The Hidden Child

Chapter 37

Nowadays Erica always paid more attention when she saw a police car, and she thought she saw Martin in the one that passed her just before Torp, as she drove towards Uddevalla for the second time that day. She wondered where Martin had been.

There really wasn’t any rush with the enquiries she was making, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to write in peace until she had followed up on the new information she’d been given. And she was curious to know why Kjell Ringholm, a journalist for Bohusläningen, was interested in the Norwegian resistance fighter.

Later, as she was waiting in the reception area at Bohusläningen, she pondered possible reasons for his interest but finally decided to stop speculating until she had the opportunity to ask him in person. A few minutes later she was escorted to his office. He looked up with a quizzical expression on his face as she came in and shook hands.

‘Erica Falck? The author? Is that right?’ he said, motioning her towards a visitor’s chair.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, draping her jacket over the back of the chair and sitting down.

‘Unfortunately, I haven’t read any of your books, but I’ve heard that they’re very good,’ he said politely. ‘Are you here in connection with research for a new book? I’m not a crime reporter, so I’m not sure how I can help you. Unless I’m mistaken, you write true-crime books.’

‘Actually, this has nothing to do with my books,’ replied Erica. ‘The thing is, for various reasons I’ve started researching my mother’s past. And she happened to be good friends with your father.’

Kjell frowned. ‘When was that?’ he asked, leaning forward.

‘From what I understand, they were friends as children and teenagers. I’ve mostly been concentrating on the late war years, when they were about fifteen.’

Kjell nodded and waited for her to go on.

‘They were part of a group of four teenagers who seem to have been as thick as thieves. In addition to your father, the group included Britta Johansson and Erik Frankel. And as you undoubtedly know, those two were both murdered within the last few months. Rather a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

Kjell still didn’t speak, but Erica saw how tense he was, and she noticed a glint in his eyes.

‘And…’ She paused. ‘There was one other person. In 1944 a Norwegian resistance fighter – he was really only a boy – came to Fjällbacka. He had stowed away on my grand-father’s boat and then became a lodger in my grandparents’ house. His name was Hans Olavsen. But you already know that, don’t you? Because I understand that you’re also interested in him, and I was wondering why.’

‘I’m a journalist. I can’t discuss that sort of thing,’ Kjell replied evasively.

‘Wrong. You can’t reveal your sources,’ said Erica calmly. ‘But I don’t see why we can’t join forces to work on this matter. I’m very good at ferreting out things, and I know you are too, since you’re a journalist. We’re both interested in Hans Olavsen. I can live with the fact that you don’t want to tell me why. But we could at least exchange information – what we already know and what we find out later on our own. What do you think?’ She fell silent and waited, in suspense.

Kjell considered what she’d just said. He drummed his fingers on the desk as he weighed the pros and cons.

‘Okay,’ he said at last, reaching for something in the top desk drawer. ‘There’s really no reason why we can’t help each other out. And my source is dead, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t show you everything. Here’s what I know. I came into contact with Erik Frankel because of a… private matter.’ He cleared his throat and slid the folder towards her. ‘He said that there was something he wanted to tell me, something that I might find useful and that ought to come out.’

‘Is that how he phrased it?’ Erica leaned forward and picked up the folder. ‘That it was something that ought to come out?’

‘Yes, as far as I recall,’ said Kjell, leaning back in his chair. ‘He called on me here a few days later. He brought along the articles in that folder and just handed them to me. But he wouldn’t tell me why. I asked him a lot of questions, of course, but he refused to answer any of them. He just said that if I was as good at digging up things as he’d heard, then what was in the folder should be sufficient.’

Erica leafed through the pages inside the plastic folder. They were the same articles that she’d already got from Christian, the articles from the archives mentioning Hans Olavsen and the time he’d spent in Fjällbacka. ‘Is this all?’ she asked, sighing.

‘That was my reaction too. If he knew something, why couldn’t he just come out and tell me? But for some reason he thought it was important that I should find out the rest on my own. So that’s what I’ve started to do, and I’d be lying if I said that my interest hadn’t gone up a thousand per cent since Erik Frankel was found murdered. I’ve been wondering if his death has anything to do with this.’ He pointed at the folder that was resting on Erica’s lap. ‘And of course I’ve heard about the elderly woman who was murdered last week. But I have no idea if there’s any connection… though it does raise a number of questions.’

‘Have you found out anything more about the Norwegian?’ asked Erica eagerly. ‘I haven’t got that far yet in my own research. The only thing I know is that he and my mother had a love affair, and that he seems to have left her behind in Fjällbacka rather suddenly. I thought my next step would be to try to locate him, find out where he went, if he really did return to Norway or go somewhere else. But maybe you already know?’

Kjell shook his head. He told Erica about his conversation with Eskil Halvorsen, the Norwegian academic who couldn’t recall Hans Olavsen off the top of his head but had promised to do some further research.

‘It’s also possible that Hans stayed in Sweden,’ said Erica pensively. ‘If so, we should be able to trace him through the Swedish authorities. I can probably check that out. But if he disappeared somewhere abroad, that would be a problem.’

Kjell took back the folder. ‘That’s a good idea. There’s no reason to assume that he returned to Norway. A lot of people stayed in Sweden after the war.’

‘Did you send a picture to Eskil Halvorsen?’ asked Erica.

‘No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t,’ said Kjell, leafing through the articles. ‘But you’re right – I should do that. The smallest detail could prove helpful. I’ll phone him as soon as you leave and see if I can send him one of these pictures. Or, even better, I could fax it to him. What about this one? It’s the clearest. What do you think?’ He slid across the desk the article with the group photo that Erica had studied a few days earlier.

‘I agree. That would be good. Plus it shows the whole group. That’s my mother there.’ She pointed at Elsy.

‘So you say that they spent a lot of time together back then?’ Kjell cursed himself for not making the connection between the Britta in the photograph and the Britta who was murdered. But he told himself that most people would have missed the link. It was hard to see any similarity between the fifteen-year-old girl and the seventy-five-year-old woman whose picture had been in the papers.

‘Yes, from what I understand, they were a close-knit group, even though their friendship wasn’t entirely accepted back then. There was such a divide between the classes in Fjällbacka, and Britta and my mother belonged to the poorer social echelon, while the boys, Erik Frankel and, well… your father, belonged to the “upper crust”.’ Erica used her fingers to draw quote marks in the air.

‘Oh, right, very upper crust,’ Kjell muttered, and Erica sensed that there was a lot of hostility concealed below the surface of his words.

‘You know, I hadn’t thought about talking to Axel Frankel,’ said Erica excitedly. ‘He might know something about Hans Olavsen. Even though he’s a bit older, he must have been around, and he might…’ Her thoughts and expectations took off, but Kjell held up his hand to stop her.

‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I had the same idea, but luckily I did some research about Axel Frankel first. I suppose you know that he was captured by the Germans while on a trip to Norway?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know much about it,’ said Erica, looking at Kjell with interest. ‘So if you’ve found out anything…’ She threw out her hands and waited.

