Autumn Killing (21 page)

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&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 Trädgårdstorget.’

‘So he’s there on Sunday morning?’

‘He is.’

‘What about talking to Fredrik Fågelsjö?’

‘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 café 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 Skogså, 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 Linköping, 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 Skogså. I met Axel Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjös 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 Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö, 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 Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö,’ 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 Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö’s offer for Skogså? I’ll call Sven, maybe he hasn’t got around to talking to Fredrik Fågelsjö yet.’

The door to the cell opens.

Fredrik Fågelsjö 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 Sjöman 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.’

Fågelsjö 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,’ Fågelsjö 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.

Fågelsjö 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,’ Fågelsjö says. ‘I didn’t want to spend time in Skänninge. 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,’ Fågelsjö 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 Skogså 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,’ Fågelsjö 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.’

Fågelsjö 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,’ Fågelsjö 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 . . .’

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

Rented flats.

The logo of Stångå 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 Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö family instead.

They were forced to sell.

It wasn’t time.

Maintain the façade.

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 Fågelsjö, who had lost vast amounts. And Petersson had merely laughed at Axel Fågelsjö’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 Fågelsjös, father and son, murderers? Malin feels uncertainty wrench at her stomach, an uncertainty bordering on disbelief.

They are standing outside Axel Fågelsjö’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 Fågelsjö 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 Fågelsjö 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.