Читать книгу The Hidden Child - Camilla Lackberg - Страница 14

‘All I’m saying is that you might have mentioned it. I stood there looking like an idiot when Kristina said that you and Karin were out taking a walk together.’

‘Er, uh … okay, I know.’ Patrik hung his head. The hour that Kristina had spent drinking coffee with them had been filled with undercurrents and surreptitious glances, and no sooner had she closed the front door behind her than Erica had exploded.

‘It’s not the fact that you’re out walking with your ex-wife that bothers me. I’m not the jealous type, and you know it. But why didn’t you tell me? That’s what upsets me.’

‘Sure, I can understand that …’ Patrik avoided looking Erica in the eye.

‘Understand! Is that all you can say? No explanation? I mean, I thought we could tell each other everything!’ Erica could sense that she was approaching the borderline of what might be considered an extreme over-reaction. But all the frustration of the past few days had now found an outlet, and she couldn’t stop herself.

‘And I thought the division of labour between us was clear! You were going to take paternity leave, and I was going to work. Instead you keep interrupting me, running upstairs to my workroom as if it has a revolving door, and yesterday you even had the nerve to leave the house for two hours and leave me to look after Maja. How do you think I handled things during the year I was home alone with her? Do you think I had some bloody maid who could step in whenever I needed to run out to do errands? Or someone who could tell me where Maja’s mittens were? Do you?’ Erica could hear how shrill her voice was, and she wondered whether it was really possible for her to sound like that. She cut herself off in mid-flow and then said in a more muted tone:

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … You know what? I think I’ll go for a walk. I need to get out of the house for a while.’

‘Do that,’ said Patrik, peering from under his fringe like a turtle cautiously sticking its head out to see if the coast was clear. ‘And I’m sorry that I didn’t …’ He gave her a pleading look.

‘Oh, don’t give me that look,’ said Erica, smiling faintly. The white flag had been hoisted. She regretted flying off the handle, but they’d have to talk later. Right now she needed some fresh air.

She walked through town at a brisk pace. Fjällbacka seemed strangely deserted now that summer was over and the tourists had gone home. It was like a living room on the morning after a party: dirty glasses holding the dregs of wine and beer, a crumpled banner in the corner, a party hat perched askew on the head of a guest who had passed out on the sofa. But Erica actually preferred this time of year. Summertime was so intense, so intrusive. Right now a calm had settled over Ingrid Bergman Square. Maria and Mats would keep the Centrum kiosk open for a few more days and then close it up and return to their business in Sälen, just as they did every year. And that was what Erica loved so much about Fjällbacka: the predictability of it all. Each year the same thing, the same cycles. Exactly as it had been the year before.

Erica said hi to everyone she met as she walked past Ingrid Bergman Square and up Galärbacken. She knew, or knew of, almost everybody in town. But she picked up speed as soon as anyone seemed inclined to stop for a chat. She just wasn’t in the mood.

It was only as she passed the petrol station that she realized where she was heading.

‘Three cases of assault, two bank robberies, plus a few miscellaneous charges. But no convictions for agitating against ethnic groups,’ said Paula, closing the passenger-side door of the police vehicle. ‘I also came across a file on a guy named Per Ringholm, but only minor offences.’

‘That’s his grandson,’ said Martin, closing the door on the driver’s side. They had driven to Grebbestad, where Frans Ringholm lived in a flat next door to the Gästis Hotel.

‘I’ve had my share of drunken nights in that place,’ said Martin, nodding in the direction of Gästis.

‘I can imagine. But those days are over, right?’

‘You can say that again. I haven’t seen the inside of a dance hall in more than a year.’ He didn’t sound particularly unhappy about it. These days he was so in love with Pia that he never wanted to leave the flat they shared unless it was absolutely necessary. But before he found his princess he’d had to kiss quite a number of frogs, or rather toads.

‘What about you?’ Martin looked at Paula.

‘What about me?’ She pretended not to understand the question. And before he could pursue it any further they reached the door to Frans’s flat. Martin knocked loudly and was rewarded with the sound of footsteps approaching from inside.

‘Yes?’ A man with silvery grey hair, cropped so short that it was no more than stubble, opened the door. He was wearing jeans and a checked shirt, the type that the Swedish author Jan Guillou always wore, displaying a complete lack of interest in fashion trends.

