Текст книги "Autumn Killing"

Автор книги: Mons Kallentoft

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

18

‘What the hell happened?’

Zeke’s hands are shaking slightly on the steering wheel as they drive back towards Linkoping, past the white-tiled block of flats in Skaggetorp and the big Arla dairy in Tornby. They pass one of the Correspondent’s reporters’ cars. Is that Daniel driving? They’re utterly tireless, those vultures.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Malin says. The adrenalin has dropped, her headache and angst are back, and a clearly intoxicated Fredrik Fagelsjo is safely installed in the back seat of the patrol car. Malin didn’t want him in the car with them, she and Zeke both needed time to calm down.

A van from the local television news.

‘But maybe,’ Malin goes on, ‘he’s involved in this somehow and he got it into his head that we know, and that’s why he tried to escape. And then realised how pointless it was out in the field, in all that rain.’

‘Or else he was just drunk and panicked when we tried to stop him,’ Zeke says.

‘Well, we’ll find out when we question him. But he could very well be our man,’ Malin replies, but she’s thinking that there’s something here that doesn’t add up, that the case can’t be that simple. Or can it?

Her mobile rings and she sees Sven Sjoman’s name on the display.

‘I’ve heard,’ Sven says. ‘Very odd. Could it be him? What do you think?’

‘Maybe. We’ll interview him when we get back to the station.’

‘Johan and Waldemar can do that,’ Sven says. ‘You two can try to get hold of Katarina Fagelsjo. Put her under pressure while her brother’s idiotic behaviour’s still fresh.’

Malin feels like protesting at first. Then she relaxes. If there’s anyone who can get anything out of Fredrik Fagelsjo, it’s Waldemar Ekenberg.

Fredrik didn’t say a word when they pulled him to his feet and led him back over the field. He maintained his silence as they put him in the patrol car.

‘OK. That’s what we’ll do,’ Malin says. ‘Anything else?’

‘Not much. Johan and Waldemar have called a number of people and companies whose names crop up in Petersson’s files. But it hasn’t led to anything.’

‘Any signs of a lover?’

‘No love at all,’ Sven replies.

Katarina Fagelsjo answered her phone.

Was prepared to see them, and now Malin and Zeke are heading along Brokindsleden in silence through the dim afternoon light.

They’re both trying to catch their breath, to get back to their normal energy levels before they see her.

They drive past the development of detached houses in Hjulsbro.

In Malin’s social studies textbook the area was mentioned as an upper-class reserve alongside the Upper East Side in New York City, but the upper-class don’t live here. More like the moneyed middle-class.

In Hjulsbro the doctors’ villas huddle together, nondescript from the outside, but large and tastefully furnished when you get inside. One of the most expensive and prestigious residential areas of the city, but still a bit feeble somehow, compared to Djursholm in Stockholm or Orgryte in Gothenburg.

As they drive through the area Malin can understand everyone who grows up in a provincial city and moves to a larger one as soon as they possibly can, a world with greater depths and heights than an ordinary, godforsaken Swedish city can offer, no matter how jumped-up it is.

Stockholm.

She lived there with Tove while she was studying at the Police Academy. In a sublet one-room flat in Traneberg, and all she can remember is studying and trips to the nursery, babysitters found in the local papers, young girls who were expensive and unreliable, and the fact that Stockholm didn’t have a damn thing to offer an impoverished single mother. The whole city felt shut off, as if all its opportunities and secrets could never be hers, and which seemed to mock her relentlessly as a result.

The exact opposite must have been true for Jerry Petersson.

Malin had been offered a post in Stockholm several times, most recently last summer when there was a vacancy in the Violent Crime Unit and the boss, someone called Kornman, had tried to headhunt her. He called her in person, said he was familiar with her work, and asked if she felt like expanding her territory.

Malin had a feeling they needed more women.

She’d just got the life she dreamed of with Janne and Tove, before everything went to hell. So she had turned the offer down.

And now, in the car, she’s cursing herself. A fresh start might be just what I need? Or would the big city break me? Mind you, a small city seems to be able to do that well enough.

