The Hidden Child

Chapter 13

A loud knock on the door interrupted his morning ritual. Each morning the same routine. First shower. Then shave. Then he’d make breakfast, consisting of two eggs, a slice of rye bread with butter and cheese, and a big cup of coffee. Always the same breakfast, which he would eat in front of the TV. Another knock on the door. Annoyed, Frans got up and went to open it.

‘Hi, Frans.’ His son was standing on the doorstep with that harsh look in his eye that had become so familiar.

Frans could no longer remember a time when everything had been different. But he had to accept what he couldn’t change, and this was one of those things. Only in his dreams would he feel that small hand holding his; a faint memory from a time long, long ago.

With a barely audible sigh he moved aside to let his son come in.

‘Hi, Kjell,’ he said. ‘What brings you here today to visit your old father?’

‘Erik Frankel,’ said Kjell coldly, glaring at his father as if expecting a particular reaction.

‘I’m in the middle of breakfast. Come on in.’

Kjell followed him into the living room, taking a good look around. He’d never been inside the flat before.

Frans didn’t bother to offer his son coffee. He knew in advance what his response would be.

‘So, what’s this about Erik Frankel?’

‘I suppose you know he’s dead.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Frans nodded. ‘Yes, I heard that old Erik was dead. It’s a shame.’

‘Is that your sincere opinion? That it’s a shame?’ Kjell stared at his father, and Frans knew full well what was in his mind. He hadn’t come over as a son but as a journalist.

Frans took his time before answering. There was so much roiling below the surface. So many memories. But these were things he would never tell his son. Kjell wouldn’t understand. He’d condemned his father long ago, and now they stood on opposite sides of a wall so high that it was impossible to peer over the top. Frans knew he was largely the one to blame. Kjell hadn’t seen much of his father, the old jailbird, when he was a child. His mother had brought him along to the prison a few times, but the sight of that little face, filled with questions, in the cold, inhospitable visitors’ room had made Frans harden his heart and forbid any more visits. He’d thought he was doing what was best for the boy. Maybe he’d been wrong, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

‘Yes, I’m sorry that Erik’s dead. We knew each other when we were young, and I have only good memories of Erik. Later we went our separate ways…’ Frans threw out his hands. He didn’t need to explain to Kjell. The two of them knew all there was to know about taking separate paths.

‘But that’s not true. According to my source, you had contact with Erik later on. And Sweden’s Friends have shown an interest in the Frankel brothers. You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?’ Kjell made a show of setting his notepad on the table, giving his father a defiant look as he put pen to paper.

Frans shrugged and waved his hand dismissively. He didn’t feel like playing this game any more. There was so much anger inside Kjell, and he could feel every ounce of it. It was the same all-consuming rage that had afflicted Frans ever since he could remember, landing him in trouble and destroying the things he held dear. His son had found a way to channel his anger, venting it upon politicians and leaders of industry in the newspaper column which bore his byline. Though they’d chosen opposite sides of the political spectrum, father and son had much in common. They shared the same capacity to hate, the same burning anger. That was what had made Frans feel so at home with the prison’s Nazi sympathizers during his first jail sentence. He’d understood the hatred that drove them. And they’d welcomed him because they viewed his anger as an asset, proof of his strength. Plus he was good at debating the issues – thanks to his father, who had schooled him in rhetoric. Belonging to the jail’s Nazi gang had given him status and power; by the time he left prison he’d grown into the role. It was no longer possible to differentiate him from his opinions. His politics defined him. He had a feeling that the same was true of Kjell.

‘Where were we?’ Kjell glanced down at his notepad, which was still blank. ‘Oh, right. Apparently you’ve been in contact with Erik.’

‘Only for the sake of our old friendship. Nothing significant. And nothing that could be linked to his death.’

‘So you say,’ replied Kjell, ‘but it’s up to others to determine whether it’s true or not. What sort of contact did you have? Did you threaten him?’

