‘You didn’t want to take over?’
‘I’ve never had any ambitions of that sort.’
The balls are still whining around them.
Pointless projectiles.
What a stupid sport, Malin thinks, as Katarina adjusts the belt of her blue trousers, checks the collar of her pink cotton sweater and puts the club back in the bag.
‘We’ve heard rumours that you were forced to sell because of financial problems. Is that right?’
‘Inspector. We’re an aristocratic family that goes back several hundred years. Almost half a millennium. We don’t like talking about money, but we have never, I repeat never, had any financial problems.’
‘Can I ask what your job is?’ Zeke asks.
‘I don’t work. Since my divorce I’ve been taking it easy. Before that I worked in art.’
‘Art?’
‘I had a gallery specialising in nineteenth-century painting. Mainly reasonably priced Ostgota artists like Krouthen. But some more expensive ones as well. Do you know Eugene Jansson? He was my speciality, along with the female Danish national-romantics.’
Malin and Zeke shake their heads.
‘Did you used to know Jerry Petersson?’ Zeke asks.
‘No.’
‘Was your divorce recent?’ Malin asks.
‘No, ten years ago.’
‘Children?’
Katarina’s eyes darken, she seems to be wondering why this is important.
‘No,’ she replies.
‘You were the same age, you and Petersson,’ Malin says. ‘Did you go to the same school?’
Katarina stares out at the driving range.
‘We were at the Cathedral School. He was in the third year at the same time as my brother when I was in the first year.’
Malin and Zeke look at each other.
‘I remember him,’ Katarina goes on, still looking out at the driving range. ‘But we didn’t socialise. He didn’t belong to my social circle. But we probably attended a few of the same parties, that couldn’t be helped.’
No, Malin thinks. All manner of worlds collide in high school, whether you want them to or not. People might well end up at the same parties, but that didn’t necessarily mean any more than two strangers visiting the same bar today.
‘So who did you hang out with?’ Zeke asks.
‘A girls’ gang.’
‘So you never saw each other socially?’
Katarina looks at them again, and a flash of sorrow seems to cross her eyes.
‘What did I just say?’ she says.
‘We heard,’ Malin says.
Katarina’s thin lips contract to a narrow line.
‘And now Jerry Petersson’s sitting like some bloody Gatsby out in our castle.’
Sudden desperation in both voice and eyes.
‘He may well have sat there like Gatsby,’ Malin says. ‘But right now he’s lying on a mortuary slab over in the National Forensics Laboratory.’
Katarina turns away from them again, puts a ball on the tee, strikes at it furiously, and the ball flies off to the right.
‘What sort of car do you drive?’ Zeke says when she looks back at them again.
‘That’s my business,’ Katarina says. ‘I don’t want to be impolite, but that’s none of your business.’
‘There’s something you need to understand,’ Malin says. ‘As long as we’re looking for Jerry Petersson’s murderer, every single hair on your backside is our business.’
Katarina smiles and says: ‘OK, Inspector, calm down. Nice and calm. I drive a red Toyota, if it’s really so important.’
Malin turns away.
Walks out of golfing hell. She hears Zeke thank Katarina for her time. Thank God he doesn’t apologise for her behaviour.
‘Be nice to my brother,’ Katarina calls after them. ‘He’s harmless.’
‘Even if you have problems with people like that, you really have got to get a grip. You can’t talk to people that way. No matter how rough you’re feeling.’
Zeke is in the driver’s seat, telling her off as they drive out of the car park in Landeryd. The rain is still pouring from the sky, and the darkness of the approaching evening makes Linkoping another degree less welcoming.
‘I don’t feel rough,’ Malin says.
Then she nods.
‘You know what it’s like. Fucking awful people like that.’
And she knows that anger is a way of covering up insecurity, it’s kindergarten psychology, and she feels ashamed, and hopes Zeke can’t see her blushing.
‘She’s hiding something. Just like her father,’ Zeke says. ‘And possibly her brother too.’
‘Yes, she is,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe it’s a family trait, playing with the truth.’
