The Hidden Child

by Camilla Lackberg

  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 l
ot 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.