Текст книги "Autumn Killing"

Автор книги: Mons Kallentoft

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

14

The ambulance with the perforated body.

It’s heading purposefully off towards the forest, slowly, as if anxious not to wake or upset the dead man. The dog in the car barks after the ambulance, jumping up at the window.

Standing in front of the castle, Malin can see the green lanterns swaying in the wind, and their forest-tinted light makes the grey daylight hazy. Mouldering heaps of leaves at the edge of the forest. Like crumpled paper painted in bright colours by the children at a closure-threatened nursery school. And the trees, their bare crowns watching the day’s peculiar performance from their elevated position above the leaves, waving goodbye when the wind helps the branches to move.

The same questions as always at the start of an investigation. Malin poses them to herself, aware that all the others in the team will be asking the same things.

How to make sense of this?

What’s happened?

Who was he, Jerry Petersson? The answer to the question of where the violence came from is always hidden in the victim’s life. And death. What prompted him to return to the city and surrounding area? He had been back for about a year, but sometimes evil moves slowly.

Then the forest seems to open up before her eyes, the gaps in the trees seem to get wider, and the space is filled with a darkness teeming with shapeless figures.

Malin imagines she can hear a voice, as if all the figures were speaking with one voice, saying the same thing: ‘I shall drift here for a thousand years. I shall be lord of this land.

‘Save me!’ the voice goes on. ‘I was guilty of many things, but save me, grant me forgiveness.’

Then it calms down, whispering: ‘Why did I become the person I ended up as?’

Young snakes, pale yellow, seem to be slithering around Malin’s boots. She stamps her feet but they don’t disappear.

She blinks slowly.

The snakes and the shapes are gone.

An ordinary, depressing, grey, misty, autumn forest. Gravel beneath her feet.

What was that all about? Am I going mad? But she isn’t worried, the drinking and all the rest of it has probably just got a bit much. Then she thinks about the fact that just a few hours ago someone was wielding a knife here.

Murdering.

Killing Jerry Petersson.

She switches on her mobile again, she’s had it turned off since she arrived.

Two missed calls. Both from Tove, but no messages. I ought to call her now, I really ought to.

The dog is quiet, calm. Must have lain down on the back seat.

‘Malin! Malin!’

She recognises Daniel Hogfeldt’s voice. He’s calling to her from the driver’s seat of one of the Correspondent’s reporters’ cars.

She feels like giving him the finger.

Instead she waves at him.

‘What have you got for me?’

His voice, eager.

‘Forget it, Daniel,’ she calls.

‘He was murdered, wasn’t he? And it was Petersson.’

‘You’ll find out later. Karim’s bound to call a press conference.’

‘Come on, Malin.’

She shakes her head, and he smiles a warm, gentle smile, exactly the sort of smile she needs.

Is it that obvious?

Daniel wrote the article about Petersson. Might he know something? Can’t ask him now, that would be giving too much away.

She had thought that her trysts with Daniel would come to an end when she moved back in with Janne. Then one evening, after she’d sweated everything out in the gym in the basement of the police station and still felt it wasn’t enough to calm her down, he had called when she was about to get in the car and go home.

‘Can you come over?’

Ten minutes later she was lying in his bed in Linnegatan.

They didn’t say a word to each other. Not then. Nor the next time, or the next, or the next.

He simply took her as hard as he could, and she took him in return, and they yelled out together, looked at each other, seeming to ask, what the hell is this? What are we doing? What’s wrong with us?

Daniel Hogfeldt looks at Malin, and can’t help thinking that she looks terrible, almost so terrible that she isn’t sexy any more.

He’s tried to get her to see him as more than just a body, but that hasn’t been possible. She can’t seem to shake her low opinion of him, assuming he only wants information about cases, when in actual fact it’s her that he wants to find out more about.

She’s moved back in with her ex-husband again. But how well can that really be going? When she still wants to fuck my brains out?

It’s fairly obvious that she isn’t happy. But if I tried to say anything she’d turn on her heel, do anything to avoid the issue.

Daniel leans back in his seat. Sees the bald detective that he knows is called Zeke go over to Malin.

Daniel closes his eyes. Gets ready to play at being the tough reporter when he tries to get something out of the other officers.

