Mons Kallentoft - Autumn Killing Страница 20

She turns off the television.

An early night.

Her whole body is itching with nerves and she lies down in bed, but the only colour she sees when she closes her eyes is the dark brown colour of the tequila, endlessly enticing.

Then she opens her eyes.

Fredrik Fagelsjo.

The look of fear on his face. His body under the blanket on the bunk in his cell. Were you just scared? Or did you actually give in to your fury and kill Jerry Petersson?

If your poor business sense cost your family the castle, then your father must despise you, hate you. Maybe your sister Katarina feels the same, but she’s still your sister. Malin feels her stomach contract, in a gentle but painful longing for the brother or sister she never had.

And Jerry Petersson. Who pops up in the middle of the family scandal and is later found dead in a moat that is said to house the unquiet spirits of Russian soldiers. Jochen Goldman.

People who are said to have disappeared. Murdered.

Ruthlessness and inadequacies.

Malin closes her eyes again.

Waits for sleep, feeling her consciousness drift away inside itself, and soon the world outside is just one electrical impulse among many for her memories to navigate by.

The world outside the window gradually disappears, turning into a crackling sound, and she hears someone whisper, wonders: who’s trying to tell me something?

Is it the voice from the forest, from the bar in the Hamlet?

The figures aren’t there, don’t want to show themselves, and in the borderlands between sleep and waking Malin gets a sense that he, or they, or whoever it is, is afraid for their own fate, afraid to entertain the idea of their own pain.

Then she sees a lawnmower in the beginning of a dream, moving across grass, and she sees it from the perspective of the blades.

Not a manual rotary mower like her dad had, but a red Stiga chasing a pair of filthy feet across dew-wet grass. She sees the blades lick the boy’s ankles, hears a voice shout: ‘Now they’re going to eat up your feet, now they’re going to tear your little feet to shreds.’

The images in the dream are black and white, but the machine and the blades are red and the noise of the engine and the petrol fumes blur her thoughts.

Then the boy stops. Lets the mower’s blades run over his feet.

Malin wants to see the boy’s face, but he keeps looking the other way.

Then he runs, on bloody stumps now, he takes aim and drifts right out of her vision.

26

Sunday, 26 October

Malin Fors has dreamed a dream about a person who is a mistake, not an unwanted person, but a mistake. She can’t remember the person, she can’t even remember the dream, but its narrative is inside her like a slow earth tremor as she stands in front of the counter of freshly baked bread in the Filbyter patisserie that has started opening on Sundays to fight off the competition from the cafes out at the Tornby shopping centre.

Empty fridge. Waking up hungry. Toiletries, clothes, and that was where her shopping spree had ended.

Zeke on his way there for a quick breakfast before the morning meeting at the station. Sunday like a normal Monday when they’re dealing with a case of this size, Saturday working yesterday, Sabbath working today.

Two days since they found the body, no chance of any time off while the investigation is still in its infancy.

She should really have had the day off today. Come up with something to do with Tove. Going to the pool, anything. Maybe even picking up her wretched things, talking to Janne, they could have had lunch together, Sunday steak and cream sauce.

That could have worked.

Couldn’t it?

That whole life feels like a mockery. And she wishes that Janne would call and shout at her, but he hasn’t even done that. Should I call and shout at him because he hasn’t called to be cross with me? Or to criticise me for ignoring Tove? But he must realise that I’m working today, the papers are full of the case.

She sits upstairs, with her three cheese rolls and a large mug of coffee, looking out at the desolate square, where a transparent, persistent rain makes all the shop signs pale, and only a few pigeons can bear to face the day, pecking away just as they always seem to.

She’s finished one of the rolls by the time she sees Zeke’s shaved head appear over by the stairs, and he smiles as he sees her, calling to her: ‘You look a hell of a lot better today. And that top suits you.’

‘Shut up,’ she says, and Zeke smiles.

‘You know I’m only concerned about you. And that is a nice top.’

Malin adjusts the pale blue top she’s wearing, one of her new purchases from H amp;M. Maybe Zeke’s being serious, she must have looked like a pig in that red top yesterday.

He’s arrived empty-handed, and she wonders if he’s not going to have anything, but at that moment her mobile rings. Sven’s name on the screen. He sounds anxious: ‘Malin, we’ve had a call from someone who says he’s Petersson’s lawyer. Says he wants to meet one of us. Sounded like he’s got something to tell us.’

