The Hidden Child (44 page)

‘Just imagine if a person was able to see what lay ahead,’ said Axel as he kicked a stone that rolled away across the beach. In the summertime swimmers shared the beach with a herd of cows here, and it was just as common to find a long-haired cow cooling off in the water as children going in for a swim. But right now the beach was deserted, and the wind was picking up dried pieces of seaweed, sending them whirling through the air.

Without actually mentioning the subject, they had agreed not to talk about Erik. Or Britta. Neither of them fully understood why they had agreed to meet. It would serve no purpose. Nor would it change anything. Yet they had both felt a need to see each other. It was like a mosquito bite that needed to be scratched. And even though they knew that, just as in the case of a mosquito bite, it would only make matters worse, they had given into temptation.

‘I suppose the whole point is that no one knows ahead of time,’ said Frans, gazing out at the water. ‘If a person had a crystal ball that revealed everything he would experience during his lifetime, he would probably never even get out of bed. People should take life in small doses. Encounter sorrows and problems in portions that are small enough to swallow.’

‘Sometimes life has a way of serving up pieces that are too big to swallow,’ said Axel, kicking away yet another stone.

‘Perhaps that’s true of others, but not you or me,’ said Frans, turning to look at Axel. ‘We may seem very different in other people’s eyes, but you and I are alike. You know that. We never retreat. No matter how big a portion is handed to us.’

Axel merely nodded. Then he looked at Frans again. ‘Do you have any regrets?’

Frans pondered the question for a long time. Then he said, ‘What is there to regret? What’s done is done. We all make our choices. You’ve made yours. And I’ve made mine. Do I have any regrets? No. What purpose would that serve?’

Axel shrugged. ‘I suppose regret is an expression of humanity. Without regret . . . what would we be then?’

‘But the question is, does regret change anything? And the same is true of the work that you’ve been doing – revenge. You’ve devoted your whole life to hunting criminals, and your only goal has been revenge. There is no other goal. Has it changed anything? Six million people still died in the concentration camps. How is that changed by your tracking down some woman who was a prison guard during the war, but who has since spent her life as a housewife in the United States? If you drag her before a tribunal and put her on trial for the crimes that she committed more than sixty years ago, what will that change?’

Axel swallowed. Mostly he believed in the meaning of the work he did. But Frans had hit a sensitive spot. He was asking the question that Axel had asked himself more than once in weak moments.

‘It brings peace to the families of the victims. And it’s a signal that we won’t condone those acts as acceptable human behaviour.’

‘Bullshit,’ said Frans, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘Do you really think it will scare anyone off, or send any sort of signal when the present is so much stronger than the past? It’s human nature for people not to see the consequences of their actions, not to learn from history. And peace? If someone hasn’t found peace after sixty years, he never will. It’s every individual’s responsibility to find his own peace – you can’t expect any sort of retribution, or believe that it will be delivered some day.’

‘Those are cynical words,’ said Axel. The wind was getting colder, and he was shivering.

‘I just want you to realize that, behind all the noble deeds you think you’ve devoted your life to, there is a highly primitive and fundamental human emotion: the desire for revenge. I don’t believe in revenge. I believe that the only thing we should focus on is doing what we can to change the present.’

‘And that’s what you think you’re doing?’ said Axel, his voice tense.

‘We stand on opposite sides of the barricades, you and I, Axel,’ replied Frans drily. ‘But yes, that’s what I think I’m doing. I’m changing something. I’m not seeking revenge. I have no regrets. I am looking forward, and acting according to my beliefs. That’s completely different from what you’re doing. But we’re never going to agree. Our paths diverged sixty years ago, never to meet again.’

‘How did things turn out this way?’ asked Axel quietly, swallowing hard.

‘That’s just what I’m saying: it doesn’t matter how. This is the way it is. And the only thing we can try to do is to change, to survive. Not look back. Not wallow in regrets or speculations about how things might have been.’ Frans stopped and forced Axel to look at him. ‘You can’t look back. What’s done is done. The past is the past. There is no such thing as regret.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Frans,’ said Axel, bowing his head. ‘That’s where you’re very wrong.’

