The Hidden Child

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘The final stop for today, okay?’ said Martin as he climbed out of the police car in front of the editorial offices of Bohusläningen.

  ‘Sounds good. It’s about time to head for home,’ said Paula, looking at her watch. She hadn’t said a word after their visit to the offices of Sweden’s Friends, and Martin had let her ruminate in peace. He understood how hard it must be for her to be confronted by that type of person. The sort that judged her before she even had time to say hello, who saw only the colour of her skin, nothing else. He found it unpleasant too, but with his chalk-white complexion and fiery red hair, he was never subjected to the kind of stares that Paula had to endure. He’d suffered a certain amount of teasing in school because of his hair, but that was long ago, and it wasn’t the same thing at all.

  ‘We’re looking for Kjell Ringholm,’ said Paula, leaning over the reception desk.

  ‘Just a minute and I’ll tell him you’re here.’ The receptionist picked up the phone to let Ringholm know that he had visitors.

  ‘Please have a seat. He’ll be right out.’

  ‘Thank you.’ They sat down on two armchairs next to a coffee table. After a few minutes a rather pudgy man with dark hair and a dark beard came towards them. Paula thought that he looked a lot like Björn from ABBA. Or Benny. She could never tell which was which.

  ‘Kjell Ringholm,’ he said, shaking hands with them. His handshake was firm, bordering on painful, and Martin couldn’t help grimacing.

  He led the way to his office and invited them to sit, then said, ‘I thought I knew all the police officers in Uddevalla, but I must say that you’re both new faces to me. Who do you work for?’ Kjell sat down behind his desk, which was cluttered with papers.

  ‘We’re from the Tanumshede station, not Uddevalla.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Kjell, looking surprised. Paula thought she caught a momentary flash of something else, but it vanished instantly. ‘Well, what’s on your mind?’ He leaned back, clasping his hands over his stomach.

  ‘First of all, we have to tell you that today we brought your son down to the station after he assaulted one of his classmates,’ said Martin.

  The man behind the desk sat up straight. ‘What? Are you telling me you’ve arrested Per? Who was it he . . .? How is . . .?’ He stumbled over the words pouring out of his mouth, and Paula waited for him to pause so they could answer his questions.

  ‘He beat up a student named Mattias Larsson. The boy was taken to hospital, and the latest report is that he’s in stable condition, but he has sustained serious injuries.’

  ‘What?’ Kjell seemed to be having a hard time taking in what they were telling him. ‘Why didn’t you phone me earlier? It sounds as though this must have happened hours ago.’

  ‘The school phoned Per’s mother, so she came to the station and was present when we interviewed him. Then he was allowed to go home with her.’

  ‘It’s not exactly an ideal home situation, as you may have guessed,’ said Kjell, looking at both Paula and Martin.

  ‘From the interview we understood that there were certain . . . problems.’ Martin hesitated. ‘So we’ve asked social services to look into the situation.’

  Kjell sighed. ‘I should have dealt with the matter sooner. But other things kept coming up. I don’t know . . .’ He stared at a photograph on his desk, showing a blonde woman and two children who looked to be about nine years old. For a moment nobody spoke. Then Kjell asked, ‘What happens now?’

  ‘The prosecutor will look over the case and then decide how to proceed. But it’s a serious matter.’

  Kjell waved his hand. ‘I understand. Believe me, I don’t take this lightly. I can see how serious it is. You’ve experience in these cases, what do you think will . . .’ He glanced at the photo again, but then turned his gaze to the police officers.

  It was Paula who answered. ‘It’s hard to say. My best guess is a home for troubled youth.’

  Kjell nodded wearily. ‘That actually might be for the best. Per has been . . . difficult for a long time, so maybe this will force him to understand how serious it is. But it hasn’t been easy for him. I haven’t been much help, and his mother . . . Well, you could see what the situation is. But she wasn’t always like that. It was the divorce that . . .’ His voice faded, and he glanced again at the photograph on his desk. ‘It was really hard on her.’

