As slippery as eels, Malin thinks. An answer for everything. Bad answers, though.
She sips her coffee and ends the call to Hilda Jansson.
She’s already spoken to Sven, who updated her about Hans Morelia’s visit to see Börje, what he said about Berit Andersson’s son, and what Johan has found out about Vincent Edlund. At last, the investigation is starting to move forward, they can see potential ways to proceed now, possibly rather too many.
Konrad Karlsson’s call log and emails haven’t produced anything of interest, nor has the security camera in the Horticultural Society Park. The one outside the park, on Trädgårdsgatan, was evidently broken on the night in question. And there have been no tip-offs from the public. And Yngve Karlsson’s GPS has shown that his car was parked outside his house in Klockrike all night.
Malin realises that she should have asked Hilda about Berit’s son, but perhaps it’s better to wait until they’ve spoken to the son.
If they’re actually going to talk to him.
Why wait, though?
She calls Hilda back.
‘Fors here again. There was one other thing. This time I’m calling as a police officer.’
Malin outlines what Morelia had said about Berit’s son, and concludes by asking how much Hilda knows about the matter.
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ Hilda says. ‘But a lot of people here are having trouble, of course, and the wages are barely enough to live on. And if you’re like Berit, and have got a mortgage on a ramshackle summer house, then I can understand that things must feel very difficult.’
Malin takes another sip of coffee.
‘Her son, Ronny, have you ever met him?’
‘No.’
‘And Berit’s never mentioned these letters he’s supposed to have written?’
‘She talks about him from time to time. But nothing about any letters. So, do you think we can count on Tove being back tomorrow?’
A strikingly green face on the other side of the table.
‘You can count on it,’ Malin says, and hangs up.
Malin’s on the point of being late. Zeke’s picking her up in a few minutes, they’re taking his car today, and she shrugs off the dressing gown and pulls on some briefs and a flowery blue dress.
Colder outside today.
Thick grey clouds have swept in, and the paper is saying that the summer storm that’s on its way across the country from the Baltic is going to collide with another storm from the south.
That there is a possibility of some really bad weather.
Almost a tree-felling storm.
So Malin puts on the jacket Tove gave her, and calls out goodbye from the hall, and Tove replies: ‘Come here, Mum, I want to ask you something.’
Malin hesitates, and at that moment hears a car horn out in the street. Must be Zeke. Not bothered about waking up any of the neighbours.
‘Haven’t got time.’
‘Yes, you have.’
Something in Tove’s voice makes Malin go into the kitchen anyway.
Tove fixes her with a firm stare.
Malin looks at the digital numbers on the clock without actually registering the time.
‘Have you done anything else about Stefan? We really do need to move him from there. You said you were going to check. You’ve got to. You’re got power of attorney.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve got my hands full with a murder investigation.’
‘Sometimes you have to be able to multitask.’
Malin brushes her fringe aside and bites her lip, trying to hold back, but fails.
‘That’s rich, coming from you, pulling a sickie because you got totally hammered. For fuck’s sake, Tove, pull yourself together!’ Malin catches her breath. ‘And what are you going to do in the autumn? Have you got any idea?’ Tove looks away. The flicker of stubbornness she showed just now vanishes and she slumps on the chair, and says: ‘As soon as you get time, OK?’
Stefan.
Alone.
The stench in his room.
Maybe we could try to move him here, to Linköping? Impossible.
‘I promise,’ Malin says. ‘But it’s summer, lots of places are closed, it’s hard to get hold of them on the phone.’
Tove wants to protest, Malin can see that, so tell me, Tove, tell me what you want, what you’re thinking. But Tove slips away again, and the look in her eyes is impossible to read.
The car horn again.
‘Zeke,’ Malin says. ‘I’ve got to run.’
She straps on her holster in the hall.
‘Off you go, then,’ Tove calls from the kitchen. ‘Make sure you catch the bastard who murdered Konrad.’
