The Hidden Child (27 page)

‘You bet. Mattias Larsson, one of the boys who found Erik Frankel. They’re taking him to the hospital now. So we’ll need to interview him later on.’

Gösta received this information without comment, but Martin saw that his face had turned pale.

Ten minutes later Carina came running through the front door into the reception area, out of breath and asking for her son. Annika calmly brought her to Martin’s office.

‘Where’s Per? What has he done?’ She was fighting back the tears and sounded on the verge of hysteria. Martin shook hands with her as he introduced himself. Formalities and familiar routines often had a calming effect. As they did now. Carina repeated her questions, but in a more subdued tone of voice, and then she sat down on the chair that Martin offered her. He grimaced as he sat down at his desk, recognizing a familiar smell emanating from the woman across from him. Stale booze. Maybe she’d been to a party the day before. But he didn’t think so. Her slightly bloated features were one of the tell-tale signs of alcoholism.

‘According to the report from the school, Per assaulted a fellow pupil.’

‘Oh, dear God,’ she said, gripping the armrests of her chair. ‘How . . .? The boy, is he . . .’ She couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘He’s being taken to the hospital. Apparently he was severely beaten.’

‘But why?’ She swallowed hard, shaking her head.

‘That’s what we aim to find out. We have Per in one of the interview rooms here, and we need your permission to ask him some questions.’

Carina nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’ She swallowed hard again.

‘All right then. Let’s go and have a talk with Per.’ Martin led the way. He paused in the corridor to knock on the door jamb of Gösta’s office. ‘Come with us. We’re going to have a talk with the boy.’

Carina and Gösta shook hands, and then all three of them went into the room where Per was waiting, trying to look as if the whole business bored him. But he lost his composure the minute he saw his mother come in. Not entirely, but there was a slight twitch at the corner of his eye. A trembling in his hands. Then he forced himself to resume the indifferent expression and turned his gaze towards the wall.

‘Per, what have you done now?’ Carina’s voice rose in pitch as she sat down next to her son and went to put her arm around him. He shook her off and refused to answer.

Martin and Gösta sat across from Per and Carina, and Martin switched on the recorder. From habit, he had also brought along a pen and notepad, which he placed on the table. Then he rattled off the date and time for the sake of the recording and cleared his throat.

‘All right, Per, can you tell us what happened? By the way, Mattias has been taken to the hospital. In case you were wondering.’

Per merely smiled.

‘Per!’ His mother poked him in the side with her elbow. ‘You need to answer the question. And of course you were worried about the boy! Right?’ Her voice was shrill, and her son still refused to look at her.

‘Let’s give Per time to answer,’ said Gösta, winking at Carina to calm her down.

They sat in silence, waiting for the fifteen-year-old to respond. Finally he tossed his head and said, ‘That Mattias talks a load of shit.’

‘What kind of “shit”?’ said Martin, keeping his voice friendly. ‘Could you be a little more precise?’

Another lengthy pause. Then: ‘He was chatting up Mia, bragging about how fucking brave he was when he and Adam broke into that old guy’s house and found his body and how nobody else would have dared! I mean, what the fuck was that about? They only got the idea because I’d already been inside. Their ears were as big as satellite dishes when I told them about all the cool stuff he had. Everybody knows they weren’t the first to break in. Those fucking nerds.’

He threw back his head and laughed, while his mother stared shamefaced at the tabletop.

‘Are you talking about Erik Frankel’s house?’ said Martin, incredulous.

‘Yeah, the guy that Mattias and Adam found dead. The one with all the Nazi stuff. Really cool stuff,’ said Per, his eyes shining. ‘I was hoping to pick up a few nice pieces, but then the old guy showed up and locked me in and called my father and . . .’

‘Whoa – hold on,’ said Martin, holding up his hands. ‘Slow down a bit. Are you saying that Erik Frankel caught you when you broke into his house? And that he locked you up?’

Per nodded. ‘I didn’t think he was home, so I went in through a basement window. But he came downstairs while I was in that room with all the books and shit, and he closed the door and locked it. Then he made me give him my father’s phone number so he could call him.’

‘Did you know about this?’ Martin turned to Carina, giving her a sharp look.

She nodded reluctantly. ‘I only found out yesterday. Kjell, my ex-husband, didn’t tell me about it before, so I had no idea. And I can’t understand why you didn’t give him
my
number, Per, instead of getting your father mixed up in this!’