‘Frans Ringholm?’ Martin studied him with open curiosity. The man was well known in the area – and beyond, as Martin had discovered after searching the Internet at home. Apparently Ringholm was a founder of one of Sweden’s fastest growing anti-foreigner organizations, and according to the chatter in various online forums, the group was starting to become a major force.

‘That’s right. What can I do for’ – he looked Martin and Paula up and down – ‘you officers?’

‘We have a few questions we’d like to ask you. May we come in?’

Frans stepped aside without comment, merely raising one eyebrow. Martin looked around the flat in surprise. He didn’t know what he was expecting; something dirtier and messier, perhaps. Instead the flat was so tidy that it made his own place seem like a junkie’s den.

‘Have a seat.’ Frans motioned towards a couple of sofas in the living room to the right of the entry hall. ‘I just put on a fresh pot of coffee. Milk? Sugar?’ His voice was calm and courteous, and Martin and Paula exchanged slightly disconcerted looks.

‘None of the above, thanks,’ replied Martin.

‘Just milk, no sugar,’ said Paula as she entered the living room ahead of Martin. They sat down next to each other on the white sofa and looked around. The room was bright and airy, with big windows facing the sea. The flat didn’t seem overly fastidious, just comfortable and well-kept.

‘Here, have some coffee.’ Frans came in carrying a heavily loaded tray. He set down three cups of steaming coffee, and then a big plate of biscuits.

‘Go ahead and help yourselves.’ He gestured towards the coffee table and then picked up one of the cups before leaning back in a big armchair. ‘So, how can I be of service?’

Paula took a sip of coffee. Then she said, ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the man who was found dead just outside of Fjällbacka.’

‘Erik, yes,’ said Frans, nodding sadly before sipping his coffee. ‘Yes, I was very upset when I heard the news. It’s awful for Axel. This must be a terrible time for him.’

‘Er, yes, well …’ Martin cleared his throat. He’d been caught off guard by the man’s friendliness, and by the fact that Ringholm was the complete opposite of what he’d expected. But he pulled himself together and said: ‘The reason that we’d like to talk to you is that we found some letters from you in the house, addressed to Erik Frankel.’

‘Oh, so he saved those letters,’ said Frans, chuckling as he reached for a biscuit. ‘Erik loved to collect things. You young people probably think it’s extremely old-fashioned to send letters. But those of us who belong to the older generation have a hard time giving up old habits.’ He gave Paula a friendly wink. She almost smiled back but reminded herself that the man sitting in front of her had devoted his whole life to trying to thwart and combat people like herself.

‘In your letters you talk about a threat …’ She put on a stern expression.

‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a threat.’ Frans regarded her calmly, again leaning back in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other before going on. ‘I just thought I ought to mention to Erik that there existed certain … forces within the organization that didn’t always behave – how shall I put it? – sensibly.’

‘And you felt compelled to inform Erik of this because …?’

‘Erik and I had been friends since we were boys, though I’ll openly admit that we’d drifted apart, and there hadn’t been any real friendship between us for years. We … chose rather different paths in life.’ Frans smiled. ‘But I didn’t wish Erik any harm, so when I had the chance to warn him, I did. Some people have a hard time understanding that resorting to physical force isn’t always the best solution.’

‘You yourself haven’t been a stranger to … resorting to physical force,’ said Martin. ‘Three convictions for assault, several for bank robbery, and from what I understand you didn’t exactly serve out your time like some sort of Dalai Lama.’

Far from taking offence, Frans merely smiled at Martin’s comments in a manner reminiscent of the Dalai Lama. ‘To everything there is a season. Prison has its own rules, and only one language is understood. I’ve also heard that wisdom comes with age, and I’ve learned my lesson along the way.’

‘Has your grandson learned his lesson yet?’ Martin reached for a biscuit as he asked the question. In a flash Frans’s hand shot out and grabbed Martin’s wrist in an iron grip.

Fixing his eyes on the police officer, Frans snarled: ‘My grandson has nothing to do with this. Do you understand?’

Martin held his gaze for a long time before tearing his hand away. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he said in a low voice, resisting the urge to massage his sore wrist.

Frans laughed and leaned back. He was again his friendly, avuncular self. But for a few seconds the façade had cracked to show rage lurking behind the outward calm. The question was whether Erik had borne the brunt of that rage.

Ernst tugged eagerly at the lead, unable to understand why his master suddenly insisted on taking baby steps and pausing to look around him all the while. The more Mellberg fought to restrain the animal, the more Ernst strained against the lead, determined to pick up the pace.

