‘That’s quite all right, my dear,’ she replied, waving away his apologies. ‘I knew my Wilhelm inside and out, and whatever these payments were for, I can guarantee that there was nothing criminal or unethical involved. So ask all the questions you want, and as Göran said, we’ll make sure the documents are sent over to you. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t help you.’
Everyone got up and went out to the hall. Maja was still holding the doll, hugging it to her chest.
‘Maja, sweetie, you need to leave the doll here.’ Erica steeled herself for the inevitable outburst.
‘Let the child keep the doll,’ said Märta, patting Maja on the head as she walked past. ‘As I said, I can’t take anything with me when I go, and I’m too old to be playing with dolls.’
‘Are you sure?’ stammered Erica. ‘It’s so old, and I’m sure you have fond memories of . . .’
‘Memories are stored up here,’ said Märta, tapping her forehead. ‘Not in tangible objects. Nothing would make me happier than to know that a little girl will be playing with Greta again. I’m sure that poor doll has been terribly bored sitting on the sofa next to an old lady.’
‘Well, thank you. Thank you so much,’ said Erica, embarrassed to find herself so touched that she had to blink back tears.
‘You’re very welcome.’ Märta patted Maja on the head again, and then she and her son escorted them to the door.
The last thing Erica and Patrik saw before the door closed behind them was Göran gently putting his arm around his mother’s shoulder and kissing her on top of her head.
Martin was at home, restlessly roaming about. Pia was at work, and since he was alone in the flat, he couldn’t stop thinking about the case. It was as if his feeling of responsibility had increased tenfold because Patrik was on leave, and he wasn’t quite sure that he was up to the task. He thought of it as a weakness on his part that he needed to ask Patrik for help. But he relied so heavily on his colleague’s judgement, maybe even more than on his own. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever feel confident about his work. There was always a sense of doubt hovering in the background, an uncertainty that had been with him since he graduated from the police academy. Was he really suited to this job? Was he capable of doing what was expected of him?
He wandered from room to room as he brooded. He realized that his uncertainty about his profession was exacerbated by the fact that he was about to face the greatest challenge of his life, and he wasn’t convinced he could handle that responsibility either. What if he didn’t measure up? What if he couldn’t offer Pia the support that she needed? What if he couldn’t deal with what was expected of him as a father? What if, what if . . . The thoughts whirled through his mind faster and faster, and finally he realized that he had to get out and do something or he’d go crazy. He grabbed his jacket, got in the car, and headed south.
At first he didn’t know where he was going, but as he approached Grebbestad, it became clear to him. It was that phone call made from Britta and Herman’s house to Frans Ringholm that had been bothering him. They kept running into the same group of people in the two investigations, and even though the cases seemed to be running parallel, Martin had a gut feeling that they intersected at some point. Why had Herman or Britta phoned Frans in June before Erik died? There was only one call from them on the list, from the fourth of June. It hadn’t lasted very long. Two minutes and thirty-three seconds. Martin had memorized the information from the phone lists. But why had they contacted Frans? Was it as simple as Axel had suggested? That Britta’s illness had made her want to renew friendships from the past? Reconnect with people who, by all accounts, she hadn’t spoken to in sixty years? The brain was certainly capable of playing tricks on a person, but . . . No, there was something else. Something that kept eluding him. And he wasn’t about to give up until he found out what it was.
Frans was on his way out when Martin met him at the door of his flat.
‘So how can I help you today?’ he asked politely.
‘Just a few supplementary questions.’
‘I was just going out for my daily walk. If you want to talk to me, you can come along. I don’t change my walk schedule for anyone. It’s how I keep in shape.’ He set off towards the water, and Martin followed.
‘So you don’t have any problem being seen with a police officer?’ asked Martin, giving him a wry smile.
