Текст книги "Autumn Killing"

Автор книги: Mons Kallentoft

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

6

Grey.

The morning light is grey, but it still manages to cut right into Malin’s eyes. The light is gentle, like a blunt knife found at the back of a kitchen drawer of a deceased and distant relative. She looks up, out through the living-room window. The clouds are clustered tightly in different layers in front of the sun, and she can feel how her skin is swollen over swollen flesh, and she tries to look around, but keeps having to close her eyes, to give her reluctant brain a rest and muffle its angry throbbing with darkness.

Her body is in a heap on the parquet floor, the radiator by her head warmer now than yesterday evening, and she can hear the water gurgling through the pipes.

An almost empty bottle of tequila beside her, the lid half screwed on, and she looks out at the flat.

Grey.

The whole of my world is grey, Malin thinks. More nuances of grey than my brain can comprehend, from the dark, leaden grey under the sofa to the almost dirty white of the walls.

And who’s that looking in through the window, whose face is that peering through the fog? The contours of her guilty conscience. Nausea. How the hell can I behave like this? A hand raised in anger.

I stink. I want to turn my face inside out so I don’t have to look at myself in the mirror.

How the hell am I going to get up from here?

I want to call them, Janne and Tove, but what would I say?

That I love them?

That it’s raining?

That I regret what I did?

‘Zacharias! Zacharias!’

His wife Gunilla is calling from down in the kitchen with her sharp telephone-ring voice. What does she want now?

‘Martin scored two goals last night,’ she calls.

Other women have a different voice.

Zacharias ‘Zeke’ Martinsson, detective inspector with the Linkoping Police, twists his body out of bed. Gets up, feeling that the damp in the room has made his body unnaturally stiff. Not much light is creeping past the edges of the black blind, so he knows the weather outside must still be atrocious, a perfect day for staying indoors, fix a few things that need doing around the house.

Martin.

He got an NHL contract in the end. After his success at the World Championships in Moscow they were throwing money at his agent, and six months ago he moved out to Vancouver.

Rich.

And famous.

‘If you want any money, Dad, for a holiday or a new summerhouse, or to come out and visit, just say. Linus is growing fast, you must want to see him?’

Twelve thousand kronor.

That’s how much the cheapest flights to Vancouver cost.

Each.

A hefty chunk of a detective’s salary.

He’s eight months old now, the boy, my grandchild. I want to see him. But getting Martin to pay for the tickets?

Never.

All those millions that the lad’s earning just for entertaining a few exhausted uneducated souls. Sometimes it disgusts Zeke, just as ice hockey’s affected macho bullshit always has, the way the players and coaches and fans all think they’re so tough. But what do they know about real roughness, real danger, and the demands that makes of you? Have any of those prima donnas in their oversized padded shorts got what it takes if things really kick off? Sundin? Forsberg? Not a chance.

‘Zeke, they’re showing the goals on 4. Hurry up.’

Gunilla has done the whole ice hockey thing. All the ferrying around. Cheering him on, while he couldn’t get past his dislike of the game and would rather sing with the Da Capo choir instead.

He pulls on his underpants, feeling them stretch over his thighs and balls. Standing in the darkness of the room he rubs his hand over his shaved head. The two days of stubble is sharp against his hand, but not enough for him to need to shave.

Goal.

My son.

And then Zeke smiles, against his will, the lad’s coping with those prima donnas pretty well. But rush downstairs?

Never.

She’s not sleeping by my side. This bed is an ocean of lost opportunities.

Police Chief Karim Akbar would like to be able to put his arm around his wife, but she isn’t there, he’s been rejected in favour of someone else. But maybe it’s better this way? For the past few years he hasn’t dared approach her, scared of getting burned by her refusal.

She was always tired.

Tired after working double shifts as a social worker, when half her colleagues had emigrated to Norway to work for twice as much money for two thirds of their old hours.

There’s something I’m not seeing, Karim had often thought. But what? He had turned the feeling into an abstract problem instead of grabbing it and trying to work out what it meant or what the consequences might be. He had reflected upon how two people can spend their whole lives living side by side without ever understanding each other, and that the feeling of emptiness that both destroys you and surrounds you in that sort of relationship must be similar to what his father felt when he arrived in Sweden as an engineer, but failed to find either a job or a place in society. His father had ended up hanging from a noose made with a nylon tie in a flat in Nacksta up in Sundsvall.