Almost, anyway.

The radio is on.

She persuaded Zeke that they shouldn’t listen to his choral music, and he agreed to listen to good old local radio.

The final notes of Grand Archives’ ‘Torn Blue Foam Couch’ have just faded away, and now Malin can hear the low voice of her friend, radio presenter Helen Aneman.

She’s talking about their victim.

About Jerry Petersson, for whom no one seems to feel sorry, about whom no one seems to care much. And no one seems particularly upset about what’s happened.

But somewhere there’s someone who misses you, Malin thinks as she listens to Helen, and I’m going to make sure that person knows what really happened. Maybe your father, we’ll deal with him in the fullness of time. You had no brothers or sisters, and your mother’s dead, we know that much. Maybe a woman, or maybe even a child, even if you didn’t have any of your own.

‘One of the city’s wealthiest sons has passed away,’ Helen says. ‘The IT millionaire, according to the rumours the criminals’ friend, an exciting character that we might not get to know much about. He bought Skogsa a year or so ago, the famous seat of the aristocratic Fagelsjo dynasty. . Petersson may not have been the best-behaved person in the world, but surely he didn’t deserve a fate like that? What do you think? Call in if you’ve got anything to say about Jerry Petersson.’

A Madonna song.

‘American Pie’.

Zeke sings along. Maybe the song makes him think about Martin in Vancouver? About his grandchild? Or maybe they sing it in that choir he belongs to?

They’re past Hjulsbro now.

The suffocating, petit bourgeois enclave left behind.

Zeke accelerates and the car responds. They turn off.

Ahead of them she can see Landeryd Golf Club. The huge balloon-like building, home to the city’s driving range.

A golfer’s paradise in this autumn hell.

Where golf balls rain through the air.

19

The golf balls are whining through the air under the metal roof of the hangar-like building, several hundred metres long, bouncing high as they land.

Thirteen places.

The sound the clubs make when they strike the balls is like being hit over the ear.

A bucket of fifty balls costs two hundred kronor. An insignificant sum to anyone who belongs to any of the city’s golf clubs.

Putters.

Wooden clubs.

Jerry Petersson was struck on the back of the head with a blunt object, but hardly a golf club, Malin thinks as they approach the slender, tall figure of Katarina Fagelsjo.

‘I’m in thirteen. At the far end, next to the wall.’

No surprise when they called to say they wanted to talk to her, she knew what had happened, but could hardly be aware of what her brother has just done.

Aggressive swings, curses, balls hitting the walls and ceiling, and the noise is like the inside of a swimming pool, and there’s a similarly stale, damp smell, just without the chlorine.

People voluntarily spend the whole afternoon here, Malin thinks as she studies Katarina as she takes an apparently light and elegant swing. Her body is strong, and it’s clear that she possesses the self-confidence about herself and her life that everyone with her background has, imprinted on them from the day they open their eyes and see the world for the first time.

Katarina raises a metal club, takes aim and drops her shoulder, and the club makes a fine arc down towards the ball on the tee in the astroturf.

She must have a low handicap, Malin thinks. And she’s right-handed.

Katarina must have seen them from the corner of her eye.

She stops, turns around, looks at them, and steps down from the low platform she’s standing on. She holds out her hand, and Malin thinks that she must have been beautiful once, that she almost is now, with the same sharp nose as her brother, fine cheekbones, but there are too many wrinkles in her forehead, too much grey in her shoulder-length blonde hair.

Bitter wrinkles. Evidence of discontent around her mouth. Sad eyes, full of a peculiar longing.

She says hello to Malin first, then Zeke.

They show their ID.

Katarina runs a hand over her forehead and Malin thinks that she’s probably only five years older than me, she could have been in the same school as me, ahead of me, the same school as Jerry Petersson. If she didn’t go to a private school like Sigtuna or Lundsberg.

‘Can we do this here?’ Katarina asks, leaning her club on the ground. ‘Or shall we go to the restaurant?’