‘Or else they just want to make our job as hard as possible,’ Zeke says.
They pass the villas of Hjulsbro once more, and the white blocks of rented flats with their balcony corridors opposite, on the other side of Brokindsleden. The rain is driving horizontally across the road, as if the wind and rain were trying to connect the different worlds.
‘We’ll just have to see if the interview with Fredrik Fagelsjo comes up with anything,’ Zeke says. ‘They’re probably in the middle of it by now, if he’s sobered up a bit.’
20
The hands on the clock in Interview Room One in the basement of Linkoping Police Station move silently.
One minute past six.
The greyish-black walls are covered with textured, soundproof panelling, and the halogen lamps are positioned so that they cast cones of light over the four chairs that are fixed to the floor around the oblong metal table. The chairs have only recently been fastened down, after too many suspects ended up smashing them into the walls.
A one-way mirror on one wall opens onto the observation room where Sven Sjoman and Karim Akbar are watching the people inside the room.
Johan Jakobsson is looking at Fredrik Fagelsjo. The blood test showed just under one part per thousand, but he seems to have sobered up rapidly. The look in his eyes in the dim light on the other side of the table is clear and alert. Beside Johan, Waldemar Ekenberg shifts on his chair, trying to get comfortable. Fagelsjo is dressed in a blue blazer and yellow shirt, and beside him sits his lawyer, a smart fellow named Karl Ehrenstierna whom Johan has met in other interviews, all of which have produced exactly nothing. We’ll see, Johan thinks, maybe we can outsmart you this time.
He starts the little tape recorder in the middle of the table.
‘Interview with Fagelsjo concerning the investigation into the murder of Jerry Petersson, as well as other offences. Friday 24 October, time 18.04.’
Up to now Fagelsjo has hardly said a word. He said yes when they asked if he wanted a lawyer present at the interview, told them Ehrenstierna’s name without giving them his number, probably assumed they had it. Then he asked to call his wife Christina, and Sven couldn’t see any reason not to let him. They had enough to hold him for a number of less serious offences, but as far as the murder of Jerry Petersson was concerned, Fagelsjo was so far just a name that had cropped up in the investigation. Not enough for a search warrant in conjunction with a murder investigation, but they had seized his car, which was being examined by Forensics.
‘Let’s start with today’s events,’ Johan says. ‘Why did you try to run when the police indicated that you should pull over?’
Fagelsjo gives his lawyer an anxious look, as if he’s wondering how they’re going to direct this interview the way they want, and not fall into any traps laid by the police. The lawyer nods at him to answer.
‘I got scared,’ Fagelsjo says, quickly wiping a few drops of sweat from his upper lip. ‘I knew I’d had too much to drink. And I didn’t want to get caught for drink-driving again and end up inside Skanninge. So I panicked and tried to run. It was as if my mind went blank and then, once I’d started, there was no going back. Ridiculously stupid. I really must apologise.’
‘A fucking a
pology probably isn’t going to be enough,’ Waldemar says.
‘No swearing, please,’ Ehrenstierna says, and Waldemar clenches his jaw and says: ‘You could have killed innocent people. We’ve got you for drink-driving, obstructing police officers, reckless driving, and probably another dozen charges. Are you an alcoholic?’
Ehrenstierna says nothing.
‘Perhaps you’d like to admit that your guilty of those offences?’ Waldemar says.
‘I won’t make the procedure any more difficult,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘And no, I’m not an alcoholic. But sometimes I drink a bit too much. Doesn’t everyone? I panicked. And I’m guilty of driving while intoxicated. But that isn’t the main reason why I’m sitting here, is it?’
‘No,’ Waldemar says, leaning over the table.‘The main reason we want to talk to you is the murder of Jerry Petersson.’
‘I don’t suppose you tried to escape because you thought we were going to arrest you in connection with the murder?’ Johan asks.
‘My client has already explained why he tried to escape when you attempted to pull him over,’ Ehrenstierna says.
‘I didn’t even know that Petersson had been murdered. My lawyer told me a short while ago.’
