The Hidden Child. Camilla Lackberg
the novelty of someone actually acceding to his authority, Bertil Mellberg rushed down the hall shouting to everyone and no one: ‘We’ve had a report of a body.’
Three heads poked out from three different doorways: one red, belonging to Martin Molin, one grey, belonging to Gösta Flygare, and one raven-black, belonging to Paula Morales.
‘A body?’ said Martin, emerging into the corridor. Now even Annika appeared from the reception area.
‘A teenage boy just rang to report it. Apparently he and a mate were larking about and decided to break into a house between Fjällbacka and Hamburgsund. Inside they found a body.’
‘The owner of the house?’ asked Gösta.
Mellberg shrugged. ‘That’s all I know. I told the boys to stay there. We’ll drive over right now. Martin, you and Paula take one car; Gösta and I will take the other.’
‘Shouldn’t we call Patrik?’ asked Gösta cautiously.
‘Who’s Patrik?’ asked Paula, looking from Gösta to Mellberg.
‘Patrik Hedström,’ explained Martin. ‘He works here too, but he’s on paternity leave, starting today.’
‘Why on earth should we ring Hedström?’ said Mellberg with a scornful snort. ‘I’m here,’ he added pompously, setting off at a trot towards the garage.
‘Yippee,’ muttered Martin when Mellberg was out of earshot. Paula raised her eyebrows quizzically. ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Martin apologetically, but he couldn’t resist adding, ‘You’ll understand soon enough.’
Paula was still looking bewildered, but she let it go. She’d suss out the workplace dynamics soon enough.
Erica sighed. It was quiet in the house now. Too quiet. For a year her ears had been attuned to the slightest whimper or cry. But now it was totally and completely quiet. The cursor was blinking in her Word document. In half an hour she hadn’t typed a single letter. Her brain was becalmed. So far she’d paged through her notes and looked at the articles that she’d copied during the summer. After sending several letters, she’d finally managed to get an appointment with the central figure in the case – the murderer – but that was still three weeks away. Until then she’d have to make do with the archival material. The problem was, she couldn’t think how to begin. The words weren’t exactly tumbling into place, and now doubt had set in. The doubt that authors always had to contend with. Were there any words left? Had she written her last sentence, used up her quota? Did she have any more books in her at all? Logic told her that she almost always felt this way on starting a new book, but that didn’t help. It was a form of torture, a process that she had to go through each time. Almost like giving birth. But today she felt especially sluggish.
She absently popped a Dumlekola chocolate caramel in her mouth to console herself as she eyed the notebooks lying on the desk next to the computer. Her mother’s fluid script was clamouring for her attention. She was torn between fear of looking at what her mother had written and curiosity about what she might find. Slowly she reached for the first notebook. She weighed it in her hand. It was thin, rather like the small notebooks used in elementary school. Erica ran her fingers over the cover. The name had been written with a pen, but the years had made the blue ink fade considerably. Elsy Moström. That was her mother’s maiden name. She’d taken the surname Falck when she married Erica’s father. Slowly Erica opened the notebook. The pages had thin blue lines. At the top was the date: 3 September 1943. She read the first sentence:
Will this war never end?
Will this war never end?
Elsy chewed the end of her pen, wondering what to write next. How could she put into words her thoughts on this war that didn’t involve her own country and yet did? It felt strange to be writing a diary. She didn’t know where she’d got the idea, but it was as if she felt the need to formulate all her thoughts about the life she was living, which was both familiar and unfamiliar.
In some ways she could hardly remember a time before the war. She was thirteen, soon to be fourteen; she’d been only nine when war broke out. During the first years, they hadn’t noticed much difference, although the grown-ups seemed to pay more attention to things, developing a sudden interest in the news, both in the papers and on the radio. When they sat listening to the radio in the living room, they seemed nervous, scared, but also oddly excited. In spite of everything, what was happening in the world was exciting – menacing, but exciting. Otherwise life seemed much the same. The boats went out to sea and came back home again. Sometimes the catch was good. Sometimes it wasn’t. On land, the women went about their daily chores – the same chores that their mothers had tended to, and their grandmothers too. Children had to be born, clothes had to be washed, and houses had to be cleaned. It was a never-ending cycle, but the war was now threatening to upset these familiar routines and their everyday reality. Ever since she was a child, she’d been aware of this underlying tension. And now the war was almost upon them.
‘Elsy?’ She heard her mother calling from downstairs. Quickly she closed her notebook and put it in the top drawer of her little desk next to the window. She’d spent so many hours sitting there and doing her homework, but now her school days were over, and she really had no need for the desk any more. She got up, smoothed the skirt of her dress, and went down to find her mother.
‘Elsy, could you help me get water?’ Her mother’s face looked tired and grey. They’d spent the whole summer living in the small room in the basement while they rented out the rest of the house to summer visitors. In return for the rent payments, they had to clean, cook, and wait on their lodgers – a lawyer from Göteborg, with his wife and three rambunctious children – and they’d been very demanding. Elsy’s mother, Hilma, had been kept running all day and well into the evening, doing the laundry, packing picnic baskets for their boating excursions, and tidying up after them in the house. At the same time, she’d had her own household chores to do.
‘Sit down and rest for a moment, Mamma,’ said Elsy gently, hesitantly placing her hand on her mother’s shoulder. Hilma flinched at the touch. Neither of them was used to any sort of physical contact, but after a slight pause, she put her own hand over her daughter’s and gratefully sank down on to a chair.
‘It was certainly about time for them to leave. I’ve never met such demanding people. “Hilma, would you please … Hilma, would you mind … Hilma, could you possibly …”’ She mimicked their cultured tones but then put her hand over her mouth in alarm. It wasn’t customary to show such disrespect for wealthy people. It was important to know one’s place.
‘I can understand why you’re tired. They weren’t easy to deal with.’ Elsy poured the last of the water into a saucepan and set it on the stove. When the water boiled, she stirred in some coffee substitute and put a cup on the table for Hilma and one for herself.
‘I’ll get more water in a minute, Mamma, but first we’re going to have some coffee.’
‘You’re a good girl.’ Hilma took a sip of the wretched ersatz brew. On special occasions she liked to drink her coffee from the saucer, holding a lump of sugar between her teeth. But nowadays sugar was scarce, and besides, it wasn’t really the same thing with ersatz coffee.
‘Did Pappa say when he’d be back?’ Elsy lowered her eyes. In wartime this question was more charged than it used to be. It wasn’t long ago that the Öckerö had been torpedoed and sunk with the entire crew on board. Since that incident, a fateful tone had slipped into the farewells before every new departure. But the work had to be done. No one had a choice. Cargo had to be delivered, and fish had to be caught. That was their life, whether there was a war on or not. They should be grateful at least that the cargo-boat traffic back and forth to Norway had been allowed to continue. It was also considered safer than the safe-conduct traffic that was carried on outside of the blockade. The boats from Fjällbacka could continue fishing,