‘All right, boy, now I’m going to teach you how to deal with bitches. It’s the only language they understand. Watch and learn.’ He was breathing hard as he unfastened his belt and trousers, keeping his eyes fixed on Frans. Then he took a few steps towards Bodil, who had managed to crawl a few metres away. He grabbed her hair with one hand and he pulled up her skirt with the other.

‘No, no, don’t… think about… Frans,’ she pleaded. Vilgot merely laughed as he yanked her head back and entered her with a loud groan.

The knot in Frans’s stomach solidified into a big, cold lump of hatred. And when his mother turned her head and met his eyes, on her knees as his father thrust inside of her, Frans knew that the only thing he could do to survive was to hold on to that hatred.

Chapter 31

Kjell spent Saturday morning at the office. Beata had taken the children and gone to visit her parents, so it had seemed the perfect opportunity to do a little research about Hans Olavsen. So far, he’d drawn a blank. There were too many Norwegians with the same name from that time period, and if he didn’t find something that could eliminate some of them, it would prove to be an impossible task.

He’d read the articles that Erik had given him again and again, yet he still couldn’t work out what he was supposed to make of these scraps of information. That was what surprised him the most. If Erik Frankel had wanted to hand him a story, why hadn’t he just come out and told him what it was? Why this cryptic approach? Kjell sighed. The only thing the articles told him about Hans Olavsen was that he’d been a resistance fighter during World War II. For a second he considered asking his father whether he knew anything more about the Norwegian, but he immediately dismissed the idea. He would rather spend a hundred hours in some archive than seek his father’s help.

An archive. That was a thought. Was there some sort of database in Norway listing people who had been part of the resistance movement? A great deal must have been written about the subject, and someone was bound to have researched the topic and attempted to chart the movement’s history. Someone always did.

He opened his Internet browser and ran a series of searches using various combinations of words until he finally found what he was looking for. A man named Eskil Halvorsen had written a number of books about Norway during the Second World War, and in particular about the resistance movement. This was the man he needed to talk to. Kjell found an online Norwegian phone directory and located Halvorsen’s number. He immediately reached for the phone and punched in the digits, then had to redial because in his excitement he’d forgotten to start with the country code for Norway. He wasn’t concerned that he would be disturbing the man on a Saturday morning; a journalist couldn’t afford to have those kinds of scruples.

After waiting impatiently for several seconds, he finally heard a voice at the other end. Kjell introduced himself and explained that he was trying to locate a man by the name of Hans Olavsen who had been part of the resistance during the war and who had subsequently fled to Sweden.

‘… So that’s not a name that you’ve come across in your research?’ Disappointed, Kjell was drawing circles on his notepad. ‘… Yes, I realize that we’re talking about thousands who were active in the resistance movement, but is there any possibility…?’

He continued to draw feverishly on his notepad as he listened to a long speech about the organizational structure of the Norwegian resistance. It was undeniably a fascinating subject, especially considering that neo-Nazism was his speciality, but Kjell didn’t want to lose sight of his quest.

‘Is there any archive that lists the name of all the resistance fighters?… Okay, so there is some documentation then?… Could you possibly help me by checking for any mention of Hans Olavsen and in particular any reference to where he might be now? I’d very grateful. And by the way, he came to Sweden in 1944, to Fjällbacka, if that’s any help to you.’

Kjell put down the phone, pleased with himself. He may not have got the hot lead he was hoping for, but he was convinced that if anyone could dig up information about Hans Olavsen, it was the man he had just spoken to.

And in the meantime, there was something he himself could do. The Fjällbacka library might have more information about the Norwegian. It was at least worth a try. He glanced at his watch. If he left now, he could get there before the library closed. He grabbed his jacket, turned off his computer, and left the office.

Far away, Eskil Halvorsen had already started looking for information on the resistance fighter named Hans Olavsen.

Maja was still clutching the doll when they put her in the car. Erica was so touched by the old woman’s gift, and it was endearing to see how instantly Maja had fallen in love with the doll.

‘What a sweet old lady,’ she said to Patrik, who merely nodded as he focused on navigating through Göteborg’s traffic, with all the one-way streets and dinging trams that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

‘Where should we park?’ he asked, looking around.

‘There’s a spot -’ Erica pointed, and Patrik pulled in and parked.

‘It’s probably best if you and Maja don’t go into the shop with me,’ she said, taking the pushchair out of the boot. ‘I don’t think antique shops are the proper setting for little miss mischief here – you know how she loves to get her hands on things.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Patrik, putting Maja in the chair. ‘We’ll go for a walk. But you’ll have to tell me all about it afterwards.’

‘I will, I promise.’ Erica waved to Maja and then headed for the address she’d been given over the phone. The antique shop was on Guldheden, and she found it easily. A bell rang as she stepped inside, and a short, thin man with a flowing beard came out from behind a curtain.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked politely, with an expectant air.

‘Hi, I’m Erica Falck. We spoke on the phone earlier.’ She went over to him and held out her hand.

‘Enchanté,’ he said, and to Erica’s great surprise he kissed her hand. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had kissed her hand. If ever. ‘So, I understand you have a medal that you’d like to know more about, is that right? Come in and we can sit down while I take a look at it.’ He held the curtain aside for her and she had to duck slightly in order to go through an unusually low doorway. Then she stopped short. Russian icons covered every inch of the walls in the dark little nook, which otherwise had room only for a small table and two chairs.

‘My passion,’ said the man, who on the phone had introduced himself as Åke Grundén. ‘I have one of Sweden’s finest collections of Russian icons,’ he added proudly as they sat down.

‘They’re beautiful,’ said Erica, looking at them.

‘Oh, they’re much more than that, my dear, so much more than that,’ he said, practically glowing with pride as he regarded his collection. ‘They are the bearers of a history and a tradition that is… magnificent.’ He stopped then and put on a pair of glasses. ‘But I have a tendency to wax lyrical once I get started on that subject, so it’s best if we turn to what you’re here to talk about. It sounds interesting, I must say.’

‘Well, I understand that you have another speciality: medals from the Second World War.’

He peered at her over the rim of his glasses. ‘It’s easy to get a bit isolated when one chooses to prioritize old artefacts rather than surrounding oneself with other people. I’m not entirely certain that I’ve made the right choice, but it’s easy to be wise with hindsight.’ He smiled, and Erica smiled back. He had a quiet, ironic sense of humour that appealed to her.