Frozen Moment

by Camilla Ceder

  Karlberg cleared his throat. 'I tried to call you a while ago.'

  Tell nodded, his mouth full. 'I think my mobile needs charging.'

  Or it might have been turned off, he could have added, but he had no wish to damage his reputation any more than he had done already. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

  'I thought maybe my colleagues wouldn't be here so late in the day,' said Tell with forced lightness, 'but obviously I've underestimated your diligence. How about going over where we're up to, since we're all here?'

  He opened the window with the special movement that had been necessary ever since all the windows and doors had been replaced by soundproof ones with a child safety feature. Bärneflod said they weren't just child-proof, they were people-proof.

  'You criticised me earlier today, with good reason, because I didn't share with you my thoughts on our Jeep case. So perhaps I can take the opportunity to do so now. I've done a little more research into the unsolved case I mentioned before, and-'

  'I've just reported back on an interview with Susanne Jensen, Olof Bart's older sister,' Beckman interrupted. 'That's why we were trying to get hold of you, and Gonzales, but he's sitting on the Fredrikshamn ferry, so if he can't persuade the captain to turn around, he probably won't get here.'

  'Fredrikshamn?' exclaimed Bärneflod in mock horror. 'Didn't I say I wanted to know if anyone was planning a booze cruise? I could have placed an order.'

  'There's no point these days,' interjected Karlberg.

  'Enough! Beckman?'

  'OK. Susanne Jensen was sitting in reception earlier today,' Beckman went on. 'I was just about to leave, but she'd asked for me. You remember, I met her at the Klara hostel the other day. At the time she didn't say a word, but today she had evidently decided to talk. She told me that a few years ago she and Olof had got very drunk together, and in the early hours he'd broken down and told her about some incident he'd been involved in where a young girl had been killed at some Hell's Angels hangout. In Borås. It was an accident, he said. Susanne didn't know if it was a rape or a mugging that had gone wrong, because he was fairly incoherent and she didn't like the idea of digging any deeper. I presume that's the unsolved case you were talking about?'

  Tell nodded eagerly. 'Go on.'

  'She didn't say much more. Except that she'd thought about the incident when I asked her if she knew anyone who might have wanted to murder her brother. She felt she wanted to help, and it wouldn't matter now he was dead. Grassing him up.'

  'A junkie with the unusual ability to think clearly,' commented Bärneflod.

  'She didn't remember if he'd said anything about when this crime was supposed to have taken place. She also didn't remember when exactly Olof had told her about it, but they hadn't had any contact for five or six years. She said that since Olof had moved to Kinna, she had only been to see him once, and that was when he had opened up to her.' Beckman pushed her fringe out of her eyes, her expression thoughtful.

  'She says the same as everyone else: that Olof was hard work. Taciturn, a bit sullen. And you could say the same about her. It's obvious she's seen a lot of violence in her life… but I liked her.'

  'But we know that already,' said Bärneflod with a peculiarly broad grin that exposed his fillings. 'We know you like most users and whores and whatever else the cat drags in. I mean, we have to feel sorry for them, don't we?'

  'Shut it.' Tell was leaning over the table, both palms flat on the surface. He couldn't conceal his excitement. 'So the question is-'

  'A, was he alone? No, Bart was not alone,' Beckman interrupted once again. 'Susanne had the impression there were three men involved. B, did he tell his sister the names of the others? And C, does she remember them? The answer is again no, of course. But I think as soon as we're done here I'm going to sit down and go through every single unsolved murder or suspected murder of a young girl in the Borås area between 1990 and 2000.'

  'There's no need.'

  Tell straightened up so quickly that his spine cracked ominously.

  'Check 1995. A bikers' club called the Evil Riders. The girl was Maya Granith. We also have an address.'

  Karlberg, Bärneflod and Beckman stared at Tell.

  'You have an address?' said Beckman eventually.

