Buried Angels

Chapter Thirteen

Patrik rushed into the station, coming to an abrupt halt in the reception area. Annika was deeply immersed in something and didn’t look up for a moment. When she noticed Patrik standing there, she smiled and then looked down again.

‘Is Martin still sick?’ asked Patrik.

‘Yes,’ said Annika, her eyes fixed on the computer screen.

Patrik gave her a puzzled glance and then turned on his heel. There was only one thing to do.

‘I’ve got an errand to run,’ he said and went back outside. He saw Annika open her mouth, but he didn’t hear what she said.

Patrik glanced at his watch. It was just before nine in the morning. A little too early to appear on somebody’s doorstep, but by now he was so worried that he didn’t care if he woke them.

It took him only a few minutes to drive to the block of flats where Martin lived with his family. Standing in front of their door, Patrik hesitated. Maybe nothing was wrong, maybe Martin really was sick and in bed, and he was going to wake him up for no good reason. He might even be insulted, thinking that Patrik had come over to check up on him. But his gut feeling told him otherwise. Martin should have phoned him by now, regardless how ill he was. Patrik pressed the doorbell.

He waited a long time and considered ringing it again, but he knew that the flat wasn’t very big, so they must have heard the bell. Finally he heard footsteps approaching.

When the door opened, Patrik had a shock. There was no doubt that Martin looked ill. He was unshaven, his hair was dishevelled, and he smelled faintly of sweat, but worst of all was the vacant expression in his eyes. Patrik almost didn’t recognize him.

‘What are you doing here?’ Martin asked.

‘Can I come in?’

Martin shrugged, turned, and shuffled into the flat.

‘Is Pia at work?’ asked Patrik, looking around.

‘No.’ Martin paused near the balcony door in the living room to stare out of the window.

Patrik frowned. ‘Are you sick?’

‘I called the office to say I wasn’t coming in. Didn’t Annika tell you?’ He sounded cross as he turned around. ‘Maybe you want a doctor’s certificate or something? Are you here to make sure that I’m telling the truth and not out sunbathing?’

Normally Martin was the most easy-going and good-natured person. Patrik had never known his colleague to succumb to this sort of outburst before, and he felt even more worried. Something was very wrong.

‘Why don’t we sit down,’ he said, motioning towards the kitchen.

Martin’s anger subsided as swiftly as it had flared up, and the dead look returned to his eyes. He nodded listlessly and followed his colleague. They sat down at the kitchen table, and Patrik studied Martin with real concern.

‘What’s going on here?’

For a moment Martin didn’t speak.

‘Pia is dying,’ he said then, fixing his eyes on the table.

His words made no sense, and Patrik refused to believe what he’d just heard.

‘What do you mean?’

‘She went in for treatment the day before yesterday. She was lucky they could get her in so quickly.’

‘Treatment for what?’ Patrik shook his head. He’d bumped into Pia and Martin over the weekend, and at that time everything seemed fine.

‘Unless there’s some sort of miracle, the doctors say she might have only six months left.’

‘Six months of treatment?’

Slowly Martin raised his head and looked his colleague in the eye. The naked pain in his expression almost made Patrik recoil.

‘Six months until she dies. Then Tuva won’t have a mother any more.’

‘What… How… When did you…?’ Patrik heard himself stammering, but he simply couldn’t find anything sensible to say.

And Martin didn’t reply. Instead, he laid his head on the table and began sobbing so hard that his whole body shook. Patrik got up and went over to put his arms around him. He had no idea how much time passed, but finally Martin stopped crying, and his body relaxed.

‘Where’s Tuva?’ asked Patrik, still holding Martin.

‘With Pia’s mother. I can’t… not right now.’ He started to cry again, the tears running silently down his cheeks.

Patrik stroked his back. ‘It’s okay, just let it all out.’

What a cliché that was, and he felt a bit foolish, but what else was there to say in a situation like this? Was there any right or wrong thing to say? His words really didn’t matter, and it was unclear whether Martin was even listening.

‘Have you eaten?’

Martin sniffled, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his bathrobe, and then shook his head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘That doesn’t matter. You have to eat.’ Patrik went over to the fridge to see what he could find. There was plenty of food, but he could tell it wasn’t the right time to cook a proper meal, so he merely took out some butter and cheese. Then he toasted a few slices of French bread that he found in the freezer and made two open-face sandwiches. He thought that was about all Martin could handle at the moment. Then he made another sandwich for himself. He figured it would be easier for Martin to eat if he had company.

