Autumn Killing dimf-3

by Mons Kallentoft

  Waldemar leans over him.

  ‘Do you want more? Do you?’

  ‘I. .’

  Another blow whines through the air, hits the back of Jonas Karlsson’s head, throwing him forward into the coffee table.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I wasn’t the one driving,’ Jonas Karlsson yells. ‘It wasn’t me. Jerry, Jerry, Jerry.’

  Malin’s woken up.

  Her brain somehow shut off by the buzz of the plane, the constant rumble of the engines and the noise of the young children two rows in front. She has a retired couple next to her, suntanned, they’ve evidently spent a long time in the sun and could have been her parents. They smiled at her when she woke up, opening her hungover, bloodshot eyes.

  The tin of Heineken in front of her is half empty. It’s calmed her body down, stifled the nausea.

  An excursion to the heat.

  But only physically. I want to get away, she thinks. She sees Jerry Petersson in the moat, his body drifting this way and that from the regular yet uneven movement of the water.

  Looks like you were a bastard, Malin thinks. A real bastard. So why on earth do I care?

  And then she hears a voice in the depths of her throbbing skull.

  What else would you care about instead, Malin? Everything you ought to but can’t quite get to grips with?

  ‘OK, you’re going to tell us what happened.’

  Waldemar Ekenberg’s voice is calm but commanding, and the words conceal the threat of further violence.

  Waldemar has sat down beside Jonas Karlsson on the sofa, handing him a roll of toilet paper he’s just got from the bathroom, and Johan leans forward in his armchair and says: ‘Tell us the truth now. Jerry’s dead. He can’t do anything to you now.’

  And Jonas Karlsson clears his throat, looks up, and starts to talk, with a piece of toilet paper stuck to the cut in his lip.

  ‘Jerry was at the party when I got there. I think he got a lift with someone else. At half past one Jerry wanted to go back into the city and I offered to drive him and the others. We went out to the car park where I’d left the car. Fredrik Fagelsjo had gone up to the castle with the people he wanted to carry on the party with, and we weren’t among them.’

  ‘So you were friends, you and Jerry?’

  ‘I was one of a lot of people in his gang. Friends? He didn’t have any friends. He could make you think you were his friend, sure. And I wanted to be his friend. I admired him, he was the sort of person you wanted to be, the sort you wanted to like you, at any price.’

  ‘So you admired him. Then what?’

  ‘The four of us, me, Jerry, Andreas and Jasmin were going to drive back to the city. When we got to the car Jerry announced that he wanted to drive. He was wound up about something, he’d been in a bad mood all evening. He got really aggressive when I refused at first. Shouting and screaming. So I threw him the keys, said: “You drive then, if it’s so fucking important,” and I got in the passenger seat and put my seat belt on, and Andreas and Jasmin got in the back, but they must have been too drunk to remember their belts.’

  ‘What was Jerry upset about?’

  ‘No idea. He always had loads of secrets.’

  ‘So you set off.’

  Waldemar puts his arm around Jonas Karlsson’s shoulders.

  ‘Jerry really put his foot down.’

  ‘You didn’t get very far.’

  ‘We must have been doing sixty or seventy when we hit the bend. The wheels lost their grip and I remember thinking we were fucked, then the car was rolling over and over into that snow-covered field and it was like being inside a washing machine full of brilliant light, then everything stopped and it all went quiet. After a bit I saw Jerry hanging upside down beside me, he was struggling to get free, and he undid my belt, and if he was drunk before, the adrenalin must have cleared his head completely.’

  Johan can see the scene in front of him.

  The two young men staggering around in the snow, trying to protect themselves from the wind and the driving snow, then seeing the bodies further off in the field.

  ‘We saw them. Andreas and Jasmin. They were lying in the field.’

  ‘Did you go over to them?’

  ‘Yes. Blood was trickling from Jasmin’s ears, but she was still breathing.’

  ‘But you realised Andreas was dead?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What next?’ Waldemar asks.