‘Well, as I said, Axel was taken prisoner by the Germans when he took delivery of some documents from the resistance movement. He was taken to Grini prison outside of Oslo, and he was held there until the beginning of 1945. Then the Germans shipped him and a lot of other prisoners to Germany. Axel first ended up in Sachsenhausen, which was where many of the Nordic prisoners were taken, and then, towards the end of the war, he was taken to Neuengamme.’

Erica gasped. ‘I had no idea. So Axel Frankel was in concentration camps in Germany? I didn’t know that any Norwegians or Swedes ended up there.’

Kjell nodded. ‘Mostly Norwegian prisoners. And some from other countries who fell foul of a decree issued by Hitler in 1941, which stated that civilians in occupied territories who were caught participating in resistance activities against the Germans could not be tried and sentenced by a court in their homeland. Instead, they were to be sent to Germany, where they would disappear into the Nacht und Nebel – “night and fog”. Hence they were known as NN prisoners. Some were executed. The rest were sentenced to forced labour and worked to death in the camps. At any rate, Axel Frankel was in Germany, not Fjällbacka, during the period Hans Olavsen was there.’

‘But we don’t know the exact date the Norwegian left Fjällbacka,’ said Erica, frowning. ‘At least, I haven’t found any information about that. I have no idea when he left my mother.’

‘Ah, but I do know when Hans Olavsen left town,’ said Kjell triumphantly, and he rummaged through the papers on his desk. ‘Approximately, at least,’ he added. ‘Here -’ He pulled out an article and placed it in front of Erica, pointing to a passage in the middle of the page.

Erica leaned forward and read aloud: ‘This year the Fjällbacka Association organized with great success -’

‘No, no, the next column,’ said Kjell, pointing again.

‘Oh, okay.’ Erica started over. ‘It surprised one and all to learn that the Norwegian resistance fighter who found refuge with us here in Fjällbacka has abruptly left us. Many residents of Fjällbacka regret that they were not able to say goodbye and thank him for his efforts during the war, which we have now seen come to an end.’ She glanced at the date at the top of the page and then looked up. ‘Nineteenth of June 1945.’

‘So he disappeared right after the war ended, if I’m interpreting this correctly,’ said Kjell, taking back the article and placing it on top of the pile.

‘But why?’ Erica tilted her head as she pondered what she’d read. ‘I still think it might be an idea to talk to Axel. His brother may have told him something. I’ll give it a shot. You wouldn’t by any chance be willing to talk to your father, would you?’

Kjell was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Of course. And I’ll let you know if I hear anything from Halvorsen. Be sure to get in touch with me if you find out anything, okay?’ He raised an admonitory finger. He wasn’t used to working collaboratively, but in this case he apparently saw an advantage in having Erica’s assistance.

‘I’ll check with the Swedish authorities too,’ said Erica, getting up. ‘And I promise to let you know the minute I hear anything.’ She started to put on her jacket but stopped suddenly.

‘By the way, Kjell, there’s one other thing. I don’t know if it’s important, but…’

‘Tell me. Anything could be valuable at this point,’ he said, looking up at her.

‘Well, I talked with Britta’s husband, Herman. He seems to know something about all of this. Or at least, I’m not positive, but I got that feeling. Anyway, when I asked him about Hans Olavsen he reacted really strangely. He told me that I should ask Paul Heckel and Friedrich Hück. And I’ve tried to check up on the names, but couldn’t find anything. But…’

‘Yes?’ said Kjell.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I could swear that I’ve never met either of them, yet there’s something familiar…’

Kjell tapped his pen on the desk. ‘Paul Heckel and Friedrich Hück?’ When Erica nodded, he wrote down the names. ‘Okay, I’ll check on them too. But the names don’t ring a bell.’

‘Looks as if we both have something to do now,’ said Erica, smiling as she paused in the doorway. ‘I feel much better knowing that there are two of us working on this.’

‘That’s good,’ said Kjell, sounding distracted.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Erica.

‘All right,’ said Kjell, picking up the phone without looking at her as she left his office. He was eager to get to the bottom of this. His journalist’s nose had picked up the unmistakable scent of rat.

‘Shall we go sit down and review everything?’ It was Monday afternoon, and calm had descended over the station.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Should I take that as a no?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now Martin and Gösta were openly gawping at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course she’d thought about having a baby with Dan. But not now, not yet. Sometime in the far distant future. After things had calmed down, stabilized. Still, now that it had happened, it hadn’t crossed her mind even for one moment to terminate the pregnancy. The connection was already there. The invisible, fragile, and yet strong connection between her and what was not yet visible to the naked eye. She took a deep breath and exited the bathroom. By now the loud voices had moved downstairs to the hallway.

‘I’m going over to Linda’s. Why is that so fucking difficult to understand! I have my friends, you know. Or are you going to forbid me to see my friends too?’

Anna could sense that Dan was about to launch into a scathing reply, and in that moment her patience ran out. Steaming with fury, she strode out to the hall and bellowed: ‘It’s time for the two of you to SHUT UP! Do you understand? You’re both acting like children, and it’s going to STOP! RIGHT NOW!’ She held up her finger and went on before either of them could interrupt. ‘You, Dan, need to bloody well stop yelling at Belinda. You know you can’t just lock her up and throw away the key! She’s seventeen years old, and she needs to see her friends!’

Belinda’s face lit up with a delighted smile, but Anna wasn’t finished.

‘And you, young lady, need to stop behaving like a brat and start acting like a grown-up, if you want to be treated like one! I don’t want to hear any more rubbish about me and the kids living here, because we’re staying whether you like it or not, and we’d be happy to get to know you if you’d just give us a chance!’

Anna paused to catch her breath and then continued in a tone that made Dan and Belinda stand up straight like tin soldiers, out of sheer fright. ‘And just so you know, we’re not going anywhere, if that’s your plan, because your father and I are having a baby, so my children and you and your sisters are going to be connected by a half-brother or -sister. And I’d really like all of us to be friends, but I can’t do it alone. We need to help each other! In any case, the baby will be here in the spring, whether you choose to accept me or not, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with all this crap until then!’ Anna burst into tears, as the other two stood frozen in place. Then Belinda started sobbing. She stared at Dan and Anna for a moment before she dashed out the front door, which closed behind her with a bang.

‘Anna, darling, was that really necessary?’ said Dan wearily. Emma and Adrian had also witnessed the confrontation and were standing in the hall, staring at them in bewilderment.

‘Oh, go to hell,’ said Anna, grabbing her jacket. For a second time the front door closed with a bang.

‘Hi, where have you been?’ Patrik met Erica at the door, giving her a kiss on the lips. Maja wanted a kiss from her too and came toddling over, holding out her arms.

‘I’ve had two very interesting conversations, I can tell you that much,’ said Erica, hanging up her jacket and going with Patrik into the living room.

‘Oh, really? About what?’ he asked. He sat down on the floor and went on with what he and Maja had been doing when they heard Erica come in. They were building the world’s tallest tower out of blocks.

