AUTUMN KILLING

by KALLENTOFT MONS

To her own surprise, Malin hears herself say yes.

  Lovisa Segerberg is alone in paperwork Hades.

  Waldemar and Johan have gone out for coffee.

  She wonders whether to switch on Fredrik Fågelsjö’s computer or look through one of the hundreds of folders they haven’t yet had time to look at.

  Instead she finds herself thinking about Malin Fors.

  If it’s true what the rumours say: that she was caught drink-driving, but that it’s been hushed up. That she’s going into rehab as soon as the case is solved.

  People are only human, and even police officers need a bit of slack sometimes. Otherwise there’d only be single-minded, cocksure officers left in the force, and no one wants police officers like that. Would the team cope without Malin Fors?

  It would turn into something different, because Malin is the one who sets the tone. The person the others unconsciously lean on.

  Maybe I should have coffee with her? Just us women. See how she feels?

  Lovisa bats the thought aside and stands up.

  Over on a shelf by the door sits a single black folder, apart from the others. God knows how it got there.

  She pulls it down, then goes back to her chair.

  Inside, three blank sheets of paper.

  Beneath them an unfranked envelope, then some handwritten words on even whiter paper.

  Lovisa feels time stand still as a warm sensation spreads through her body.

  Could this letter be the thing they didn’t know they were looking for?

  Birgitta Svensson leans back on a green sofa and takes a bite of a dry, mass-produced almond cake.

  Malin is holding her cup of coffee in both hands, the heat of the drink feels good against her palms.

  They’re alone in the staffroom, and Malin thinks that it has a peaceful calm, a calm that smells of tea and coffee and books and paper.

  ‘We only have one real problem at this school,’ Birgitta Svensson says, ‘and that’s bullying. It’s not a small problem either, but no matter what we do we can’t seem to get to grips with it.’

  ‘Are there particular pupils responsible for it?’

  Malin remembers the boys she encountered in connection with a murder a few years ago, and the way they terrified the whole of Ljungsbro School.

  ‘If only it were that simple,’ Birgitta Svensson says. ‘No, it isn’t just a few individual bullies here, it seems to shift the whole time. Someone who was the victim yesterday can end up as the bully today.’

  ‘What have you done to try to tackle it?’

  ‘We’ve had speakers here. Group sessions. Individual counselling. But it’s like a plague. Whenever we think we’ve finally solved it, something new happens.’

  ‘Maybe it will get better once this year leaves. The problem might resolve itself.’

  ‘But the school needs to function now. For everyone.’

  Tove.

  You’ve never been bullied, Malin thinks. What would I do to anyone bullying you if you were?

  Doesn’t want to know.

  ‘Last week,’ Birgitta Svensson says, ‘there was a boy in Year 8 who rubbed his cheeks with sandpaper in the woodwork class. It turned out that a big gang of boys in Years 8 and 9 had been tormenting him because his parents only have a rusty old car. Can you imagine? It was like it was OK to have a go at him, just because everyone else was. We couldn’t identify anyone who was worse than the others, and no one felt responsible, they were all just “joining in”.’

  Birgitta Svensson makes quotation marks in the air with her fingers.

  Then she leans forward, for the last bit of the almond cake.

  ‘Sandpaper,’ Malin says. ‘He must have been feeling terrible.’

  ‘To be honest, he looked dreadful. As if he was wearing a mask of wounds.’

  Outside the school dining room there are posters from the Friends Foundation.

  Encouragement to be friends with everyone, not to exclude anyone, to try always to see a person’s unique qualities and characteristics.

  A pipe dream, Malin thinks. Show any weakness and you can be sure that someone will bite.

  Did Jerry Petersson show weakness?

  Fredrik Fågelsjö?

  Were they open and weak, if only for a matter of seconds, and then reality struck, biting them with its greedy jaws?

  One of the posters shows a girl standing on her own in a corner. Five metres or so away stands a group of other girls. The text in the top corner of the poster says: ‘Everyone needs a friend. Could that be you?’