‘Now tell me all about it,’ he said after Martin had finished the first sandwich and a little colour had returned to his face.

Haltingly Martin told Patrik all that he knew about Pia’s cancer and the shock they’d had. One day everything was fine, and then only a few days later they found out that she had to be admitted to the hospital and undergo a rigorous course of treatments that might not help her.

‘When does she get to come home?’

‘Next week, I think. I’m not really sure. I haven’t…’ Martin’s hand shook as he lifted his sandwich. He looked ashamed.

‘You haven’t talked to them? Have you gone to see Pia since she was admitted?’ Patrik was doing his best not to sound reproachful. That was the last thing Martin needed right now, and in a strange way he could understand his colleague’s reaction. He’d seen enough people in shock to recognize that vacant stare and the wooden movements.

‘I’m going to make some tea,’ he said before Martin could reply. ‘Or would you rather have coffee?’

‘Coffee,’ said Martin. He was chewing and chewing, and it seemed he was having a hard time swallowing.

Patrik filled a glass with water. ‘Here. Drink some water to wash it down. The coffee will be ready in a few minutes.’

‘I haven’t gone to see her,’ said Martin, as he finished chewing.

‘That’s not so strange. You’re in shock,’ said Patrik as he measured coffee grounds into the filter.

‘I’ve failed her. She needs me so much right now, but I’ve failed her. And Tuva. I couldn’t take her over to Pia’s mother fast enough. As if this isn’t hard for her too. Pia is her daughter, after all.’ He seemed on the verge of tears again, but he took a deep breath and then made an effort to calm his breathing. ‘I’ve no idea where Pia gets her strength. She’s phoned me several times, and she’s worried about me. How crazy is that? She’s getting radiation and chemotherapy and who knows what the hell else. She must be scared to death and feeling really sick. But she’s worried about me!’

‘That’s not so strange either,’ said Patrik. ‘Now here’s what we’ll do. You go take a shower and shave, and when you’re done with that, the coffee will be ready.’

‘No, I…’ Martin began, but Patrik held up his hand.

‘Either you take a shower this minute, or I’m going to drag you in there and scrub you myself. That’s not something I’d particularly like to do, so I’m hoping you’ll take care of it on your own.’

Martin couldn’t help laughing. ‘You’re not getting anywhere near me with a towel. I’ll do it myself.’

‘Good,’ said Patrik and turned around to hunt for coffee mugs in the cupboards. He heard Martin get up and go off to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later he was a new man when he came back into the kitchen.

‘Now you’re starting to look like yourself,’ said Patrik, pouring steaming hot coffee into his mug.

‘I feel better. Thanks,’ said Martin, sitting down. His face was still haggard and pale, but there was more life in his green eyes. His damp red hair was sticking straight up. He resembled an older version of Kalle Blomkvist from Astrid Lindgren’s stories.

‘I have a suggestion,’ said Patrik, who’d been thinking about things while Martin was in the shower. ‘You need to spend as much time as you can supporting Pia. And you also need to take over responsibility for Tuva. So why don’t you take a holiday, starting now, and then we’ll see how things go and how much more time you might require.’

‘I only have three weeks of holiday left.’

‘We’ll work it out,’ said Patrik. ‘Never mind about the practical details right now.’

Martin gave him a dazed look and nodded. Patrik was suddenly reminded of Erica and the car accident she’d been involved in. It could have been him sitting here. He had come so close to losing everything.

She’d been lying in bed thinking all night long. After Patrik left for work, she had sat on the veranda, gathering her thoughts in peace and quiet. For once the children were playing on their own. She loved the view of the Fjällbacka archipelago, and she was so grateful that she’d managed to save this house where she and Anna had grown up. Now her own children could grow up here too. It was not an easy house to take care of. The wind and salt water took their toll on the wooden siding, and the place needed constant repairs and upkeep.

At the moment they didn’t have any major financial problems. It had taken years of hard work, but these days she brought in a good income from her books. She hadn’t particularly changed her routine, but it was nice to know that she didn’t have to worry about breaking the household budget if she needed a new saucepan or they had to renovate the house.