  ‘Jerry grabbed me by the arms and said: “I’m going to get done for this, I was drunk, but if we say you were driving I might get away with it.” He looked at me with his big blue eyes and I realised I’d never be able to say no to him. And I thought: What’s the point of Jerry’s life being ruined? He said: “If we say you were driving, the police will write it off as just an accident caused by ice, because you’re sober.”’

  ‘So you agreed?’ Johan asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just like that? That sounds too straightforward to me.’

  ‘Jerry could be extremely persuasive. And he promised me all sorts of things before the police and the ambulance arrived. He promised to be my friend, and there was nothing I wanted more, it was like a dream come true. And he promised to give me money if he ever got rich.’

  ‘Did he become your friend?’

  ‘No, he moved to Lund, didn’t he?’

  ‘Did you ever get any money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you ever ask?’

  ‘No. It was so long afterwards when articles about his businesses started to appear in the papers.’

  Waldemar snarls his words: ‘You never tried to blackmail him when things started to go well for him? Or when he moved back here? You never threatened to tell the truth?’

  ‘No. What did I stand to gain from that? If the truth came out then everyone in the city would know I’d lied, and I’d just look pathetic. I could even have been charged.’

  ‘So aren’t you?’ Waldemar says. ‘Pathetic, I mean?’

  Jonas Karlsson laughs nervously.

  ‘That’s exactly what I am,’ he says.

  ‘It never occurred to you that the parents had a right to know what really happened?’

  Jonas Karlsson gestures towards the bottles on the table.

  ‘It occurs to me every day.’

  ‘So you never tried to get any money from Jerry? You didn’t go out to see him that night? And then it all went wrong?’

  ‘That night I was around at a couple of friends’, we were drinking till the early hours. You can call them.’

  ‘You bet we’re going to call them,’ Waldemar says.

  Jonas Karlsson wriggles out of Waldemar’s grasp. Gets up and stands in the middle of the room.

  ‘Jerry Petersson wasn’t like other people. And everything he promised me that night, he didn’t do any of it. But to this day I still think I did the right thing. Andreas was dead. Jasmin handicapped for life. They knew what they were doing when they got in the car, even if they were drunk. They were mature enough to understand the consequences of their actions. No one blamed me, it was written off as an accident, and accidents happen. So why ruin Jerry’s life? In other people’s eyes, you never escape something like that.’

  ‘You mean driving while drunk and causing the deaths of other people?’ Johan asks.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Jonas Karlsson says, pulling the piece of toilet paper from his lip, which starts bleeding again.

  41

  The windscreen wipers are working frantically to keep the rain off, to keep the view clear. The clock on the dashboard says 13.35.

  Through the windscreen Malin can see fields and clumps of woodland, red-painted houses, and the whole world up here seems to be covered with a dull ash.

  Not so much as a single swim on Tenerife. No water for her burning body.

  But she does feel a bit better now. The alcohol has cleared her blood enough for her to be able to drive from Norrkoping to Linkoping. She feels like going straight to t
he Folkunga School and storming into whatever lesson Tove is having and just hugging her. It’s almost a week since she fled the house after hitting Janne while she was drunk. Almost a week since the body was found in the moat.

  The heat of Tenerife. The rain and cold. She’s put on the thick sweater with the Norwegian pattern that she took with her for when she got back.

  But Tove will have to wait.

  She’s spoken to Zeke. Got the latest updates about the case: that Fredrik Fagelsjo has been released, that Jonas Karlsson has admitted Jerry Petersson was driving, but that he had an alibi for the night and morning of the murder.

  Malin has got the address of one of the parents of the boy who died that New Year’s Eve, a woman called Stina Ekstrom living in Linghem.

  ‘I can stop off on my way back,’ she told Zeke.

  ‘We could meet up there.’

  ‘I’ll do it on my own. Don’t worry.’

  ‘How was Tenerife?’

  ‘Hot.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘Let’s talk again once I’ve spoken to Stina Ekstrom, if she’s home.’

  Malin puts the radio on. As she gets closer to Linkoping she manages to find the local station.