‘We can do it here,’ Malin says. ‘You know why we want to talk to you? We didn’t have time to say over the phone.’

‘Jerry Petersson. I can put two and two together.’

‘And the fact that your brother tried to drive away from us today.’

Katarina’s mouth drops open, her eyebrows rise briefly, but just a few seconds later she’s collected herself again.

‘My brother did what?’

Malin tells her about the car chase, how he tried to escape when they attempted to talk to him, and that he is now being questioned at the police station.

‘So he was leaving the Ekoxen?’ Katarina said. ‘He was probably worried you were going to get him for drink-driving. He’s been caught before, after a friend’s party three years ago, so this time he’d have ended up in prison.’

Drink-driving. Driving under the influence of alcohol. I did that yesterday, Malin thinks, batting the thought aside like a golf ball.

‘We caught him,’ Zeke says. ‘And he was drunk.’

‘Maybe he tried to escape because he had something to do with Jerry Petersson’s murder?’ Malin asks, hoping the direct question will provoke a reaction.

‘What, my brother kill someone? Hardly.’ Katarina’s face is completely blank as she waits for the next question, and Malin feels tired just looking at it. It’s almost five o’clock already, and even though Malin knows they need to get further with the investigation, all she wants is to be at home, having a shower, and then what?

Feel sorry for myself.

Fucking sorry.

Liquidly sorry.

Her headache has faded, but her body is screaming for more, her anxiety is like a fist around her heart. Have to get a grip on a hell of a lot of different things. Can I handle that?

And now this woman in front of me, stuck-up and stroppy, yet still somehow open and pleasant. Is that what they call social competence?

‘So you don’t believe that?’ Zeke asks.

‘My brother’s harmless. Maybe not entirely, but he’s certainly not violent.’

‘Can you tell us anything about him?’ Zeke asks.

‘He can do that better himself.’

Katarina pulls another club from her bag. Looks it up and down.

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Malin says, thinking: focus on Katarina herself instead.

‘What were you doing last night and this morning?’

‘My father was with me yesterday evening. We were drinking tea.’

‘He told us he left at ten o’clock. What did you do after he left?’

Katarina clears her throat.

‘I went to see my lover. Senior consultant Jan Andergren. He can confirm that I was there till this morning.’

She gives them a number, which Zeke taps straight into his mobile.

‘I like white coats,’ Katarina jokes. ‘But you should know that he’s only a lover, I’ve seen him a few times, and I’m not planning to see him many more.’

‘Why not?’ Malin says, and Katarina adopts an expression that seems to say: What business is that of yours?

‘Don’t you know? The golden rule for affairs. More than five times, and there’s a risk you start thinking it’s love.’

Don’t put on airs just because you’re fucking a doctor, Malin thinks. Don’t try acting the tease with me, Katarina Fagelsjo. I’m far too tired to put up with that.

‘Did you have any dealings with Petersson?’ Zeke asks.

‘None at all,’ she says hesitantly, before carrying on in a firm voice: ‘Fredrik and Father looked after all that. Why?’

‘The sale of the castle,’ Malin says. ‘You weren’t opposed to it?’

‘No. It was time. It was simply time to sell up. Time for the family to move on.’

You’re saying the same as your father, Axel, Malin thinks. Has he told you what to say?

‘You didn’t want to take over?’

‘I’ve never had any ambitions of that sort.’

The balls are still whining around them.

Pointless projectiles.

What a stupid sport, Malin thinks, as Katarina adjusts the belt of her blue trousers, checks the collar of her pink cotton sweater and puts the club back in the bag.

‘We’ve heard rumours that you were forced to sell because of financial problems. Is that right?’

‘Inspector. We’re an aristocratic family that goes back several hundred years. Almost half a millennium. We don’t like talking about money, but we have never, I repeat never, had any financial problems.’

‘Can I ask what your job is?’ Zeke asks.

‘I don’t work. Since my divorce I’ve been taking it easy. Before that I worked in art.’

‘Art?’

