Mons Kallentoft - Autumn Killing Страница 21

Fagelsjo leaps up from the bunk. Throws the paper at the wall, shouting: ‘I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything!’

27

Rented flats.

The logo of Stanga Council on the noticeboard by the front door.

Malin didn’t notice the housing association sign the first time they were here, took it for granted that a man like Axel Fagelsjo would own his own apartment.

What sort of contacts would you need to get a rented flat on Drottninggatan with a view of the Horticultural Society Park? Either way, I live in a rented flat, Axel Fagelsjo lives in a rented flat.

The building’s lift is broken so Malin and Zeke have to take the stairs up to the apartment on the fourth floor.

Malin is out of breath.

Feeling sick, but if you feel sick as often as I do, she thinks, then feeling sick becomes a natural state. She knows why her body is protesting, alcohol functions just like any other drug, when your body wants more it lets you know, protesting noisily that the pleasure-fuel had stopped flowing. Her body is taking last night’s abstinence as an insult.

Taking flight in drink.

Breathing, deep, breathless breaths, and she loses count of the number of steps, and she tries to concentrate on the Fagelsjo family instead.

They were forced to sell.

It wasn’t time.

Maintain the facade.

And they wanted to buy back the castle.

But where did the money come from? Sven has just called. Didn’t manage to get it out of Fredrik Fagelsjo, who had lost vast amounts. And Petersson had merely laughed at Axel Fagelsjo’s proposal.

How to proceed?

Get your son to kill Petersson so you can buy back the castle and land from the dead man’s estate, at whatever cost? Or kill him yourself in a fit of rage?

Malin looks at Zeke, can see he’s thoughtful as they pant their way upstairs in their dripping raincoats, knows he’s thinking the same thing as she is, he’s not stupid, and through the windows of the stairwell they can see the rain hammering down, large drops, small drops, all about to be smashed on the tarmac below.

But are the Fagelsjos, father and son, murderers? Malin feels uncertainty wrench at her stomach, an uncertainty bordering on disbelief.

They are standing outside Axel Fagelsjo’s apartment.

Zeke nods to her, says: ‘Let’s see what he’s got to say.’

Malin rings the bell, and they hear it ring on the other side of the heavy, brown-painted wooden door, then footsteps, and they glimpse an eye peering through the peephole before the footsteps go away again,

Malin rings again.

Twice, three times. Five minutes, ten.

‘He’s not going to open up,’ Zeke says, and turns away.

Axel Fagelsjo has sat down in his leather armchair, looking into the fire crackling in the hearth, feeling its heat against his feet.

They’re here again, the police.

It was bound to happen.

Do they know about the financial affairs yet? Fredrik’s mess? Maybe even the attempt to buy back the castle? They must do, Axel Fagelsjo thinks. And they’re stupid enough to put two and two together in the most banal way possible.

But sometimes the truth is banal, often the most banal thing imaginable.

Like when Fredrik told him, he was sitting in this very chair, albeit out at the castle, and he had felt like ripping the head off his offspring, saw his son lying on his back whimpering like a worthless cockroach, and he had no choice but to get a grip on things himself.

Bettina, I did what I had to, what I promised you.

I stared at myself in the mirror, looked at the portraits on the wall, saw the derision in my forefathers’ eyes, the love in yours. I saved our son. But the feeling in that room, impossible to get around: You’re no son of mine. You can’t be.

They hadn’t spoken to each other for a month. Then he had phoned Fredrik, summoned him, and his son had wept at his feet again, clinging onto the doorframe like a wretched beast.

Derision and shame.

Love can encompass those feelings as well. But if we don’t take care of each other, who else is going to?

I promised your mother that I would love you, look after you, both of you, on her deathbed. Did you hear? Were you eavesdropping outside her sickroom that last night? That’s the only thing that has ever made me weak, Bettina, your illness, your blasted suffering, your terrible torment. And I trusted you, Fredrik. Against my better judgement. And now you’ve been so damn stupid, driving your car while you were drunk and trying to escape the police. Drawing everyone’s attention to us when there was no need. You should have stopped the car, taken your stupid punishment. We can deal with things like that. But sit there in your cell and feel the consequences of your actions. Your children, my grandchildren, I don’t recognise myself in them. But perhaps that’s because of their mother? That woman has never liked me, no matter how I’ve tried.

