AUTUMN KILLING

by KALLENTOFT MONS

  ‘So he was leaving the Ekoxen?’ Katarina said. ‘He was probably worried you were going to get him for drink-driving. He’s been caught before, after a friend’s party three years ago, so this time he’d have ended up in prison.’

  Drink-driving. Driving under the influence of alcohol. I did that yesterday, Malin thinks, batting the thought aside like a golf ball.

  ‘We caught him,’ Zeke says. ‘And he was drunk.’

  ‘Maybe he tried to escape because he had something to do with Jerry Petersson’s murder?’ Malin asks, hoping the direct question will provoke a reaction.

  ‘What, my brother kill someone? Hardly.’ Katarina’s face is completely blank as she waits for the next question, and Malin feels tired just looking at it. It’s almost five o’clock already, and even though Malin knows they need to get further with the investigation, all she wants is to be at home, having a shower, and then what?

  Feel sorry for myself.

  Fucking sorry.

  Liquidly sorry.

  Her headache has faded, but her body is screaming for more, her anxiety is like a fist around her heart. Have to get a grip on a hell of a lot of different things. Can I handle that?

  And now this woman in front of me, stuck-up and stroppy, yet still somehow open and pleasant. Is that what they call social competence?

  ‘So you don’t believe that?’ Zeke asks.

  ‘My brother’s harmless. Maybe not entirely, but he’s certainly not violent.’

  ‘Can you tell us anything about him?’ Zeke asks.

  ‘He can do that better himself.’

  Katarina pulls another club from her bag. Looks it up and down.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Malin says, thinking: focus on Katarina herself instead.

  ‘What were you doing last night and this morning?’

  ‘My father was with me yesterday evening. We were drinking tea.’

  ‘He told us he left at ten o’clock. What did you do after he left?’

  Katarina clears her throat.

  ‘I went to see my lover. Senior consultant Jan Andergren. He can confirm that I was there till this morning.’

  She gives them a number, which Zeke taps straight into his mobile.

  ‘I like white coats,’ Katarina jokes. ‘But you should know that he’s only a lover, I’ve seen him a few times, and I’m not planning to see him many more.’

  ‘Why not?’ Malin says, and Katarina adopts an expression that seems to say: What business is that of yours?

  ‘Don’t you know? The golden rule for affairs. More than five times, and there’s a risk you start thinking it’s love.’

  Don’t put on airs just because you’re fucking a doctor, Malin thinks. Don’t try acting the tease with me, Katarina Fågelsjö. I’m far too tired to put up with that.

  ‘Did you have any dealings with Petersson?’ Zeke asks.

  ‘None at all,’ she says hesitantly, before carrying on in a firm voice: ‘Fredrik and Father looked after all that. Why?’

  ‘The sale of the castle,’ Malin says. ‘You weren’t opposed to it?’

  ‘No. It was time. It was simply time to sell up. Time for the family to move on.’

  You’re saying the same as your father, Axel, Malin thinks. Has he told you what to say?

  ‘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 Östgöta artists like Krouthén. But some more expensive ones as well. Do you know Eugène 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 Linköping 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 Fågelsjö 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 Linköping 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 Sjöman and Karim Akbar are watching the people inside the room.

  Johan Jakobsson is looking at Fredrik Fågelsjö. 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. Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö concerning the investigation into the murder of Jerry Petersson, as well as other offences. Friday 24 October, time 18.04.’

  Up to now Fågelsjö 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, Fågelsjö 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?’

  Fågelsjö 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,’ Fågelsjö 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 Skänninge. 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 apology 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,’ Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö’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.’

  Fågelsjö’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 Fågelsjö’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 Skogså?’ 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 Skogså. Is that correct?’ Johan asks instead.

  ‘I was tired of all that crap,’ Fågelsjö 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,’ Fågelsjö says. ‘He was the worst sort of upstart, the sort who could never understand the importance of an estate like Skogså. 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,’ Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö’s eyes.

  ‘Tell us what you know, you bastard. You’re hiding loads of shit, aren’t you?’

  Fredrik Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö 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.

  Fågelsjö’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 Sjöman has called a meeting for eight o’clock. Police Constable Aronsson spoke to Fredrik Fågelsjö’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.