Souls of Air (Malin Fors 7)

by Mons Kallentoft

  ‘No, no. I’m talking about Evert Grusom and Albin Ingvarsson, the men I was convicted of murdering.’

  Malin looks at Vincent Edlund.

  His eyes.

  How calm they are.

  Maybe he’s telling the truth?

  ‘There was a suspicious death at a home in Hälsingland six months ago, when you were living in the area. And now there’s a similar case after you’ve shown up in Linköping.’

  Vincent Edlund looks Malin in the eye.

  ‘I’m not a murderer. But I’d be willing to help anyone else who wanted to die.’

  ‘Have you got an apprentice?’

  ‘No,’ Vincent Edlund laughs.

  ‘Do you get a thrill out of killing old people?’ Zeke asks, and Malin can hear the distaste in his voice. ‘A sexual thrill, I mean.’

  ‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. I’ve got an alibi for the night of the murder. I was with my girlfriend, here in the caravan,’ and just as he finishes the sentence the door opens. A young blond woman walks in, probably thirty years younger than Vincent Edlund, not much older than Tove.

  Malin looks at Zeke. The expression on his face is as surprised as her own must be.

  You poor little thing, Malin thinks. How did you end up here?

  The young woman sees the look on their faces and says: ‘Vincent and I were pen pals when he was at Karsudden. We’re soulmates. We think exactly the same things.’

  ‘OK,’ Malin says.

  ‘OK, what?’ the woman retorts, quick as a flash.

  Malin feels her cheeks blush.

  ‘Alexandra, tell them what you and I were doing on the night between Monday and Tuesday. Tell the detectives in detail what we were doing here in the caravan that night. I’m sure they want to hear absolutely everything, down to the last drop of sweat.’

  47

  The warm water of the shower encloses Tove, making the blood in her veins rush to her skin, and her whole body turns red, not lobster red, but a pale, watercolour red, as if she were made of discoloured liquid.

  Drinking.

  It tastes so good, and it’s wonderful to feel the world drift away. Sorrows lift, Konrad’s face vanished yesterday. Even Stefan’s situation didn’t seem too bad.

  It’s wonderful to feel how everything becomes a white cloud slowly spreading across the sky, drifting towards the horizon and dissolving of its own accord.

  Mum must love that feeling.

  And I love it too, Tove thinks, but not as much as Mum. I’m not like her, I’m only nineteen, I’m in control. And Tove turns off the shower, and the shabby bathroom slowly gets cooler as the steam disperses.

  It’s just a temporary thing. While I’m feeling sad.

  She gets out of the shower, grabs the towel from the hook, and dries herself.

  Her body.

  I’m taller than Mum. I’ve got her small, firm breasts, but she’s in much better shape than me.

  The headache pills have worked. She’s managed to keep down coffee, a pasty, and a Coke, and enough time has elapsed now. The alcohol must be out of her system by now.

  She gets dressed, jeans and a T-shirt, drinks some water straight from the tap in the kitchen. Then she pulls on her raincoat and takes her mum’s car keys from the dresser in the hall.

  Just minutes later she’s sitting behind the wheel, steering the car through the rain, out of Linköping, north, putting her foot down and driving towards what has to be the right thing.

  I have to do something, or I’ll go mad, she thinks.

  What can we do? Malin wonders, pushing the weights up away from her.

  Three times twelve, fifty kilos; she can’t manage more than that unless she’s got someone to spot her. She’s on her own in the stinking gym, where the air seems to have stood still for decades. No Elin Sand today.

  Nice.

  I’m being ridiculous, Malin thinks. What does it matter who can bench press more? Her T-shirt is wet with sweat, but good sweat, and she feel like yelling out loud, but what?

  Bloody Tove.

  Bloody drink.

  I just tried calling her, but her mobile was busy and she didn’t pick up at home. Out somewhere. Maybe with some friend, although she doesn’t really see much of her old friends.

  FUCK.

