Autumn Killing

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?

I’ve always wanted a brother. Damn you, Mum.

Tove, do you long for a brother?

Damn me.

‘I’ll have another,’ Malin says. ‘A double. And a beer to wash it down.’

‘Sure,’ the bartender says. ‘You can have whatever you want tonight, Malin.’

What do I want? Fredrik Fagelsjo thinks as he huddles on the bunk in his cell, absorbing the darkness around him, running his hand over the scratched wall.

Have I ever known?

He’s just spoken to his wife for the second time, just an hour ago.

She wasn’t angry this time either, demanded no explanation, and instead said just: ‘We miss you here. Come home soon.’

The children were asleep, she wanted to wake them but he said not to, let them sleep, I’d only have to lie to them about where I am.

Victoria, five years old.

Leopold, three.

He can feel the warmth of their bodies as he pulls the blanket around him to keep out the damp chill of the underground room.

He misses them, and Christina. He wants to know what he wants. This room doesn’t make him feel panicky. He doesn’t know why he didn’t answer the police’s questions, why he kept quiet and lied as Father had asked him to, as if that were somehow his natural role. But he was very vulgar, that aggressive policeman. And during the car chase earlier there had been a feeling of trying to direct his own life, an intoxicating rush of adrenalin and fear.

Fredrik breathes.

Who do I have to prove anything to, really? And Father, you could scarcely bring yourself to accept Christina and her well-educated parents. God knows what you’ve done to Katarina.

Fredrik closes his eyes.

Sees Christina lie with the children close to her in the double bed in the bedroom in the Villa Italia.

It won’t be easy, Fredrik thinks, but from now on nothing’s going to come between us.

What’s the bartender saying to me? Malin thinks, as she tries to keep her balance on the bar stool, not wanting to fall and lose sight of the bottles on the illuminated shelves along the wall.

There’s quite a crowd behind her. She’s almost drunk, but she hasn’t spoken to anyone.

Then someone taps her on the back.

She turns around. But there’s no one there, just her own reflection in the mirror above the bottles.

‘I thought I felt someone tap me on the back?’ she says, and the bartender grins.

‘You’re imagining things, Malin. There’s no one there,’ and then she feels it again, sees the empty mirror, but she doesn’t turn around, just says: ‘Stop doing that.’

In her intoxication she imagines she can hear a cacophony of voices gathering into one single one, just like out at the forest around Skogsa.

‘I do what I want,’ the voice says.

‘How did I end up in the water, you have to find out,’ it goes on a moment later. ‘Who had I harmed that badly?’

‘Go to hell,’ Malin whispers. ‘Let me drink in peace.’

‘Do you miss Tove?’ the voice asks.

‘Tove could die,’ Malin yells, ‘do you hear? And it’s my fault.’ She doesn’t notice that the people in the pub have fallen silent, that they’re staring at her, wondering why she’s tossing words into thin air.

A new tap on the back.

She turns around.

‘Time to go home now, Malin,’ the bartender says, close to her face.

She shakes her head.

‘I’m OK. Give me a double. Please.’