The Hidden Child

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘I would have told you as soon as I got home if he had,’ said Erica. ‘No, he just said that he wanted to do some more checking before he told me anything about it.’

  ‘So you still don’t know what kind of Nazi medal it is?’

  ‘No,’ said Erica, giving Patrik a meditative look. ‘But that’s definitely something I need to find out. I’ll figure out tomorrow where I should start looking.’ She turned her attention back to the folder and studied the photos from the crime scene. She picked up the picture on top and squinted.

  ‘It’s impossible to . . .’ she muttered, then got to her feet and headed upstairs.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Patrik, but she didn’t reply. A moment later Erica returned, brandishing a magnifying glass.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, peering at his wife over the top of his newspaper.

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s probably nothing, but . . . it looks like somebody scribbled something on the notepad on Erik’s desk. But I can’t really see . . .’ She bent closer to the photo, putting the magnifying glass on top of a little white patch, which was the notepad in the picture.

  ‘I think it says . . .’ She squinted again. ‘I think it says “Ignoto Militi”.’

  ‘Really? And what’s that supposed to mean?’ said Patrik.

  ‘I don’t know. Something to do with the military, I imagine. It’s probably nothing. Just scribbles,’ she said, sounding disappointed.

  ‘Erica . . .’ Patrik put down his newspaper and tilted his head. ‘I had a little talk with Martin when he brought that folder over here. And he asked me to do him a favour.’ Okay, to be honest, he was the one who had offered to help out, but he didn’t need to tell Erica that. He cleared his throat and went on. ‘He asked me to check up on somebody in Göteborg who was receiving regular bank payments from Erik Frankel. Every month for fifty years.’

  ‘Fifty years?’ said Erica, raising her eyebrows. ‘He’d been paying somebody for fifty years? What was it? Blackmail?’ She couldn’t hide the fact that she found the idea rather exciting.

  ‘Nobody knows. And it’s probably nothing, but . . . Well, Martin wondered if I could go to Göteborg and check it out.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll go with you,’ said Erica enthusiastically.

  Patrik stared at her. That wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d been expecting.

  ‘Er, well, maybe . . .’ he stammered as he pondered whether there was any reason why he shouldn’t take his wife along. After all, it was just a routine assignment, checking on some bank payments, so there shouldn’t be any problem.

  ‘Okay, come with me. Then we’ll drop by and visit Lotta afterwards so Maja can see her cousins.’

  ‘Great,’ said Erica. She liked Patrik’s sister. ‘And maybe I can find somebody in Göteborg who can tell me about the medal.’

  ‘That seems possible. Make a few calls this afternoon and see if you can find anyone who knows about that sort of thing.’ He picked up the newspaper and went back to reading. Best to make good use of his time before Maja woke up.

  Erica picked up the magnifying glass and took another look at the notepad on Erik’s desk. Ignoto Militi. Something was stirring in her subconscious.

  This time it took only half an hour before he got the hang of the steps.

  ‘Good, Bertil,’ said Rita appreciatively, giving his hand an extra little squeeze. I can feel that you’re getting into the rhythm now.’

  ‘Not bad, huh?’ said Mellberg modestly. ‘I’ve always had a talent for dancing.’

  ‘Indeed you do,’ she said with a wink. ‘I heard that you and Johanna had coffee together.’ She smiled as she looked up at him. That was something else he found attractive about Rita. He’d never been particularly tall, but since she was so petite, he felt like a giant.

  ‘I just happened to walk past your block of flats . . .’ he said, embarrassed. ‘And then I saw Johanna, and she asked if I’d like to come upstairs for coffee.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You just happened to be walking past,’ laughed Rita, as they continued to sway in time to the salsa music. ‘It’s too bad I wasn’t home when you happened to walk past. But Johanna said you had a very nice time.’

  ‘Yes, well, she’s a sweet girl,’ said Mellberg, again recalling the feel of the baby’s foot kicking against his hand. ‘A really sweet girl.’

