2. Chronic understaffing. Residents sometimes don’t get out of bed until the afternoon, if at all. They get pressure sores as a consequence.
Shameful.
I hope I’ve got enough money to pay for my own care when I get old.
Which is another mystery about Konrad Karlsson: he had money, but chose to stay at the Cherub. And challenge Merapi.
3. Dangerous scrimping on resources. One resident’s bladder burst when his catheter bag wasn’t changed. Staff are instructed not to change bags until they are completely full. Small margins mean that an hour’s neglect can be lethal. The resident, a man in his eighties, died as a result of the operation that was required.
That was the case that really had kicked up a fuss, Johan recalls. National interest. And Hans Morelia, under duress, made a public apology and dismissed the senior doctor at the Cherub, a Serbian woman called Blanka Begović. According to Merapi, that had never been official company policy, but a journalist from Expressen managed to get hold of a copy of the medical notes.
4. Residents are left to lie in their own excrement for hours.
Four examples followed.
Johan clicks to close the window. Shakes his head.
Should anyone be allowed to make a profit of sixty-two million at the expense of the suffering of the weak? Is that the kind of society I want my children to live in?
Eat or be eaten.
From the outside Morelia seems to be entirely without blemish. Not even any trouble with the Tax Office.
Deep inside a dark digital room Johan managed to find a post-mortem report, dated six months ago. Another old man hanged himself in one of the company’s homes in Hälsingland. But the report’s conclusion agreed with that of the police in that case: the man had committed suicide. For once, the report included a copy of his suicide note, in which the man had written that life wasn’t worth living when he was regarded as nothing but an expense, a package to be preserved, but entirely without value.
The case never reached the media.
But other stories about Merapi and Morelia had followed Konrad Karlsson’s letters to the paper.
Old people and other residents who had been left outside on balconies in near-freezing conditions. Missed meals. Patients tied to their beds. Wet incontinence pads that weren’t changed because they hadn’t been on for six hours. Old people who hadn’t been out in the sun all summer.
Hans Morelia refused to give any more interviews about the scandals after that first one, refused to answer his critics, merely said – through the company’s PR spokesperson, Rebecka Koss – that the criticisms were basically unfounded and that the matter was under investigation.
He seemed more inclined to give statements to Dagens Industri and Svenska Dagbladet about American venture capitalists’ interest in the business, and about high profit margins and efficiency savings. He dismissed the scandals and claimed that they were merely isolated cases in which inexperienced staff had made unforgiveable mistakes and had been dismissed, to be replaced by ‘the very best available when it comes to working on the shop-floor within the care sector’.
Apologies and promises of improvements.
At the end of the article, Svenska Dagbladet’s reporter offered his own reflections:
‘Hans Morelia can choose to belittle the scandals that have beset the company and its occasional ethical lapses. The question is: can Nexxon afford to do the same? The company’s healthcare portfolio is under pressure in several markets, and they don’t need any further ethical problems.
‘But perhaps Merapi’s figures speak for themselves. The structure of the company is interesting, with a number of brands that could be exploited in the export market, so the deal looks likely to go ahead.’
Johan closes his eyes. Maybe someone at Merapi decided to put a stop to Konrad Karlsson’s criticisms? No matter what it took. Perhaps Hans Morelia did it himself. He seems to be a man who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.
Johan has also looked into Margaretha Karlsson’s dental practice.
She made a loss of four hundred thousand in the last tax year.
High travel costs.
Use of personal capital.
Large loans, far too large for anyone on her and her husband’s income.
She’s clearly in financial difficulties. Three reports of missed payments in the past two months alone.
Johan flexes his arm. Feels his elbow creak. Tiredness and the flickering of the screen are making him see double.
A child could kill his or her father for a bit of money.
If the father had been unkind, harsh.
There’s a boundary, but everyone sets their own limits.
Apparently her brother has gambling debts, but there’s no sign of them online. But what is visible is that he’s been receiving unemployment benefit for the past five months. Didn’t he tell Malin that he worked for Mekaniska, over in Motala? That he was on holiday?
Yes, that’s what he said. A lie, then.
Johan is hungry, and remembers the fifth point:
5. Inedible, centrally prepared and pre-cooked meals.
Tove and Malin have made spaghetti bolognese together and are sitting on the sofa in front of the television.
It’s a proper meat sauce with chicken liver, the sort Tove likes, and she’s trying not to think about Konrad Karlsson. But no matter what she does, she keeps seeing him all the time, both when she’s awake and in her dreams.
Is this what grief feels like?
That someone is present even though he or she is gone for good? That the person is still there, as a black lump in your stomach, as loss, the memory of words, moments?
I barely knew him, Tove thinks. If I’m honest.
Why do I feel like this?
Today I shivered every time I walked past his room, and felt like bursting into tears.
There’s been a very odd atmosphere at work, she thinks. As if they all suspected each other of something, but she doesn’t want to talk to her mum about it.
