Contrary to popular belief, racism on the police force had ceased to be a problem by the time she joined. Swedes had finally grown used to people from other countries, and she wasn’t really considered an immigrant any more. Partly because she’d lived so many years in Sweden, partly because, with her South American background, she didn’t fall into the same category as refugees from the Middle East and Africa. She’d often thought it absurd that she’d lost her immigrant status by virtue of seeming less foreign than the more recent refugees.
She found men like Frans Ringholm frightening. They didn’t see nuances, didn’t see variations. After only a second’s glance they were ready to target someone on the basis of their appearance. It was the same kind of indiscriminate prejudice that had forced her and her mother to flee Chile. Centuries-old beliefs that decreed only one way, only one type of person was the right one and everything else was anathema, a threat to their world order. People like Ringholm had always existed. People who believed that they possessed the intelligence or the power or the force to determine the norm.
‘What number did you say it was?’ Martin turned to Paula, interrupting her thoughts. She glanced down at the slip of paper in her hand.
‘Number seven.’
‘Over there,’ said Martin, pointing to the building. Patrik turned in and parked. They were in the Kullen district, in front of a block of flats right across from the sports field.
The usual sign on the door had been replaced with a much more personal sign made of wood, with the name Viola Pettersson elegantly printed inside a circle of hand-painted flowers. And the woman who opened the door matched the sign. Viola was plump but well-proportioned, and her face radiated warmth. When Paula saw her romantic, floral-print dress, she thought that a straw hat would suit her perfectly, perched atop the grey hair that was pinned up in a bun.
‘Come in,’ said Viola, stepping aside. Paula glanced appreciatively at the entry hall. The flat was very different to her own, but she liked it. She’d never been to Provence, but this was how she thought it must look. Rustic country furniture combined with fabric and paintings with flower motifs. She peered into the living room, and saw that the same style prevailed.
‘I’ve made us some coffee,’ said Viola, leading the way. On the coffee table stood a delicate pink-floral coffee service, with biscuits arranged on a plate.
‘Thank you,’ said Patrik, perching cautiously on the sofa. After the introductions were out of the way, Viola poured everyone coffee and then seemed to be waiting for them to go on.
‘How do you get those geraniums to look so beautiful?’ Paula found herself asking as she sipped the coffee. Patrik and Martin glanced at her in surprise. ‘Mine always seem to rot away or dry up,’ she explained. Patrik and Martin raised their eyebrows even higher.
‘Oh, it’s not really that hard,’ said Viola proudly. ‘Just make sure that the soil dries out properly between waterings; you must never over-water them. I got a marvellous tip from Lasse Anrell. He told me to fertilize them with a bit of urine every once in a while. That does the trick if they’re giving you any trouble.’
‘Lasse Anrell?’ said Martin. ‘Isn’t he the sports writer for Aftonbladet? What does he have to do with geraniums?’
Viola looked as if she could hardly be bothered to answer such a silly question. For her, Lasse was first and foremost an expert on geraniums; the fact that he was also a sports writer and TV personality had barely entered her consciousness.
Patrik cleared his throat. ‘From what we understand, you and Erik Frankel saw each other fairly regularly.’ He paused but then went on. ‘I’m . . . I’m very sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ said Viola, looking down at her coffee cup. ‘Yes, we used to see each other. Erik sometimes stayed here, maybe twice a month.’
‘How did you meet?’ asked Paula. It was difficult to imagine how these two people had come together, seeing how different their homes were.
Viola smiled. Paula noted that she had two charming dimples.
‘Erik gave a lecture at the library a few years ago. When was it exactly? Four years . . .? It was a talk about Bohuslän and the Second World War, as I recall. Afterwards we got to talking and, well . . . one thing led to another.’ She smiled at the memory.
‘You never met at his house?’ Martin reached for a biscuit.
‘No. Erik thought it was easier to meet here. He shares . . . shared the house with his brother, you know, and even though Axel was gone a lot . . . No, Erik preferred to come here.’