They had walked almost the entire route before Mellberg was rewarded for his efforts. He was on the verge of giving up when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him and Ernst started prancing with joy at the approach of a playmate.

‘So you’re out for a walk too.’ Rita’s voice sounded as cheerful as Mellberg remembered, and he felt a smile appear on his lips.

‘Yes, we are. Out for a walk, I mean.’ Mellberg felt like kicking himself. What kind of stupid answer was that? And he was usually so suave with the ladies. But here he was, sounding like a complete idiot. Assuming his most authoritative voice, he said, ‘I understand that it’s important for dogs to get some exercise. So I try to walk Ernst for at least an hour every day.’

‘And it’s not just the dogs that benefit from a little exercise. You and I could use some too.’ Rita giggled and patted her round stomach. Mellberg found this highly liberating. Finally a woman who understood that a bit of meat on the bone wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

‘Indeed,’ he said, patting his own capacious paunch. ‘It’s important to maintain a certain gravitas.’

‘Heavens, yes.’ Rita laughed. The slightly old-fashioned exclamation sounded enchanting in combination with her accent. ‘That’s why I always see about charging the batteries.’ She paused outside a block of flats, and Señorita began pulling towards one of the entrances. ‘May I offer you some coffee? And coffee cake?’

It was all Mellberg could do to stop himself from leaping with joy, but he paused as if considering the offer before responding, ‘Yes, thanks, that would be nice. I can’t be away from my work for very long, but …’

‘All right then.’ She punched in the door code and led the way inside. Ernst, lacking his master’s self-control, bounded forward with delight at the prospect of accompanying Señorita into her home.

The first word that occurred to Mellberg when he entered Rita’s flat was ‘comfortable’. It didn’t have that minimalist coldness that Swedes tended to favour; her place literally sparkled with colour and warmth. He unfastened the lead, and Ernst raced off after Señorita. Mellberg hung up his jacket, removed his shoes and set them neatly on the shoe rack before following Rita’s voice out to the kitchen.

‘They seem to like each other.’

‘Who?’ said Mellberg stupidly, his brain preoccupied with the sight of Rita’s marvellously ample behind, which was turned towards him as she stood at the counter measuring the coffee into the coffee-maker.

‘Señorita and Ernst, of course.’ She turned around and laughed.

Mellberg laughed with embarrassment. ‘Oh, yes, of course. They do seem to like each other, don’t they?’ A glance towards the living room confirmed this: Ernst was in the process of sniffing under Señorita’s tail.

‘Do you like buns?’ asked Rita.

‘Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?’ asked Mellberg rhetorically, immediately regretting his choice of words. Rita turned towards him, a quizzical look on her face.

‘I don’t know. Does she? Well, with those breasts, I suppose she does.’

Mellberg laughed. ‘It’s just an expression. What I mean is, I love buns.’

He watched with surprise as she set three cups and three plates on the kitchen table. The mystery was solved when Rita turned to the room next to the kitchen and called: ‘Johanna, time for coffee!’

‘Coming!’ they heard from the other room, and a second later a ravishing blonde with an enormous stomach came into the kitchen.

‘This is my daughter-in-law, Johanna,’ said Rita, gesturing at the very pregnant young woman. ‘And this is Bertil. He’s the owner of Ernst. I met him walking in the woods,’ she said with a giggle. Mellberg held out his hand to introduce himself, and the next instant almost fell to his knees in pain. He’d shaken hands with a few tough customers over the years but never experienced a handshake as powerful as Johanna’s.

‘That’s quite a grip you have,’ he squeaked as she released his hand.

Johanna regarded him with amusement before sitting down at the kitchen table. It took her a moment to find a position that allowed her to reach both her cup and the plate holding the buns, but then she launched into the refreshments with gusto.

‘When are you due?’ asked Mellberg politely.

‘Three weeks,’ she replied curtly, intent on finishing every last crumb. Then she reached for another bun.

‘I see that you’re eating for two,’ said Mellberg and laughed, but a surly look from Johanna silenced him. Not an easy chick to flirt with, he realized.

‘It’s my first grandchild,’ said Rita proudly, patting Johanna’s stomach tenderly. Johanna’s face lit up when she looked at her mother-in-law, and she placed her own hand on top of Rita’s belly.