  ‘It hasn’t always been easy for them.’ Rita sighed. ‘And I had a hard time getting used to the idea in the beginning. But I probably knew even before Paula brought Johanna home to meet me. And now they’ve been together for almost ten years, and, well, I can honestly say that there’s nobody else I’d rather see Paula with. They’re perfect for each other, so the fact that they’re both female doesn’t really seem to matter.’

  ‘But it must have been easier in Stockholm. Being accepted, I mean,’ said Mellberg cautiously. Then he swore as he stepped on Rita’s foot. ‘It’s more common there, I mean. When I watch TV, I sometimes get the impression that every other person in Stockholm is gay.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ Rita laughed. ‘But of course we were a little nervous about moving here. I have to say that I’ve been pleasantly surprised. I don’t think the girls have run into any problems so far. Or maybe people just haven’t noticed. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What are they supposed to do? Stop living? Decide not to move where they want to? No, sometimes a person has to dare to take a leap into the unknown.’ She suddenly looked sad, as if she were staring at something far away over Mellberg’s shoulder. He thought he knew what she was thinking about.

  ‘Was it hard? Having to flee?’ he asked cautiously. Usually he did his best to avoid sensitive questions, or he would ask them only because it was expected of him, and he never cared what the answer might be. But right now he really wanted to know.

  ‘It was both hard and easy,’ Rita told him, and in her dark eyes he could see that she’d been through experiences that he couldn’t even imagine. ‘It was easy to leave what had become of my country. But hard to leave the country that it once had been.’

  For a moment she lost the rhythm of the dance and stopped, her hands still in Mellberg’s. Then her eyes flashed, and she pulled her hands away and clapped loudly.

  ‘So, now it’s time to learn the next step. The twirl. Bertil, help me demonstrate.’ She took his hands again and slowly showed him the steps he needed to do in order to twirl her under his arm. It wasn’t simple, and he got his hands and feet all tangled up. But Rita didn’t lose patience. She just kept at it, over and over, until Bertil and the other couples figured it out.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ she said, looking up at Mellberg. He wondered whether she meant only the dance. Or something else as well. He hoped it was the latter.

  It was starting to get dark outside. The sheet on the hospital bed rustled faintly whenever he moved, so he tried to stay still. He preferred absolute silence. He could do nothing to control the sounds outside – the sound of voices, of people walking past, of trays clattering. But in here he would make sure that it was as quiet as possible. That the silence wasn’t disturbed by rustling sheets.

  Herman stared out of the window. As it grew darker, he was gradually able to see his own image reflected in the pane, and he noted how pitiful the figure in the bed looked. A small, grey old man with thinning hair and furrowed cheeks, wearing a white hospital gown. As if Britta had been the one who had lent him any air of authority. She had given him a dignity that filled him. She had given his life meaning. And now it was his fault that she was gone.

  His daughters had come over to see him today. Fussed over him, hugged him, stared at him with worried eyes and talked to him in concerned voices. But he hadn’t had the energy even to look at them. He was afraid they would see the guilt in his eyes. See what he had done. What he had caused.

  They had kept the secret for a long time. He and Britta. Shared it, concealed it, atoned for it. That was what he’d thought, at any rate. But when she fell ill and her defence
s started to crumble, he’d realized in a moment of clarity that it was hopeless to try to atone for anything. Sooner or later, time and fate caught up with a person. It was impossible to hide. It was impossible to flee. They had foolishly believed that it was enough to live a good life, to be good people. To love their children and raise them so they would be capable of giving love, in turn. And finally, they had convinced themselves that the good they’d created had overshadowed the bad.

  He had killed Britta. Why couldn’t they understand that? He knew that they would talk to him, ask him about things, question him. Why couldn’t they just accept the situation?

  He had killed Britta. And now he had nothing left.

  * * *

  ‘Do you have any idea who this person is? Or why Erik paid him money for all those years?’ asked Erica as they were approaching Göteborg. Maja had behaved beautifully, sitting on the back seat, and since they’d left home just before eight thirty, it was only ten o’clock by the time they drove into the city.

  ‘No, the only information we have is what you’ve already seen.’ Patrik nodded at the document in the plastic sleeve that Erica was holding on her lap.

