Camilla Läckberg - The Hidden Child

Karin opened the door, holding Ludde in her arms, before Patrik even rang the bell. ‘Come in,’ she said, moving out of the way to let him through.

‘The rescue squad is here,’ he said teasingly as he set Maja down. She was immediately joined by Ludde, who took her hand and pulled her down the hall towards what appeared to be his room.

‘It’s down here.’ Karin opened a door leading to the basement stairs.

‘Will they be okay?’ asked Patrik nervously, glancing towards Ludde’s room.

‘They’ll keep themselves busy for a few minutes, no problem,’ said Karin, motioning for Patrik to follow her downstairs.

At the foot of the stairs she pointed to a pipe on the ceiling with a concerned expression on her face. Patrik went over to inspect it and then was able to reassure her.

‘Hmm… I think it’s an exaggeration to say that the water is pouring out. Looks more like condensation.’ He pointed to a few scanty drops of water on top of the pipe.

‘Oh, that’s good. I got so worried when I saw that it was wet,’ said Karin. ‘It’s really nice of you to come over. Could I offer you some coffee by way of a thank you, or do you need to get back home?’

‘Sure, we’re not on any schedule. Coffee would be nice.’ A short time later they were sitting in the kitchen, eating the biscuits that Karin had set on the table.

‘You weren’t expecting homemade biscuits, were you?’ she asked, smiling at Patrik.

He reached for an ‘oatmeal dream’ and shook his head as he laughed. ‘No, baking was never your strong suit. Or cooking in general, to be frank.’

‘Hey, how can you say that?’ said Karin, looking offended. ‘It couldn’t have been that bad. You used to like my meat loaf, at least.’

Patrik grinned wickedly and rocked his hand to indicate it had been so-so. ‘I just said that because you were so proud of it. But I always wondered whether I ought to sell the recipe to the home guard so they could use it for cannon fodder.’

‘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.