Mons Kallentoft - Autumn Killing

Malin tells Zeke about the conversation, but he just raises his eyebrows.

‘It’s still too vague,’ he says. ‘Could anyone really commit two murders on such flimsy grounds?’

‘People have killed for less. And he might have developed a taste for violence after the first murder. Maybe violence gave him the outlet he needed. And the different methods could be explained by the fact that he felt more confident once he’d got away with the first one?’

‘So you’re seriously suggesting that Anders Dalstrom carried out what looks like a ritual murder of Fredrik Fagelsjo just to save his own skin? And all because he’s discovered some sort of necessary violence inside himself?’

Malin nods.

‘Is that really enough, Malin? The body was lying naked on the family vault. We haven’t seen many cases worse than that.’

‘There’s still a piece of the puzzle missing,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe I’m completely wrong. It’s like I’m having trouble thinking straight. Too much shit floating about.’

‘There’s still a slim chance that it was the Fagelsjos. Fredrik could have murdered Jerry, and Axel and Katarina could have had Fredrik killed. Or Goldman might have sent a hitman. Or it could be something else entirely.’

‘I know,’ Malin says.

‘And Anders Dalstrom has alibis. He’s supposed to have been working on the nights of both murders.’

‘I’ll call and check again,’ Malin says.

‘Let’s go in person,’ Zeke says. ‘Make sure they check properly.’

The staff nurse in Bjorsater old people’s home shows Malin and Zeke into the nurses’ office, tucked away in a corner of a well-lit room with a view of a recently planted forest of fir trees. There’s a colourful embroidery on the wall, presumably made by the residents in occupational therapy.

‘No,’ the nurse says, ‘Anders isn’t working today. He mostly works nights.’

Malin nods.

She paces restlessly up and down the small, windowless room, looking at the bottles of pills lined up behind locked glass doors.

‘I did call and ask before,’ Malin says. ‘But we’d like to ask again: was he working the night between Thursday 23 October and Friday 24? And the night between Thursday and Friday last week?’

The nurse pulls a folder from a low shelf.

Opens it and checks carefully, as if to demonstrate that she is taking Malin’s question seriously.

‘According to the rota, he was working both nights.’

‘According to the rota?’

‘Yes, sometimes they swap without telling me. It’s against regulations, but as long as everything works. .’

‘Could you do me a favour?’ Malin says. ‘Can you check to see if he swapped shifts with anyone on either of those nights?’

The nurse nods.

‘Yes, but I’ll have to call the other night staff. Most of them will be asleep now. Is it urgent?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Zeke says.

Five minutes later the nurse holds out her hands in defeat.

‘No answers from any of them. They’re all asleep. Can I call you back later this afternoon?’

‘Yes, please do,’ Malin says.

‘Do you have any idea where Anders might be?’

‘He wasn’t on duty last night. But he’s probably at home.’

‘I was there an hour or so ago. He wasn’t there.’

‘Have you tried his mobile?’

‘No answer,’ Malin says.

‘No? You could try asking his dad. He lives in sheltered accommodation in the city. His dad’s blind, Anders visits him fairly often.’

‘Which home is he in?’ Zeke asks.

‘Serafen.’

Serafen, Malin thinks.

The same place as the blind Sixten Eriksson whom Axel Fagelsjo beat up. Malin and Zeke exchange glances.

‘Do you know his father’s name?’

‘Sixten,’ the nurse says. ‘Sixten Eriksson.’

Sixten Eriksson is sitting on the sofa in his room at Serafen, staring into his darkness, unable to see the cheap reproductions on the walls. The smell of tobacco is even more pronounced than it was last time.

He doesn’t want to face us, Malin thinks, even though he can’t see anything.

She and Zeke had discussed the possibilities in the car on the way to Anders Dalstrom’s house after their visit to Bjorsater.

‘That definitely gives him another motive,’ Zeke had said.

‘Getting revenge for what happened to his father by murdering the son of the man who committed the offence.’

‘But why now?’ Zeke asked.

‘Maybe he’s got a taste for violence, like I said, if Petersson’s murder was a blackmail attempt that got out of control. If you’ve killed once, you can kill again. You’ve crossed a line. And maybe he thought he could confuse us even more, and that would help him get away with it.’

‘Don’t you just love human beings?’ Zeke said.

‘And no one knows where he is.’

Anders Dalstrom wasn’t home this time either. They’ve already called the station. Sven said they’d put out a call for him to be brought in, seeing as they needed to talk to him even if it didn’t lead to anything.

And now Sixten Eriksson’s darkness. On his own. No sign of Anders Dalstrom here either.

‘I made up the bit about Evaldsson. Sven, too,’ Sixten Eriksson says. ‘Anders took his mother’s name, Dalstrom. I don’t know anything about what he might or might not have done, but I’d never set the police on him no matter what’s happened. Of course I’m protecting him, I’ve always protected him.’

‘Do you think your son could have murdered Fredrik Fagelsjo in revenge for what happened to you?’

Malin tries to make her voice sound curious, gentle.

But Sixten Eriksson doesn’t answer.

‘Could he have murdered Jerry Petersson? What do you think?’

Zeke aggressive, pushy.

‘Pain needs a way out somehow,’ Sixten Eriksson says.