Ehrenstierna nods.
Then the look in Fagelsjo’s eyes changes and he starts talking before Ehrenstierna has a chance to stop him.
‘Let me put it like this. You found the clown dead. Murdered, even. Great news, I don’t mind saying so.’
Fagelsjo’s body, so tired up to now, comes to life, every muscle seems to flex.
That’s cheap, Johan thinks, and looks at Waldemar with an expression that means: Keep pushing.
Ehrenstierna puts a hand on Fagelsjo’s shoulder and says: ‘Take it easy, Fredrik.’
‘So you wanted to see him dead?’ Waldemar asks.
‘My client isn’t going to answer that.’
‘You can trust us,’ Johan says. ‘We mean you well. If you had nothing to do with the murder, then we want to know, and if you did, then we’ll try to make the best of the situation. Surely you’d agree that it looks odd that you tried to escape? There’s something you want to say. Isn’t there?’
‘My client won’t be answering that either. And he has explained why. .’
‘What were you doing last night and this morning?’ Waldemar asks.
‘I was at home with my wife.’
‘Are you sure?’ Waldemar says.
‘Can she confirm that?’ Johan asks.
‘She can confirm that,’ Ehrenstierna says. ‘They were out at the Villa Italia, in Ledberg, where you caught up with my client.’
‘So you weren’t out at Skogsa?’ Waldemar says.
Neither of the men on the other side of the table answers.
‘We’ve heard that there were financial difficulties behind the sale of Skogsa. Is that correct?’ Johan asks instead.
‘I was tired of all that crap,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘It was time to sell up. Father’s too old and I didn’t want to take over. Nor did my sister.’
‘So there’s nothing you want to tell us? About bad business decisions? About why you hate Jerry Petersson, the clown who took over? The man you wanted to see dead?’
Waldemar’s voice is angry as he tosses the words across the table.
‘That Petersson,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘He was the worst sort of upstart, the sort who could never understand the importance of an estate like Skogsa. But he paid handsomely. And if you think I had anything to do with this, good luck to you. Prove it. Like I said, I got scared and I panicked. I’m prepared to take my punishment.’
‘Did you know Petersson from before?’
‘I knew who he was,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘We were at the same high school, the Cathedral School, at the same time. But I didn’t know him at all. We didn’t move in the same circles. We might have been at a few of the same parties. It’s a small world, after all.’
‘So you didn’t really have anything to do with each other? Neither then, nor later on?’
‘Only when the castle was going to be sold. But even then I didn’t actually meet him.’
‘I’m surprised,’ Waldemar says. ‘I thought your sort all went to Sigtuna or Landsberg.’
‘Lundsberg,’ Ehrenstierna says. ‘It’s Lundsberg. Even I went to Lundsberg. Have you got any more questions for my client? About his education, or anything else?’
Waldemar gets up quickly, fixing his snake’s gaze on Fagelsjo’s eyes.
‘Tell us what you know, you bastard. You’re hiding loads of shit, aren’t you?’
Fredrik Fagelsjo and his lawyer jerk back.
‘You were out at the castle, you wanted to pay Petersson back for taking the land away from you, didn’t you? You lost your grip and stabbed him, over and over again. Confess!’ Waldemar shouts. ‘Confess!’
The door of the room flies open, Karim rushes in, switches off the tape recorder, and he and Johan help calm Waldemar down as Sven tells Fagelsjo and his lawyer that the prosecutor has decided to remand him in custody under suspicion of aggravated drink-driving and aggravated reckless driving.
Ehrenstierna protests, but feebly, aware that the decision has already been taken and that he can’t do anything about it here and now.
Fagelsjo’s face is a mystery, Johan thinks, as the young aristocrat is led out of the room by a uniform.
Noble, but evasive. His anxious eyes superior now. Johan thinks, he knows we don’t have anything on him. But he could very well be guilty. And from now on, he’s our prime suspect.
Malin drops Zeke off outside his red-painted house.