‘I thought Maja was supposed to be the one learning to use building blocks,’ laughed Erica, sitting down next to them. She watched with amusement as her husband, with great concentration, attempted to place a red block on top of the tower that was now taller than Maja.

‘Shh…,’ said Patrik, sticking out his tongue as he steadied his hand to put the block on top of the rather rickety construction.

‘Maja, can you give Mamma the yellow block?’ Erica whispered to her daughter, pointing at a block at the very bottom. Maja’s face lit up at the thought of doing her mother a favour. She leaned down and swiftly pulled out the block, causing Patrik’s carefully stacked structure to collapse.

Patrik sat there, holding the red block in the air. ‘Thanks a lot,’ he sulked, glaring at Erica. ‘Do you have any idea what skill it takes to build a tower that tall? What a steady hand it requires?’

‘I see somebody is finally starting to understand what I’ve been saying for the past year about feeling understimulated,’ laughed Erica as she leaned forward to kiss her husband.

‘Hmmm, well, yes. I get it,’ he said, kissing her back with a flick of his tongue. Erica returned the invitation, and what had started out as a kiss developed into some light groping, which didn’t stop until Maja, with perfect aim, threw a block at her father’s head.

‘Ow!’ He put his hand to his head, and then raised his finger to warn Maja. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? Throwing blocks at Pappa just when he has a chance to do a little groping with Mamma?’

‘Patrik!’ Erica slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Is it really necessary to teach our daughter the word “grope” at her age?’

‘If she wants a little brother or sister, she’ll just have to put up with the sight of her mother and father groping,’ he said, and Erica saw that he had that gleam in his eye.

She stood up. ‘I think we’ll wait for a while with the little brother or sister. But I guess we could get in some practice tonight…’ She winked and went out to the kitchen. They had finally managed to resume that part of their life together. It was unbelievable what a negative effect the arrival of a baby could have on a couple’s sex life, but after a rather lean year in that respect, things had begun to improve. Although after spending a whole year at home, she couldn’t yet imagine doing anything about a sibling for Maja. She felt as if she needed to settle into being a grownup again before she could contemplate a return to the world of babies.

‘So what were these interesting conversations you had today?’ asked Patrik, following her out to the kitchen.

Erica told him about her two excursions to Uddevalla and what she’d found out.

‘But you don’t recognize those names?’ asked Patrik, frowning after she told him what Herman had said.

‘Well, that’s the strange thing. I can’t remember ever hearing them before, and yet there’s something… I don’t know. Paul Heckel and Friedrich Hück. Somehow they sound familiar.’

‘So you and Kjell Ringholm are going to join forces to track down this… Hans Olavsen?’ Patrik looked sceptical, and Erica could tell what he was getting at.

‘Okay, I know it’s a long shot. I have no idea what role Hans might have played, but something tells me it’s important. And even if this has nothing to do with the murders, he seems to have meant something to my mother, and that was how I got started on all this in the first place. I wanted to find out more about her.’

‘Well, just be careful.’ Patrik put a saucepan of water on the stove. ‘Would you like some tea, by the way?’

‘Yes please.’ Erica sat down at the kitchen table. ‘What do you mean “be careful”?’

‘According to what I’ve heard, Kjell is a very slick journalist, so just watch out that he doesn’t exploit you.’

‘I don’t see how he could. The worst that could happen is that he might take the information I dig up and not give me any in return. And I’m willing to take that risk. But I actually don’t think he’d do something like that. We agreed that I would talk to Axel Frankel about the Norwegian and also check whether he’s listed in any official Swedish records. And Kjell is going to talk to his father. Although he wasn’t exactly thrilled about the prospect.’

‘No, those two don’t seem to get along very well,’ said Patrik, pouring boiling water into two cups, each supplied with a teabag. ‘I’ve read a number of articles that Kjell wrote where he really let his father have it.’

‘Sounds like it’ll be an interesting conversation, then,’ said Erica, taking the cup that Patrik handed her. She looked at him as she sipped the hot tea. They could hear Maja prattling with some imaginary playmate out in the living room. She was probably talking to the doll, which she’d refused to let out of her sight the past few days.

‘How does it feel not to be part of the work they’re doing at the station right now?’ she asked.

‘I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t difficult. But I realize what an opportunity this is to stay home with Maja, and my job will still be there when I go back. That’s not to say that I hope there will be more murder investigations, but, well… you know what I mean.’

‘And how is Karin doing?’ asked Erica, trying to keep her tone of voice as neutral as possible.

Patrik paused a second before answering. Then he said, ‘I don’t know. She seems so… sad. I don’t think things have turned out the way she imagined, and now she’s stuck in a situation that… no, I don’t really know. I feel a little sorry for her.’

‘Does she regret leaving you?’ asked Erica, and then waited tensely for his reply. They hadn’t ever talked about his marriage to Karin, and the few times that she had asked about it, he had given her curt, one-word answers.

‘No, I don’t think so. Or rather… I don’t know. I think she regrets doing what she did, and that I caught them in the act the way I did.’ He gave a bitter laugh as he pictured the scene he’d put out of his mind for so long. ‘But I don’t know… I realize now that she did what she did largely because the two of us just weren’t getting along.’

‘But do you think she’s forgotten about that?’ asked Erica. ‘Sometimes we have a tendency to only remember the good stuff.’

‘True, but I think she does remember how things really were. Of course she does,’ said Patrik, although he sounded a bit doubtful. Eager to drop the subject, he asked: ‘So what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?’

Erica knew exactly what he was up to, but she let it go. ‘I was thinking of having a little chat with Axel. And I’ll make a few calls to the civil registry and tax authorities, see if I can dig up anything about Hans.’

‘Wait a minute, don’t you have a book to write too?’ Patrik laughed, although he still sounded nervous.

‘There’s plenty of time for that, especially since I’ve already done most of the research. And I’m going to have a hard time concentrating on my book until I get this out of my system, so just let me…’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Patrik, holding up his hands. ‘You’re a big girl, and you know how to organize your time. Maja and I will take care of our own schedule, and you can take care of yours.’ He got up, kissing Erica on the top of the head as he walked past.

‘I’ve got to go and build a new masterpiece. I was thinking of a model of the Taj Mahal, built to scale.’

Erica shook her head, laughing. Sometimes she wondered if the man she’d married was completely sane. Probably not, she decided.

Anna spotted her from some distance away. A short, solitary figure at the far end of the floating docks. She hadn’t intended to go looking for her. But as soon as she came down the slope of Galärbacken and saw Belinda, she knew that she would have to go out and talk to the girl.

Belinda didn’t hear her approach. She was sitting on the dock, smoking, a packet of Gula Blend and a book of matches next to her.

‘Hi,’ said Anna.

Belinda flinched. She glanced at the cigarette in her hand and for a second seemed to consider hiding it somehow, but then she defiantly stuck it in her mouth and inhaled deeply.

‘Could I have one?’ asked Anna, sitting down next to Belinda.

