Souls of Air (Malin Fors 7)

by Mons Kallentoft

  And why not?

  Then she thinks about her mum again, and the number of times she must have sat like this. But I’m not my mum, Tove thinks. I’m my own person.

  I can handle this.

  The whisky appears in front of her.

  What’s Mum doing now?

  What’s going on with her, really?

  Is he going to fire?

  Malin is lying in the ditch, crawling, and he’s aiming at her.

  Tove, forgive me for everything, and inside Malin a thousand images from Tove’s life flit past. The way she used to run through the flat in Traneberg in Stockholm when she was two, her first swimming lesson at the pool in Åkeshov, the way she sits on the sofa in Ågatan and reads and reads and reads.

  It can’t end like this, on this desolate plain, but Yngve Karlsson is pointing the rifle at her and his hand is shaking. Some way off the bells of Klockrike Church start to ring, and who are they tolling for? Malin imagines the biggest bell in the grey tower swinging back and forth, and what can I say to him, should I try to reach my pistol? It’s lying at the edge of the ditch, but I’d never reach it in time. He’d shoot me, is he pulling the trigger now?

  Her heart is racing, beads of sweat are breaking out on her forehead, and her stomach clenches. She screws up her eyes, feels a black cloud rise up from her stomach, up towards her lungs.

  Gasping for breath.

  And she wishes she could find some words, say something that would calm Yngve Karlsson, make him lower his gun and understand that they only want to talk to him.

  Who knows what he might have done?

  Malin can hear waves in the air, Zeke’s voice calling for her, it’s as if his voice is from a different dimension, as if Yngve Karlsson has already shot her, perhaps I’m dead, Malin thinks, dead, with my heart shattered by a bullet. But no, I’m still here, and behind me the rape plants are swaying, and the Östgöta sky is lying like a dark blue lid over on the horizon.

  The bells ring and ring, and then they stop.

  Hurry up, Zeke.

  Hurry up.

  Zeke is pushing his way through the field.

  Where the hell did she go?

  Fuck.

  He’s drawn his pistol. Is holding it out in front of him. The world is yellow and he can hear Malin speak, can hear the fear in her voice: ‘Lower the rifle. We only want to talk to you.’

  And he walks in the direction her voice came from, calls out: ‘Malin?’

  The pistol is cold beneath his fingers and the cold makes him calm, but he knows that calm is the last thing he needs to be.

  He pushes onward.

  And then he hears the shot.

  The rifle falls to the ground, falls from Yngve Karlsson’s hand. He’s just shot into the air, a gesture of desperation. Malin can see the rifle on the ground, her ears are ringing, and Yngve raises his hands above his head, grimaces. Then his face relaxes, as if he’s made a decision he’s been grappling with for a long time, as if nothing matters any more.

  Malin reaches towards the edge of the ditch, towards her pistol, and she hears: ‘Lie down!’

  But Yngve Karlsson remains standing with his arms in the air, fingers outstretched. Malin can see the church tower between his fingers, and hears Zeke emerge from the rape behind her, hears the splat as he jumps across the ditch and lands on the muddy ground above her.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ Zeke says, relief in his voice.

  He goes over to Yngve Karlsson, picks up the rifle and nudges him gently in the back with the butt.

  ‘Now we’re going to the house. Nice and calmly. Keep your hands up in the air.’

  They walk past Malin, and she follows them through the field, wet and filthy, lost in a dying storm of adrenalin. In the sky the high cirrus clouds over on the horizon are getting thicker and thicker, warning of the sort of storm in which unjust death can be born.

  Tove has ordered a third whisky.

  What the hell …

  She thinks about Stefan, and then Konrad again, and others like them.

  The lump in her stomach is almost gone now.

  Replaced by anger. Resolve.

  ‘I’m Morelia’s puppet,’ she mutters. ‘I hate it,’ and she realises that she’s talking to herself, but why not?

  Mum must have done the same thing thousands of times when she was drunk.

  ‘Hope the bastard dies,’ she says quietly. ‘Hope he suffers all the sorrows of this world. Hope one day he gets to feel the same torment as Stefan and Konrad.’

  39

  The dogs are barking in their pen. Howling.

  Börje Svärd can hear them throw their bodies against the mesh, the noise like a mechanical bat beating its way through a steel sky.

  There must be someone in the garden.

  Who?

  When one of the city’s wild rabbits wanders in this direction by mistake the dogs don’t get anywhere near as agitated as this, and Börje gets up from the sofa, switches off the television and goes over to the window.

  No sign of anyone.

  He feels anxiety spread through his body.

  Who would come at this time of day? One of his women?

  No.

  Then he hears the doorbell. The visitor is at the door now, and he leans forward, peers towards the steps, but all he can see is a pair of well-polished shoes and blue trousers.

  He makes his way to the door and opens it, and there on the step stands Hans Morelia, smiling, hesitant, uncertain. Then he seems to focus, and asks: ‘Have you got a few minutes, could I come in?’

  Do I want to let him inside my house? Börje thinks.

  Down in the pen the dogs stop barking.