‘Do you have any grandchildren?’ asked Rita after filling the coffee cups and joining them at the table.

‘No, not yet. But I do have a son. His name is Simon, and he’s seventeen,’ Mellberg said proudly. The son had arrived late in his life, and the news of his existence was not something that he’d received with much enthusiasm. But they’d gradually grown accustomed to each other, and now he was constantly amazed by his feelings for Simon. He was a good lad.

‘Seventeen? Well, there’s no rush, then. But let me tell you, grandchildren are life’s dessert.’ She patted Johanna’s stomach again.

They drank their coffee and chatted pleasantly while the dogs padded about the flat. Mellberg was fascinated by the pure and genuine joy he felt just sitting in Rita’s kitchen. After all the disappointments he’d suffered in recent years, he thought he’d never want to see another woman. Yet here he was. And he was enjoying himself.

‘So, what do you think?’ Rita was staring at him, and he realized that he’d missed the question that now demanded an answer.

‘Sorry?’

‘I was asking whether you’d like to come to my salsa class tonight. It’s for beginners. Not difficult at all. At eight o’clock.’

Mellberg looked at her in disbelief. Salsa class? Him? What a perfectly ridiculous idea. But then he happened to look a little too deep into Rita’s dark eyes, and to his astonishment he heard himself saying:

‘Salsa class? Eight o’clock? Great.’

Erica was already starting to regret her decision as she walked up the gravel path towards the house belonging to Erik and Axel. It no longer seemed such a good idea, and it was with much hesitation that she raised her fist to knock on the door. At first there was no response, and she was relieved to think that nobody was at home. Then she heard footsteps inside, and her heart sank as the door opened.

‘Yes?’ Axel Frankel looked worn out. He gave her a puzzled look.

‘Hi, I’m Erica Falck, and I …’ She paused, not knowing how to go on.

‘Elsy’s daughter.’ Axel’s weariness seemed to disappear as he studied her with an odd look in his eyes. ‘Yes, I can see it now. You’re very much alike, you and your mother.’

‘We are?’ said Erica, surprised. No one had ever said that before.

‘Yes, there’s something about your eyes. And your mouth.’ He tilted his head and seemed to take in every detail of her appearance. Then he stepped aside. ‘Come in.’

Erica went into the entry hall and stopped.

‘Come this way – we’ll go and sit on the veranda.’ He strode off, apparently expecting Erica to follow. She hung up her coat and hurried to catch up. He motioned her to a sofa in a beautiful glassed-in veranda similar to the one that she and Patrik had in their home.

‘Have a seat.’

They sat there for a while in silence. Realizing that he wasn’t going to offer her coffee, Erica cleared her throat and said: ‘Well, the reason that I …’ She started over. ‘The reason that I stopped by was that I left a medal with Erik.’ She could hear how brusque that sounded and added: ‘Oh, of course I wanted to offer you my condolences. I …’ Growing more uncomfortable by the minute, she fidgeted as she searched for a way to continue.

Axel dismissed her obvious embarrassment with a wave of his hand and said in a friendly voice: ‘You were saying something about a medal.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Erica, grateful that he’d taken charge. ‘This past spring I found a medal among my mother’s belongings. A Nazi medal. I didn’t know why she’d kept it and I was curious. And since I knew that your brother …’ She shrugged.

‘Was Erik able to help you?’

‘I don’t know. That is, we spoke on the phone in the spring, but then I got really busy and, well … I was planning to contact him again, but …’ Her words faded away.

‘And now you’re wondering if it’s still here?’

Erica nodded. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. It sounds so awful that I’m bothering you about it right now when … But my mother hadn’t kept very many things, so …’ She fidgeted again. She really should have phoned instead. This felt so cold-blooded.

‘I understand. I really do understand. Believe me, I of all people know how important it is to have ties to the past. Even if those ties are based on inanimate objects. And Erik would definitely have understood, considering all the things he collected, all the facts. For him they weren’t dead. They were alive, told a story, taught us something …’ He stared through the glass panes and for a moment seemed to be somewhere far away. Then he turned to Erica again.

‘Of course I’ll look for it. But first tell me a little more about your mother. What was she like? What was her life like?’

Erica found these questions rather strange. But seeing Axel’s pleading eyes she tried her best to answer.

‘Hmm … what was my mother like? To be honest, I don’t really know. Mamma was older when she had me and my sister, and … I don’t know … we never had a very good relationship with her. As for her life …’ Erica was confused by the question. Partly because she didn’t fully understand what he wanted to know, and partly because she didn’t know what to say.

