Sometimes Elsy wondered whether her mother knew that she was sneaking downstairs to see him at night but decided to turn a blind eye because she couldn’t afford to do otherwise.

Elsy ran her hand over her stomach as she lay in bed next to Hans, listening to his steady breathing. She had realized one week ago that she was pregnant. In spite of everything she’d been taught about shame and its consequences, a great calm had come over her. After all, it was Hans’s child she was carrying, and there was no one in the world that she trusted more. She hadn’t told him yet, but deep inside she knew that it wouldn’t be a problem. He would be happy to hear the news. And they would help each other and somehow make things work.

She closed her eyes, leaving her hand resting on her stomach. Somewhere inside was a small creature that was the product of their love. Hers and Hans’s. How could that be wrong? How could a child that belonged to them ever be wrong?

Elsy fell asleep with her hand on her stomach and a faint smile on her lips.

Chapter 41

A tense feeling of anticipation had settled over the station following the events at the cemetery. Mellberg, of course, was taking full credit for the discovery, but nobody paid much attention to him. Even Gösta had a gleam in his eye as he joined in the speculation. Though they didn’t yet know exactly how yesterday’s discovery fit in with the two recent murders, everyone was certain it marked a major breakthrough in the investigation.

‘The question is,’ mused Paula, ‘why start killing people over a murder that happened sixty years ago? I mean, we almost have to assume that Britta and Erik were killed because of some link to the “alleged”’ – here she drew quote marks in the air – ‘murder of that boy. But why now? What sparked the renewed interest?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Martin, who’d been sitting at his desk wondering the very same thing when Paula dropped by. ‘Let’s hope the post-mortem will give us something concrete to go on.’

‘What if it doesn’t?’ said Paula, voicing the thought that he’d been trying to avoid.

‘Let’s just take it one step at a time,’ he said quietly.

‘That reminds me,’ said Paula, ‘aren’t we supposed to get back the DNA profile results today? It won’t do us much good unless we’ve got something to compare them to.’

‘You’re right,’ said Martin, pushing back his chair. ‘Let’s take care of that right now.’

‘Who should we take first? Axel or Frans? Those are the two we should focus on, right?’

‘Let’s take Frans,’ said Martin, and he put on his jacket.

With the summer tourist season over, Grebbestad was just as deserted as Fjällbacka, and they saw only a few residents as they drove through town. Martin parked the police vehicle in the small car park in front of the Telegraph restaurant, and they walked across the street to Frans’s flat. No one answered when they rang the bell.

‘Damn. He’s not at home. We’ll have to come back later,’ said Martin, turning away.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Paula. ‘The door’s open.’

‘But we can’t just…’ Martin’s objection came too late. His colleague had already opened the door and stepped inside.

‘Hello?’ he heard her calling, and reluctantly he followed her down the hall. They peeked into the kitchen and the living room. No Frans. And not a sound.

‘Come on, let’s check the bedroom,’ said Paula. Martin hesitated. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said. With a sigh he let her lead the way.

The bedroom was also empty, the bed neatly made up and no Frans in sight.

‘Hello?’ called Paula again when they returned to the hall. No answer. They made their way to the last room in the flat.

They saw him as soon as the door swung inwards. The room was a small office, and Frans had collapsed forward on to the desk, the gun still in his mouth and a gaping hole in the back of his head. Martin felt all the blood drain from his face; for a moment he swayed on his feet and had to swallow hard. Paula, on the other hand, seemed totally unfazed. She pointed at Frans, forcing Martin to look, even though he would have preferred not to.

‘Look at his arms,’ she said calmly.

Fighting the waves of nausea rising up inside of him, Martin did his best to focus on Frans’s forearms. He gave a start. They were covered in deep scratches.

It was just a matter now of waiting for confirmation from the scientific team. DNA and fingerprint analysis would no doubt prove that Frans had murdered Britta. And perhaps the techs combing through the apartment in Grebbestad would come up with a link to Erik Frankel’s murder too. And then there was the preliminary report on the body found in the soldiers’ grave in Fjällbacka; everybody was eager to know what fresh information that might provide.

Martin was the one who took the call from the ME. Holding the faxed post-mortem report in his hand, he then went round knocking on office doors and summoning his colleagues to a meeting.

After the others were seated, he leaned against the kitchen counter, deciding to remain standing so that everyone would be able to hear him.

‘As I said, I’ve got the initial report from Pedersen,’ Martin told them, turning a deaf ear to Mellberg’s sullen mutterings that he should have been the one to take that phone call.

‘Since we don’t have any DNA or a dental chart for comparison, we can’t positively identify the deceased as Hans Olavsen. But the age matches. And the time of his disappearance also fits, even though it’s impossible to know for certain after such a long time.’

‘So how did he die?’ asked Paula. She was tapping her foot on the floor, eager to get on with things.

Enjoying his moment in the spotlight, Martin paused for effect before announcing: ‘Pedersen says that the body had sustained massive injuries. Stab wounds caused by a sharp instrument, as well as contusions from kicks or punches, or both. It looks as though Hans Olavsen was the victim of a frenzied attack. His killer must have been in a fit of rage. The details are all in Pedersen’s preliminary report.’ Martin leaned forward to put the pages on the table.

‘So the cause of death was…?’ Paula was still tapping her foot.

‘It’s hard to say which particular injury caused his death. According to Pedersen, there were several wounds that could have been fatal.’

‘I’ll bet Ringholm was the one who did it. And that’s why he killed Erik and Britta too,’ muttered Gösta, voicing what most of his colleagues were thinking. ‘He’s always been a hot-headed bastard,’ Gösta added, shaking his head gloomily.

‘That’s one theory that we need to work on,’ said Martin, nodding. ‘But let’s not jump to conclusions. Frans did have scratches on his arms, just as Pedersen told us to look for, but until we have the lab results we won’t know whether Frans’s DNA matches the skin scrapings that we found under Britta’s fingernails, or whether he’s a match for the thumb-print on the pillowcase button. So until we have that corroboration, we’re going to keep plugging away as usual.’

Martin was surprised at how professional and calm he sounded. This was how Patrik came across whenever he reviewed a case. Martin couldn’t help stealing a glance at Mellberg, to see whether his boss seemed upset by the fact that his subordinate had jumped in and taken over the role that rightfully belonged to him, as station chief. But, as usual, Mellberg seemed content to hand over all the investigative legwork. Only when the case was solved would he muster the energy to take all the credit.

‘So what do we do now?’ asked Paula, giving Martin a quick wink to indicate that she thought he was doing a great job.

Even though the praise hadn’t been put into words, Martin was glowing with pride. He’d been the station rookie for so long that it hadn’t come easy, having to step up and take responsibility. But Patrik’s paternity leave had finally given him a chance to show his true worth.