‘You know, I’ve spent so much of my life with jailers, that I’m used to your type of company,’ he replied, an amused glint in his eyes. ‘Okay, what was it you wanted to ask me?’ he said then, all trace of amusement vanishing. Martin had to jog to keep up. The old guy set a brisk pace.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but there’s been another murder in Fjällbacka.’
Frans slowed down for a moment, then picked up the pace again. ‘No, I didn’t know about that. Who was it?’
‘Britta Johansson.’ Martin studied Frans intently.
‘Britta?’ said Frans, turning his head to look at Martin. ‘How? Who?’
‘Her husband says that he did it. But I have my doubts.’
Frans gave a start. ‘Herman? But why? I can’t believe that.’
‘Do you know Herman?’ asked Martin, trying not to show how important his answer might be.
‘No, not really,’ said Frans, shaking his head. ‘I’ve actually only met him once. He phoned me in June to say that Britta was ill and she’d expressed a wish to see me.’
‘Didn’t you think that was a bit odd? Considering that you hadn’t seen each other in sixty years?’ Martin made no attempt to hide his scepticism.
‘Well, yes, of course I thought it was odd. But Herman explained that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s, and apparently it’s not uncommon for patients with that disease to revert to memories from the past, and to think about people who used to be important to them. And our little group did grow up together, you know, and spent a lot of time with each other.’
‘And that little group was . . . ?’
‘Me, Britta, Erik, and Elsy Moström.’
‘And two of them have been murdered in a matter of months,’ said Martin, panting as he trotted along next to Frans. ‘Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence?’
Frans stared at the horizon. ‘When you get to be my age, you’ve witnessed enough strange coincidences to know that they actually occur quite often. Besides, you said that her husband has confessed to the murder. Do you think he was the one who killed Erik too?’ Frans glanced at Martin.
‘We’re not speculating about anything at the moment. But it does give me pause when I think about the fact that two out of four people in a group have been murdered within such a short period of time.’
‘As I said, there’s nothing strange about strange coincidences. Sheer chance. And fate.’
‘That sounds quite philosophical, coming from a man who has spent a great deal of his life in prison. Was that also sheer chance and fate?’ A caustic tone had crept into his voice, and Martin had to remind himself to keep his personal feelings out of this. But during the past week he’d seen how Paula had been affected by the things that Frans Ringholm stood for, and he was having a hard time hiding his disgust.
‘Chance and fate had nothing to do with it. I was an adult and capable of making my own decisions when I chose that particular path. And of course I can say, after the fact, that I shouldn’t have done one thing or another . . . and I should have chosen a different path instead.’ Frans stopped and turned to face Martin. ‘But we don’t have that opportunity while we’re living our lives, do we?’ he said, and then started walking again. ‘The opportunity to see things ahead of time. No, I made the choices I made. I’ve lived the life I chose. And I’ve paid the price for it.’
‘What about your opinions? Have you chosen those too?’ Martin found himself genuinely curious to hear the answer. He didn’t understand these people who were ready to condemn whole segments of humanity. He didn’t understand how they could justify suc
h views to themselves. And while they filled him with disgust, he was also curious about what made them tick.
Frans seemed to recognize that the question was genuine, and he spent some moments considering how to answer it.
‘I stand behind my opinions,’ he said finally. ‘I see that something is wrong with our society, and this is my interpretation of what’s wrong. I see it as my duty to contribute a solution.’
‘But to place the blame on entire ethnic groups . . .’ Martin shook his head. He simply didn’t understand this way of thinking.
‘You make the mistake of regarding people as individuals,’ said Frans drily. ‘That’s not how we are. We are all part of a group. Part of a collective entity. And these groups have always fought each other, fought for a place in the hierarchy, in the world order. You might wish that things were different, but that’s how it is. And even though I don’t use violence to secure my place in the world, I’m a survivor. Someone who, in the end, will be a victor in the world order. And it’s always the victors who write history.’
