The Hidden Child (55 page)

‘Hey, watch it!’ said Karin. ‘Now you’re going too far!’ Then she laughed. ‘You’re right, though, cooking isn’t really my forte. That’s something Leif loves to point out. Of course, he doesn’t seem to think I’m much good at anything.’ Her voice broke and tears welled up in her eyes. Patrik impulsively put his hand over hers.

‘Are things that bad?’

She nodded, wiping her tears with a napkin. ‘We’ve agreed to separate. We had the world’s worst fight this weekend and realized that this just isn’t working. So he’s packed his bags and he’s not coming back.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Patrik, keeping his hand on hers. ‘

Do you know what hurts the most?’ she said. ‘The fact that I don’t really miss him. This was all a big mistake.’ Her voice broke again, and Patrik started to get an uneasy feeling about where this conversation was headed.

‘Things were so good between us – you and me. Weren’t they? If only I hadn’t been so damn stupid.’ She sobbed into the napkin as she grabbed hold of Patrik’s hand. Now he couldn’t very well take it back, even though he knew he should.

‘I know that you’ve moved on. I know that you have Erica. But we had something special. Didn’t we? Isn’t there a chance that we could . . . that you and I could . . .’ She couldn’t finish the sentence but just squeezed his hand harder, pleading with him.

Patrik swallowed but then said calmly, ‘I love Erica. That’s the first thing you need to know. And secondly, the picture you have of what our marriage was like is just a fantasy, something you’ve made up after the fact because you and Leif aren’t getting along. We had a good relationship, but it wasn’t anything special. That was why things turned out the way they did. It was just a matter of time.’ Patrik looked into her eyes. ‘And you know that too, if you just think about it. We stayed married mostly because it was convenient, not because of love. So in a way you did both of us a service, even though I wish that it hadn’t ended the way it did. But you’re fooling yourself right now. Okay?’

Karin started crying again, largely because she felt so humiliated. Patrik understood and moved over to the chair next to her, putting his arms around her and leaning her head against his shoulder as he stroked her hair. ‘Shhh . . .’ he said. ‘There, there . . . Things will work out . . .’

‘How can you be so . . . When I . . . just made such a . . . fool of myself?’ Karin stammered.

Patrik calmly continued stroking her hair. ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said. ‘You’re upset and not thinking very clearly at the moment. But you know that I’m right.’ He picked up his napkin and wiped the tears from her flushed cheeks. ‘Do you want me to leave, or should we finish our coffee?’ he asked.

She hesitated for a moment, but then said, ‘If we can overlook the fact that I just threw myself at you, then I’d like you to stay a little while longer.’

‘All right, then,’ said Patrik, moving back to the chair across from her. ‘I have the memory of a goldfish, so in ten seconds all I’ll remember are these delicious store-bought biscuits.’ He winked, reaching for another oatmeal dream.

‘What is Erica writing now?’ asked Karin, desperate to change the subject.

‘She’s supposed to be working on a new book, but she’s been caught up in some research into her mother’s past,’ said Patrik, also grateful to be talking about something else.

‘How did she happen to get interested in that?’ asked Karin, genuinely curious.

Patrik told her about what they’d found in the chest up in the attic and how Erica had discovered connections to the murders that the whole town was talking about.

‘What she’s most frustrated about is that for years her mother kept a diary, but the diaries she’s found only go up to 1944. Either Elsy suddenly decided to stop writing, or there are a bunch of blue notebooks stored somewhere, but not in our house,’ said Patrik.

Karin gave a start. ‘What did you say those diaries look like?’

Patrik frowned and gave her a puzzled look. ‘Thin blue books, a bit like the exercise books used in schools. Why?’

‘Because in that case, I think I know where they are,’ replied Karin.

‘You have a visitor,’ said Annika, sticking her head in to Martin’s office.

‘Really? Who is it?’ he asked, but his question was immediately answered as Kjell Ringholm appeared in the doorway.

‘I’m not here in my capacity as a journalist,’ he said at once, holding up his hands when he saw that Martin was about to object. ‘I’m here as the son of Frans Ringholm,’ he said, sitting down heavily on the visitor’s chair.

‘I’m very sorry . . .’ said Martin, not really knowing how to go on. Everybody knew what sort of relationship the Ringholms had had.