Zeke’s face opposite her, watchful now.

‘So the lawyer has a lawyer?’ Malin says.

‘Had, Malin. They all have.’

‘And where is he?’

‘A Max Persson, office at number 12 Hamngatan, close to Tradgardstorget.’

‘So he’s there on Sunday morning?’

‘He is.’

‘What about talking to Fredrik Fagelsjo?’

‘I’ll deal with that myself. Without his lawyer. Just a polite conversation in his cell.’

‘OK, we’ll talk to Petersson’s lawyer. We’re at the Filbyter cafe having breakfast. We can skip the morning meeting.’

‘Yes, not much has happened since yesterday,’ Sven says.

‘Anything else at all?’ Malin asks.

‘Nothing,’ Sven says. ‘And no tip-offs either.’

‘Let’s see what secrets the lawyer’s got for us,’ Malin says.

‘Fingers crossed.’

‘Our secrets are what make us human,’ Malin says. ‘Isn’t that what you usually say, Sven?’

Sven laughs as he hangs up.

Max Persson’s office is on the top floor of a yellow brick building from the fifties. Outside the room is a terrace where a couple of abandoned wooden chairs are fighting a losing battle against the wind and rain, and Malin can almost see the varnish disintegrating in the autumn weather.

Malin and Zeke are each sitting in a red armchair. Max Persson is sitting in majesty on an office chair on the other side of a gigantic glass-topped desk.

A pink Oriental rug on the floor.

Garishly coloured paintings on the walls, silhouettes made with what looks like spray-paint. The man behind the desk is a similar age to Jerry Petersson when he died. He’s wearing a shiny grey suit, the cheapness of which is accentuated by a pink tie on a pale blue shirt.

Max Persson seems to think a lot of himself, Malin thinks.

A clown of a lawyer.

But very good-looking.

Clearly defined features, prominent cheekbones.

‘We understand that you were Jerry Petersson’s lawyer?’ Zeke says.

‘Well, that’s not quite right. But I did help Jerry with the purchase of Skogsa, with drawing up the contract. It gets quite complicated when you’re dealing with such a large, special property.’

‘So you weren’t his lawyer?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Persson says.

And Malin suddenly realises that Persson wants to tell them something confidential, and that he doesn’t want Jerry Petersson to look like his former client, because then he could be accused of breaching his code of confidentiality as a lawyer.

‘Jerry,’ Malin says. ‘Were you friends?’

‘Well, not friends as such. We studied together down in Lund, and I ended up here in Linkoping, which was his home city of course.’

‘So you go way back?’ Zeke wonders.

Persson nods.

‘And there’s something you want to tell us?’ Malin says.

Persson nods again.

Then he starts talking.

‘Like I said, I helped Jerry when he was buying Skogsa. I met Axel Fagelsjo and his children when I was out inspecting the property, and I have to say that they seemed extremely bitter about the sale. Not that they said anything specific, but the whole time I got the impression that they didn’t want to sell. Don’t ask me why.’

‘Had you heard anything about financial difficulties?’ Malin asks. ‘Did the Fagelsjos say anything?’

‘No, but, like I said, I got the impression they were forced to sell up, and that they didn’t really want to. And that impression was reinforced by what happened last week.’

Persson, evidently taking great delight in everyday drama, lets what he is about to say hang in the air.

‘Well?’ Malin prompts.

‘Well, at the beginning of last week Axel Fagelsjo approached me. He wanted to buy back the castle and estate. He was prepared to pay twenty million more than they got for it. He was adamant. I took the offer to Jerry, but he just shook his head, had a good laugh, and told me to turn down the old man’s offer.’

Lies.

A family estate that no one wanted to sell. Trying to run from the police. Dealing in stock options. ‘It was time.’ Not a chance. This had nothing to do with a way of life that had become outdated.

The thoughts are flying through Malin’s head and she thinks about Axel Fagelsjo, his powerful figure and his magnificent apartment.

Maybe they ought to concentrate more on Axel than Fredrik? Who knows what the old man might be capable of?

‘How did Fagelsjo take Petersson’s reply?’

‘He was furious on the phone. Utterly furious. I almost thought he was going to have a heart attack. It sounded like he was throwing things.’

Malin looks at Zeke, who nods back at her.

‘Do you know anything else about Jerry Petersson that you think we should know?’

