Autumn Killing dimf-3

by Mons Kallentoft

  Persson nods.

  ‘And there’s something you want to tell us?’ Malin says.

  Persson nods again.

  Then he starts talking.

  ‘Like I said, I helped Jerry when he was buying Skogsa. I met Axel Fagelsjo and his children when I was out inspecting the property, and I have to say that they seemed extremely bitter about the sale. Not that they said anything specific, but the whole time I got the impression that they didn’t want to sell. Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Had you heard anything about financial difficulties?’ Malin asks. ‘Did the Fagelsjos say anything?’

  ‘No, but, like I said, I got the impression they were forced to sell up, and that they didn’t really want to. And that impression was reinforced by what happened last week.’

  Persson, evidently taking great delight in everyday drama, lets what he is about to say hang in the air.

  ‘Well?’ Malin prompts.

  ‘Well, at the beginning of last week Axel Fagelsjo approached me. He wanted to buy back the castle and estate. He was prepared to pay twenty million more than they got for it. He was adamant. I took the offer to Jerry, but he just shook his head, had a good laugh, and told me to turn down the old man’s offer.’

  Lies.

  A family estate that no one wanted to sell. Trying to run from the police. Dealing in stock options. ‘It was time.’ Not a chance. This had nothing to do with a way of life that had become outdated.

  The thoughts are flying through Malin’s head and she thinks about Axel Fagelsjo, his powerful figure and his magnificent apartment.

  Maybe they ought to concentrate more on Axel than Fredrik? Who knows what the old man might be capable of?

  ‘How did Fagelsjo take Petersson’s reply?’

  ‘He was furious on the phone. Utterly furious. I almost thought he was going to have a heart attack. It sounded like he was throwing things.’

  Malin looks at Zeke, who nods back at her.

  ‘Do you know anything else about Jerry Petersson that you think we should know?’

  ‘We didn’t have a great deal of contact,’ Persson says. ‘Not even after he moved back here. Jerry was a lone wolf. He always was, even back in Lund. Quite brilliant, he got away with doing maybe a fifth of the studying the rest of us had to do, but he still finished top. He didn’t need other people the way us mere mortals do. He never seemed to be searching for someone to love, he was looking for people who could be useful to him. People like me.’

  ‘We’ve been having trouble finding friends and acquaintances,’ Malin says.

  ‘You won’t find any,’ Max Persson says. ‘Friendship wasn’t Jerry’s thing.’

  They’re standing in the doorway of the building housing Max Persson’s office. It’s pouring with rain now, the drops drumming the ground like a plague of locusts ready to destroy everything in their path.

  Not a soul in sight.

  The city paralysed by the season.

  ‘So, a frustrated Count Axel Fagelsjo,’ Zeke says.

  ‘Who loves that land,’ Malin says.

  ‘And who wanted it back, but he couldn’t have it.’

  ‘Because Jerry Petersson refused to sell.’

  ‘As if he owned the man’s soul,’ Zeke said.

  ‘And Fredrik Fagelsjo who gambled the castle away,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe he wanted to put everything right? And if Petersson was out of the game, the family could buy back the castle. But where have they suddenly got the money from, the money behind Axel Fagelsjo’s offer for Skogsa? I’ll call Sven, maybe he hasn’t got around to talking to Fredrik Fagelsjo yet.’

  The door to the cell opens.

  Fredrik Fagelsjo is sitting on his bunk with a cup of coffee in his hand, reading a copy of Svenska Dagbladet.

  ‘Can I come in for a few minutes?’ Sven Sjoman asks. He looks at Fredrik, at the way his shoulders seem to be weighed down by an invisible force, and the skin around his eyes seems to have become dried out during his time in the cell. His eyes seem to be pleading for alcohol, the way that Malin’s do sometimes. I’ll let you have what we know in tiny portions, Sven thinks.

  ‘Ehrenstierna isn’t here.’

  ‘I just want to ask a couple of questions,’ Sven says. ‘If that’s OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  Fagelsjo seems tired, as if he’s already given up on something, Sven thinks, or as if he’s in the process of giving up on something.

