Mons Kallentoft - Autumn Killing

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 Fagelsjo?

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 Dalstrom, and remembers what Andreas Ekstrom’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 Sjoman.

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 Fagelsjo family,’ Lovisa says. ‘Maybe they were trying to blackmail Petersson into moving out?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Sven says. ‘I’ve the call-logs for the Fagelsjos’ 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 Hogfeldt’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 Dalstrom again, if that’s OK?’ Malin asks.

‘Why?’ Johan asks.

‘Just a hunch.’

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 Skogsa, 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 Dalstrom 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 Dalstrom’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 Winnerback’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 Dalstrom 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.