Kjell waved away his embarrassment and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘This was delivered today.’ His tone was expressionless, but his hand shook as he tossed the letter on to Martin’s desk. Martin picked it up and opened it after receiving a nod of consent from Kjell. He read the three handwritten pages in silence, but raised his eyebrows several times.

‘So your father takes the blame not only for the murder of Britta Johansson, but also the deaths of Hans Olavsen and Erik Frankel,’ said Martin, staring at Kjell.

‘Yes, that’s what it says,’ replied Kjell, looking down. ‘But I expect you’d already assumed as much, so it won’t come as much of a surprise.’

‘I’d be lying if I told you otherwise,’ said Martin, nodding. ‘But Britta’s murder is the only one where we have concrete proof against him.’

‘Then this ought to help,’ said Kjell, pointing at the letter.

‘And you’re sure that . . .?’

‘That it’s my father’s handwriting? Yes,’ Kjell told him. ‘I’m quite sure. That letter was written by my father. And I’m not really surprised,’ he added, sounding bitter. ‘But I would have thought . . .’ He shook his head.

Martin read through the letter again. ‘In actual fact, he only confesses to killing Britta. The rest is rather vague:
I am to blame for Erik’s death, and also for the death of the man that you’ve found in a grave that should not have been his
.’

Kjell shrugged. ‘I don’t see the difference. He was just being pretentious, phrasing it differently. I have no doubt that it was my father who . . .’ He didn’t finish what he was going to say, just sighed heavily, as if trying to keep all his feelings in check.

Martin went back to reading the letter aloud. ‘
I thought that I could handle things the way I usually do, that a single act of violence would solve everything, keep everything under wraps. But even as I lifted the pillow off her face, I knew that it wouldn’t solve anything. And I understood that there was only one option left. That I had come to the end of the line. That the past had finally caught up with me
.’ Martin looked at Kjell. ‘Do you know what he means? What was it he wanted to keep under wraps? What does he mean by the past catching up with him?’

Kjell shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’

‘I’m going to have to keep this for the time being,’ said Martin, waving the handwritten pages in the air.

‘Of course,’ said Kjell wearily. ‘Go ahead and keep them. I was just planning to burn them otherwise.’

‘By the way, I’ve asked my colleague Gösta to have a few words with you, when it’s convenient. But maybe you and I could have a talk instead?’ Martin carefully placed the letter inside a plastic sleeve and put it to one side.

‘What about?’ asked Kjell.

‘Hans Olavsen. I understand that you’ve being doing some research –’

‘What does that have to do with anything now? My father has confessed to murdering him.’

‘That’s one interpretation, yes. But there are still questions about Olavsen’s death that we’d like to clear up. So if you have any information that you’d like to contribute . . . anything at all . . .’ Martin threw out his hands and leaned back.

‘Have you talked to Erica Falck?’ asked Kjell.

Martin shook his head. ‘Not yet, but we will. Since you happen to be here . . .’

‘Well, I don’t have much to tell you.’ Kjell explained about contacting Eskil Halvorsen, the expert on the Norwegian resistance movement. He still hadn’t heard back from him about Hans Olavsen, and there was a strong likelihood he wouldn’t have any information to offer.

‘Would you like to ring him now, to check if he’s found out anything?’ asked Martin, pointing to the phone on his desk.

Kjell shrugged and took a well-thumbed address book out of his pocket. He leafed through it until he found the page with the yellow Post-it note bearing Eskil Halvorsen’s name and number.

‘I think it will be a waste of time, but since you insist . . .’ Kjell moved the phone closer and punched in the number from his address book. There was a pause before the Norwegian finally picked up. ‘Hello, this is Kjell Ringholm. I’m sorry to bother you again, but I was just wondering if . . . Right, you got the photo. Good. Have you . . .’

Kjell nodded. As he listened, his expression grew more and more alert, which made Martin sit up straighter in his chair, eager to know what the man on the other end of the line was saying.

‘And it’s from that photograph that you . . .? But it’s the wrong name? And his name is actually . . .?’

Kjell snapped his fingers to signal Martin that he needed pen and paper.

Martin reached for his pen holder and managed to knock it over so all the pens fell out, but Kjell picked up one of them, grabbed a report from Martin’s inbox and began feverishly writing on the back of it.

‘So he wasn’t . . . Yes, I realize that this is extremely interesting. For us too, believe me.’

Martin was ready to burst with curiosity. It was all he could do to keep from grabbing the phone.

‘Okay, thank you so much. This puts a new light on the whole matter. Yes. Right. Thank you. Thank you.’

