clearly visible. Black, sooty particles that disturbed the image of an otherwise beautiful room.
‘Okay, then.’ Martin wiped his shoes on the doormat and headed for the library. ‘Shall we start in here?’
‘Might as well,’ said Gösta with a sigh.
‘I’ll take the desk while you go through the file folders and ring binders.’
‘Sure.’ Gösta sighed again, but Martin paid no attention. Gösta always sighed when confronted with an assignment.
Martin cautiously approached the big desk. It was a huge piece of furniture made of dark wood, ornately carved, that looked as if it belonged in some English manor house. The desktop was very neat, with only a pen and a box of paper clips, aligned in perfect symmetry. A little blood had stained a notepad that was covered in scribbles, and Martin leaned closer to see what had been scrawled there. ‘Ignoto militi’ it said over and over. The words meant nothing to him. He carefully began pulling out one desk drawer after another, methodically going through the contents. Nothing piqued his interest. The only thing he could tell was that Erik and his brother seemed to have shared the work area, and they also seemed to share a fondness for neatness and order.
‘Doesn’t this border on the obsessive?’ Gösta held up a binder and showed Martin the neatly arranged documents inside, complete with a table of contents on which Erik and Axel had meticulously detailed what each scrap of paper was about.
‘It’s not what my files look like, I can tell you that.’ Martin laughed.
‘I’ve always thought there’s something wrong with people who are this neat. It probably has to do with deficient toilet training or something like that.’
‘Well, that’s one theory.’ Martin smiled. ‘Have you found anything? There’s nothing of interest here.’ He closed the last drawer that he’d been looking through.
‘Nope, nothing yet. Mostly bills, invoices, stuff like that. Do you realize they’ve saved every single electricity bill since time immemorial? Arranged by date.’ Gösta shook his head. ‘Here, take one of these files.’ From the bookshelf behind the desk he pulled out a big, thick binder with a black spine and handed it to his colleague.
Martin took it over to one of the armchairs and sat down to read. Gösta was right. Everything was systematically arranged. He went over each item, and was despairing of finding anything significant when he came to the letter ‘S’. A quick glance showed that ‘S’ stood for ‘Sweden’s Friends’. Curious, he started leafing through the papers, which proved to be letters. Each one bore a printed logo in the upper right-hand corner showing a crown against a billowing Swedish flag. They had all been written by the same person: Frans Ringholm.
‘Listen to this –’ Martin began reading aloud from one of the first letters, which according to the date was among the most recent:
‘In spite of our shared history, I can no longer ignore the fact that you are actively working against the goals and aims of Sweden’s Friends, and this will inevitably lead to consequences. I’ve done my best for the sake of old friendship, but there are powerful forces within the organization that do not look upon this kindly, and there will come a time when I can no longer offer you protection …’
Martin raised one eyebrow. ‘And it goes on in the same vein.’ He quickly leafed through the other letters and saw that there were four more.
‘It looks as if Erik Frankel managed to upset some neo-Nazi group, but paradoxically enough, someone in that very organization was shielding him.’
‘A protector who ultimately failed.’
‘So it seems. Let’s go through the rest of the documents and see if we can find out anything else. But there’s no doubt we need to have a talk with this Frans Ringholm.’
‘Ringholm …’ Gösta stared straight ahead as he thought. ‘I recognize that name.’ He frowned as he racked his brain to come up with a connection, but in vain. He was still looking pensive as they silently combed through the rest of the binders.
After nearly an hour, Martin closed the last one and said, ‘Well, I didn’t find anything of interest. How about you?’
Gösta shook his head. ‘No, and there aren’t any other references to that group called Sweden’s Friends.’
They left the library and searched the rest of the house. Erik Frankel’s fascination with Germany and the Second World War was evident throughout, but nothing caught their attention. It was a beautiful house, but it appeared that the brothers had left the place pretty much as it was when they’d inherited it. The parents’ presence was palpable: black-and-white photographs of them, along with other relatives, hung on the walls or were displayed in heavy frames set on top of bureaus and sideboards. The furnishings were rather outmoded, and had begun to show signs of wear; the whole place had a feeling of age. A thin layer of dust was the only thing disturbing the order.
‘I wonder if they did the dusting themselves or if they had someone come in to clean?’ said Martin, running a finger over the surface of the chest of drawers in one of the three bedrooms upstairs.
‘I have a hard time picturing two men in their late seventies doing the dusting,’ said Gösta as he opened the door to the wardrobe. ‘What do you think? Is this Erik’s or Axel’s room?’ He looked at the row of brown jackets and white shirts hanging inside the wardrobe.
‘Erik’s,’ said Martin. He’d picked up a book lying on the bedside table and now held it up to show the title page where a name had been written in pencil: Erik Frankel. It was a biography of Albert Speer. ‘Hitler’s architect,’ Martin read aloud from the back cover before he put the book back where he’d found it.
‘He spent twenty years in Spandau prison after the war,’ murmured Gösta, and Martin gave him a look of surprise.
‘How do you know that?’
‘The Frankels aren’t the only ones interested in the Second World War. I’ve read a lot about it over the years. And seen some documentaries on the Discovery channel and the like.’
‘Is that so?’ said Martin, still looking surprised. In all the years they’d worked together this was the first time he’d heard Gösta show an interest in anything besides golf.
They spent another hour searching the house but found nothing more. Yet Martin felt pleased with their efforts as he drove back to the station. The name Frans Ringholm gave them something to go on.
The supermarket wasn’t too busy, and Patrik took his time strolling down the aisles. It was a relief to get out of the house for a while, a relief to have some time to himself. This was only the second day of his paternity leave, but while part of him rejoiced in the opportunity to stay home with Maja another part was having a hard time adjusting. Not because he didn’t have enough to do during the day – he’d quickly realized that he had his hands full taking care of a one-year-old. He was ashamed to admit that the problem was, he didn’t find it particularly … stimulating. And it was unbelievable how restricted he felt. He couldn’t even go to the toilet in peace, since Maja had got into the habit of standing outside and crying ‘Pappa, Pappa, Pappa, Pappa’ as she banged on the door with her tiny fists until he relented and let her in. Then she’d stand there and stare at him with curiosity as he did what he’d always done before in much greater privacy.
He