It was with the greatest reluctance that Herman’s doctor had agreed to let them speak with his patient for a few minutes. Only when Martin and Paula had agreed that two of Herman’s daughters could sit in on the interview had the doctor relented.

‘Hello, Herman,’ said Martin, speaking gently and holding out his hand to the man lying in the bed. Herman shook his hand, but his grip was weak. ‘We met at your house, but I’m not sure you’ll remember. This is my colleague, Paula Morales. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if we may.’ He took a seat next to Paula, beside the bed.

‘All right,’ said Herman, who now seemed a bit more aware of his surroundings. His daughters were seated on the other side of the bed, and Margareta was holding her father’s hand.

‘Please accept our sincere condolences,’ said Martin. ‘I understand that you and Britta were married a long time, is that right?’

‘Fifty-five years,’ said Herman, and for the first time since their arrival, they saw a glint of life in his eyes. ‘We were married for fifty-five years, my Britta and I.’

‘Could you tell us what happened? When she died?’ said Paula, trying for the same gentle tone as Martin.

Margareta and Anna-Greta stared at them nervously and were just about to protest when Herman waved his hand dismissively.

Martin, who had already noted that there were no scratches on Herman’s face, was doing his best to peek under the sleeves of his hospital gown in search of tell-tale scratch marks. He couldn’t see anything, but decided to wait to confirm this observation until after they had finished the interview.

‘I went over to Margareta’s house to have coffee,’ said Herman. ‘They’re so sweet to me, my girls. Especially since Britta has been sick.’ Herman smiled at his daughters. ‘We had a lot to talk about. I . . . had decided that it would be better for Britta if she lived someplace where someone could look after her more.’ He was having a hard time speaking.

Margareta patted his hand. ‘It was the only thing you could do, Pappa. There was no alternative. You know that.’

Herman, seeming not to hear her, went on: ‘I was worried because I’d been gone so long. Almost two hours. I’m never usually gone for more than an hour, while she’s taking her afternoon nap, so she doesn’t know I’m not there. I’m so afraid . . .
was
so afraid that she would wake up and set the house and herself on fire.’ He was shaking, but he took a deep breath and continued. ‘So I called her name when I got home. But she didn’t answer. I thought: Thank heavens, she must still be asleep. So I went up to our bedroom. And there she lay . . . I thought it was strange, because she had a pillow over her face, and why would she lie in bed like that? So I went over and lifted off the pillow. And I saw at once that she was gone. Her eyes . . . her eyes were staring up at the ceiling, and she was very, very still.’ Tears began trickling down his face, and Margareta gently wiped them away.

‘Is this really necessary?’ she pleaded, looking at Martin and Paula. ‘Pappa is still in a state of shock, and –’

‘It’s all right, Margareta,’ said Herman. ‘It’s all right.’

‘Okay, but only a few more minutes, Pappa. Then I’m going to physically throw them out if I have to, because you need to rest.’

‘She’s always been the feisty one,’ said Herman, a wan smile appearing on his face. ‘A real shrew.’

‘Hush, now. You needn’t be so impudent,’ said Margareta, but she seemed happy that he had the energy to tease her.

‘So what you’re saying is that she was already dead when you went into the room?’ asked Paula, surprised. ‘So why did you say that you killed her?’

‘Because I did kill her,’ replied Herman, a closed expression on his face again. ‘But I never said that I murdered her. Although I could have done that too.’ He looked down at his hands, unable to meet the eyes of the police officers or his daughters.

‘Pappa, what do you mean?’ Anna-Greta looked bewildered, but Herman refused to answer.

‘Do you know who murdered her?’ asked Martin, instinctively grasping that Herman was not going to explain why he had so stubbornly insisted that he had killed his wife.

‘You heard what my father said,’ Margareta told Martin as she stood up. ‘He’s said all he’s going to say. The important thing is that he was not the one who murdered my mother. As for the rest . . . that’s just his grief talking.’

Martin and Paula got up. ‘Thank you for allowing us to speak with you. But there is one last thing that we need to ask,’ said Martin, turning to Herman. ‘To confirm what you’ve just said, we need to take a look at your arms. We know that Britta scratched the person who suffocated her.’