  ‘There’s something else we need to talk to you about.’ Martin leaned forward to study Kjell.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘During the interview it came out that Per had broken into a house in early June. And that the owner of the house, Erik Frankel, caught him. From what we understand, you know about this incident. Am I right?’

  For a second Kjell didn’t say a word, then he nodded.

  ‘That’s right. Erik Frankel phoned me after locking Per in his library, and I drove over there.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It was actually kind of funny to see Per locked up with all those books. It was probably the only time he’s ever been in such close contact with a library.’

  ‘There’s nothing funny about breaking into somebody’s house,’ said Paula drily. ‘It could have ended very badly.’

  ‘Sure, I know that. I apologize. It was an inappropriate joke,’ said Kjell. ‘But both Erik and I agreed not to make a big deal out of the matter. Erik thought the whole episode would serve as a good lesson for the boy. He thought Per would think twice before doing something like that again. That was all. I went over, picked up Per and read him the riot act, and . . .’ He shrugged.

  ‘But apparently you and Erik Frankel talked about something besides Per breaking into the house. He heard Erik say that he had information for you, something that might interest you, in your capacity as a journalist, and then the two of you agreed to meet at a later date. Does that ring a bell?’

  The question was met with silence. Then Kjell shook his head. ‘No, I have to say I don’t recall anything like that. Either Per made it up, or he misinterpreted what he heard. Erik simply said that I could contact him if I needed any help with background material regarding Nazism.’

  Martin and Paula looked at him sceptically. Neither of them believed a word of it, but they couldn’t prove he was lying.

  ‘Do you know whether your father and Erik had any contact with each other?’ asked Martin at last.

  Kjell’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he were relieved that they’d changed the subject. ‘Not as far as I know. On the other hand, I have no interest in my father’s activities – except when they become the subject of one of my articles.’

  ‘Doesn’t that feel a little strange?’ said Paula. ‘Publicly criticizing your father like that?’

  ‘You of all people ought to understand the importance of actively fighting anti-foreigner sentiment,’ said Kjell. ‘It’s like a cancerous tumour in society, and we have to combat it any way we can. And if my father chooses to be part of that cancer . . . well . . . that’s his decision,’ said Kjell, throwing out his hands. ‘And by the way, my father and I have no real ties to each other, except for the fact that he happened to impregnate my mother. When I was growing up, the only time I saw him was in prison visiting rooms. As soon as I was old enough to think for myself and make my own decisions, I realized that he was not someone that I wanted in my life.’

  ‘So you’ve had no contact with each other? Is Per in contact with him?’ asked Martin, more out of curiosity than because it had any relevance to the investigation.

  ‘No, I have no contact with him. Unfortunately, my father has managed to feed my son a lot of stupid ideas. When Per was younger, we made sure they didn’t see each other, but now that he’s a teenager, well . . . we haven’t been able to stop them from meeting, as much as we’ve tried.’

  ‘All right. I don’t think there’s anything more. At least for the time being,’ said Martin, getting to his feet. Paula did the same. On their way out the door, Martin stopped and turned round.

  ‘You’re positive that you don
’t have any information either about or from Erik Frankel that we might find useful?’

  Their eyes met, and for an instant Kjell hesitated. Then he shook his head and said tersely, ‘No, nothing. Nothing at all.’

  They didn’t believe him this time either.

  Margareta was worried. No one had answered the phone at her parents’ house since Herman had come over yesterday. It was odd, and disturbing. They usually told her if they were going somewhere, but lately they seldom left home. And every evening she was in the habit of ringing her parents for a chat. It was a ritual they’d had for years, and she couldn’t remember a single time when her parents hadn’t answered the phone. But this time, it rang and rang, echoing into the void, and no one picked up at the other end. She’d wanted to go over and look in on them last night, but her husband Owe had persuaded her to wait until morning, saying that they had probably just gone to bed early. But this morning there was still no answer.