‘I had a gallery specialising in nineteenth-century painting. Mainly reasonably priced Ostgota artists like Krouthen. But some more expensive ones as well. Do you know Eugene Jansson? He was my speciality, along with the female Danish national-romantics.’

Malin and Zeke shake their heads.

‘Did you used to know Jerry Petersson?’ Zeke asks.

‘No.’

‘Was your divorce recent?’ Malin asks.

‘No, ten years ago.’

‘Children?’

Katarina’s eyes darken, she seems to be wondering why this is important.

‘No,’ she replies.

‘You were the same age, you and Petersson,’ Malin says. ‘Did you go to the same school?’

Katarina stares out at the driving range.

‘We were at the Cathedral School. He was in the third year at the same time as my brother when I was in the first year.’

Malin and Zeke look at each other.

‘I remember him,’ Katarina goes on, still looking out at the driving range. ‘But we didn’t socialise. He didn’t belong to my social circle. But we probably attended a few of the same parties, that couldn’t be helped.’

No, Malin thinks. All manner of worlds collide in high school, whether you want them to or not. People might well end up at the same parties, but that didn’t necessarily mean any more than two strangers visiting the same bar today.

‘So who did you hang out with?’ Zeke asks.

‘A girls’ gang.’

‘So you never saw each other socially?’

Katarina looks at them again, and a flash of sorrow seems to cross her eyes.

‘What did I just say?’ she says.

‘We heard,’ Malin says.

Katarina’s thin lips contract to a narrow line.

‘And now Jerry Petersson’s sitting like some bloody Gatsby out in our castle.’

Sudden desperation in both voice and eyes.

‘He may well have sat there like Gatsby,’ Malin says. ‘But right now he’s lying on a mortuary slab over in the National Forensics Laboratory.’

Katarina turns away from them again, puts a ball on the tee, strikes at it furiously, and the ball flies off to the right.

‘What sort of car do you drive?’ Zeke says when she looks back at them again.

‘That’s my business,’ Katarina says. ‘I don’t want to be impolite, but that’s none of your business.’

‘There’s something you need to understand,’ Malin says. ‘As long as we’re looking for Jerry Petersson’s murderer, every single hair on your backside is our business.’

Katarina smiles and says: ‘OK, Inspector, calm down. Nice and calm. I drive a red Toyota, if it’s really so important.’

Malin turns away.

Walks out of golfing hell. She hears Zeke thank Katarina for her time. Thank God he doesn’t apologise for her behaviour.

‘Be nice to my brother,’ Katarina calls after them. ‘He’s harmless.’

‘Even if you have problems with people like that, you really have got to get a grip. You can’t talk to people that way. No matter how rough you’re feeling.’

Zeke is in the driver’s seat, telling her off as they drive out of the car park in Landeryd. The rain is still pouring from the sky, and the darkness of the approaching evening makes Linkoping another degree less welcoming.

‘I don’t feel rough,’ Malin says.

Then she nods.

‘You know what it’s like. Fucking awful people like that.’

And she knows that anger is a way of covering up insecurity, it’s kindergarten psychology, and she feels ashamed, and hopes Zeke can’t see her blushing.

‘She’s hiding something. Just like her father,’ Zeke says. ‘And possibly her brother too.’

‘Yes, she is,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe it’s a family trait, playing with the truth.’

‘Or else they just want to make our job as hard as possible,’ Zeke says.

They pass the villas of Hjulsbro once more, and the white blocks of rented flats with their balcony corridors opposite, on the other side of Brokindsleden. The rain is driving horizontally across the road, as if the wind and rain were trying to connect the different worlds.

‘We’ll just have to see if the interview with Fredrik Fagelsjo comes up with anything,’ Zeke says. ‘They’re probably in the middle of it by now, if he’s sobered up a bit.’

20

The hands on the clock in Interview Room One in the basement of Linkoping Police Station move silently.

One minute past six.

