The Hidden Child. Camilla Lackberg
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to do with deficient toilet training or something like that.’
‘Well, that’s one theory.’ Martin smiled. ‘Have you found anything? There’s nothing of interest here.’ He closed the last drawer that he’d been looking through.
‘Nope, nothing yet. Mostly bills, invoices, stuff like that. Do you realize they’ve saved every single electricity bill since time immemorial? Arranged by date.’ Gösta shook his head. ‘Here, take one of these files.’ From the bookshelf behind the desk he pulled out a big, thick binder with a black spine and handed it to his colleague.
Martin took it over to one of the armchairs and sat down to read. Gösta was right. Everything was systematically arranged. He went over each item, and was despairing of finding anything significant when he came to the letter ‘S’. A quick glance showed that ‘S’ stood for ‘Sweden’s Friends’. Curious, he started leafing through the papers, which proved to be letters. Each one bore a printed logo in the upper right-hand corner showing a crown against a billowing Swedish flag. They had all been written by the same person: Frans Ringholm.
‘Listen to this –’ Martin began reading aloud from one of the first letters, which according to the date was among the most recent:
‘In spite of our shared history, I can no longer ignore the fact that you are actively working against the goals and aims of Sweden’s Friends, and this will inevitably lead to consequences. I’ve done my best for the sake of old friendship, but there are powerful forces within the organization that do not look upon this kindly, and there will come a time when I can no longer offer you protection …’
Martin raised one eyebrow. ‘And it goes on in the same vein.’ He quickly leafed through the other letters and saw that there were four more.
‘It looks as if Erik Frankel managed to upset some neo-Nazi group, but paradoxically enough, someone in that very organization was shielding him.’
‘A protector who ultimately failed.’
‘So it seems. Let’s go through the rest of the documents and see if we can find out anything else. But there’s no doubt we need to have a talk with this Frans Ringholm.’
‘Ringholm …’ Gösta stared straight ahead as he thought. ‘I recognize that name.’ He frowned as he racked his brain to come up with a connection, but in vain. He was still looking pensive as they silently combed through the rest of the binders.
After nearly an hour, Martin closed the last one and said, ‘Well, I didn’t find anything of interest. How about you?’
Gösta shook his head. ‘No, and there aren’t any other references to that group called Sweden’s Friends.’
They left the library and searched the rest of the house. Erik Frankel’s fascination with Germany and the Second World War was evident throughout, but nothing caught their attention. It was a beautiful house, but it appeared that the brothers had left the place pretty much as it was when they’d inherited it. The parents’ presence was palpable: black-and-white photographs of them, along with other relatives, hung on the walls or were displayed in heavy frames set on top of bureaus and sideboards. The furnishings were rather outmoded, and had begun to show signs of wear; the whole place had a feeling of age. A thin layer of dust was the only thing disturbing the order.
‘I wonder if they did the dusting themselves or if they had someone come in to clean?’ said Martin, running a finger over the surface of the chest of drawers in one of the three bedrooms upstairs.
‘I have a hard time picturing two men in their late seventies doing the dusting,’ said Gösta as he opened the door to the wardrobe. ‘What do you think? Is this Erik’s or Axel’s room?’ He looked at the row of brown jackets and white shirts hanging inside the wardrobe.
‘Erik’s,’ said Martin. He’d picked up a book lying on the bedside table and now held it up to show the title page where a name had been written in pencil: Erik Frankel. It was a biography of Albert Speer. ‘Hitler’s architect,’ Martin read aloud from the back cover before he put the book back where he’d found it.
‘He spent twenty years in Spandau prison after the war,’ murmured Gösta, and Martin gave him a look of surprise.
‘How do you know that?’
‘The Frankels aren’t the only ones interested in the Second World War. I’ve read a lot about it over the years. And seen some documentaries on the Discovery channel and the like.’
‘Is that so?’ said Martin, still looking surprised. In all the years they’d worked together this was the first time he’d heard Gösta show an interest in anything besides golf.
They spent another hour searching the house but found nothing more. Yet Martin felt pleased with their efforts as he drove back to the station. The name Frans Ringholm gave them something to go on.
The supermarket wasn’t too busy, and Patrik took his time strolling down the aisles. It was a relief to get out of the house for a while, a relief to have some time to himself. This was only the second day of his paternity leave, but while part of him rejoiced in the opportunity to stay home with Maja another part was having a hard time adjusting. Not because he didn’t have enough to do during the day – he’d quickly realized that he had his hands full taking care of a one-year-old. He was ashamed to admit that the problem was, he didn’t find it particularly … stimulating. And it was unbelievable how restricted he felt. He couldn’t even go to the toilet in peace, since Maja had got into the habit of standing outside and crying ‘Pappa, Pappa, Pappa, Pappa’ as she banged on the door with her tiny fists until he relented and let her in. Then she’d stand there and stare at him with curiosity as he did what he’d always done before in much greater privacy.
He felt slightly guilty about leaving Erica to take over while he went out to do errands. But Maja was asleep, so she could carry on working. Maybe he should ring home and check, though, just to be sure. He stuck his hand in his pocket to get his mobile phone, then realized that he’d left it on the kitchen counter. Damn! Never mind, it was probably okay.
Finding himself in the baby-food section, he started reading the labels: Beef stew with cream gravy, fish in dill sauce. Hmm … Spaghetti with meat sounded much better. He took five jars. Maybe he should really start cooking food for Maja at home. That’s a great idea, he thought, and put back three of the jars. He could be the big chef, and Maja could sit next to him, and …
‘Let me guess. You’re making the typical rookie mistake of thinking you could cook these things yourself.’
The voice was familiar but somehow seemed out of place. Patrik turned around.
‘Karin? Hi! What are you doing here?’ Patrik hadn’t expected to bump into his ex-wife in the Konsum supermarket in Fjällbacka. They hadn’t seen each other since she moved out of their terraced house in Tanumshede and moved in with the man she’d been in bed with when Patrik discovered them together. An image of that scene flitted through his mind but quickly vanished. It was all so long ago. Water under the bridge, so to speak.
‘Leif and I have bought a house here in Fjällbacka. In the Basket district.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Patrik, trying not to look surprised.
‘Yes, we wanted to move closer to Leif’s parents now that we have Ludde.’ She pointed to her shopping cart, and only now did Patrik notice the little boy sitting there, grinning from ear to ear.
‘How about that for timing,’ said Patrik. ‘I’ve got a little girl at home, about the same age. Her name is Maja.’
‘I’d heard rumours to that effect,’ said Karin, laughing. ‘You’re married to Erica Falck, right? Tell her that I love her books!’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Patrik, waving to Ludde.
‘But what are you doing now?’ he asked Karin. ‘Last I heard, you were working for an accounting firm.’
‘Oh,