  FUCK FUCK FUCK.

  Malin pushes the bar up for the thirty-sixth time as she yells.

  Clunk.

  And the bar is back in its cradle and she curses her own weakness. Or strength. Same difference, really.

  No matter what happens, it will be fine. Won’t it? And she wants Daniel again. Wants to feel everything that this, the gym, the station, her job, isn’t.

  They had a team meeting a short while ago.

  The suspicions against Yngve and Margaretha Karlsson are considered weak. Nothing new has arisen there, nothing that could tie either of them to their father’s death. The pair of them will inherit his fortune seeing as he never signed the papers donating his money to charity. Gabriella will also inherit some money, but any suspicions against her are similarly weak.

  But Malin isn’t ready to let the brother and sister go altogether, wants to keep all their options open, and Yngve Karlsson is still in custody. Aiming a loaded weapon at a police officer is a serious offence. He’s likely to stand trial for that, or at least for threatening a public official, possibly even attempted murder.

  They also discussed the connection to Dragan Zyber. Elin Sand thought they ought to take a look at him, but the others all thought that was too much of a long shot.

  Waldemar dismissed the idea by saying: ‘Her imagination’s running away with her again.’

  Malin felt like telling him to shut up. Wanted to come to Elin’s defence, but let it go.

  There are some battles you have to fight for yourself, and she could see Elin Sand clench her teeth, a peculiarly resolute look in her eyes.

  Then they talked about Vincent Edlund.

  What a man.

  They considered bringing him in, wanted to bring him in, but on what grounds? There’s nothing concrete to bind him to their murder, or the death of any other elderly person, since he was released from Karsudden. They talked about whether he could have got into the home without being seen, how anyone could have done that, but of course the security procedures were utterly hopeless. With a modicum of luck and skill it would be perfectly possible to get in unseen. Just like Malin herself had done the other night. Although she didn’t mention that.

  Börje described their interview with Ronny Andersson, and how desperate he had seemed.

  With good reason, according to Börje.

  And Malin thinks of all the people who never seem to end up in the right place in their lives, who never manage to sort out their souls, their desires, never reach the place where reality and dreams meet.

  She sees herself in the mirror in the gym, her bulging biceps, and looks away, doesn’t want to look at that red-cheeked woman.

  Elin Sand had talked to the employees at the Cherub once again, both day and night staff, to see if they had anything more to say, anything at all, now that they had a bit of distance from what happened. None of them had seen anything, and there was nothing to suggest that they were involved in the murder. None of them has any sort of criminal record.

  The interviews at Merapi’s head office had also been fruitless.

  And someone called Bambam had confirmed Ronny Andersson’s alibi.

  Yet Malin can’t help feeling that something is on the point of happening in the investigation, and knows that Sven shares her conviction. The voices are audible now, and soon something is going to crack and open up, as long as she keeps her ears and mind open.

  Tove made the calls from the car. Over and over again, trying to reach the Social Services department of Ljusdal Council. She battled her way past receptionists who kept pointing out that it was Saturday, and finally managed to talk to the duty officer for care homes in the district.

  She tried
to sound older than she is. Made her voice deeper, explained why she was calling, that her brother Stefan Malmå wasn’t at all happy at the care home in Sjöplogen, that the standard of care had deteriorated dramatically since Merapi took over and the old staff left, that she was on her way to Sjöplogen for a meeting, and was there any chance she could look at alternative accommodation while she was in the area?

  She said her name was Malin Fors, that she was Malin Fors, Stefan’s half-sister and guardian, and the woman at the other end said: ‘Have I understood correctly? You want to look at other homes today? Without any notice? I’m afraid that can’t be arranged, it’s quite impossible.’

  ‘I have a letter ready to send to the paper,’ Tove said, and outlined the contents of the imaginary text, including how she had found Stefan lying in his own excrement.

  ‘I don’t really want to have to send it to the local paper.’

  And the woman fell silent.

  Considered the threat.