‘You smoke?’ asked Belinda in surprise, but she handed over the pack.

‘I used to. For five years. But my… former husband… He didn’t like it.’ That was a slight understatement. One time, in the beginning, when Lucas found her smoking a cigarette in secret, he’d put it out on the crook of her arm. She still had a faint scar from that incident.

‘You won’t tell Pappa, will you?’ said Belinda sullenly, waving her cigarette. But then she added a subdued: ‘Please?’

‘If you won’t tell on me, I won’t tell on you,’ said Anna, closing her eyes as she took the first drag.

‘Should you really be smoking? I mean because of the… baby?’ said Belinda, suddenly sounding like an indignant old lady.

Anna laughed. ‘This is going to be the first and last cigarette I smoke while I’m pregnant. I promise.’

They sat in silence for a while, blowing smoke rings out over the water. The summer heat had vanished completely, replaced by a raw September chill. But at least there was no wind, and the calm, glittering surface of the water stretched out before them. The harbour looked deserted, with only a few boats in the marina – not like in the summer when they were lined up several rows deep.

‘It’s not easy, is it?’ said Anna, looking at the water.

‘What?’ asked Belinda, sounding surly and still uncertain what attitude to adopt.

‘Being a kid. Although you’re almost grown-up now.’

‘You don’t know anything about it,’ replied Belinda, tossing a pebble into the water.

‘No, you’re right, I was born the age that I am now,’ laughed Anna, giving Belinda a poke in the side to show she was teasing. She was rewarded with a tiny smile that disappeared instantly. Anna didn’t say anything else. She wanted to allow Belinda to determine the pace of their conversation. Neither of them spoke for several minutes until, out of the corner of her eye, Anna noticed Belinda cautiously peering at her.

‘Do you feel really sick?’

Anna nodded. ‘Like a seasick polecat.’

‘Why would a polecat get seasick?’ asked Belinda, giggling.

‘Why not? Can you prove that a polecat never gets seasick? If so, I’d like to see the evidence. Because that’s exactly how I feel. Like a seasick polecat.’

‘Oh, you’re just pulling my leg,’ said Belinda, but she couldn’t help laughing.

‘Joking aside, I feel really fat.’

‘Mamma felt like shit when she was pregnant with Lisen. I was old enough then to remember it. She was… Oh, sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t talk about when Mamma and Pappa…’ She fell silent, embarrassed. She reached for another cigarette and cupped her hands around it to light up.

‘You know, you’re more than welcome to talk about your mother. Whenever you like. I have no problem with the fact that Dan had a life before he met me – he had the three of you in that life, after all. With your mother. Honestly, you needn’t feel like you’re betraying your father just because you love your mother. And I promise that I won’t be offended if you talk about Pernilla. Not at all.’ Anna placed her hand over Belinda’s hand lying on the dock. At first Belinda seemed about to pull away, but then she left her hand where it was. After a few seconds Anna took her hand away, and she too reached for another cigarette. She was going to have to have two cancer-sticks during this pregnancy. But then she would stop. Cold turkey.

‘I’m really good at helping out with babies,’ said Belinda, meeting Anna’s eye. ‘I helped my mother a lot with Lisen when she was little.’

‘Dan has actually told me about that. About how he and your mother practically had to force you to go out and play with your friends instead of taking care of the baby. And he said you were really good at it. So I’m hoping that I can count on a little assistance in the spring. You can take care of all the nappies.’ Again she poked Belinda in the side, and this time the girl poked her back.

With a smile lighting up her eyes, she said, ‘I’ll only take care of the nappies that have pee on them. Deal?’ Belinda held out her hand, and Anna shook it.

‘Deal. The pee nappies are yours.’ Then she added, ‘Your father can take care of the shitty ones.’

Their laughter echoed through the deserted harbour.

Anna would always remember that moment as one of the best in her life. That moment when the ice thawed.

Axel was in the middle of packing when she arrived. He met her at the door, holding a shirt on a hanger in each hand. Behind him, she could see a garment bag hanging on a door in the hall.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ asked Erica.

Axel nodded as he carefully hung up the shirts so they wouldn’t wrinkle.

‘Yes, I need to get back to work soon. I’m leaving for Paris on Friday.’

‘Can you really leave without finding out who…’ She let the words hover in mid-air.

‘I don’t have a choice,’ said Axel grimly. ‘Of course I’ll catch the first plane home if the police need my assistance in any way. But I really need to get back to my work. And it’s not very constructive just to sit here brooding.’ He rubbed his eyes wearily, and Erica noticed how haggard he was starting to look. He seemed to have aged several years since she last saw him.

‘It’ll probably do you good to get away for a while,’ she said gently. Then she hesitated. ‘I have a few questions, several things that I’d like to talk to you about. Could I have a few minutes of your time? If you’re up to it?’

Axel nodded, looking tired and resigned, then motioned for her to come inside. She stopped at the sofa on the veranda, where they’d sat before, but this time he continued on past her, into the next room.

‘What a beautiful room,’ she said breathlessly, looking around. It was like stepping into a museum of a bygone era. Everything in the room dated from the forties, and even though it looked clean and tidy, the room seemed to smell old.

‘Yes, well, neither our parents nor Erik and I had much interest in new-fangled things. Mother and Father never made any major changes to the house, and Erik and I didn’t either. Besides, that was a period filled with many beautiful things, so I see no reason to replace the furniture with more modern pieces, which I think are much uglier,’ he said, running his hand over an elegant tallboy.

They sat down on a sofa with brown upholstery. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, and it forced them to sit up nice and straight.

‘You wanted to ask me something?’ said Axel kindly, but with a trace of impatience.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Erica, suddenly feeling embarrassed. This was the second time she’d come here and bothered Axel with her questions, when he had so many other things to worry about. But as before, she decided that, since she was here, she might as well find out what she wanted to know.

‘I’ve been doing some research into my mother’s life, and also about her friends: your brother, Frans Ringholm, and Britta Johansson.’

Axel nodded, twiddling his thumbs as he waited for her to go on.

‘There was one other person who was part of that group.’

Axel still didn’t speak.

‘Towards the end of the war, a Norwegian resistance fighter came here on my grandfather’s boat… The same boat that I know you often travelled on.’

He looked at her without blinking, but she saw him tense up when she mentioned the trips that he’d made, crossing to the Norwegian side.

‘He was a good man, your grandfather,’ said Axel quietly after a moment. His hands now lay still on his lap. ‘One of the best I’ve ever known.’

Erica had never met her maternal grandfather, and it warmed her heart to hear him described so positively.

‘From what I understand, you were in prison at the time when Hans Olavsen stowed away on my grandfather’s boat. He arrived here in 1944, and according to what we’ve found out so far, he stayed until right after the war ended.’

‘You said “we”,’ Axel interrupted her. ‘Who do you mean by “we”?’ His voice sounded tense.

Erica hesitated. Then she merely said, ‘By “we” I mean that I’ve had help from Christian at the library here in Fjällbacka. That’s all.’ She didn’t want to mention Kjell, and Axel seemed to accept her explanation.

