this. I always had the impression the war had hardly any impact in these parts, aside from the food and petrol rationing.’
‘It sounds as though you’re getting really interested in the subject,’ said Patrik as he served Erica some more soup.
‘I haven’t told you the half of it. I asked Christian to dig out anything that might mention my mother and her friends, never thinking he’d get anywhere with it, given that they were so young back then. But wait until you see this -’ Erica’s voice shook with excitement as she got up to fetch her briefcase. She set it on the kitchen table and took out a thick wad of papers.
‘Wow, that’s quite a stack you’ve got there.’
‘I’ve spent three hours reading it all,’ said Erica, leafing through the documents, her fingers trembling. Finally she found what she was looking for. ‘Here! Look at this!’ She pointed to an article with a big black-and-white photograph.
Patrik studied the article she handed him. The picture was the first thing that drew his attention. Five people, standing next to each other. He squinted to make out the caption, recognizing four of the names: Elsy Mostrom, Frans Ringholm, Erik Frankel, and Britta Johansson. But the fifth person he’d never heard of before. A boy, about the same age as the others, by the name of Hans Olavsen. Patrik silently read the article as Erica fixed her eyes on his face.
‘So? What do you think? I don’t know what it means, but it can’t be a coincidence. Look at the date. He came to Fjallbacka on almost the same day that my mother seems to have ended her diary. That can’t be a coincidence! It must mean something!’ Erica paced back and forth in the kitchen.
Patrik bent his head to examine the photo again. He studied the images of the five young people. Elsy had died in a car crash four years ago. Now one more of them was dead, murdered sixty years after this picture was taken. He had a gut feeling that Erica was right. It must mean something.
Paula’s thoughts were in turmoil as she walked back to the station. Her mother had mentioned that she’d met a nice man who had been keeping her company on her walks, and that she’d then persuaded him to take her salsa class. But Paula never would have dreamed that the man would be her new boss. And it was no exaggeration to say that she wasn’t exactly pleased. Mellberg was just about the last man on earth that she would have chosen for her mother. Mind you, she had to admit that he had handled the news about her and Johanna rather well. Surprisingly. Narrow-mindedness had been her foremost argument for not moving to Tanumshede. It had been hard enough for her and Johanna to be accepted as a family in Stockholm. And in a little town like this… Well, it could be disastrous. But she’d talked over everything with Johanna and her mother, and they had all agreed that if things didn’t work out they could simply move back to Stockholm.
So far, everything had gone much better than expected. She liked her job at the station, her mother had settled in with her salsa classes and a part-time job at the Konsum supermarket, and even though Johanna was on sick leave at the moment and would then have a lengthy maternity leave, she’d talked to a number of local businesses who’d shown interest in enlisting her help with their finances. Yet the minute Paula saw Mellberg’s expression when she put her arm around Johanna, it had felt as though everything might fall apart like a house of cards. At that moment, their whole life could have collapsed. But Mellberg had surprised her. Maybe he wasn’t as hopeless as she’d assumed.
Paula exchanged a few words with Annika in the reception area. Then she knocked on Martin’s door and went in.
‘How are things going?’ she asked when he looked up from his paperwork.
‘With the assault case? Well, the boy admitted to doing it – not that he had much choice in the matter. His mother took him home, but Gosta has informed social services. It doesn’t appear to be a very stable home situation.’
‘That’s often the case,’ said Paula, sitting down.
‘But what was really interesting was the reason for the assault in the first place. It turns out that Per broke into Erik Frankel’s house in early June.’
Paula raised an eyebrow but let Martin continue without commenting. After he’d told her the whole story, they were both quiet for a moment.
‘I wonder what Erik had that would have interested Kjell,’ said Paula. ‘Could it have it been something about Frans?’
Martin shrugged. ‘That’s what the boy said. I thought it might be worth asking Kjell. We still have to go to Uddevalla to interview some of the members of Sweden’s Friends, and
‘No sooner said than done,’ said Paula, getting up.
Twenty minutes later they were again standing outside the front door of the Frankel brothers’ house.
Axel looks older than last time, Paula thought. Thinner, almost transparent in some way. He gave them a friendly smile as he let them in. He didn’t ask why they had come, just led the way to the veranda.
‘Have you made any progress?’ he asked as they sat down. ‘With the investigation, that is,’ he clarified unnecessarily.
Martin glanced at Paula but then said, ‘We have several leads that we’re following. Most importantly, we’ve managed to pinpoint the probable time when your brother died.’
‘Well, that’s a major development,’ said Axel, smiling, although the smile didn’t dislodge any of the grief or fatigue from his eyes. ‘So when do you think it was?’
‘He went to see his… woman friend, Viola Ellmander, on the fifteenth of June; that seems to be the last time he was seen alive. On the seventeenth of June, the cleaning woman…’
‘Laila,’ said Axel, seeing that Martin was struggling to recall the name.
‘Laila, right. She came here on the seventeenth to clean the house, as usual, but no one came to the door when she rang, and no one had left her a key, as the two of you were in the habit of doing if you weren’t going to be at home.’
‘Yes, Erik was very meticulous about leaving a key for Laila. As far as I know, he never forgot to do that. So if he didn’t open the door, and there was no key, then…’ Axel fell silent and rubbed his eyes, as if he were seeing visions of his brother that he’d prefer to dismiss at once.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Paula gently, ‘but we have to ask you where you were between the fifteenth and seventeenth of June. I assure you, it’s just a formality.’
Axel waved away her attempt to reassure him. ‘No need to apologize. I know you’re only doing your job. And besides, don’t the statistics say that most murders are committed by someone in the family?’
Martin nodded. ‘True. But we need to gather information for the investigation and it will help if we can rule you out as a suspect.’
‘Of course. I’ll get my calendar.’
Axel was gone a few minutes. He returned carrying a thick diary. ‘Let’s see now…’ He sat down again and began leafing through it. ‘I left Sweden and went directly to Paris on the third of June, and I didn’t come back here until you… were kind enough to collect me at the airport. But from the fifteenth to the seventeenth… ah, here we are: I had a meeting in Brussels on the fifteenth, went to Frankfurt on the sixteenth, and then returned to the head office in Paris on the seventeenth. I can get you photocopies of my tickets if you like.’ He handed the diary to Paula.
She studied it closely, but after casting an enquiring glance at Martin, who shook his head, she pushed the diary back across the table.
‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you remember anything about these dates that might have significance with regard to Erik? Anything specific? A phone conversation? Something he may have mentioned?’
Axel shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry. As I said, my brother and I weren’t in the habit of phoning each other very often when I was abroad. Erik would only have called me if the house was on fire.’ He laughed but then abruptly fell silent and again rubbed his eyes. ‘So, was that all? Is there anything else I can help you with?’ he asked, carefully closing the diary.
‘Actually, there is one other thing…’ said Martin, fixing his eyes on Axel. ‘We’ve interviewed a young man named Per Ringholm in connection with an assault case today. He told us that he broke into your house a few months ago. And that Erik caught him, locked him up in the library, and rang his father, Kjell Ringholm.’