  He sits down beside him on the bunk’s mattress, detecting the smell of urine from the shiny, stainless-steel toilet.

  ‘A lot of people here at the station have problems with alcohol as well,’ Sven says. ‘There’s no shame in it.’

  ‘I haven’t got a problem,’ Fagelsjo replies.

  ‘No, but no one here would look down on you if that were the case.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  ‘We know about your dealings in stock options,’ Sven goes on.

  Fagelsjo doesn’t reply.

  Sven looks around the cell, at how bare it is.

  ‘You’ve got children, young children. And a wife. Do you miss them?’

  ‘Yes. I do. But you’re not letting me have any visitors.’

  ‘Not us. The prosecutor. Is everything OK with your family?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘That’s good. My wife and I have been married thirty-five years, and we still enjoy each other’s company.’

  ‘I got scared. I panicked,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘I didn’t want to spend time in Skanninge. Missing such a large chunk of the children’s lives. Can you understand that?’

  Sven nods, moves a bit closer to him.

  ‘What about your father? He must have been pretty mad about your financial affairs?’

  ‘He’s always been a bit mad,’ Fagelsjo says with a smile. ‘He was angry.’

  ‘And yet you all told us that it was time to sell?’

  ‘If you come from a family like ours, you do anything you can to protect the family name.’

  ‘Perhaps that was what you were doing?’ Sven says. ‘Going out to Skogsa that morning to get your revenge on Jerry Petersson for taking the castle away from you? I promise you, it will feel better if you tell us.’

  ‘I’m not even going to dignify that with a denial,’ Fagelsjo says. Then he adjusts the newspaper in his lap with an exaggerated gesture. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’

  ‘Then last week you tried to buy back the castle.’

  Fagelsjo raises his eyes from the paper with a look of surprise.

  So you know about that? he seems to be thinking.

  Sven nods.

  ‘We know. Where did you get the money from? As I understand it, you gambled away the family fortune, and plenty more besides.’

  ‘We got some money,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘But it isn’t my place to explain how.’

  ‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Sven says. ‘And Petersson just laughed at your father. Did you want to show your father how strong you were, Fredrik? Did you just want to put everything right, I can imagine it must be difficult having a father like that, and now you just wanted to put everything right, so you went out there that morning and killed Jerry Petersson. Is that how it was? And you lost control? It will feel better if you. .’

  Fagelsjo leaps up from the bunk. Throws the paper at the wall, shouting: ‘I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything!’

  27

  Rented flats.

  The logo of Stanga Council on the noticeboard by the front door.

  Malin didn’t notice the housing association sign the first time they were here, took it for granted that a man like Axel Fagelsjo would own his own apartment.

  What sort of contacts would you need to get a rented flat on Drottninggatan with a view of the Horticultural Society Park? Either way, I live in a rented flat, Axel Fagelsjo lives in a rented flat.

  The building’s lift is broken so Malin and Zeke have to take the stairs up to the apartment on the fourth floor.

  Malin is out
of breath.

  Feeling sick, but if you feel sick as often as I do, she thinks, then feeling sick becomes a natural state. She knows why her body is protesting, alcohol functions just like any other drug, when your body wants more it lets you know, protesting noisily that the pleasure-fuel had stopped flowing. Her body is taking last night’s abstinence as an insult.

  Taking flight in drink.

  Breathing, deep, breathless breaths, and she loses count of the number of steps, and she tries to concentrate on the Fagelsjo family instead.

  They were forced to sell.

  It wasn’t time.

  Maintain the facade.

  And they wanted to buy back the castle.

  But where did the money come from? Sven has just called. Didn’t manage to get it out of Fredrik Fagelsjo, who had lost vast amounts. And Petersson had merely laughed at Axel Fagelsjo’s proposal.

  How to proceed?

  Get your son to kill Petersson so you can buy back the castle and land from the dead man’s estate, at whatever cost? Or kill him yourself in a fit of rage?

