Autumn Killing dimf-3

by Mons Kallentoft

  And now, outside this door, Mum and Dad’s words fall silent in her memory. Did they even exist, those words? She can only remember herself in the darkness. How everything was quiet and she lay there waiting for life to start.

  Rattling.

  Malin jumps back.

  She doesn’t have time to see the shadow over the peephole in the door, and Dad is suddenly standing in front of her, suntanned and jolly and happy to see her. His face is rounder and he looks well, and he pulls her to him, takes her in his arms and gives her a long hug without saying a word, and in the end Malin says: ‘Dad, I’m having trouble breathing.’

  And he lets go of her. Steps aside. Says: ‘Let’s go in and see Mum,’ and Malin goes into the flat, sees the furniture and rugs they brought down from Linkoping, how badly they match the new Spanish hacienda-style furniture.

  ‘How are you?’ Dad asks as he follows her into the living room.

  ‘Fine,’ she replies, and out on a balcony with a view of the Atlantic she sees her Mum facing away from her, against the strange glow from the street lamps. Mum is sitting at a table in a pink tennis shirt, her hair still a blonde bob, and Malin wonders what her face looks like.

  Wrinkled? Alert, angry, or just older?

  Mum doesn’t turn around and soon Malin is standing beside her on the balcony, hearing Dad’s voice say: ‘Here she is!’ and now Mum notices her and Malin thinks that her face looks like it always has, only browner, with the same pinched expression in spite of the smile on her lips.

  Mum gets up.

  Air-kisses my cheeks.

  ‘Have you been drinking, darling? You smell like you have. And you do look a bit puffy.’

  And without waiting for a reply she goes on: ‘It’s lovely that you’re here, darling. Wonderful. It’s about time. We’ve bought the best paella from a place on the way back from Abama, oh, you should see the course there! What a course! Henry, get your daughter a glass of wine, would you? There, now sit yourself down,’ and Malin sits down opposite her mother on her parents’ balcony in Tenerife and she doesn’t know whether to look at her mum, around the flat, or out to sea.

  ‘So what are you really doing here?’

  Mum is drinking her wine quickly and nervously and Malin is taking great gulps from the glass Dad has just put in front of her, and she wonders if this is what visiting your parents is like, when you’re an only child whom they haven’t seen for three years. Then Malin takes another deep gulp of wine and thinks that there aren’t any rules for this sort of thing, no accepted standards of human behaviour, and she wishes Dad were here, but instead she can hear him doing something in what must be the kitchen.

  Mum opposite her, with her question hanging in the air.

  ‘A case I’m working on,’ Malin replies. ‘It led here. So I came down.’

  And any other person would have continued to ask about the case, wondering what it was about, what the connection was that meant a detective inspector from Linkoping was prepared to take a five-and-a-half-hour flight down to Tenerife.

  But Mum starts talking about the golf course.

  ‘You see, it’s in Abama, the most exclusive resort on the whole island, and it costs an absolute fortune to play even if you can actually get a tee-off time, but they held a lottery for slots at the Swedish Club and what do you know, we won! You should see the first hole, we were there with Sven and Maggan. .’

  Malin pretends to listen.

  Nods.

  Inside she is telling Mum about Tove, how Tove is, that she’s growing up. She tells her about Janne, that they’ve separated and that she’s very upset about it and sometimes doesn’t know what to do with herself, and ‘if you mis-hit the ball there it can fly out to sea, and you lose three strokes and then the whole round is ruined’, and Malin tells her that she can see that she’s making a mess of everything, that she wants to drink, that she’s drinking too much, she drinks like a fish, and that deep down she’s already admitted to herself, but only herself, that she’s a fucking alcoholic, but that there’s no way she’s ever going to admit that to anyone else, and she nods happily when Dad pours her some more wine and suddenly plates appear on the table alongside a shop-bought paella in an aluminium tray with three langoustines perched on top of the yellow rice.

  Darkness has fallen.

