‘I have no idea. But Wilhelm and I never discussed financial matters. He took care of all those sorts of things while I took care of the house. That was customary for our generation. It was how we divided up the work load. If it weren’t for you, Goran, I’d be completely lost trying to take care of bank accounts and loans and that sort of thing.’ She squeezed her son’s hand.
‘I’m happy to help you, Mamma, you know that.’
‘Do you have any financial statements that we might have a look at?’ asked Patrik, sounding a bit discouraged. He’d been hoping to get answers to all his questions about these strange monthly payments, but he seemed to have reached a dead end.
‘We don’t have any documents here at home. Our lawyers have everything,’ said Goran apologetically. ‘But I can ask them to make copies and send them to you.’
‘We would really appreciate that,’ said Patrik, feeling more hopeful. Maybe they’d still be able to get to the bottom of this.
‘Oh, forgive me, I completely forgot about the coffee,’ said Goran, getting up from the sofa.
‘We need to get going anyway,’ said Patrik, glancing at his watch. ‘So please don’t go to any trouble for our sake.’
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.’ Marta tilted her head and smiled at Patrik.
‘Don’t worry, that’s how things go sometimes. And again, please accept my condolences,’ said Patrik. ‘I hope we haven’t caused you too much distress by coming here to ask questions so soon after… Well, we didn’t know…’
‘That’s quite all right, my dear,’ she replied, waving away his apologies. ‘I knew my Wilhelm inside and out, and whatever these payments were for, I can guarantee that there was nothing criminal or unethical involved. So ask all the questions you want, and as Goran said, we’ll make sure the documents are sent over to you. I’m just sorry that I couldn’t help you.’
Everyone got up and went out to the hall. Maja was still holding the doll, hugging it to her chest.
‘Maja, sweetie, you need to leave the doll here.’ Erica steeled herself for the inevitable outburst.
‘Let the child keep the doll,’ said Marta, patting Maja on the head as she walked past. ‘As I said, I can’t take anything with me when I go, and I’m too old to be playing with dolls.’
‘Are you sure?’ stammered Erica. ‘It’s so old, and I’m sure you have fond memories of…’
‘Memories are stored up here,’ said Marta, tapping her forehead. ‘Not in tangible objects. Nothing would make me happier than to know that a little girl will be playing with Greta again. I’m sure that poor doll has been terribly bored sitting on the sofa next to an old lady.’
‘Well, thank you. Thank you so much,’ said Erica, embarrassed to find herself so touched that she had to blink back tears.
‘You’re very welcome.’ Marta patted Maja on the head again, and then she and her son escorted them to the door.
The last thing Erica and Patrik saw before the door closed behind them was Goran gently putting his arm around his mother’s shoulder and kissing her on top of her head.
Martin was at home, restlessly roaming about. Pia was at work, and since he was alone in the flat, he couldn’t stop thinking about the case. It was as if his feeling of responsibility had increased tenfold because Patrik was on leave, and he wasn’t quite sure that he was up to the task. He thought of it as a weakness on his part that he needed to ask Patrik for help. But he relied so heavily on his colleague’s judgement, maybe even more than on his own. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever feel confident about his work. There was always a sense of doubt hovering in the background, an uncertainty that had been with him since he graduated from the police academy. Was he really suited to this job? Was he capable of doing what was expected of him?
He wandered from room to room as he brooded. He realized that his uncertainty about his profession was exacerbated by the fact that he was about to face the greatest challenge of his life, and he wasn’t convinced he could handle that responsibility either. What if he didn’t measure up? What if he couldn’t offer Pia the support that she needed? What if he couldn’t deal with what was expected of him as a father? What if, what if… The thoughts whirled through his mind faster and faster, and finally he realized that he had to get out and do something or he’d go crazy. He grabbed his jacket, got in the car, and headed south.
At first he didn’t know where he was going, but as he approached Grebbestad, it became clear to him. It was that phone call made from Britta and Herman’s house to Frans Ringholm that had been bothering him. They kept running into the same group of people in the two investigations, and even though the cases seemed to be running parallel, Martin had a gut feeling that they intersected at some point. Why had Herman or Britta phoned Frans in June before Erik died? There was only one call from them on the list, from the fourth of June. It hadn’t lasted very long. Two minutes and thirty-three seconds. Martin had memorized the information from the phone lists. But why had they contacted Frans? Was it as simple as Axel had suggested? That Britta’s illness had made her want to renew friendships from the past? Reconnect with people who, by all accounts, she hadn’t spoken to in sixty years? The brain was certainly capable of playing tricks on a person, but… No, there was something else. Something that kept eluding him. And he wasn’t about to give up until he found out what it was.
Frans was on his way out when Martin met him at the door of his flat.
‘So how can I help you today?’ he asked politely.
‘Just a few supplementary questions.’
‘I was just going out for my daily walk. If you want to talk to me, you can come along. I don’t change my walk schedule for anyone. It’s how I keep in shape.’ He set off towards the water, and Martin followed.
‘So you don’t have any problem being seen with a police officer?’ asked Martin, giving him a wry smile.
‘You know, I’ve spent so much of my life with jailers, that I’m used to your type of company,’ he replied, an amused glint in his eyes. ‘Okay, what was it you wanted to ask me?’ he said then, all trace of amusement vanishing. Martin had to jog to keep up. The old guy set a brisk pace.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve heard, but there’s been another murder in Fjallbacka.’
Frans slowed down for a moment, then picked up the pace again. ‘No, I didn’t know about that. Who was it?’
‘Britta Johansson.’ Martin studied Frans intently.
‘Britta?’ said Frans, turning his head to look at Martin. ‘How? Who?’
‘Her husband says that he did it. But I have my doubts.’
Frans gave a start. ‘Herman? But why? I can’t believe that.’
‘Do you know Herman?’ asked Martin, trying not to show how important his answer might be.
‘No, not really,’ said Frans, shaking his head. ‘I’ve actually only met him once. He phoned me in June to say that Britta was ill and she’d expressed a wish to see me.’
‘Didn’t you think that was a bit odd? Considering that you hadn’t seen each other in sixty years?’ Martin made no attempt to hide his scepticism.
‘Well, yes, of course I thought it was odd. But Herman explained that she was suffering from Alzheimer’s, and apparently it’s not uncommon for patients with that disease to revert to memories from the past, and to think about people who used to be important to them. And our little group did grow up together, you know, and spent a lot of time with each other.’
‘And that little group was…?’
‘Me, Britta, Erik, and Elsy Mostrom.’
‘And two of them have been murdered in a matter of months,’ said Martin, panting as he trotted along next to Frans. ‘Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence?’
Frans stared at the horizon. ‘When you get to be my age, you’ve witnessed enough strange coincidences to know that they actually occur quite often. Besides, you said that her husband has confessed to the murder. Do you think he was the one who killed Erik too?’ Frans glanced at Martin.
‘We’re not speculating about anything at the moment. But it does give me pause when I think about the fact that two out of four people in a group have been murdered within such a short period of time.’
‘As I said, there’s nothing strange about strange coincidences. Sheer chance. And fate.’
‘That sounds quite philosophical, coming from a man who has spent a great deal of his life in prison. Was that also sheer chance and fate?’ A caustic tone had crept into his voice, and Martin had to remind himself to keep his personal feelings out of this. But during the past week he’d seen how Paula had been affected by the things that Frans Ringholm stood for, and he was having a hard time hiding his disgust.