  ‘Wilhelm Fridén, Vasagatan 38, Göteborg. Born third of October 1924,’ Erica read aloud.

  ‘That’s all we know. I talked briefly to Martin last night, and he hadn’t found any connections to Fjällbacka, and no criminal record. Nothing. So it’s really a shot in the dark. Speaking of which, what time is your appointment to see that guy about the medal?’

  ‘At noon, in his antique shop,’ said Erica, touching the pocket in which she had put the medal for safekeeping, wrapped in a soft piece of cloth.

  ‘Do you and Maja want to stay in the car while I talk to Wilhelm Fridén, or would you rather take a walk?’ asked Patrik as he pulled into a parking place on Vasagatan.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Erica, sounding insulted. ‘I want to go with you, of course.’

  ‘But you can’t. What about Maja?’ Patrik replied awkwardly, even though he could already tell how this conversation was going to go. And how it would end.

  ‘If you can take her along to crime scenes and the police station, then she can come with us to talk to a man who is over eighty years old,’ she said, her tone of voice making it clear that there was no room for discussion.

  ‘Okay,’ said Patrik with a sigh. He knew when he was beaten.

  The flat was on the third floor of a turn-of-the-century apartment building. The doorbell was answered by a man in his sixties. He gave them an enquiring look as he opened the door. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  Patrik held out his police ID. ‘My name is Patrik Hedström, and I’m from the Tanumshede police. I have a few questions regarding a man named Wilhelm Fridén.’

  ‘Who is it?’ They heard a faint female voice from inside the flat. The man turned around and shouted, ‘It’s the police. They want to ask some questions about Pappa!’

  He turned back to Patrik. ‘I can’t imagine why on earth the police would be interested in Pappa, but come on in.’ He stepped aside to let them in and then raised his eyebrows in surprise when he saw Maja in Erica’s arms.

  ‘The police are starting them young these days,’ he remarked with amusement.

  Patrik smiled, embarrassed. ‘This is my wife, Erica Falck, and our daughter Maja. They . . . er . . . my wife has a personal interest in the case that we’re investigating, and . . .’ He stopped. There didn’t seem to be any good way to explain why a police officer would drag along his wife and child to an interview.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Göran Fridén, and it’s my father that you’re asking about.’

  Patrik studied him with curiosity. He was of medium height with grey, slightly curly hair and friendly blue eyes.

  ‘Is your father at home?’ asked Patrik as they followed Göran Fridén down a long hall.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re too late if you want to ask my father any questions. He died two weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Patrik, surprised. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. He had been convinced that the man, in spite of his age, was still alive, since his name wasn’t on the list of deceased in the public registry. But that was no doubt because he’d died so recently. It was common knowledge that it took time before information was entered into the registry. He felt extremely disappointed. Had this lead, which his intuition told him was important, already gone cold?

  ‘But you could talk to my mother, if you like,’ said Göran, motioning them towards the living room. ‘I don’t know what this is about, but after you’ve told us, maybe she’ll be able to help.’

  A small, frail woman with snow-white hair got up from the sofa and came across to shake hands.

  ‘Märta Fridén.’ She studied them quizzically and then broke into a big smile when she saw Maja. ‘Hi, there! Oh, what an adorable little girl! What’s her name?’

  ‘Maja,’ said Erica proudly, taking an instant liking to Märta Fridén.

  ‘Hi, Maja,’ said Märta, patting her cheek. Maja beamed happily at all the attention, but then started kicking to get down when she caught sight of an old doll sitting on the sofa.

  ‘No, Maja,’ said Erica sternly, trying to restrain her daughter.

  ‘It’s all right. Let her take a look at it,’ said Märta, with a wave of her hand. ‘There’s nothing here that she shouldn’t touch. Since Wilhelm passed away, I’ve realized that we can’t take anything with us when we die.’ Her eyes took on a sorrowful expression, and her son stepped close to put his arm around her.

  ‘Sit down, Mamma. I’ll make our guests some coffee while you have a talk with them in peace and quiet.’

