Mons Kallentoft - Autumn Killing

‘So how do we think Fredrik got here?’ Zeke asks.

‘Forensics are going to have a look for tyre tracks around the castle. See if they can find any that don’t match the solicitor’s car. There’s nothing to suggest that anyone’s been inside the castle. The alarm was on when they arrived. Well, go and see Axel Fagelsjo now. Before the media announce it.’

‘It’s already out,’ Zeke says.

Cars from the Correspondent and local radio. The main national broadcaster, SVT. TV4. Local television news.

Over-eager vultures. Even if they don’t mention any names, the victim’s relatives can always put two and two together, and no one should find out about a death through the media.

Still no Daniel out there.

In his place an older reporter that Malin, oddly enough, doesn’t recognise, and the photographer, the young girl with dreadlocks that Malin knows takes good pictures. What is it she’s trying to capture here?

Death?

Violence? Evil. Or fear.

Whatever you do, don’t take any pictures of me. I look like a pig.

Sven’s mobile rings.

He hmms a few times beside them. Hangs up.

‘That was Groth in Forensics,’ he says, turning towards Malin. ‘The examination of the pictures of your parents didn’t come up with anything, I’m afraid.’

Malin nods.

‘Shit,’ Zeke says quietly. He was furious when he found out about the pictures this morning. ‘Couldn’t the pictures have something to do with all this?’

‘Somehow it all fits together, doesn’t it?’ Malin says. ‘It’s just a question of how.’

Malin leaves the kitchen and goes out into the main hall, stopping once more in front of the huge painting of a man rubbing suncream onto a woman’s back.

Thinks that the picture is beautiful and tawdry at the same time.

She feels something as she looks at it, but she can’t put her finger on what.

Sven walks past her.

She says: ‘I’d like Zeke and I to deal with Katarina Fagelsjo.’

‘OK, if you think that’s a better idea,’ Sven says. ‘Waldemar and Johan can talk to Fredrik Fagelsjo’s wife instead. But start with his father. And not a word to the bloody media.’

Axel Fagelsjo is standing quietly in front of the sitting-room window. The fog that drifted in when the rain stopped is obstructing the view of the Horticultural Society Park, the naked trees are like thin silhouettes of bodies, and Axel seems to be looking for something, as if he has a feeling that someone down in the park is watching him from a distance and was just waiting for the right opportunity to attack him.

It was as if he knew why they were there, as if he knew what had happened, and, while they still were in the hallway, he said, ‘Out with it, then!’ to Malin and Zeke, as if he had spent all night waiting for them. They asked him to go through to the sitting room and take a seat, but the old man refused: ‘Just say what you’ve got to say here,’ and Malin sat on a worn old rococo stool by the door and said straight out: ‘Your son. Fredrik. He was found dead in the chapel at Skogsa this morning.’

The terrible meaning of the words blew away her insecurities.

‘Had he killed himself? Hanged himself?’

And in Axel Fagelsjo’s face, in the pink confusion of wrinkled skin stretched over fat, Malin saw a hardness, but also something like clarity.

I despised my son. I loved him.

He’s dead, and perhaps now his sins can be forgiven. His sins against me. Against the memory of his mother. His ancestors.

And, deep in his shiny pupils, grief, yet still somehow hidden behind layer upon layer of self-control.

‘He was murdered,’ Zeke said. ‘Your son was murdered.’

As if he wanted to provoke a reaction in Axel, but he merely turned away, went into the sitting room, and over to the window where he is now standing, his back to them as he answers their questions, apparently unconcerned by the circumstances. Malin wishes she could see his face now, his eyes, but she is sure there are no tears running down Axel Fagelsjo’s cheeks.

‘We can tell you the details of your son’s death if you want to hear them,’ Malin says. ‘We know a fair amount already.’

‘How he was found, you mean?’

‘For instance.’

‘I’ll be able to read about it in the paper soon enough, won’t I?’

Malin still tells him what they know, without going into any great detail. Axel remains motionless by the window.

‘Did Fredrik have any enemies?’

‘No. But of course you know that I wasn’t happy with him after the financial debacle.’

‘Anyone who might be trying to get at you?’

Axel shakes his head.

‘What were you doing yesterday evening and last night?’ Zeke asks.

‘I was at Katarina’s. We were talking about the possibility of buying back Skogsa from the estate. Just her and me. It was late when I walked home.’

Father and daughter, Malin thinks. They’re together on the night when Fredrik, the brother, the son, is murdered. Why?

‘Nothing else you think we should know about Fredrik? Any other business deals that might have gone wrong?’

‘He didn’t have that level of authority at the bank.’

‘No?’

‘He was a middleman.’

‘Could he have had anything to do with Jochen Goldman?’

‘Jochen Goldman? Who’s that?’

‘The embezzler,’ Zeke says.

‘I don’t know of any Goldman. But I can’t imagine Fredrik had anything to do with an embezzler.’

‘Why not?’

‘He was too cowardly for that.’

Malin and Zeke look at each other.

‘What about Fredrik’s wife? What was their relationship like?’

‘You’ll have to ask his wife about that.’

‘Do you want us to arrange for someone to come and be with you? We’d prefer not to leave you alone.’

Axel snorts at Malin’s words.

‘Who would you send? A priest? If you don’t have any more questions you can go. It’s time to leave an old man in peace. I need to call an undertaker.’

Malin loses patience with the old man.

‘I don’t suppose your family had Jerry Petersson killed, and then Fredrik was on the point of cracking up and confessing? So you murdered him?’

Axel laughs at her.

‘You’re mad,’ he says.

And Malin realises how much it sounds like a conspiracy theory.

‘We’re going to see Katarina now,’ Malin goes on. ‘Perhaps you’d like to call her first?’

‘You can tell her the news,’ Axel Fagelsjo says. ‘She stopped listening to me long ago.’

Malin and Zeke take the stairs back down, their steps echoing in the stairwell. Halfway down they pass a black cleaner washing the steps with a damp mop.

‘He’s a cold bastard, that one,’ Zeke says as they approach the door.

‘He can shut off completely,’ Malin says. ‘Or rather, shut himself in.’

‘He didn’t even seem upset. Or the least bit curious about who might have killed his son.’

‘And he seemed even less concerned about Fredrik’s wife,’ Malin says.

‘And his grandchildren. He didn’t mention them at all,’ Zeke adds.

‘Presumably he’s too old for rage,’ Malin says.

‘Him? He’ll never be too old for that. No one gets that old.’

Axel has sat down in the armchair in front of the open fire.

He clenches his big, spade-like hands, feels his eyes well up and the tears run down his cheeks.

Fredrik.

Murdered.

How could that happen?

The police.

No one to talk to, the fewer words spoken, the better.

He sees his grandchildren running through the living room out at the Villa Italia, chased by Fredrik, then they run on through the pictures inside him, children’s feet running across the stone floors of the rooms of Skogsa. Who are the children? Fredrik, Katarina? Victoria? Leopold?