‘Yes, I was in prison back then,’ he said, tensing up again. It was as if all the muscles in his body were suddenly reminded of what they had endured and reacted by tightening up.

‘So you never met him?’

Axel shook his head. ‘No, he was already gone by the time I returned.’

‘When did you come back to Fjällbacka?’

‘In June of 1945. With the white buses.’

‘White buses?’ asked Erica, but then she recalled hearing something about them in her history classes.

‘It was a plan initiated by Folke Bernadotte,’ replied Axel, confirming what she vaguely recalled. ‘He organized the transport to bring home Scandinavian prisoners who’d been in German concentration camps. The buses were white with red crosses painted on the roof and sides, so that they wouldn’t be mistaken for military targets.’

‘But why would there be a risk that they’d be mistaken for military targets if they were carrying prisoners after the war ended?’ asked Erica.

Axel smiled at her ignorance and began twiddling his thumbs again. ‘The first buses went to pick up prisoners as early as March and April of 1945, after negotiating with the Germans. They brought home fifteen thousand prisoners that time around. Then, after the war ended, they brought home another ten thousand in May and June. I was on one of the last buses in June 1945.’ It all sounded very matter-of-fact as he explained what happened, but under the reserved tone of voice Erica could hear echoes of the horrors he had experienced.

‘And Hans Olavsen disappeared from here in June 1945. Which means he must have left shortly before you arrived. Is that right?’ she asked.

‘It was probably only a gap of a few days,’ Axel replied, nodding. ‘But you’ll have to forgive me if my memory is a bit muddled on that point. I was extremely… exhausted when I came back.’

‘Of course. I understand,’ said Erica, looking down. It was a strange feeling to be talking to someone who had seen the German concentration camps from the inside.

‘Did your brother tell you anything about Hans? Anything you remember? Anything at all? I have the feeling that Erik and his friends spent a lot of time with Hans Olavsen during the year he was here in Fjällbacka.’

Axel stared out the window, apparently searching his memory. He tilted his head to one side and frowned.

‘I recall there was something between the Norwegian and your mother, if you won’t be offended by me saying so.’

‘Not at all.’ Erica waved her hand dismissively. ‘That was a whole lifetime ago, and I found out the same thing myself.’

‘How about that? I guess my memory isn’t as bad as I sometimes think it is.’ He smiled and turned back to look at her. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure that Erik told me there was some sort of romance between Elsy and Hans.’

‘How did she react when he left? Do you remember anything about her from that time?’

‘Not much, I’m afraid. Of course she wasn’t really herself after what happened to your grandfather. And she left very soon afterwards to start studying… home economics, if I remember rightly. And then we lost contact with each other. By the time she returned to Fjällbacka a few years later, I had already begun working abroad and I wasn’t home very often. She and Erik didn’t have any contact either, from what I remember. That’s not so unusual. People can be good friends as children and adolescents, but later, when adult life and its responsibilities set in, they tend to lose touch.’ He turned to look out the window again.

‘I know what you mean,’ said Erica. She was disappointed that Axel didn’t seem to have any information about Hans either. ‘And no one ever mentioned where Hans had gone? He didn’t tell Erik?’

Axel shook his head apologetically. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I wish I could help you, but I wasn’t really myself when I came back, and afterwards I had other things on my mind. But surely it must be possible to track him down through the authorities,’ he said encouragingly, getting to his feet.

Taking the hint, Erica got up too. ‘Yes, that’s my next step. If I’m lucky, that might solve everything. For all I know, he might not have moved very far away.’

‘Well, I wish you the best of luck,’ said Axel, shaking her hand. ‘I know how important it is to find out about the past so that we can live in the present. Believe me, I know.’ He patted her hand, and Erica smiled gratefully at his attempt to console her.

‘Have you found out anything more about the medal, by the way?’ he asked as she was just about to open the front door.

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she told him, feeling more discouraged with each passing minute. ‘I talked to an expert on Nazi medals in Göteborg, but unfortunately the medal is too common to be traced.’

‘I’m really sorry that I couldn’t be of more help.’

‘That’s okay. It was a long shot,’ she said, waving goodbye.

The last she saw of Axel, he was standing in the doorway, watching her leave. She felt very, very sorry for him. But something he’d said had given her an idea. Filled with determination, Erica headed back towards Fjällbacka.

Kjell hesitated before knocking. As he stood there at his father’s door, he suddenly felt like a frightened little boy again. The memory transported him back to all those times he’d stood outside the prison gates clutching his mother’s hand, his stomach gripped by equal parts fear and anticipation at the thought of seeing his father. Because, in the beginning, he had looked forward to the visits. He had missed Frans and longed to see him again, remembering only the good times: those brief periods when his father wasn’t in prison, when he would swing Kjell through the air, or take him for walks in the woods, holding him by the hand and telling him all about the mushrooms and trees and bushes. Kjell had thought that his father knew about everything in the world. But at night he had needed to press his pillow over his ears to shut out the sounds of quarrelling, those hateful, horrid fights that never seemed to have a beginning or end. His mother and father would simply start up from where they’d left off the last time Frans had disappeared into prison, and they would keep on like that – the same arguments, the same physical abuse, over and over again – until the next time the police came and led his father away.

For that reason, Kjell’s sense of anticipation dwindled with each year that passed, until he felt only fear as he stood in the visitors’ room and saw his father’s expectant face. And later the fear was transformed into hatred. In some ways it would have been easier if he didn’t have memories of those walks in the woods. Because what sparked his hatred and gave it fuel was the question that he had constantly asked himself as a child. How could his father, time after time, make the same choice to exclude everything? To exclude him? Abandoning him for a world that was grey and cold and that stripped away something in his eyes every time he had to go back.

Kjell pounded on the door, annoyed with himself for succumbing to his memories.

‘I know you’re in there! Open up!’ he shouted and then listened tensely. Finally he heard the safety chain being lifted off and the bolt pulled back.

‘Security against your pals, I assume,’ snapped Kjell, forcing his way past Frans into the hall.

‘What do you want now?’ asked Frans.

Kjell was struck by the fact that his father suddenly looked so old. And frail. Then he dismissed the idea. The man was tougher than most people. He’d probably outlive them all.

‘I want some information from you.’ He went in and sat down on the sofa without waiting for an invitation.

Frans sat in the armchair across from him, but didn’t say a word. Just waited.

‘What do you know about a man by the name of Hans Olavsen?’

Frans gave a start but quickly regained control of himself. He casually leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on the armrests. ‘Why do you want to know?’ he asked, looking his son in the eyes.

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘Why should I help you if you’re going to take that attitude?’

Kjell leaned forward so that his face was only centimetres from his father’s. He stared at him for a long time before he said coldly: ‘Because you owe me. You owe me and need to take every little opportunity to help me if you don’t want to run the risk that I’ll dance on your grave when you’re dead.’