  The two men look at each other in the still evening. Börje can see Anna’s tormented face before him. He doesn’t want to let this man into his home, into Anna’s home, because what would you have done with someone like her?

  Can a man like you have any redeeming qualities? Is there any sympathy in you at all?

  Börje acknowledges Hans Morelia with a curt nod.

  ‘Whatever it is you want, we can deal with it here.’

  ‘I think it would be best if I came in.’

  ‘No.’

  And the two men stand in silence, each of them thinking of their love for people who aren’t there, a departed and much-missed wife, and a daughter who’s sitting playing a video game in a villa just a few kilometres away.

  ‘OK,’ Hans Morelia says. ‘We’ll do it here. I’ve come because you struck me as a good man when we met at the tennis hall. Trustworthy.’

  Börje smiles.

  Am I being too harsh?

  He had nothing to do with what happened to you, Anna. Unless everything is connected?

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you that I think might be important.’

  ‘What?’

  The dogs start barking again, and Börje can almost smell their cloying breath and the air vibrates with the sound of them throwing themselves at the netting.

  ‘Quiet!’ he shouts. ‘QUIET!’

  The animals fall silent, their din replaced by the sound of a large bumblebee repeatedly hitting a window, as if demanding to be allowed passage to the other side of the transparent surface.

  Hans Morelia clears his throat.

  ‘I wanted to say that I’m feeling threatened.’

  Is that so strange? Börje thinks.

  ‘I received a number of threatening letters, and other things too. But there’s one that’s connected to the Cherub, so I thought it might be important.’

  Why have you come here to tell me this now? Börje wonders. And he realises that he’s dealing with a polished businessman, a man who never does anything without reason, who never gives anything away without expecting something in return.

  How does your head work, if you see a sick or disabled person as a unit to be dealt with according to a logical system?

  ‘And?’

  ‘Berit Andersson, one o
f the employees at the home. She’s got a son in his thirties – a total failure – he’s called me, and sent a few hostile letters.’

  ‘Hostile in what way?’

  ‘He accuses me of being a parasite on society. Of exploiting his mother.’

  Isn’t that exactly what you do? Börje thinks.

  ‘I’ve also received an anonymous parcel containing excrement.’

  The dogs are still quiet. Maybe they can sense that I’m calm, Börje thinks.

  ‘And sometimes I have a feeling that there’s someone watching me,’ Hans Morelia goes on.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling. I think Berit’s son might be the one who sent the excrement, and that he’s been stalking me.’

  ‘What’s the son’s name?’

  Börje tries to sound neutral, not to let on that he thinks Hans Morelia deserves to be stalked, if only a little.

  ‘Ronny. Ronny Andersson. I think he’s unemployed, and he’s got it into his head that I’m letting his mother work herself to death. He writes that I’ve cut the staff, and pay such low wages that his mother is getting more and more ground down. Which is obviously ridiculous. We adhere strictly to the regulations govern—’

  ‘Drop the sales pitch,’ Börje says. ‘Have you seen him following you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how do you think this might be connected to the murder of Konrad Karlsson?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Berit works at the Cherub, and perhaps Ronny wanted to draw attention to whatever he thinks is going wrong there.’

  ‘By murdering an old man? Have you ever met this Ronny, listened to him, explained the way you see his mother’s job?’

  ‘No. I haven’t had time.’

  Bark, dogs. Bark.

  ‘Have you filed a report with the police?’

  ‘We didn’t want to file a report at the moment.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We considered that we have the situation, or at least had it, under control.’

  But now you’ve come to me.

  Because you’re seriously worried? The way anyone would be when a dream is close to coming true? Or because you want to help us solve the murder and think you know something that could be of use? Or to focus our attention in a particular direction? Away from Merapi?

  The man in front of him adjusts his blue suit, strokes his lapels, hoists up his trousers.

  ‘Perhaps he’s just upset about his mother’s situation,’ Börje says. ‘And his own. Why not try to arrange a meeting with him? Let him get it out of his system.’

  ‘He put a parcel containing excrement through my letter box.’

  ‘You don’t know for certain that it was him. There are plenty of people in this city who’ve taken against you. You must be aware of that?’

  ‘Yes. But it could have been him,’ Hans Morelia continues. ‘It was just lucky that I was the one who found the package rather than my daughter.’

  ‘You should have reported it. Have you still got it?’

  ‘What? No. I threw it out.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘A couple of months ago, I’d say.’

  The two men stand silent in the Linköping evening.

  ‘Well,’ Hans Morelia says after a pause.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘You can file a report against this Ronny, and we’ll see what happens, but there’s not a lot of evidence. And we’ll take it into account in our investigation into Konrad’s murder.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Maybe you should get a bodyguard, if you haven’t already got one. Just for the time being.’

  ‘Why would I need to do that? What for?’

  Börje knows the answer to that.

  Your fears are yours alone. No external threat can be real. No one else is properly real to you.

  Breathtaking arrogance.

  He feels like punching the man standing in front of him until his face is streaming with blood, but he says nothing more, merely turns and closes the door behind him.

  A minute or so later he hears the dogs start to bark again.

  Their barking echoes across the city, and he knows who they’re barking at, and hopes they’re never going to stop.

