Finally the signals got through, and he began to open the letter, very slowly. There were three pages, handwritten, and it took a few sentences before he managed to decipher the words. But he managed it.
When he was finished, he set it back down on the desk. And for the last time he felt the warmth of his father’s hand holding his. Then he grabbed his jacket and car keys. He carefully slipped the letter into his pocket.
There was only one thing for him to do now.
Chapter 44
Germany 1945
They were picked up from the concentration camp in Neuengamme. It was rumoured that the white buses had first had to remove a lot of other prisoners, including Poles, from the camp before they could make room for the Nordic prisoners. It was also rumoured that this had cost a number of people their lives. The prisoners of other nationalities had been in much worse shape than the Scandinavians, who had received food parcels by various means and so had managed to survive the camps in relatively better condition. It was said that many failed to survive the journey, while others had endured terrible suffering during their transport from the camp. But even if the rumours were true, nobody dared think about that now. Not when freedom was suddenly within reach. Bernadotte had negotiated with the Germans and secured permission to bring home the Nordic prisoners, and now they were finally on their way.
His legs wobbling, Axel climbed on board the white bus. This would be his second journey in a matter of months, and the horrors of the last one – from Sachsenhausen to Neuengamme – still kept him awake at night. He would lie in his bunk reliving the hell of being locked in a freight car, listening to the bombs falling all around them, sometimes exploding so close that they could hear debris raining down on the roof above them. But miraculously none of the bombs had scored a direct hit. For some reason, Axel had survived even that. And now, just as he had almost lost all will to live, word had come that they were finally going home.
He was one of the few prisoners still capable of making his way unaided. Some were in such bad shape that they had to be carried on board. Carefully he settled down on the floor, drawing up his legs and listlessly resting his head on his knees. He couldn’t comprehend it. He was going home. To his mother and father. And to Erik. To Fjällbacka. In his mind’s eye he pictured everything so clearly. All the things he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for such a long time. But finally, now that he knew it was all within reach, he allowed the thoughts and memories to pour over him. At the same time, he knew that life would never be the same. He would never be the same. He had seen things, experienced things, that had changed him for ever.
He hated how he had changed. Hated what he had been forced to do and what he had been forced to witness. And it wasn’t over yet, just because he had climbed into this bus. Their journey was a long one, and along the way they saw towns reduced to smouldering rubble and a country in ruins. Two prisoners died, one of them Axel’s neighbour whose shoulder he had leaned against for the brief periods when he was able to sleep. One morning Axel shifted his position on waking and the man toppled, his body stiff and cold as if he’d been dead for some time. Axel had simply pushed the body away and called to one of the people in charge of the transport. Then he had hunkered down in his place again. It was just another death. He had seen so many.
He found himself constantly raising his hand to touch his ear. Sometimes he heard a roaring sound, but most often it was filled with an empty, rushing silence. So many times he had pictured that scene in his mind. Of course he had endured things that were much worse since then, but there was something about the sight of the guard’s rifle butt coming towards him that represented the ultimate betrayal. In spite of the fact that they stood on opposite sides in the war, they had established a human contact that had given him a sense of respect and security. But when he saw the boy raise the butt of his rifle and felt the pain as it struck him above the ear, all his illusions about the innate goodness of human beings had been shattered.
As he sat there in the bus, surrounded by others who had suffered as he had, many of them so sick and traumatized that they would not survive, he made a sacred vow to himself: he would never rest until he had brought to justice those responsible. He would make it his mission to see to it that the guilty did not escape punishment.
Axel put his hand up to his ear again and tried to picture the home he had left. Soon, very soon, he would be there.
Chapter 45
Paula chewed on her pen as she read through one document after another. On the desk in front of her was a stack of papers that represented everything they had on Erik Frankel’s murder, and she was reviewing the material in the hope of finding some small detail they had overlooked. Knowing the folly of trying to shape evidence to fit a theory, she set aside the suspicion that Frans Ringholm had killed Erik and concentrated on finding anything that raised questions. So far she had come up empty. But there was still a considerable amount of material left to go through.
She was having a hard time concentrating. Johanna’s due date was fast approaching, and she could go into labour at any moment. When she thought about what lay ahead, Paula felt a mixture of joy and fear. A child; someone she would have to be responsible for. If she had talked to Martin, he would undoubtedly have recognized every one of the thoughts that was whirling through her mind, but she kept her concerns to herself. In her case, the worry had an extra dimension: had she and Johanna done the right thing by realizing their dream of having a baby? Would it turn out to be a selfish act, something that their child would end up paying the price for? Should they have stayed in Stockholm and raised their child there instead? Here, their little family would be more likely to draw attention. Yet something told Paula that they’d made the right decision. Everyone had been very friendly, and so far she hadn’t encountered anyone who’d looked at them askance. Of course, that might change after the baby arrived. Who knew?