  Märta watched him as he left the room, heading for the kitchen. ‘He’s a good boy,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be a burden to him; children should be allowed to live their own lives. But sometimes he’s too nice for his own good. Wilhelm was so proud of him.’ She seemed to get lost in her memories for a moment, but then turned to Patrik.

  ‘So, why would the police want to talk to my Wilhelm?’

  Patrik cleared his throat. He felt that he was treading on thin ice. Maybe he was about to bring a lot of things into the light which this sweet old lady would rather not know about. But he had no choice. Hesitantly he said:

  ‘Well, the thing is, we’re investigating a murder up north in Fjällbacka. I’m from the Tanumshede police station, you see, and Fjällbacka belongs to the Tanum police district.’

  ‘Oh, good heavens. A murder?’ said Märta, frowning.

  ‘Yes, a man by the name of Erik Frankel was killed,’ said Patrik, pausing to see whether the name would prompt any reaction. But from what he could tell, Märta didn’t seem to recognize it.

  ‘Erik Frankel? That doesn’t sound familiar. What led you to Wilhelm?’ She leaned forward, looking interested.

  ‘Ah, er . . . you see,’ Patrik hesitated. ‘The thing is, for almost fifty years this Erik Frankel has been making monthly payments to Wilhelm Fridén. Your husband. And of course we’re wondering why he did that, and what sort of connection there was between the two men.’

  ‘Wilhelm got money from . . . from a man in Fjällbacka by the name of Erik Frankel?’ Märta looked genuinely surprised. At that moment Göran came back, carrying a tray with coffee cups. ‘So what’s this all about?’ he asked, giving them an enquiring look.

  His mother was the one who replied. ‘These officers say that a man by the name of Erik Frankel, who was found murdered, was paying your father money every month for the past fifty years.’

  ‘What’s this?’ exclaimed Göran as he sat down on the sofa next to his mother. ‘To Pappa? Why?’

  ‘Well, that’s what we’d like to find out,’ said Patrik. ‘We were hoping that Wilhelm could answer the question himself.’

  ‘Dolly,’ said Maja with delight as she held out the old doll towards Märta.

  ‘Yes, it’s a doll,’ said Märta, smiling. ‘It was mine when I was littl
e.’

  Maja gave the doll a tender hug. Märta could hardly take her eyes off the girl.

  ‘What an enchanting child,’ she said, and Erica nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘What kind of sums are we talking about?’ asked Göran, staring at Patrik.

  ‘Not large sums of money. Two thousand kronor a month during the past few years. But it had gradually increased over time, apparently keeping pace with inflation. So even though the amount changed, the actual value seems to have remained constant.’

  ‘Why didn’t Pappa ever tell us about this?’ Göran asked his mother. She shook her head.

  ‘I have no idea. But Wilhelm and I never discussed financial matters. He took care of all those sorts of things while I took care of the house. That was customary for our generation. It was how we divided up the work load. If it weren’t for you, Göran, I’d be completely lost trying to take care of bank accounts and loans and that sort of thing.’ She squeezed her son’s hand.

  ‘I’m happy to help you, Mamma, you know that.’

  ‘Do you have any financial statements that we might have a look at?’ asked Patrik, sounding a bit discouraged. He’d been hoping to get answers to all his questions about these strange monthly payments, but he seemed to have reached a dead end.

  ‘We don’t have any documents here at home. Our lawyers have everything,’ said Göran apologetically. ‘But I can ask them to make copies and send them to you.’

  ‘We would really appreciate that,’ said Patrik, feeling more hopeful. Maybe they’d still be able to get to the bottom of this.

  ‘Oh, forgive me, I completely forgot about the coffee,’ said Göran, getting up from the sofa.

  ‘We need to get going anyway,’ said Patrik, glancing at his watch. ‘So please don’t go to any trouble for our sake.’

  ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.’ Märta tilted her head and smiled at Patrik.

  ‘Don’t worry, that’s how things go sometimes. And again, please accept my condolences,’ said Patrik. ‘I hope we haven’t caused you too much distress by coming here to ask questions so soon after . . . Well, we didn’t know . . .’