  Malin heads towards the car, finally a break in the rain.

  In her mind she can see Anders Dalström, and remembers what Andreas Ekström’s mother said about him, that he seemed lonely, that Andreas could have been his only friend, and that Andreas looked out for him.

  He visited Jasmin even though he didn’t know her.

  A tip-off from a male caller.

  Lord of the Flies. Why that, of all films? The bullying film to beat all bullying films, surely?

  The key in the car door, and twenty minutes later she’s sitting in paperwork Hades with Zeke, Johan Jakobsson, Lovisa Segerberg, Waldemar Ekenberg, and Sven Sjöman.

  In front of them on the table, in a plastic folder, lies a letter. Shaky letters written in black crayon.

  The text: ‘I know all about new year’s eve. It’s time to pay. I’ll be in touch soon. Be ready.’

  ‘So Jerry Petersson was being blackmailed,’ Sven says. ‘But who by?’

  ‘Jonas Karlsson?’ Waldemar says.

  ‘Maybe,’ Zeke says. ‘But he has an alibi for the night and morning when Petersson was murdered. We’ll check the handwriting, and see if there are any fingerprints on the letter. But who else could have known that Petersson was driving that New Year’s Eve? He was the only one who knew, and according to him he hasn’t told anyone.’

  ‘But Jonas Karlsson has admitted that he likes a drink. Maybe he told someone when he was drunk?’ Waldemar says, grinning pointedly at Malin.

  ‘Jochen Goldman,’ Malin says. ‘He knew. And he seems to like sending letters. Maybe he needed money. What do we know about his finances? Really? We’re just assuming he’s absurdly rich.’

  ‘What about the Fågelsjö family,’ Lovisa says. ‘Maybe they were trying to blackmail Petersson into moving out?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Sven says. ‘I’ve the call-logs for the Fågelsjös’ various phones. Nothing odd there. No calls to Jerry Petersson. I don’t think they’re behind this letter, it doesn’t feel like their style.’

  ‘Do you remember that Petersson got a couple of calls from a telephone box out at Ikea?’ Malin says. ‘Maybe those calls are connected with this?’

  She thinks about Daniel Högfeldt’s informant, calling from an unknown number. A telephone box? Difficult to prove without requesting Daniel’s call-log. And, because he’s a journalist, practically impossible.

  ‘We’ll get Forensics to look at the letter,’ Sven says. ‘Maybe they’ll find something. We’ll hold back on talking to anyone about this until they’ve finished, then we’ll have something concrete to go on if they find anything.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to Anders Dalström again, if that’s OK?’ Malin asks.

  ‘Why?’ Johan asks.

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  62

  Malin accelerates and changes gear, thinking that maybe she should have brought Zeke with her, but she wants to explore this hunch herself, follow it wherever it leads her.

  Zeke didn’t protest, but she knows that Sven was assuming that they’d go together. If she’s getting close to something, she might be exposing herself to danger, but what the hell does that matter?

  If you investigate murders, you’re always close to violence, but some things, some voices, can only be heard when you’re alone.

  The rain that’s been falling on the way out stops when she arrives. The house in the forest looks abandoned, no light from the windows in the clearing containing the main building
and workshop. The little clearing is actually a meadow, surrounded by dense mixed forest, and the whole site is reminiscent of a miniature Skogså, but with the pomp and power replaced by subordination and a palpable fear of the horrors that could be lurking in the darkness of the forest.

  Anders Dalström isn’t home, Malin thinks. Probably at work, in the old people’s home. But doesn’t he work nights?

  She gets out of the car. Does up her black GORE-TEX jacket.

  Anders Dalström’s red Golf is missing from the drive.

  Malin goes over the gravel and up the steps to the porch, where she peers inside the house and looks at the posters on the walls.

  Quiet out here in the forest.

  He probably wishes he had a girlfriend, or a family. The failed folk singer, what must it have been like, having to watch Lars Winnerbäck’s success? Forty years old and working in an old people’s home. Not much of a career. Does composing music out here in the forest give you peace? Was that why you moved here? Or are you bitter about other people?