As Malin and Zeke approach the car the dog stands up on the back seat. Its cropped stump of a tail is wagging, and it’s staring greedily at the bowl of water in Zeke’s hand. But when they open the doors the dog backs away. It lies down on the floor behind the driver’s seat and seems to be waiting for something. Zeke gives him the water and they can hear it lapping at it.

‘Let’s get it to Borje,’ Malin says.

‘OK,’ Zeke replies.

Malin goes for the passenger seat. Zeke can do the driving.

The dog whimpers in the back seat.

Daniel Hogfeldt’s naked body.

What’s wrong with me? Malin thinks.

The red-painted cottage sits beside the road leading up towards Skogsa, not far from the turning to Linkoping. The forest around the cottage opens up to give space for a field that looks more like a large vegetable patch. They’ve stopped on their way back to the city, something inside Malin told her that they ought to talk to the person living there, that they shouldn’t leave it to the uniforms.

‘The dog will be OK.’

Malin has one hand on the car door.

But before she can open it the cottage door flies open.

Malin jerks back. Zeke throws himself down, already outside. The barrel of a shotgun is pointing right at them, and behind it stands a short, grey-haired old woman.

‘So who are you?’ she croaks in a hoarse voice.

Malin backs away a bit further, and from the corner of her eye she can see Zeke feeling for his pistol.

‘Easy, easy,’ Malin says. ‘We’re from the police. Let me show you my ID.’

The old woman looks at Malin.

Seems to recognise her.

Lowers the gun.

Says: ‘I recognise you from the local news. Come in. Sorry about the gun, but you never know what you’re going to get around here.’

Inside the car the dog has started barking again.

‘Hang your coats in the hall. Coffee? It’s lunchtime, but I haven’t got anything to offer you.’

The old woman, who’s just introduced herself as Linnea Sjostedt, leads them into the kitchen.

The way she walks makes me look like an invalid, Malin thinks, the thought of lunch making her feel sick.

The old woman puts the shotgun down on a rustic table standing on a yellow and green, almost certainly home-woven, rag-rug. An old Husqvarna stove. Collectable plates on the walls.

An old person’s smell, sour but not unpleasant, and a strong sense that time will have its due, no matter what anyone might want.

‘Sit yourselves down.’

For the old woman the business with the shotgun is already long forgotten, but Malin can still feel the adrenalin pumping in her veins, and Zeke’s clothes are wet from the grass he landed on. They watch her put an old-fashioned coffeepot on the stove and take out some blue-flowered cups.

‘You can’t go around pointing guns at people like that,’ Zeke says as he sits down.

‘Like I said, you never know what you’re going to get around here.’

Uncomfortable ladder-backed chairs, hard on the backside.

‘Do you mean anything in particular?’ Malin asks.

‘Who knows what evil might come up with. Something must have happened, seeing as you’re here.’

‘Yes,’ Malin says. ‘Jerry Petersson, the new owner of Skogsa, has been found dead.’

Linnea Sjostedt nods.

‘Murdered?’

‘We believe so,’ Zeke replies.

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ the old woman says, pouring out the coffee.‘I haven’t got any cake. It makes me fat.’

‘So we’re wondering if you saw anything unusual yesterday, or last night, or this morning. Or anything else you thought was odd recently?’

‘This morning,’ Linnea says, ‘I saw Johansson and Lindman heading towards the castle. It must have been about half past seven.’

Malin nods.

‘Anything else?’

Malin takes a sip of the coffee.

Boiled coffee.

So strong it makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

‘Sometimes, when you’re as old as I am,’ Linnea Sjostedt says, ‘you don’t always know if you’re dreaming or if what you see or think you see has really happened. I’m sure about Johansson and Lindman, because I’d already had my first cup of coffee by then, but could I have seen something before that? I’m not sure.’

‘So you did see something before that, Linnea?’

Malin is making an effort to sound serious. As if dreams really did exist.

‘Well, I think I saw a black car driving towards the castle at the crack of dawn. But I’m not sure. Sometimes I dream that I’ve got up, and this could have been one of those dreams.’

‘A black car?’

Linnea Sjostedt nods.

‘Any particular make or model?’

‘Maybe an estate car. It was big. I’ve never paid any attention to makes of cars.’

‘Do you rent this cottage from the estate?’ Malin asks.

‘No, thank heavens, my father bought it from the Fagelsjos in the fifties. I moved in twenty years ago when my father passed away.’

‘What about Petersson, what do you know about him?’

