Autumn Killing

41

The windscreen wipers are working frantically to keep the rain off, to keep the view clear. The clock on the dashboard says 13.35.

Through the windscreen Malin can see fields and clumps of woodland, red-painted houses, and the whole world up here seems to be covered with a dull ash.

Not so much as a single swim on Tenerife. No water for her burning body.

But she does feel a bit better now. The alcohol has cleared her blood enough for her to be able to drive from Norrkoping to Linkoping. She feels like going straight to the Folkunga School and storming into whatever lesson Tove is having and just hugging her. It’s almost a week since she fled the house after hitting Janne while she was drunk. Almost a week since the body was found in the moat.

The heat of Tenerife. The rain and cold. She’s put on the thick sweater with the Norwegian pattern that she took with her for when she got back.

But Tove will have to wait.

She’s spoken to Zeke. Got the latest updates about the case: that Fredrik Fagelsjo has been released, that Jonas Karlsson has admitted Jerry Petersson was driving, but that he had an alibi for the night and morning of the murder.

Malin has got the address of one of the parents of the boy who died that New Year’s Eve, a woman called Stina Ekstrom living in Linghem.

‘I can stop off on my way back,’ she told Zeke.

‘We could meet up there.’

‘I’ll do it on my own. Don’t worry.’

‘How was Tenerife?’

‘Hot.’

‘Your parents?’

‘Let’s talk again once I’ve spoken to Stina Ekstrom, if she’s home.’

Malin puts the radio on. As she gets closer to Linkoping she manages to find the local station.

She recognises Helen Aneman’s soft, sensual voice. It’s been years since they last met, even though they live in the same city. They talk on the phone sometimes, agree that they should meet, but nothing ever comes of it.

Acquaintances rather than friends, Malin thinks as she listens to Helen talking about a dog show taking place in the Cloetta Center at the weekend, then, as Helen’s voice disappears, music spreads through the car and Malin feels her stomach clench. Why this song, why now?

‘Soon the angels will land. . Dare I say that we have each other. .?’

Ulf Lundell’s voice.

Janne’s body close to hers. Ridiculously romantic, the way they used to dance to this song in the living room of the house after sharing a bottle of wine, with Tove sleeping on the sofa, untroubled by the music.

Linghem.

The sign scarcely visible through the rain-sodden air.

Of all human nightmares, losing a child is the worst.

I was allowed to keep you, Tove, Malin thinks.

A car rolling into a deserted, frozen winter field.

The knock on the door.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you. .’

Malin turns off towards Linghem, driving past a football pitch and a church. A solitary man in a hooded jacket is standing beside a headstone in the small, walled churchyard with a bunch of flowers in his hand, it looks as if he’s talking to himself.

The small terraced house furnished with pine furniture.

Crocheted cloths on polished wooden surfaces, and on the cloths Swarovski crystal figurines, an impressive collection, Malin thinks, as Andreas Ekstrom’s mother puts a pot of fresh coffee on the living-room table.

There are seven framed photographs on a bureau.

A toddler grinning from under his fringe in a nursery-school picture. A picture taken on a football pitch. End of school. A well-built teenager on a beach somewhere. Short hair ruffled by the wind, and a metre or so out in the water stands a man who could be Andreas Ekstrom’s dad.

‘Now you know what he looked like,’ Stina Ekstrom says, sitting down opposite Malin on a matching wine-red velvet-clad armchair.

Similar pictures of Tove at home on the chest of drawers in the bedroom.

‘He looks like a real charmer,’ Malin says.

Stina Ekstrom smiles in agreement.

How old are you? Malin thinks.

Sixty?

The woman in front of her has short fair hair, grey at the temples, and the wrinkles around her thin lips reveal years of smoking. There’s a smell of smoke, but Malin can’t see any ashtrays or cigarettes. Maybe Stina Ekstrom has succeeded in giving up? Somehow managing to hold the cravings at bay?

Black jeans.

A grey knitted sweater.

Eyes that have got used to days coming and going, that there really aren’t any surprises. It’s not tiredness I can see in her eyes, Malin thinks, it’s something else, a sort of calm? No bitterness. A sense of being at peace, can that be it?

Stina Ekstrom pours the coffee with her left hand, then gestures towards the plate of homemade buns.

‘Now, what on earth can the police want with me?’

‘Jerry Petersson.’

‘I thought as much. Well, of course I read the papers.’

‘He was there when your son died.’

The look in Stina Ekstrom’s eyes doesn’t change. Is this what grief looks like when you’ve come to terms with it?

‘He was in the passenger seat. He was wearing a seat belt and got out OK.’

Malin nods.

‘Do you think about the accident much?’

‘Not about the accident. About Andreas. Every day.’

Malin takes a sip of coffee, hears the rain pattering on the window a few metres to her left.

‘Did you live here then?’

