The Hidden Child. Camilla Lackberg

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      She’d always loved airports: the planes landing and taking off, the travellers with eyes full of anticipation as they set off on holiday or on a business trip, and all the coming and going, with people reuniting or saying their farewells. She remembered an airport from a long, long time ago. The crush of people, the smells, the colours, the hum of voices. The tension that she sensed rather than saw in her mother’s face and the way she held Paula’s hand in a tight grip. The suitcase that she’d packed and repacked and then packed again. Everything had to be right, because this was going to be a trip with no return. She remembered too the heat, and then the chill when they arrived. She would never have believed it possible to be so cold. And the airport where they landed was different. Quieter, with cold grey paint. No one spoke loudly, no one waved their hands around. Everybody seemed locked inside their own little bubbles. No one looked them in the eye. Their documents were stamped and then they were sent on their way by a strange-sounding voice in a strange-sounding language. And her mother had kept a tight grip on her hand the whole time.

      ‘Is that him?’ Martin pointed at a man in his eighties who had just exited the passport control area. He was tall, with grey hair, and he wore a beige trench coat. Very stylish, thought Paula immediately.

      ‘Let’s find out.’ She led the way. ‘Axel Frankel?’

      The man nodded. ‘You’re from the police? I thought I was supposed to come and see you at the station.’ He looked tired.

      ‘We thought we might as well come out here to meet you.’ Martin gave him a friendly nod, introducing himself and his colleague.

      ‘I see. Well, in that case, I thank you for offering to give me a lift. I usually have to make do with public transport, so this will be a treat.’

      ‘Do you have a suitcase?’ Paula cast a glance at the luggage belt.

      ‘No, no, this is all I brought.’ He gestured towards the carry-on bag he was pulling behind him. ‘I always travel light.’

      ‘An art I’ve never mastered,’ said Paula with a laugh. The weariness on the man’s face vanished for a moment as he laughed too.

      They chatted about the weather until they all got into the car and Martin began driving towards Fjällbacka.

      ‘Have you … have you found out anything more?’ Axel’s voice quavered and he had to stop talking in order to pull himself together.

      Paula, who was sitting next to him on the back seat, shook her head. ‘No, unfortunately. We were hoping that you could help us. For example, we need to know whether your brother had any enemies. Is there anyone who might have wanted to harm him?’

      Axel shook his head. ‘No, no, not really. My brother was the most peaceful and placid man, and … no, it’s absurd to think that anyone would want to harm Erik.’

      ‘What do you know about his involvement with a group called Sweden’s Friends?’ Martin tossed out the question from his place in the driver’s seat, meeting Axel’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

      ‘So you’ve gone through Erik’s correspondence with Frans Ringholm.’ Axel rubbed the bridge of his nose before he said anything more. Paula and Martin waited patiently.

      ‘It’s a complicated story that started a very long time ago.’

      ‘We have plenty of time,’ said Paula, making it clear that she was expecting him to answer the question.

      ‘Frans is a childhood friend of mine and Erik’s. We’ve known each other all our lives. But … how should I put it? We chose one path and Frans chose another.’

      ‘Frans is a right-wing extremist?’ Again Martin met Axel’s gaze in the mirror.

      Axel nodded. ‘Yes, I don’t really know in what way or to what extent, but all through his adult life he’s mixed in those circles, and he even helped to start that group called Sweden’s Friends. He probably picked up a lot of his views from home, although back when I knew him he never showed any such sympathies. But people change.’ Axel shook his head.

      ‘Why would this organization feel threatened by Erik? From what I understand, he wasn’t politically active. He was a historian specializing in the Second World War, right?’

      Axel sighed. ‘It’s not that easy to remain neutral. You can’t research Nazism and at the same time remain, or be viewed as, apolitical. For instance, many neo-Nazi organizations dispute that the concentration camps existed, and all attempts to describe the camps and investigate what happened are regarded as a threat or an attack on their group. As I said, it’s complicated.’

      ‘What about your own involvement in the issue? Have you ever received any threats?’ Paula studied him closely.

      ‘Of course I have. To a much greater extent than Erik. My life’s mission has been working with the Simon Wiesenthal Center.’

      ‘And what exactly does the Center do?’ asked Martin.

      ‘The organization tracks down Nazis who have fled and gone underground. And it sees that they’re brought to justice,’ Paula explained.

      Axel nodded. ‘That’s right, among other things. So yes, I’ve received my share of threats.’

      ‘Do you still have any of the actual letters?’ Martin asked.

      ‘The Center has them. Those of us who work for the Center send in any letters we get so they can be kept in the archives. If you contact them they’ll give you access to everything.’ He handed his business card to Paula, who put it in her jacket pocket.

      ‘And Sweden’s Friends? Have you received any threats from them?’

      ‘No … I don’t think so. No, not that I can recall. But as I said, you should check with the Center. They have everything.’

      ‘Frans Ringholm. How does he fit into the picture? You said he was a childhood friend?’ Martin enquired.

      ‘To be precise, he was Erik’s childhood friend. I was a couple of years older, so we didn’t really have the same circle of friends.’

      ‘But Erik knew Frans well?’ Paula’s brown eyes again studied Axel intently.

      ‘Yes, but that was ages ago. We’re going back sixty years here.’ Axel didn’t seem very comfortable with the topic of conversation. He kept shifting position on the back seat. ‘Even without dementia, the old memory starts to get a bit murky.’ He smiled wryly as he tapped his head.

      ‘But there’s been more recent contact, judging by the letters we found. Frans has been in touch with your brother repeatedly, at least by letter.’

      Axel ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. ‘I’ve lived my life, and my brother has СКАЧАТЬ