‘I believe you have some other matters to look into during your stay,’ Isak said.
It was hard to tell whether there was a question in there, but Fredrika thought so. She and Alex had carefully planned their strategy for her visit. It would be inappropriate to reveal that they distrusted the boys’ parents. They had nothing concrete against them, but Fredrika thought that was irrelevant; the parents must be left out of the whole thing.
But she had to respond to Isak’s question – or statement.
‘An old Israeli legend has come up in our investigation,’ she said. ‘Have you ever heard of the Paper Boy?’
Isak frowned.
‘The Paper Boy? No, never. Who is he?’
Fredrika told him, trying to put into words a story so unpleasant that she couldn’t understand why anyone would ever have told it to their children. She omitted specific details relating to the inquiry, such as the fact that Simon and Abraham had been found with paper bags over their heads.
‘What a strange story,’ Isak said. ‘I’ll get someone to do an online search in Hebrew, but don’t expect miracles; it sounds as if you’ve stumbled across a local urban myth.’
His words gave her the perfect opening.
‘That’s exactly what we thought, which is why I’d really like to visit two kibbutzim where the story was told, according to our sources. Just to see if I can find out any more about where it comes from.’
‘I understand. If you give me the names of the kibbutzim I can help you with transport. If they’re still in existence, of course.’
Fredrika hoped that at least one of them was still in operation. She had come a long way to track down the Paper Boy. The boy who came in the darkness and attacked small children. The boy who had now made his way to Sweden to seek out new victims.
Abraham, Simon, Josephine.
And Polly.
The yellow express train sliced through a snowy landscape so white and beautiful that it looked as if it belonged in a fairy tale.
So much space for such a small population.
Efraim Kiel couldn’t stop staring out of the window.
The Swedes had no idea how privileged they were. Over two hundred years of uninterrupted peace. A population where no one who was alive today had experienced the horrors of war on home territory. For a man like Efraim, that was incomprehensible.
Conditions in Israel were so different that it hurt to think about his own country. Efraim had sacrificed more than most Israelis for the common good, for safety and security. He was well aware of the damage this had done to his heart and soul, dulling his senses and making him capable of doing harm to others in order to achieve a higher goal. But he thought it had been worth it, on the whole. Not everyone could enjoy a life spent barbecuing sausages in the back garden. Some people had to take responsibility.
At least that was what Efraim told himself as he sat on the train, his thoughts once again turning to Eden and the child he had seen in her arms as she walked away.
Responsibility.
Efraim had taken responsibility when he had deliberately made her fall in love with him, even though he felt nothing in return. Perhaps things would have been different under other circumstances. If he hadn’t already met the woman in his life – the woman who had been his secret for so long. Both for his sake and hers, so that neither of them would come to any harm, and be punished for their reckless love.
He had told her that the very first time he kissed her.
‘This is doomed.’
She had responded by getting even closer to him. Then the boy came along, and everything else lost its value.
Almost everything else.
The only thing that could rival his love for his son was his love for Israel, and for that, fate had punished him severely.
The train raced towards its final destination. Signs inside the carriage boasted that it took only twenty minutes to travel from Arlanda airport into the city centre. Efraim couldn’t have cared less whether it took twenty minutes or thirty. He was better prepared now and felt that he had regained control of the situation.
The gun was gone.
So was the child called Polly.
The child whose screams still echoed in his head.
Efraim didn’t speak Swedish, but there was one word he thought he would understand in any language.
Mummy.
A word with a unique tone and melody that a father could only dream of coming close to.
Ima in Hebrew. Umi in Arabic.
The train pulled in; Efraim got off and walked calmly out of the station. He had shaken off Säpo some time ago, and he had no intention of renewing his acquaintance with them. Not until he needed their help. If that day should ever come.
He thought it unlikely.
He felt strong. Confident.
He headed north along Vasagatan, up towards the congress building that hid his new hotel. It was nowhere near as luxurious as the Diplomat, but it served its purpose. The receptionist didn’t appear to react as he walked in; there was no reason why she should be aware that he had been away overnight.
Up in his room he took a shower, changed his clothes, and went back out into the cold. He had to visit the Diplomat just once more. A final visit before war broke out.
He caught the bus this time. Got on and showed the strip of tickets he had bought. The driver stamped it and the bus moved off towards Djurgården. A green space right in the middle of Stockholm. An outpost by the sea. Efraim thought it was much more beautiful in the summer.
He got off at Nybroplan and took a circuitous route to the hotel.
There was a risk that Säpo might be waiting for him, hoping he’d come back, because by this stage even they must have realised they’d lost him.
He saw them from some distance away, sitting in a car parked much closer to the hotel than he would have done. He turned off Strandvägen, disappeared up a side street. He would have to use the entrance at the back of the hotel, the one he had located on his very first day there. It was easier to use when darkness had fallen, but not impossible in daylight.
That was the only advantage of this insane winter darkness: it was easy to become invisible. Efraim couldn’t think of anything else remotely positive about the fact that the sun disappeared at three o’clock in the afternoon.
He walked straight into a cleaner as he opened the fire door and slipped into the corridor. Shit. She looked surprised and said something he didn’t understand. He smiled apologetically, explained briefly that he had taken a wrong turning.
She stared after him for far too long.
Foolish of her. Very foolish.
Time would tell whether he could leave the matter, or whether he would need to deal with it.
The receptionist recognised him. He could see that she was confused because he hadn’t come in through the main door, which was less troublesome, but still irritating. He would have avoided the visit if he could, but it was impossible. He had no doubt about that.
‘I was in such a hurry when I checked out yesterday,’ Efraim said, his most charming smile firmly in place. ‘I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to pick up any messages.’
The receptionist began to go through the file in front of her.
‘Something did come for you; we were talking about it this morning, wondering what to do with it. We didn’t know how to get hold of you.’
‘Well, I’m here now.’
Still smiling, and the message was in his hand.
He moved away from the desk and the windows, where he was far too visible.
He opened the envelope and read the brief communication. The declaration of war he had been expecting. To think that so few words could cause such pain.
I will never forgive you for this.