Autumn Killing dimf-3

by Mons Kallentoft

  ‘It’s been remarkably quiet,’ Sven says. ‘I thought we’d get loads of calls about the things Petersson got up to, but maybe he was just the sort who left satisfied customers and people behind.’

  ‘Do people like that actually exist?’ Zeke asks.

  ‘No,’ Waldemar says.

  ‘And we haven’t found the murder weapon,’ Sven says.

  ‘Where do we go from here?’ Karim asks.

  ‘Well, the team in Hades will keep digging, trying to find out why the company Jochen Goldman and Petersson ran between them wasn’t more profitable,’ Sven says. ‘Malin and Zeke can try to talk to Axel Fagelsjo. Bring him in for questioning if he makes a fuss. After all, it isn’t that incredible that someone in that family killed Petersson so they could buy back the castle from his estate.’

  ‘Do you think they could have paid someone to do it?’ Malin asks.

  ‘Unlikely,’ Sven says. ‘But that did occur to me, even if there’s no evidence to suggest it.’

  Malin nods.

  ‘Petersson’s father stands to inherit everything,’ she goes on. ‘Unless some unknown child or a wife pops up abroad.’

  ‘People have been killed for less,’ Waldemar says, and in his voice Malin can hear a longing, but she can’t grab hold of the feeling lurking at the back of Waldemar’s wishes.

  Just as well, she thinks, looking at his bruise, which has turned orange and yellow around the edges, like an autumn leaf.

  Sven picks up the phone on the third ring.

  Number unknown on the display, yet the call has come straight through to his phone, bypassing reception.

  The open-plan office is noisy now. The morning calm has gone, and the place stinks of coffee.

  Police officers in uniform and plain clothes hurrying back and forth, talking into headsets, looking busy, stressed.

  ‘Sjoman.’

  ‘Sven Sjoman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, hello. This is Peter Svenungsson from Interpol up in Stockholm.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘I read on the Net about Jerry Petersson, that he’s been murdered.’

  ‘That’s right. A couple of men found him in the moat of the castle where he lived when they were about to go hunting.’

  ‘I’ve got something that might interest you.’

  ‘Go ahead. We’re grateful for any information.’

  ‘I’m sure you know that Petersson was Jochen Goldman’s lawyer while he was on the run. We only ever came close to catching Goldman once, we got a tip-off that he was in Verbier in Switzerland. The coffee was pretty much still warm in the pot when the local gendarmes got there, but he managed to get away again.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Petersson gave us the tip-off. He called and told us where Goldman was.’

  Sven can feel his heart skip a few beats.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘He didn’t give an explanation, and he was aware he was breaking his oath of confidentiality, but we promised he would stay anonymous.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Sven says. ‘Great. When did this happen?’

  ‘Three years ago this autumn. I remember it well. It was just before Goldman’s second book came out. If you want my opinion, I think you should check Jochen Goldman bloody carefully. If anything of that sort’s actually possible with that slippery bastard. He’s probably capable of waiting years for revenge until the right opportunity arises. And of course we all know the rumours about what he’s capable of.’

  Sven is sitting on the edge of Zeke’s desk, pushed up against Malin’s.

  ‘So you think Goldman might have found out that Petersson gave him away, and he wanted revenge?’ Malin says, thinking that Sven seems to want to say something else, but won’t let it out.

  ‘That could fit,’ Zeke says.

  Sven nods.

  ‘Goldman isn’t the sort to move on stoically and forget a betrayal. Don’t you think?’

  Tenerife, Malin thinks. And sees her mum and dad on their balcony. Cardboard cut-outs, figures in an advertising brochure selling a happy retirement.

  Sun, heat.

  No clouds, no frost, no darkness, rain or hail.

  Just light.

  Just a beaming, wonderfully carefree life of the righteous. As the evangelical bastards who rented her flat might have put it.

  31

  Sven has left Malin and Zeke alone at their desks.

  ‘We need to have another word with Goldman again,’ Malin says. ‘Confront him. See what he says.’

  ‘Call him,’ Zeke says.

  Malin dials the number. The phone rings ten times, no answer.