  'We know where Maya Granith was living in '92. The chance that some relative might still be living there isn't great, but it's possible. Beckman, look for relatives and go through the old investigation. And talk to Björkman, it's his territory after all. The important thing is to see if we can link Edell to this party at the bikers' club, and above all if we can get hold of some kind of membership list to see if we can work out who the third person was. I don't have to tell you he could be in danger too.'

  'But what the hell were they doing in Borås?' wondered Bärneflod with genuine puzzlement.

  Tell realised he was incredibly hot, and shrugged off his coat with some difficulty in the cramped kitchen. He barely registered Karlberg's grunt as his elbow made contact with the man's stomach. 'Beckman, I came across something in your transcript of the interview with the neighbours - was their name Mollberg?'

  'Molin,' said Beckman, siting bolt upright. 'Bloody hell! The son! Edell was his best mate!'

  'Exactly. That's why I thought somebody should check. Actually, just ring Björkman at home. Karlberg, could you take care of that? And look for Molin's son. Call me or Beckman as soon as you get in touch with him.'

  Karlberg was still rubbing his stomach and could only manage a nod in the direction of his boss.

  'Beckman and I will go and see Mummy and Daddy.'

  The last time they visited the Molins' farm, a wine-red somewhat rusty Renault had been parked in front of the outhouse. Now only an enormous branch lay on the gravelled parking area - it must have been blown down by the strong winds during the night. Since the windows were dark rectangles in the dirty grey facade of the house, it would have been easy for Tell and Beckman to assume that nobody was at home, particularly as there was no answer when they repeatedly rang the doorbell.

  Blessed with the scepticism that came with the job, they took a walk around the house. They found the Renault straight away. It had been driven up on to the grass behind an annex, its wheels gouging deep wounds in the lawn which had already filled with water.

  With fresh determination Tell ignored the doorbell and hammered so hard on the flimsy front door that the glass pane rattled. For a moment he thought it was going to give way.

  'Open up. We know you're in there.'

  He was just about to park himself on the porch to wait it out when there were footsteps inside the house accompanied by the muted sound of someone clearing their throat. The key rattled in the lock and the door opened. Bertil Molin was wearing cotton trousers and a blue and white check shirt. There was no mistaking that he wasn't all that pleased to see them. When the throat-clearing - which seemed to stem mainly from a desperate desire to avoid a challenging silence - turned into a coughing fit, Tell thought the man had had sufficient respite.

  'Are you going to let us in?'

  'It depends what you want,' replied Molin sourly, still red in the face from the exertion.

  'Shall we call it reliving old memories?'

  Tell pushed past Molin. He walked through the hallway and into the small kitchen. A table and two chairs were the only furnishings. He sat down heavily on one of the wooden chairs without bothering to take off his coat.

  Beckman followed him in and leaned against the draining board, below the collection of blue and white plates covering most of the wall.

  On top of the wood-burning stove stood a mug made of plainer china. Bertil Molin had been drinking tea when he was disturbed. The aroma of lemon filled the room.

  While they were waiting for Molin to join them, Tell rang Karlberg, who answered straight away.

  'Is he answering his home number?'

  'Sven Molin? No, and he's not answering his mobile.'

  'OK. Keep trying.'

  It was w
orryingly quiet out in the hallway. Tell caught Beckman's eye, and she pulled a face. Has Molin done a runner? However, the next moment Molin and his camouflaged anxiety appeared in the doorway.

  He looked first of all at Tell sitting at the table, then at Beckman, and seemed to find his options limited. He rubbed the palm of his hand frantically against his trouser leg as if he had a particularly troublesome itch.

  'We can go to the dining room. My wife's asleep upstairs. If we go in there she won't-'

  'No need,' Tell broke in. 'In fact, I think if you wake up your wife, we'll find that she can contribute to our discussion. I have a number of questions about your son.'

  Molin twitched involuntarily. Then he seemed to resign himself, placed his palms flat on his thighs and looked down at his hands as if he had never seen them before.

  'I can't see why you would have any reason to speak about Sven,' he said eventually. 'He can't possibly be involved in any of the bad stuff going on here. He hasn't set foot in this place for years.'