‘I think she had rather a hard time of it. With life, I mean. She was always so reserved. To me, she never seemed … happy.’ Erica struggled to find a better way to explain, but that was as close to the truth as she could get. She couldn’t recall ever seeing her mother happy.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Axel again gazed out of the window, as if he couldn’t bear to look at Erica. She wondered why he was asking her these questions.

‘What was my mother like when you knew her?’ Erica couldn’t disguise the eagerness in her voice.

Axel turned towards her, and his face seemed to soften. ‘It was actually my brother who was friends with Elsy, since they were about the same age. But they were part of a foursome: Erik, Elsy, Frans, and Britta. A real four-leaf clover.’ He laughed, a strangely joyless laugh.

‘Yes, she wrote about them in the diaries that I found. I know about your brother, but who were Frans and Britta?’

‘Diaries?’ Axel gave a start of surprise, but it came and went so quickly that a second later Erica thought she must have imagined his reaction. ‘Frans Ringholm and Britta …’ Axel snapped his fingers. ‘Now what was Britta’s last name?’ He closed his eyes as if searching the dark recesses of his memory but shook his head, unable to find the information. ‘Anyway, I think she still lives here in Fjällbacka. She has daughters – two or three, I’m not sure – but they’re quite a bit older than you. Hmm … it’s on the tip of my tongue, but … She probably changed her name when she got married. Wait, now I remember. Her last name was Johansson, and she married a man also named Johansson, so she didn’t have to change her name after all.’

‘So I should be able to find her. But you didn’t answer my question. What was my mother like? Back then.’

Axel was silent for a long time, then he said: ‘She was a quiet girl. Contemplative, but never gloomy. Not the way you describe her. She had a quiet joy about her that came from inside. Nothing like Britta.’ He snorted.

‘So what was Britta like?’

‘I never really liked her. I couldn’t understand why my brother wanted to spend time with such a … silly goose.’ Axel shook his head. ‘No, your mother was a very different sort of girl. Britta was shallow and superficial, and she kept running after Frans in a way that … girls just didn’t do back then. Those were different times, you know.’ He gave Erica a wry smile and winked.

‘So what about Frans?’ Erica was staring at Axel open-mouthed, ready to take in all the information that he had about her mother. The more she found out, the more she realized how little she’d known her mother.

‘Frans Ringholm was someone else I didn’t think my brother should spend time with. A fierce temper, a mean streak, and … no, he’s not the sort you should be friends with. Then or now.’

‘What does he do now?’

‘He lives in Grebbestad. And you might say that he and I have taken different paths in life.’ Axel’s tone of voice was filled with contempt.

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that I’ve devoted my life to fighting Nazism, while Frans would like to see history repeat itself, and preferably here on Swedish soil.’

‘So how does the Nazi medal that I found come into the picture?’ In her eagerness, Erica leaned towards Axel, but it was as if his face suddenly closed.

‘Ah, that’s right, the medal …’ he said, getting to his feet and moving quickly towards the door. ‘I think we should go and look for it.’

As she followed, Erica wondered what she’d said to make him shut down like that, but she decided it wasn’t the right time to ask. Out in the hall she saw that Axel had stopped in front of a door that she hadn’t noticed before. The door was closed, and he hesitated, his hand on the knob.

‘I think I’d better go in alone,’ he said, his voice quavering slightly. Erica realized they must be standing outside the library, the room where Erik had died.

‘We can do this some other time,’ she said, again feeling guilty for disturbing Axel in his bereavement.

‘No, we’ll do it now,’ he said brusquely. Then he repeated his words, this time in a gentler tone, as if to show that he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh.

‘I’ll be right back.’ He opened the door, stepped inside, and then closed the door behind him. Erica stayed in the hall, listening to Axel rummaging about inside. It sounded as though he was pulling out drawers, and he must have found what he was looking for very quickly because it took only a minute or two before he came out.

‘Here it is.’ With an inscrutable expression, he put the medal in Erica’s outstretched hand.

‘Thank you. I …’ At a loss for words, she simply closed her fingers around the medal and repeated ‘Thanks.’

As she walked along the gravel path with the medal in her pocket, she could feel Axel’s eyes watching her. For a moment she considered going back to apologize for bothering him, but then she heard the sound of the front door closing.