Zeke is clutching the wheel with both hands. He’s driving too fast, as if he can’t get to the campsite where Vincent Edlund is supposed to keep his campervan quickly enough.
He looks worn out, Malin thinks. Having a four-year-old in the house must take its toll when you’re almost fifty.
‘How’s Tess?’ Malin asks.
‘Fine,’ Zeke says, and she can tell he’s shut off inside himself.
‘She’s a great kid,’ Malin says, thinking about how the investigation into Tess’s adoption, and whether there was anything improper about it, had been abandoned.
Zeke nods.
Then switches the radio on.
The local news, and they’re leading with their murder, although they have nothing about either Vincent Edlund or the drama out on the plain at Klockrike yesterday. Instead the reporter says that the police are floundering, and that Police Chief Karim Akbar, who usually takes a keen interest in the media, is steering clear of journalists and keeping things under wraps.
Then they go on to talk about the storm.
The speed at which the two storms are approaching each other remains uncertain, but it does appear to be a very unusual weather system.
They’re driving up towards Ryd, past the villas of Valla, and on the other side of the forest Malin can make out the orange-panelled buildings of the university. They drive past the blocks of social housing, and between the buildings Malin can see women wearing the niqab, and she wonders what their bodies and faces look like under the black fabric.
Their children playing.
The girls unaware that they may one day be forced to wear the same outfit as their mothers.
They drive past green-painted houses from the sixties and seventies, then turn off towards the swimming pool at Glyttinge, and the small campsite alongside it.
Vincent Edlund.
Are you the man we’re looking for?
Malin can see the caravans in the distance now. The smart mobile caravans belonging to visiting tourists are lined up neatly in front of the pine forest, close to the entrance to the swimming pool. Slightly off to the side, closer to the motorway, there are a few grey, run-down, static mobile homes, lived in full-time by people on the fringes of society.
By their own choice, or not.
The clouds are weighing the day down, the sky. A few people are moving about over by the tourist caravans, but otherwise this is a lonely place.
Caravans are made for freedom, Malin thinks. But here they’re tethered to the ground with heavy, invisible chains.
Is there a murderer here, inside one of these caravans? Malin wonders to herself. She feels her pulse quicken, and her heart seems to demand more space than she’s got in her ribcage.
45
Waldemar Ekenberg is breathing heavily. The shabby stairwell in the block of flats on Ladugatan seems to be squeezing all the air from his lungs.
It’s started to rain outside, a serious downpour, but Waldemar is sceptical about the weather forecast. Are they really likely to get that sort of storm in late summer?
On the other side of the road is a bingo hall. They saw a few teenagers go inside, and Waldemar can’t help wondering if they couldn’t find something more productive to do with their lives.
Börje Svärd is standing b
y his side in front of the door, which bears a sign with the name Andersson. The letter box is crooked, and when Börje rings the bell there’s no sound at all. So Waldemar steps forward and knocks gently on the door, so as not to alarm anyone inside.
They hear footsteps and muttering. The lock clicks, the door opens, and in front of them stands a tall, rangy man dressed in blue tracksuit bottoms and a white T-shirt with the Coca-Cola logo. Waldemar estimates that he’s in his mid-thirties, but he looks older: his face is drawn and his stubble patchy. His hair is long, dark, and greasy, and he looks at them wearily and says: ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
They introduce themselves, and Waldemar says: ‘We’d like a word. Can we come in?’
Ronny Andersson hesitates.
Does he look guilty? Waldemar wonders. Is he capable of harassing anyone?
Suddenly the look in his eyes changes, becomes full of anger, and Waldemar wonders briefly if Ronny Andersson is going to attack them in a moment of madness, like a pistol shot out of nowhere, but then the anger in his eyes vanishes again and he gestures to them.
‘Sure, come in. I should warn you, though, it looks a right tip. Pretend you haven’t noticed.’
