Some hours later, when they stopped in front of the company shack that would be their shared home, Agnes at first refused to get out of the cab. She sat there unable to move, paralyzed by the filth surrounding her and the noise from the dirty, snot-nosed kids who swarmed around the cab. This couldn’t possibly be her new life! For a moment she was tempted to ask the cab driver to turn round and drive her back to the train station, but she realized how futile that would be. Where would she go? Her father had made it clear that he didn’t want anything more to do with her. Taking some sort of domestic situation was something she would never have considered, even if she hadn’t had the child in her belly. All paths were now closed to her, except the one leading to this filthy, wretched hovel.
Eventually she decided at last to get out of the cab. She grimaced when her foot sank into the mud. Even worse, she was wearing her lovely red shoes with the open toes, and now she felt the damp soak into her stockings and between her toes. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed curtains drawing back and the curious eyes behind them. She tossed her head. The neighbors could stare until their eyes popped out of their heads. What did she care what they thought? Simple servants is what they were. They had probably never seen a real lady before. Well, this was only going to be a brief sojourn. She would soon get out of here; she had never been in a position that she couldn’t either lie or charm her way out of, and this would be no different.
Decisively she picked up her bag and walked off toward the shack.
At the morning coffee break, Patrik and Gösta explained to Martin and Annika what had happened the day before. Ernst seldom showed up before nine, and Mellberg thought it would undermine his role as chief to have coffee with the staff, so he stayed in his office.
‘Doesn’t she understand that she’s only hurting herself?’ said Annika. ‘She ought to want you to focus on searching for the killer instead of wasting time on such rubbish.’ It was an echo of what Patrik and Gösta had already said to each other.
Patrik merely shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know whether she can’t think farther than the end of her nose, or whether she’s simply crazy. But I think we should put this behind us now. Hopefully we managed to scare her a bit yesterday and she won’t do it again. Do we have any other leads?’
No one said a word. There was an alarming lack of evidence and no leads to work with.
‘When did you say we’d be getting the results from SCL?’ Annika asked, breaking the tense silence.
‘Monday,’ said Patrik.
‘Have the family been ruled out as suspects?’ said Gösta, peering at everybody over his coffee cup.
Patrik was reminded at once of Erica’s comment last evening, when he brought up the family’s alibis. There was something nagging at him too; now all he had to do was work out what it was. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Family members are always suspects, but there’s nothing concrete to point in that direction.’
‘What about their alibis?’ said Annika. She often felt left out during the investigations, so she welcomed these opportunities to hear more about what was going on.
‘Credible but not confirmed, I would say,’ said Patrik. He got up to refill his coffee cup, then remained standing, leaning against the counter. ‘Charlotte was sleeping in the downstairs flat because of a migraine. Stig stated that he was also asleep. He’d taken a sleeping pill and had no idea what was going on. Lilian was at home looking after Albin when Sara left the house, and Niclas was at work.’
‘So none of them has an alibi that could be considered airtight,’ Annika said dryly.
‘She’s right,’ said Gösta. ‘We’ve probably been a little too cautious, not daring to press them harder. Their statements can definitely be called into question. Except for Niclas, none of their stories can be confirmed.’
There, that was it! Patrik realized what had been nagging at his subconscious. He began pacing across the small room. ‘Niclas couldn’t have been at work. Don’t you remember?’ he said, turning toward Martin. ‘We couldn’t reach Niclas that morning. It was almost two hours before he came home. Do we know where he was? And why did he lie and say that he was at the clinic?’
Martin shook his head mutely. How could they have missed that?
‘Shouldn’t we question Morgan as well, the son of the family next door? True or not, reports were filed charging that he had sneaked about peeping in windows, ostensibly to see Lilian undressing. Though I can’t imagine why in God’s name anyone would want to see that,’ said Gösta, taking another sip of coffee as he looked at the others.