  'And what exactly do you mean by "bad stuff"?'

  Bertil Molin raised his eyes slowly, as if trying to assess Tells intentions, then he let his gaze drift past the police officers towards the darkness outside the window.

  'Well… a man was murdered on the other side of the meadow, wasn't he? That's why you're here, unless I'm wrong? I can't see that you would have any reason to come here asking me questions unless it had something to do with the murder. And if you're asking questions about my son Sven, I presume you think he has something to do with it. Which is insane, given that he hasn't exchanged a single word with Lise-Lott in over ten years.'

  Tell and Beckman had to take a moment to recover from Molin's unexpected bout of talkativeness. On the way from the station they had discussed how best to confront the Molins with their hypothesis. The only thing they had to offer so far was the fact that their son, according to hearsay, used to hang out with two men who, also according to hearsay, might possibly have attacked a young woman about twelve years ago. A crime that had never been proved.

  If they had ever doubted whether Molin had any dark secrets, these were now blown away like leaves on an October day. There was definitely a skeleton in the cupboard here.

  'Why are you so worked up?' Beckman looked searchingly at Molin as she dug a nasal spray out of her handbag. She sprayed into each nostril and tipped her head back. A packet of chewing gum fell out of an inside pocket and landed on the floor by her feet. She bent down to pick it up. 'You've moved your car round the back of the house.'

  'So?' said Molin, but couldn't quite manage the insolent expression to match the tone.

  Beckman shrugged. 'I thought it might be the kind of thing a person would do to make it look as if they weren't at home.'

  They heard a thud from upstairs, followed by a faint creaking, as if someone had padded to the top of the stairs in their stocking feet. Perhaps this someone wanted to get an idea of what was going on without joining in.

  'Stay there, Dagny!'

  Tell raised his eyebrows as Molin called out to his wife.

  'Stay where you are.'

  They heard an indistinct mumbling in response.

  'She has to think about her heart,' he explained to Tell and Beckman. His tone was unexpectedly confiding all of a sudden. 'She mustn't get upset.'

  'Which brings us back to my question,' said Beckman. 'What is there to get upset about?'

  Molin sighed heavily and shook his head. He excused himself and went out into the hallway. They heard him take the staircase in a few powerful strides, an achievement for anyone, let alone a pensioner. Then everything went quiet. No muffled whispers penetrated the silence. Nobody seemed to be shinning down the outside of the house with the help of sheets knotted together.

  Tell shushed crossly at the splash of the tap as Beckman took opportunity to get a drink of water.

  'But it's so bloody hot in here,' she hissed, pushing the window open.

  'Are you going to bring them downstairs?' she asked after they had waited a while. 'Or shall we just go straight for Sven Molin?'

  'Hang on. It won't take long. You can see how wound up he is. I just want to make sure it's for the reason we think.'

  A door closed upstairs, and Bertil Molin came down the stairs with heavy footsteps. He made a vague gesture in the direction of Tell and Beckman, slipped on a pair of shabby slippers and went outside ahead of them. At the corner of the house he burrowed deep in his breast pocket for a box of matches and a small pipe held together with an elastic band.

  Bertil Molin seemed to gain strength once the pipe was glowing and he had taken a couple of deep pulls. He turned to Tell; he was of the age when a female police officer could be ignored once things got serious. Beckman knew the type. Early on in her career, when she had also been discounted because of her age, it used to drive her mad. These days she was happy to leave the interviews with the whingeing old sods to her male colleagues, since she was perfectly confident in her own abilities and didn't need their approval.

  'Let's have it - what is it you think you know?' Bertil said.

  Tell nodded, happy to cooperate.

  'We think your son Sven was involved in an attack on a girl at a bikers' club just outside Borås twelve years ago. We think the two other lads who were there and who knocked the girl down were Olof Pilgren and Thomas Edell.'

  Bertil Molin opened his mouth. The frustration on his face was transformed into exhaustion and he gave a quivering sigh. Tell took a step towards Molin, and noticed the yellowing line around his shirt collar.