For a moment something flashed through Frans’s eyes. Something that had been lost. Maybe the memory of the walks through the woods and strong arms lifting a little boy towards the sky. Then it was gone. He looked at his son and said calmly:

‘Hans Olavsen was a Norwegian resistance fighter who was seventeen years old when he came to Fjällbacka. I think it was in 1944. A year later he left. That’s all I know.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Kjell, leaning back again. ‘I know that you spent a lot of time together – you, Elsy Moström, Britta Johansson, and Erik Frankel. And now Britta and Erik have been murdered within months of each other. Don’t you think that’s a bit strange?’

Frans ignored the question. Instead he said, ‘What does the Norwegian have to do with that?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m planning to find out,’ snarled Kjell, clenching his jaws in an attempt to keep his anger in check. ‘So what else do you know about him? Tell me about the time you spent together, tell me why he left. Every detail you can remember.’

Frans sighed and looked as if he was casting his mind back. ‘So it’s the details you want… Let’s see if I can remember anything. Well, he lived at Elsy’s parents’ house, and he had come here by stowing away on her father’s boat.’

‘I already know that,’ said Kjell. ‘What else?’

‘He got a job working on boats that carried cargo down the coast, but he spent his free time with us. We were actually two years younger than he was, but that didn’t seem to bother him. We enjoyed each other’s company. Some more than others,’ he said, and sixty years hadn’t erased the bitterness that he’d felt back then.

‘Hans and Elsy,’ said Kjell drily.

‘How did you know that?’ asked Frans, surprised to find that he still felt a pang at the thought of those two together. His heart definitely had a longer memory than his mind.

‘I just know. Go on.’

‘Well, as you say, Hans and Elsy got together, and I’m sure you also know that I wasn’t happy about it.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, it’s true. I had a crush on Elsy, but she chose him. And the irony was that Britta was infatuated with me, but I wasn’t interested in her at all. Of course I sometimes imagined sleeping with her, but something always told me that it would be more trouble than it was worth, so I never did.’

‘How magnanimous of you,’ said Kjell sarcastically. Frans merely raised one eyebrow.

‘So what happened then? If Hans and Elsy were so close, why did he leave?’

‘Well, it’s the oldest story in the world. He promised her the moon, and when the war ended, he said that he had to return to Norway to find his family, and then he’d be back. But…’ Frans shrugged and smiled bitterly.

‘Do you think he was just toying with her?’

‘I don’t know, Kjell. I honestly don’t know. It was sixty years ago, and we were very young. Maybe he meant what he said to Elsy, but then was overwhelmed by commitments back home. Or maybe he intended all along to run off as soon as he got the chance.’ Frans shrugged. ‘The only thing I know is that he said goodbye and told us that he would be back as soon as he straightened things out with his family. And then he left. And to be honest, I’ve hardly given him a thought since. I know that Elsy was upset for a while, but her mother saw to it that she got into some sort of school, and I have no idea what happened after that. By then I had already left Fjällbacka and… well, you know what happened then.’

‘Yes, I do know,’ said Kjell grimly, picturing once again the big grey prison gates.

‘So I don’t understand why this would be of any concern to you,’ said Frans. ‘He came here and then he disappeared. And I don’t think any of us ever had contact with him again. So why all the interest?’ Frans stared at Kjell.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ replied his son crossly. ‘But if there’s any mystery about his departure, I’ll get to the bottom of it, believe me.’ He gave his father a defiant look.

‘I believe you, Kjell. I believe you,’ replied Frans wearily.

Kjell glanced at his father’s hand, lying on the armrest of his chair. It was an old man’s hand. Wrinkled and sinewy, with age spots on the wizened skin. So different from the hand that had held his when they went for walks in the woods. That hand had been strong and smooth, and so warm as it enveloped his own small hand. So safe and secure.

‘Looks like it’s going to be a good year for mushrooms,’ he heard himself saying.

Frans stared at him in surprise. Then his expression softened, and he replied quietly: ‘Yes, it looks like it will be, Kjell. It does indeed.’

Axel packed with military precision. Years of travelling had taught him to do that. Nothing was left to chance. A pair of trousers carelessly folded might mean having to laboriously press them on the hotel’s ironing board. A poorly replaced top on a tube of toothpaste might mean an even worse disaster: a caseload of laundry. So he placed everything into the big suitcase with the greatest care.

He sat down on the bed. This had been his room when he was growing up, but in later years he had chosen to change the furnishings. Model airplanes and comics didn’t really belong in a grown man’s bedroom. He wondered whether he would ever return here. It had been difficult to stay in the house over the past weeks. At the same time, it had seemed necessary.

He got up and headed for Erik’s bedroom, a few doors down the long corridor. Axel smiled when he went in and sat down on his brother’s bed. The room was filled with books. Of course. The shelves were crammed with leather-bound volumes, and there were piles of them on the floor, many with little Post-it notes stuck to them. Erik had never grown tired of his books, his facts, his dates, and the solid reality that they offered him. In that sense, things had been easier for Erik. Reality could be found in black and white. No grey zones, no political chicanery or moral ambiguities, which were everyday fare in Axel’s world. Just concrete facts. The Battle of Hastings was in 1066. Napoleon died in 1821. Germany surrendered on 5 May 1945…

Axel reached for a book lying on Erik’s bed. A thick volume about how Germany was rebuilt after the war. Axel put it back on the bed. He knew everything about that topic. His life for the past sixty years had revolved around the war and its aftermath. But most of all, it had revolved around himself. Erik had realized that. He had pointed out the shortcomings in Axel’s life, and in his own life. Recounted them as dry facts. Apparently without any emotion. But Axel knew his brother well, and he was aware that behind all the facts was more emotion than most people he’d met would ever be capable of feeling.

He wiped away the tear that was trickling down his cheek. Here, in Erik’s room, things were suddenly not as crystal-clear as he’d like them to be. Axel had based his whole life on the absence of ambiguities. He had built his life around right and wrong. Presented himself as the person who could point and say which of these camps people belonged to. Yet it was Erik, in his tranquil world of books, who had known everything about right and wrong. Somewhere deep inside, Axel had always understood that. Understood that the battle to remove himself from the grey zone between good and evil would take a greater toll on his brother than on him.

But Erik had fought hard. For sixty years he had watched Axel come and go, heard him talk about the efforts he’d made in the service of good. Allowed him to construct an image of himself as the man who brought everyone to justice. In silence, Erik had watched and listened. Looked at him with those gentle eyes of his behind the glasses he wore, and let him keep his delusions. But somewhere deep inside, Axel had always known that he was fooling himself, not Erik.

And now he would have to continue to live the lie. Go back to work. Go back to the laborious hunt that had to continue. He couldn’t ease up on the tempo, because soon it would be too late, soon there would be no one left who could remember, and no one left to punish. Soon there would be only history books left to bear witness.

Axel got up and glanced around the room one more time before he went back to his own bedroom. He still had a lot of packing to do.

It had a been a long time since Erica had visited the graves of her maternal grandparents. The conversation with Axel had reminded her of them, and on her way home she decided to make a detour to the cemetery. She opened the gate, hearing the gravel crunch under her feet as she walked along the path.