Fredrik.

Maybe it would have been better if you were retarded?

The police, that strong, intelligent, worn-out woman, and him, that obviously tough man, I didn’t let them in. If I’m going to tell them anything else, they’ll have to force me with all the means at their disposal.

Fredrik and Katarina.

You do whatever you like now, don’t you? Don’t they, Bettina?

Well, let’s see what happens. Even if Fredrik tells them everything, what will those police officers do with the information? Even if they both seem to be made of sterner stuff than you, beloved, derided son.

Katarina.

I don’t need to worry about her. She does as I say. Always has done. She’s the accepting sort.

Axel Fagelsjo gets up. Goes over to the window overlooking the Horticultural Society Park. Is that someone standing under the bare trees in the rain?

Is someone standing there looking up at me? Or do my eyes deceive me?

Fredrik Fagelsjo has asked to see Sven Sjoman.

Has asked him to sit down on the bunk in his cell again, and says in a voice full of resignation: ‘You don’t have to believe me, but I had nothing to do with the murder of Jerry Petersson. I don’t think anyone in the family did. But this is the story, as I see it.’

Fredrik takes a deep breath before going on: ‘When Father got depressed after Mother’s death, I was given access to the family fortune, to take care of day-to-day expenses. That made sense, because I work at a bank and know about finances.’

Fredrik falls silent, as though he is having second thoughts.

‘What do you do at the bank?’ Sven asks. ‘You’re a financial advisor, aren’t you?’

‘I work with business customers. We’re often involved when small businesses around here change ownership. I work with the financing of that.’

‘Do you enjoy it?’

‘Well, it may not be quite what I used to dream about,’ Fredrik says. ‘But it’s a decent bank job, considering that it’s in Linkoping. Anyway. Mum’s death hit Father hard. He gave me power of attorney to look after the finances until he felt better.’

‘And you started to get involved in stock options?’

‘Yes,’ Fredrik says, leaning back against the wall of the cell, and then he started to explain about the poor condition of the castle, about his father’s relatively poor finances, about his mother’s death, and how he started dabbling in options until everything got out of control once he had access to the family fortune, but he had meant well.

Fredrik’s voice starts to fade, and Sven wonders whether he’s about to start crying, but he manages to hold back his tears if that was the case.

‘So Father was forced to let the right sort of people know that Skogsa was for sale, and that was when Petersson popped up. Him, of all people. It was only thanks to my and Dad’s contacts at the bank that we were able to stave off bankruptcy until the deal was concluded.’

‘The bank had no responsibility?’

‘No, I conducted all my dealings with the family fortune as a private individual. It was simply hushed up. And Father sold Skogsa to save me from bankruptcy. He promised Mum on her deathbed that he’d look after me and Katarina, no matter what it cost. And that’s what he did.’

‘It must have been hard,’ Sven says.

‘It was hard for Father,’ Fredrik replies, leaning forward. ‘But for me? I was just worried about Father. That might be hard to understand, but it’s the truth. Father is Skogsa.’

‘And after that? More recently? You tried to buy back Skogsa, didn’t you?’ Sven asks.

‘Yes.’

‘How? Where did the money come from?’

‘We came into an inheritance. The Danish side of the family. An elderly countess who had been a successful industrialist left enough of a fortune that even we inherited a very large sum of money.’

‘And then you decided you wanted to buy back the castle?’

‘Petersson just laughed at Father’s offer.’

‘Did you confront Petersson yourself?’ Sven asks, and Fredrik seems to hesitate before replying.

‘I’ll be completely honest. I was there the evening before Petersson was found murdered. He let me in, and rejected my offer in no uncertain terms. He asked if I’d like a glass of cognac in the rooms where I’d grown up. His smile was so arrogant that I’d have killed him happily, but I didn’t.’

Fredrik pauses, folds his hands on his lap.

‘Mind you, I should have,’ he says eventually.

‘So you think you should have killed him?’ Sven asks.

‘Yes,’ Fredrik says. ‘I should have. But how often do we ever do what we ought to?’

‘What car were you driving when you went out there?’

‘My black Volvo. The one you’ve got impounded.’