‘Is that really necessary? He says that . . .’ Margareta’s voice was getting louder, but Herman quietly pushed up the sleeves of his hospital gown and held out his arms for Martin, who studied them intently. No scratch marks.

‘There, you see?’ said Margareta, looking as if she would like to make good her threat to throw Martin and Paula out the door.

‘We’re finished now,’ said Martin. ‘Thank you for your time, Herman. Once again, we’re very sorry for your loss.’ Then he motioned to Margareta and Anna-Greta to show that he wanted to speak to them privately.

Out in the corridor, he explained the situation regarding the fingerprint on the button, and they willingly agreed to provide their prints so as to be ruled out of the investigation. Just as they were finishing up, Birgitta arrived, and she too complied so that the fingerprints of all three daughters could be sent off to the lab.

Paula and Martin sat in the car for a moment before setting off. ‘Who do you think he’s protecting?’ asked Paula as she put the key in the ignition.

‘I don’t know. But I get the same impression. That he knows who murdered Britta but wants to protect that person. And that he somehow feels responsible.’

‘If only he would tell us,’ said Paula, now turning the key.

‘Yes, I can’t for the life of me . . .’ Martin shook his head, annoyed, and drummed his fingertips on the dashboard.

‘But you do believe him?’ Paula already knew what the answer would be.

‘Yes, I believe him. And the fact that he doesn’t have any scratch marks proves that I’m right. But I can’t understand why he would want to protect his wife’s murderer. Or why he feels that he is personally to blame.’

‘Well, we may never find the answer to that,’ said Paula as she drove out of the car park. ‘But at least we have the daughters’ fingerprints. We need to send them off to the lab ASAP, then we can eliminate them and we can start trying to figure out who did leave that thumbprint.’

‘I suppose that’s all we can do at the moment,’ said Martin, sighing heavily and looking out the car window.

Neither of them noticed when they passed Erica just north of Torp.

Chapter 36
Fjällbacka 1945

It was no coincidence that Frans saw what happened. He had kept his eyes on Elsy the whole time, wanting to look at her until she disappeared from view over the crown of the hill. And so he saw the kiss. He felt as if his blood were boiling, yet an icy cold seemed to spread through his limbs. It was so painful that he thought he would fall down dead on the spot.

‘Did you see that?’ asked Erik, who had also caught sight of Hans and Elsy. ‘It looked like . . .’ He laughed, shaking his head. The sound of Erik’s laughter made a white light explode inside Frans’s head. He needed some way to release all the pain, so he threw himself at Erik, gripping his neck in a stranglehold.

‘Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP, you fucking stupid . . .’ He gripped Erik’s neck tighter, making the boy gasp for air. It made him happy to see the terror in Erik’s eyes – as if that somehow diminished the size of the knot that was ever present in his stomach and seemed to have increased tenfold at the sight of the kiss.

‘What are you doing!’ Britta screamed, staring at the boys on the ground. Erik was on his back, with Frans on top of him. Without even thinking she rushed over and yanked at Frans’s shirt, but he flailed his arm at her so hard that she toppled backwards.

‘Stop it, Frans, stop it!’ she yelled, sliding away from him with tears running down her cheeks. Something in her tone brought him to his senses. He looked down at Erik, whose face had taken on an odd colour, and let go of his neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m sorry . . . I . . .’

Erik sat up and stared at him, his hands feeling his bruised throat. ‘What was that all about? You just about strangled me! Are you out of your mind?’ Erik’s glasses were askew. He took them off and then put them on again properly.

Frans stared straight ahead, a blank look in his eyes, and didn’t reply.

‘He’s in love with Elsy. That’s why,’ said Britta bitterly as she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. ‘And he actually thought he had a chance with her. But you’re an idiot for thinking that, Frans! She has never so much as looked at you. And now she’s throwing herself into the arms of that Norwegian. While I . . .’ She burst into tears and started scrambling down the rocky hill.

Frans, expressionless, watched her go.

‘Damn it, Frans, you’re not . . . Is that true?’ Erik glared at him. ‘Are you in love with Elsy? I mean, if that’s the case, I can understand why you went berserk. But you can’t . . .’ Erik stopped and shook his head.