‘He called and introduced himself. Nice young man, even if he probably wasn’t always as nice as that. All that business with Goldman and so on.’

‘Goldman?’

‘Yes, Jochen Goldman. The one who conned all that money out of that financial firm up in Stockholm, several hundred million, then fled abroad. They’re supposed to have worked together. I read about it on the Net. Don’t you know anything, officers? That Goldman’s supposed to be a really nasty piece of work.’

‘Nasty?’ Malin asks.

Linnea Sjostedt doesn’t answer, just shakes her head slowly.

Embarrassing, Malin thinks. Put to rights by an eighty-year-old woman. But she was right, Goldman did feature in the article in the Correspondent, even if the focus was more on Petersson here and now, his plans for the castle and how he was supposed to have all but driven out the Fagelsjos.

But she remembers Jochen Goldman. How he emptied a listed company of money with the help of some French count, how he’s spent ten years on the run, getting loads of media attention, publishing books about his life evading the law, until now; for the past year or so, his crimes can no longer be tried thanks to the statute of limitations.

And none of them remembered the connection between the financial crook and their victim during their meeting in the castle?

Strange. But presumably their detective brains hadn’t woken up properly by then. Just as foggy as this autumn weather.

Irritated, Malin asks: ‘What were you doing last night and this morning?’

‘Inspector, do you really think I had anything to do with Petersson’s demise?’

‘I don’t think anything,’ Malin says. ‘Just answer the question, please.’

‘I got home at about four o’clock this morning. With Linkoping Taxis, so you can check that. I spent last night with my lover, Anton, he lives in Valla. You can have his number as well.’

‘Thank you,’ Zeke says, ‘but I don’t think that will be necessary. Is there anything else you think we ought to know?’

The old woman’s eyes sparkle.

She opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind before any words pass her lips.

Zeke is about to start the car. He’s just patted the dog’s head, talking to it, calming it down, settling it back down on the floor again. It doesn’t seem to want to look at the forest and fields.

My brain isn’t working properly, Malin thinks.

It wants more drink.

Goldman.

One of the biggest fraud cases in Swedish history, and he managed to stay hidden until the time limit for charges being pressed had elapsed.

And Petersson had dealings with someone like that. They’ve got a lot to look into, there are masses of files in several rooms of the castle, and when there’s been a murder they can seize whatever they want, without the permission of the victim’s solicitor. If Jerry Petersson was in business with Goldman, how many others like him are there?

Malin looks out over the mist-shrouded field and forest and road. Thousands of different shades of grey blurring together. The wind is strong enough to send the leaves flying like flakes of copper across the green-black ground, swirling to and fro like metallic stars hanging in an absurdly low sky. In a clearing there are several ridges of deep-red leaves, like the blood pouring from Jerry Petersson’s body.

Must call Tove.

Malin tries to focus her gaze, but everything is floating in front of her eyes. The rear-view mirror. She doesn’t want to look in it, hates her swollen features, the reason why she looks like that, doesn’t want to see the shame etched in her forehead, in the tiniest corner of her face. The car seems to contract. She’s having trouble breathing. Wants to jump out. Tove. Janne. How are you ever going to forgive me?

Damn.

Just give me a fucking big drink. Now. I’m pouring with sweat. I know all the things I ought to do, but I can’t handle any of it.

‘Are you OK?’ Zeke asks.

‘Fine,’ she replies. Forces herself to think about their heaven-sent case.

A black car in a dream? Lindman’s? Johansson’s? But why?

Jochen Goldman.

The entire Fagelsjo family.

Avaricious bastards in general.

I wonder which one it’s worth annoying most?

15

The very thought of going through all the files is making Johan Jakobsson annoyed. How many have they carried into the room now?

Two hundred? Three hundred?

His light blue shirt is flecked grey with dust from all the carrying.

Johan surveys the meeting room in the heart of the police station. Burps and gets a taste of the mince he had for lunch.

The windowless room, with its grey-white textured wallpaper and basic shelving, is going to be their strategy room for the duration of the investigation into the murder of Jerry Petersson.

Two hard-drives.

A successful working life gathered together in a corner of the police station. Grim, Johan thinks, but he is also rather glad that something’s actually happening today. They hadn’t even reached Nassjo and his parents-in-law when Sven Sjoman rang, told him what had happened and asked if he could come in.

‘I’m on my way. I’ll be there in an hour or two.’

