Buried Angels (30 page)

Carina had aged well. The delicate laugh lines around her eyes suited her, and she had a nice suntan from the hours she devoted to her favourite pastime: pottering about in the garden.

‘It’s a bit slow. I’m researching a lead I’ve been given on John Holm, but I’m not sure how to proceed.’

He took a bite of pancake. It tasted as good as it looked.

‘Is there no one you can ask for help?’

Kjell was on the verge of dismissing the suggestion when it struck him that she had a point. This was important enough that he needed to put his pride aside. Everything he’d learned about Holm told him that there was some major secret that needed to be exposed. He actually didn’t care whether he was the one who got the story or not. For the first time in his career as a journalist, he found himself in a situation that he’d previously only heard about. He was in possession of the kernel of a story that was bigger than him.

He leapt to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s something that I have to do.’

‘Right now?’ said Carina, glancing at his half-eaten pancakes.

‘Yes, I’m really sorry. I know you cooked this special lunch, and I was looking forward to having some time together, but I …’

When he saw the disappointment on her face, he almost sat down. He had disappointed her so many times in the past, and he didn’t want to do it again. But then her face lit up and she smiled.

‘Go and do what you have to. I know you wouldn’t run away from a half-eaten potato pancake unless it was a matter of national security.’

Kjell laughed. ‘Right. It’s something like that.’ He leaned down and kissed her on the lips.

Back at the newspaper office, he wondered how to pitch his proposal. It was probably going to take more than a gut feeling and phone doodles to attract the interest of one of Sweden’s foremost political reporters. He scratched his beard and then realized what he’d say. Erica had told him about the blood, but no newspaper had published anything about the discovery out on Valö. He was almost done writing his article and was planning to offer it to
Bohusläningen
first. The rumours were probably already flying through the region, and it would be only a matter of time before the other papers caught wind of the story, so he convinced himself that it would be okay if he revealed the news. Besides, even if
Bohusläningen
lost out on the scoop, the paper was so familiar with the local area that it would do a much better job with follow-up articles than any of the major papers.

For several seconds he simply stared at the phone, gathering his thoughts and jotting down notes. He needed to be well prepared when he rang Sven Niklasson, the political reporter for
Expressen
, to enlist his help in finding out more about John Holm. And about Gimle.

Paula gingerly climbed out of the car. Mellberg had been scolding her all the way to Valö, first in the car and then on board
MinLouis
, one of the Coast Guard boats. But his grumbling had not sounded very convincing. By now he knew her well enough to realize that he wouldn’t be able to change her mind.

‘Watch your step. Your mother would kill me if you fell.’ He held her hand as Victor took the other to help her out of the boat.

‘Give me a call if you need a ride back,’ said Victor, and Mellberg nodded.

‘I can’t understand why you insisted on coming along,’ Mellberg said as they walked towards the house. ‘Maybe the boat hasn’t set off yet. This could be dangerous, and it’s silly to put your life at risk.’

‘It’s been almost an hour since Annika rang. I’m sure the boat has already left. And I’m guessing that Annika will try to get hold of Patrik and Gösta, so they’ll be on their way here too.’

‘Yes, but …’ Mellberg began, but then stopped as they reached the front door and called out: ‘Hello! The police are here!’

A blond man wearing a distraught expression came towards them, and Paula surmised he must be Tobias Stark. During the boat ride, she’d managed to get Mellberg to fill her in on the case.

‘We were waiting upstairs in our bedroom. We thought that might be … safest.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the stairs where two other people now appeared.

Paula gave a start when she recognized one of the women. ‘Anna? What are you doing here?’

‘I’m here to take some measurements for the remodelling.’ She was a bit pale, but otherwise composed.

‘Is everyone all right?’

‘Yes, thank goodness,’ said Anna, and the other two nodded.

‘Has anything else happened since you rang the police?’ asked Paula, looking around. Even though she thought the shooter must be long gone, she wasn’t about to risk taking it for granted. She was listening alertly to every sound.

‘No, we haven’t heard a thing. Do you want to see where the shots were fired?’ Anna seemed to have taken charge. Tobias and Ebba stood behind her, silently waiting. Tobias had his arm around Ebba, who was staring straight ahead, hugging herself.

‘Of course,’ said Mellberg.

‘It’s in here, in the kitchen.’ Anna led the way, stopping in the doorway to point. ‘As you can see, the shot came through that window.’

Paula surveyed the damage. There were glass splinters all over the floor, but most of the glass was immediately below the shattered window.

‘Was anyone in here when the shots were fired? And are you sure there were several shots and not just one?’

‘Ebba was in the kitchen,’ said Anna, giving Ebba a nudge. Slowly she raised her eyes to look around the kitchen, as if seeing it for the first time.

‘There was a huge bang,’ she said. ‘The sound was so loud. I didn’t know what it was. Then there was another bang.’

‘So two shots,’ said Mellberg, entering the kitchen.

‘I don’t think we should be walking around in here, Bertil,’ said Paula. She wished that Patrik had come with them. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop Mellberg on her own.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve been to more crime scenes than you’ll ever see in your career, and I know what to do and what not to do.’ He stepped on a big piece of glass, crushing it under his weight.

Paula took a deep breath. ‘I still think we should let Torbjörn and his boys examine the scene before we go disturbing anything.’

Mellberg pretended not to hear her. He went over to inspect the bullet holes in the kitchen wall.

‘Aha! I see those little rascals! Have you got any plastic bags?’

‘In the third drawer,’ said Ebba absentmindedly.

Mellberg pulled open the drawer and took out a roll of freezer bags. He tore off one and put on a pair of rubber gloves that were draped over the tap. Then he returned to the wall.