  She recognises Helen Aneman’s soft, sensual voice. It’s been years since they last met, even though they live in the same city. They talk on the phone sometimes, agree that they should meet, but nothing ever comes of it.

  Acquaintances rather than friends, Malin thinks as she listens to Helen talking about a dog show taking place in the Cloetta Center at the weekend, then, as Helen’s voice disappears, music spreads through the car and Malin feels her stomach clench. Why this song, why now?

  ‘Soon the angels will land. . Dare I say that we have each other. .?’

  Ulf Lundell’s voice.

  Janne’s body close to hers. Ridiculously romantic, the way they used to dance to this song in the living room of the house after sharing a bottle of wine, with Tove sleeping on the sofa, untroubled by the music.

  Linghem.

  The sign scarcely visible through the rain-sodden air.

  Of all human nightmares, losing a child is the worst.

  I was allowed to keep you, Tove, Malin thinks.

  A car rolling into a deserted, frozen winter field.

  The knock on the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you. .’

  Malin turns off towards Linghem, driving past a football pitch and a church. A solitary man in a hooded jacket is standing beside a headstone in the small, walled churchyard with a bunch of flowers in his hand, it looks as if he’s talking to himself.

  The small terraced house furnished with pine furniture.

  Crocheted cloths on polished wooden surfaces, and on the cloths Swarovski crystal figurines, an impressive collection, Malin thinks, as Andreas Ekstrom’s mother puts a pot of fresh coffee on the living-room table.

  There are seven framed photographs on a bureau.

  A toddler grinning from under his fringe in a nursery-school picture. A picture taken on a football pitch. End of school. A well-built teenager on a beach somewhere. Short hair ruffled by the wind, and a metre or so out in the water stands a man who could be Andreas Ekstrom’s dad.

  ‘Now you know what he looked like,’ Stina Ekstrom says, sitting down opposite Malin on a matching wine-red velvet-clad armchair.

  Similar pictures of Tove at home on the chest of drawers in the bedroom.

  ‘He looks like a real charmer,’ Malin says.

  Stina Ekstrom smiles in agreement.

  How old are you? Malin thinks.

  Sixty?

  The woman in front of her has short fair hair, grey at the temples, and the wrinkles around her thin lips reveal years of smoking. There’s a smell of smoke, but Malin can’t see any ashtrays or cigarettes. Maybe Stina Ekstrom has succeeded in giving up? Somehow managing to hold the cravings at bay?

  Black jeans.

  A grey knitted sweater.

  Eyes that have got used to days coming and going, that there really aren’t any surprises. It’s not tiredness I can see in her eyes, Malin thinks, it’s something else, a sort of calm? No bitterness. A sense of being at peace, can that be it?

  Stina Ekstrom pours the coffee with her left hand, then gestures towards the plate of homemade buns.

  ‘Now, what on earth can the police want with me?’

  ‘Jerry Petersson.’

  ‘I thought as much. Well, of course I read the papers.’

  ‘He was there when your son died.’

  The look in Stina Ekstrom’s eyes doesn’t change. Is this what grief looks like when you’ve come to terms with it?

  ‘He was in the passenger seat. He was wearing a seat belt and got out OK.’

  Malin nods.

  ‘Do you think about the accident much?’

  ‘Not about the accident. About Andreas. Every day.’

  Malin takes a sip of coffee, hears the rain pattering on the window a few metres to her left.

  ‘Did you live here then?’

  ‘Yes, we moved here when Andreas was twelve. Before that we lived over in Vreta Kloster.’

  Malin waits for Stina Ekstrom to go on.

  ‘I was angry at first,’ Stina Ekstrom says. ‘But then, as the years passed? It was as if all the anger and grief finally gave way, that nineteen years with Andreas was still a wonderful gift, and I think it’s pointless grieving for things that never happened.’

  Malin can feel her heart contract, as though squeezed by a huge fist, and how her eyes start to tear up against her will.

  Stina Ekstrom looks at her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Malin coughs, says: ‘I think it must be an allergic reaction.’