He fell silent and turned to look at Martin, who shivered in spite of the fact that he was sweating from the fast pace. There was something so unfathomably terrifying about coming face to face with such fanatical conviction. No logic in the world would ever persuade Frans and his cohorts that theirs was a distorted view of reality. It was just a matter of keeping them restrained, marginalizing them, reducing their numbers. Martin had always believed that if he could just reason with a person, he would eventually be able to reach a core that could be changed. But in Frans’s eyes he saw a core that was so brutally protected by rage and hatred that it would be impossible ever to penetrate it.
Chapter 30
Fjällbacka 1944
‘This is delicious,’ said Vilgot, helping himself to another portion of fried mackerel. ‘This is really delicious, Bodil.’
She didn’t reply, just bowed her head in relief. She was always grateful when her husband was in a good mood and seemed pleased with her.
‘Keep this in mind, boy.’ He pointed his fork at Frans. ‘When you decide to get married, make sure that the girl is good in the kitchen and good in bed!’ Vilgot laughed so loudly that his whole tongue was visible in his mouth.
‘Vilgot!’ said Bodil, glancing at him, although she didn’t dare offer more than a meek protest.
‘Come on, it’s best if the boy learns things like that,’ he said, scooping up a huge serving of mashed potatoes. ‘And by the way, you can be proud of your father today, Frans. I just had a call from Göteborg, and I found out that the company belonging to that Jew named Rosenberg has gone bankrupt, thanks to the fact that I stole so much business away from him over the past year. How about that? That’s something to celebrate! That’s how we need to deal with them. Force them to their knees, one after the other, both financially and with the whip!’ He laughed so hard that his stomach shook. Butter from the fish trickled out of his mouth and gleamed on his chin.
‘It won’t be easy for him to make a living, not these days,’ said Bodil, unable to stop herself. But she realized her mistake as soon as she spoke.
‘What exactly are you thinking when you say that, my dear?’ said Vilgot, deceptively polite as he set down his knife and fork. ‘Since you’re sympathetic to somebody like that, I want to know how you arrived at that point of view.’
‘It’s nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it,’ she said, staring down at her lap, hoping that such a sign of capitulation would be sufficient. But a glint had appeared in Vilgot’s eyes.
‘No, no, I’m interested in what you have to say. Come on, tell me.’
Frans looked back and forth, from his mother to his father, while a knot started forming in his stomach. He saw how his mother had started to tremble as Vilgot fixed his gaze on her. And how his father had that glazed look in his eyes, a look that Frans had seen many times before. He considered asking to be excused from the table, but realized that it was already too late for that.
Bodil’s voice quavered and she had to swallow hard several times before she nervously said, ‘I was just thinking about his family. That it must be hard to find a new means of support these days.’
‘We’re talking about a Jew, Bodil.’ Vilgot’s tone was admonitory, and he spoke slowly, as he would to a child. It was exactly that tone of voice that sparked something in his wife.
She raised her head and said, with a hint of defiance: ‘Jews are also human beings. They have to provide food for their children, just as we do.’
Frans wanted to scream at his mother to shut up, not talk that way to his father. Nothing good ever came of talking like that to him. What was the matter with her? How could she say that to him? In defence of a Jew? How could that be worth the price he knew she would have to pay? Suddenly he felt an unreasonable hatred towards his mother. How could she be so stupid? Didn’t she know that it never did any good to challenge Vilgot? It was best to bow her head and do as he said, not offer any opposition. Then they could get by for a while. But that stupid, stupid woman had just shown the one thing no one should ever show to Vilgot Ringholm: a spark of defiance. Frans shuddered at the thought of the powder keg that this tiny spark was about to ignite.
At first the room was utterly silent. Vilgot stared at her, seeming unable to take in what he’d heard. A vein bulged on his neck, and Frans saw him clench his hands into fists. He wanted to jump up from the table and keep on running until he couldn’t run any more. Instead, he felt glued to his chair, incapable of moving.