‘Did he ever mention receiving threats?’ asked Patrik.
Viola shook her head vigorously. ‘No, never. I can’t even imagine . . . I mean, why would anyone want to threaten Erik, a retired history teacher? It’s absurd even to think such a thing.’
‘But the fact of the matter is that he did receive threats, at least indirectly, because of his interest in the Second World War and Nazism. Certain organizations don’t appreciate it when people paint a picture of history that they don’t agree with.’
‘Erik didn’t “paint a picture”, as you so carelessly express it,’ said Viola, anger suddenly flashing in her eyes. ‘He was a dedicated historian, meticulous about facts and extremely finicky about portraying the truth as it really was, not the way he or anyone else would have liked it to be. Erik didn’t paint. He pieced together puzzles. Ever so slowly, piece by piece, he would work out how things would have looked in the past. A piece of blue sky here, a piece of green meadow there, until at last he could show the results to the rest of us. Not that he was ever really finished,’ she said. The gentle look had returned to her eyes. ‘There are always more facts, more reality to uncover.’
‘Why was he so passionate about the Second World War?’ asked Paula.
‘Why is anyone interested in anything? Why do I love geraniums? Why not roses?’ Viola threw out her hands, but at the same time her expression turned pensive. ‘In Erik’s case, you don’t have to be Einstein to figure it out. What happened to his brother during the war marked him. He never talked to me about it, or at least, only once – and that was also the only time I ever saw Erik drunk. It was the last time we saw each other.’ Her voice broke, and it took a few minutes for Viola to pull herself together enough to go on. ‘Erik showed up here without telling me he was coming. That alone was unusual, but he’d obviously had too much to drink, and that was unheard of. The first thing he did when he came in was to go to the drinks cabinet and pour himself a big whisky. Then he sat down here on the sofa and started talking as he gulped down his drink. I didn’t understand much of what he was saying; it sounded like drunken ramblings to me. But I did understand that it had to do with Axel. And what he’d been through when he was a prisoner. How it had affected the family.’
‘You said that was the last time you saw Erik. Why was that? Why didn’t you see each other during the summer? Didn’t you wonder where he was?’
Viola’s face contorted as she fought back the tears. Finally, in a husky voice she said, ‘Because Erik said goodbye. He walked out of here around midnight – staggered might be a better description – and the last thing he said was that we would have to say goodbye. He thanked me for our time together and kissed me on the cheek. Then he left. I thought it was just drunken nonsense. I behaved like a real fool the next day, sitting and staring at the telephone all day long, waiting for him to ring and explain, or to apologize, or . . . whatever . . . But I didn’t hear from him. And because of my stupid, stupid pride, I refused to call him. If I had, he might not have been left alone there . . .’ Sobs took over, preventing her from finishing her sentence.
But Paula understood. She put her hand over Viola’s and said gently, ‘There was nothing you could have done. How could you have known?’
Viola nodded reluctantly and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.
‘Do you remember what day he was here?’ asked Patrik.
‘I’ll check the calendar,’ said Viola and got up, grateful fo
r the distraction. ‘I always make notes for each day, so I should be able to find out for you.’ She left the room and was gone for a while.
‘It was June fifteenth,’ she said when she returned. ‘I remember I’d been to the dentist in the afternoon, so I’m positive that was the day.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ said Patrik, standing up.
After they’d said goodbye to Viola and were back out on the street, they all had the same thought. What happened on 15 June that made Erik, quite uncharacteristically, get drunk and then end his relationship with Viola? What could have happened?
‘She obviously has no control over her!’
‘But, Dan, you’re being unfair! How can you be so sure that you wouldn’t have fallen for the same thing?’ Anna was leaning on the counter with her arms folded, glaring at him.
‘Oh, no. Absolutely not!’ Dan’s blond hair stood on end because he kept running his hands through it out of sheer frustration.