  And Malin can hear hesitant, distant music from the pubs down by the shore, and she listens to it as Dad says: ‘Help yourself, Malin.’

  And she stretches out too quickly and knocks her wine over.

  Damn.

  ‘Oops,’ Dad says. ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘Still as clumsy as ever!’ Mum says, and Malin feels like getting up and leaving, but she doesn’t move.

  Malin can hear her mother chattering away to one of her friends on the phone in the living room.

  Dad with his calm face opposite her, he almost seems to think it’s a relief that Mum’s left the table.

  The paella is all gone.

  It was good, Malin thinks, in spite of everything.

  Mum’s been talking about golf, about hairdressers, about the rising price of food, about the fact that the flat may not be that big but its value has gone up, about some yoga class she’s just started going to, all this and much more, and then the phone rang and she went to answer it. Now Dad asks: ‘How are things with Tove?’

  The wine has gone to Malin’s head.

  ‘She’s starting to get grown-up.’

  ‘Like you’ve been for a long time.’

  You’re smiling at me, Dad.

  ‘And with Janne?’

  He must know that we’ve separated.

  ‘It’s OK. We couldn’t make it work. No point trying, really,’ and just as Dad is about to respond to what she’s said, Mum appears in the doorway, saying: ‘That was Harry and Evy. They’re coming over. They’re keen to meet our clever detective inspector daughter.’

  No, Malin thinks. No.

  And Dad looks at her, says: ‘You know what, Malin? Why don’t you help me clear the table, then we can take a stroll down to the shop and get some ice cream before they get here?’

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ Mum says. ‘My feet ache. We must have walked at least twenty kilometres today. How many sixty-seven-year-olds can do that?’

  Malin drains her wine glass.

  Makes sure she gets the last drops, but Mum doesn’t seem to notice how thirsty she is.

  39

  The chiller cabinet and air conditioning of the little supermarket are groaning.

  The shopkeeper greeted Malin’s dad like an old friend, and Dad had a long conversation with him in almost fluent Spanish. Malin didn’t understand a word of what they were saying.

  ‘Ramon,’ Dad says. ‘Nice bloke.’

  And now he says: ‘What do you think? Vanilla or chocolate? You’d rather have chocolate, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’d rather have a beer in the bar next door.’

  He gets a tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer before turning to face her, the front of his pale blue shirt speckled with yellow from the paella, and Malin sees now that his hair is much thinner than when they last met.

  ‘We can do that if you like, Malin,’ and the next minute they’re sitting in the bar, in lingering thirty-degree heat under a whirling fan in the ceiling, and Malin wipes the condensation from her glass and thinks that the feeling is the same here as back home in the Hamlet or the Pull amp; Bear. The walls of the bar are covered with blue tiles, decorated with white fish caught in nets.

  Dad takes a deep gulp of his beer and says: ‘Mum doesn’t change.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘But somehow it’s easier down here.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘There’s less pretending.’

  Malin takes a mouthful of beer and nods to show that she knows what he means, then she takes a deep breath.

  ‘You’ve been having a tough time,’ he says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anything you want to t
alk about, love?’

  Do I want to?

  What would we say to each other, Dad? And the fish on the tiles, half of them have their eyes closed, as if they’re in a dark moat, and she feels like telling him about her dreams, about the boy in them, tell him and find out who he is, find out what’s hidden in the darkness in those dreams.

  ‘I’ve been dreaming about a boy,’ she says finally.

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A little boy?’

  Dad is quiet, drinks some more.

  ‘Did Mum ever go away when I was little?’ Malin goes on.

  ‘The ice cream’s melting. Shall we go back?’ he says.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Some things are best not spoken about, Malin. Some things are just the way they are and you have to accept it. You’re pretty good at not letting anyone get too close. You always have been.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Nothing.’

  Malin empties her glass in four large gulps before she gets up and leaves a five-euro note on the bar.