‘We’ve seen most things before,’ Börje says, and they follow Ronny Andersson into the flat’s single room, through the tiny kitchen alcove whose sink is overflowing with pizza boxes, dirty plates, and empty beer bottles. The cupboards, in contrast, look clean and tidy, as though they actually housed something valuable.
The room contains a large, unmade bed, the grey textured wallpaper is full of holes where pictures must once have hung, and in front of the single window is a large, flat-screen television. There’s a full ashtray on the floor, empty beer cans, and the room reeks of smoke and sweat, of hopelessness. Ronny Andersson sits down on the bed.
Waldemar and Börje remain standing: there are no chairs in the room. Ronny looks up at them.
‘Hans Morelia sent you, didn’t he? You’re doing his dirty work for him as well, aren’t you?’
‘We’re not doing anyone’s dirty work,’ Waldemar says, feeling his irritation growing. Who the hell does this grubby little semi-alcoholic think he is?
‘You’ve sent him letters, and you’ve been following him,’ Börje says. ‘That’s what he says, anyway.’
‘Does he, now? Sure, I’ve written to him, tried to see him. I’ve called a few times. But following him? No, definitely not.’
‘He also claims that you put a package containing excrement through his letter box.’
‘He’s mad.’
‘As you know, someone was murdered at the care home where your mother works, a home which happens to be owned by Merapi. So we’re wondering what you know about that.’
Good, Waldemar thinks. Give Ronny Andersson free rein to talk, and maybe he’ll say something they can work with.
The look in Ronny Andersson’s eyes changes again, and he says: ‘I don’t know anything about that. Why would I?’
He pauses before going on in a matter-of-fact tone that contrasts sharply with the content of his words.
‘But it’s good that people are focusing on Merapi and Hans Morelia’s methods. They’re all bastards, the lot of them. My mum’s working herself to death on an insane rota of nightshifts that’s exhausting her. And for what? A salary that barely covers her rent and food.’ Waldemar can see the anger in Ronny Andersson’s eyes as he goes on: ‘And Morelia earns billions while people like my mum, good people, honest people, who work without complaining, work themselves to death without ever having enough money to save for a rainy day, or go on holiday, or buy a tiny house for themselves. Christ, it’s got to stop, and if Konrad Karlsson’s death helps bring that about, then so much the better.’
And yet you don’t actually work, Waldemar thinks.
‘I could never work for someone like Morelia,’ Ronny Andersson says, as if he’d read Waldemar’s mind.
Then Ronny Andersson grinds to a halt. He starts drumming his fingers on his knees, evidently waiting for their next question.
‘Did you post excrement through Hans Morelia’s letter box?’ Börje asks, and the question makes Ronny Andersson raise his eyebrows slightly, and he doesn’t answer.
Merely shakes his head.
‘I don’t suppose,’ Waldemar says calmly, ‘that you had anything to do with Konrad Karlsson’s murder? That you staged it specifically to focus attention on the injustices at your mum’s workplace?’
Ronny Andersson shakes his head again.
‘Did you think that was a way of making things better for your mum?’
‘She deserves an easier life,’ Ronny Andersson says. ‘She’s struggled her whole life, always taking care of other people, and what has she got for that? A fucked-up back and the privilege of being shat on by men like Hans Morelia. He ought to be put in the stocks in Stora torget.’
‘What were you doing on the night between Monday and Tuesday?’
Ronny Andersson looks up at them.
Waldemar tucks his fingers in, and the sound of his knuckles cracking echoes around the room.
‘I was drinking beer,’ Ronny Andersson said. ‘As many as I could afford. I drank them here, with Bambam Martinsson.’
‘Can we have this Bambam’s number?’
‘What for?’
Not a bad morning, Waldemar thinks, then goes on to ponder the excrement that was pushed through Hans Morelia’s letter box. He looks at Ronny Andersson, resigned, yet with a glimpse of desperation in his eyes, and wonders: What might you be capable of, if your cosy little world got shaken up?