They’re all doing their job.
As best they can.
Hans Morelia was there again today, once her mum’s colleagues had left after questioning all the staff again, her included.
The bloke called Börje had talked to her very gently, aware of whose daughter she was.
‘No, I didn’t see anything. No, no, no,’ in answer to all his questions.
Mum beside me here on the sofa.
She doesn’t seem tired, doesn’t seem alert either. She hasn’t called the council in Ljusdal to see if Stefan can be found a place in a different home. She’s just sitting there quietly with the remote in her hand. She’s not zapping through the channels, seems content to watch this documentary about an Australian bird of prey that can’t fly, and is almost as big as an ostrich.
The bird has ice-cold, black eyes. It lives in the forest, and is said to have killed children with its long, machete-like beak.
Cassowary.
That’s its name.
Apparently there’s one at Skansen in Stockholm.
Tove gets up.
‘I’m going to bed.’
Her mum looks up at her.
‘Do you want to talk?’ she asks.
‘What about?’ Tove says, and walks out of the room.
Malin leans her head back, tired, tired, tired. She wants to go after Tove. Give her a hug, tell her that Konrad Karlsson is at peace now.
But Tove’s smarter than that. Knows better than to find any solace in platitudes.
Her grief is real. I can see it in her eyes.
Malin feels like shaking herself, wants this case to affect her more deeply, and she takes out her phone and calls the care home in Sjöplogen.
After ten rings a weary male voice answers.
‘This is Malin Fors. Stefan Malmå’s sister,’ she says. ‘I just want to make sure he’s not lying in his own shit.’
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘My brother Stefan, i
s he lying in his own excrement?’
The man as the other end seems to think for a moment, then he says: ‘And what sort of a tone do you call that?’
Malin wants to explode, but knows that her message has got through.
‘I love my brother,’ she says calmly. ‘Even if he doesn’t know who I am. So look after him. Otherwise I …’
Click.
The line goes dead and Malin leans back in the sofa again, switches the television off, and then she hears Tove’s voice from the doorway.
‘That wasn’t very clever.’
‘Oh, it was. It was actually very clever.’
Hans Morelia gets out of his BMW and looks up at the house and the light streaming out of the big windows facing the terrace.
It’s almost midnight, and the sky above him is crowded with stars.
Lova must be asleep by now. He’ll look in on her when he gets inside.
Work.
Hard work, all day. Ordinary people would never be able to understand how much work someone in his position has to put in.
The pressure, the stress, the sacrifices, the way he has to think strategically about everything, no matter how big or small.
But it will soon be over.
Soon he will be able to travel the world with Lova and Madeleine.
Then he hears rustling in the bushes, footsteps on the tarmac. Is that a car spluttering into life?
No, just footsteps.
And a sound, like someone taking the safety catch off a pistol in a thriller on television.
The noises aren’t where they should be, and he turns around quickly, but behind him there’s nothing but darkness and the illuminated city, a glimpse of the neighbours’ neat gardens.
Paranoia, he thinks. That’s all it is.
He goes down to the gate and opens it with the remote. Goes out into the street, looks in both directions, but it’s empty, not a soul in sight. A squirrel runs across the tarmac from some bushes in a neighbouring garden.
Scampering.
And its scampering has a calming effect on Hans Morelia.
Calm, just like Lova must be as she sleeps.
28
Did you see me?
I can see you now. Hugging your daughter behind those big glass windows. Trying to act upset because she’s up so late.
I smiled at her at the swimming pool. Saw her bikini, her neck, and I followed her as she walked home.
Wanted to take her. But I held back.
You’re embracing her. I can see that you love her. That you know how dangerous it is to love anyone as much as you love her. You can go mad with worry, and if anything happened to her, if she died, you’d go mad with grief.
But you dare.
You think you’re invincible.
Have I got the cold pistol in my hand, am I aiming at you, the pair of you?
Or am I lying in my bed now, the pistol safely tucked away in its hiding place, until tomorrow, when I shall pull the trigger, aim at the battered targets on the rifle range, at small animals, anything that has the temerity to get in my way?
I shall explode.
I want to.
But I don’t know how, not yet.
Don’t leave the girl on her own.
29
Friday, 13 August
The sound of an alarm.
A mobile phone ringing?
It must be the phone, Malin thinks, but who the hell would call so early? It can’t be any later than half past five or so, can it?
She grabs her mobile from the bedside table. Glances at the time before she answers.
06.17.
Something must have happened.
She hears a rasping male voice on the other end.
‘Is that Malin Fors?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Johan Strandkvist. Solicitor. I don’t know if you remember me? We met in conjunction with your mother’s passing. I was in charge of the probate of her estate.’
Malin remembers him. He was the person who first told her of Stefan’s existence.
The solicitor.
Alcoholic.
Like me …
But a good solicitor, nonetheless. Didn’t mince his words.