  She and Dad stand beside each other on the pavement. Cars go past and the noise of people’s voices merges with unfamiliar music.

  ‘You’ve got a secret, you and Mum, haven’t you?’ Malin says. ‘Something you’re not telling me, even though you should.’

  Dad looks at her and he opens his mouth, moves his mouth and tongue, but no words come out.

  ‘Tell me, Dad. I know there’s something I need to know.’

  And he looks as if he’s about to say something, then he looks up at the balcony of the flat and Malin can just make out the figure of her mother up there.

  ‘The secret. There is a secret, isn’t there?’

  And Dad says: ‘We’d better get back up with the ice cream before it melts. Our friends will soon be here.’ Then he turns and walks away.

  Malin doesn’t move.

  ‘I’m tired, Dad,’ she says, and he stops, turns back towards her again.

  ‘I’m not coming back up. I’m going to go back to the hotel.’

  ‘You have to say goodbye to Mum.’

  ‘Explain to her, will you?’

  And they stand there facing each other, five metres apart. They look at each other for almost a minute, and Malin is waiting for him to come over to her and give her a hug, and force everything that stings and burns away from reality.

  He holds the ice cream up.

  ‘I’ll explain to Mum.’

  Then Malin sees the back of his shirt. Pale blue and sweaty in the dim light from the bar, the shop, the street lamps, the stars and the half-moon.

  What are you doing here?

  Jochen, do you usually come here? Is that you, sitting over at the bar, showing off your bronze skin?

  What’s she doing here?

  They seem to be wondering, the men sitting by the counter around the podium where the naked girls are dancing in blue fluorescent light. She’s in one of the bars opposite the hotel. She can crawl home from here.

  Lesbian?

  I don’t give a damn what you think, Malin thinks. I don’t give a damn that each shot of tequila costs thirty euros and that the girls keep disappearing with men behind a curtain.

  African women.

  Balkan girls.

  Russians.

  Many of them must have ended up here after being threatened with violence. How many of them are going to end up like Maria Murvall?

  But now they’re dancing, their oiled skin shining as they spin listlessly around the poles with their eyes empty of emotion.

  Malin downs her fourth tequila and at last the room, the girls, the men around her start to lose their edges and blur together into a single warm, calm image of reality.

  I can sit here OK, Malin thinks.

  This bar is my place.

  She raises a finger and calls the bartender over.

  He fills her glass and she puts money on the bar. She knows that as long as she pays, she’ll be allowed to drink, and if she ends up falling off her stool they’ll carry her out into the street and tuck her out of the way so she can sleep it off.

  But I’m going to cling to this planet, she thinks.

  Then she closes her eyes.

  Tove’s face. What’s she doing now? Is the beast there by her bed about to strangle her? Do drowned sewer rats wants to nibble the skin from her sleeping body? I’m coming, Tove, I’ll look after you.

  Janne’s face. Daniel Hogfeldt’s. Mum’s, Dad’s.

  Away with you all. Do you even wish me well?

  Away.

  Maria Murvall. Mute and expressionless, yet still so clear. As if she’s chosen to withdraw from the world to avoid seeing the darkness.

  Jerry Petersson. Trying to move in the moat, clamber out, but the green spirits are holding him down, the fish, but also the worms and crabs and eels and aggressive black crayfish eating away at his body, falling from his mouth and empty eye sockets.

  Jochen Goldman’s body. Is he going to come after me now? Am I in his way? Am I going to end up as shark food?

  I don’t care.

  The Fagelsjo family’s self-awareness and bitterness. A car rolling over and over like a huge snowball on a cold, snowy New Year’s Eve.

  Dark-coloured cars.

  Eyes that see, but notice nothing. The world disappears and becomes soft and malleable, simple and easy to understand, to like.

  Drink, drink, drink, says the voice. Drink. It’ll make you feel better, everything will be fine.

  I’m more than happy to listen to that voice, Malin thinks.