Frans snorted. ‘I don’t know where you got your information from, but I never threatened Erik Frankel. You’ve written enough about people who share my views to know that there are always a few… hotheads who can’t think rationally. All I did was to warn Erik about the risks.’

‘People who share your views,’ said Kjell with a scorn that verged on loathing. ‘You mean those lunatic throwbacks who think they can seal Sweden’s borders.’

‘Call them what you will,’ said Frans wearily. ‘But I didn’t threaten Erik Frankel. And now I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.’

For a brief moment it looked as if Kjell might refuse. Then he stood up, leaned over his father, and fixed his eyes on him.

‘You were no father to me, and I can live with that. But I swear if you drag my son any deeper into this than you’ve already done, I’ll…’ He clenched his hands into fists.

Frans glanced up at him, calmly meeting his gaze. ‘I haven’t dragged your son into anything. He’s old enough to think for himself. He makes his own choices.’

‘Same way you did?’ spat Kjell and then stormed out, as if he could no longer stand to be in the same room with his father.

Frans didn’t move, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. As he listened to the front door slam, he thought about fathers and sons. And about the choices that were made for them, whether they liked it or not.

‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ Paula directed her question at both Martin and Gösta as she added coffee to the coffee-maker. Her colleagues merely nodded gloomily. Neither of them was particularly fond of Monday mornings. Besides, Martin hadn’t slept well all weekend.

Lately he’d started lying awake at night, worrying about the baby that was due to arrive in a couple of months. Not about whether the child was wanted. Because it was. Very much so. But it had only just dawned on him what a huge responsibility he was taking on. He would have to protect, raise, and take care of a tiny life, this little person, on all possible levels. It was this that kept him awake at night, staring up at the ceiling, while Pia’s big belly rose and fell in time with her gentle breathing. What he saw in the future was bullying and guns and drugs and sexual abuse and sorrows and misfortunes. When he thought about it, there was no end to all the terrible things that might befall their child. And for the first time he wondered whether he was really up to the task. But it was a bit late to be worrying about that now. In a couple of months the baby would be here.

‘What a cheerful pair you are.’ Paula sat down and rested her arms on the table as she regarded Gösta and Martin with a smile.

‘It should be against the law to be so cheerful on a Monday morning,’ said Gösta, getting up to refill his coffee cup. The water hadn’t finishing running through yet, so when he pulled out the pot, coffee dribbled on to the hotplate. Gösta didn’t even notice as he set the pot back in place after filling his cup.

‘Gösta,’ said Paula sternly as he turned his back on the mess he’d made and sat down at the table again. ‘You can’t just leave it like that. You need to wipe up the coffee you spilled.’

Gösta cast a glance over his shoulder at the puddle of coffee he’d left on the counter. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said morosely, and went over to clean it up.

Martin laughed. ‘Good to see that somebody knows how to keep you in line.’

‘Oh, right, typical woman. They always have to be so damned finicky.’

Paula was about to say something scathing when they heard a sound out in the corridor. A sound that didn’t belong to the normal noises of the station. The merry prattling of a child.

Martin craned his neck, an eager look on his face. ‘That must be…’ he began. Before he could finish the sentence Patrik appeared in the doorway, holding Maja in his arms.

‘Hi, everybody!’

‘Hi!’ said Martin happily. ‘I see you just couldn’t stay away any longer.’

Patrik smiled. ‘Nope, the little lady and I thought we’d just stop by to see that you’re actually working. Right, sweetie?’ Maja gurgled happily, waving her arms about. Then she started squirming to show that she wanted to get down. Patrik complied, and she instantly set off on her wobbly legs, heading straight for Martin.

‘Hi, Maja. So you recognize your Uncle Martin, huh? Remember how we looked at the flowers together? You know what, Uncle Martin is going to go find a box of toys for you.’ He trotted off to get the box that they kept at the station for those occasions when someone came in with a child who needed to be kept busy for a while. Maja was overjoyed with the treasure chest that appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later.