The greyish-black walls are covered with textured, soundproof panelling, and the halogen lamps are positioned so that they cast cones of light over the four chairs that are fixed to the floor around the oblong metal table. The chairs have only recently been fastened down, after too many suspects ended up smashing them into the walls.

A one-way mirror on one wall opens onto the observation room where Sven Sjoman and Karim Akbar are watching the people inside the room.

Johan Jakobsson is looking at Fredrik Fagelsjo. The blood test showed just under one part per thousand, but he seems to have sobered up rapidly. The look in his eyes in the dim light on the other side of the table is clear and alert. Beside Johan, Waldemar Ekenberg shifts on his chair, trying to get comfortable. Fagelsjo is dressed in a blue blazer and yellow shirt, and beside him sits his lawyer, a smart fellow named Karl Ehrenstierna whom Johan has met in other interviews, all of which have produced exactly nothing. We’ll see, Johan thinks, maybe we can outsmart you this time.

He starts the little tape recorder in the middle of the table.

‘Interview with Fagelsjo concerning the investigation into the murder of Jerry Petersson, as well as other offences. Friday 24 October, time 18.04.’

Up to now Fagelsjo has hardly said a word. He said yes when they asked if he wanted a lawyer present at the interview, told them Ehrenstierna’s name without giving them his number, probably assumed they had it. Then he asked to call his wife Christina, and Sven couldn’t see any reason not to let him. They had enough to hold him for a number of less serious offences, but as far as the murder of Jerry Petersson was concerned, Fagelsjo was so far just a name that had cropped up in the investigation. Not enough for a search warrant in conjunction with a murder investigation, but they had seized his car, which was being examined by Forensics.

‘Let’s start with today’s events,’ Johan says. ‘Why did you try to run when the police indicated that you should pull over?’

Fagelsjo gives his lawyer an anxious look, as if he’s wondering how they’re going to direct this interview the way they want, and not fall into any traps laid by the police. The lawyer nods at him to answer.

‘I got scared,’ Fagelsjo says, quickly wiping a few drops of sweat from his upper lip. ‘I knew I’d had too much to drink. And I didn’t want to get caught for drink-driving again and end up inside Skanninge. So I panicked and tried to run. It was as if my mind went blank and then, once I’d started, there was no going back. Ridiculously stupid. I really must apologise.’

‘A fucking apology probably isn’t going to be enough,’ Waldemar says.

‘No swearing, please,’ Ehrenstierna says, and Waldemar clenches his jaw and says: ‘You could have killed innocent people. We’ve got you for drink-driving, obstructing police officers, reckless driving, and probably another dozen charges. Are you an alcoholic?’

Ehrenstierna says nothing.

‘Perhaps you’d like to admit that your guilty of those offences?’ Waldemar says.

‘I won’t make the procedure any more difficult,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘And no, I’m not an alcoholic. But sometimes I drink a bit too much. Doesn’t everyone? I panicked. And I’m guilty of driving while intoxicated. But that isn’t the main reason why I’m sitting here, is it?’

‘No,’ Waldemar says, leaning over the table.‘The main reason we want to talk to you is the murder of Jerry Petersson.’

‘I don’t suppose you tried to escape because you thought we were going to arrest you in connection with the murder?’ Johan asks.

‘My client has already explained why he tried to escape when you attempted to pull him over,’ Ehrenstierna says.

‘I didn’t even know that Petersson had been murdered. My lawyer told me a short while ago.’

Ehrenstierna nods.

Then the look in Fagelsjo’s eyes changes and he starts talking before Ehrenstierna has a chance to stop him.

‘Let me put it like this. You found the clown dead. Murdered, even. Great news, I don’t mind saying so.’

Fagelsjo’s body, so tired up to now, comes to life, every muscle seems to flex.

That’s cheap, Johan thinks, and looks at Waldemar with an expression that means: Keep pushing.

Ehrenstierna puts a hand on Fagelsjo’s shoulder and says: ‘Take it easy, Fredrik.’

‘So you wanted to see him dead?’ Waldemar asks.

‘My client isn’t going to answer that.’