Sometimes Karim has been struck by the idea that she wanted to get out. That she wanted a divorce. But if that was the case, then why didn’t she say so? He was a sufficiently enlightened man not to claim any right of ownership.

But he hadn’t managed to pursue the thought through to its conclusion, hadn’t summoned up the energy to ask her.

And then she left. Took their nine-year-old son and moved in with another bastard social worker in Malmo.

She dared. But he knows she was scared, maybe still is.

But there’s no need.

I’d never be like my compatriots, the brother and father we caught a month or so ago. They make me sick.

Divorce.

A better word for loneliness and confusion. He’s tried to take refuge in work, in his new book, looking at issues of integration from an entirely new perspective, but it’s slow-going. Instead he has tried to come up with activities to keep their son amused when he visits.

An every-third-weekend dad. She wanted sole custody and he gave in. It wouldn’t have suited his rota at work to be a single parent every other week. And it was geographically impossible.

Bajran is with her and the other man this weekend.

In September they spent his birthday in Stockholm, and his son went with him to Gotrich where he got some new suits, and he even let Bajran choose a couple of ties.

The suits are made of fine, soft wool. Cashmere. An extravagance that an upstart police chief like him can indulge himself with. That and a Mercedes.

He pulls the covers tighter around him, hearing the rain clatter on the windowsill and thinking how much he wants to move to a flat in the city, closer to everything. Lambohov is too reminiscent of Nacksta and Sundsvall.

But of course things could be worse. And Karim sees Borje Svard’s face before him, the detective’s bold twisted moustache. He’s on sick leave at the moment: Anna, his wife, has MS and needs round-the-clock care, help with her breathing, the illness has hit the nerves controlling the muscles around her lungs.

‘She might have six months,’ Borje said when he applied for leave so he could be her carer.

‘Take all the time you need to look after your wife,’ Karim replied. ‘There’ll always be a job for you here.’

And Malin Fors. Something’s going to crack there, Karim thinks. But can I do anything about it? She drinks too much, but, God knows, we need her in the department.

Sven Sjoman, superintendent and head of the investigative unit of Linkoping Police’s Violent Crime Division, likes to think that he’s coaxing the innermost secrets out of wood: its beauty, and the functional, attractive shape that lives within it.

It’s an absurdly romantic notion, of course, but if having woodwork as a hobby isn’t romantic, it can still be full of love.

The lathe rumbles. The sawdust sprays up onto his blue T-shirt with the logo of the Berg Lumberyard.

Sven’s workshop, in a soundproof room in the basement of his house in Valla, smells of fresh wood-shavings, of varnish and polish, of sweat.

The hour he spends down here each morning is the best but also the loneliest hour of the day.

He’s never liked loneliness.

Prefers the company of other people.

His wife’s, for instance. Even if they don’t say more than they need to each other after all these years.

His colleagues.

Karim.

And Malin. How are you doing, Malin? She hasn’t had a good year, Sven thinks as he takes the rough bowl off the lathe. Then he switches off the machine and enjoys the silence that quickly fills the room.

It probably wasn’t a good idea for you to move back in with Janne again. Not a good idea at all, but I could never tell you that. You have to take care of your own life, Fors. I can sometimes show you the way at work, but that’s happening less and less; there’s no longer much need for it.

But in life.

You reek of drink more and more. You look grey, exhausted, sad.

Oh well.

As long as it doesn’t get any worse. Janne, your husband, or rather the ex-husband that you’re back together with, called me, wanted me to do something. He told me about your drinking, and it’s certainly pretty obvious. At least sometimes. And I made him a promise. But to do what? Talk to you? You’d be furious. Suspend you? There’s no justification for that. Send you to an expert? You’re so stubborn, you’d refuse to go.

Getting a bit drunk is part of being a detective.

What with all the crap we see, it helps ease the pressure.

He tightens his belt. Four holes in, now, twelve kilos down. Better blood results. But far too many dull evening meals.

‘Put your overalls on. Now. I don’t want to have to tell you again.’

Detective Inspector Johan Jakobsson is standing in the hall of his terraced house in Linghem. His five-year-old daughter is in a world of her own, singing, and his words don’t come close to penetrating her bubble.

Why the hell did they agree to go to the in-laws this weekend, now that he finally has a Friday off? The last thing they need is another panicky morning with a load of unnecessary aggressive words firing through the air like stray bullets.

‘Can you sort Hugo out? I’ll take Emma.’

His wife nods and bends down for the boy’s blue jacket.