‘Thanks, Martin,’ said Patrik. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. ‘So, how are things going?’ he asked, grimacing as he took his first sip. It had taken him only a week to forget how terrible station coffee was.

‘A bit slow,’ said Martin, ‘but we do have a number of leads.’ He told Patrik about the conversations they’d had with Frans Ringholm and Axel Frankel. Patrik nodded with interest.

‘And Gösta collected the fingerprints and shoe prints from one of the boys. We just need to get the same from the other boy and then we can eliminate their prints from the investigation.’

‘What did the boy say?’ asked Patrik. ‘Did they see anything of interest? Why did they decide to break into the house in the first place? Did you come up with any leads worth pursuing?’

‘No, I didn’t get anything useful out of the boy,’ said Gösta sullenly. He felt as if Patrik was questioning how he did his job, and he didn’t appreciate it. At the same time, Patrik’s questions had sparked something in his brain. Something was stirring there, something that he knew he ought to bring up to the surface. Or maybe it was just his imagination. Either way, it would only set Patrik off again if he mentioned it. ‘The only thing we’ve turned up that’s of real interest is the link to Sweden’s Friends. Erik Frankel doesn’t seem to have had any enemies, and we haven’t found any other possible motives.’

‘Have you checked his bank accounts? You might find something interesting there,’ said Patrik, thinking out loud.

Martin shook his head, annoyed that he hadn’t thought of doing that himself. ‘We’ll do that ASAP,’ he said. ‘And we also need to ask Axel whether Erik had a woman in his life. Or man, for that matter. Somebody he might have confided to. Another thing we need to do today is have a talk with the woman who cleaned house for Erik and Axel.’

‘Good,’ said Patrik, nodding. ‘Maybe then you’ll find out why she hasn’t cleaned their house all summer. Which would explain why Erik’s body wasn’t found earlier.’

Paula stood up. ‘I think I’m going to ring Axel right now and find out about any possible love interests Erik might have had.’ She left the room.

‘Do you have the letters that Frans sent to Erik?’ asked Patrik.

Martin got up. ‘I’ll go and get them, since I assume you’d like to have a look at them, right?’

Patrik shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘Well, since I’m here anyway…’

Martin laughed. ‘A leopard can’t change its spots. But aren’t you on paternity leave?’

‘Okay, okay, just wait until you’re in the same position. There are only a certain amount of hours you can spend in the sandbox. And Erica is working at home, so she’s only too happy if we stay out of her hair for a while.’

‘She knows your little expedition with Maja was heading for the police station?’ Martin’s eyes twinkled.

‘Well, maybe not, but I’m just dropping by for a moment. To see how you’re all holding up.’

‘Then I suppose I’d better fetch the letters, since you’re just dropping by.’

A few minutes later Martin returned with the five letters, which had now been inserted in plastic sleeves. Maja glanced up from her toy-box, stretching her hand out towards the papers Martin was holding, but he handed them to Patrik. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, these aren’t for you to play with.’ Maja responded with a slightly offended expression but then went back to exploring what was in the box on the floor.

Patrik placed the letters next to each other on the table. He read them in silence, deep furrows on his brow.

‘There’s nothing specific. He mostly just repeats the same things. Says that Erik should lie low because he can’t protect him any longer. And that there are forces within Sweden’s Friends that don’t think before they act.’ Patrik continued reading. ‘And here I get the impression that Erik has replied, because Frans writes:

‘I think what you say is wrong. You talk about consequences. About responsibility. I’m talking about burying the past. About looking forward. We have different opinions, different points of view, you and I. But our point of departure is the same. At the bottom is the same monster, lurking. Unlike you, I think it would be unwise to waken the old monster to life. Certain bones should remain untouched. I already gave you my opinion about what happened in my previous letter, and I won’t speak of it again. I recommend that you do the same. Right now I’ve chosen to act in a protective capacity, but if the situation changes, if the monster is brought out into the open, I may feel differently.’