  ‘I’ve got two other children,’ Stina Ekstrom says, and Malin smiles as she wipes the tears from her eyes.

  ‘Did you feel any hatred towards the lad who was driving?’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  Malin sits in silence for a few moments, then leans forward.

  ‘We’ve received information that suggests that Jerry Petersson was behind the wheel that night, and that he was drunk.’

  Stina Ekstrom says nothing, nor does the look in her eyes change.

  ‘He’s supposed to have persuaded Jonas Karlsson to say. .’

  ‘I understand,’ Stina Ekstrom says. ‘I’m not stupid. And now you’re wondering if I knew, or found out about it, and decided to go and murder. .’

  ‘We don’t think anything of the sort.’

  ‘But you’re here.’

  Malin looks into Stina Ekstrom’s eyes.

  ‘I lost a lot that night. My husband and I got divorced a few years later. We couldn’t talk about Andreas, and in the end it was like there was nothing left except silence. But regardless of who was driving, there’s no anger left, no hatred. The grief is still here, but it’s just one of the many background notes that make up a life.’

  ‘Was there anyone else who was particularly upset?’

  ‘Everyone was upset. But it’s a long time ago now.’

  ‘Andreas’s dad?’

  ‘He can answer that himself.’

  Zeke is with him now, out in Malmslatt.

  ‘What about the Fagelsjo family? Did they pass on their sympathies?’

  ‘No. I got the impression they were trying to pretend it never happened. Not on their land, and not after a party organised by their son.’

  Malin closes her eyes. Feels bloated and nauseous.

  ‘Can I ask what you do for a living?’ she goes on. ‘Or are you retired?’

  ‘Not for another four years. I work part-time at a day centre for people with learning difficulties. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason, really,’ Malin says, getting up and holding out her hand over the table. ‘Thanks for seeing me. And for the coffee.’

  ‘Take a bun with you.’

  Malin reaches for the plate, takes a bun and soon the soft dough is filling her mouth.
>
  Cinnamon. Cardamom.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask what I was doing on the night between Thursday and Friday last week?’

  Malin swallows and smiles.

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I was here at home. I spent half the night chatting on the Internet. You can check my log if you need to.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Malin says.

  Stina Ekstrom gets up and leaves the room. She comes back with a pack of chewing-gum.

  ‘Take a couple,’ she says amiably. ‘Before you meet your colleagues.’

  Malin parks the car outside Folkunga School.

  She switches off the engine, hears the rain almost trying to force its way through the bodywork, puts her hands on the wheel and breathes in and out, in and out, pretending that Tove is sitting next to her, that she can throw her arms around her and hug her hard, so hard.

  Malin stares at the entrance, the broad steps leading up to the castle-like building with doors that are three times the height of the pupils themselves. The mature oak trees around the school are trying desperately to cling onto the last of their sunset-coloured leaves, and seem to think that the world will end if their leaves go.

  You’re in there somewhere, Tove. Malin doesn’t know her timetable. What lesson would she have now? Swedish, maths? All she has to do is go in and ask at reception, then find the classroom and take Tove out for coffee and a hug. But I reek of drink, don’t I? Unless the chewing-gum has helped?

  I hope Tove comes out during her break. Then I can see her, run up to her, maybe say sorry, or just look at her from here in the car. Maybe she’ll come over if I manage to see her. But she probably won’t come out in the rain.

  I’m going in.

  Malin opens the car door and puts one foot on the ground, sees a few students cross the school yard, their shadowless motion framed by the windswept oaks, as old as the school itself.

  She pulls her foot back. Closes the door. Puts her shaking hands on the wheel, willing them to stop, but they won’t obey. She takes deep breaths. Needs a drink. But she manages to hold the thought at bay, with all her strength.

  There. Now the shaking has stopped.

  She pulls out her mobile, dials Tove’s number. The message-service clicks in.

  ‘Tove, it’s Mum. I just wanted to let you know I’m home again. I thought maybe we could have dinner together this evening. Can you call me back?’