  Malin looks at Zeke, can see he’s thoughtful as they pant their way upstairs in their dripping raincoats, knows he’s thinking the same thing as she is, he’s not stupid, and through the windows of the stairwell they can see the rain hammering down, large drops, small drops, all about to be smashed on the tarmac below.

  But are the Fagelsjos, father and son, murderers? Malin feels uncertainty wrench at her stomach, an uncertainty bordering on disbelief.

  They are standing outside Axel Fagelsjo’s apartment.

  Zeke nods to her, says: ‘Let’s see what he’s got to say.’

  Malin rings the bell, and they hear it ring on the other side of the heavy, brown-painted wooden door, then footsteps, and they glimpse an eye peering through the peephole before the footsteps go away again,

  Malin rings again.

  Twice, three times. Five minutes, ten.

  ‘He’s not going to open up,’ Zeke says, and turns away.

  Axel Fagelsjo has sat down in his leather armchair, looking into the fire crackling in the hearth, feeling its heat against his feet.

  They’re here again, the police.

  It was bound to happen.

  Do they know about the financial affairs yet? Fredrik’s mess? Maybe even the attempt to buy back the castle? They must do, Axel Fagelsjo thinks. And they’re stupid enough to put two and two together in the most banal way possible.

  But sometimes the truth is banal, often the most banal thing imaginable.

  Like when Fredrik told him, he was sitting in this very chair, albeit out at the castle, and he had felt like ripping the head off his offspring, saw his son lying on his back whimpering like a worthless cockroach, and he had no choice but to get a grip on things himself.

  Bettina, I did what I had to, what I promised you.

  I stared at myself in the mirror, looked at the portraits on the wall, saw the derision in my forefathers’ eyes, the love in yours. I saved our son. But the feeling in that room, impossible to get around: You’re no son of mine. You can’t be.

  They hadn’t spoken to each other for a month. Then he had phoned Fredrik, summoned him, and his son had wept at his feet again, clinging onto the doorframe like a wretched beast.

  Derision and shame.

  Love can encompass those feelings as well. But if we don’t take care of each other, who else is going to?

  I promised your mother that I would love you, look after you, both of you, on her deathbed. Did you hear? Were you eavesdropping outside her sickroom that last night? That’s the only thing that has ever made me weak, Bettina, your illness, your blasted suffering, your terrible torment. And I trusted you, Fredrik. Against my better judgement. And now you’ve been so damn stupid, driving your car while you were drunk and trying to escape the police. Drawing everyone’s attention to us when there was no need. You should have stopped the car, taken your stupid punishment. We can deal with things like that. But sit there in your cell and feel the consequences of your actions. Your children, my grandchildren, I don’t recognise myself in them. But perhaps that’s because of their mother? That woman has never liked me, no matter how I’ve tried.

  Fredrik.

  Maybe it would have been better if you were retarded?

  The police, that strong, intelligent, worn-out woman, and him, that obviously tough man, I didn’t let them in. If I’m going to tell them anything else, they’ll have to force me with all the means at their disposal.

  Fredrik and Katarina.

  You do whatever you like now, don’t you? Don’t they, Bettina?

  Well, let’s see what happens. Even if Fredrik tells them everything, what will those police officers do with the information? Even if they both seem to be made of sterner stuff than you, beloved, derided son.

  Katarina.

  I don’t need to worry about her. She does as I say. Always has done. She’s the accepting sort.

  Axel Fagelsjo gets up. Goes over to the window overlooking the Horticultural Society Park. Is that someone standing under the bare trees in the rain?

  Is someone standing there looking up at me? Or do my eyes deceive me?

  Fredrik Fagelsjo has asked to see Sven Sjoman.

  Has asked him to sit down on the bunk in his cell again, and says in a voice full of resignation: ‘You don’t have to believe me, but I had nothing to do with the murder of Jerry Petersson. I don’t think anyone in the family did. But this is the story, as I see it.’