Sighing, she reached for the next document on the pile: the technical analysis of the murder weapon. The stone bust had stood on the windowsill for years, but after the murder it had been found, stained with blood, under the desk. Forensics had checked for fingerprints and foreign substances, but all they could identify were traces of Erik’s blood, hair, and brain matter. She tossed the report aside and picked up the crime-scene photographs. She was impressed that Patrik’s wife had noticed what it said on the notepad: Ignoto militi . . . ‘To the unknown soldier.’ Paula hadn’t spotted it when she’d looked at the photos and, even if she had, she had to admit that she most likely wouldn’t have thought to check what the words meant. Erica had not only discovered the words, she had also managed to link them to other leads and possibilities, which had led them to Hans Olavsen’s body.
Paula set down the photograph and opened her notepad. Though they had narrowed it down to within a few days, they hadn’t managed to pinpoint the exact time of Erik Frankel’s murder. Paula wondered whether she might be able to figure out something more based on the dates that they had. She began drawing up a chronology of events, starting with Erica’s visit to Erik Frankel, Erik’s drunken parting with Viola, Axel’s trip to Paris, and the cleaning woman’s attempt to get into the house. She scanned through the documents, to find any information on Frans’s whereabouts during that period, but she found only the statements from his henchmen at Sweden’s Friends, all of whom swore Frans was in Denmark on the days in question. Damn it! They should have pressed Frans for more details while they had the chance. But given his criminal record he would no doubt have taken the precaution of equipping himself with documents that supported his alibi. Still, what was it Martin had said during the investigative review? There was no such thing as a watertight alibi . . .
Paula sat up with a start. A thought had occurred to her, and immediately she knew she was on to something. There was one thing that they hadn’t checked.
‘Patrik? Hi, it’s me – Karin. Do you think you could come over and help with something? Leif left this morning, and now the
re’s water pouring out of a pipe in the basement.’
‘Well, I’m no expert,’ said Patrik hesitantly. ‘But I suppose I could take a look, see if I can fix it without you having to call in a plumber.’
‘That’s great,’ she said, sounding relieved. ‘Bring Maja along if you like. She can play with Ludde.’
‘I’ll do that. Erica’s working, so I don’t want to bother her if I can help it.’
Fifteen minutes later, as he turned into the driveway to Karin and Leif’s house in Sumpan, he had to admit that it felt a bit strange, seeing the home where his ex-wife now lived with the man whose thrusting white backside he sometimes pictured in his mind. It wasn’t easy to forget the moment he’d caught his wife and her lover in the act.
Karin opened the door, holding Ludde in her arms, before Patrik even rang the bell. ‘Come in,’ she said, moving out of the way to let him through.
‘The rescue squad is here,’ he said teasingly as he set Maja down. She was immediately joined by Ludde, who took her hand and pulled her down the hall towards what appeared to be his room.
‘It’s down here.’ Karin opened a door leading to the basement stairs.
‘Will they be okay?’ asked Patrik nervously, glancing towards Ludde’s room.
‘They’ll keep themselves busy for a few minutes, no problem,’ said Karin, motioning for Patrik to follow her downstairs.
At the foot of the stairs she pointed to a pipe on the ceiling with a concerned expression on her face. Patrik went over to inspect it and then was able to reassure her.
‘Hmm . . . I think it’s an exaggeration to say that the water is pouring out. Looks more like condensation.’ He pointed to a few scanty drops of water on top of the pipe.
‘Oh, that’s good. I got so worried when I saw that it was wet,’ said Karin. ‘It’s really nice of you to come over. Could I offer you some coffee by way of a thank you, or do you need to get back home?’
‘Sure, we’re not on any schedule. Coffee would be nice.’ A short time later they were sitting in the kitchen, eating the biscuits that Karin had set on the table.
‘You weren’t expecting homemade biscuits, were you?’ she asked, smiling at Patrik.
He reached for an ‘oatmeal dream’ and shook his head as he laughed. ‘No, baking was never your strong suit. Or cooking in general, to be frank.’
‘Hey, how can you say that?’ said Karin, looking offended. ‘It couldn’t have been that bad. You used to like my meat loaf, at least.’
Patrik grinned wickedly and rocked his hand to indicate it had been so-so. ‘I just said that because you were so proud of it. But I always wondered whether I ought to sell the recipe to the home guard so they could use it for cannon fodder.’
‘Hey, watch it!’ said Karin. ‘Now you’re going too far!’ Then she laughed. ‘You’re right, though, cooking isn’t really my forte. That’s something Leif loves to point out. Of course, he doesn’t seem to think I’m much good at anything.’ Her voice broke and tears welled up in her eyes. Patrik impulsively put his hand over hers.
‘Are things that bad?’
She nodded, wiping her tears with a napkin. ‘We’ve agreed to separate. We had the world’s worst fight this weekend and realized that this just isn’t working. So he’s packed his bags and he’s not coming back.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Patrik, keeping his hand on hers. ‘
Do you know what hurts the most?’ she said. ‘The fact that I don’t really miss him. This was all a big mistake.’ Her voice broke again, and Patrik started to get an uneasy feeling about where this conversation was headed.
‘Things were so good between us – you and me. Weren’t they? If only I hadn’t been so damn stupid.’ She sobbed into the napkin as she grabbed hold of Patrik’s hand. Now he couldn’t very well take it back, even though he knew he should.
