‘What is Erica writing now?’ asked Karin, desperate to change the subject.

‘She’s supposed to be working on a new book, but she’s been caught up in some research into her mother’s past,’ said Patrik, also grateful to be talking about something else.

‘How did she happen to get interested in that?’ asked Karin, genuinely curious.

Patrik told her about what they’d found in the chest up in the attic and how Erica had discovered connections to the murders that the whole town was talking about.

‘What she’s most frustrated about is that for years her mother kept a diary, but the diaries she’s found only go up to 1944. Either Elsy suddenly decided to stop writing, or there are a bunch of blue notebooks stored somewhere, but not in our house,’ said Patrik.

Karin gave a start. ‘What did you say those diaries look like?’

Patrik frowned and gave her a puzzled look. ‘Thin blue books, a bit like the exercise books used in schools. Why?’

‘Because in that case, I think I know where they are,’ replied Karin.

‘You have a visitor,’ said Annika, sticking her head in to Martin’s office.

‘Really? Who is it?’ he asked, but his question was immediately answered as Kjell Ringholm appeared in the doorway.

‘I’m not here in my capacity as a journalist,’ he said at once, holding up his hands when he saw that Martin was about to object. ‘I’m here as the son of Frans Ringholm,’ he said, sitting down heavily on the visitor’s chair.

‘I’m very sorry…’ said Martin, not really knowing how to go on. Everybody knew what sort of relationship the Ringholms had had.

Kjell waved away his embarrassment and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘This was delivered today.’ His tone was expressionless, but his hand shook as he tossed the letter on to Martin’s desk. Martin picked it up and opened it after receiving a nod of consent from Kjell. He read the three handwritten pages in silence, but raised his eyebrows several times.

‘So your father takes the blame not only for the murder of Britta Johansson, but also the deaths of Hans Olavsen and Erik Frankel,’ said Martin, staring at Kjell.

‘Yes, that’s what it says,’ replied Kjell, looking down. ‘But I expect you’d already assumed as much, so it won’t come as much of a surprise.’

‘I’d be lying if I told you otherwise,’ said Martin, nodding. ‘But Britta’s murder is the only one where we have concrete proof against him.’

‘Then this ought to help,’ said Kjell, pointing at the letter.

‘And you’re sure that…?’

‘That it’s my father’s handwriting? Yes,’ Kjell told him. ‘I’m quite sure. That letter was written by my father. And I’m not really surprised,’ he added, sounding bitter. ‘But I would have thought…’ He shook his head.

Martin read through the letter again. ‘In actual fact, he only confesses to killing Britta. The rest is rather vague: I am to blame for Erik’s death, and also for the death of the man that you’ve found in a grave that should not have been his.’

Kjell shrugged. ‘I don’t see the difference. He was just being pretentious, phrasing it differently. I have no doubt that it was my father who…’ He didn’t finish what he was going to say, just sighed heavily, as if trying to keep all his feelings in check.

Martin went back to reading the letter aloud. ‘I thought that I could handle things the way I usually do, that a single act of violence would solve everything, keep everything under wraps. But even as I lifted the pillow off her face, I knew that it wouldn’t solve anything. And I understood that there was only one option left. That I had come to the end of the line. That the past had finally caught up with me.’ Martin looked at Kjell. ‘Do you know what he means? What was it he wanted to keep under wraps? What does he mean by the past catching up with him?’

Kjell shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’

‘I’m going to have to keep this for the time being,’ said Martin, waving the handwritten pages in the air.

‘Of course,’ said Kjell wearily. ‘Go ahead and keep them. I was just planning to burn them otherwise.’

‘By the way, I’ve asked my colleague Gösta to have a few words with you, when it’s convenient. But maybe you and I could have a talk instead?’ Martin carefully placed the letter inside a plastic sleeve and put it to one side.

‘What about?’ asked Kjell.

‘Hans Olavsen. I understand that you’ve being doing some research -’

‘What does that have to do with anything now? My father has confessed to murdering him.’

‘That’s one interpretation, yes. But there are still questions about Olavsen’s death that we’d like to clear up. So if you have any information that you’d like to contribute… anything at all…’ Martin threw out his hands and leaned back.

‘Have you talked to Erica Falck?’ asked Kjell.

Martin shook his head. ‘Not yet, but we will. Since you happen to be here…’

‘Well, I don’t have much to tell you.’ Kjell explained about contacting Eskil Halvorsen, the expert on the Norwegian resistance movement. He still hadn’t heard back from him about Hans Olavsen, and there was a strong likelihood he wouldn’t have any information to offer.

‘Would you like to ring him now, to check if he’s found out anything?’ asked Martin, pointing to the phone on his desk.

Kjell shrugged and took a well-thumbed address book out of his pocket. He leafed through it until he found the page with the yellow Post-it note bearing Eskil Halvorsen’s name and number.

‘I think it will be a waste of time, but since you insist…’ Kjell moved the phone closer and punched in the number from his address book. There was a pause before the Norwegian finally picked up. ‘Hello, this is Kjell Ringholm. I’m sorry to bother you again, but I was just wondering if… Right, you got the photo. Good. Have you…’

Kjell nodded. As he listened, his expression grew more and more alert, which made Martin sit up straighter in his chair, eager to know what the man on the other end of the line was saying.

‘And it’s from that photograph that you…? But it’s the wrong name? And his name is actually…?’

Kjell snapped his fingers to signal Martin that he needed pen and paper.

Martin reached for his pen holder and managed to knock it over so all the pens fell out, but Kjell picked up one of them, grabbed a report from Martin’s inbox and began feverishly writing on the back of it.

‘So he wasn’t… Yes, I realize that this is extremely interesting. For us too, believe me.’

Martin was ready to burst with curiosity. It was all he could do to keep from grabbing the phone.

‘Okay, thank you so much. This puts a new light on the whole matter. Yes. Right. Thank you. Thank you.’

Finally Kjell put down the phone and gave Martin a big smile.

‘I know who he is! I’ll be damned, I know who he is!’

‘Erica!’

Erica heard the front door slam and wondered why Patrik was yelling like that.

‘What is it? Something urgent?’ She went out on to the landing and looked down at him.

‘Come down here – there’s something I need to tell you.’ He motioned excitedly for her to come, and she complied. ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, going into the living room.

‘Now I’m really curious,’ she said when they were both sitting on the sofa. She looked at him. ‘So tell me.’

Patrik took a deep breath. ‘Okay. You know how you said you thought there had to be more diaries somewhere?’

‘Ye-es,’ said Erica, suddenly feeling butterflies in her stomach.

‘Well, I ran over to Karin’s place a little while ago.’

‘You did?’ said Erica, surprised.

Patrik waved his hands dismissively. ‘Never mind that. Listen – I happened to mention the diaries to Karin. And she thought she knew where to find more of them!’

Erica looked at him in amazement. ‘How could she possibly know that?’

Patrik told her, and Erica’s face lit up. ‘Oh, of course. But why didn’t she ever say anything?’