  She shakes her head.

  ‘He could have sent someone,’ Zeke says. ‘We need to find out if any known hitmen have been active.’

  ‘The book,’ Malin says. ‘Didn’t Segerberg say in the meeting that Goldman’s book had sold badly? Worse than expected? And if they were partners in the business, they would have shared the profits.’

  ‘So you think Petersson wanted to shop Goldman to create a bit of a buzz about the book? So it would sell better?’

  ‘Maybe. Sven said that Interpol got the tip-off just before the second book was published.’

  ‘But why would he do that? He was already rolling in money,’ Zeke says.

  ‘A lot is never enough,’ Malin says. ‘And business is business. You know, the basic principles.’

  ‘Like Fredrik Fagelsjo,’ Zeke says. ‘He made a profit to start with, then wanted more, then lost it all.’

  ‘Greed,’ Malin says. ‘That’s killed a lot of people.’

  Books, books, books.

  Was it greed that killed me?

  Don’t ever go into publishing if you want to earn money.

  We printed the second book ourselves, published it through a small company because we thought that would sell better than the first, and why give the money to anyone else? We were as naive about the book as parents are about their children.

  But the bastard bookshops hardly ordered any copies, and I used my own money to print fifteen thousand copies, and we needed some serious media attention.

  So I called that police officer.

  Tipped them off.

  But Jochen got away. Presumably tipped off in turn, but I was never worried about him finding out. The detective I called was reliable. And I could always deny it, say that one of Jochen’s closest associates must have betrayed him, because there were still a few of us who knew where he was, in spite of everything.

  Shoddy, I know.

  But there were articles about Jochen, about how close the police had come to catching him, and the book started to sell, only five hundred copies had to be pulped in the end and we made a small profit.

  In business I only had one principle: the bottom line. Practically anything was permissible if it helped a deal go well.

  Business is business.

  If I couldn’t earn money from Jochen Goldman, what would I want with him? Really? There’s nothing more fleeting than friendship.

  But I also know what his anger and self-assurance make him capable of, what doors they can open.

  This time Axel Fagelsjo lets them in, invites them to sit down in the sitting room while he goes off to the kitchen to get coffee and cake.

  The panels on the walls shine as if they’ve just been varnished.

  I wonder if he’s ever seen so much as a picture of a plastic skirting board? Malin wonders as the thickset man comes back with a full tray in his hands.

  ‘I knew you’d be back,’ he says, serving coffee and shop-bought cinnamon buns. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell the whole truth.’

  ‘Why did you lie to us about the sale of Skogsa, when you didn’t actually want to sell?’ Zeke asks.

  ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it? It looks fairly compromising for the family, no doubt about that. For Fredrik.’

  ‘But the fact that you lied doesn’t make it any less compromising,’ Malin says.

  Fagelsjo�
�s goodwill vanishes. Malin sees his face close up, as if the air were going out of his round, pink cheeks.

  ‘And Fredrik,’ Malin says, ‘why do you think he tried to get away from us? When we only wanted to talk to him.’

  ‘He was scared he’d end up in prison,’ Axel says. ‘He panicked. No more, no less.’

  ‘So you don’t think he was out at Skogsa on the morning of that Friday, then? We know he. .’

  Axel heaves himself to his feet and stretches to his full height, shouting, throwing the words at them in a fury, drops of coffee and cake crumbs flying through the air.

  ‘What the hell gives you the right to come here and stir things up? You have absolutely no evidence of anything!’

  Zeke’s steel eyes. His gaze boring deep into Axel’s eyes.

  ‘Sit down, old man. Sit down, and calm down.’

  Fagelsjo goes over to the window facing the park and lets his arms drop to his sides.

  ‘I can confirm everything that Fredrik has told you, that I tried to buy back Skogsa. But we had nothing to do with the murder. You can go now. If you want anything more from me, you’ll have to call me to an official interview. But I promise you, there would be no point in that.’

  ‘How did it feel, when he turned you down?’ Malin asks.

  Axel Fagelsjo stays by the window.