She was well aware that there were many who did not enjoy the same sort of security. When there was never enough money or redundancy took its toll, it was easy to look for a scapegoat. That accounted, at least in part, for the success of the Friends of Sweden. Ever since her meeting with John Holm, Erica couldn’t stop thinking about him and what he stood for. She had hoped he would be an unpleasant man who was a blatant manifestation of his offensive views. Instead she’d found something much more dangerous. An articulate person who invited trust and was able to provide simple answers. Someone who could help the voters identify a scapegoat and then promise to make it disappear.

Erica shivered. She was convinced that Holm was hiding something. It remained to be seen whether there was any connection to what happened on Valö, but she knew who she would talk to next.

‘Kids, we’re going for a ride!’ she yelled, turning towards the living room. Her words prompted cheers from her children, who loved car rides.

‘Mamma just has to make one phone call. Maja, put on your shoes, and then I’ll come and help Anton and Noel.’

‘I can help them,’ said Maja, taking her brothers by the hand and pulling them out to the front hall. Erica smiled. Maja was becoming more and more like a little mother with each day that passed.

Fifteen minutes later they were all in the car, heading to Uddevalla. She’d called to make sure that Kjell would be in. She didn’t want to take her kids out there for nothing. At first she’d considered explaining everything on the phone, but then she realized that Kjell should see the note with his own eyes.

They sang kids’ songs all the way to Uddevalla, so Erica’s voice was hoarse by the time she announced their arrival to the receptionist. After a moment Kjell came out to greet them.

‘Whoa, did you bring the whole gang?’ he said, eyeing the three children who were shyly peering at him.

Kjell gave Erica a hug, his beard scratching her cheek. She smiled. She was glad to see him. They’d met a few years back when a murder investigation had revealed that her deceased mother, Elsy, and Kjell’s father had been friends during the Second World War. She and Patrik both liked Kjell, and she had a great deal of respect for the work he did as a journalist.

‘No babysitter today,’ she explained.

‘That’s okay. It’s good to see all of you,’ said Kjell, giving the children a friendly smile. ‘I think I’ve got some toys in a basket that you can play with while I have a talk with your mother.’

‘Toys?’ Their shyness evaporated, and Maja hurried after Kjell, eager to see the promised basket.

‘Here it is. Paper and crayons mostly,’ said Kjell, dumping the contents on to the floor.

‘I should warn you, you’re liable to end up with spots on the rug,’ said Erica. ‘They’re not very good about staying on the page.’

‘Do you honestly think a few spots will make any difference on this rug?’ said Kjell, sitting down at his desk.

Seeing the state of the rug, Erica realized he had a point.

‘I met John Holm yesterday,’ she said, sitting down in the visitor’s chair.

Kjell gave her a searching look.

‘What was your impression?’

‘Charming. But very dangerous.’

‘That pretty much sums him up. In his youth Holm belonged to one of the worst groups in the skinhead movement. That’s also where he met his wife.’

‘It’s a little hard picturing him with a shaved head.’ Erica turned to see what the kids were up to, but so far they were behaving perfectly.

‘Well, he’s certainly worked on his image. But in my opinion, those guys don’t change. They just get smarter with the years and learn how they ought to behave.’

‘Does he have a police record?’

‘No. He’s never been charged with anything, although he had a few close calls when he was younger. At the same time, I don’t believe for a minute that Holm’s views have changed one iota since those years when he participated in the skinhead demonstrations in Lund every November thirtieth. On the other hand, I can say with one hundred per cent confidence that it’s because of him that his party now has a seat in the Riksdag.’

‘Why is that?’

‘His first brilliant idea was to exploit the division that arose among various national socialist groups after the school fire in Uppsala.’

‘You mean when those three Nazis were convicted of the crime?’ said Erica, recalling the headlines in the papers from years ago.

‘Exactly. In addition to the splits within and between the various groups, there was suddenly huge interest from the media, and the police were keeping an eye on right-wing extremists. That’s when John Holm stepped in. He gathered the best brains from the different groups and suggested a collaboration, which resulted in the Friends of Sweden becoming the leading party. Since then he’s spent years cleaning up the party faithful, at least on the surface, and drumming in the message that their politics are a grass-roots phenomenon. They’ve positioned themselves as the workers’ party, the voice of the common man.’

‘But isn’t it hard to keep a party like that together? There must be a lot of extremists among the members.’

Kjell nodded. ‘True. Some people have deserted because they found Holm’s views too lightweight, and he’s been accused of betraying the old ideals. Apparently there’s an unspoken rule that prohibits open discussion of immigration policies. There are too many different opinions and that means there’s a risk of breaking up the party. Some are of the opinion that all immigrants should be put on the first available plane and sent back to their native countries, while at the other end of the spectrum there are those who argue that more stringent requirements should be levied against everyone who comes here.’