  'Listen to me. We don't actually need anything from you. While we're standing here our colleague back at the station is checking up on your son, everything from where he went to nursery to how many unpaid parking fines he has piled up at home.'

  He dug out his mobile and held it out to Molin.

  'As soon as I hit speed dial I'll find out if that nineteen-year-old girl died as a result of injuries sustained that night. If she was raped. If there were any suspects.'

  Molin stubbornly refused to look Tell in the eye. Instead his gaze was fixed on the attic window just below the roof, the moss-covered slates and the collection of clouds above it.

  'The only reason my colleague and I are standing here,' Tell went on, 'is that Sven's life could be in danger, and something tells me you've already worked that out. So, either you help us get in touch with him as quickly as possible, or there's a chance the murderer will get hold of him first. Your choice.'

  Molin started to breathe heavily, wheezing and clutching at his chest.

  'Calm down.'

  Tell took a step back to give the older man some space. Molin cupped his hands over his mouth and his breathing soon eased.

  'Do you know of any hiding places Sven might have had?' Tell persisted. 'And what about Sven's involvement back in 1995?'

  'He was beside himself.'

  The voice came from behind them. Tell turned and met Dagny Molin's tear-filled eyes. She was dressed in a faded ankle-length skirt and had thrown a flowery dressing gown over her shoulders. She was trembling and had to lean against the wall of the house to remain upright.

  'Dagny…' Bertil Molin warned, but his wife shook her head.

  'No. Let me tell them.'

  She pulled the dressing gown more tightly around her shoulders and clasped her hands against her chest to stop them shaking.

  'He was beside himself when he got home that night. I didn't usually wait up for him -1 mean he'd been an adult for a long time; he had a flat of his own down in the basement - but that night he went into the living room. I was having a sleepless night and was sitting in the. kitchen, and when I went to see how he was, he'd thrown up on the floor.'

  She wiped the tears from beneath her eyes with her thumb.

  'When he saw me he ran towards the basement steps, but he slipped on the mat in the hallway and fell. Then he just started crying, there on the floor, and the noise woke Bertil and he came downstairs…'
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  Her voice was shaking and she had to catch her breath before she could go on.

  'Sven was all muddy and wet and he might have had blood on his clothes as well, or perhaps that's just the way I'm remembering it… I tried to get him to talk to us, but he just kept crying. Eventually he fell asleep on the sofa.'

  'And the next morning?'

  'He closed up like a clam. He refused to talk about what had happened. But it was a long time before he was himself again. I would almost say that in a way he was never himself again. It was like a yoke that weighed him down, stopped him laughing.'

  'But you must have wondered,' said Beckman.

  Dagny Molin nodded sadly.

  'Even if I convinced myself that it was down to the drink - he stank of alcohol when he got home that night - I didn't really succeed in calming my fears, because… well, it was just so… primitive.'

  'It?'

  'Yes, the fear. The grief. He was screaming like a child.'

  Beckman found a packet of tissues in her bag, which Dagny Molin, with an anxious glance at her husband, gratefully accepted.

  'How did you find out?' said Tell.

  She nodded, after noisily blowing her nose.

  'Somebody got in touch with us, much later. Several years after the event we got a letter. It was addressed to Sven, but I opened it because… well, Sven didn't live here any more. Anyway, the letter said that… Sven, along with Thomas Edell and Olof Pilgren, had…'

  She sniffled into the tissue for a while before continuing.

  'The writing was strange, I remember. Childish, with capital letters and small letters all mixed up, and spelling mistakes. I might not have taken any notice of it, I might have thought it was just a tasteless joke, if I hadn't seen Sven's eyes that night. The fear in them. I realised it was true.'

  'Why do you think someone sent the letter?'

  'To force him to go to the police, I think. That's what it said in the letter, that he ought to take his punishment, otherwise he would have to… pay. Perhaps the person who sent it was after money.'

  'Have you still got the letter?'

  This time it was Bertil Molin who responded, shaking his head.