‘Your wife said you were at home when we spoke to her.’

‘She was trying to protect me. That’s natural enough, isn’t it? Trying to protect your nearest and dearest?’

What we ought to do?

Hesitation, hesitation. That’s one of the many differences between me and you, Fredrik Fagelsjo. I never hesitated.

You people are so conceited.

What do we need people like you for? You try to lay claim to all the traditions of our world and believe that your heritage and wallets can solve all your problems, but you still don’t understand the ultimate power: saying no to money, no matter how large the amount.

I took great pleasure in laughing at the old man’s offer. In offering you a cognac.

How did you treat me? How do you treat each other? How do you think it feels to have forty stinging, open wounds in your soul?

Were you the person who came to me that morning, Fredrik? Scared and weak as you are, you tell your story. Where’s the nobility in that, in your story?

You were muttering.

The police officer almost embarrassed, but you didn’t notice that.

You wanted to prove to your father that you could increase your fortune. That you could, in front of your computer screen, do what your forefathers used to on the battlefields of old.

And you, Malin, what is it that you ought to do?

28

Ought to call Tove.

I’m her mum, Malin thinks.

Maybe she can come this evening.

It’s already long past lunch by the time Zeke and Malin go through the swing doors into the police station.

The open-plan office is Sunday empty, the rain like a never-ending wall outside the windows.

Ought to, ought to, ought to call Tove, but I’ve had my mobile switched off for hours now. I’m longing to get down to the gym.

How can I bear to let you out of my sight now, Tove? It was impossible for the first ten months after the catastrophe in Finspang. I was like a leech, at least that’s how it must have felt for you. To protect you, or to calm my own fears? My sense of guilt?

Malin sits down at her desk and switches on her computer, and Zeke does the same. It isn’t long before Sven Sjoman comes over to their desks. He tells them what Fredrik Fagelsjo has just said.

‘Could he have done it?’ Malin asks.

‘Who knows? Maybe they had a fight? And he killed Petersson by mistake?’

Malin looks at Sven, at the doubt that has started to take shape in his eyes. Maybe Fredrik Fagelsjo isn’t their man? She knows Sven must have considered this. But she also knows that he will carry on regarding Fagelsjo as their prime suspect until there’s any evidence to the contrary.

‘If Fredrik Fagelsjo murdered Petersson when he was there on Thursday evening, the timings don’t fit,’ Malin says. ‘According to Karin, the body had only been in the water for a couple of hours, four at the most. And he had been dead for a maximum of five hours, so after approximately four o’clock that morning. And Forensics haven’t found any traces of blood in Fagelsjo’s car, which they certainly ought to have done, because the perpetrator must have been covered in blood. The fact that the gravel in the tyres matches the gravel out at Skogsa is explained by the fact that he admits to having been there the previous evening, but it doesn’t tie him to the murder. Unless he’s lying about the times, of course.’

‘Do you think he could have gone back the following morning?’ Zeke asks.

‘I don’t know, but his wife has given him an alibi and we can’t force her to testify against her husband. She might just be trying to protect her family.’

‘I got the impression that he’s telling the truth,’ Sven says. ‘But you never know. He could have gone back. The dark car that old Mrs Sjostedt saw could have been his, even if she wasn’t quite with it.’

‘Who knows what he might have done,’ Zeke says.

‘Yes, to appease his father,’ Sven says. ‘He seems to be a real patriarch. Fredrik seems almost to forget that he has a family of his own when you talk to him about his father.’

‘A search warrant?’ Zeke asks. ‘To help us get a bit more clarity?’

Sven shakes his head.

‘We simply can’t get a search warrant for Fredrik’s home in connection with the murder at the moment. He’s in custody for other reasons, and Ehrenstierna would put a stop to that at once. If we did search his house in connection with those other offences, we wouldn’t be able to use anything we found in any eventual murder prosecution.’

‘What about Katarina Fagelsjo?’ Zeke says.

‘We can interview her again,’ Malin says. ‘That feels like a natural next step.’

She hears herself say the words, even though all she wants is to get down into the gym and beat the shit out of the punchbag.

‘Have we got her address?’

‘Yes,’ Sven says, ‘we’ve got it.’

Malin switches on her mobile.

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