you can come along. I don’t change my walk schedule for anyone. It’s how I keep in shape.’ He set off towards the water, and Martin followed.
‘So you don’t have any problem being seen with a police officer?’ asked Martin, giving him a wry smile.
‘You know, I’ve spent so much of my life with jailers, that I’m used to your type of company,’ he replied, an amused glint in his eyes. ‘Okay, what was it you wanted to ask me?’ he said then, all trace of amusement vanishing. Martin had to jog to keep up. The old guy set a brisk pace.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but there’s been another murder in Fjällbacka.’
Frans slowed down for a moment, then picked up the pace again. ‘No, I didn’t know about that. Who was it?’
‘Britta Johansson.’ Martin studied Frans intently.
‘Britta?’ said Frans, turning his head to look at Martin. ‘How? Who?’
‘Her husband says that he did it. But I have my doubts.’
Frans gave a start. ‘Herman? But why? I can’t believe that.’
‘Do you know Herman?’ asked Martin, trying not to show how important his answer might be.
‘No, not really,’ said Frans, shaking his head. ‘I’ve actually only met him once. He phoned me in June to say that Britta was ill and she’d expressed a wish to see me.’
‘Didn’t you think that was a bit odd? Considering that you hadn’t seen each other in sixty years?’ Martin made no attempt to hide his scepticism.
‘Well, yes, of course I thought it was odd. But Herman explained that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s, and apparently it’s not uncommon for patients with that disease to revert to memories from the past, and to think about people who used to be important to them. And our little group did grow up together, you know, and spent a lot of time with each other.’
‘And that little group was . . . ?’
‘Me, Britta, Erik, and Elsy Moström.’
‘And two of them have been murdered in a matter of months,’ said Martin, panting as he trotted along next to Frans. ‘Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence?’
Frans stared at the horizon. ‘When you get to be my age, you’ve witnessed enough strange coincidences to know that they actually occur quite often. Besides, you said that her husband has confessed to the murder. Do you think he was the one who killed Erik too?’ Frans glanced at Martin.
‘We’re not speculating about anything at the moment. But it does give me pause when I think about the fact that two out of four people in a group have been murdered within such a short period of time.’
‘As I said, there’s nothing strange about strange coincidences. Sheer chance. And fate.’
‘That sounds quite philosophical, coming from a man who has spent a great deal of his life in prison. Was that also sheer chance and fate?’ A caustic tone had crept into his voice, and Martin had to remind himself to keep his personal feelings out of this. But during the past week he’d seen how Paula had been affected by the things that Frans Ringholm stood for, and he was having a hard time hiding his disgust.
‘Chance and fate had nothing to do with it. I was an adult and capable of making my own decisions when I chose that particular path. And of course I can say, after the fact, that I shouldn’t have done one thing or another . . . and I should have chosen a different path instead.’ Frans stopped and turned to face Martin. ‘But we don’t have that opportunity while we’re living our lives, do we?’ he said, and then started walking again. ‘The opportunity to see things ahead of time. No, I made the choices I made. I’ve lived the life I chose. And I’ve paid the price for it.’
‘What about your opinions? Have you chosen those too?’ Martin found himself genuinely curious to hear the answer. He didn’t understand these people who were ready to condemn whole segments of humanity. He didn’t understand how they could justify such views to themselves. And while they filled him with disgust, he was also curious about what made them tick.
Frans seemed to recognize that the question was genuine, and he spent some moments considering how to answer it.
‘I stand behind my opinions,’ he said finally. ‘I see that something is wrong with our society, and this is my interpretation of what’s wrong. I see it as my duty to contribute a solution.’
‘But to place the blame on entire ethnic groups . . .’ Martin shook his head. He simply didn’t understand this way of thinking.
‘You make the mistake of regarding people as individuals,’ said Frans drily. ‘That’s not how we are. We are all part of a group. Part of a collective entity. And these groups have always fought each other, fought for a place in the hierarchy, in the world order. You might wish that things were different, but that’s how it is. And even though I don’t use violence to secure my place in the world, I’m a survivor. Someone who, in the end, will be a victor in the world order. And it’s always the victors who write history.’
He fell silent and turned to look at Martin, who shivered in spite of the fact that he was sweating from the fast pace. There was something so unfathomably terrifying about coming face to face with such fanatical conviction. No logic in the world would ever persuade Frans and his cohorts that theirs was a distorted view of reality. It was just a matter of keeping them restrained, marginalizing them, reducing their numbers. Martin had always believed that if he could just reason with a person, he would eventually be able to reach a core that could be changed. But in Frans’s eyes he saw a core that was so brutally protected by rage and hatred that it would be impossible ever to penetrate it.