His wife had been furious, and he didn’t really blame her. She had reluctantly driven him to Skogsa, then turned back towards Nassjo on her own with the children.

Even all the impending paperwork is preferable to hobnobbing with the oldies in Nassjo. They have far too many opinions about things in general, and about Johan’s family in particular, for him to enjoy their company.

Everyone should mind their own business.

It is much better that way.

The files of documents and the hard-drives full of more documents are all concerned with instances of people minding their own business, Johan is certain of that. Who knows what they might find here? And what might that lead to? Or else they’ll find nothing. It’s not against the law to have a dodgy reputation.

The files are marked by year, and occasionally by name.

So far they’ve only taken a quick glance at a couple of them, but Jerry Petersson seems to have been a meticulous record-keeper, and every document appears to be in exactly the right place. This won’t make his and Waldemar Ekenberg’s job any less wide-ranging, but it will make it a fraction easier.

The names on the files.

He doesn’t recognise them, apart from one: Goldman. A mocking shadow who almost seems to be a fictional character, even though he really does exist. Malin called and mentioned the connection to Goldman, and now the files with his name on are on the table in front of Johan. There must be at least thirty of them, full of the specific details of avarice.

Malin’s voice. It sounded rough, in the way that only alcohol can make a voice rough. And she sounded tired and sad. She’s been looking more and more tired, and Johan has often felt like asking how she is, but Malin Fors isn’t the kind of person with whom you exchange small talk about feelings.

The door of the room flies open with an angry bang.

In the doorway stands Waldemar, weighed down by two boxes.

Files, documents, computer disks.

This is ideal for me, Johan thinks, but Waldemar sees the job as a punishment, and maybe it is on some level: Sven wants to keep their renowned loose cannon under control. His reputation is deserved, Johan has seen him use physical force to get information out of people. Once Waldemar shoved the barrel of his pistol deep into the throat of a suspect to make him tell the truth. But violence can work. In the short term. In the end it always ends up biting its own tail.

Waldemar drops the boxes unceremoniously in a corner of the room.

Stretches his back.

Huffs and puffs, mutters something about needing a fag, then he sits down on one of the chairs around the table, and Johan sees the uncomfortable back of the chair bow under his colleague’s weight.

‘Christ, look at all this fucking work in here.’

‘If we’re lucky, something will come up to save us going through most of it,’ Johan Jakobsson says.

He remembers clearing out his parents’ flat four years ago, when Dad died just months after Mum. The way he had hunted through all their papers, looking for something that he reluctantly had to admit was probably money, a banker’s draft for a large sum of money, a lottery win, the only way his parents would ever have managed to get a large amount of money.

But there was no money. And he was ashamed.

‘Do you believe that?’ Waldemar says.

‘No.’

‘What’s to say that this Petersson wasn’t a fucking crook? He could have had contacts in the underworld. We ought to check. I could head out and make a few inquiries.’

‘We need to concentrate on the paperwork,’ Johan says wearily.

Waldemar pulls out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and holds it towards Johan.

‘Want one? You don’t mind me smoking in here, do you?’

The room is full of retch-inducing cigarette smoke.

Smoking isn’t permitted anywhere in the police station, but Johan couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to look like an asthmatic weakling in front of the tough guy.

Why, Johan wonders, do I give a shit what he thinks?

But I do.

They leaf through a few files at random. They’ve ordered extra screens from the techs so they can go through the contents of Petersson’s hard-drives here in the room.

Where to begin?

No idea, and Waldemar seems to think the same, saying: ‘There’s so fucking much of it. We need help. And it’s all going to be financial stuff that I honestly won’t have a clue about. Do you know about stuff like that?’

Johan shakes his head. ‘Only a little.’

‘We need someone from Economic Crime.’

‘And it would make sense to do a serious search online first. See if we can find something that looks dodgy. Not least considering his dealings with Goldman.’

Then Waldemar drops a black folder on the floor. He swears as he picks it up and puts it on its own on the top shelf.

Paper, paper, paper, Johan thinks.

A life as a commercial lawyer, a solicitor.

A paper-producer.

As a surreptitious criminal? You don’t have friends like Goldman without being a bit suspect. Do you?

Jerry Petersson’s name produces 1,278,989 hits on Google. Maybe a thousand of them might be their Jerry Petersson. The name of his company in Stockholm appears in a few places. Petersson Legal Services Ltd.