Patrik looked up at Martin. ‘Did you ask Frans what he meant by this? What’s this “old monster” that he talks about?’

‘We haven’t had a chance to ask him yet. But we’ll be conducting several more interviews with him.’

Paula appeared in the doorway.

‘I’ve managed to discover a woman in Erik’s life. I did as Patrik suggested and phoned Axel. And he said that for the past four years Erik has had a “good friend”, as he put it, by the name of Viola Ellmander. And I’ve already talked to her. We can go see her this morning.’

‘That was fast work,’ said Patrik, giving Paula an appreciative smile.

‘Want to come along?’ asked Martin impulsively. But then he cast an eye at Maja, who was intently studying the eyes of a doll and added, ‘No, of course that wouldn’t work.’

‘Sure it would. You can leave her here with me,’ they heard Annika say from the doorway. She gave Patrik a hopeful look as she smiled at Maja, and was immediately rewarded with a smile in return. Since she had no children of her own, Annika was happy to have an opportunity to borrow one.

‘Hmm…’ said Patrik hesitantly. ‘Don’t you think I can handle it?’ asked Annika. She folded her arms, pretending to take offence.

‘It’s not that,’ said Patrik, still hesitant. But then his sense of curiosity won out and he nodded. ‘Okay, let’s do it. I’ll tag along for a while, so long as I’m back before lunch. But call me if you have any problems. And she needs to eat around ten thirty, and she still prefers mashed food, but I think I have a jar of meat sauce you can warm up in the microwave, and she usually gets tired after eating, but all you have to do is put her in the pushchair and wheel it around a bit, and don’t forget her dummy and she wants her teddy bear next to her when she sleeps and -’

‘Stop, stop,’ said Annika, holding up her hands with a laugh. ‘We’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll make sure she doesn’t starve to death in my care, and we’ll manage the nap too.’

‘Thanks, Annika,’ said Patrik, getting to his feet. Then he squatted down next to his daughter and stroked her blonde hair. ‘Pappa is leaving for a little while, but you’re going to stay here with Annika. Okay?’ Maja looked up at him, wide-eyed, for a moment but then shifted her attention back to pulling out the doll’s eyelashes. Slightly miffed, Patrik stood up and said, ‘Well, you can see how indispensable I am. Have a nice time.’

He gave Annika a hug and then went out to the garage. There was a surge of elation as he got behind the wheel of the police car while Martin climbed into the passenger seat next to him. Then Patrik backed the vehicle out of the garage and headed for Fjällbacka. It was all he could do to stop himself bursting into song.

Axel slowly replaced the receiver. Suddenly everything seemed so unreal. It was as if he was still lying in bed, dreaming. The house was so empty without Erik. They’d been careful about giving each other space, eating their meals at different times and keeping to their rooms in separate parts of the house, not wanting to intrude on each other’s privacy. Sometimes several days would pass without them even speaking to one another. But that shouldn’t be interpreted as meaning they weren’t close. They were. Or they had been, Axel corrected himself. Now a different kind of silence filled the house. A silence that was not the same as when Erik used to sit in the library, reading. Back then they’d always been able to break the silence by exchanging a few words, if they felt like it. This silence was all-encompassing and endless.

Erik had never brought Viola home with him. Nor had he ever spoken about her. The only contact Axel ever had with her was if he happened to answer the phone when she rang. These calls would usually be followed by Erik disappearing for a couple of days. He’d pack a small bag with just the essentials, say a brief goodbye, and leave. Occasionally Axel would feel jealous. He’d never been able to form a lasting romantic relationship. There had been women, of course, but they never stuck around for long. His fault, not theirs. Love couldn’t compete with his other, all-consuming passion. Over the years his work had become a demanding mistress that left no room for anything else. It was his life, his identity, his innermost core. He didn’t really know when that had happened. No, that was a lie – he did.

In the silent house, Axel sat down on the overstuffed chair next to the bureau in the hall. And for the first time since his brother died, he wept.