‘Right. And you’re the one who seriously thought that someone had broken in during the night and eaten all the chocolate in the pantry. If I hadn’t found the chocolate wrappers under Lina’s pillow, you’d still be out there looking for a thief with smears of chocolate around his mouth.’ Anna choked back a laugh and felt some of her anger fade. Looking at her, Dan felt a smile tugging at his own lips.
‘You have to admit she was awfully convincing when she assured me that she was innocent.’
‘She certainly was. That kid is going to get an Oscar when she grows up. But keep in mind that Belinda can be just as convincing. It’s not surprising that Pernilla believed her. You can’t honestly swear that you wouldn’t have done the same.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Dan sullenly. ‘But Pernilla should have phoned the friend’s mother to double check. That’s what I would have done.’
‘Yes, you probably would have. And from now on, Pernilla will, too.’
‘Why are you talking about Mamma?’ Belinda came down the stairs, still wearing her nightgown and with her hair sticking out all over. She’d refused to get out of bed ever since they’d brought her home from Erica and Patrik’s on Saturday morning, hung over and apparently filled with remorse. Most of the remorse had since vanished, replaced by even more of the anger that had become her constant companion.
‘We’re not talking specifically about your mother,’ said Dan wearily, sensing that another row was imminent.
‘Are you talking shit about my mother again?’ snarled Belinda, turning on Anna.
Casting a resigned look in Dan’s direction, Anna said calmly, ‘I’ve never said anything bad about your mother – and you know it. So don’t speak to me in that tone of voice.’
‘I’ll use whatever tone of voice I like!’ yelled Belinda. ‘This is my house, not yours! So you can just take your fucking kids and get out of here!’
Dan took a step forward, his eyes flashing. ‘Don’t talk that way to Anna! This is her home too. The same goes for Adrian and Emma. And if you don’t like it . . .’ The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realized it was the worst thing he could have said.
‘No, I don’t like it! I’m going to pack my bags and go home to Mamma! And that’s where I’m going to stay until that woman and her kids move out!’ Belinda turned on her heel and rushed upstairs. Both Dan and Anna gave a start when the door to her room slammed shut.
‘Maybe she’s right, Dan,’ said Anna faintly. ‘Maybe everything has gone a little too fast. I mean, she didn’t have much time to get used to the idea before we turned up and invaded her home and her life.’
‘She’s seventeen, for God’s sake. And she’s behaving like a five-year-old.’
‘You have to understand Belinda’s point of view. It can’t have been easy for her. She was a sensitive age when you and Pernilla separated, and . . .’
‘Oh, thank you very much. As if I need that whole guilt trip on my shoulders again. I know it was my fault that we got divorced, so you don’t have to stand there and throw it in my face.’
With that he walked brusquely past Anna and out the front door. For the second time a door slammed so loudly that the windowpanes rattled. For several seconds Anna stood motionless at the kitchen counter. Then she sank down on to the floor and cried.
Chapter 16
Fjällbacka 1943
‘I hear the Germans finally got their mitts on the doctor’s boy.’
Vilgot chuckled with glee as he hung his coat on the hook in the hallway. He handed his briefcase to Frans, who set it in its usual place, leaning against a chair.
‘It’s about time. Treason, I call it, what he’s been up to, but people are like sheep. They just follow the crowd and bleat on command. Only somebody like me, who dares to think independently, can see things the way they really are. And trust me, Axel Frankel was a traitor. I hope they’ll make short work of him.’
Vilgot went into the parlour and sank into his favourite armchair. Frans followed on his heels, and Vilgot looked up at him.
‘Hey, where’s my drink? Why are you so slow about it today?’ He sounded cross, and Frans hurried over to the drinks cabinet to pour a shot for his father. It had been their routine ever since he was a little boy. His mother hadn’t liked the fact that Frans was asked to handle liquor at such a young age, but as usual, she hadn’t had much say in the matter.
‘Sit down, boy, sit down.’ Gripping his glass firmly, Vilgot magnanimously motioned towards the armchair next to him. Frans caught a waft of alcohol as he sat down. The drink he’d poured for his father was most likely not the first he’d had that day.
