read him the riot act, and…’ He shrugged.
‘But apparently you and Erik Frankel talked about something besides Per breaking into the house. He heard Erik say that he had information for you, something that might interest you, in your capacity as a journalist, and then the two of you agreed to meet at a later date. Does that ring a bell?’
The question was met with silence. Then Kjell shook his head. ‘No, I have to say I don’t recall anything like that. Either Per made it up, or he misinterpreted what he heard. Erik simply said that I could contact him if I needed any help with background material regarding Nazism.’
Martin and Paula looked at him sceptically. Neither of them believed a word of it, but they couldn’t prove he was lying.
‘Do you know whether your father and Erik had any contact with each other?’ asked Martin at last.
Kjell’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as if he were relieved that they’d changed the subject. ‘Not as far as I know. On the other hand, I have no interest in my father’s activities – except when they become the subject of one of my articles.’
‘Doesn’t that feel a little strange?’ said Paula. ‘Publicly criticizing your father like that?’
‘You of all people ought to understand the importance of actively fighting anti-foreigner sentiment,’ said Kjell. ‘It’s like a cancerous tumour in society, and we have to combat it any way we can. And if my father chooses to be part of that cancer… well… that’s his decision,’ said Kjell, throwing out his hands. ‘And by the way, my father and I have no real ties to each other, except for the fact that he happened to impregnate my mother. When I was growing up, the only time I saw him was in prison visiting rooms. As soon as I was old enough to think for myself and make my own decisions, I realized that he was not someone that I wanted in my life.’
‘So you’ve had no contact with each other? Is Per in contact with him?’ asked Martin, more out of curiosity than because it had any relevance to the investigation.
‘No, I have no contact with him. Unfortunately, my father has managed to feed my son a lot of stupid ideas. When Per was younger, we made sure they didn’t see each other, but now that he’s a teenager, well… we haven’t been able to stop them from meeting, as much as we’ve tried.’
‘All right. I don’t think there’s anything more. At least for the time being,’ said Martin, getting to his feet. Paula did the same. On their way out the door, Martin stopped and turned round.
‘You’re positive that you don’t have any information either about or from Erik Frankel that we might find useful?’
Their eyes met, and for an instant Kjell hesitated. Then he shook his head and said tersely, ‘No, nothing. Nothing at all.’
They didn’t believe him this time either.
Margareta was worried. No one had answered the phone at her parents’ house since Herman had come over yesterday. It was odd, and disturbing. They usually told her if they were going somewhere, but lately they seldom left home. And every evening she was in the habit of ringing her parents for a chat. It was a ritual they’d had for years, and she couldn’t remember a single time when her parents hadn’t answered the phone. But this time, it rang and rang, echoing into the void, and no one picked up at the other end. She’d wanted to go over and look in on them last night, but her husband Owe had persuaded her to wait until morning, saying that they had probably just gone to bed early. But this morning there was still no answer.
Convinced that something must have happened to them, Margareta put on her shoes and jacket and set off for her parents’ house. It was a ten-minute walk, and the whole way there she cursed herself for letting Owe talk her out of going over earlier. She just knew something was wrong.
When she was only a few hundred metres away, she saw a figure at her parents’ front door. She squinted to see who it was, but before she got any closer she realized it was that writer, Erica Falck.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ Margareta asked, trying to sound friendly, but even she could hear the worry in her voice.
‘Er… yes, I was looking for Britta. But nobody seems to be at home.’ The blonde woman looked uncomfortable as she stood there on the porch.
‘I’m their daughter. I’ve been ringing them since yesterday, but they don’t answer the phone. So I came over to make sure everything is all right,’ said Margareta. ‘You can come in with me and wait in the hall.’ She reached up to the rafters of the little roof over the door and took down a key. Her hand was shaking as she unlocked the door.
‘Come on in. I’ll just go and have a look,’ she said, suddenly feeling grateful to have the company of another person. She really should have called one or both of her sisters before heading over, but then she’d have been forced to admit how serious she thought the situation might be, how worry was eating her up inside.
She walked through the ground-floor rooms, looking around. Everything was nice and tidy and looked the same as always.
‘Mamma? Pappa?’ she called, but no one answered. Now she was feeling truly frightened, and she was having a hard time breathing. She should have phoned her sisters. She really should have done that.
‘Stay here. I’m just going upstairs to look around,’ she said to Erica. She didn’t rush up the stairs, but instead moved slowly, trembling all over. Everything seemed unnaturally quiet. But when she reached the top step, she heard a faint sound. Like someone sobbing. Almost like a little child. She stood still for a moment, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. Then she realized it was coming from her parents’ bedroom. With her heart pounding, she rushed over and opened the door. It took a few seconds for her to comprehend what she was seeing. Then, as if from far away, she heard her own voice screaming for help.
It was Per who opened the door when Frans rang the bell.
‘Grandpa,’ Per said, looking like a puppy that needed a pat on the head.
‘What have you got yourself mixed up in?’ said Frans brusquely, stepping inside.
‘But I… he… he was talking a lot of bullshit. Was I just supposed to take it, or what?’ Per sounded hurt. He thought that if anyone would understand, it would be his grandfather. ‘Besides, it was nothing compared to what you’ve done,’ he added defiantly, though he didn’t dare look Frans in the eye.
‘That’s exactly why I know what I’m talking about!’ Frans took the boy by the shoulders and gave him a shake, forcing his grandson to look at him.
‘Let’s go in and sit down and have a talk, then maybe I can knock some sense into that stubborn head of yours. Where’s your mother, by the way?’ Frans looked around for Carina, ready to fight for his right to talk to his grandson.
‘Probably sleeping it off,’ said Per, slouching into the kitchen. ‘She started drinking as soon as we got home yesterday and was still at it last night when I went to bed. But I haven’t heard anything from her in a while.’
‘I’ll just go in and say hello. In the meantime make us some coffee,’ said Frans.
‘But I don’t know how to make…’ Per began in a whiny tone of voice.
‘Then it’s time you learned,’ snapped Frans, heading for Carina’s bedroom.
‘Carina,’ he said loudly as he went into her room. The only sound was a loud snoring. She lay halfway off the bed, one arm touching the floor. The room smelled of stale booze and vomit.
Taking a deep breath, Frans went over to her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and shook her.
‘Carina, time to get up.’ No reaction. He glanced around. The door to the bathroom opened right off her bedroom. He went in and turned on the taps to run her a bath. As the water poured into the tub, he began undressing her, unable to hide his disgust. It didn’t take long, since she was wearing only her bra and underwear. He wrapped her in a blanket, carried her to the bathroom, and without further ado put her in the tub.
‘Jesus Christ!’ snorted his former daughter-in-law in a daze. ‘What are you doing here?’
Frans didn’t reply. Instead, he went over to her wardrobe, opened the door, and selected some clean clothes for her. He set them on the toilet next to the tub.
‘Per is making coffee. Dry yourself off, get dressed, and come out to the kitchen.’
For a moment it looked like she might refuse. Then she nodded submissively.
‘So, have you figured out the art of using the coffeemaker?’ he asked Per, who was sitting at the kitchen table examining his cuticles.
‘It’s probably going to taste like shit,’ Per grumbled. ‘But at least I tried.’
Frans studied the pitch-black liquid that had started trickling into the glass pot. ‘It looks plenty strong, at least.’
For a long time, he and his grandson sat at the table across from each other, not speaking. It was such a