‘Which category does John Holm belong to?’ asked Erica, turning around to hush the twins, who were getting noisy.

‘Officially, the latter group, but unofficially…? Personally I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept a Nazi uniform hanging in his wardrobe.’

‘How did he end up in these circles?’

‘I did some more checking on his background after you phoned yesterday. I knew that Holm’s family were extremely wealthy; his father started an export company during the 1940s, and after the war he continued to expand. Business was booming – until 1976…’ Kjell paused for effect, and Erica sat up straighter.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘There was a scandal that rocked Stockholm’s upper echelons. John’s mother, Greta, left his father, Otto, for a Lebanese executive that Otto had done business with. It also emerged that Ibrahim Jaber – that was his name – had duped Otto out of most of his fortune. In late July 1976, deserted and destitute, Otto shot himself while sitting at his desk.’

‘What happened to Greta and John?’

‘Otto’s death was not the end of the tragedy. It turned out that Jaber already had a wife and children, and he’d never had any intention of marrying Greta. He simply took her money and abandoned her. Several months later, John Holm’s name appeared for the first time in connection with the National Socialists.

‘And his hatred hasn’t diminished,’ said Erica, reaching for her handbag. She took out the note and handed it to Kjell. ‘I found this in Holm’s house yesterday. I can’t read what it says, but maybe it’s important.’

He laughed. ‘Define what you mean by found.’

‘You sound exactly like Patrik,’ said Erica, smiling. ‘It was just lying there. I’m sure it’s only a scribbled note that nobody will ever miss.’

‘Let me see.’ Kjell put on his reading glasses, which he’d pushed up on his forehead. ‘Gimle,’ he read aloud, frowning.

‘Yes. What does that mean? I’ve never come across the word before. Is it an abbreviation of some sort?’

Kjell shook his head. ‘Gimle is what comes after Ragnarök, the end of the world in Nordic mythology. A sort of heaven or paradise. It’s a well-known concept and frequently used in neo-Nazi circles. It’s also the name of a cultural association. They claim not to be affiliated with any political party, but I have my doubts on that score. They’re certainly popular with both the Friends of Sweden and the Danish People’s Party.’

‘And what do they do?’

‘According to their literature, their aim is to revive nationalistic feelings and a shared identity through reviving old Swedish traditions, folk dancing, ancient Swedish poetry, relics of antiquity, and so on. All of which fits in with the purported goal of the Friends of Sweden to promote Swedish traditions.’

‘So Gimle might also be a reference to that association?’ She pointed at the paper.

‘It’s impossible to tell. It could mean anything. And it’s hard to know what these numbers signify: 1920211851612114. And then it says: 5 08 1400.’

Erica shrugged. ‘I haven’t a clue. I thought they might have been scribbled down in a hurry, the way you do when you’re on the phone.’

‘Could be,’ said Kjell. He waved the paper in the air. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘Sure, go ahead. I’ll just use my mobile to take a picture, in case I suddenly get a flash of inspiration and crack the code.’

‘Good idea.’ He pushed the paper across to her, and she took a picture. Then she knelt down on the rug and began tidying up after the children.

‘Do you have any idea what you’re going to do with that?’

‘No, not really. I might start by exploring a few archives, see if I can come up with more information.’

‘So you think it’s more than a phone doodle?’ she said.

‘It could be. In any case, it’s worth checking out.’

‘Keep me posted, and I’ll let you know if I find anything new.’ She began ushering the kids towards the hall.

‘Of course. We’ll keep in touch,’ Kjell said, reaching for the phone.

It was so typical. If Gösta arrived late, there was hell to pay, while Patrik could be gone half the morning and nobody raised an eyebrow. Erica had phoned last night and told Gösta about her visits to Ove Linder and John Holm. Now he was impatiently awaiting Patrik’s arrival so they could go see Leon. Sighing at the unfairness of life, he returned to studying the list on his desk.

A second later the phone rang and he grabbed the receiver.

‘Hello. Flygare here.’

‘Gösta,’ said Annika. ‘Torbjörn’s on the phone. The results of the blood analysis have come in. He’s asking for Patrik, but would you mind taking the call?’

‘Of course.’