‘Has he said anything?’ Malin asks.

‘No, he hasn’t said anything.’

‘Do you know where he might be?’

Sixten Eriksson laughs at Zeke’s question. ‘If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t tell you. Why should I? But he comes here fairly often. Aren’t children funny, no matter what their parents do to them, they still come running back for love and reassurance.’

Malin and Zeke look into the old man’s blind eye and Malin thinks that it can see more than hers right now. His clouded lens seems to possess a certainty about how this autumn’s dark drama will end, that the man in front of them has delved deep into hate and evil through his own suffering.

‘So you used to hit him?’ Malin asks. ‘You used to beat Anders when he was small?’

‘Do you know what it’s like, not having any depth of perception?’ Sixten Eriksson asks. ‘Pain in your nerves that burns right into your brain, the whole time, day and night?’ He goes on: ‘I hope Axel Fagelsjo is suffering all the torments of hell right now, now that his son is dead. He can finally get his share of this life’s pain.’

‘Did you ask your son to kill any of the Fagelsjo family? Fredrik? Axel?’

‘No, but I’ve thought about it. I can’t deny it.’

Searching through the shelves. My hands, Dad used to hit them with a ruler.

Do you see my eye, boy?

What do I need?

Anders Dalstrom is moving through the aisles of the ironmongers’ store in Ekholmen shopping centre. The kebab he’s just eaten is gurgling in his stomach.

Rope.

Masking tape. The other people are looking at me, what do they want? The rifle’s in the car. I’m going to put an end to all this, and it will be a relief, the police will find him and wonder, utterly confused.

I’m going to kill him. After all, it started with him, didn’t it? Maybe Dad will be pleased?

Anders Dalstrom feels that the last of the snakes will soon be leaving him. Everything will be fine again, the way it should have been. Andreas, he thinks, can you see me now?

I’m going to get rid of the root of all this evil.

He pays. Gets in the car, heads off towards Drottninggatan.

Some voices are like the crack of a whip, Malin thinks. They cut right into your most vulnerable areas.

‘Jochen Goldman here,’ the voice says for a second time.

Bastard.

Malin feels the phone against her ear, the rain on her hand as she stands in Djurgardsgatan outside Serafen.

But she also feels a peculiar warmth when she hears his voice. A warmth in completely the wrong parts of her body.

His suntanned face by the edge of the pool. Hardness and softness in men like him and Petersson.

‘What do you want with me?’

With her free hand Malin opens the car door, sinks into the seat, holds the phone tightly against her ear, listening to Jochen Goldman’s breathing.

‘The photographs,’ she goes on. ‘You took those photographs of my parents and sent them to me, didn’t you? You got someone to take them.’

‘What photographs?’

She can see Jochen Goldman’s smile before her. The game it implies, we can have a bit of fun, can’t we, you and me?

‘You know which ones.’

‘I don’t know anything about any photographs. Of your parents? Why would I take pictures of them? I don’t even know where they live.’

‘Are you in Sweden?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you been in Linkoping?’

‘What on earth would I want to go there for?’

‘Did you send Jerry Petersson a blackmail letter? Were you trying to get money out of him?’

‘I’ve got more money than I need. If that’s actually possible.’

The skies have opened again. Hail, little white grains, are drumming rhythmically against the body of the car.

‘Are you listening to negro music?’

‘Hail,’ Malin says.

‘If I wanted anything done in Linkoping, you hardly imagine I’d go myself?’

Inferences, intimations.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’m at the Grand in Stockholm. I’ve got a suite. I thought maybe you’d like to come along. We could have a nice time. Drink some champagne. Maybe take some pictures. Just the two of us. What do you say?’

Malin clicks to end the call.

Shuts her eyes.

She’s not sure that Jochen Goldman really exists. That her parents exist. That there’s ever any explanation whatsoever for anyone’s actions.

They drive past Axel Fagelsjo’s door on Drottninggatan. Neither of them sees the long-haired figure slide through the door like a shadow.

Jochen .

You and your nasty little games. You still got me in the end, didn’t you? You never forgive any transgression. Even though you commit a fair number yourself.

I’m drifting over the plain and the forests now, over the castle and the field where the accident happened, I’m drifting over tenant farmer Lindman’s house, see his Russian wife quickly packing her bags, so quickly, heading for another man in another place, taking half, more than half, of what Lindman has, just as she planned right from the start.

Lindman.

I was the one who fucked his first wife when she was up in Stockholm for a conference. I found her at the bar in Baldakinen, and the way she screamed up in the office on Kungsgatan. . Probably couldn’t bear the smell of manure after that.

I was contacted. Like the blackmail letter promised.

I remember that the phone ringing in advance of the conversation summoning me to the Ikea car park reminded me of those screams. As if the unassuming ringing wanted to burst my eardrums.

Linkoping, September

Jerry is standing beside his Range Rover in one of the central rows of the almost empty car park outside Ikea in Tornby, listening to the rain drumming on the car roof, and the persistent, relentless sound of the drops reminds him of the phone ringing, calling him here. The car park must have space for a thousand cars, but on one of the first properly rainy nights like this it’s almost empty. The retail lots glow in the darkness: Ica Maxi, Siba, Coop Forum.