Erica was enjoying the silence in the house. She could even leave the door open to her workroom without being disturbed by any outside noise. She propped her feet up on the desk and thought about the conversation she’d had with Erik Frankel’s brother. It had opened some sort of floodgate for her, provoking a tremendous, insatiable curiosity about aspects of her mother’s life that she’d known nothing about, or even suspected. She sensed that Axel Frankel had told only a fraction of what he knew about her mother. But why was he holding back? What was there in Elsy’s background that he wanted to hide from her? Erica reached for the diaries and started reading from where she’d left off a couple of days ago. But they offered no clue as to what might have prompted that odd tone in Axel’s voice when he spoke of her mother.

Erica kept on reading, searching the pages for anything that might quell the uneasiness she was feeling. But it wasn’t until she reached the final pages of the third book that she found something that might have a plausible link to Axel.

All of a sudden she knew what to do. She swung her legs down from the desk, picked up the diaries and carefully slipped them into her handbag. After opening the front door to check on the temperature, she put on a light jacket and set off at a brisk pace.

She climbed the steep stairs to Badis, pausing at the top, sweating from exertion. The old restaurant looked deserted and abandoned now that the summer rush was over, but its popularity had been waning the past few years and even in the height of summer it was rarely busy. And yet it occupied a prime location on a hillside offering unobstructed views of the Fjällbacka archipelago. Sadly the building had fallen into disrepair over the years, and presumably it would require a major investment to make something of Badis.

The house she was looking for was located a bit beyond the restaurant, and she was hoping that the person she sought would be at home.

A pair of lively eyes looked at her when the door opened. ‘Yes?’ the woman said.

‘My name is Erica Falck.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m the daughter of Elsy Moström.’

Something glittered in Britta’s eyes. For a moment she just stood there, unmoving and without saying a word. Then she suddenly smiled and stepped aside.

‘Yes, of course. Elsy’s daughter. I can see it now. Come in.’

The house was bright and pleasant, and Erica’s inquisitive gaze took in the scores of photos – children and grandchildren, and maybe even a few great-grandchildren – that covered the walls. ‘How many children do you have, ma’am?’ she asked, studying the pictures.

‘Three daughters. And for God’s sake don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel so old. Not that I’m exactly young. But there’s no reason a person has to feel old. Age is just a number, after all.’

‘How true,’ said Erica with a laugh. She liked this old lady.

‘Come in and sit down,’ said Britta, touching Erica’s elbow lightly. After taking off her shoes and jacket, Erica followed her into the living room.

‘You have such a nice home.’

‘We’ve lived here for fifty-five years,’ said Britta. Her face looked gentle and sunny whenever she smiled. She sat down on the big sofa with the floral upholstery and patted the cushion next to her. ‘Sit here, so we can have a little chat. It’s so nice to meet you. Elsy and I… we spent a lot of time together when we were young.’

For a moment Erica thought she heard the same odd undertone in Britta’s voice that had crept into Axel’s when he talked of her mother, but the next second it was gone, and Britta was smiling her gentle smile again.

‘Well, I found a few things that my mother left behind when I was clearing out the attic and… well, they made me curious. I don’t really know much about my mother’s past. For instance, how did the two of you get to know each other?’

‘We were classmates, Elsy and I. We always sat next to each other from our very first day at school.’

‘And you were friends with Erik and Axel too?’

‘More with Erik than Axel. Erik’s brother was a few years older, and he probably thought us too childish. But he was a terribly handsome boy, that Axel.’

‘Yes, that’s what I heard,’ laughed Erica. ‘By the way, he’s still handsome.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with you, but don’t tell my husband,’ Britta whispered melodramatically.

‘I promise I won’t.’ Erica was warming more and more to her mother’s old friend. ‘What about Frans? From what I understand, Frans Ringholm was also part of your little group. Is that right?’

Britta stiffened. ‘Frans? Yes, well, Frans was also in our group.’