  ‘Were you angry with Fredrik?’ she goes on, and can see a silent rage taking over the count’s body, and she thinks: You’re not the one who should be angry, Jerry Petersson should be angry, and then she remembers what it was like at high school. There were people like Jerry Petersson there when she was at the Cathedral School, working-class boys who were bloody smart and talented and good-looking, who moved in the smart circles without ever truly being admitted to them, and she remembers that she thought those boys were rather tragic. She kept her distance from all that, she had Janne, but she still daydreamed of belonging to the innermost circle of the lovely, smart and self-proclaimed important students.

  ‘What were you really doing later that night?’ she asks aggressively. ‘Well? Did you go out to Skogsa to kill Petersson? Or to persuade him once Fredrik had failed? And it all went wrong? And you ended up killing him?’

  The words are firing out of Malin.

  She wants to lash the old man with her questions, scare the truth out of him. No fucking way I’m going to retreat from someone like you.

  ‘Or did you pay someone else to do it?’

  ‘Go now,’ Axel says calmly. ‘The same way you came. I’m tired of this damn Petersson.’

  But I’m not tired of you, Malin thinks.

  In the stairwell on the way down they meet a reporter and photographer who Malin knows are from the Aftonbladet evening tabloid.

  ‘Good luck with him,’ Malin whispers after the vultures. ‘Screw him properly.’

  Sven Sjoman is eating the salad his wife put in his lunch box that morning.

  Crab-sticks and rocket.

  An artificial fishy smell hits his nose, reminds him of ammonia. He’s alone in the staffroom, hungry at eleven because he got up so early. The ugly metal chairs look as uncomfortable as they are, and along the long wall of the room hangs a hideous tapestry of Linkoping’s skyline on an autumn day like this one. Disproportionately large crows fly around the spire of the cathedral, and on the roof of Linkoping Castle sits a misshapen grey cat.

  Salad is rabbit food.

  Not food for a day like today. Today’s real root vegetable weather. Mash, and shiny, fatty pork belly.

  He’s told Karim about the call from Interpol, and that Malin tried to call Goldman again.

  Sven takes a last mouthful of the salad.

  Thinks: What’s best, a short, happy life, or a long, miserable one?

  At that moment he finally makes up his mind that a trip will do Malin good, even if it’s questionable that the state of the investigation justifies it. He’ll ask Karim to talk to her about it. That way she won’t be suspicious.

  Waldemar Ekenberg walks over to Malin and Zeke as they sit at their desks eating sandwiches they bought at the Statoil petrol station on Djurgardsgatan.

  ‘Did you get anything out of Axel Fagelsjo?’

  Malin shakes her head.

  ‘There’s something there,’ she says. ‘Something.’

  ‘You think so? Your female intuition?’ Waldemar says.

  Malin gives him a weary look.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind eating my sandwich in peace,’ and as she says this Karim Akbar comes over to her desk.

  He puts a hand on her shoulder, nods to Zeke and Waldemar, before saying: ‘Malin, what would you say to a trip to Tenerife? Have a chat with Jochen Goldman?’

  Malin closes her eyes. Lets Karim’s suggestion sink in.

  Sun.

  Heat.

  Mum, Dad, far away from Tove, Janne, all that.

  ‘What do you say? Put some pressure on him? He’s bound to be there,’ Karim says.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Malin says quickly. ‘Is this Sven’s idea? Because he thinks I need to get away? That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re paranoid, Malin. The investigation requires you to go. And a bit of sun would do you good,’ Karim says. ‘Anyway, you’ve never been down to visit your parents, have you?’

  Malin looks at Karim suspiciously. Gives him a stare that warns him that that’s none of his business.

  ‘Is Janne home?’ he goes on, and there’s an odd note in his voice, as though he’s dealing with a formality, and it annoys Malin.

  She thinks she knows what he’s getting at.

  ‘Tove can stay. .’ and then she stops herself. Karim doesn’t know that they’ve separated, and he doesn’t need to know. Unless he does know already?

  ‘Janne can look after Tove,’ she says in the end.

  ‘Good,’ Karim says. ‘I’ll sort out a ticket for tomorrow. Make sure you’re packed. And be careful. You know what people say about him.’