46
It’s raining now. The sky can no longer keep hold of all that water, and Malin wishes she’d had the foresight to wear her raincoat.
She and Zeke are heading towards the campervan that must belong to Vincent Edlund.
Is he there?
The few people visible in the small campsite soon vanish as the rain gets harder, and Malin and Zeke huddle beneath the little awning above the door to the vehicle.
They knock.
Malin feels her pistol beneath her jacket. Over the years she’s learned to suppress her fears, and the previous day’s events out on the plain are forgotten.
The metal cold and hard against her body.
Daniel yesterday. The feel of his hand against her cheek.
She can still feel it, as a gentle heat.
He said no.
He’s more sensible than me. But I want to, I want to see him. At least I can admit that to myself.
The gun is cold and heavy. The wet docility of this place could soon switch to wild panic, if Vincent is inside his tin-can of a home and has anything to do with their murder.
Then the door opens.
A man in his fifties looks out.
A bushy grey beard covers half his face. A broad nose sticks out like a double-barrelled shotgun between long curtains of hair, and his black eyes are tranquil, as if they’ve seen everything.
‘There’s no need to tell me who you are,’ Vincent Edlund says. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’
‘Can we come in?’ Malin asks. She huddles up, as if to demonstrate how unpleasant the rain is, and a sudden gust of wind tugs her jacket open and reveals her gun.
‘You won’t be needing that here,’ Vincent Edlund says as he lets them in.
The interior of the campervan is meticulously tidy, there’s nothing there that doesn’t seem to have a purpose.
There’s a neat pile of newspapers on one worktop, a few tins of food in a sculptural arrangement designed to occupy as little room as possible; this is a man used to living in a confined space.
Vincent Edlund sits down opposite them on the fixed red bench that surrounds a metre-high plastic table.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he repeats. ‘Since I read about the murder in the old people’s home. It was only a matter of time before you found me.’
Malin feels her heart beat faster.
What’s he saying?
Is he confessing?
She can hear the rain on the roof of the campervan.
Then Vincent Edlund goes on: ‘I had nothing to do with it. Just so you know. You’ve got nothing on me, have you? Apart from what happened twenty years ago.’
I’m not answering that, Malin thinks, and says instead: ‘If you knew we’d be coming, and you’re innocent, why didn’t you get in touch with us?’
‘I’ve paid my debt to society,’ Vincent Edlund says, scratching his beard. ‘Now I just want to be left in peace.’
‘How do you make a living?’ Zeke asks.
‘Early retirement, but you already know that. I’m pretty much regarded as unemployable, and I’ve also got an auto-immune disease.’
Zeke nods.
‘Do you have anything against old people?’
‘When I was younger I couldn’t stand to watch them suffer. So I took things into my own hands. And the old men wanted it, no matter what their relatives say. I didn’t think it was wrong at the time, and I don’t think it’s wrong now. But I realise that society, and people generally, think it’s wrong. And I’ve got no desire to go back to prison. They’ll just have to suffer.’ Vincent Edlund pauses. ‘I don’t want to end up in Karsudden again. This campervan is like a cell, and that feels reassuring, but at least I can open the door whenever I want to.’
What about the relatives? Malin thinks. The fear the people you killed must have felt? Did none of that get through to you? Years of treatment, and nothing got through?
Or did the old people want to die? And asked for your help? But you were still found guilty of murder.
‘It’s a merciful release if people who are suffering are allowed to die,’ Vincent Edlund says. ‘They wanted to die, and I helped them. Shouldn’t we all be allowed to make decisions about our own lives?’
‘Are you talking about Konrad Karlsson now?’ Malin asks, contemplating the peculiar tranquillity inside the campervan, as the increasingly heavy rain on the roof actually has a soothing effect.
Vincent Edlund laughs, his beard shaking with laughter.
Souls of Air (Malin Fors 7) Page 18