Souls of Air (Malin Fors 7)

by Mons Kallentoft

  ‘Imagination or not,’ Sven says, ‘I have to admit that I was sceptical at first, but we can’t ignore it as a possibility any more. Waldemar, you, Elin, and Börje can be getting on with that. There’ll be a lot of people to question. But it might throw up something useful.’

  Waldemar groans.

  Malin sees Elin Sand smile, but her expression reveals that she’s not happy. The word ‘imagination’ seems to have made her angry, and she looks a bit like she does in the gym when her competitive spirit has been aroused.

  ‘That presumed suicide I found at one of Merapi’s care homes in Hälsingland, what do we think about that?’ Johan says. ‘I can look into the case in more detail. There could have been something odd about that one as well?’

  ‘Do that,’ Sven says. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Check the staff,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe they move around between different facilities – someone who used to work in Hälsingland could be down here now.’

  ‘What about the night staff at the Cherub? Have we ruled them out?’ Zeke asks. ‘I mean, they were there all night, and Berit Andersson was the last person to see Konrad Karlsson alive.’

  ‘They all seem to have a good idea of what the other two were doing,’ Sven says.

  ‘But how could they?’ Johan wonders. ‘They must spend a lot of time inside the residents’ rooms?’

  ‘Not that much at night,’ Elin says.

  ‘And what motive would the staff have?’ Sven goes on.

  ‘Mercy,’ Börje says.

  ‘I was about to come to that.’

  ‘According to Hilda Jansson, there was no Xanor missing from the Cherub’s medicine store.’

  ‘What about Karin?’ Malin asks. ‘Has she found out anything else?’

  ‘No,’ Sven says. ‘She’s had the analysis of those fingerprints she took. They’re all from people you’d expect to find there. The staff, his own, and his granddaughter’s. Now that Karin has confirmed that he must have taken the drug in something he drank, that suggests he knew and trusted whoever gave him the drink.’

  ‘One of his children?’ Waldemar suggests. ‘Gabriella?’

  ‘Or one of the staff?’ Johan says.

  ‘What had he drunk?’ Elin Sand asks.

  ‘Milk, coffee, and tea. Probably some water as well,’ Sven says. Then he sighs before going on: ‘So as you can see, we’re not really much the wiser. All we’ve got are more questions. We can probably all agree that none of this seems to be particularly logical. It reeks of desperation and fear. But most murderers are desperate and confused at the time of the murder. What seems sensible at that moment can turn out to be very stupid indeed.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Konrad Karlsson have tasted the drug, whatever it was in?’ Zeke asks.

  Malin shakes her head.

  ‘His sense of taste was damaged after his stroke.’

  ‘So he had traces of milk, coffee, and tea in his stomach,’ Sven says. ‘The most common drinks. And apart from the Dime bar and cheese sandwich, the remains of chicken and mashed potato. All of them standard-issue food and drink at the Cherub and other old people’s homes.’

  The meeting room falls silent and Malin notices that the playground outside is deserted now, and she can’t see any children inside the preschool.

  They must be in there, even if she can’t see them through the windows.

  ‘Surveillance cameras,’ she says.

  ‘There are a couple on Djurgårdsgatan and in the Horticultural Society Park,’ Sven says. ‘The recordings are on their way, but it might take a while. And our door-to-door inquiries in the area haven’t given us anything useful.’

  ‘As expected,’ Waldemar coughs.

  ‘Just like our conversations with the Cherub’s residents,’ Elin Sand says.

  ‘Maybe we should try again with the people you talked to?’ Waldemar says.

  Elin Sand snaps.

  ‘For God’s sake, stop having a go at me!’ she says, and looks around the room as if seeking support from the others.

  ‘Give it a rest, Waldemar,’ Sven says, and Waldemar laughs.

  ‘Just having a bit of a joke. She doesn’t seem to have a sense of humour. Rookies usually don’t.’

  Elin Sand sighs.

