‘But how?’
The voice sounds more composed now, and Malin is surprised to find herself wondering if Gabriella Karlsson merely wants to hear how much they know.
So the Correspondent hadn’t revealed how Konrad Karlsson had been murdered.
‘We’re in the middle of the investigation, so I can’t go into—’
‘Surely you can tell me?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ and Malin can hear desperation now, grief, but is it genuine? Is Gabriella Karlsson faking it?
No.
She seems to have been the only person who really cared about Konrad Karlsson.
Malin looks over at Zeke and Yngve Karlsson. It looks like they’re talking about gardening, as Yngve lights a cigarette with trembling hands.
‘Gabriella, we’re going to want to talk to you again. Perhaps I can explain a bit more then.’
‘When?’
‘Some time today. I’ll let you know. By the way, have you got your grandfather’s laptop with you? And his mobile?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re going to need to look at them.’
‘I’m going to the Tinnerbäck pool. You can come there. I’ll take his things with me.’
Gabriella Karlsson is breathing deeply, seems to have calmed down, accepting that she is merely one small part of a process that needs to run its course.
I’ll never get used to the sound of dentist’s drills, Elin Sand thinks.
Margaretha Karlsson receives her and Waldemar Ekenberg in her treatment room at Dentalia, a private dental clinic on the third floor of a fancy art nouveau building on Hospitalstorget. She’s sitting on a stool at her desk in a white coat, and Elin Sand can tell from her translucent blue eyes that Margaretha Karlsson drinks too much. She’s skinny, but she has an alcoholic’s red, swollen face, and she looks considerably older than her fifty-five years.
The sound of the drills in the other rooms penetrates the walls, and Elin and Waldemar are standing in the doorway, haven’t been invited to sit down on the two spare stools.
Elin is annoyed with Waldemar.
In the car just now he called her ‘Poppet’. And when she told him to shut up, he just grinned at her.
Margaretha Karlsson looked shaken when they told her that her father had probably been murdered. But she quickly composed herself, and now doesn’t seem particularly surprised as she says: ‘He wasn’t short of enemies. I don’t suppose the company that runs the home was especially fond of the things he wrote.’
‘Did he ever mention any kind of threat from them?’ Elin Sand asks, looking at the treatment chair and feeling a shiver of unease run down her spine.
Margaretha Karlsson shakes her head.
‘Nothing at all?’ Waldemar Ekenberg asks.
‘I had no contact with my father. He was an extremely difficult person. You might have got the impression that he was a wonderful man, but he was very judgemental towards me and my brother.’
‘In what way?’
Now that Margaretha Karlsson has started to talk, Elin Sand wants to push her to say more.
‘Nothing we did with our lives was good enough for him. I became a dentist. I’ve got a family. But that wasn’t good enough. Messing about with other people’s teeth? When you’ve got a good head on your shoulders? That’s the sort of thing he used to come out with, and you soon get fed up of being put down like that. In the end I just had enough.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘About two years ago. I went to visit him on his birthday.’ ‘And you haven’t spoken to him since then?’
Margaretha Karlsson shakes her head.
‘No.’
‘What were you doing on the night between Monday and Tuesday?’
Margaretha Karlsson laughs.
‘You can’t seriously think that I murdered my own father?’
Neither Waldemar nor Elin answers.
‘OK. I was at home asleep. You can check with my husband. I’ll give you his work number.’
‘Thanks,’ Elin Sand says.
‘I suppose there’s a lot to do now,’ Waldemar Ekenberg says. ‘Sorting out his estate and everything.’
‘Gabriella’s in charge of that, thank God. That was all arranged a long time ago. She was the only one he trusted, and the only one he actually liked.’
‘What about you and your brother? Do you get on?’
‘We’re very different. He’s a bit of a loner. So no, we don’t have much to do with each other.’
Another drill starts up in one of the adjoining rooms, and Elin Sand feels oddly exposed.
‘Do you own this clinic?’ she asks. ‘Or is it part of a larger business?’
‘I own my treatment room, so to speak. A company within a larger company. Merapi wanted to buy the whole clinic, but the amount they offered was a joke.’
Margaretha Karlsson looks at Elin Sand.
Seems to want to say: Time for you to leave now.
‘Thanks. I don’t think we’ve got any more questions for the time being,’ Elin says.
On the way down in the lift Waldemar puts his hand on her arm and says: ‘You did well there, Poppet.’
Elin feels like smashing his yellow teeth in and ramming them down his throat, but she clenches her jaw and says nothing, just focuses on the movement of the lift instead.
Yngve Karlsson has made coffee in the shabby kitchen of the cottage, and says: ‘I like living out here. Managing on my own.’ He pauses before going on: ‘I’m on holiday at the moment. Otherwise I work for Mekaniska in Motala.’
Malin tries to make herself comfortable on the stiff, ladder-backed chair, and looks around at the pale blue 1950s cupboards, and the coffee is hot and fresh, just what she needs to give her a bit of energy.
‘Did your father have any enemies? Is there anything we ought to know about him?’
Yngve Karlsson shakes his head.
Slowly at first. Then more firmly.