First she passed the gravesite belonging to her parents. It was straight ahead, on the left-hand side of the path. She squatted down and pulled out a few weeds around the headstone so that it looked tidy, reminding herself to bring fresh flowers next time. She stared at her mother’s name etched into the stone. Elsy Falck. There were so many things Erica wished she could ask her. If it weren’t for the car accident four years ago, she could have talked to her mother in person instead of having to fumble around, trying to find out more about why Elsy was the way she was.

As a child Erica had always blamed herself. As an adult too. She’d thought there was something wrong with her, that she had somehow failed to meet her mother’s expectations. Why else had her mother never hugged her, never really talked with her? Why had her mother never said that she loved her, or even liked her? For a long time Erica had harboured the feeling that she wasn’t good enough and never had been. Of course her father Tore had done his best to compensate. He had lavished so much time and love on her and Anna. He was always willing to listen, always ready to blow on a grazed knee, and his warm embrace always felt so safe and secure. But that had never been enough. Not when their mother seemed unable even to stand the sight of her daughters, let alone give them a hug.

That was why Erica was so astonished by the image of her mother that was now emerging. How could that warm and gentle girl, as everyone described her, have turned into someone so cold, so distant that she treated her own children like strangers?

Erica stretched out her hand to touch her mother’s name on the headstone.

‘What happened to you, Mamma?’ she whispered, feeling her throat tighten. When she stood up a few minutes later, she was more determined than ever to uncover as much of her mother’s story as she could. There was definitely something there, something that still eluded her and that needed to be brought to light.

And no matter what it cost her, she was going to find out what it was.

Erica cast one last look at her parents’ grave and then moved on a few metres to the plot where her maternal grandparents were buried. Elof and Hilma Moström. She had never met them. The tragedy that took her grandfather’s life occurred long before she was born, and her grandmother had passed away ten years after he died. Elsy had never talked about them. But Erica was happy that so far in her research she had heard them described as kind and warm. Again she squatted down and stared at the headstone, as if trying to make it speak to her. But the stone was mute. There was nothing for her to learn here. If she wanted to find out the truth, she was going to have to look elsewhere.

She walked towards the hill, heading up to the church slope to take a shortcut home. At the foot of the hill she automatically glanced to her right, towards the big, grey, moss-covered gravestone that stood off by itself, right at the base of the granite cliff that formed the border of one side of the cemetery. She took another step up the slope, but then stopped short. She backed up until she stood in front of the big, grey stone, her heart pounding hard in her chest. Disconnected facts, disconnected remarks started whirling through her head. She squinted to make sure she was seeing correctly, then took a step forward so she stood very, very close to the stone. She even ran her finger over the text, to be sure that her brain wasn’t playing tricks on her.

Then all the facts fell into place in her mind with an audible thud. Of course. Now she knew what had happened, or at least some of it. She took out her mobile and punched in Patrik’s number with trembling fingers. It was time for him to intervene.

Herman’s daughters had just left. They came over every day, his blessed, blessed daughters. It did his heart good to see them sitting next to each other at his bedside. So alike, yet so unlike one another. And he saw Britta in all of them. Anna-Greta had her nose, Birgitta her eyes, and Margareta, the youngest, had inherited those little dimples that Britta always had when she smiled.

Herman closed his eyes to prevent himself from crying. He didn’t have the strength to cry any more. He had no more tears left. But he was forced to open his eyes again, because every time he shut them, he pictured Britta the way she had looked when he lifted the pillow away from her face. He hadn’t needed to move the pillow to know. But he had done it nonetheless. He wanted to have his suspicions confirmed. Wanted to see what he had done through his impulsive action. Because of course he had understood. The very moment he entered the bedroom and saw her lying there, motionless, with the pillow over her face, he had understood.

When he lifted it away and saw her rigid expression, he had died. At that precise moment, he too had died. He could only lie down next to her, take her in his arms and pull her close. If it had been up to him, he would still be lying there. He would have gone on holding her as her body grew colder and colder, letting the memories flood his mind.

Herman stared up at the ceiling as he thought about the past. Summer days when they took the boat out to the beach on Valö, with the girls in the cabin and Britta sitting on deck, her face tilted up towards the sun, her long legs stretched out in front of her, and her silky blonde hair hanging down her back. He saw her open her eyes, turn her head to him, and smile happily. He waved to her as he sat at the tiller, feeling in his heart how fortunate he was.

Then a shadow passed over his face. He was thinking about the first time that she told him about that unmentionable subject. A dark winter afternoon when the girls were at school. She told him to sit down because she needed to tell him something. His heart had nearly stopped, and he was ashamed to remember that his first thought had been that she was going to leave him, that she had met someone else. So what she told him had come almost as a relief. He’d listened. She’d talked. For a long time. And when it was time for them to pick up the girls, they had agreed never to speak of the topic again. What was done was done. He hadn’t viewed her any differently afterwards. Hadn’t felt differently about her or talked to her in a different way. How could he? How could that have forced out the images in his mind of the days that had flowed together to form their quiet, happy life, or the marvellous nights they had shared? What she had told him could never outweigh all that. And so they had agreed never to mention it again.

But her illness had changed that. Had changed everything. It had come roaring through their life like a tsunami, tearing up everything by the roots. And he had allowed himself to be swept along. He had made a mistake. One fateful mistake. One phone call that he should never have made. But he had been naïve, believing it was time to air out what was musty and rotten. He had thought that if he just showed how Britta was suffering because of what had been hidden away for so long in her mind, then it would be clear that the time had finally come. It was wrong to fight it any longer. What had happened in the past had to come out so that they might have peace of mind. So Britta would have peace of mind. Good Lord, how naïve he had been. He might just as well have put the pillow over her face himself. He knew that. And now he couldn’t bear the pain.

Herman closed his eyes in an attempt to close out everything, and this time he didn’t see Britta’s dead face. Instead, he saw her in a hospital bed. Pale and tired, but happy. Holding Anna-Greta in her arms. She raised her hand and waved to him. Motioning for him to come closer.

With one last sigh he let go of everything that was painful and, smiling, went towards them.

Patrik was staring straight ahead. Could Erica be right? It sounded completely crazy, and yet… logical. He sighed, aware of what a difficult task lay ahead of him.

‘Come on, sweetie. We’re going out for a little excursion,’ he said, lifting up Maja and carrying her out to the hall. ‘And we’ll pick up Mamma on the way.’

A short time later he drove up to the gate of the cemetery where Erica was waiting, so impatient to get going that she was practically jumping up and down. Patrik had started feeling equally impatient, and he had to remind himself to ease off the accelerator as they drove towards Tanumshede. He could sometimes be a rather reckless driver, but if Maja was in the car, he always drove with the utmost caution.

‘I’ll do the talking, okay?’ said Patrik as they parked in front of the station. ‘You get to come along only because I don’t feel like arguing with you about it – you’d win in the end anyway. But he’s my boss, and I’m the one who has done this before. Understand?’