‘Your father has made an excellent deal today, let me tell you.’ Vilgot leaned forward, and the alcoholic fumes filled Frans’s nostrils. ‘I’ve signed a contract with a German company. An exclusive contract. I’m going to be their sole supplier in Sweden. They said they were having a hard time finding business partners, and I believe it.’ Vilgot chuckled, his large belly shaking. He downed his drink and held out the glass to Frans. ‘Pour me another.’ His eyes were glazed from the alcohol. Frans’s hand shook slightly as he took the glass. It was still shaking as he poured the aromatic spirit, spilling a few drops.
‘Pour one for yourself,’ said Vilgot. It sounded more like a command than an invitation. Which it was. Frans set down his father’s full glass and reached for an empty one for himself. His hand was no longer shaking as he filled it to the brim. Focusing all his attention on the effort, he carried the two glasses over to his father. Vilgot raised his glass as Frans sat down again. ‘Bottoms up, lad.’
Frans felt the liquid burning his throat, all the way down to his stomach, where it settled like a warm lump. His father smiled. A trickle of alcohol was dribbling down his chin.
‘Where’s your mother?’ Vilgot asked in a low voice.
Frans stared at a spot on the wall. ‘She’s visiting Grandma and won’t be home until late.’ His voice sounded muffled and tinny, as if it were coming from somebody else. Someone outside.
‘Great. So the two of us can talk in peace. Go ahead, son – have another.’
Frans was conscious of his father’s eyes on him as he went to refill his glass. This time he didn’t leave the bottle in the cabinet but brought it back with him. Vilgot smiled appreciatively and held up his glass for more.
‘You’re a good lad, Frans.’
Again the alcohol seared his throat before transforming itself into a pleasant feeling somewhere in his midriff. The contours of everything around him began to dissolve. He felt he was floating in limbo, between reality and unreality.
Vilgot’s voice grew softer. ‘I can earn thousands of riksdaler on this deal, just in the next few years. And if the Germans keep increasing their demand for armaments, I stand to make significantly more. Maybe even millions. They’ve promised to put me in touch with other companies that have a need for our services. Now that I’ve got my foot in the door . . .’ Vilgot’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. He licked his lips. ‘It’s going to be a successful b
usiness that you take over one day, Frans.’ He reached out to place his hand on his son’s leg. ‘The day will come when you can tell everybody in Fjällbacka to take a flying leap. After the Germans take power, we’ll be in charge. Then we’ll have more money than those idiots could ever dream of. So have a drink with your father, and let’s toast the bright future!’ Vilgot raised his glass and clinked it against Frans’s, which he’d again filled to the brim.
The feeling of well-being continued to spread through Frans’s chest as he drank another toast with his father.
Chapter 17
Gösta had just started a round of golf on his computer when he heard Mellberg’s footsteps in the corridor. He quickly turned off the game and picked up a report, trying to look as though he was deeply immersed in reading it. Mellberg’s steps came closer, but there was something different about them. And what was that strange grumbling sound? Gösta rolled back his desk chair so he could stick his head out into the hall. The first thing he saw was Ernst, padding along in front of Mellberg with his long tongue hanging out, as usual. Behind him came an oddly hunched figure who was laboriously shuffling forward. He looked a lot like Mellberg, and yet he didn’t.
‘What the hell are you staring at?’
The voice and tone definitely belonged to his boss.
‘What happened to you?’ asked Gösta. By now Annika was peering out from the kitchen where she was busy feeding Maja.
Mellberg muttered something inaudible.
‘What?’ said Annika. ‘What did you say? I missed it.’
Mellberg glowered at her and then said, ‘I’ve been taking salsa lessons. Anything wrong with that?’
Gösta and Annika looked at each other in astonishment. Then they struggled to keep a straight face.
‘Well?’ shouted Mellberg. ‘Any funny remarks? Anyone? Because there’s plenty of opportunity to cut salaries here at the station.’ Then he slammed the door to his office.
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