Finally Kjell put down the phone and gave Martin a big smile.

‘I know who he is! I’ll be damned, I know who he is!’

‘Erica!’

Erica heard the front door slam and wondered why Patrik was yelling like that.

‘What is it? Something urgent?’ She went out on to the landing and looked down at him.

‘Come down here – there’s something I need to tell you.’ He motioned excitedly for her to come, and she complied. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, going into the living room.

‘Now I’m really curious,’ she said when they were both sitting on the sofa. She looked at him. ‘So tell me.’

Patrik took a deep breath. ‘Okay. You know how you said you thought there had to be more diaries somewhere?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Erica, suddenly feeling butterflies in her stomach.

‘Well, I ran over to Karin’s place a little while ago.’

‘You did?’ said Erica, surprised.

Patrik waved his hands dismissively. ‘Never mind that. Listen – I happened to mention the diaries to Karin. And she thought she knew where to find more of them!’

Erica looked at him in amazement. ‘How could she possibly know that?’

Patrik told her, and Erica’s face lit up. ‘Oh, of course. But why didn’t she ever say anything?’

‘I have no idea. You’ll have to go over there and ask her yourself,’ replied Patrik. No sooner had he said the words than Erica was on her feet and heading for the front door.

‘We’ll go with you,’ said Patrik, picking up Maja from the floor.

‘Okay, but hurry,’ called Erica, already halfway out the door with her car keys in her hand.

A short time later Patrik’s mother, Kristina, opened her door, looking startled.

‘Hello, what a surprise. What are you doing here?’

‘We just thought we’d drop by for a moment,’ said Erica, exchanging glances with Patrik.

‘Sure, of course. Shall I make us some coffee?’ asked Kristina, still surprised.

Erica waited impatiently for Kristina to finish making the coffee and sit down with them at the table before she blurted out:

‘Remember that I told you that I’d found Mamma’s diaries up in the attic? And that I’ve been reading through them, hoping to find out more about who Elsy Moström really was?’

‘Yes, of course I remember you telling me about that,’ said Kristina, avoiding her eyes.

‘When I was here last time, I think I also said that I thought it was strange she stopped writing in 1944 and there were no more diaries.’

‘Yes,’ said Kristina, her eyes fixed on the tabletop.

‘Well, today Patrik had coffee with Karin over at her place, and he happened to mention the diaries and described what they looked like. And she had a clear memory of seeing similar books here.’ Erica paused to study her mother-in-law. ‘According to Karin, you asked her to get a tablecloth out of the linen cabinet, and at the very back of the cabinet she remembers seeing several blue notebooks with the word “Diary” on the cover. She assumed they were your old diaries and didn’t say anything, but today when Patrik mentioned Mamma’s diaries, well . . . she made the connection. And so my question is,’ Erica went on gently, ‘why didn’t you tell me?’

Kristina continued to stare down at the table. Patrik tried not to look at either of them, focusing his attention on eating buns with Maja. Finally Kristina got up without saying a word and left the room. Erica watched her go, hardly daring to breathe. She heard a cupboard door open and close, and a moment later Kristina came back to the kitchen. She was holding three blue notebooks. Exactly like the ones Erica had at home.

‘I promised Elsy to take care of these. She didn’t want you or Anna to see them. But I assume . . .’ Kristina hesitated, then handed them over. ‘I assume that there comes a time when things should be revealed. And it feels as though this is the time. I think that Elsy would have given her consent.’

Erica took the diaries and ran her hand over the cover of the one on top.

‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at Kristina. ‘Do you know what she wrote in these books?’

Kristina hesitated, not sure what to say.

‘I haven’t read them. But I know a lot about the things that I assume Elsy would have put in those diaries.’

‘I’m going to go into the living room and read them,’ said Erica.

She was trembling as she sat down on the sofa. Slowly she opened to the first page of the top diary, and began to read. Her eyes raced over the lines, over the familiar handwriting, as she read about her mother’s fate, and subsequently her own. With growing surprise and agitation, she read of her mother’s love affair with Hans Olavsen, and how Elsy had discovered that she was pregnant. In the third diary she came to Hans’s departure for Norway. And his promise. Erica’s hands were shaking harder now, as if she were experiencing her mother’s rising panic when days and weeks passed with no word from him. And when Erica came to the last pages, she started to cry and couldn’t stop. Through her tears she read what her mother had written in her elegant script: