‘What are you doing!’ Britta screamed, staring at the boys on the ground. Erik was on his back, with Frans on top of him. Without even thinking she rushed over and yanked at Frans’s shirt, but he flailed his arm at her so hard that she toppled backwards.

‘Stop it, Frans, stop it!’ she yelled, sliding away from him with tears running down her cheeks. Something in her tone brought him to his senses. He looked down at Erik, whose face had taken on an odd colour, and let go of his neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m sorry… I…’

Erik sat up and stared at him, his hands feeling his bruised throat. ‘What was that all about? You just about strangled me! Are you out of your mind?’ Erik’s glasses were askew. He took them off and then put them on again properly.

Frans stared straight ahead, a blank look in his eyes, and didn’t reply.

‘He’s in love with Elsy. That’s why,’ said Britta bitterly as she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. ‘And he actually thought he had a chance with her. But you’re an idiot for thinking that, Frans! She has never so much as looked at you. And now she’s throwing herself into the arms of that Norwegian. While I…’ She burst into tears and started scrambling down the rocky hill.

Frans, expressionless, watched her go.

‘Damn it, Frans, you’re not… Is that true?’ Erik glared at him. ‘Are you in love with Elsy? I mean, if that’s the case, I can understand why you went berserk. But you can’t…’ Erik stopped and shook his head.

Frans didn’t reply. He couldn’t. His head was filled with the image of Hans leaning forward to kiss Elsy. And of Elsy kissing him back.

Chapter 37

Nowadays Erica always paid more attention when she saw a police car, and she thought she saw Martin in the one that passed her just before Torp, as she drove towards Uddevalla for the second time that day. She wondered where Martin had been.

There really wasn’t any rush with the enquiries she was making, but she knew that she wouldn’t be able to write in peace until she had followed up on the new information she’d been given. And she was curious to know why Kjell Ringholm, a journalist for Bohusläningen, was interested in the Norwegian resistance fighter.

Later, as she was waiting in the reception area at Bohusläningen, she pondered possible reasons for his interest but finally decided to stop speculating until she had the opportunity to ask him in person. A few minutes later she was escorted to his office. He looked up with a quizzical expression on his face as she came in and shook hands.

‘Erica Falck? The author? Is that right?’ he said, motioning her towards a visitor’s chair.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, draping her jacket over the back of the chair and sitting down.

‘Unfortunately, I haven’t read any of your books, but I’ve heard that they’re very good,’ he said politely. ‘Are you here in connection with research for a new book? I’m not a crime reporter, so I’m not sure how I can help you. Unless I’m mistaken, you write true-crime books.’

‘Actually, this has nothing to do with my books,’ replied Erica. ‘The thing is, for various reasons I’ve started researching my mother’s past. And she happened to be good friends with your father.’

Kjell frowned. ‘When was that?’ he asked, leaning forward.

‘From what I understand, they were friends as children and teenagers. I’ve mostly been concentrating on the late war years, when they were about fifteen.’

Kjell nodded and waited for her to go on.

‘They were part of a group of four teenagers who seem to have been as thick as thieves. In addition to your father, the group included Britta Johansson and Erik Frankel. And as you undoubtedly know, those two were both murdered within the last few months. Rather a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

Kjell still didn’t speak, but Erica saw how tense he was, and she noticed a glint in his eyes.

‘And…’ She paused. ‘There was one other person. In 1944 a Norwegian resistance fighter – he was really only a boy – came to Fjällbacka. He had stowed away on my grand-father’s boat and then became a lodger in my grandparents’ house. His name was Hans Olavsen. But you already know that, don’t you? Because I understand that you’re also interested in him, and I was wondering why.’

‘I’m a journalist. I can’t discuss that sort of thing,’ Kjell replied evasively.

‘Wrong. You can’t reveal your sources,’ said Erica calmly. ‘But I don’t see why we can’t join forces to work on this matter. I’m very good at ferreting out things, and I know you are too, since you’re a journalist. We’re both interested in Hans Olavsen. I can live with the fact that you don’t want to tell me why. But we could at least exchange information – what we already know and what we find out later on our own. What do you think?’ She fell silent and waited, in suspense.

Kjell considered what she’d just said. He drummed his fingers on the desk as he weighed the pros and cons.

‘Okay,’ he said at last, reaching for something in the top desk drawer. ‘There’s really no reason why we can’t help each other out. And my source is dead, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t show you everything. Here’s what I know. I came into contact with Erik Frankel because of a… private matter.’ He cleared his throat and slid the folder towards her. ‘He said that there was something he wanted to tell me, something that I might find useful and that ought to come out.’

‘Is that how he phrased it?’ Erica leaned forward and picked up the folder. ‘That it was something that ought to come out?’

‘Yes, as far as I recall,’ said Kjell, leaning back in his chair. ‘He called on me here a few days later. He brought along the articles in that folder and just handed them to me. But he wouldn’t tell me why. I asked him a lot of questions, of course, but he refused to answer any of them. He just said that if I was as good at digging up things as he’d heard, then what was in the folder should be sufficient.’

Erica leafed through the pages inside the plastic folder. They were the same articles that she’d already got from Christian, the articles from the archives mentioning Hans Olavsen and the time he’d spent in Fjällbacka. ‘Is this all?’ she asked, sighing.

‘That was my reaction too. If he knew something, why couldn’t he just come out and tell me? But for some reason he thought it was important that I should find out the rest on my own. So that’s what I’ve started to do, and I’d be lying if I said that my interest hadn’t gone up a thousand per cent since Erik Frankel was found murdered. I’ve been wondering if his death has anything to do with this.’ He pointed at the folder that was resting on Erica’s lap. ‘And of course I’ve heard about the elderly woman who was murdered last week. But I have no idea if there’s any connection… though it does raise a number of questions.’

‘Have you found out anything more about the Norwegian?’ asked Erica eagerly. ‘I haven’t got that far yet in my own research. The only thing I know is that he and my mother had a love affair, and that he seems to have left her behind in Fjällbacka rather suddenly. I thought my next step would be to try to locate him, find out where he went, if he really did return to Norway or go somewhere else. But maybe you already know?’

Kjell shook his head. He told Erica about his conversation with Eskil Halvorsen, the Norwegian academic who couldn’t recall Hans Olavsen off the top of his head but had promised to do some further research.

‘It’s also possible that Hans stayed in Sweden,’ said Erica pensively. ‘If so, we should be able to trace him through the Swedish authorities. I can probably check that out. But if he disappeared somewhere abroad, that would be a problem.’