‘Let’s see, they’re not in very deep, so it should be easy enough to pluck them out. This is going to be a simple job for Torbjörn,’ he announced, prising the two bullets out of the wall.

‘But they need to take photos first,’ Paula objected.

Mellberg wasn’t listening to a word she said. Triumphantly he held out the bag to show them before stuffing it into his shirt pocket. Then he peeled off the gloves and tossed them in the sink.

‘We can’t forget about fingerprints,’ he said. ‘That’s very important in terms of collecting evidence. After so many years on the force, it’s something that just comes naturally.’

Paula bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. Hurry up, Hedström, said the voice in her head. But her plea went unheeded, and all she could do was watch as Mellberg, unconcerned, stomped around on the broken glass.

Dagmar could feel everyone’s eyes watching her. People thought she was oblivious to what was going on, but she wasn’t about to be fooled, especially not by Laura. Her daughter was good at garnering sympathy. They’d praise her for being a little housewife, and feel sorry for her because she had a mother like Dagmar. None of them knew what Laura was really like, but Dagmar saw through the hypocrisy. She knew what was under that pretty surface. Laura bore the same curse she did. The mark might be under her skin and hidden from view, but she was branded all the same. Laura’s fate would be no different to her mother’s, and she shouldn’t think otherwise.

Dagmar was shaking slightly as she sat at the kitchen table. Along with her morning dram she’d eaten a piece of plain crispbread, scattering as many crumbs as she could. Laura hated it when there were crumbs on the floor and never had any peace until she’d swept up every last one. A few crumbs had landed on the table, and Dagmar brushed them on to the floor as well. Now the girl would have something to keep her busy when she came home from school.

Restlessly Dagmar drummed her fingers on the flowery tablecloth. She was always filled with a nervous energy that demanded some sort of release; she had long since lost the ability to sit still. Twelve years had passed since Hermann had left her, yet even now she could feel his hands on her body, which had changed so much that she no longer bore any resemblance to the young woman she once was.

The anger that she’d felt towards him inside that small, sterile room in the hospital had evaporated. She loved him and he loved her. Nothing had turned out as she’d imagined, but it was good to know who was to blame. Every waking hour and even in her dreams, she would picture Carin Göring’s face, always with a superior, scornful expression. It was clear that Carin had enjoyed seeing the humiliation that she and Laura had suffered. Dagmar drummed her fingers harder on the tablecloth. Thoughts of Carin filled her head. It was thanks to those thoughts and to alcohol that she was able to keep herself going day after day.

She reached for the newspaper lying on the table. Since she couldn’t afford to buy a paper, she stole old editions from the bundles that were tossed behind the store, waiting to be picked up. She always read every page with great care, because sometimes she would find articles about Hermann. He had returned to Germany, and the name Hitler, which he’d shouted in the hospital, was frequently mentioned in the papers. She had read the articles, feeling her excitement rise. The man in the newspapers was her Hermann. Not that fat, shrieking person wearing hospital garb. He was in uniform once more, and although he wasn’t as handsome or stylish as he’d been when they first met, he was again a man who wielded power.

Her hands were still shaking as she opened the newspaper. It seemed to take longer and longer each morning for her first drink to take effect. She might as well have another. Dagmar got up and poured herself a sizeable shot. She downed it in one gulp, feeling the warmth immediately spread throughout her body, easing the shaking. Then she sat down again and started leafing through the paper.

She had almost come to the last page when she discovered the article. The letters began blurring together, and she had to force herself to focus on the headline: ‘Göring’s wife buried. Wreath from Hitler.’

Dagmar studied the two photographs. Then a smile spread across her lips. Carin Göring was dead. It was true, and it made her laugh with joy. Now there was nothing to stop Hermann. Now he would finally come back to her. She stamped her feet on the floor.

This time he’d gone out to the granite quarry alone. If Josef was being honest, he didn’t particularly care for the company of other people. What he was seeking was to be found only if he looked inward. It was not something anyone else could give him. Sometimes he wished that he had been different – or rather, more like other people. He wished he was able to feel a sense of belonging, that he was part of something, but he refused to let even his own family get close to him. The knot in his chest was too hard, and he felt like a child pressing his nose against a toy-shop window, staring at all the marvels inside without daring to open the door. Something stopped him from going inside, from reaching out his hand.

He sat down on a block of granite, and his thoughts turned again to his mother and father. Ten years had passed since their death, but he still felt lost without them. And he was ashamed that he’d kept his secret from them. His father had always emphasized the importance of trust, of being honest and speaking the truth, and he had let Josef know that he realized his son was keeping something from him. But how could he have told them? Certain secrets were too big, and his parents had sacrificed so much for his sake.

During the war they had lost everything: relatives, friends, possessions, security, their homeland. Everything except their faith and their hopes for a better life. While they suffered, Albert Speer had walked around here, pointing and shouting and ordering stone to build the foremost city in the empire that was built on blood. Josef didn’t know whether Speer had actually been here in person, but no doubt one of his henchmen had strutted about the quarry outside of Fjällbacka.

The war did not seem like an event from the distant past. Every day of his childhood Josef had heard stories about how the Jews had been hunted down and humiliated, what the smoke smelled like as it poured from the chimneys in the camps, and how the horrified expressions of the liberating soldiers reflected their degradation. Sweden had welcomed them with open arms but at the same time stubbornly refused to acknowledge its own role in the war. Every day his father had talked about this, about how his new country needed to acknowledge the crimes it had committed, until it was imprinted on Josef’s mind as indelibly as the numbers tattooed on his parents’ arms.