‘You wouldn’t have been able to handle it,’ said Per, looking at his mother for the first time. ‘You just lie around drinking all the time and don’t give a shit about anything else. You reek of booze, by the way. Just so you know!’ Per’s hands started shaking, his composure cracking again.

Tears rolled down Carina’s cheeks. ‘Is that the only thing you have to say about me, after all I’ve done for you? I gave birth to you, fed you, dressed you, and took care of you all those years when your father didn’t want anything to do with us.’ She turned to Martin and Gösta. ‘One day he just up and left. Packed his suitcases and took off with some twenty-five-year-old tart that he’d got pregnant. He walked out on me and Per without so much as a backward glance. Got on with starting a new family while we were left behind like yesterday’s rubbish.’

‘It’s been ten years since Pappa left,’ said Per wearily. He suddenly looked much older than his fifteen years.

‘What’s your father’s name?’ asked Gösta.

‘My ex-husband is Kjell Ringholm,’ replied Carina tensely. ‘I can give you his phone number, if you like.’

Martin and Gösta exchanged glances.

‘Would that be the same Kjell Ringholm who writes for
Bohusläningen
?’ said Gösta, the pieces falling into place in his mind. ‘The son of Frans Ringholm?’

‘Frans is my grandfather,’ said Per proudly. ‘He’s so cool. He’s even been to prison, but now he does political work instead. They’re going to win the next council election, and then those black fuckers are going to be driven out of the district.’

‘Per!’ exclaimed Carina, shocked. Then she turned to the officers. ‘He’s at that age when he’s testing things. And Frans isn’t a good influence on him. Kjell has forbidden Per to see his grandfather.’

‘As if that would stop me,’ muttered Per. ‘And that old man with the Nazi stuff? He got what he deserved. I heard the way he talked to my father when he came to get me. All that shit about how he could give my father good material for the articles he was writing about Sweden’s Friends, and especially about Frans. They didn’t think I was listening, but I heard them make an appointment to meet again. Fucking traitors, the pair of them. I can understand why Grandpa is ashamed of my father,’ said Per hostilely.

Smack! Carina slapped her son, and in the ensuing silence mother and son stared at each other with both surprise and hatred. Then Carina’s expression softened. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . I . . . I’m sorry.’ She tried to give her son a hug, but he pushed her away.

‘Get away from me, you fucking drunk. Don’t you dare touch me!’

‘Okay, everybody, calm down.’ Gösta rose from his chair, glowering at Carina and Per. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get much further at the moment. You can leave now, Per. But . . .’ He looked at Martin, who nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘But we’re going to have to contact the social services office about this. We’ve seen enough to cause concern, and we will recommend that social services take a closer look. In the meantime we’ll be carrying on our own investigation.’

‘Is that necessary?’ asked Carina, her voice quavering, but her question lacked any real force. Gösta had the impression she was relieved that somebody was going to take control of their situation.

After Per and Carina left the station, walking side by side without looking at each other, Gösta followed Martin to his office.

‘Well, that certainly gave us something to think about,’ said Martin as he sat down.

‘It certainly did,’ said Gösta. He bit his lip, rocking back and forth on his heels.

‘You look like you have something to say. What is it?’

‘Hmm . . . well, it might not be important.’ Then Gösta made up his mind. It was something that had been gnawing at his subconscious for a few days, and during the interview with Per, he’d realized what it was. Now the question was how he should put it into words. Martin was not going to be happy.

Axel stood on the porch for a long time, hesitating. Finally he knocked. Herman opened the door almost immediately.

‘So, it’s you.’

He nodded. He stayed where he was, making no attempt to enter.

‘Come in. I didn’t tell her you were coming. I didn’t know if she’d remember.’

‘Is she that bad?’ Axel looked with sympathy at the man standing in front of him. Herman looked tired. It couldn’t be easy.

‘Is this the whole clan?’ asked Axel, nodding at the photos in the hall as he stepped inside.

Herman’s face lit up. ‘Yes, that’s everybody.’