‘I don’t think he had any enemies. Who would that be?’
‘The people he wrote letters about?’ Zeke suggests.
‘Is that what you’re thinking? Seems a bit far-fetched.’
Yngve Karlsson’s tone is aggressive as he makes that last remark.
‘Maybe not,’ Malin says. ‘There’s a lot of money at stake.’
‘Speaking of money,’ Yngve Karlsson says. ‘My father had money. Several million in the bank. He was very good with shares. I think he was still trading right up to the end. Through his computer. He enjoyed it. That much I do know.’
Yngve Karlsson is almost spitting the words out now.
‘So he was a rich man?’
Malin can barely conceal her surprise, and feels momentarily at a loss for words.
‘I’ve never been very interested in money, but my father was. I think that was one of the reasons why we didn’t get on, why he had no respect for me. He kept a firm bloody hold on his money.’
You’re very definite about that, Malin thinks. Angry, almost. About your lack of interest in money. But you’re still going to get some, and Malin looks around at the faded wallpaper and sagging beams in the ceiling. This house needs renovating if you’re going to stop it from falling down. And those betting slips over on the kitchen worktop are pretty unambiguous.
‘There’ll be a lot to inherit, then,’ Zeke says.
‘Bound to be. We’ll see once his estate has been sorted out. That could take years, though. And who knows what might happen in the meantime?’
Yngve Karlsson’s voice is dripping with bitterness.
‘When did you last see your father?’ Malin asks.
‘Like I said, we didn’t get on. It’s a long time ago now. I visited him at the Cherub five years ago. But he asked me to leave after just ten minutes. Said he needed to sleep. You need to understand that he was quite an odd character, and could be very hard towards me and Margaretha.’
Yngve Karlsson’s voice is calmer now.
As if he had come clos
e to losing control, but had pulled himself together again.
‘What about your other sister, Gabriella’s mother? She died of an infection, didn’t she?’
‘So you know about that too?’
Zeke murmurs affirmatively.
‘He was nicer towards her. I don’t know why,’ Yngve Karlsson says.
‘Nicer in what way?’ Malin asks.
‘Friendly. Towards me and Margaretha he was mostly just unpleasant.’
Yngve Karlsson closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He seems to want to say more about his dead sister, but changes his mind and says instead: ‘I know he and Gabriella got on well. He liked the fact that she was interested in history.’
‘I’m afraid we have to ask this,’ Malin says, pushing her fringe aside. ‘What were you doing on the night between Monday and Tuesday?’
Yngve Karlsson shakes his head.
‘I was here, at home. Like I always am. I prefer to be on my own. I get nervous just seeing anyone coming towards the house.’
So I saw, Malin thinks.
‘Can anyone confirm that you were at home?’ Zeke asks.
‘No,’ Yngve Karlsson says. ‘You’ll just have to take my word for it. And out here on the plain that still means something.’
On the way out Malin notices a gun cupboard in the living room.
Is that a pistol in there?
She considers going over to check, but decides against it.
‘Do you hunt?’ she asks.
Yngve Karlsson smiles.
‘A long time ago. I’ve only got my shotgun left now. I use it to shoot squirrels sometimes. And if you live as isolated as this, you never know who might show up.’
Judgemental? Hard?
I helped build Saab’s second assembly hall for the Flying Barrel, and the old boys worked me hard. The boss gave me every tiny little job that needed doing outdoors during that freezing winter.
I met your mother at the outdoor dance floor at Linköping Folkets Park, and Josefina was born just a few years later. Your mother, Sara, was very young, and we lived in a one-room apartment on Konsistoriegatan.
And then you came along. Yngve, Margaretha.
And now you think I was a hard man.
I just wanted you to do something with your lives. The way I was never allowed to.
Three children.
All of you young when your mother died.
She fell sick in February, died in the cruellest of Aprils. Young people aren’t supposed to die of pancreatic cancer, but she did.
She used to shout out for you at nights in the hospital. I never told you that.
I can’t leave them, she used to scream.
Then she died in my arms, and we buried her together. Do you remember that?
We were left alone.
My mother, your grandmother, kept her distance. She’d met a new man, and they moved to Jönköping.
I used to read my books after you’d all gone to bed. Sitting up in the living room of the little house I’d bought out in Jägarvallen.
I may have been a bit hard sometimes.
The women from the council didn’t trust a single father, the scrawny electrician whose shoulders slumped more and more with each passing day. I had to maintain discipline. But you used to sit with me, on my lap, on the sofa, in front of the black-and-white television.
Yngve. Margaretha.
I had trouble coming to terms with your lack of ambition. I understand that now.
You had every opportunity, even though your mother left you so early.
I put my faith in your sister. She was going somewhere.
I’m trying to find Josefina here.
Is she a breath now, the beautiful daughter who left me?
Is your mother here? Her pain and anguish.
Maybe I should have asked your forgiveness. I never did. I wanted your gratitude instead, but I never got it.
I was certainly bitter about a lot of things. I didn’t want to admit it, and no one else wanted to see it. A sick person can get away with being demanding, but it’s best to keep your bitterness to yourself.
