With the summer tourist season over, Grebbestad was just as deserted as Fjallbacka, and they saw only a few residents as they drove through town. Martin parked the police vehicle in the small car park in front of the Telegraph restaurant, and they walked across the street to Frans’s flat. No one answered when they rang the bell.
‘Damn. He’s not at home. We’ll have to come back later,’ said Martin, turning away.
‘Wait a minute,’ said Paula. ‘The door’s open.’
‘But we can’t just…’ Martin’s objection came too late. His colleague had already opened the door and stepped inside.
‘Hello?’ he heard her calling, and reluctantly he followed her down the hall. They peeked into the kitchen and the living room. No Frans. And not a sound.
‘Come on, let’s check the bedroom,’ said Paula. Martin hesitated. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said. With a sigh he let her lead the way.
The bedroom was also empty, the bed neatly made up and no Frans in sight.
‘Hello?’ called Paula again when they returned to the hall. No answer. They made their way to the last room in the flat.
They saw him as soon as the door swung inwards. The room was a small office, and Frans had collapsed forward on to the desk, the gun still in his mouth and a gaping hole in the back of his head. Martin felt all the blood drain from his face; for a moment he swayed on his feet and had to swallow hard. Paula, on the other hand, seemed totally unfazed. She pointed at Frans, forcing Martin to look, even though he would have preferred not to.
‘Look at his arms,’ she said calmly.
Fighting the waves of nausea rising up inside of him, Martin did his best to focus on Frans’s forearms. He gave a start. They were covered in deep scratches.
It was just a matter now of waiting for confirmation from the scientific team. DNA and fingerprint analysis would no doubt prove that Frans had murdered Britta. And perhaps the techs combing through the apartment in Grebbestad would come up with a link to Erik Frankel’s murder too. And then there was the preliminary report on the body found in the soldiers’ grave in Fjallbacka; everybody was eager to know what fresh information that might provide.
Martin was the one who took the call from the ME. Holding the faxed post-mortem report in his hand, he then went round knocking on office doors and summoning his colleagues to a meeting.
After the others were seated, he leaned against the kitchen counter, deciding to remain standing so that everyone would be able to hear him.
‘As I said, I’ve got the initial report from Pedersen,’ Martin told them, turning a deaf ear to Mellberg’s sullen mutterings that he should have been the one to take that phone call.
‘Since we don’t have any DNA or a dental chart for comparison, we can’t positively identify the deceased as Hans Olavsen. But the age matches. And the time of his disappearance also fits, even though it’s impossible to know for certain after such a long time.’
‘So how did he die?’ asked Paula. She was tapping her foot on the floor, eager to get on with things.
Enjoying his moment in the spotlight, Martin paused for effect before announcing: ‘Pedersen says that the body had sustained massive injuries. Stab wounds caused by a sharp instrument, as well as contusions from kicks or punches, or both. It looks as though Hans Olavsen was the victim of a frenzied attack. His killer must have been in a fit of rage. The details are all in Pedersen’s preliminary report.’ Martin leaned forward to put the pages on the table.
‘So the cause of death was…?’ Paula was still tapping her foot.
‘It’s hard to say which particular injury caused his death. According to Pedersen, there were several wounds that could have been fatal.’
‘I’ll bet Ringholm was the one who did it. And that’s why he killed Erik and Britta too,’ muttered Gosta, voicing what most of his colleagues were thinking. ‘He’s always been a hot-headed bastard,’ Gosta added, shaking his head gloomily.
‘That’s one theory that we need to work on,’ said Martin, nodding. ‘But let’s not jump to conclusions. Frans did have scratches on his arms, just as Pedersen told us to look for, but until we have the lab results we won’t know whether Frans’s DNA matches the skin scrapings that we found under Britta’s fingernails, or whether he’s a match for the thumb-print on the pillowcase button. So until we have that corroboration, we’re going to keep plugging away as usual.’
Martin was surprised at how professional and calm he sounded. This was how Patrik came across whenever he reviewed a case. Martin couldn’t help stealing a glance at Mellberg, to see whether his boss seemed upset by the fact that his subordinate had jumped in and taken over the role that rightfully belonged to him, as station chief. But, as usual, Mellberg seemed content to hand over all the investigative legwork. Only when the case was solved would he muster the energy to take all the credit.
‘So what do we do now?’ asked Paula, giving Martin a quick wink to indicate that she thought he was doing a great job.
Even though the praise hadn’t been put into words, Martin was glowing with pride. He’d been the station rookie for so long that it hadn’t come easy, having to step up and take responsibility. But Patrik’s paternity leave had finally given him a chance to show his true worth.
‘Let’s start by reviewing our investigation of Erik Frankel’s death in the light of these new developments. We need to see if we can find any links to Frans. Could you do that, Paula?’ She nodded. Then Martin turned to Gosta.
‘Gosta, find out what you can about Hans Olavsen. Check out his background, see if anyone can give us more details about his stay in Fjallbacka, and so on. Talk to Patrik’s wife, Erica. She seems to have done a lot of research on the subject, and Frans’s son was on the trail. Get them to share their information with you. I don’t think Erica will present any problems in that regard, but it might be necessary to press Kjell a bit harder.’
Gosta nodded, but he displayed considerably less enthusiasm than Paula had. It wasn’t going to be either easy or fun to dig up information from sixty years ago. He sighed. ‘All right, I’ll work on it,’ he said, looking as if he’d just been assigned the labours of Hercules.
‘Annika, could you let us know ASAP when you hear from the lab?’
‘Of course,’ she said, putting down the pad of paper on which she had been taking notes while Martin talked.
‘Okay. Let’s get on with it then!’
Martin watched them troop out of the room, his face flushed with satisfaction at having successfully led his first investigative review.
Patrik put down the phone after finishing his conversation with Martin and went straight upstairs to see Erica.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said, tapping on her work-room door, ‘but I think you’ll want to hear this.’ He sat down on the armchair in the corner and recounted what Martin had told him about Hans Olavsen – or rather, the body that they thought was Hans Olavsen’s – and the terrible injuries he had suffered.
‘I assumed that he’d been murdered… But this seems…’ Erica was clearly upset.
‘Yes, somebody really had a score to settle with him,’ Patrik said. Then he noticed that he had interrupted Erica as she was once again reading through her mother’s diaries.
‘Have you found anything interesting?’ he asked, pointing to the books.
‘No, not really,’ she said, frustrated. ‘They stop right about the time that Hans Olavsen came to Fjallbacka, and that’s really the moment when things started to get interesting.’
‘And you have no idea why she stopped keeping a diary at that point?’ asked Patrik.
‘No, and that’s the thing: I’m not sure that she did stop. It seems to have been an ingrained habit of hers to write for a while every day, so why would she suddenly stop? No, I think there must be more diaries somewhere, but God only knows where…’ she said pensively, twisting a lock of hair around her finger, a habit that Patrik was quite familiar with by now.
‘Well, you’ve searched the whole attic, so they can’t be up there,’ he said, thinking out loud. ‘Do you suppose they might be in the basement?’
Erica thought for a moment, but then shook her head. ‘No, I went through the whole basement when we