  ‘The last line of inquiry,’ Sven continues. ‘The idea of a mercy killing. I filed a request with the probation service yesterday to see if anyone interesting has been released from custody recently – we should get the answer today. And as far as the staff at the home are concerned, I’ve requested details of any criminal convictions. Checking with other care homes didn’t come up with anything. No one’s noticed anyone acting suspiciously. And with that I think we can conclude this meeting.’

  ‘Good,’ Malin says, itching to go and put pressure on Yngve and Margaretha Karlsson.

  31

  Is it possible to hide in an open landscape?

  Yngve Karlsson saw the detectives’ car coming again. He’d been expecting them, knew they’d be back when they realised he’d lied to them.

  The Östgöta Plain is wide open here, and he’s lying at the edge of a field of rape, almost embedded in the vegetation, and can smell its buttery scent, hear the midges and flies buzzing through the air.

  He knows every inch of ground here. Every undulation. There’s no way they’re going to find him, and he doesn’t want to talk to them. Doesn’t want to explain anything.

  Wants to be left in peace. Hide. He thanks the Lord for the new, genetically modified rapeseed that produces two crops each year, otherwise this field would be nothing but stubble now. Instead of this protective yellow sea.

  He always has his rifle with him. In case anyone shows up looking for the money he owes.

  Hunting squirrels. Not that there are any here.

  A white car pulls up. He watches the female detective get out first, followed by the man with the shaved head.

  They knock on the door of his little house. He sees them point at his car, then walk around the garden, gaze out across the fields, but they can’t see him. This is his territory, and he takes aim at them now, at the female detective, and holds his finger gently against the trigger.

  Just because he can.

  Malin can feel it. They’re being watched.

  He’s here somewhere, and she sees that Zeke can feel it too.

  Zeke calls out across the field: ‘Yngve! Yngve Karlsson. Are you there?’

  No answer.

  ‘We need to talk to you, Yngve,’ and Malin feels like ducking, fear is radiating through her body and her intuition is telling her to get out of there.

  But she steels herself, gazes out across the swaying fields. The world is yellow and blue here, its colours bright, and the sun is burning her cheeks and bare arms.

  ‘He’s not here,’ Zeke says.

  ‘Yes he is,’ Malin says. ‘Somewhere. He just doesn’t want to talk to us.’

  I could shoot them, Yngve Karlsson thinks.

  Just like I felt like shooting the people who sacked me. I’d been loyal to them for almost twenty-five years.

  But that would put an end to everything. Maybe it’s all going to work itself out now? Soon, anyway? Once the money’s been sorted out. Because the old man can’t have had time to sign those forms authorising the donation?

  Yngve Karlsson follows the female detective through his sights. She gets in the passenger seat and over the wind he hears the doors slam shut. The echo of their cry is still lingering: ‘We need to talk to you.’

  But I don’t need to talk to you.

  Sooner or later it will be unavoidable, but not now.

  Yngve Karlsson lowers the rifle, puts it down on the ground, and all the energy, all the excess of power the weapon gave him, drains away.

  The others are coming.

  He knows they are.

  And he must keep his gun with him, or flee.

  Then he sees a hare dart out from the rape, some thirty metres away, and he reaches for the rifle, thinks about shooting it,
but doesn’t bother.

  Stångebro tennis hall sits next to the old ice hockey stadium. The ventilation is poor, and Elin Sand can smell stale sweat, missed balls, and unfulfilled dreams of a lucrative professional career. The walls are lined with asbestos cement, and poisonous air seems to gather beneath the arched roof.

  ‘He’s at the tennis hall. You’ll find him there.’

  His secretary’s reserved voice when they called half an hour ago.

  The ball goes back and forth over the net. Hans Morelia’s opponent is none other than the county governor, Sune Nordmark, former Social Democrat Minister for Agriculture. Elin can tell how competitive the two men are, straining and swearing and cursing even though the match is clearly pointless.

  Serve.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Back and forth.