‘We didn’t have a great deal of contact,’ Persson says. ‘Not even after he moved back here. Jerry was a lone wolf. He always was, even back in Lund. Quite brilliant, he got away with doing maybe a fifth of the studying the rest of us had to do, but he still finished top. He didn’t need other people the way us mere mortals do. He never seemed to be searching for someone to love, he was looking for people who could be useful to him. People like me.’

‘We’ve been having trouble finding friends and acquaintances,’ Malin says.

‘You won’t find any,’ Max Persson says. ‘Friendship wasn’t Jerry’s thing.’

They’re standing in the doorway of the building housing Max Persson’s office. It’s pouring with rain now, the drops drumming the ground like a plague of locusts ready to destroy everything in their path.

Not a soul in sight.

The city paralysed by the season.

‘So, a frustrated Count Axel Fagelsjo,’ Zeke says.

‘Who loves that land,’ Malin says.

‘And who wanted it back, but he couldn’t have it.’

‘Because Jerry Petersson refused to sell.’

‘As if he owned the man’s soul,’ Zeke said.

‘And Fredrik Fagelsjo who gambled the castle away,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe he wanted to put everything right? And if Petersson was out of the game, the family could buy back the castle. But where have they suddenly got the money from, the money behind Axel Fagelsjo’s offer for Skogsa? I’ll call Sven, maybe he hasn’t got around to talking to Fredrik Fagelsjo yet.’

The door to the cell opens.

Fredrik Fagelsjo is sitting on his bunk with a cup of coffee in his hand, reading a copy of Svenska Dagbladet.

‘Can I come in for a few minutes?’ Sven Sjoman asks. He looks at Fredrik, at the way his shoulders seem to be weighed down by an invisible force, and the skin around his eyes seems to have become dried out during his time in the cell. His eyes seem to be pleading for alcohol, the way that Malin’s do sometimes. I’ll let you have what we know in tiny portions, Sven thinks.

‘Ehrenstierna isn’t here.’

‘I just want to ask a couple of questions,’ Sven says. ‘If that’s OK?’

‘OK.’

Fagelsjo seems tired, as if he’s already given up on something, Sven thinks, or as if he’s in the process of giving up on something.

He sits down beside him on the bunk’s mattress, detecting the smell of urine from the shiny, stainless-steel toilet.

‘A lot of people here at the station have problems with alcohol as well,’ Sven says. ‘There’s no shame in it.’

‘I haven’t got a problem,’ Fagelsjo replies.

‘No, but no one here would look down on you if that were the case.’

‘Good to know.’

‘We know about your dealings in stock options,’ Sven goes on.

Fagelsjo doesn’t reply.

Sven looks around the cell, at how bare it is.

‘You’ve got children, young children. And a wife. Do you miss them?’

‘Yes. I do. But you’re not letting me have any visitors.’

‘Not us. The prosecutor. Is everything OK with your family?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

‘That’s good. My wife and I have been married thirty-five years, and we still enjoy each other’s company.’

‘I got scared. I panicked,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘I didn’t want to spend time in Skanninge. Missing such a large chunk of the children’s lives. Can you understand that?’

Sven nods, moves a bit closer to him.

‘What about your father? He must have been pretty mad about your financial affairs?’

‘He’s always been a bit mad,’ Fagelsjo says with a smile. ‘He was angry.’

‘And yet you all told us that it was time to sell?’

‘If you come from a family like ours, you do anything you can to protect the family name.’

‘Perhaps that was what you were doing?’ Sven says. ‘Going out to Skogsa that morning to get your revenge on Jerry Petersson for taking the castle away from you? I promise you, it will feel better if you tell us.’

‘I’m not even going to dignify that with a denial,’ Fagelsjo says. Then he adjusts the newspaper in his lap with an exaggerated gesture. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’

‘Then last week you tried to buy back the castle.’

Fagelsjo raises his eyes from the paper with a look of surprise.

So you know about that? he seems to be thinking.

Sven nods.

‘We know. Where did you get the money from? As I understand it, you gambled away the family fortune, and plenty more besides.’

‘We got some money,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘But it isn’t my place to explain how.’

‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Sven says. ‘And Petersson just laughed at your father. Did you want to show your father how strong you were, Fredrik? Did you just want to put everything right, I can imagine it must be difficult having a father like that, and now you just wanted to put everything right, so you went out there that morning and killed Jerry Petersson. Is that how it was? And you lost control? It will feel better if you. .’