‘I know that you’ve moved on. I know that you have Erica. But we had something special. Didn’t we? Isn’t there a chance that we could . . . that you and I could . . .’ She couldn’t finish the sentence but just squeezed his hand harder, pleading with him.
Patrik swallowed but then said calmly, ‘I love Erica. That’s the first thing you need to know. And secondly, the picture you have of what our marriage was like is just a fantasy, something you’ve made up after the fact because you and Leif aren’t getting along. We had a good relationship, but it wasn’t anything special. That was why things turned out the way they did. It was just a matter of time.’ Patrik looked into her eyes. ‘And you know that too, if you just think about it. We stayed married mostly because it was convenient, not because of love. So in a way you did both of us a service, even though I wish that it hadn’t ended the way it did. But you’re fooling yourself right now. Okay?’
Karin started crying again, largely because she felt so humiliated. Patrik understood and moved over to the chair next to her, putting his arms around her and leaning her head against his shoulder as he stroked her hair. ‘Shhh . . .’ he said. ‘There, there . . . Things will work out . . .’
‘How can you be so . . . When I . . . just made such a . . . fool of myself?’ Karin stammered.
Patrik calmly continued stroking her hair. ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said. ‘You’re upset and not thinking very clearly at the moment. But you know that I’m right.’ He picked up his napkin and wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks. ‘Do you want me to leave, or should we finish our coffee?’ he asked.
She hesitated for a moment, but then said, ‘If we can overlook the fact that I just threw myself at you, then I’d like you to stay a little while longer.’
‘All right, then,’ said Patrik, moving back to the chair across from her. ‘I have the memory of a goldfish, so in ten seconds all I’ll remember are these delicious store-bought biscuits.’ He winked, reaching for another oatmeal dream.
‘What is Erica writing now?’ asked Karin, desperate to change the subject.
‘She’s supposed to be working on a new book, but she’s been caught up in some research into her mother’s past,’ said Patrik, also grateful to be talking about something else.
‘How did she happen to get interested in that?’ asked Karin, genuinely curious.
Patrik told her about what they’d found in the chest up in the attic and how Erica had discovered connections to the murders that the whole town was talking about.
‘What she’s most frustrated about is that for years her mother kept a diary, but the diaries she’s found only go up to 1944. Either Elsy suddenly decided to stop writing, or there are a bunch of blue notebooks stored somewhere, but not in our house,’ said Patrik.
Karin gave a start. ‘What did you say those diaries look like?’
Patrik frowned and gave her a puzzled look. ‘Thin blue books, a bit like the exercise books used in schools. Why?’
‘Because in that case, I think I know where they are,’ replied Karin.
‘You have a visitor,’ said Annika, sticking her head in to Martin’s office.
‘Really? Who is it?’ he asked, but his question was immediately answered as Kjell Ringholm appeared in the doorway.
‘I’m not here in my capacity as a journalist,’ he said at once, holding up his hands when he saw that Martin was about to object. ‘I’m here as the son of Frans Ringholm,’ he said, sitting down heavily on the visitor’s chair.
‘I’m very sorry . . .’ said Martin, not really knowing how to go on. Everybody knew what sort of relationship the Ringholms had had.
Kjell waved away his embarrassment and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘This was delivered today.’ His tone was expressionless, but his hand shook as he tossed the letter on to Martin’s desk. Martin picked it up and opened it after receiving a nod of consent from Kjell. He read the three handwritten pages in silence, but raised his eyebrows several times.
‘So your father takes the blame not only for the murder of Britta Johansson, but also the deaths of Hans Olavsen and Erik Frankel,’ said Martin, star
ing at Kjell.
‘Yes, that’s what it says,’ replied Kjell, looking down. ‘But I expect you’d already assumed as much, so it won’t come as much of a surprise.’
‘I’d be lying if I told you otherwise,’ said Martin, nodding. ‘But Britta’s murder is the only one where we have concrete proof against him.’
‘Then this ought to help,’ said Kjell, pointing at the letter.
‘And you’re sure that . . .?’
‘That it’s my father’s handwriting? Yes,’ Kjell told him. ‘I’m quite sure. That letter was written by my father. And I’m not really surprised,’ he added, sounding bitter. ‘But I would have thought . . .’ He shook his head.
Martin read through the letter again. ‘In actual fact, he only confesses to killing Britta. The rest is rather vague: I am to blame for Erik’s death, and also for the death of the man that you’ve found in a grave that should not have been his.’
Kjell shrugged. ‘I don’t see the difference. He was just being pretentious, phrasing it differently. I have no doubt that it was my father who . . .’ He didn’t finish what he was going to say, just sighed heavily, as if trying to keep all his feelings in check.
Martin went back to reading the letter aloud. ‘I thought that I could handle things the way I usually do, that a single act of violence would solve everything, keep everything under wraps. But even as I lifted the pillow off her face, I knew that it wouldn’t solve anything. And I understood that there was only one option left. That I had come to the end of the line. That the past had finally caught up with me.’ Martin looked at Kjell. ‘Do you know what he means? What was it he wanted to keep under wraps? What does he mean by the past catching up with him?’
The Hidden Child Page 42