  Malin on her own beside the coffee machine in the staffroom. Holding her mobile. Wants to call Tove but knows she’s at school now, in a lesson, but she has to see her before she goes.

  Wants to call Janne. But what would she say? She has to let them know she’s going. Call Daniel Hogfeldt and ask for a serious afternoon fuck session? Creep off to the Hamlet and have a stiff drink? Either of the two last ideas sounds wonderful. But she has to work, then pack.

  Should I call Mum and Dad? Let them know I’ll be there tomorrow? Given their attitude to surprises, I’d cause chaos down there. But I ought to phone anyway. I’ll have to see them, even if I don’t want to, I haven’t told them about the separation, that Tove’s still living out at Janne’s, that she hasn’t moved back in yet, unless Janne’s said something, they might have called the house, Dad does that sometimes, but Janne wouldn’t have said anything, would he?

  It’ll be nice to get away from this dump for a few days.

  In one way, she thinks, you can see Jerry Petersson as the ultimate product of Linkoping, where the inhabitants lose their roots in their desire for money and ridiculous material status. Look at Mum, she’s never managed to have a home where she feels she belongs, I don’t think she has, Malin thinks, and then she thinks about Janne’s house, the flat, and it hurts and she brushes the thought aside, refuses to admit to herself that she’s like her mother in so many ways. Instead she thinks about the fact that you can see Jerry Petersson as the archetypal class traitor, someone who doesn’t know his place, who wants to become something he can never be. A handsome dog that will never win any competitions because he doesn’t have the right pedigree.

  I hate the Fagelsjo family, she thinks. Everything they stand for. But I can’t bring myself to hate them as individuals. And she sees Katarina Fagelsjo on her sofa, her eyes, and she wonders where the sorrow in them comes from? Childlessness. Something else?

  Malin picks up her coffee and sniffs the black liquid before heading back to her desk.

  ‘You didn’t get me one?’ Zeke says, loo
king at Malin’s cup.

  ‘Sorry,’ Malin says, sitting down as Zeke lumbers off towards the staffroom.

  Malin enjoys the hot coffee, feeling the liquid sting her mouth, before she is brought back by Johan Jakobsson’s voice.

  He’s holding a bundle of papers towards her.

  ‘Just got this from the ladies in the archive,’ he says. ‘It turns out that Jerry Petersson was involved in a car accident when he was nineteen. One New Year’s Eve. After a party. He was a passenger, in the front seat. The two in the back seat didn’t get off so lightly. One boy was killed and a girl suffered serious head injuries.’

  Malin can’t remember ever hearing any reports of the accident, presumably she was too young to notice when it happened.

  ‘And do you know what makes it all the more interesting?’ Johan asks.

  Malin throws out her hands.

  ‘The accident happened on Fagelsjo’s estate.’

  PART 2

  Rain from a cloud that will never return

  Ostergotland, October

  Eggs hatch.

  Blind baby snakes peer out. More and more and more. They make my blood boil.

  But let me start here: let’s pretend there’s a film.

  A film about a person’s life, where every moment is captured from an illuminating angle.

  My film isn’t black, white, or a thousand colours. It’s matt red and sepia-tinted, a slow journey through numbing loneliness.

  I see thousands of people in the images.

  They flicker past, but never return. Nothing and no one stays, it’s the loneliest of lonely films.

  There’s no disgust in the people’s faces, merely, at best, a lack of interest. Most of them don’t see me. I am a person in the form of air, like a fading outline in a shifting landscape. I once had something to cling to, but I’ve taught myself to be free. But did I ever actually manage it? Maybe I just tell myself I did so that I can bear to go on.

  And now? After what’s happened? Him, I don’t want to say his name, floating in the cold dark water. I have no illusions about forgiveness or understanding.

  But the rage was wonderful. It was as if the snakes left me, ran out of my body and left me calm and powerful. It really didn’t matter what direction it was aimed in, but to say that he didn’t deserve it is wrong. I can do it again if need be, if only to experience once more that feeling of something evil disappearing out of me, the snakes calming down, and me, the person I could have been, should have been, there instead.