  Fredrik takes a deep breath before going on: ‘When Father got depressed after Mother’s death, I was given access to the family fortune, to take care of day-to-day expenses. That made sense, because I work at a bank and know about finances.’

  Fredrik falls silent, as though he is having second thoughts.

  ‘What do you do at the bank?’ Sven asks. ‘You’re a financial advisor, aren’t you?’

  ‘I work with business customers. We’re often involved when small businesses around here change ownership. I work with the financing of that.’

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘Well, it may not be quite what I used to dream about,’ Fredrik says. ‘But it’s a decent bank job, considering that it’s in Linkoping. Anyway. Mum’s death hit Father hard. He gave me power of attorney to look after the finances until he felt better.’

  ‘And you started to get involved in stock options?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fredrik says, leaning back against the wall of the cell, and then he started to explain about the poor condition of the castle, about his father’s relatively poor finances, about his mother’s death, and how he started dabbling in options until everything got out of control once he had access to the family fortune, but he had meant well.

  Fredrik’s voice starts to fade, and Sven wonders whether he’s about to start crying, but he manages to hold back his tears if that was the case.

  ‘So Father was forced to let the right sort of people know that Skogsa was for sale, and that was when Petersson popped up. Him, of all people. It was only thanks to my and Dad’s contacts at the bank that we were able to stave off bankruptcy until the deal was concluded.’

  ‘The bank had no responsibility?’

  ‘No, I conducted all my dealings with the family fortune as a private individual. It was simply hushed up. And Father sold Skogsa to save me from bankruptcy. He promised Mum on her deathbed that he’d look after me and Katarina, no matter what it cost. And that’s what he did.’

  ‘It must have been hard,’ Sven says.

  ‘It was hard for Father,’ Fredrik replies, leaning forward. ‘But for me? I was just worried about Father. That might be hard to understand, but it’s the truth. Father is Skogsa.’

  ‘And after that? More recently? You tried to buy back Skogsa, didn’t you?’ Sven asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How? Where did the money come from?’

  ‘We came into an inheritance. The Danish side of the family. An elderly countess who had
been a successful industrialist left enough of a fortune that even we inherited a very large sum of money.’

  ‘And then you decided you wanted to buy back the castle?’

  ‘Petersson just laughed at Father’s offer.’

  ‘Did you confront Petersson yourself?’ Sven asks, and Fredrik seems to hesitate before replying.

  ‘I’ll be completely honest. I was there the evening before Petersson was found murdered. He let me in, and rejected my offer in no uncertain terms. He asked if I’d like a glass of cognac in the rooms where I’d grown up. His smile was so arrogant that I’d have killed him happily, but I didn’t.’

  Fredrik pauses, folds his hands on his lap.

  ‘Mind you, I should have,’ he says eventually.

  ‘So you think you should have killed him?’ Sven asks.

  ‘Yes,’ Fredrik says. ‘I should have. But how often do we ever do what we ought to?’

  ‘What car were you driving when you went out there?’

  ‘My black Volvo. The one you’ve got impounded.’

  ‘Your wife said you were at home when we spoke to her.’

  ‘She was trying to protect me. That’s natural enough, isn’t it? Trying to protect your nearest and dearest?’

  What we ought to do?

  Hesitation, hesitation. That’s one of the many differences between me and you, Fredrik Fagelsjo. I never hesitated.

  You people are so conceited.

  What do we need people like you for? You try to lay claim to all the traditions of our world and believe that your heritage and wallets can solve all your problems, but you still don’t understand the ultimate power: saying no to money, no matter how large the amount.

  I took great pleasure in laughing at the old man’s offer. In offering you a cognac.

  How did you treat me? How do you treat each other? How do you think it feels to have forty stinging, open wounds in your soul?

  Were you the person who came to me that morning, Fredrik? Scared and weak as you are, you tell your story. Where’s the nobility in that, in your story?

  You were muttering.

  The police officer almost embarrassed, but you didn’t notice that.

  You wanted to prove to your father that you could increase your fortune. That you could, in front of your computer screen, do what your forefathers used to on the battlefields of old.