‘Those reports are pretty old. And as you say, there isn’t much evidence that they’re true, especially considering what happened yesterday.’ Patrik could hear that he sounded impatient, but he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to waste time on investigating any more of Lilian’s lies, old or new.
‘On the other hand, we’ve already confirmed that we don’t have very much to go on, so …’ Gösta threw out his hands, and three pairs of eyes now regarded him with surprise. It wasn’t like him to show any initiative in an investigation. But precisely because it was such a rare event, they thought they ought to pay attention. To bolster what he was saying, Gösta added, ‘Besides, unless I’m mistaken, you can see the Florins’ house from his cabin, so he actually might have noticed something that morning.’
‘You’re right,’ said Patrik, once again feeling a bit stupid. He should have considered Morgan as a potential witness, at least. ‘Okay, here’s what we’ll do: You and Martin go talk to Morgan Wiberg, and …’ he sighed quietly at the name, ‘Ernst and I will take a closer look at Sara’s father. We’ll meet again this afternoon.’
‘What about me? Is there anything I can do?’ said Annika.
‘Stay close to the phone. The case has been getting a good deal of attention in the press by now, so if we’re lucky we might get something useful from the public.’
Annika nodded and got up to put her coffee cup in the dishwasher. The others did the same, and Patrik went to his office to wait for Ernst to arrive. First things first. They had to have a talk about the importance of getting to work on time during an ongoing homicide investigation.
Mellberg could feel fate approaching by leaps and bounds. Only one day left. The letter was still in his top drawer. He hadn’t dared look at it again. But he already knew the contents by heart. It amazed him that such contrasting emotions could be at war inside him. His first reactions had been disbelief and rage, suspicion and anger. But ever so slowly, a feeling of hope had also emerged. It was this hope that had utterly surprised him. He had always considered his life to be nearly perfect, at least until he’d been transferred to this dump of a town. After that, yes, things had taken a slight downturn. Yet other than the still elusive promotion he was waiting for, he wasn’t lacking for anything. It was true that for a while during the embarrassing little misadventure with Irina he had believed there was more he wanted from life, but he had quickly put that episode behind him.
He had always set great store by not needing anyone. The only person he’d ever been close to, or even wanted to be close to, was his dear mother, but she had died a few years ago, rest her soul. The letter, however, implied that all this might change.
His breathing felt heavy and labored. His dread mixed with curiosity. Part of him wanted the day to go faster, so that tomorrow would arrive and he’d know for sure. But simultaneously he hoped for time to just stand still.
For a while he’d considered just saying the hell with everything, tossing the letter in his wastebasket, and hoping that the problem would disappear on its own. But he knew that would never work.
He sighed, put his feet up on the desk, and closed his eyes. He might as well wait patiently for what tomorrow would bring.
Gösta and Martin slipped discreetly past the big house, hoping that they wouldn’t be noticed on their way to Morgan’s little cabin instead. Neither of them was in the mood for a confrontation with Kaj. They wanted a chance to
speak with Morgan in peace, without his parents getting involved. Besides, Morgan was an adult, so there was no reason for a parent to be present.
It took a long time before the door opened, so long that they wondered if anyone was at home. But finally a pale, blond man in his thirties stood before them.
‘Who are you?’ His voice was a monotone, and his eyes showed no interest in their response.
‘We’re with the police,’ said Gösta, introducing both of them. ‘We’re going around the neighborhood interviewing everyone about the little girl’s death.’
‘I see,’ said Morgan, still expressionless. He made no move to step aside.
‘Could we come in and talk with you a bit?’ said Martin. This strange young man was making him uncomfortable.
‘I’d rather not. It’s ten o’clock, and I work from nine to quarter past eleven. Then I eat lunch between quarter past eleven and twelve, and then I work again from noon to quarter past two. After that I have coffee and rolls at the house with Mamma and Pappa until three o’clock. Then I work again until five, and after that I have dinner. Then the news is on channel 2 at six o’clock, then on channel 4 at six thirty, then on channel 1 at seven thirty, and then it’s on channel 2 again at nine. After that, I go to bed.’