Axel studied the photographs, hands clasped behind his back. Midsummer and birthday celebrations, Christmas gettogethers and ordinary days. A swarm of people, including children and grandchildren. For a moment he allowed himself to reflect on how his own wall of photos would have looked, if he’d had one. Pictures from his days at the office. Endless piles of documents. Countless dinners with politicians and others with the power to wield influence. Few, if any, would be pictures of friends. There weren’t many who had the energy to keep up with him, who could stand the constant drive to track down yet another war criminal who’d managed to live an undeservedly comfortable life. Another former Nazi with blood on his hands who was free to enjoy the privilege of using those soiled hands to pat the heads of his grandchildren. How could family members, friends, or an ordinary life compete with that quest? For long periods of his life he hadn’t even allowed himself to consider whether he was missing out on anything. And the reward when his efforts bore fruit, when those years of searching archives and interviewing survivors with failing memories finally resulted in exposing the guilty and bringing them to justice, the reward at such times was so great that it pushed aside any longing for an ordinary life. Or at least, that was what he’d always believed. But now, as he stood in front of these family photographs, he wondered whether he’d been wrong to put death ahead of life.

‘They’re wonderful,’ said Axel, turning his back on the pictures. He followed Herman into the living room, stopping abruptly when he saw Britta. Even though he and Erik had never abandoned their home in Fjällbacka, it had been decades since he’d last seen her. There had been no occasion for their lives to intersect in all that time.

Now the years fell away with cruel force, and he felt himself reeling. She was still beautiful. She’d actually been much lovelier than Elsy, who could better be described as pretty. But Elsy had possessed an inner glow, a kindness that Britta’s outward beauty could never match. Though he could see now that something about her had changed with the years. There was no trace of Britta’s former haughty demeanour; now she radiated a warm maternal glow, a maturity that the years must have bestowed on her.

‘Is that you?’ she said, getting up from the sofa. ‘Is that really you, Axel?’ She held out both hands towards him, and he took them. So many years had passed. Such an unbelievable number of years. Sixty years. A lifetime. When he was younger, he never would have imagined that time could pass so quickly. The hands he held in his own were wrinkled and covered with brown age spots. Her hair was no longer dark but a lovely silvery-grey. Britta looked calmly into his eyes.

‘It’s good to see you again, Axel. You’ve aged well.’

‘Funny, but I was just thinking the same thing about you,’ said Axel with a smile.

‘Well now, let’s sit down and have a little chat. Herman, could you bring us some coffee?’

Herman nodded and went into the kitchen to make coffee. Britta sat down again, still holding Axel’s hands as he took a seat next to her.

‘To think we’d ever be so old, Axel. I never dreamt that would happen,’ she said, tilting her head to look at him. Axel noted with amusement that she had retained some of the coquettishness of her younger days. ‘You’ve done a lot of good, over the years, from what I’ve heard,’ she said, studying him intently. He looked away.

‘I’m not sure what you mean by “doing good”. I’ve done what I had to do. Certain things just can’t be swept under the rug,’ he said, and then fell silent.

‘You’re right about that, Axel,’ said Britta solemnly. ‘You’re certainly right about that.’

They sat next to each other in silence, looking out at the bay, until Herman came back with the coffee service on a floral-painted tray.

‘I’ve made you some coffee.’

‘Thank you, dear,’ said Britta. Axel felt a pang in his heart when he saw the look they gave each other. He reminded himself that through his work he’d been able to contribute a sense of peace to scores of people, giving them the satisfaction of seeing their tormentors brought before a court of law. That was also a form of love. Not personal, not physical, but still a kind of love.

As if she could read his thoughts, Britta handed him a cup of coffee and said, ‘Have you had a good life, Axel?’

The question encompassed so many dimensions, so many levels, that he didn’t know how to answer it. In his mind he pictured Erik and his friends in the library of their house, light-hearted, carefree. Elsy with her sweet smile and gentle demeanour. Frans, who made everybody around him feel like they were tiptoeing around the edge of a volcano, yet beneath it all there remained something fragile and sensitive about him. Britta, who had seemed so different from the way she was now. Back then, she had carried her beauty like a shield, and he had judged her to be nothing more than an empty shell, with no substance worthy of notice. And maybe that’s how she was back then. But the years had filled up the shell, and now she seemed to glow from within. And Erik. The thought of Erik was so painful that his brain wanted to push it away. But as he sat there in Britta’s living room, Axel forced himself to picture his brother as he was back then, before the difficult times commenced. Sitting at his father’s desk, with his feet propped up. His brown hair tousled as always, wearing that absent expression that made him look much older than he was. Erik. Dear, beloved Erik.