‘We have a few questions we’d like to ask you. May we come in?’
Frans stepped aside without comment, merely raising one eyebrow. Martin looked around the flat in surprise. He didn’t know what he was expecting; something dirtier and messier, perhaps. Instead the flat was so tidy that it made his own place seem like a junkie’s den.
‘Have a seat.’ Frans motioned towards a couple of sofas in the living room to the right of the entry hall. ‘I just put on a fresh pot of coffee. Milk? Sugar?’ His voice was calm and courteous, and Martin and Paula exchanged slightly disconcerted looks.
‘None of the above, thanks,’ replied Martin.
‘Just milk, no sugar,’ said Paula as she entered the living room ahead of Martin. They sat down next to each other on the white sofa and looked around. The room was bright and airy, with big windows facing the sea. The flat didn’t seem overly fastidious, just comfortable and well-kept.
‘Here, have some coffee.’ Frans came in carrying a heavily loaded tray. He set down three cups of steaming coffee, and then a big plate of biscuits.
‘Go ahead and help yourselves.’ He gestured towards the coffee table and then picked up one of the cups before leaning back in a big armchair. ‘So, how can I be of service?’
Paula took a sip of coffee. Then she said, ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the man who was found dead just outside of Fjällbacka.’
‘Erik, yes,’ said Frans, nodding sadly before sipping his coffee. ‘Yes, I was very upset when I heard the news. It’s awful for Axel. This must be a terrible time for him.’
‘Er, yes, well…’ Martin cleared his throat. He’d been caught off guard by the man’s friendliness, and by the fact that Ringholm was the complete opposite of what he’d expected. But he pulled himself together and said: ‘The reason that we’d like to talk to you is that we found some letters from you in the house, addressed to Erik Frankel.’
‘Oh, so he saved those letters,’ said Frans, chuckling as he reached for a biscuit. ‘Erik loved to collect things. You young people probably think it’s extremely old-fashioned to send letters. But those of us who belong to the older generation have a hard time giving up old habits.’ He gave Paula a friendly wink. She almost smiled back but reminded herself that the man sitting in front of her had devoted his whole life to trying to thwart and combat people like herself.
‘In your letters you talk about a threat…’ She put on a stern expression.
‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a threat.’ Frans regarded her calmly, again leaning back in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other before going on. ‘I just thought I ought to mention to Erik that there existed certain… forces within the organization that didn’t always behave – how shall I put it? – sensibly.’
‘And you felt compelled to inform Erik of this because…?’
‘Erik and I had been friends since we were boys, though I’ll openly admit that we’d drifted apart, and there hadn’t been any real friendship between us for years. We… chose rather different paths in life.’ Frans smiled. ‘But I didn’t wish Erik any harm, so when I had the chance to warn him, I did. Some people have a hard time understanding that resorting to physical force isn’t always the best solution.’
‘You yourself haven’t been a stranger to… resorting to physical force,’ said Martin. ‘Three convictions for assault, several for bank robbery, and from what I understand you didn’t exactly serve out your time like some sort of Dalai Lama.’
Far from taking offence, Frans merely smiled at Martin’s comments in a manner reminiscent of the Dalai Lama. ‘To everything there is a season. Prison has its own rules, and only one language is understood. I’ve also heard that wisdom comes with age, and I’ve learned my lesson along the way.’
‘Has your grandson learned his lesson yet?’ Martin reached for a biscuit as he asked the question. In a flash Frans’s hand shot out and grabbed Martin’s wrist in an iron grip.
Fixing his eyes on the police officer, Frans snarled: ‘My grandson has nothing to do with this. Do you understand?’
Martin held his gaze for a long time before tearing his hand away. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he said in a low voice, resisting the urge to massage his sore wrist.
Frans laughed and leaned back. He was again his friendly, avuncular self. But for a few seconds the façade had cracked to show rage lurking behind the outward calm. The question was whether Erik had borne the brunt of that rage.
Ernst tugged eagerly at the lead, unable to understand why his master suddenly insisted on taking baby steps and pausing to look around him all the while. The more Mellberg fought to restrain the animal, the more Ernst strained against the lead, determined to pick up the pace.
They had walked almost the entire route before Mellberg was rewarded for his efforts. He was on the verge of giving up when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him and Ernst started prancing with joy at the approach of a playmate.
‘So you’re out for a walk too.’ Rita’s voice sounded as cheerful as Mellberg remembered, and he felt a smile appear on his lips.
‘Yes, we are. Out for a walk, I mean.’ Mellberg felt like kicking himself. What kind of stupid answer was that? And he was usually so suave with the ladies. But here he was, sounding like a complete idiot. Assuming his most authoritative voice, he said, ‘I understand that it’s important for dogs to get some exercise. So I try to walk Ernst for at least an hour every day.’
‘And it’s not just the dogs that benefit from a little exercise. You and I could use some too.’ Rita giggled and patted her round stomach. Mellberg found this highly liberating. Finally a woman who understood that a bit of meat on the bone wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
‘Indeed,’ he said, patting his own capacious paunch. ‘It’s important to maintain a certain gravitas.’
‘Heavens, yes.’ Rita laughed. The slightly old-fashioned exclamation sounded enchanting in combination with her accent. ‘That’s why I always see about charging the batteries.’ She paused outside a block of flats, and Señorita began pulling towards one of the entrances. ‘May I offer you some coffee? And coffee cake?’
It was all Mellberg could do to stop himself from leaping with joy, but he paused as if considering the offer before responding, ‘Yes, thanks, that would be nice. I can’t be away from my work for very long, but…’
‘All right then.’ She punched in the door code and led the way inside. Ernst, lacking his master’s self-control, bounded forward with delight at the prospect of accompanying Señorita into her home.
The first word that occurred to Mellberg when he entered Rita’s flat was ‘comfortable’. It didn’t have that minimalist coldness that Swedes tended to favour; her place literally sparkled with colour and warmth. He unfastened the lead, and Ernst raced off after Señorita. Mellberg hung up his jacket, removed his shoes and set them neatly on the shoe rack before following Rita’s voice out to the kitchen.
‘They seem to like each other.’
‘Who?’ said Mellberg stupidly, his brain preoccupied with the sight of Rita’s marvellously ample behind, which was turned towards him as she stood at the counter measuring the coffee into the coffee-maker.
‘Señorita and Ernst, of course.’ She turned around and laughed.
Mellberg laughed with embarrassment. ‘Oh, yes, of course. They do seem to like each other, don’t they?’ A glance towards the living room confirmed this: Ernst was in the process of sniffing under Señorita’s tail.
‘Do you like buns?’ asked Rita.
‘Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?’ asked Mellberg rhetorically, immediately regretting his choice of words. Rita turned towards him, a quizzical look on her face.
‘I don’t know. Does she? Well, with those breasts, I suppose she does.’
Mellberg laughed. ‘It’s just an expression. What I mean is, I love buns.’