  Tapped at her computer.

  Presumably looking up the name Malin Fors on the Internet and finding articles about Tove’s mother, all of which would suggest that she was a woman who meant what she said.

  ‘I’ll put you through to one of my colleagues,’ she said, and after ten rings another woman’s voice came on the line: ‘There are places in two homes. I’ll call back in ten minutes to confirm that they can see you.’

  And now Tove is walking slowly behind a nurse who is showing her around one of the homes. There’s a tranquillity to the building, a modified villa beside the river in Ljusdal. It doesn’t smell like a hospital, it smells of humanity and warmth, and the light is gentle. Four people in wheelchairs are sitting in a day room with leaded windows looking out on to a lush garden.

  She looks at them from behind as they sit there in silence.

  Calm.

  As if they’re happy here, have found the right place.

  Can deal with a life without words.

  The nurse turns to Tove and says: ‘Do you think your brother would be happy here, Malin?’

  48

  Running along beside the water, feeling the heavens throw cold raindrops in your face, clamouring for attention, running away from yourself, sweating, feeling your heart pound in your chest, running away from all the desires that lurk as a wonderful, terrible danger.

  I want something, Malin thinks. I do, don’t I?

  Am I cured of my bout of not-wanting?

  Vibrations against one thigh, the mobile in the pocket of her raincoat, and Malin knows she has to answer, knows it could be about the case, something could have happened, a breakthrough. She slows down and takes shelter beneath a tree, and presses to take the call without checking to see who it is. With the phone pressed tight to her ear, she says breathlessly: ‘Fors.’

  She’s standing still now, beneath the big oaks by the sluice gates on the edge of Tannerfors, and she catches sight of an almost dry park bench under one particularly leafy oak, but resists the temptation to sit down.

  ‘Mum, it’s me.’

  Tove.

  Malin feels like clicking the call away, ashamed at her disappointed reaction, but asks: ‘Are you feeling better now?’

  ‘Much better.’

  And now she’s jealous of Tove’s youth, remembers how she could shake off terrible hangovers by midday when she herself was young. The last time she fell off the wagon it lingered for several days.

  ‘I felt better by lunchtime.’

  There’s something hesitant about Tove’s voice, and Malin gets suspicious, what’s happened now?

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m with Stefan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m with Stefan.’

  ‘How did you get there?’

  ‘I took your car.’

  ‘Are you mad, Tove? Driving the day after …’

  ‘I felt fine.’

  Fine?

  Nothing’s fine, Malin thinks, and walks over to the bench, sits down, and feels her backside get wet, despite the fact that the bench had looked dry.

  ‘I felt I had to come. And see if everything was the way it should be.’

  Malin fills her lungs with air, and she can’t be angry with Tove for worrying about Stefan. Can’t, won’t.

  ‘And how is it?’

  ‘Nothing disastrous. But it’s not like it used to be. It feels cold here, Mum.’

  Tove pauses, then says: ‘I want him to move.’

  ‘We’ve already talked about that. It would be impossible to find another home at short notice. You know what a shortage of beds there is everywhere.’

  ‘But there isn’t. I’ve sorted it out.’

  Tove.

  How could you have done that?

  ‘I called the council. Said I was you. Threatened to send a letter to the paper describing the state we found Stefan in, and now I’ve been to look at two homes with spare places. He can move if we make our minds up within a week.’

  ‘You pretended to be me?’

  ‘Yes, because you’re his legal guardian.’

  And she wants to shout at Tove, make her realise what she’s done, but at the same time she realises the significance of her daughter’s actions, the depth of love that they demonstrate, and the extent of her own failure to show the same love in a simple, practical way.

  ‘You’re crazy, Tove, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ her daughter replies, and in her mind’s eye Malin can see Tove as prime minister, head of the Red Cross, or something similarly grand.

  ‘The first home was best. It’s in Ljusdal itself, by the river. Only seven residents. Stefan would be number eight.’

