Camilla Läckberg - The Hidden Child

His legs wobbling, Axel climbed on board the white bus. This would be his second journey in a matter of months, and the horrors of the last one – from Sachsenhausen to Neuengamme – still kept him awake at night. He would lie in his bunk reliving the hell of being locked in a freight car, listening to the bombs falling all around them, sometimes exploding so close that they could hear debris raining down on the roof above them. But miraculously none of the bombs had scored a direct hit. For some reason, Axel had survived even that. And now, just as he had almost lost all will to live, word had come that they were finally going home.

He was one of the few prisoners still capable of making his way unaided. Some were in such bad shape that they had to be carried on board. Carefully he settled down on the floor, drawing up his legs and listlessly resting his head on his knees. He couldn’t comprehend it. He was going home. To his mother and father. And to Erik. To Fjällbacka. In his mind’s eye he pictured everything so clearly. All the things he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for such a long time. But finally, now that he knew it was all within reach, he allowed the thoughts and memories to pour over him. At the same time, he knew that life would never be the same. He would never be the same. He had seen things, experienced things, that had changed him for ever.

He hated how he had changed. Hated what he had been forced to do and what he had been forced to witness. And it wasn’t over yet, just because he had climbed into this bus. Their journey was a long one, and along the way they saw towns reduced to smouldering rubble and a country in ruins. Two prisoners died, one of them Axel’s neighbour whose shoulder he had leaned against for the brief periods when he was able to sleep. One morning Axel shifted his position on waking and the man toppled, his body stiff and cold as if he’d been dead for some time. Axel had simply pushed the body away and called to one of the people in charge of the transport. Then he had hunkered down in his place again. It was just another death. He had seen so many.

He found himself constantly raising his hand to touch his ear. Sometimes he heard a roaring sound, but most often it was filled with an empty, rushing silence. So many times he had pictured that scene in his mind. Of course he had endured things that were much worse since then, but there was something about the sight of the guard’s rifle butt coming towards him that represented the ultimate betrayal. In spite of the fact that they stood on opposite sides in the war, they had established a human contact that had given him a sense of respect and security. But when he saw the boy raise the butt of his rifle and felt the pain as it struck him above the ear, all his illusions about the innate goodness of human beings had been shattered.

As he sat there in the bus, surrounded by others who had suffered as he had, many of them so sick and traumatized that they would not survive, he made a sacred vow to himself: he would never rest until he had brought to justice those responsible. He would make it his mission to see to it that the guilty did not escape punishment.

Axel put his hand up to his ear again and tried to picture the home he had left. Soon, very soon, he would be there.

Paula chewed on her pen as she read through one document after another. On the desk in front of her was a stack of papers that represented everything they had on Erik Frankel’s murder, and she was reviewing the material in the hope of finding some small detail they had overlooked. Knowing the folly of trying to shape evidence to fit a theory, she set aside the suspicion that Frans Ringholm had killed Erik and concentrated on finding anything that raised questions. So far she had come up empty. But there was still a considerable amount of material left to go through.

She was having a hard time concentrating. Johanna’s due date was fast approaching, and she could go into labour at any moment. When she thought about what lay ahead, Paula felt a mixture of joy and fear. A child; someone she would have to be responsible for. If she had talked to Martin, he would undoubtedly have recognized every one of the thoughts that was whirling through her mind, but she kept her concerns to herself. In her case, the worry had an extra dimension: had she and Johanna done the right thing by realizing their dream of having a baby? Would it turn out to be a selfish act, something that their child would end up paying the price for? Should they have stayed in Stockholm and raised their child there instead? Here, their little family would be more likely to draw attention. Yet something told Paula that they’d made the right decision. Everyone had been very friendly, and so far she hadn’t encountered anyone who’d looked at them askance. Of course, that might change after the baby arrived. Who knew?

Sighing, she reached for the next document on the pile: the technical analysis of the murder weapon. The stone bust had stood on the windowsill for years, but after the murder it had been found, stained with blood, under the desk. Forensics had checked for fingerprints and foreign substances, but all they could identify were traces of Erik’s blood, hair, and brain matter. She tossed the report aside and picked up the crime-scene photographs. She was impressed that Patrik’s wife had noticed what it said on the notepad: Ignoto militi … ‘To the unknown soldier.’ Paula hadn’t spotted it when she’d looked at the photos and, even if she had, she had to admit that she most likely wouldn’t have thought to check what the words meant. Erica had not only discovered the words, she had also managed to link them to other leads and possibilities, which had led them to Hans Olavsen’s body.

Paula set down the photograph and opened her notepad. Though they had narrowed it down to within a few days, they hadn’t managed to pinpoint the exact time of Erik Frankel’s murder. Paula wondered whether she might be able to figure out something more based on the dates that they had. She began drawing up a chronology of events, starting with Erica’s visit to Erik Frankel, Erik’s drunken parting with Viola, Axel’s trip to Paris, and the cleaning woman’s attempt to get into the house. She scanned through the documents, to find any information on Frans’s whereabouts during that period, but she found only the statements from his henchmen at Sweden’s Friends, all of whom swore Frans was in Denmark on the days in question. Damn it! They should have pressed Frans for more details while they had the chance. But given his criminal record he would no doubt have taken the precaution of equipping himself with documents that supported his alibi. Still, what was it Martin had said during the investigative review? There was no such thing as a watertight alibi…

Paula sat up with a start. A thought had occurred to her, and immediately she knew she was on to something. There was one thing that they hadn’t checked.

‘Patrik? Hi, it’s me – Karin. Do you think you could come over and help with something? Leif left this morning, and now there’s water pouring out of a pipe in the basement.’

‘Well, I’m no expert,’ said Patrik hesitantly. ‘But I suppose I could take a look, see if I can fix it without you having to call in a plumber.’

‘That’s great,’ she said, sounding relieved. ‘Bring Maja along if you like. She can play with Ludde.’

‘I’ll do that. Erica’s working, so I don’t want to bother her if I can help it.’

Fifteen minutes later, as he turned into the driveway to Karin and Leif’s house in Sumpan, he had to admit that it felt a bit strange, seeing the home where his ex-wife now lived with the man whose thrusting white backside he sometimes pictured in his mind. It wasn’t easy to forget the moment he’d caught his wife and her lover in the act.