He was still speaking in the same monotone, hardly seeming to take a breath during the whole speech. His voice was surprisingly high and shrill, and Martin exchanged a hasty glance with Gösta.
‘It sounds like you have quite a busy schedule,’ said Gösta, ‘but you see, it’s important for us to talk with you. So we’d really appreciate it if you could give us a few minutes of your time.’
Morgan mulled over this question for a moment, but then decided to acquiesce. He stepped aside and let them in, but he clearly didn’t appreciate this interruption of his routine.
Martin was taken aback when they entered. The cabin consisted of one small room, which seemed to serve as both workroom and bedroom, and there was also a little kitchen nook. The place looked clean and neat, except for the piles of magazines everywhere. Narrow paths had been cleared between the stacks to facilitate movement between the various parts of the room. One path led to the bed, one to the computers, and one over to the kitchen. Otherwise the floor was completely covered. Martin glanced down and saw that the magazines were mostly about computers. Judging by the covers, the collection had been amassed over many years. Some magazines looked new, while others seemed well worn.
‘I see that you’re interested in computers,’ Martin said helpfully.
Morgan merely looked at him without confirming the obvious observation.
‘What sort of work do you do?’ asked Gösta, to fill in the awkward pause.
‘I design computer games. Mostly fantasy,’ replied Morgan. He went over to the computers, as if seeking protection. Martin noticed that he moved clumsily, his lurching gait threatening to knock over the stacks of magazines as he passed. Sitting at his computer, he gave Martin and Gösta a vacant stare as they stood there in the midst of all those magazines. They were wondering how to proceed with this odd person. There was something not quite right about him, but they couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
‘How interesting,’ offered Martin. ‘I’ve always wondered how anyone managed to create all those fantastical worlds. It must take a heck of an imagination.’
‘I don’t create the games. Other people do that, then I code them. I have Asperger’s,’ Morgan added, matter-of-factly. Martin and Gösta exchanged another bewildered glance.
‘Asperger’s,’ said Martin. ‘Unfortunately I don’t know what that is.’
‘No, most people don’t,’ said Morgan. ‘It’s a form of autism, but it’s most often accompanied by normal to high intelligence. I possess high intelligence. Extremely high,’ he added without seeming to attach any emotion to the statement. ‘Those of us with Asperger’s have a hard time understanding things like facial expressions, metaphors, irony, and tone of voice. The result is that we have problems interacting socially.’
It sounded as though he were reading from a book.
‘So I can’t create the computer games myself, because the designers need to imagine other people’s feelings. On the other hand, I’m one of the best programmers in Sweden.’ The words were a simple statement of fact, not colored by either boasting or pride.
Martin couldn’t help being fascinated. He had never heard of Asperger’s before, and hearing Morgan explain it made him genuinely interested. But they were here to do a job, and they had better get on with it.
‘Is there somewhere we could sit down?’ he asked, looking about the room.
‘On the bed,’ replied Morgan, nodding to the narrow bed standing against the far wall. Cautiously Gösta and Martin made their way between the stacks of magazines and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. Gösta spoke first.
‘We assume you know what happened on Monday at the Florins’. Did you see anything peculiar that morning?’
Morgan did not reply, but looked at them blankly. Martin realized that ‘anything peculiar’ might be too abstract, so he tried to reformulate the question in a more concrete way. He couldn’t even imagine how difficult it would be to function in society without being able to interpret all the implied messages in human communication.
‘Did you notice when the girl left the house?’ he said tentatively, hoping that was precise enough for Morgan to answer.
‘Yes, I saw when the girl left the house,’ said Morgan and then fell silent, unsure whether there was anything more to the question.
Martin was starting to get the hang of things and said more precisely, ‘What time did you see her leave?’
‘She went out at ten after nine,’ said Morgan, still in the same high, shrill voice.