  ‘Then that’s where we move him.’

  Tove doesn’t respond, and a middle-aged couple in waterproof jogging outfits run past, and Malin feels the cold against her buttocks.

  ‘I’ll be heading home soon,’ Tove says. ‘I promise to drive safely.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He seems OK. I think he smiled just now. He seems to like me being here.’

  Vincent Edlund.

  Zeke Martinsson is sitting at the kitchen table in the flat he shares with Karin Johannison. He can hear the sound of a DVD from the living room; Tess is watching one of those animated Japanese films that she and Karin are so fond of. He doesn’t mind them himself.

  He’s been thinking about taking up choral singing again.

  He’s had an email from the head of the choir, asking him to come back. And people like Vincent Edlund make him feel like going back to singing, to the simple, honest camaraderie of other people’s company.

  Johan spent the day looking into Edlund’s old murders, and found nothing that could link them to their current case. But it’s still not impossible that the wretched little man they met today had something to do with Konrad Karlsson’s death, that he’s actually rediscovered his former penchant for killing old people. How could we put pressure on him? Zeke wonders, as he listens to a cheerful Japanese song and Tess’s delighted laughter.

  Should I go out to the campervan again?

  Not me.

  Waldemar, perhaps. He wonders what Waldemar is doing now. Then he goes out into the hall, sees Karin lying down in the bedroom reading a book, and he picks up the phone.

  He hesitates for a long time.

  Aware of what he’s about to do.

  Then he calls Waldemar’s number.

  ‘Maybe we should look into Vincent Edlund a bit more closely,’ he says when Waldemar answers.

  ‘You mean I should pay him a visit?’

  ‘I don’t mean anything,’ Zeke says, regretting that he called.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Waldemar says, and hangs up.

  I’ll do this on my own, Waldemar Ekenberg thinks as he walks through his garden in Mjölby. Holding his hands up to shield his face from the rain.

  The storm is approaching now.

  The bushes are bent almost to the ground, and the windscreen wip
ers are going to have to work overtime on the drive to Linköping.

  Vincent Edlund.

  Reading the report into the preliminary investigation left little room for doubt. He was guilty of two brutal murders. Nothing less.

  Waldemar has no problem with what he’s about to do, even if he has recently started to find violence less satisfying.

  He steels himself against the gusts of wind out in the street. Can feel the anticipation in his body as tiny doses of adrenalin make their way into his blood.

  Apply some pressure.

  Show who’s in charge.

  Once a murderer, always a murderer.

  That’s what he’ll teach Vincent Edlund.

  My way, Waldemar thinks. In my very own special way.

  49

  The chorizo sausages from Maxi are sizzling on the grill.

  Johan Jakobsson sees it as an act of defiance to have a barbecue even if the weather has decided to build up to a storm.

  Down in the garden, under an apple tree that’s shaking in the wind, the children are playing a game, but it’s impossible to tell what. Perhaps they’re hunting insects?

  The rain doesn’t bother the children, and their yellow raincoats offer good protection against the weather. He himself is almost completely covered by the roof jutting out over the terrace.

  I’m hopeless at barbecues, Johan thinks as he looks at the burned sausages, and then he feels something warm, moist, on the back of his neck, not rain, but soft lips.

  ‘Are you getting on all right, darling?’ His wife walks around him with a bottle of wine in one hand, an umbrella in the other. ‘I opened this one. The bottle you gave me.’

  ‘Expensive.’

  ‘Bound to be good,’ his wife says, then disappears indoors again.

  Johan looks down towards where the children are playing.

  Thinks: This is a good evening. One of those evenings when nothing bad happens.

  Vincent Edlund hears a car pull up outside the campervan, but can’t be bothered to get up, he’s too engrossed in a completely unrealistic episode of CSI. Probably one of the campsite’s temporary visitors who’s gone the wrong way. Then the car stops, a door opens and closes, and he begins to suspect that someone has come to see him.