‘It sounds as though you weren’t too keen on Frans.’

‘Not keen on him? Oh, but I was. I was terribly in love with him. But the feeling wasn’t mutual. He only had eyes for… someone else.’

‘Oh? And who was that?’ asked Erica, even though she thought she knew the answer.

‘Your mother. He followed her around like a puppy. Not that it did any good. Elsy would never have fallen for someone like Frans. Only a silly goose like me would make that mistake, because all I cared about then was how a boy looked. And he was definitely attractive. In that slightly dangerous way that seems so enticing to teenage girls but terrifying when they get older.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Erica. ‘Dangerous men seem to be enticing even to older women.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Britta, looking out the window. ‘But, as luck would have it, I grew out of that phase. And grew out of liking Frans. He… he wasn’t the sort of man I wanted in my life. Not like my Herman.’

‘Aren’t you judging yourself a bit harshly? You don’t seem like a silly goose to me.’

‘No, not now. But I might as well admit it – until I met Herman and had my first child… No, I was not a nice girl.’

Britta’s candour surprised Erica. That was quite a harsh opinion she had of herself.

‘What about Erik? What was he like?’

Again Britta turned her gaze to the window. She seemed to be considering how to answer. Then her expression softened. ‘Erik was like a little old man even as a child. But I don’t mean that in a negative way. He just seemed old for his age. And sensible, in an adult sort of way. He was always thinking about things. And reading. His nose was always in some book or other. Frans used to tease him about that. But Erik was probably a bit odd because of who his brother was.’

‘I understand that Axel was very popular.’

‘Axel was a hero. And the person who admired him most was Erik. He worshipped the ground his brother walked on. In Erik’s eyes, Axel could do no wrong.’ Britta patted Erica’s leg and then stood up abruptly. ‘You know what? I’m going to put on some coffee. Elsy’s daughter. How nice. So very nice.’

Erica stayed where she was while Britta disappeared into the kitchen. She heard the clattering of china and trickling of water. Then not another sound. Erica waited calmly, sitting on the sofa and enjoying the view that stretched out in front of her. But after a few more minutes of silence, she started to smell something burning. ‘Britta?’ she called. ‘Is everything all right?’ No answer. She got up and went out to the kitchen to look for her hostess.

Britta was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space. One of the burners on the stove was glowing a fiery red. An empty coffee pot stood on it, and it had just started to smoke. Erica rushed over to pull the pot off the stove. ‘Damn!’ she cried as she burned her hand. To quell the pain, she stuck her hand under running water. Then she turned to Britta.

‘Britta?’ she said gently. The woman’s face had taken on such a vacant expression that for a moment Erica was afraid she must have suffered some sort of seizure. But then Britta turned to look at her.

‘To think that you finally came over to say hello to me, Elsy.’

Erica gave her a puzzled look. She said, ‘Britta, I’m Erica, Elsy’s daughter.’

The words didn’t seem to register with the old woman. ‘Oh, Elsy,’ she said, ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, to explain. But I just couldn’t…’

‘What couldn’t you explain? What did you want to talk to Elsy about?’ Erica sat down across from Britta, her heart racing. For the first time she felt as if she were on the verge of discovering whatever secret it was that Erik and Axel had tried to hide from her.

But Britta just looked at her in confusion. Resisting the urge to shake her, force her to say what had been on the tip of her tongue, Erica repeated the question: ‘What couldn’t you explain? Something about my mother? What is it?’

Britta waved her hand dismissively but then leaned forward across the table. In a voice that was almost a whisper she hissed: ‘Wanted to talk to you. But old bones. Must. Rest in peace. Will serve no purpose to… Erik said that… unknown soldier…’ Her voice faded into a murmur and she stared into space again.

‘What bones? What are you talking about? What did Erik say?’ Without being aware of it, Erica was raising her voice. In the silence of the kitchen it sounded almost like a shriek. Britta clasped her hands over her ears and began babbling something incoherent, the way children do when they don’t want to listen to someone scolding them.