‘Did you see anyone else that morning?’ Gösta asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Who did you see that morning, and at what time?’ said Martin in an attempt to anticipate Gösta. He sensed rather than saw that his colleague was starting to get impatient with their odd interviewee.
‘At a quarter to eight I saw Niclas,’ Morgan replied.
Martin was taking notes of everything he said. He didn’t doubt for a second that the times were exact.
‘Did you know Sara?’
‘Yes.’
Gösta now began to squirm, and Martin hurried to place a warning hand on his arm. Something told him that an emotional outburst would not help, if they wanted to get as much information as possible out of Morgan.
‘How did you know her?’
The question elicited nothing but an empty stare from Morgan, and Martin rephrased it. He had never realized before how difficult it was to be precise when speaking, or how much he normally relied on the other person to understand the essence of what he was saying.
‘Did she come here sometimes?’
Morgan nodded. ‘She interrupted my routines. Knocked on the door when I was working and wanted to come in. Touched my things. Once she got angry when I told her to leave, and she knocked over some of my stacks.’
‘You didn’t like her?’ said Martin.
‘She interrupted my routines. And knocked over my stacks,’ said Morgan, and that was about as close as he could come to showing any emotion about the girl.
‘What do you think of her grandmother?’
‘Lilian is a nasty person. That’s what Pappa says.’
‘She says that you sneaked about outside their house and looked in the windows. Did you do that?’
Morgan nodded without hesitation. ‘Yes, I did. Just wanted to have a look. But Mamma got mad when I said that. She told me that I mustn’t do that.’
‘So you stopped doing it?’ said Gösta.
‘Yes.’
‘Because your mamma said that you mustn’t?’ Gösta’s tone was sarcastic, but Morgan didn’t notice.
‘Yes, Mamma always talks about what one should and shouldn’t do. We practice things to say and things to do. She teaches me that
even if somebody says one thing, it can mean something completely different. Otherwise I might say or do the wrong thing.’ Morgan looked at his watch. ‘It’s ten thirty. I should get back to work now.’
‘We won’t bother you any longer,’ said Martin, getting to his feet. ‘Please excuse us for disturbing your routine, but as police officers we can’t always take such things into account.’
Morgan seemed content with that explanation and had already turned round to the computer screen. ‘Pull the door closed behind you,’ he said, ‘or it will blow open.’
‘What an odd duck,’ said Gösta as they slipped through the garden to the car they had parked a block away.
‘I thought it was fascinating, I really did,’ said Martin. ‘I’ve never heard of Asperger’s before, have you?’
Gösta snorted. ‘No, that’s not something we had back in my day. There are so many weird diagnoses nowadays. Personally I think the term “idiot” goes a long way.’
Martin sighed and got into the driver’s seat. Gösta was certainly short on empathy, that’s for sure.
Something was tugging at Martin’s subconscious, making him wonder whether they had asked the right questions. He struggled with his intractable memory but finally had to give up. Maybe he was just imagining things.
The clinic lay shrouded in a gray mist, and there was a single car in the car park. Ernst was still sulking about being admonished by Patrik for arriving late. He climbed out of the car and strode over to the main entrance. In annoyance, Patrik slammed the car door a bit too hard and trotted after him. It was like dealing with a little kid!
They passed the pharmacy counter and turned left into the reception area. There was no one in sight, and their footsteps echoed in the deserted corridor. Finally they located a nurse and asked for Niclas. She informed them that he was with a patient, but he would be free in ten minutes, and she asked them to sit down and wait. Patrik was always fascinated by how similar all clinic waiting rooms seemed. The same dismal wooden furniture with ugly upholstery, the same meaningless art on the walls, and always the same boring magazines. He leafed absentmindedly through something called Care Guide and was surprised at how many ailments he’d never heard of. Ernst had sat down as far away as he could, nervously tapping his foot on the floor. Occasionally Patrik caught him shooting dirty looks his way, but that didn’t bother him. Ernst could think whatever he liked, as long as he did his job.
The Stonecutter: A Novel (Pegasus Crime) Page 16