  Convinced that something must have happened to them, Margareta put on her shoes and jacket and set off for her parents’ house. It was a ten-minute walk, and the whole way there she cursed herself for letting Owe talk her out of going over earlier. She just knew something was wrong.

  When she was only a few hundred metres away, she saw a figure at her parents’ front door. She squinted to see who it was, but before she got any closer she realized it was that writer, Erica Falck.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’ Margareta asked, trying to sound friendly, but even she could hear the worry in her voice.

  ‘Er . . . yes, I was looking for Britta. But nobody seems to be at home.’ The blonde woman looked uncomfortable as she stood there on the porch.

  ‘I’m their daughter. I’ve been ringing them since yesterday, but they don’t answer the phone. So I came over to make sure everything is all right,’ said Margareta. ‘You can come in with me and wait in the hall.’ She reached up to the rafters of the little roof over the door and took down a key. Her hand was shaking as she unlocked the door.

  ‘Come on in. I’ll just go and have a look,’ she said, suddenly feeling grateful to have the company of another person. She really should have called one or both of her sisters before heading over, but then she’d have been forced to admit how serious she thought the situation might be, how worry was eating her up inside.

  She walked through the ground-floor rooms, looking around. Everything was nice and tidy and looked the same as always.

  ‘Mamma? Pappa?’ she called, but no one answered. Now she was feeling truly frightened, and she was having a hard time breathing. She should have phoned her sisters. She really should have done that.

  ‘Stay here. I’m just going upstairs to look around,’ she said to Erica. She didn’t rush up the stairs, but instead moved slowly, trembling all over. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet. But when she reached the top step, she heard a faint sound. Like someone sobbing. Almost like a little child. She stood still for a moment, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Then she realized it was coming from her parents’ bedroom. With her heart pounding, she rushed over and opened the door. It took a few seconds for her to comprehend what she was seeing. Then, as if from far away, she heard her own voice screaming for help.

  It was Per who opened the door when Frans rang the bell.

  ‘Grandpa,’ Per said, looking like a puppy that needed a pat on the head.

  ‘What have you got yourself mixed up in?’ said Frans brusquely, stepping inside.

  ‘But I . . . he . . . he was talking a lot of bullshit. Was I just supposed to take it, or what?’ Per sounded hurt. He thought that if anyone would understand, it would be his grandfather. ‘Besides, it was nothing compared to what you’ve done,’ he added defiantly, though he didn’t dare look Frans in the eye.

  ‘That’s exactly why I know what I’m talking about!’ Frans took the boy by the shoulders and gave him a shake, forcing his grandson to look at him.

  ‘Let’s go in and sit down and have a talk, then maybe I can knock some sense into that stubborn head of yours. Where’s your mother, by the way?’ Frans looked around for Carina, ready to fight for his right to talk to his grandson.

  ‘Probably sleeping it off,’ said Per, slouching into the kitchen. ‘She started drinking as soon as we got home yesterday and was still at it last night when I went to bed. But I haven’t heard anything from her in a while.’

  ‘I’ll just go in and say hello. In the meantime make us some coffee,’ said Frans.

  ‘But I don’t know how to make . . .’ Per began in a whiny tone of voice.

  ‘Then it’s time you learned,’ snapped Frans, heading for Carina’s bedroom.

  ‘Carina,’ he said loudly as he went into her room. The only sound was a loud snoring. She lay halfway off the bed, one arm touching the floor. The room smelled of stale booze and vomit.

  Taking a deep breath, Frans went over to her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and shook her.

  ‘Carina, time to get up.’ No reaction. He glanced around. The door to the bathroom opened right off her bedroom. He went in and turned on the taps to run her a bath. As the water poured into the tub, he began undressing her, unable to hide his disgust. It didn’t take long, since she was wearing only her bra and underwear. He wrapped her in a blanket, carried her to the bathroom, and without further ado put her in the tub.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ snorted his former daughter-in-law in a daze. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Frans didn’t reply. Instead, he went over to her wardrobe, opened the door, and selected some clean clothes for her. He set them on the toilet next to the tub.