‘You can trust us,’ Johan says. ‘We mean you well. If you had nothing to do with the murder, then we want to know, and if you did, then we’ll try to make the best of the situation. Surely you’d agree that it looks odd that you tried to escape? There’s something you want to say. Isn’t there?’

‘My client won’t be answering that either. And he has explained why. .’

‘What were you doing last night and this morning?’ Waldemar asks.

‘I was at home with my wife.’

‘Are you sure?’ Waldemar says.

‘Can she confirm that?’ Johan asks.

‘She can confirm that,’ Ehrenstierna says. ‘They were out at the Villa Italia, in Ledberg, where you caught up with my client.’

‘So you weren’t out at Skogsa?’ Waldemar says.

Neither of the men on the other side of the table answers.

‘We’ve heard that there were financial difficulties behind the sale of Skogsa. Is that correct?’ Johan asks instead.

‘I was tired of all that crap,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘It was time to sell up. Father’s too old and I didn’t want to take over. Nor did my sister.’

‘So there’s nothing you want to tell us? About bad business decisions? About why you hate Jerry Petersson, the clown who took over? The man you wanted to see dead?’

Waldemar’s voice is angry as he tosses the words across the table.

‘That Petersson,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘He was the worst sort of upstart, the sort who could never understand the importance of an estate like Skogsa. But he paid handsomely. And if you think I had anything to do with this, good luck to you. Prove it. Like I said, I got scared and I panicked. I’m prepared to take my punishment.’

‘Did you know Petersson from before?’

‘I knew who he was,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘We were at the same high school, the Cathedral School, at the same time. But I didn’t know him at all. We didn’t move in the same circles. We might have been at a few of the same parties. It’s a small world, after all.’

‘So you didn’t really have anything to do with each other? Neither then, nor later on?’

‘Only when the castle was going to be sold. But even then I didn’t actually meet him.’

‘I’m surprised,’ Waldemar says. ‘I thought your sort all went to Sigtuna or Landsberg.’

‘Lundsberg,’ Ehrenstierna says. ‘It’s Lundsberg. Even I went to Lundsberg. Have you got any more questions for my client? About his education, or anything else?’

Waldemar gets up quickly, fixing his snake’s gaze on Fagelsjo’s eyes.

‘Tell us what you know, you bastard. You’re hiding loads of shit, aren’t you?’

Fredrik Fagelsjo and his lawyer jerk back.

‘You were out at the castle, you wanted to pay Petersson back for taking the land away from you, didn’t you? You lost your grip and stabbed him, over and over again. Confess!’ Waldemar shouts. ‘Confess!’

The door of the room flies open, Karim rushes in, switches off the tape recorder, and he and Johan help calm Waldemar down as Sven tells Fagelsjo and his lawyer that the prosecutor has decided to remand him in custody under suspicion of aggravated drink-driving and aggravated reckless driving.

Ehrenstierna protests, but feebly, aware that the decision has already been taken and that he can’t do anything about it here and now.

Fagelsjo’s face is a mystery, Johan thinks, as the young aristocrat is led out of the room by a uniform.

Noble, but evasive. His anxious eyes superior now. Johan thinks, he knows we don’t have anything on him. But he could very well be guilty. And from now on, he’s our prime suspect.

Malin drops Zeke off outside his red-painted house.

‘Take the car,’ he says. ‘But try to drive carefully.’

He slams the door behind him, not in anger but exhaustion, and walks away.

The black tiles of the house are like a reluctant drum for the raindrops.

There’s a light on in the kitchen.

A Saturday at work tomorrow. No chance of getting any time off while they’ve got a completely fresh murder.

Sven Sjoman has called a meeting for eight o’clock. Police Constable Aronsson spoke to Fredrik Fagelsjo’s wife Christina immediately after Johan Jakobsson and Waldemar Ekenberg finished questioning him. His wife gave him an alibi for the night of the murder, said he probably panicked when they tried to pull him over, that he sometimes drank too much but that he wasn’t an alcoholic.