Then the explosion came. Vilgot’s fist shot out and struck Bodil on the jaw, hurling her backwards. Her chair toppled over and she landed on the floor with a loud thud. She gasped with pain, a sound that was so familiar to Frans that he could feel it in the very marrow of his bones. But instead of feeling sympathetic, he felt even more enraged. Why couldn’t she have kept quiet? Why was she forcing him to witness this?
‘So, you’re a Jew lover. Is that right?’ said Vilgot, standing up. ‘Answer me! Is that what you are?’
Bodil had managed to turn over so she was now on all fours, struggling to get her breath.
Vilgot took aim and kicked her in the midriff. ‘Are you? Answer me! Do I have a Jew lover in my house? In my own home? Do I?’
She didn’t answer as with great effort she tried to crawl away. Vilgot followed her, then aimed another kick that landed in the same spot. She flinched and crumpled into a heap on the floor, but then managed to get up on all fours again and made another attempt to crawl away.
‘You’re a fucking bitch, that’s what you are! A fucking Jew-loving bitch!’ Vilgot spat out the words, and when Frans glanced at his father’s face, he saw a look of pleasure. Vilgot took aim and kicked Bodil again as he showered curses on her. Then he looked at Frans. Excitement shone on his face, an expression that Frans knew all too well.
‘All right, boy, now I’m going to teach you how to deal with bitches. It’s the only language they understand. Watch and learn.’ He was breathing hard as he unfastened his belt and trousers, keeping his eyes fixed on Frans. Then he took a few steps towards Bodil, who had managed to crawl a few metres away. He grabbed her hair with one hand and he pulled up her skirt with the other.
‘No, no, don’t . . . think about . . . Frans,’ she pleaded. Vilgot merely laughed as he yanked her head back and entered her with a loud groan.
The knot in Frans’s stomach solidified into a big, cold lump of hatred. And when his mother turned her head and met his eyes, on her knees as his father thrust inside of her, Frans knew that the only thing he could do to survive was to hold on to that hatred.
Chapter 31
Kjell spent Saturday morning at the office. Beata had taken the children and gone to visit her parents, so it had seemed the perfect opportunity to do a little research about Hans Olavsen. So far, he’d drawn a blank. There were too many Norwegians with the same name from that time period, and if he didn’t find something that could eliminate some of them, it would prove
to be an impossible task.
He’d read the articles that Erik had given him again and again, yet he still couldn’t work out what he was supposed to make of these scraps of information. That was what surprised him the most. If Erik Frankel had wanted to hand him a story, why hadn’t he just come out and told him what it was? Why this cryptic approach? Kjell sighed. The only thing the articles told him about Hans Olavsen was that he’d been a resistance fighter during World War II. For a second he considered asking his father whether he knew anything more about the Norwegian, but he immediately dismissed the idea. He would rather spend a hundred hours in some archive than seek his father’s help.
An archive. That was a thought. Was there some sort of database in Norway listing people who had been part of the resistance movement? A great deal must have been written about the subject, and someone was bound to have researched the topic and attempted to chart the movement’s history. Someone always did.
He opened his Internet browser and ran a series of searches using various combinations of words until he finally found what he was looking for. A man named Eskil Halvorsen had written a number of books about Norway during the Second World War, and in particular about the resistance movement. This was the man he needed to talk to. Kjell found an online Norwegian phone directory and located Halvorsen’s number. He immediately reached for the phone and punched in the digits, then had to redial because in his excitement he’d forgotten to start with the country code for Norway. He wasn’t concerned that he would be disturbing the man on a Saturday morning; a journalist couldn’t afford to have those kinds of scruples.
After waiting impatiently for several seconds, he finally heard a voice at the other end. Kjell introduced himself and explained that he was trying to locate a man by the name of Hans Olavsen who had been part of the resistance during the war and who had subsequently fled to Sweden.
The Hidden Child Page 31