‘How is your brother?’
‘He’s OK,’ Malin says, and the lie makes her start to feel queasy. ‘Why are you calling?’
‘I’m not actually allowed to tell you what I’m about to say,’ Johan Strandkvist says, and Malin can hear him slurring his words. ‘My oath of confidentiality. Do you still want to hear it?’
He sounds desperate, almost frightened.
‘Of course. I want to hear it.’
‘Your pensioner, the one who was murdered at the Cherub, he was my client.’
Malin gets out of bed, realises how tired and giddy she feels, and sits back down. Through the gaps in the venetian blind she can see that it’s going to be another sunny day.
‘Are you there?’
Johan Strandkvist sounds even more scared now.
‘What do you want to tell me?’ Malin asks. ‘And as far as confidentiality goes, you can trust me. I’ll make sure you don’t get into any trouble.’
Then Strandkvist whispers: ‘I was charged with arranging a donation. Konrad Karlsson wanted to give all his money to charity. To various organisations.’
‘All of it?’
‘Yes. That was my understanding.’
‘And who knew about this?’ Malin asks. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed now. ‘His children? His granddaughter, Gabriella?’
‘I don’t think the granddaughter knew anything. But he wanted me to inform Yngve and Margaretha.’
‘And you told them?’
‘Yes. Last week. Here in my office.’
‘Had the donation been completed before Konrad Karlsson was murdered?’
‘No. All the papers were due to be signed on Monday next week.’
‘So the money won’t be going to charity now?’
‘No,’ Johan Strandkvist confirms bluntly. ‘Now we’re just dealing with an ordinary inheritance. No matter what Konrad Karlsson’s wishes may have been.’
PART 2
The heart of final moments
[The wind]
What smells is the wind carrying with it across the city?
The smell of death.
Of fear, despair, hatred.
Who can catch this black wind?
You, Malin Fors.
Avarice smells like a summer meadow whose flowers hide a corpse.
A respectable person. Good for the most part, bad on a few occasions.
A greedy person, but one with the capacity to love.
Old people are dying in the summer heat now.
The cold wind sweeps through sickrooms, care homes, taking groups of old people with it.
They always die three at a time, or so it’s said.
Probably because no one wants to go alone.
God’s waiting room smells of death now.
The generation who built this country is moving on.
What was their toil worth?
Nothing.
Look at the way you treat us.
The shame that should be yours is cloying and sickly sweet. It smells of death among those who think they are alive.
Those who profit from others’ suffering shall be punished.
30
The meeting of the investigating team vibrates with energy this Friday morning. Outside in the preschool garden the children are playing in the sun.
The room smells of coffee and deodorant that will soon succumb to the summer heat. Sven Sjöman has written the various lines of inquiry on the whiteboard.
1. Inheritance, family
2. Merapi, protecting business interests
3. Mercy killing
He pulls his stomach in.
‘As Malin has just said, the family angle has opened up considerably as a result of Strandkvist’s revelation. Konrad Karlsson’s children have lied to us in num
erous ways now, and clearly they both need money. The daughter’s business is going badly, and Börje has managed to find out about the son’s gambling debts. Yngve Karlsson also lied about his work situation.’
Sven gestures towards Börje, who clears his throat before speaking.
‘I tried to call Yngve Karlsson just before this meeting, to ask him to come to the station as soon as possible. He didn’t answer, so I called Mekaniska in Motala, seeing as that’s where he said he worked. They were somewhat taken aback, and confirmed what Johan had already found out. Karlsson was sacked as a result of cutbacks about five months ago.’
That works as a motive, Malin thinks, rubbing one eye.
‘OK, we talk to his children again,’ Sven says. ‘Malin, Zeke, you do that.’
Malin nods.
‘Try to build up a full picture. Go out to see Yngve, then pay Margaretha a visit at the clinic. Put them under pressure.’
‘And the granddaughter?’ Waldemar asks. ‘What do we know about her? Her finances? Anything else?’
Malin thinks about Gabriella. Present yet distant at the same time.
Silence around the table.
‘Johan, can you look into that?’
‘OK.’
After a brief pause Sven goes on: ‘Our second line of inquiry is that Merapi or someone who works there is involved. It’s a fairly vague idea, and we don’t have any specific evidence to work with. But we know that the business is in the process of being sold, and can’t afford any more scandals. We also know that a lot of employees at the parent company will get rich if the sale goes through. So it’s worth looking into more closely. How are we getting on?’
‘I suggest we interview Hans Morelia now. It’s time, we’ve got enough cause to now,’ Elin Sand says. ‘And we can ask him for a list of people who’ll get a share of the profits when the company is sold. Talk to all of them, and ask for alibis.’
‘Isn’t that a bit of a long shot?’ Waldemar asks.
Elin Sand turns her head.
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’
Waldemar is leaning back in his chair and looking at his young colleague with a supercilious expression on his face.
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