Malin lets the engine run in neutral, trying to summon the energy to drive off into the evening, but how, tell me how, she thinks, am I going to be able to face the hours that remain of today?

She doesn’t feel up to getting to grips with anything. What happened yesterday feels unreal, as if it took place a thousand years ago, if it actually happened at all.

She puts the car in first gear.

As she’s about to drive off she sees Zeke open the front door and run out into the rain, she can see the raindrops almost caressing his shaved head, but it’s not a good feeling, she can tell from the look on his face.

Malin winds the window down.

‘Gunilla’s wondering if you’d like to stay for dinner?’

‘But not you?’

‘Don’t be daft, Fors. Come in. Get some hot food. It’ll do you good.’

‘Another time, Zeke. Say hi to Gunilla, and thank her for the offer.’

Gunilla?

Wouldn’t you rather have Karin Johannison in there? Malin thinks.

‘Come in and have something to eat with us,’ Zeke says. ‘That’s an order. Do you really want to be on your own tonight?’

Malin gives him a tired smile.

‘You don’t give me orders.’

She drives off with the window open, in the rear-view mirror she sees Zeke standing in the rain, as some autumn leaves shimmer rust-red in the glow of the car’s rear lights.

It’s dark outside as she drives into the city. Damn this darkness.

What a day. A murder. A dirty great murder. A crazy car chase. An old woman with a shotgun. No time to think about all the other crap. Sometimes she loves all the human manure this city is capable of producing.

Clothes.

Must have clothes.

Maybe I could go out to the house and quickly pick up what I need. But maybe Janne would ask me to stay, Tove would watch me with that pleading look in her eyes, and then I’d want to as well.

Then Malin catches a glimpse of her face in the rear-view mirror and she turns away, and suddenly realises what she’s done: she’s left the man she loves, she’s hit him, she put their daughter in mortal danger, and instead of helping herself move on she’s flown straight into her own crap, given in to her worst instincts, given in to her love of intoxication, for the soft-edged cotton-wool world where nothing exists. No past, no here and now, and no future. But it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, and she feels so ashamed that it takes over her breathing, the whole of her body, and she wants to drive out to the house in Malmslatt, but instead she drives to Tornby, to the Ikea car park, parks in a distant corner and gets out.

She stands in the rain and looks at the darkness around her. The place is completely anonymous and deserted, and even though it’s wide open, the light from the retail units doesn’t reach this far.

She heads over to the shopping centre. Wants to call Tove, ask her for advice, but she can’t. After all, that’s why I’m here, because I’ve fucked everything up beyond hope of salvation.

She moves through the rows of clothes in H amp;M, grabbing underwear and socks and bras, tops, trousers and a cardigan. She pays without even trying on the clothes, they ought to fit, the last thing I want right now is to look at myself in a full-length mirror, my swollen body, red face, shame-filled eyes.

She sinks onto a bench in the main walkway of the shopping centre. Looks over at the bookshop on the other side, the window full of self-help books. How to Get Rich on Happiness, Self-Love!, How to be the Dream Partner!

Fucking hell, get me out of here, she thinks, as nausea takes a grip on her again.

Outside the newsagent’s she sees the flysheets for both Expressen and Aftonbladet:

Businessman Murdered in Castle.

Billionaire Murdered in Moat.

Which one’s going to sell best? The second one?

Half an hour later she’s sitting at the bar in the Hamlet pub. Tucked away at the end, but still within earshot of the old closet alcoholics who make up the regular clientele.

Two quick tequilas have made her vision agreeably foggy, the edges of the world cotton-wool soft and friendly, and it feels as if her heart has found a new, more forgiving rhythm.

Beer.

Warming spirits.

Happy people.

Malin looks around the bar. People enjoying each other’s company.

Mum and Dad. You only had one child, Malin thinks. Why? Dad, I’m sure you would have liked more. But you, Mum, I got in your way, didn’t I? That’s what you thought, isn’t it? You wanted to be more than just an increasingly peculiar secretary at Saab, didn’t you?