‘I don’t want to have to tell you again.’

‘Do you have to get so cross?’ his wife asks.

And so it starts.

‘It wasn’t my idea to set off for Nassjo at this ungodly hour.’

‘It’s Dad’s birthday.’

‘Yes, sixty-three. It’s not like he can’t manage without us.’

His wife’s mouth tightens. She’s not going to dignify that with a reply, Johan thinks as he reaches for their daughter, grabbing her thin but strong arm and pulling her to him.

‘Get your jacket on.’

‘But she won’t need it in the car.’

He lets go of his daughter’s arm.

Shuts his eyes.

Wishes he was on call this weekend. Then he could have invented some incident, or something might really have happened.

The children. His eyes are closed, but he can still hear their voices and it’s as if they become more distinct to him now, and they sound happy, full of confidence about life in spite of their sullenness, and he thinks that the thousands of hugs and kisses, the hundreds of thousands of words of praise, a million smiles and reassurances that they’re loved more than anything actually work. It is possible to create happy individuals, it’s simple and definitely worth the effort.

‘Johan,’ his wife says. ‘Relax. We don’t have to rush if you don’t want to.’

On the grubby, whitewashed wall in front of him there are four coat hooks. One of the middle ones is loose, dangerously close to falling off.

Waldemar Ekenberg has opened the terrace door and is taking deep drags on his cigarette. The terrace is out of the wind, otherwise he wouldn’t be standing here. He’d be crouched under the extractor fan over the cooker.

He looks up at the sky. At the dense grey-white roof of the world.

His morning cigarette.

There’s nothing better. Even if his wife will complain that he smells of smoke when he goes back to bed.

Waldemar didn’t hesitate when a temporary position in Linkoping came up. He had enjoyed his earlier secondment there in connection with a gruesome case into the murders of teenage girls.

They didn’t want him, he knew that, but they couldn’t ignore his experience when all the other applicants were fresh out of Police Academy.

Fors. Sjoman. Jakobsson. Akbar. Martinsson.

Not a bad collection of cops really. A decent clear-up rate. Not too burned out.

Fors.

Completely manic, apparently much worse after what happened to her daughter, and since she got back together with that fireman.

But she’s a fucking good detective. And very easy to tease.

And that can be a lot of fun.

And she’s hitting the bottle. A lot of his colleagues over the years have succumbed to drink. And he’s never been able to do a thing about it. Once they’ve fallen to the bottom of the bottle there’s no way back.

Jakobsson.

Worn out by his kids.

He and his wife back in bed never had any, and that’s probably just as well.

Now there’s just us to worry about. They were in Thailand last winter, just the two of them, and they could take it as easy as they liked, unlike all the families with little kids in the hotel.

The love of a child. Love for a child.

You can’t miss what you’ve never had, Waldemar thinks, taking the last drag on the cigarette.

Can you?

Malin is standing at the counter in the 7-Eleven on Agatan.

Her hair is wet with rain and her underwear is cutting into her buttocks, it feels as disgusting as the bloody weather outside. She found a pair of old stone-washed jeans and a pink top at the back of the wardrobe in the flat. They must be ten years old, but they’ll have to do. H amp;M isn’t open yet and she’ll have to pick up her things from Malmslatt when she has time. That’s what she’s going to do: pick up her things, and Tove, and reconstruct life the way it was before they moved back in together, before she put Tove’s life in danger.

A toothbrush, deodorant, toothpaste and coffee are on the counter in front of her, the fat cashier looks sleepy as he rings up her purchases.

‘Playing away?’ he asks.

Playing away. Did the ice hockey team have an away match last night?

Then she realises what he means, and feels like punching him in his fat face, but just shakes her head.

‘OK, no away match. Just a late night, I guess. When I feel the way you look, I don’t bother getting out of bed.’

‘Just cut the crap and take the money.’

The cashier throws out his hands.

‘Just trying to have a laugh. That normally helps. Sorry.’

Malin grabs her change and walks the hundred metres back to the flat through the rain.

Soon she’s in the shower.

Water colder than the rain envelops her skin.

Driving out the evil.

Helping it freeze.

Don’t think about what happened yesterday, she tells herself, just drink the coffee in the mug on the soap-rack and pretend the headache pills you found in the medicine cabinet are having some sort of effect.

Her skull is thudding.

Tove can move in later this week. Maybe even tonight.

I’m working today. But nothing’s going to happen that can take my mind off this damn headache, is it?