  40

  Wednesday, 29 October

  You should see them now, Malin.

  What are their names, your colleagues? Waldemar? Johan?

  They’re standing in the morning chill with Jonas Karlsson outside the building he lives in, asking him to go in, saying they have to talk to him, that he didn’t tell them the truth about what happened on that fateful New Year’s Eve.

  You see, Malin, I’m keeping an eye on what you’re all doing.

  It hasn’t been such a great morning for your colleagues. The prosecutor has ordered that Fredrik Fagelsjo be released from custody, he’s received a request from the lawyer, Ehrenstierna, which convinced him that Fagelsjo was unlikely to commit any further offences, and that he would remain at your disposal. ‘We can’t hold such a prominent member of the local community for a whole week on relatively minor offences.’

  But you police still suspect him.

  New Year’s Eve. When will that snow stop falling? When will those lawnmower blades fall silent?

  Was I the one driving?

  What was I doing at Fredrik Fagelsjo’s New Year party? I don’t want to remember, but it was one of those things people do, Malin, when we both want something yet somehow don’t, when we want to demonstrate our sovereignty, yet have to let go of it in order to get something.

  Jonas is scared now.

  I can feel it when I position myself just a few centimetres away from him. He knows that time has caught up with itself.

  Jonas was on his way to work when the police came back. He tells them he spent the whole of the previous day at the trotting-track out in Mantorp.

  Maybe he was the one driving after all?

  Jochen is capable of playing with anyone just for the fun of it. Without all those games his life is pointless.

  Now the door to Jonas Karlsson’s block of flats closes.

  Waldemar’s hand on his shoulder as they disappear inside the building. And I am with you, Malin, beside your sleeping head ten thousand, three hundred and seventy-nine metres up in the air.

  Secrets, Malin. You used to love secrets when you were a little girl, and now you’re obsessed with them.

  The plane is moving through the atmosphere. You’re sleeping a dreamless sleep and you could do with it, you had to stop the taxi on the way to the airport so you could leap out and empty the previous day from your stomac
h.

  Are you incorrigible, Malin?

  You look so exhausted as you sit there leaning against the cold concave window, deaf to the roar of the engines. I actually feel like stroking your cheek, Malin, and that’s probably all you want, isn’t it?

  Sinking into human warmth.

  Sensing that it exists somewhere beyond the cold stones of the moat.

  Jonas Karlsson has sat down on the sofa in his living room. Johan Jakobsson is sitting opposite him in an armchair, while Waldemar Ekenberg walks restlessly up and down the room. The coffee table is full of empty bottles and a squashed wine box, and the sour smell of drying alcohol stings their nostrils. But apart from the mess on the table, Jonas Karlsson’s flat is clean.

  Waldemar’s long frame is shaking, his voice deep and coloured by a hundred thousand cigarettes.

  ‘You lied to us,’ he says, and Johan feels his voice make him shiver: the catch at the end of the words in spite of his local drawl, in spite of the smoker’s hoarseness.

  Jonas Karlsson seems to have capitulated already, ready for the storm that’s coming his way now.

  ‘I didn’t. .’

  ‘Shut up, you soppy git,’ Waldemar shouts. ‘Of course you fucking lied. Jerry Petersson was driving the car that New Year’s Eve. Not you.’

  ‘I. .’

  And Johan wants to tell Waldemar to take it easy, to show a bit of consideration, but he stays silent. There’s something about the atmosphere in the room that he finds irresistible, against his will.

  ‘If you tell us the truth, there won’t necessarily be any consequences for you,’ Johan says. ‘It was so long ago. .’

  ‘I wasn’t the one. .’

  And Johan looks into Jonas’s scared eyes, sees that he realises that everyone around here, either by media or rumour, will find out his story and whisper it behind his back.

  Then Waldemar raises one hand, tenses his open palm, and lets it fall hard across Jonas Karlsson’s mouth, and Jonas Karlsson screams and blood trickles from a cracked lip.