  When she and Börje arrived Hans Morelia called out: ‘We’ll just finish this game.’ But they’re now in the middle of the third game since then, and Elin Sand can feel Börje getting irritated.

  The next time the ball comes close to the sideline where they’re standing she makes her move, leaps onto the court and reaches for the ball. She catches it neatly in the palm of her hand.

  She lands on the plastic surface with a thump.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hans Morelia yells, and Börje Svärd replies calmly: ‘We need to talk to you. Now, not later.’

  And he turns to the county governor: ‘You can go. The match is over.’

  It’s hot. Gas oven hot, Börje thinks. The blazing sun has turned the tennis hall into a sauna.

  He gets a text message as he watches Hans Morelia change into a dry shirt over by the umpire’s chair. Waldemar is out at Merapi’s headquarters, and surprisingly enough, their head of PR, Rebecka Koss, has given him a list of the people who are likely to become millionaires.

  Hans Morelia walks over to them, his forehead dripping with sweat. He makes no attempt to wipe it, and holds his hand out to Elin Sand, saying: ‘Good afternoon. What can I do for you? I’ve told Becka to give you anything you need, so I’m not really sure what you might want to talk to me about?’

  ‘A number of things,’ Elin Sand says. She takes a step towards Hans Morelia as if to prove her strength, and emphasise the fact that she’s a head taller than him.

  ‘That was quite a catch,’ he grins. ‘Professional athlete? You’ve got to stay in shape, haven’t you, even if none of us has much free time?’

  ‘We’re not here to talk about my sporting career,’ Elin says, and Börje detects a note of hesitancy and feels like intervening to help his less experienced colleague, but she goes on: ‘I was in the national volleyball team.’

  Morelia looks impressed, and seems to relax and become more focused at the same time.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘As you’ve no doubt heard by now, Konrad Karlsson was murdered,’ Börje says. ‘Is there anything we ought to know about any of your employees, anything that might be relevant to our investigation?’

  Hans Morelia pauses. Seems to be piecing together a train of thought. Then he says: ‘Everyone who stands to make money from the sale of the business is overjoyed, of course. Money has that effect. But I can’t see why anyone would want to murder an old man?’

  ‘To keep him quiet. Put an end to all the talk of scandals,’ Börje says. ‘After all, we all know what was written in the media.’

  Hans Morelia raises his eyebrows in feigned surprise.

  ‘Is that what you’re thinking? But that wouldn’t be a good reason to murder him, would it? That would only attract more attention.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be about the standard of care provided, just the level of security,’ Elin says. ‘And you and I both know that’s of secondary interest in the current situation. Care is the central issue, and the experts are saying that the Americans might pull out of the deal if anything else is uncovered. You can’t pretend they’re really going to be bothered about the murder, seeing as that can hardly be linked to problems in the core business.’

  Hans Morelia looks at Elin, then Börje.

  ‘The old boy was rich. There’s your motive.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Börje asks.

  ‘It went up on the Correspondent’s website as breaking news an hour or so ago. It’s not as if we spy on our patients.’

  ‘How about that case in Hälsingland?’ Elin Sand says. ‘The suicide in one of your homes there? A man who hanged himself.’

  Hans Morelia looks genuinely taken aback.

  ‘So you know about that. That sort of thing happens from time to time. Old folk get tired of life and take matters into their own hands. We can’t tie them down, after all. Suicides happen, both in our facilities and elsewhere. But of course you know that.’

  ‘Are you worried about it getting out?’ Elin Sand asks. ‘Surely patients shouldn’t want to commit suicide in your homes? After all, you’re responsible for their mental well-being.’

  ‘Touché,’ Hans Morelia says with a smile. ‘In which case, why would any of us – or a hit man, if we’re being particularly imaginative – try to make it look like a suicide? If that, as you’re suggesting, would be worse for business? There’s no logic to your argument.’

  Börje Svärd bites his lower lip and makes an effort to appear friendly.