You wanted my money.
I won a decent amount on the racing at Mantorp a few years before I fell ill. And I made a profit from the sale of the house in Jägarvallen.
I managed to grow the money, wanted to prove to myself that all those hotshots in Stockholm weren’t so special. I bought and sold shares, options.
When I fell ill, it was already too late.
For you, and for me. But mostly for us.
It was always easy with Gabriella. She did as I wanted. As I hoped.
Now I can’t help wondering: How much did you really like me, Gabriella?
24
The cancer hours.
The time between twelve and two, when the summer sun makes your skin bubble, waking deadly cancer genes to life.
It’s just gone one o’clock, and Malin feels hunger take hold of her stomach, squeezing it until she feels nauseous.
Her back is wet with sweat. The sun is relentless between the clouds, and all around them children are throwing themselves into the water, either the chlorine-stinking fifty-metre pool, or the black depths of the freshwater pool.
Malin wishes she could slip into a bathing suit and escape the heat, swim herself into oblivion, feel her muscles drain of energy, until she reaches the state of nothingness that only physical exertion can achieve.
But not here.
Now she’s concentrating on Gabriella Karlsson, who’s lying stretched out on a strangely colourless towel on the grass.
Malin is crouching down beside her, while Zeke has slipped into the shade of an oak tree. By the kiosk, at the top of the tiered seating area, there’s a long queue of children on their summer holidays, eager for ice cream and hotdogs. She says hello, then goes on: ‘Would you say you had a special relationship, you and your grandfather?’
Gabriella sits up. Adjusts her turquoise bathing costume.
‘I didn’t have anyone else.’
‘And he supported you in your research?’
‘He was the one who got me interested in history. When I was thirteen or fourteen, we used to go off in his car at weekends. We drove around Östergötland, and he taught me about everything that’s happened here over the centuries. He used to spend hours talking about the Linköping Bloodbath and the battle of Stångebro. He brought it all to life.’
You sound like you were a bit too soft on him, Malin thinks. Or am I just being cynical? Maybe you’re a truly good person, Gabriella Karlsson. The sort who takes care of people who need looking after.
Noisy cries from the water.
Hunger.
‘Believe it or not, I loved it. I had plenty of imagination, and not many friends. All those stories of his. A lot of people would have found it really boring.’
In some ways you remind me of Tove, Malin thinks. You’re really very similar.
A bookworm, certainly.
The sort who likes stories.
Get to the point, Malin.
But she embarks on another digression.
‘You visited your grandfather the evening before he died, and didn’t leave until eleven o’clock or so?’
Malin can see Zeke talking on his mobile over in the shade. Karin, probably. What are they talking about? Tess? What they’re going to have for dinner?
‘Did you usually stay that late?’
‘Fairly often. Grandfather was always at his best in the evenings. He was often awake late into the night.’
‘Did he take sleeping tablets?’
‘Him? Never. He didn’t like the way they made him feel drowsy. Always said his brain had enough to deal with.’
‘Did anything particular happen that evening?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No. I arrived, we talked about this and that. I’d taken a newspaper and some lottery scratch cards with me, the way I sometimes did. I left when the night staff were doin
g their last round of the evening. The usual ones, with Berit in charge. He liked her.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘I took him a Dime bar. His sense of taste changed after he had the stroke. He only liked sweet things after that.’
‘You didn’t go back later?’
Gabriella Karlsson flinches. She’s clearly horrified at the inference behind Malin’s question. She seems to want to reply instantly, but stops herself.
After a pause of some ten seconds, she says: ‘No, I didn’t. Definitely not.’
‘You didn’t help your grandfather with anything?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t know anyone else who might have done? Helped him?’
Words that remain unspoken. What truths can they entice into the light? Malin thinks. What answers are concealed in the non-answers?
Listen to the voices of the investigation, Malin, listen to the silent voices, as Sven always used to tell her at the start of her career.
‘He must have been murdered. He didn’t want to die.’
Gabriella Karlsson puts her black sunglasses on and turns her face towards the sun, but, after just a few seconds, she turns back towards Malin again and takes them off.
Tears in her eyes.
From the sun? Grief?
‘You’ve found out that he had money?’
‘Several million, from what we’ve heard.’
‘Something like that. I don’t know exactly how much.’
Malin can see that Zeke has finished his call. He’s sunk down onto the grass, and in the shade his face almost fades into the dark trunk of the oak.
‘A few years ago, at one of the few Christmases we spent together, I heard my aunt and uncle talk about Granddad’s money. They thought it was wrong that he wasn’t doing anything with it. Because of course he had no real need of it in the home.’
‘So what did he do with the money?’
‘Nothing, as far as I know. He bought a flat for me. But apart from that I don’t know. He never talked about it.’
‘Will you inherit it now?’ Zeke asks.
Gabriella shrugs.
‘I suppose I’ll get a bit of money. Seeing as Mum’s dead.’
‘Should be quite a lot,’ Malin says.
‘I’m not bothered about money. Anything I do get will go to charity. Granddad would have liked that.’
Souls of Air (Malin Fors 7) Page 10