  40

  It’s half past nine by the time Malin and Zeke lead Yngve Karlsson into the interview room in the basement of the police station. The halogen lamps set into the grey, mesh-like internal ceiling lend a soft yet slightly uneasy light to the room. The black walls disappear into themselves, and Malin has a sense of being in an infinite space, like out in the field when she began to wonder if Yngve Karlsson had already fired his rifle.

  Am I dying now?

  Am I dead?

  Do old people ever feel like that, as they lie there for hours waiting for help, for a little empathy?

  They sit down at the table.

  Malin and Zeke on one side, Yngve Karlsson on the other, facing the one-way mirror that gives anyone in the observation room a full view.

  Sven is in there. Karim too. He drove to the station when he heard what had happened, wanted himself and Zeke to conduct the interview seeing as Malin seemed far too upset after what had happened out in Klockrike. But Malin doesn’t feel upset. She told Sven that she and Zeke were going to question Yngve Karlsson: no one else.

  Yngve is leaning forward over the black table, and his face is calm and still, no bitterness.

  Zeke switches on the tape recorder.

  ‘Why did you run?’ Malin asks. ‘With a weapon, and everything? You must see how suspicious that looks. Particularly when you don’t have an alibi for the night of the murder.’

  She really wants to ask about the rifle, and why he aimed it directly at her, but it would be a mistake to start at the wrong end, in case she gets aggressive.

  Yngve Karlsson sucks his lips, doesn’t answer.

  ‘Just tell us,’ Zeke says, ‘Did you kill your father to get hold of his money? It’ll feel better if you confess.’

  Yngve Karlsson leans even further across the table, and Malin can smell his sour breath.

  ‘I didn’t kill my father.’

  Malin sees how exhausted he is, as if he’s finally breathing out, and only sleep can put a stop to it.

  ‘So why did you run?’

  ‘I ran because I thought you were some people to whom I owe an awful lot of money.’

  The exhalation seems to come to an end.

  ‘I gamble a lot. And I’ve borrowed money I can’t pay back. I flipped out. I just wanted to be left in peace, not have to worry any more.’

  ‘And you expect us to believe that?’ Zeke says.

  ‘Yes. I owe Dragan Zyber money, I’m sure you know who he is. I might end up in the lake just for mentioning his name, but what have I got to lose now? Nothing.’

  Dragan Zyber. A nasty piece of work over in Motala.

  I can understand why you’re afraid, and Malin recalls her own fear out in the field. She reaches across the table and taps Yngve Karlsson’s nose.

  ‘Was that why you took aim at me? Because you were frightened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I got confused.’

  Malin is inclined to believe him: mad with fear, he turned his desperation against her, them.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Yngve Karlsson repeats. ‘It’s like someone else took over and was controlling me. I wanted to fire. I wanted to earlier on today, the first time you came. Shoot all my problems away, even though I know that’s impossible.’

  ‘Earlier today?’ Zeke asks

  ‘I was watching from a distance when you arrived.’

  And Yngve Karlsson breathes out with a deep sigh, and before Malin and Zeke can say anything he goes on: ‘Maybe I aimed the rifle at you and threatened you so I could get some sort of punishment. So I could sort everything out. I’ve lost my job as well.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us about your debts?’ Malin asks.

&nb
sp; ‘I didn’t want you to think I needed money.’

  A simple explanation, Malin thinks. A plausible explanation.

  ‘So you wanted to sort everything out by murdering your father? To get your hands on the inheritance?’ Zeke says.

  ‘No, I didn’t murder him. You have to believe me. Anyway, sorting out an estate like that can take years. Dragan would have lost patience by then.’

  ‘Have you got GPS in your car?’ Malin asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we’ll be able to check if you went anywhere that night.’

  ‘Great, go ahead. You’ll see that my car was parked outside the house the whole time.’

  Yngve Karlsson leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes.

  ‘You can think what you like, but I feel much calmer now. I’m glad I didn’t shoot you.’

  ‘I did love my father, in spite of everything,’ Yngve Karlsson says, and the words whirl around inside Malin. She wants to get out of the interview room now, stifled by the stale atmosphere in here.

  Do I love my dad? she wonders. Can I ever love him again, in the straightforward, simple way I did when I was little?

  And she can discern the desire in Yngve Karlsson’s eyes, the hunger, the lure of gambling, and recognises that she shares that look. She feels thirsty, her throat feels dry, her heart muffled, and she longs for someone else’s skin, a heart beating inside someone else’s ribcage.

  I’m alone, Malin thinks.

  I feel your loneliness as my own.

  And she sees the rifle again, its barrel pointing at her, the trembling finger on the trigger, she sees Daniel Högfeldt’s face, Tove’s, unknown men’s faces, and she breathes, breathes deeper than she’s done for a long time.

  A shot was fired.

  But it wasn’t aimed at me.

  ‘I forgive you for what happened out in the field,’ Malin says.

  How can she forgive him? Karim Akbar wonders. I’d have great difficulty forgiving someone who pointed a gun at me. She’s got to take over after Sven. Then I can leave with a clear conscience.