Johan has checked the latest company results. Petersson seemed to have worked alone, not one single employee, not even a secretary. His accountants were named, but he needn’t necessarily even have had to meet them in person. No financial results for the company since Petersson bought Skogsa, just a declaration that the company was dormant. But at the same time he had started a new business, Rom Productions, to manage Skogsa. Nothing unusual anywhere, from what Johan could see at a quick glance, with his limited grasp of accounting.

There are still a fair number of hits, Johan thinks, trying to ignore the sour blast of coffee and smoke that hits him in the ear every time Waldemar breathes.

They’re sitting at Johan’s desk in the open-plan office, at his computer, keen to get out of the cell.

A lot of the hits seem to be about a seventeen-year-old golfer from Arboga.

Several of them link Petersson to Goldman. Articles in the main business dailies and magazines. It looks as if Petersson represented Goldman while he was on the run, acting as his intermediary in Goldman’s dealings with the authorities and media.

A few other hits concerned with business. But no juicy stories, only boring and apparently perfectly normal business dealings.

Then Jerry Petersson’s name pops up in connection with an IT company that was sold to Microsoft early in 2002. Petersson was said to be one of the main backers, and as a result of the sale he made a profit of almost two hundred and fifty million kronor.

Johan lets out a whistle.

Waldemar sighs, says: ‘Fuck off.’

Working as a lawyer may have made you well-off, Johan thinks, but Christ, this deal made you absurdly rich.

They read about the deal.

Nothing about any disagreements. Everything seems to have been done by the book. Nothing odd at all, only a number of happy new multi-millionaires.

And then Goldman again.

According to one article from earlier this year, when his crime fell under the statute of limitations, he was living in Tenerife at the time. The article was illustrated with several pictures of a rather fat toad-like man with dark hair and sunglasses. The man was shown seated behind the wheel of a large motor yacht in a sun-drenched harbour.

‘This is where we start,’ Johan says.

‘OK,’ Waldemar says. ‘But I still think we should ask out on the street as well.’

Sven Sjoman is walking up and down in his office, he almost misses his bulging stomach at times like this, the solid, thought-inspiring mound beneath his clasped hands. Instead there’s now practically nothing beneath his beige shirt and brown jacket.

Karim Akbar is standing by his desk. He’s just called Stockholm and asked for support from Economic Crime.

Press conference in twenty minutes.

They’ve just received Karin’s preliminary report.

The post-mortem on Jerry Petersson showed that he died of a blow to the back of the neck from a blunt instrument, possibly a rock. The knife wounds to his torso, forty in total, were in all likelihood inflicted after Petersson’s death, or after he lost consciousness from the blow to the head.

There was no water in his lungs, so he was definitely dead by the time his body was dumped in the moat. To judge by the condition of the body, death occurred some time between four and half past six that morning. He hadn’t been in the water for longer than four hours at the most. Murder was the only possible explanation for the cause of death. The perpetrator could be male or female, the knife wounds were deep, but not so deep that a woman couldn’t have inflicted them. The perpetrator was, to judge by the distribution and direction of the wounds, probably right-handed.

The forensic examination of Petersson’s car wasn’t yet complete, but the search of the gravel courtyard in front of the castle hadn’t produced anything. The rain had destroyed any evidence that might have been there.

The search of the castle had yielded thousands of different fingerprints. A lot of them could be decades old, and there were no signs of obvious criminal activity anywhere. The victim’s possessions appeared to be untouched. In other words, no indications that robbery was the motive. The castle chapel and other buildings were also clean.

They were in the process of draining the moat in the search for the murder weapon, because the divers hadn’t been able to find anything in the sludge at the bottom. Sven was worried about the fish at first, until he accepted that they were a necessary sacrifice.

‘How are you going to play this?’

Sven looks over at Karim.

‘Tell it like it is. Without any details.’

‘The connection to Goldman?’

‘They’ve already found that. It’s on the Correspondent’s website. TV4 are running with it. And doubtless more to come. They’re making a bloody big deal out of it.’

Then Sven sees Malin’s face before him. She looked worse than ever out at the castle. Red and puffy, almost old. She might well have been drinking all night. Had something happened? With Tove? She blames herself for what happened in Finspang last summer. Or is this about her and Janne? It doesn’t seem to be going very well.

‘Bloody hell,’ Sven says finally. ‘Why do I have a feeling that we’re only at the start of a whole load of misery?’