7

Gote Lindman, just turned fifty-two, runs a hand over his wet, shaved head. He’s only been inside Skogsa Castle once before.

At the age of eight he stood with his father in Axel Fagelsjo’s study and listened as Fagelsjo dictated the terms of that summer’s work, and the future, in return for them being allowed to rent an old soldier’s cottage over in the far south-west corner of the estate.

‘When I call, you come.’

Lindman imagines he can hear the count’s voice, the harshness and violence concealed in it, as he and Ingmar Johansson, a few years older than him, walk along the corridor on the first floor, looking at the bare, grey stone walls and the peculiar pictures that adorn them every five metres or so.

‘He’s got a dog,’ Lindman says. ‘But it can’t be here, or we’d have heard it by now.’

‘A yappy beagle,’ Ingmar Johansson mutters.

It’s more than forty years since Lindman was here with his father.

His own dealings with the Fagelsjos were managed through the solicitor’s office in the city, and thankfully he only leased land from them these days, having bought himself a farmhouse outside Bankekind.

He had been informed by a solicitor when the sale of Skogsa was already a fact. His tenancy would continue as before.

They walk past room after room.

Peering in, padding about on wooden floors, stone floors, metre after metre of unused space. They had arrived in Lindman’s black Saab, now parked beside Petersson’s Range Rover out in the courtyard. The door to the castle was unlocked and the alarm was flashing green. They hesitated before coming in, not wanting to upset the castle’s new owner.

Petersson had appeared in Lindman’s yard one day, standing next to his Range Rover with a broad smile, wearing that stupid yellow coat. The wind was blowing his mane of bleached hair, and Lindman had realised that the visit could only mean trouble.

‘You know who I am?’ Petersson had asked, and Lindman had nodded in reply.

‘Any chance of coffee?’

Another nod.

And then they had sat at the kitchen table eating Svetlana’s cakes and drinking freshly made coffee, and Petersson had explained that things would continue exactly as before, but that he had one demand: when he wanted to go hunting, they would come, no matter how bad the weather was, no matter what else was going on.

‘When I call, you come. Got it?’

Ingmar Johansson peers into the castle kitchen.

Copper saucepans hanging in gleaming rows from the ceiling. Even in the dim morning light they’re sparkling. The entire kitchen is new, white marble on the walls and floor, shiny steel appliances, a two-metre long stove with ten gas rings.

But no sign of life.

No Jerry Petersson. The owner of the land that he rents, just like Lindman, is nowhere to be seen.

The call had come on Thursday evening.

‘I need you here tomorrow at eight o’clock. We’re going for deer. There are too many of them.’

Like hell there were too many deer at Skogsa. More like too few, but Petersson’s voice brooked no argument. And he had been clear about the terms of the arrangement.

‘It was definitely eight o’clock?’ Johansson said.

‘On the dot,’ Lindman replied.

They had spoken on the phone just after their visits from Petersson. They had agreed that it could have been much worse, he might have wanted to introduce large-scale farming to the castle estate. Petersson hadn’t answered when Johansson asked him straight out about his plans for the farm, and just said he was there to talk about hunting.

‘Make sure you arrive on time.’

Petersson had been firm on the phone.

And here they both were.

But there was no sign of Jerry Petersson.

The steps are steep and dangerously slippery for wet boots. So they proceed carefully to the second floor, calling Petersson’s name, but their voices just rebound off the bare stone. Above them, in the twenty-metre high space above the stairs, hangs a crystal chandelier that must be several centuries old, adorned with over a hundred half-burned candles arranged in several ornate circles. On one wall hangs a mostly blue painting of a man squeezing suncream onto a woman’s back.

Panting, they reach the second floor.

‘He ought to get a lift put in,’ Johansson says.

‘Expensive,’ Lindman replies.

‘He can afford it.’

‘Shouldn’t we start in the cellar?’

‘Sod that. He’s probably got a torture chamber down there. You know, iron maidens and a single chair in the middle of the room.’

‘Bloody hell. I had no idea you had that sort of imagination,’ Lindman says.

They move through the rooms.

‘So he lives on this floor,’ Johansson says.

‘Bloody weird pictures,’ Lindman whispers as they emerge into a room containing several large photographs of a Christ-like figure immersed in a yellow liquid.

‘Do you think that’s piss?’ Johansson asks.

‘How the hell would I know?’