Gösta listened carefully as he made detailed notes, even though he knew that Torbjörn would fax over a copy of his report. But the official reports were usually written in such convoluted language, and it was easier to understand the information when Torbjörn explained it.

The moment Gösta put down the phone there was a knock on the open door to his office.

‘Annika said that Torbjörn rang. What did he say?’ Patrik sounded eager to hear the news, although his expression was glum.

‘Is something wrong?’ asked Gösta without answering the question.

Patrik dropped heavily on to a chair. ‘I went to check up on Martin.’

‘How’s he doing?’

‘He’ll be taking a leave of absence for a while. Three weeks, to start with. Then we’ll see.’

‘Why?’ Gösta felt his concern rise. Though he sometimes gave his young colleague a hard time, he liked Martin Molin. Everyone liked Martin.

When Patrik told him what he knew about Pia’s condition, Gösta swallowed hard. The poor guy. And their little girl was only a couple of years old, and now she was going to lose her mother. He swallowed again and turned away, blinking frantically. He couldn’t sit here in his office blubbering.

‘The best thing we can do is to keep working,’ Patrik concluded. ‘What did Torbjörn say?’

Gösta discreetly wiped his eyes and cleared his throat before turning to the notes he’d written down.

‘The crime lab confirmed that it’s human blood. But it’s so old that they were unable to get any DNA results that could be compared with Ebba’s. And it’s not clear whether the blood came from more than one individual.’

‘Okay. That’s pretty much as I expected. What about the bullet?’

‘Torbjörn sent it to a weapons specialist yesterday. They ran a quick analysis, but unfortunately it’s not a match for any bullets used in other crimes.’

‘Well, it was worth a try,’ said Patrik.

‘Sure. Apart from that they could only confirm that it’s a nine millimetre bullet.’

‘Nine millimetres? That doesn’t exactly tell us much about the type of gun that was used.’ Patrik slumped on his chair.

‘No, but Torbjörn said there were clear grooves on the bullet, so his expert is going to examine it more closely to see if he can determine the type of gun used. And if we find the gun, then the bullet can be matched up with it.’

‘But first there’s that small detail of finding the gun.’ He looked at Gösta. ‘How thoroughly did you search the house and surroundings?’

‘You mean in 1974?’

Patrik nodded.

‘We did the best we could,’ said Gösta. ‘We were short-staffed, but we went over the island with a fine-tooth comb. If someone had tossed a gun somewhere, we would have found it.’

‘Most likely it’s at the bottom of the sea,’ said Patrik.

‘You’re probably right. By the way, I’ve started phoning the former pupils from the school, but no results yet. Quite a few didn’t answer the phone, but that’s not too surprising, since it’s the summer holiday.’

‘It’s good that you’ve made a start, at least,’ said Patrik, running a hand through his hair. ‘Make a note if there’s anyone who might warrant further attention, and maybe we can go see them in person.’

‘They’re scattered all over Sweden,’ said Gösta. ‘It’s going to require a hell of a lot of driving if we try to speak to them one on one.’

‘Let’s discuss it again once we know how many people we’re talking about.’ Patrik got up and headed for the door. ‘How about we drop by Leon Kreutz’s house after lunch? We’re lucky that he lives so close.’

‘Sure. Hopefully we’ll learn more than we did from the interview yesterday. Josef was as taciturn as he was back in 1974.’

‘It was like getting blood from a stone. And that Sebastian was a slippery character,’ said Patrik as he left the room.

Gösta’s hand hovered over the phone, preparing to tap in another number. He hated talking on the phone, and if it hadn’t been for Ebba, he would have tried to get out of it. At least he wouldn’t have to do the whole list, since Erica had promised to do some of it.

‘Gösta? Come here a minute.’ Patrick’s voice interrupted him.

Out in the corridor stood Tobias Stark. He had a grim expression on his face, and he was holding a plastic bag containing what appeared to be a postcard.

‘Tobias has something to show us,’ said Patrik.

‘I put it in a bag as soon as I could,’ said Tobias. ‘But I did touch it, so I might have ruined any prints.’

‘You did the right thing,’ Patrik said, wanting to reassure him.

Gösta peered through the plastic at the card. It was a typical card showing a yellow kitten on the front. He opened it and read the brief message.

‘What the hell?’ he exclaimed.

‘Apparently “G” is starting to show his true colours,’ said Patrik. ‘This can only be interpreted as a threat.’