  ‘Have you let many of your employees have shares?’

  Hans Morelia smiles.

  ‘Yes. I’m a generous person. Even if no one wants to believe it.’

  ‘Nice work,’ Börje says, and can see a degree of trust in Hans Morelia’s eyes. Vulnerability, perhaps even fear.

  And he sees Elin Sand focus before she says: ‘Money doesn’t only make people happy. It can make them violent and irrational too. Have you got an alibi for the night of the murder?’

  Hans Morelia laughs.

  ‘I was at home with my family. Ask my wife.’

  He turns and walks away from them under the tennis hall’s harsh strip-lighting.

  Says in a loud voice: ‘In my world you’re finished if you’re as confused as you seem to be. How can you possibly imagine that a deal this big could collapse just because one old man claims to be badly treated and then kills himself?’

  At the exit he stops and looks over his shoulder: ‘I’m happy to talk to you again if need be. Or you can get everything you want from Rebecka Koss.’

  Don’t belittle me, Hans Morelia. Don’t belittle people like me. You’re nothing without us.

  Malin Fors is about to talk to my daughter in her ridiculously expensive villa in Tannerfors.

  Margaretha has cancelled her appointments today. I can see your pain now, your grief at what never was, at the state of our relationship, made all but impossible by my demands and doubts.

  I never managed to give you the tenderness I myself sought as a child. The love I knew you needed. I’d read all about it, but still couldn’t manage to express it, I just felt it, and what good was that when it never showed?

  My beloved Sara. I haven’t managed to find her, and I can’t help wondering why I’m alone here. Why can’t I find your sister, Josefina? I want to put everything right, be gentle and generous, understanding and encouraging.

  I was never like that towards her either. I realise that now, even if I thought I treated her better.

  Gabriella was the only one I ever treated well.

  Why am I alone?

  Because that’s what I deserve.

  Perhaps my punishment is to seek out my dead wife and daughter in this realm?

  I remember Sara lying naked beside me. Thin white curtains billowing in the breeze, shading her body.

  That was before you, Margaretha.

  Before you and your brother and sister, long before her skin turned yellow from the tumour in her liver.

  Long before I was left alone with you, your brother, and sister.

  Let this stop now.

  I’m tired. I want to rest.

  But most of all
I want to find my wife, my daughter.

  Where are you?

  I’m here.

  And down there on Earth people are going about their business.

  32

  I see the girl. She’s walking with some friends down a street in Ramshäll that’s lined with smart villas and lofty trees. They don’t see me in the car.

  I can wait until she’s alone.

  I’m patient.

  I’ve learned to be patient.

  What am I going to do with her?

  She’s no more than nine or ten years old. I can find somewhere to keep her hidden, locked away, for years and years. I could take her and kill her. Leave him with lifelong grief.

  Look at her walking along.

  His daughter.

  As if she owned the whole world.

  I drive slowly behind the girls, carefully, far enough away for them not to notice me.

  She’s saying goodbye to her friends now.

  And now she’s alone on this stuck-up street.

  33

  Johan Jakobsson is wearing headphones to shut out the noise of the office.

  He’s listening to Neil Young. Rust Never Sleeps: It’s better to burn than to fade away, my, my, hey, hey.

  Using music to block other sounds is a fairly recent move for him, and he finds he can concentrate better than he used to.

  He’s looked into Hans Morelia more closely now, so far as he can. There doesn’t seem to be anything particularly noteworthy. No criminal record, nothing on any online discussion forums, apart from one thread on Flashback that claims that he set up his company with the help of a criminal network. But as far as Johan can tell the claim seems to have been made by one of the forum’s many delusional malcontents.

  His company accounts all seem to be in order. His private finances too.

  To put it mildly.

  With that sort of money I could spend more time with the children, before it’s too late.

  The only thing that isn’t clear is how Morelia got the start-up capital for his business, but he could simply have had good contacts at the bank from the outset.