  ‘Per is making coffee. Dry yourself off, get dressed, and come out to the kitchen.’

  For a moment it looked like she might refuse. Then she nodded submissively.

  ‘So, have you figured out the art of using the coffeemaker?’ he asked Per, who was sitting at the kitchen table examining his cuticles.

  ‘It’s probably going to taste like shit,’ Per grumbled. ‘But at least I tried.’

  Frans studied the pitch-black liquid that had started trickling into the glass pot. ‘It looks plenty strong, at least.’

  For a long time, he and his grandson sat at the table across from each other, not speaking. It was such a strange feeling to see his own history in somebody else. He could glimpse traces of his own father in the boy. Traces of the father that he still regretted not killing. Maybe everything would have been different if he’d done that. Summoned up all the rage boiling inside of him and directed it at the one person who truly deserved it. Instead, his anger had seeped out in a totally different direction, without any purpose. And it was still there. He knew that. He just didn’t let it run riot as he had when he was younger. Now he was in control of his fury, and not the other way around. That was what he had to make his grandson understand. There was nothing wrong with his anger, but he needed to make sure that he was the one who decided when to let it loose. Anger was an arrow to be released in a controlled manner, not an axe to be swung wildly. Frans had tried that method and as a result he’d spent much of his life in prison, and his only son couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him. He had no one else. The men in the organization were not his friends. He’d never made the mistake of assuming that they were, or tried to make them friends. They were all too consumed with their own rage to establish that sort of a relationship with each other. They shared a goal. That was all.

  He looked at Per and saw his father. But he also saw himself. And Kjell. He’d done his best to get to know his son during the brief family visits to the prison and those short periods when he was actually at home. But it was an endeavour doomed to failure. If he was honest with himself, Frans didn’t even know whether he really loved his son. Maybe he had once. Maybe his heart had once leapt when Rakel brought along their son to see him in prison. But he no longer remembered.

  The strange thing was that as he sat there at the kitchen table with his grandson, the only love he could
ever recall feeling was for Elsy. A love that was sixty years old, but it was still etched in his memory. Elsy and his grandson. They were the only people he’d ever felt any affection for. They had managed to elicit some sort of emotion from him. But it was dead now. His father had killed everything else. Frans hadn’t thought about it in a long time. About his father. Or all the rest. But recent events had made the past come alive for him. And now it was time to think about it again.

  ‘Kjell will be furious if he finds out that you came here.’ Carina stood in the doorway. She swayed a bit, but she was clean and dressed. Her hair was dripping wet, and she’d draped a towel over her shoulders so her shirt wouldn’t get wet.

  ‘I don’t care what Kjell thinks,’ said Frans drily. He got up to pour some coffee for Carina and himself.

  ‘This doesn’t look drinkable,’ she said as she sat down and stared at her cup, filled to the brim with the pitch-black brew.

  ‘Drink it,’ said Frans, opening cupboards and drawers.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Carina, taking a sip and making a face. ‘Leave my cupboards alone!’

  Frans didn’t reply as he pulled out one bottle after another and methodically poured the contents down the sink.

  ‘You have no right to interfere!’ she shouted at him. Per got up to leave.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Frans, pointing at his grandson. ‘We’re going to get to the bottom of this.’

  Per obeyed at once, sinking back on to his chair.

  An hour later, after all the booze had been dumped out, only the truth was left.

  Kjell stared at his computer screen. Feelings of guilt had been gnawing at him ever since the police had come to see him yesterday. He knew he should go and see Per and Carina, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had no idea where to start. What scared him was the realization that he was starting to give up. He could fight external enemies. He could direct all his energy to combatting the power-mongers and neo-Nazis and wage battles with windmills, no matter how big they were. But when it came to his former family, when it came to Per and Carina, it was as if he had no strength left. It had been sapped by a guilty conscience.