No one had bounced on the sofa in a very long time. After the lass disappeared, it was as if she took part of the joy with her, and many silent evenings followed. Neither of them could have imagined that regret could hurt so much. They’d thought they were doing the right thing, and when they realized that they’d made the wrong decision, it was too late.
Gösta gazed vacantly at Inspector Barnaby, who had just discovered yet another body. He picked up one of the salami sandwiches and took a bite. It was an evening like so many others. And it would be followed by so many more.
FJÄLLBACKA 1919
It would not do for them to be seen in the servants’ sleeping quarters, so Dagmar waited for a signal from him to withdraw to his room. Earlier she had made up the bed and tidied the room for him, not knowing that she would long so fervently to slip between those lovely cotton sheets.
The party was still in full swing when she received the signal she’d been waiting for. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, his blond hair was dishevelled, and his eyes glazed with drink. But he was not so intoxicated that he couldn’t slip her a key to his room. The brief touch of his hand made her heart race; without meeting his eye she hid the key in her apron pocket. At this stage no one would notice if she left. The hosts and the guests were all too drunk to care about anything besides refilling their glasses, and there were plenty of other servants to see to that.
Yet she still paused to glance around before unlocking the door to the large guest room, and when she stepped inside, she stopped with her back to the door and took several deep breaths. The mere sight of the bed with the white sheets and the elegant coverlet made her tingle all over. He could arrive at any moment, so she dashed into the small bathroom. Quickly she smoothed her hair, took off her servant’s clothing, and washed under her arms. Then she bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to make them rosier, since that was the fashion among the city girls.
When she heard the door handle turn, she hastened back into the room and sat down on the bed, wearing only her slip. She draped her hair over her shoulders, fully aware of how glossy it looked in the pale light of the summer night coming through the window.
She was not disappointed. When he saw her, his eyes opened wide, and he swiftly shut the door behind him. He studied her for a moment before he came over to the bed and placed his hand under her chin, lifting her face. Then he bent down and their lips met in a kiss. Cautiously, as if wanting to tease her, he slid the tip of his tongue between her parted lips.
Dagmar responded passionately to his kisses. She had never experienced anything like this before. It felt as if this man had been sent by some divine power to unite with her and make her whole. For a brief moment everything went black before her eyes, and images of the past were conjured up in her mind. The children who were placed in a basin, with a weight on top until they stopped moving. The policemen who rushed in and seized her mother and father. The tiny bodies that were dug up in the cellar at home. The witch and her foster father. The men who had groaned on top of her with their breath stinking of liquor and cigars. Everybody who had used her and derided her – now they would be forced to bow and ask forgiveness. When they saw her walking beside this blond hero, they would regret every word they had ever whispered behind her back.
Slowly he pulled her slip up over her stomach, and Dagmar raised her arms above her head to help him take off the garment. She wanted nothing more than to feel his skin against hers. She undid the buttons on his shirt one by one, until he finally tore it off. When all of his clothes were in a heap on the floor, he lay down on top of her. Nothing more separated them.
As their two bodies joined, Dagmar closed her eyes. At that moment she was no longer the Angelmaker’s daughter. She was a woman whom fate had finally blessed.
Chapter Seven
He’d been preparing for weeks. It had proved difficult to get an interview with John Holm in Stockholm, but since the politician was coming to Fjällbacka on holiday, Kjell had managed to persuade him to give up an hour of his time for a profile article to be published in Bohusläningen.
Kjell was sure that Holm would know of his father, Frans Ringholm, who had been one of the founders of the Friends of Sweden, the party which Holm now led. The fact that Frans was a Nazi sympathizer was one of the reasons that Kjell had distanced himself from his father. Shortly before Frans died, Kjell had come to some measure of reconciliation with him, but he would never share his father’s views. Just as he would never respect Friends of Sweden or its newfound success.
They had agreed to meet at Holm’s boathouse. The drive to Fjällbacka from Uddevalla took almost an hour in the summer traffic. Ten minutes late, Kjell parked on the gravel area in front of the boathouse, hoping that his tardiness would not cut into the hour he’d been promised for the interview.
‘Take a few pictures while we’re talking, just in case there’s no time afterwards,’ he told his colleague as they got out of the car. He knew this wouldn’t be a problem. Stefan was the newspaper’s most experienced photographer, and he always delivered, no matter what the circumstances.
‘Welcome!’ said Holm as he came to meet them.
‘Thanks,’ said Kjell. He had to make a real effort to shake Holm’s hand. Not only were his views repulsive, but he was also one of the most dangerous men in Sweden.
Holm led the way through the little boathouse and out on to the dock.
‘I never met your father. But I understand that he was a man who commanded respect.’
‘Well, spending a number of years in prison does have that effect.’
‘It can’t have been easy for you, growing up under those conditions,’ said Holm, sitting down on a patio chair next to a fence that offered some protection from the wind.
For a moment Kjell was gripped by envy. It seemed so unfair that a man like John Holm owned such a beautiful place, with a view of the harbour and archipelago. To hide his antipathy, Kjell sat down across from the politician and began fiddling with the tape recorder. He was well aware that life was unfair, and from the research he’d done, he knew that Holm had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.
The tape recorder started up. It appeared to be working properly, so Kjell began the interview.
‘Why do you think you’ve now been able to secure a seat in the Riksdag?’
It was always a good idea to start off cautiously. He also knew that he was lucky to catch Holm alone. In Stockholm the press secretary and other people would have been present. Right now he had Holm all to himself, and he was hoping that the party leader would be relaxed seeing as he was on holiday and on his own turf.
‘I think the Swedish people have matured. We’ve become more aware of the rest of the world and how it affects us. For a long time we’ve been too gullible, but now we’re starting to wake up, and the Friends of Sweden has the privilege of representing the voice of reason during this period of awakening,’ said Holm with a smile.
Kjell could understand why people were drawn to this man. He had a charisma and a self-confidence that made others willing to believe what he said. But Kjell was too jaded to fall for that sort of personal charm, and it made his hackles rise to hear Holm’s use of ‘we’ when referring to himself and the Swedish people. John Holm certainly did not represent the majority of Swedes. They were better than that.
He continued with the innocent questions: How did it feel to enter parliament as a member? How had he been received? What was his view of the political work being done in Stockholm? The whole time Stefan circled around them with his camera, and Kjell could imagine what the pictures would show. John Holm sitting on his own private dock with the sea glittering in the background. This was a far cry from the formal photos that usually appeared in the newspapers, showing him wearing a suit and tie.