Martin made a note of the name. He was going to check Lindgren against their database as soon as they got back to the station. Something told him that the man sitting in front of them would have a string of arrests to his credit.

‘So, what do you want?’ Peter leaned back, clasping his hands in his lap.

‘We’re investigating the murder of a man named Erik Frankel. Is that name familiar to you?’ Paula forced herself to speak calmly. There was something about these types of men that gave her the creeps. No doubt Peter Lindgren felt the same way about people like her.

‘Should it?’ he replied, looking at Martin instead of Paula.

‘Yes, it should,’ said Martin. ‘Your organization has had some… contact with him. Threatening contact. But I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?’ Martin said sarcastically.

Peter Lindgren shook his head. ‘No, that doesn’t ring a bell. Do you have any proof of these… threats?’ he asked with a smile.

Martin felt as if the man were inspecting him inside and out. After a pause he said, ‘At the moment it’s irrelevant what we have or don’t have. We know that your organization threatened Erik Frankel. And we also know that one of your members, Frans Ringholm, knew the victim and warned him about these threats.’

‘I wouldn’t take Frans very seriously,’ said Peter, a dangerous glint in his eyes. ‘He enjoys great respect within our… organization, but he’s getting on in years and, well… we live in different times, things have changed, and men like Frans don’t always understand the new rules of the game.’

‘But someone like you does?’ said Martin.

Peter threw out his hands. ‘It’s important to know when to follow the rules and when to break them. What matters is doing what serves our cause in the long run.’

‘And your cause in this case is… what?’ Paula could hear how hostile she sounded, confirmed by a warning glance from Martin.

‘A better society,’ said Peter calmly. ‘The people who have been running this country haven’t made a good job of it. They’ve allowed… foreign forces to take up too much space. Allowed what is Swedish and pure to be pushed out.’ He cast a belligerent look at Paula, who swallowed repeatedly in order not to react. This was not the right place or time. And she was all too aware that he was goading her. ‘But all that’s going to change. The Swedish people have become more and more aware that we’ll be heading towards the abyss if we continue in this manner, if we allow those in power to keep tearing down what our ancestors built up. Our organization can offer a better society.’

‘And in what way – theoretically speaking – would an elderly, retired history teacher represent a threat to a… better society?’

‘Theoretically speaking…’ Peter again clasped his hands in his lap. ‘Theoretically speaking, of course he wouldn’t pose any real threat. But he contributed to spreading a false image, an image that the victors of the war have worked hard to promote. And naturally that could not be tolerated. Theoretically speaking.’

Martin was about to reply, but it seemed Peter wasn’t finished.

‘All the images, all the accounts from the concentration camps and the like are pure fabrications, exaggerated lies that after the fact have been hammered into truths. And do you know why? In order to completely suppress the original message, the correct message. The victors of the war are the ones who write the history books, and they decided to drown the truth in blood, distort the image that the world would see, so that no one would dare stand up and question whether the right side won. And Erik Frankel was part of that blackout, that propaganda. And that’s why – hypothetically speaking – Erik Frankel stood in the way of the society we want to create.’

‘And yet, to your knowledge, your organization never issued any threats against him?’ Martin studied the man intently. He knew what the answer would be.

‘No, we didn’t. We work within the laws of a democracy. Ballots. Election manifestos. Acquiring power through votes. We would view anything else as untenable.’ He glanced at Paula, whose hands were clasped tightly in her lap. She was picturing the soldiers who had come and taken away her father. They’d had the same look in their eyes.

‘Well, we won’t disturb you any longer,’ said Martin, getting up. ‘The Uddevalla police gave us the names of the other board members, so of course we’ll be talking to them about this matter too.’

Peter stood up and nodded. ‘Of course. But no one else is going to tell you anything different. And as for Frans… well, I wouldn’t pay much attention to an old man who lives in the past.’

Erica was finding it hard to concentrate on her writing. Thoughts of her mother kept getting in the way. She took out the stack of articles and put the one with the photograph on top. It was so frustrating. Staring at those faces, without being able to get any answers. She leaned down, putting her face close to the picture and studying the five individuals in detail, one after the other.

First Erik Frankel. A serious expression as he looked at the camera. Rigid posture. There was something sad about him, and without knowing whether she was right or not, she came to the conclusion that it was his brother’s imprisonment that had left its mark on Erik. But he’d had the same aura of solemnity and sorrow when she’d met with him in June to ask about the medal.

Erica shifted her gaze to the person standing next to Erik. Frans Ringholm. He was handsome. Very handsome. Blond hair curling a bit longer over his collar than his parents probably would have liked. A big, charming smile for the camera. He had his arms slung casually over the shoulders of those standing on either side of him. Neither of them seemed pleased about it.

Erica studied the person to the right of Frans. Her mother: Elsy Moström. Her expression was certainly gentler than Erica could recall having seen. But there was a slight strain to her delicate smile, signalling that she didn’t care for Frans’s arm around her shoulders. Erica couldn’t help musing about how sweet her mother looked. The Elsy she’d known had been cold and unapproachable. There was no hint of that side to her nature in the photo. Erica gently touched the image of her mother’s face. How different everything would have been if her mother had been like the girl pictured here. What had happened to her? What had stripped away all the gentleness? What had caused indifference to replace that wistful gaze? Why hadn’t she ever been able to put those soft arms of hers, visible under the short sleeves of her floral-print dress, around her daughters, hugging them close?

Erica shifted to the next person in the photo. Britta was not looking into the camera. Instead, she had turned to look at Elsy. Or at Frans. It was impossible to tell. Erica reached for the magnifying glass on the desk. She held it over Britta’s face and squinted to make the image as sharp as possible, but she still couldn’t tell for sure. Britta was frowning, and there was something harsh and resolute about her jaw. And her eyes. Erica was almost positive. Britta was looking at one of them – Elsy or Frans – or maybe both.

Then the last person in the photo. About the same age as the others. Also blond, like Frans, but his curly hair was shorter. Tall and quite slender, with a meditative expression on his face. Not happy, but not sad either. Meditative was the closest word Erica could think of to describe the way he looked.

She read the article again. Hans Olavsen was a Norwegian resistance fighter who had fled Norway on board the fishing boat Elfrida, based in Fjällbacka. He’d been given refuge by the boat’s captain, Elof Moström. According to the reporter who had written the article, Hans was now celebrating the end of the war along with his friends in Fjällbacka.

Erica returned the article to the top of the stack of papers. She had a gut feeling that there was something about the dynamics of that group of young people, something that felt… She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. The one thing she knew for certain was that the key to understanding her mother lay in a deeper understanding of the relationships between these friends, and perhaps the Norwegian resistance fighter, Hans Olavsen. And there were only two people she could ask: Axel Frankel and Britta Johansson.