‘Yes, we moved here when Andreas was twelve. Before that we lived over in Vreta Kloster.’

Malin waits for Stina Ekstrom to go on.

‘I was angry at first,’ Stina Ekstrom says. ‘But then, as the years passed? It was as if all the anger and grief finally gave way, that nineteen years with Andreas was still a wonderful gift, and I think it’s pointless grieving for things that never happened.’

Malin can feel her heart contract, as though squeezed by a huge fist, and how her eyes start to tear up against her will.

Stina Ekstrom looks at her.

‘Are you all right?’

Malin coughs, says: ‘I think it must be an allergic reaction.’

‘I’ve got two other children,’ Stina Ekstrom says, and Malin smiles as she wipes the tears from her eyes.

‘Did you feel any hatred towards the lad who was driving?’

‘It was an accident.’

Malin sits in silence for a few moments, then leans forward.

‘We’ve received information that suggests that Jerry Petersson was behind the wheel that night, and that he was drunk.’

Stina Ekstrom says nothing, nor does the look in her eyes change.

‘He’s supposed to have persuaded Jonas Karlsson to say. .’

‘I understand,’ Stina Ekstrom says. ‘I’m not stupid. And now you’re wondering if I knew, or found out about it, and decided to go and murder. .’

‘We don’t think anything of the sort.’

‘But you’re here.’

Malin looks into Stina Ekstrom’s eyes.

‘I lost a lot that night. My husband and I got divorced a few years later. We couldn’t talk about Andreas, and in the end it was like there was nothing left except silence. But regardless of who was driving, there’s no anger left, no hatred. The grief is still here, but it’s just one of the many background notes that make up a life.’

‘Was there anyone else who was particularly upset?’

‘Everyone was upset. But it’s a long time ago now.’

‘Andreas’s dad?’

‘He can answer that himself.’

Zeke is with him now, out in Malmslatt.

‘What about the Fagelsjo family? Did they pass on their sympathies?’

‘No. I got the impression they were trying to pretend it never happened. Not on their land, and not after a party organised by their son.’

Malin closes her eyes. Feels bloated and nauseous.

‘Can I ask what you do for a living?’ she goes on. ‘Or are you retired?’

‘Not for another four years. I work part-time at a day centre for people with learning difficulties. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason, really,’ Malin says, getting up and holding out her hand over the table. ‘Thanks for seeing me. And for the coffee.’

‘Take a bun with you.’

Malin reaches for the plate, takes a bun and soon the soft dough is filling her mouth.

Cinnamon. Cardamom.

‘Aren’t you going to ask what I was doing on the night between Thursday and Friday last week?’

Malin swallows and smiles.

‘What were you doing?’

‘I was here at home. I spent half the night chatting on the Internet. You can check my log if you need to.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Malin says.

Stina Ekstrom gets up and leaves the room. She comes back with a pack of chewing-gum.

‘Take a couple,’ she says amiably. ‘Before you meet your colleagues.’

Malin parks the car outside Folkunga School.

She switches off the engine, hears the rain almost trying to force its way through the bodywork, puts her hands on the wheel and breathes in and out, in and out, pretending that Tove is sitting next to her, that she can throw her arms around her and hug her hard, so hard.

Malin stares at the entrance, the broad steps leading up to the castle-like building with doors that are three times the height of the pupils themselves. The mature oak trees around the school are trying desperately to cling onto the last of their sunset-coloured leaves, and seem to think that the world will end if their leaves go.

You’re in there somewhere, Tove. Malin doesn’t know her timetable. What lesson would she have now? Swedish, maths? All she has to do is go in and ask at reception, then find the classroom and take Tove out for coffee and a hug. But I reek of drink, don’t I? Unless the chewing-gum has helped?

I hope Tove comes out during her break. Then I can see her, run up to her, maybe say sorry, or just look at her from here in the car. Maybe she’ll come over if I manage to see her. But she probably won’t come out in the rain.

I’m going in.

Malin opens the car door and puts one foot on the ground, sees a few students cross the school yard, their shadowless motion framed by the windswept oaks, as old as the school itself.

She pulls her foot back. Closes the door. Puts her shaking hands on the wheel, willing them to stop, but they won’t obey. She takes deep breaths. Needs a drink. But she manages to hold the thought at bay, with all her strength.

There. Now the shaking has stopped.

She pulls out her mobile, dials Tove’s number. The message-service clicks in.

‘Tove, it’s Mum. I just wanted to let you know I’m home again. I thought maybe we could have dinner together this evening. Can you call me back?’

Malin turns the key in the ignition, and the car’s engine drowns out the rain.

She closes her eyes.

Inside her she sees a huge stone castle towering up through thick autumn fog.

Not Skogsa.

Another castle. A building she doesn’t recognise.

She lets her gaze settle over the moat.

Full of swollen, naked, white corpses, and small silvery fish gasping in the air. And a pulsating sense of fear.