  But where are you now? Malin thinks. I only want to ask you some simple questions.

  She knocks on the front door, rings the bell, but there’s no sign of him.

  She tries to look in through the other windows, but the curtains are drawn.

  Oh well. The car’s not there, after all.

  She turns around and looks out at the forest, wondering where Anders Dalström might be. In the workshop? She walks over, but the doors are closed. Open them? No. Or should I? No, that would be too intrusive.

  She looks over at the forest again.

  He’s watching her from the edge of the forest. The woman, the female detective. She’s on her own. Why? He thought they always travelled in pairs, for security. Why did she go over to the workshop? Does she think the Golf’s in there? It’s at the garage. Is she looking for another vehicle?

  Should I rush over to her?

  What’s she doing here, now? She ought to be looking elsewhere. But she’s probably just here to ask some questions?

  Now she’s looking towards the forest, in his direction, and he ducks down, feels the wet fir needles and fallen twigs embrace him as long locks of hair fall over his eyes.

  Did she see me? She can’t have seen me. And what’s she doing now? She seems to be taking a photograph of the sign on my door with her mobile.

  Was that someone over there at the edge of the forest?

  Malin isn’t sure, as she puts her mobile away. Anders Dalström could have been out in the forest hunting or picking mushrooms or something like that, and might now be on his way home. But he’s seen me and doesn’t want to talk to me.

  Her pistol.

  She’s got it with her. She showed it at the talk that morning, aware that the sight of a real gun always arouses the interest of teenagers.

  Something green amidst all that grey.

  She sets off towards the edge of the forest, crossing the waterlogged meadow, feeling her boots getting wet, but she wants to know what it was she saw.

  Then a movement, something sliding away through the forest.

  A person. A fox?

  Impossible to tell. Malin pulls her pistol from its holster under her shoulder. Heads towards the forest, towards the darkness among the trees.

  Anders Dalström is snaking through the forest, his long hair wet with rain.

  She mustn’t see me. What’s she doing here? How could I explain why I’m trying to hide?

  But he knows where he can go. There’s a fallen tree just twenty metres in, and its exposed roots have left a hole, invisible if you don’t know it’s there.

  I’m slithering like the young snakes inside me now.

  Soaking wet. And cold, but none of that matters. Down into the hole. Hope the roots don’t rock back into it. Into the hole, pull fallen branches over it. Stop breathing.

  Where is he? Or whatever that was?

  Malin checks the floor of the forest for tracks, but can’t make out anything; the rain has beaten all the vegetation on the ground into a pulp.

  The forest is silent and empty, except for the sound of her own breathing and the wind blowing through the treetops.

  A fallen tree ahead of her.

  She walks towards it.

  Has someone been there? Is someone there? Then some heavy raindrops hit the back of her neck. She looks up. An owl is flying between the fir trees high above.

  I must have been wrong.

  No one here.

  When Anders Dalström hears Malin’s car start up and drive off, he carefully crawls out of his hiding place, hurries over to the edge of the forest and reassures himself that he’s alone again.

  Then he runs over to the house.

  He’s weighed up his options, trying to understand what’s happening, wishing it could still all be stopped, but at the same time wanting it all to be over, once and for all, for the snakes to be forced from his blood, to feel the calm that follows a raised hand.

  The key in the lock.

  Trembling hands.

  It creaks and he thinks about oiling the lock, ought to have done so long ago.

  The door opens and he runs into the living room and over to the gun cabinet.

  He looks at the shotgun that he’s keeping here for Dad, the one Dad hasn’t been able to use for years, but which it would never occur to him to let his son use.

  Malin is holding the wheel with one hand, and with the other she sends the photograph of the handwritten sign on Anders Dalström’s door to Karin Johannison.

  ‘Compare handwriting with blackmail letter. Asap. Call me when you know. MF.’

  The rain fills the windscreen in front of her.

  Soon she sees the silhouette of Linköping ahead of her. The city seems to be sinking into its own sewers, a place that even the rats have abandoned.

