Autumn Killing

66

Axel Fagelsjo hears the doorbell, vaguely, like a cry for help from an already long forgotten dream.

Who the hell can this be? he thinks as he walks through the sitting room, past the portraits of his ancestors.

The police again? Can’t they leave me in peace? Alone with all my mistakes and inadequacies, with all the love I’ve lost.

Those damn journalists? He’d had to unplug his phone and disconnect the doorbell. But now he’s put them back in. He thought they’d got tired of him, the fourth estate.

Grief.

For you, Bettina, for our son. That’s all I’ve got left now.

I want to be left in peace with it.

The doorbell sounds shrill now. A salesman? A Jehovah’s Witness?

Axel Fagelsjo looks through the peephole, but there’s no one there.

What the hell?

He looks again.

The stairwell, empty and silent. Is someone after me now? he has time to wonder before the door flies open, hitting him in the forehead and making him stagger backwards.

Lying on the parquet floor, he finds himself staring into the barrel of a rifle. He sees long black hair and a pair of eyes full of longing, desperation and loneliness.

The house in the clearing is still silent and dark.

Now that daylight is no longer lighting up the facade it looks even more anxious, as if it were on the point of collapsing under the weight of all the sorrows it has been forced to contain.

Malin and Zeke stop the car. Anders Dalstrom’s red Golf is still not there.

They get out, and Malin takes a deep breath, trying to work out if there’s anyone apart from them there.

‘He isn’t here,’ she says. ‘Where the hell could he be?’

They go up the steps, look through the window in the front door.

A computer is flickering on the table in the living room.

Malin checks the door handle. Unlocked.

‘We can’t go in,’ Zeke says. ‘We need a warrant.’

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Yes. I’m kidding, Fors. The door’s open. Obviously we suspect a break-in.’

They go inside.

The gun cabinet in the living room.

Malin goes over and finds it unlocked. A solitary shotgun inside. Rifle ammunition on the floor, but no rifle.

Has he got another gun? Malin wonders, then says: ‘Wherever he is right now, he could be armed.’

She goes into Anders Dalstrom’s bedroom. The blinds are closed and the room is dark and cold, damp.

A film projector has been set up on a bench, reels of film scattered across the floor, unrolled.

A film is sitting in the projector. Without thinking, Malin switches it on, and on the white wall she sees a boy moving across a grass lawn, running, screaming soundlessly as if he’s running from something, as if there’s a monster holding the camera, ready to catch him if he trips or runs too slowly.

Then the boy stops. Turns towards the camera, trying to look beyond its lens, cowering as if preparing to be hit, the black pupils of his eyes like little planets of fear.

The reel comes to an end.

Zeke has crept in behind Malin, put a hand on her shoulder and says: ‘I could have done without seeing the look in his eyes.’

They leave the room. In the living room, the computer screen is showing the online telephone directory, and Zeke reads out loud: ‘Axel Fagelsjo. 18 Drottninggatan. What the hell is he up to?’

‘Axel Fagelsjo,’ Malin says. ‘Do you think he’s going straight to what he thinks is the source of the evil? The man who beat up his father and turned him into an abusive parent?’

Zeke’s face is half illuminated by the glow of the screen, raindrops glistening on his head.

‘So you’re sure now?’

‘Yes, aren’t you?’

Zeke nods.

‘Should we call for back-up at Fagelsjo’s apartment?’

‘Yes, we’d better,’ Malin says.

‘I’ll call,’ Zeke says, and Malin hears him talking to the duty-desk, then he gets put through to Sven Sjoman.

‘We think it checks out,’ Zeke says, and Malin can hear him trying to sound urgent and factual. ‘Things have been moving quickly, we haven’t had a chance to call. Karin’s comparing the handwriting.’

Silence.

Probably a mixture of praise and cursing from Sven. They should have called earlier, once they found out that Sixten Eriksson was Anders Dalstrom’s father.

‘Who knows what he’s thinking,’ Zeke says. ‘He’s probably pretty desperate by now.’

Once they get outside again Malin heads over to the workshop.

The door is ajar. Zeke is right behind her.

Is he in there? She pulls out her pistol. Carefully kicks the door open with her foot.

An old, black Mercedes.

She peers inside. Silent, empty.

‘That could be the black car Linnea Sjostedt saw,’ Zeke says.

Malin nods.

The next minute they’re back in the car again.

Their speed seems to blur the forest and the rain into one single element. Is Anders Dalstrom already inside Axel’s apartment with him? Or is he somewhere else entirely?

Jerry Petersson.

Fredrik Fagelsjo.

Was it your arrogance that finally caught up with you? Your actions? Your vanity? Your fear? Or something else?

Sven Sjoman and four uniformed officers are inside the apartment on Drottninggatan. They picked the lock. The apartment is empty, no sign of Axel Fagelsjo, and no signs of a struggle.

Malin and Zeke arrive fifteen minutes later.

‘Good work,’ Sven says to Malin as they stand in the middle of the sitting room looking at the portraits on the walls. ‘Bloody good work.’

‘Now we just have to find Anders Dalstrom,’ Malin says. ‘And some concrete, conclusive evidence.’

‘We’ll find it,’ Sven says. ‘Everything points towards him.’

‘But where the hell is he?’ Zeke says. ‘And where the hell is Axel Fagelsjo?’

‘They’re together,’ Malin says. ‘I think they’ve been together much longer than either of them realises,’ she goes on. Thinks: if Axel Fagelsjo is in Anders Dalstrom’s hands, it’s my job to rescue him. But is it really worth me worrying about him? How can I have any sympathy for someone I find revolting in so many ways?

Then her mobile rings. Karin Johannison’s calm, assured voice at the other end: ‘The handwriting on the sign on the door and the blackmail letter are the same. The same person wrote the letter.’