Erica nodded reluctantly as she lifted Maja out of the car.

‘Do you think we should drive over to my mother’s first, and ask her to watch Maja for a while? I mean, I know how you hate it when I take Maja into the station,’ Patrik teased, getting an exasperated look in reply.

‘Come on, you know I want to get this over with as soon as possible. And she doesn’t seem to have suffered any harm from working a shift the last time she was here,’ Erica told him with a wink.

‘Hi! I didn’t expect to see all of you here,’ said Annika, surprised, her face lighting up when Maja gave her a big smile.

‘We need to talk to Bertil,’ said Patrik. ‘Is he in?’

‘Yes, he’s in his office,’ said Annika, giving them an enquiring look. She let them in, and Patrik headed briskly for Mellberg’s office with Erica in tow, carrying Maja in her arms.

‘Hedström! What are you doing here? And I see you’ve brought the whole family along,’ said Mellberg, sounding grumpy as he stood up to say hello.

‘There’s something we need to talk to you about,’ said Patrik, sitting down on one of the visitor’s chairs without waiting for an invitation. Maja and Ernst had now caught sight of each other, to their mutual delight.

‘Is he used to being around children?’ asked Erica, hesitating to set her struggling daughter down on the floor.

‘How the hell should I know?’ said Mellberg, but then relented. ‘He’s the world’s nicest dog. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ His voice betrayed a certain pride, and Patrik raised one eyebrow in amusement. His boss seemed to have really fallen for that dog.

Still not entirely convinced, Erica set her daughter down next to Ernst, who enthusiastically began licking the little girl’s face. Maja reacted with a mixture of alarm and delight.

‘So, what is it you want?’ Mellberg stared at Patrik with some curiosity.

‘I want you to obtain permission to open a grave.’

Mellberg started coughing, as if something was stuck in his throat. His face turned redder and redder as he struggled to breathe.

‘Open a grave! Are you out of your mind, man!’ he finally managed to splutter. ‘Being on paternity leave must have affected your brain! Do you know how rare it is to get permission to open a grave? And I’ve already done it twice in the past few years. If I ask for another one, they’re going to certify me as insane and lock me up in the loony bin! And whose body are we going to exhume now, by the way?’

‘A Norwegian resistance fighter who disappeared in 1945,’ said Erica calmly as she squatted down next to Patrik and scratched Ernst’s ears.

‘What did you say?’ Mellberg stared at her open-mouthed, as if he thought he must have heard wrong.

Patiently Erica recounted everything that she’d learned about the four friends and the Norwegian who had come to Fjällbacka a year before the war ended. She explained that there was no trace of him after June 1945, and their efforts to track him down had got nowhere.

‘Couldn’t he have stayed in Sweden? Or gone back to Norway? Have you checked with the authorities in both countries?’ Mellberg looked extremely sceptical.

Erica got up from the floor and sat down on the other visitor’s chair. She stared at Mellberg, as if she hoped to make him take her seriously through sheer force of will. And then she told him what Herman had said to her. That Paul Heckel and Friedrich Hück should be able to tell them where Hans Olavsen was.

‘I thought the names seemed vaguely familiar, but I had no idea where I might have come across them. Until today. I went over to the cemetery to visit the graves of my parents and grandparents. And that’s when I saw it.’

‘Saw what?’ asked Mellberg, puzzled.

She waved her hand. ‘I’ll get to that, if you’ll allow me to.’

‘Sure, okay, go on,’ said Mellberg, who was starting to get interested, in spite of himself.

‘There’s a grave in the Fjällbacka cemetery that’s a little different. It’s from the First World War, and ten German soldiers are buried there – seven of them were identified and are listed by name, but three of them are unknown.’

‘You forgot to tell him about the scribbled note,’ said Patrik, who had resigned himself to taking a back seat while his wife explained things. A good man knows when it’s time to give in.

‘Oh, right. There’s one other piece to the puzzle.’ Erica told Mellberg about the page in Erik’s notebook that had caught her attention when she studied the photograph from the crime scene, and the fact that it said ‘Ignoto militi.’

‘How did you happen to see photos from the crime scene?’ asked Mellberg angrily, glaring at Patrik.

‘We’ll discuss that later,’ said Patrik. ‘Please, just listen to what she has to say.’

Mellberg grumbled but acquiesced and indicated with a wave of his hand for Erica to continue.

‘Erik Frankel wrote those words on a notepad, over and over, and I found out what they mean. It’s an inscription on the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, or rather on the tomb of the unknown soldier. It means: “To the unknown soldier”.’

This still wasn’t making any lights go on in Mellberg’s head, so Erica continued:

‘That note stayed in the back of my mind. Here we have a Norwegian resistance fighter who disappears in 1945, and nobody knows where he went. We have Erik scribbling about an unknown soldier. And Britta talking about “old bones”, and then we have the names that Herman gave me. It was only when I walked past that grave in Fjällbacka cemetery that I suddenly realized why those names had seemed so familiar: they’re etched on the headstone.’ Erica paused to catch her breath.

Mellberg stared at her. ‘So Paul Heckel and Friedrich Hück are the names of two Germans from the First World War who are buried in a grave in Fjällbacka cemetery?’

‘That’s right,’ said Erica, pondering how she should go on with her story.

But Mellberg beat her to it. ‘So what you’re saying is…’

She took a deep breath and glanced at Patrik before she continued. ‘What I’m saying is, it’s very likely there’s an extra body in that grave. I think the Norwegian resistance fighter, Hans Olavsen, is buried there. And I’m not sure how it all fits together, but I’m convinced that’s the key to the murders of Erik and Britta.’

She fell silent. No one spoke. The only thing to be heard in Mellberg’s office was the sound of Maja and Ernst playing together.

After a moment Patrik said softly: ‘I know this sounds crazy. But I’ve discussed the whole thing with Erica, and I think there’s a lot to be said for her theory. I can’t offer any concrete proof, but all the clues we have seem to point that way. And there’s also a strong chance that Erica is right, and this is what’s behind the two murders. I don’t know how or why. But the first step is to establish whether there really is an extra body in the grave, and if so, how he died.’

Mellberg didn’t reply. He clasped his hands and sat in silence, thinking. Finally he gave a loud sigh.

‘Well, I must be out of my mind, but I think you might be right. There’s no guarantee that I’ll get permission. As I said, we have something of a track record with this type of thing, and the prosecutor is going to go through the roof. But I will try. That’s all I can promise you.’

‘That’s all we’re asking,’ said Erica eagerly, looking as though she’d like to throw her arms around Mellberg.

‘Okay, take it easy. I don’t think I’ll be successful, but I’ll do my best. And at the moment I need some peace and quiet to work.’

‘We’re leaving right now,’ said Patrik, getting to his feet. ‘Let me know as soon as you hear anything.’

Mellberg didn’t answer, just waved them out the door as he picked up the phone to start on what looked set to be the most difficult test of his persuasive abilities in his entire career.