‘Take the car,’ he says. ‘But try to drive carefully.’
He slams the door behind him, not in anger but exhaustion, and walks away.
The black tiles of the house are like a reluctant drum for the raindrops.
There’s a light on in the kitchen.
A Saturday at work tomorrow. No chance of getting any time off while they’ve got a completely fresh murder.
Sven Sjoman has called a meeting for eight o’clock. Police Constable Aronsson spoke to Fredrik Fagelsjo’s wife Christina immediately after Johan Jakobsson and Waldemar Ekenberg finished questioning him. His wife gave him an alibi for the night of the murder, said he probably panicked when they tried to pull him over, that he sometimes drank too much but that he wasn’t an alcoholic.
Malin lets the engine run in neutral, trying to summon the energy to drive off into the evening, but how, tell me how, she thinks, am I going to be able to face the hours that remain of today?
She doesn’t feel up to getting to grips with anything. What happened yesterday feels unreal, as if it took place a thousand years ago, if it actually happened at all.
She puts the car in first gear.
As she’s about to drive off she sees Zeke open the front door and run out into the rain, she can see the raindrops almost caressing his shaved head, but it’s not a good feeling, she can tell from the look on his face.
Malin winds the window down.
‘Gunilla’s wondering if you’d like to stay for dinner?’
‘But not you?’
‘Don’t be daft, Fors. Come in. Get some hot food. It’ll do you good.’
‘Another time, Zeke. Say hi to Gunilla, and thank her for the offer.’
Gunilla?
Wouldn’t you rather have Karin Johannison in there? Malin thinks.
‘Come in and have something to eat with us,’ Zeke says. ‘That’s an order. Do you really want to be on your own tonight?’
Malin gives him a tired smile.
‘You don’t give me orders.’
She drives off with the window open, in the rear-view mirror she sees Zeke standing in the rain, as some autumn leaves shimmer rust-red in the glow of the car’s rear lights.
It’s dark outside as she drives into the city. Damn this darkness.
What a day. A murder. A dirty great murder. A crazy car chase. An old woman with a shotgun. No time to think abo
ut all the other crap. Sometimes she loves all the human manure this city is capable of producing.
Clothes.
Must have clothes.
Maybe I could go out to the house and quickly pick up what I need. But maybe Janne would ask me to stay, Tove would watch me with that pleading look in her eyes, and then I’d want to as well.
Then Malin catches a glimpse of her face in the rear-view mirror and she turns away, and suddenly realises what she’s done: she’s left the man she loves, she’s hit him, she put their daughter in mortal danger, and instead of helping herself move on she’s flown straight into her own crap, given in to her worst instincts, given in to her love of intoxication, for the soft-edged cotton-wool world where nothing exists. No past, no here and now, and no future. But it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, and she feels so ashamed that it takes over her breathing, the whole of her body, and she wants to drive out to the house in Malmslatt, but instead she drives to Tornby, to the Ikea car park, parks in a distant corner and gets out.
She stands in the rain and looks at the darkness around her. The place is completely anonymous and deserted, and even though it’s wide open, the light from the retail units doesn’t reach this far.
She heads over to the shopping centre. Wants to call Tove, ask her for advice, but she can’t. After all, that’s why I’m here, because I’ve fucked everything up beyond hope of salvation.
She moves through the rows of clothes in H amp;M, grabbing underwear and socks and bras, tops, trousers and a cardigan. She pays without even trying on the clothes, they ought to fit, the last thing I want right now is to look at myself in a full-length mirror, my swollen body, red face, shame-filled eyes.
She sinks onto a bench in the main walkway of the shopping centre. Looks over at the bookshop on the other side, the window full of self-help books. How to Get Rich on Happiness, Self-Love!, How to be the Dream Partner!
Fucking hell, get me out of here, she thinks, as nausea takes a grip on her again.
Outside the newsagent’s she sees the flysheets for both Expressen and Aftonbladet:
Businessman Murdered in Castle.
Billionaire Murdered in Moat.
Which one’s going to sell best? The second one?
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