‘What’s going on here? Who are you?’ An angry male voice behind Erica made her spin round. A tall man with grey hair encircling a bald pate had appeared in the doorway clutching two Konsum grocery bags. Erica realized he must be Herman. She stood up.

‘I’m sorry, I… My name is Erica Falck. Britta knew my mother when they were young, and I just wanted to ask her a few questions. It seemed harmless enough at first… but then… And she’d turned on the stove.’ Erica could hear that she wasn’t making any sense, but nothing about the situation seemed to make sense. Behind her, Britta’s childish babble continued unabated.

‘My wife has Alzheimer’s,’ said Herman, setting down the bags. Hearing the sorrow in his voice, Erica felt a pang of guilt. Alzheimer’s – she should have guessed, given the rapid shift between perfect clarity and utter confusion. She’d read somewhere that the brains of Alzheimer’s patients forced them into a kind of borderland where, in the end, only fog remained.

Herman went over to his wife and gently removed her hands from her ears. ‘Britta, dear. I just had to go out to do the shopping. I’m back now. Shhh, it’s all right, everything is fine.’ He rocked her in his arms, and gradually the babbling stopped. He looked up at Erica. ‘It’s best if you leave now. And I’d prefer it if you didn’t come back.’

‘But your wife mentioned something about… I need to know…’ Erica stumbled over her words, attempting to find the right thing to say, but Herman merely glared at her and said firmly:

‘Don’t come back.’

Feeling like an intruder, Erica slipped out of the house. Behind her she heard Herman speaking in a soothing tone to his wife. But in her head Britta’s confused words about old bones still echoed. What could she have meant?

The geraniums were unusually splendid this summer. Viola walked around, lovingly plucking the withered petals. Dead-heading was a necessity if she wanted them to stay beautiful. By now her geranium beds were quite impressive. Each year she took cuttings and carefully planted them in small pots. As soon they’d grown big enough she would transfer them to a larger pot. Her favourite was the Mårbacka geranium. Nothing could match its beauty. There was something about the combination of the gossamer pink blossoms and the slightly ungainly and straggly stems that moved her beyond words. But the rose pelargonium was lovely too.

There were lots of geranium afficionados out there. Since her son had initiated her into the splendours of the Internet, she’d become a member of three different geranium forums and subscribed to four newsletters. But she found the most joy in exchanging emails with Lasse Anrell. If there was anyone who loved geraniums more than she did, it was him. They’d been corresponding by email ever since she attended one of his lectures. She’d had many questions to ask him that evening and he’d signed a copy of his book on geraniums for her. They’d taken a liking to each other, and now she looked forward to the emails that regularly appeared in her inbox. Erik used to tease her about that, saying she must be having an affair with Lasse Anrell behind his back, and that all the talk about geraniums was just a code for more amorous activities. Eric had his own theory as to what each term might mean; ‘rose pelargonium’ had a particular fascination for him, and he’d taken to calling her Rose Pelargonium… Viola blushed at the thought, but the crimson quickly disappeared from her face to be replaced by tears. For the thousandth time in the past few days, she was confronted with the realization that Erik was gone.

The soil eagerly soaked up the water as she cautiously poured a little into each saucer. It was important not to over-water geraniums. The soil should dry out properly in between waterings. In many ways, that was an appropriate metaphor for the relationship that she’d had with Erik. They were like two plants whose soil had been parched when they’d met, and they were fearful of over-watering. Thus they continued to live apart, they maintained their separate lives and saw each other only when they both felt like getting together. Early on, they’d made a promise that their relationship would be a mutual exchange of tenderness, love, and good conversation. Whenever the spirit moved them. The trivialities of daily life would never be allowed to weigh it down.

Hearing the knock on the door, Viola set down the watering can and wiped the tears on the sleeve of her blouse. She took a deep breath, cast one last glance at her geraniums to give herself strength, and went to open the door.