  63

  Zeke is at his desk. His head slightly stubbly, black bristles sticking out in all directions like sharp quills.

  ‘Did you get anywhere?’ he asks as Malin sits down in her chair.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Malin replies. ‘Can you bear to hear what I’m thinking?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Malin’s mobile buzzes. Karin? So soon.

  The message on the screen glows up at Malin: ‘I’ll check at once. Karin.’

  Zeke smiles.

  ‘From Karin?’

  Malin smiles back.

  ‘How could you know that?’

  ‘Mysterious ways, Malin.’

  ‘Let’s get some coffee.’

  They settle down at a corner table in the staffroom.

  ‘Well, let me start by saying that Christina Fågelsjö hasn’t managed to find Fredrik’s keys,’ Zeke says. ‘So it looks like he had them on him, and the murderer used his keys to open the chapel.’

  Malin nods.

  ‘Anders Dalström,’ she goes on. ‘Andreas Ekström who died in the car accident was his only friend. He looked out for him, as Andreas’s mum put it. Think about it. It’s like his life stopped when Andreas died in the crash. What if he found out somehow that Jerry Petersson was driving? Maybe he met up with Jonas Karlsson in the pub and Karlsson told him the truth about that New Year’s Eve but couldn’t remember doing so afterwards? Unless he found out some other way. He might have accepted that it was an accident, but that would all have changed when he found out that Petersson was driving. Petersson was drunk, after all, which makes it a serious offence.’

  ‘So Dalström decided he wanted revenge?’

  ‘Well, possibly. Maybe he was bullied before Andreas turned up in his class. Maybe there’s a load of pent-up violence inside him that started to leak out? But he’d probably have preferred to blackmail Jerry Petersson for money. Maybe he went out to Skogså that morning to put pressure on Petersson, and something went wrong and it got out of hand. And he ended up killing Petersson. What if Dalström felt that the violence made him feel stronger? That it gave him some sort of pleasure and he found he couldn’t stop once he�
��d started? That the aggression . . .’

  Zeke is looking sceptical, and says: ‘But why wait until now? Petersson had been living at Skogså for eighteen months. And even if Karlsson only let the cat out of the bag fairly recently, Dalström doesn’t look like the vengeful type, Malin. He doesn’t seem energetic or courageous enough to blackmail anyone for money. Besides, I thought he seemed pretty good-natured.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Malin says. ‘But the victims of bullying, if that’s what he was, are often said to have a propensity for violence when they grow up. And what do we really know about him?’

  Zeke nods.

  ‘That might be true,’ he says. ‘But what about Fredrik Fågelsjö? How do you explain that? Or was someone else responsible for his murder?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ Malin says. ‘What if Anders Dalström murdered Fredrik for the simple reason that he wanted to divert attention away from himself and towards the family instead? After all, they had good reason to be pretty upset with Fredrik. That might explain the call Daniel got from an insistent informant.’

  ‘So it’s Daniel now, is it?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘OK. But what call?’

  Malin tells Zeke about the conversation, but he just raises his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s still too vague,’ he says. ‘Could anyone really commit two murders on such flimsy grounds?’

  ‘People have killed for less. And he might have developed a taste for violence after the first murder. Maybe violence gave him the outlet he needed. And the different methods could be explained by the fact that he felt more confident once he’d got away with the first one?’

  ‘So you’re seriously suggesting that Anders Dalström carried out what looks like a ritual murder of Fredrik Fågelsjö just to save his own skin? And all because he’s discovered some sort of necessary violence inside himself?’

  Malin nods.

  ‘Is that really enough, Malin? The body was lying naked on the family vault. We haven’t seen many cases worse than that.’

  ‘There’s still a piece of the puzzle missing,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe I’m completely wrong. It’s like I’m having trouble thinking straight. Too much shit floating about.’

  ‘There’s still a slim chance that it was the Fågelsjös. Fredrik could have murdered Jerry, and Axel and Katarina could have had Fredrik killed. Or Goldman might have sent a hitman. Or it could be something else entirely.’