A large sculpture of a pink and purple plastic bear with sabre-teeth decorated with jewels and eyes that look like diamonds shines at them from one corner.

A painting of a Cambodian prisoner seems to want to chase them from the room.

The furniture looks as if it was designed for a spaceship: straight lines, black mixed with white, shapes that Lindman recognises from the interior design magazines he usually looks at when he’s waiting to have his hair cut.

‘Bloody hell, the things people choose to spend their hard-earned money on,’ Johansson says.

‘Petersson? Petersson! We’re here!’

‘Ready for the hunt. Time to shoot some deer!’

They stop, grinning at each other, then there’s a cold silence.

‘Where do you reckon he could be?’ Lindman asks, unbuttoning his green overcoat and wiping the sweat from his brow.

‘No idea. Maybe out on the estate? Doesn’t look like he’s in the castle. He’d have heard us by now.’

‘But his car’s down there. And the doors were unlocked.’

‘Showy damn car, that.’

‘Maybe, but you’d still like one.’

They’re both looking at a free-standing clothes rack holding ironed cotton shirts in all manner of colours.

‘What do you make of him?’ Johansson asks.

‘Petersson?’

‘No, God. Of course I mean Petersson.’

Johansson looks at Lindman. At the bitter wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, at the deep furrows on his brow.

Johansson knows that Lindman lived alone on his farm for many years after his wife left him fifteen years earlier. She’d been to a conference in Stockholm and came home crazy, saying she couldn’t bear living on the farm any more.

Someone must have fucked the sense out of her up in Stockholm.

But now he’d found a new one, a mail-order Russian.

‘What do I think of him?’ Lindman says, stretching the words. ‘Well, he doesn’t seem to want to mess with our arrangements. Then there’s this bullshit about us coming running whenever he calls. What can I say?’

Johansson nods.

‘Did you know him before?’ Lindman goes on.

Johansson shakes his head.

‘They say he grew up in Berga. But I never read anything about his work. I don’t really care about crap like that.’

Ingmar Johansson sees how the giant bear’s eyes sparkle. Could they actually be real diamonds?

‘He was pretty quick to get hold of this damn castle.’

‘Must have been a bitter blow for the count.’

‘Yeah, but it serves him right.’

They stop in another of the rooms.

Looking at each other.

‘Do you hear what I hear?’ Johansson asks.

Lindman nods.

Outside they can hear a dog barking furiously.

Anxiously.

‘He’s upset about something,’ Lindman says. ‘No doubt about that.’

They stand still for a moment before heading for one of the windows.

A low cloud is dissolving into fog as it drifts slowly past the window, leaving small drops of moisture on the glass.

They stand beside each other, waiting for the cloud or the fog to move. Listening to the dog, its anxious bark.

Then they look out over the estate.

The pine forest, the fir trees, the fields. Banks of fog are blocking their view down to the moat.

‘Beautiful,’ Johansson says. ‘Can you see the dog?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you can see why the count loved this land.’

‘I bet he’s not happy in the city.’

Johansson grins and looks away from the view. Down on the raked gravel in the courtyard stand the Range Rover and the car they arrived in.

Then the fog drifts away from the moat. And there’s the dog, its dark shape jerking each time it lifts its head to the sky and barks.

‘That’s a warning bark,’ Lindman says. ‘A deer that’s fallen in the water?’

The water in the moat is black, still. The green lamps along its edge are glowing faintly.

But there’s something that’s not right. There’s something in the water that shouldn’t be there. Not a deer, Lindman thinks.

The dog looks down, then barks desperately again.

There’s something yellow floating in the blackness, a vague, almost pulsating yellow circle in his gradually deteriorating vision.

‘Johansson, what’s that floating down there in the moat? That light-coloured thing? That the dog’s barking at.’

Johansson looks down at the water.

Like a black snake held captive by ancient stone banks. Is that old story about the Russian soldiers true? he wonders.

Some fifty metres away, on the surface of the moat, something pale, yellow, is moving slowly to and fro, a dark outline in the water, the shape, he recognises it instinctively, and wants to look away.

A head.

A body concealed yet still visible in the water.

Blond hair.

A face turned to one side.

A mouth.

He imagines he can see luminous fish, tiny sprats, swimming into the open mouth, a mouth that must long since have stopped gasping for air.

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Fucking hell,’ Johansson repeats, unclear about what to feel or do next, only knowing that he wants the dog to stop barking. That dog will be barking in his dreams until the end of time.