Midwinter Sacrifice

42

‘There’s another brother.’

From his desk, Johan Jakobsson waves a sheet of paper when he sees Malin walk into the open-plan office in Police Headquarters. Her mobile conversation with Janne is still running through her head.

‘You could have said he was going to stay over.’

Janne had only just woken up, late getting to sleep after working the nightshift. But still clear and focused.

‘What happens in my home, Malin, is my business, and if you if aren’t keeping a close enough eye on Tove that she can keep things like this secret from you, maybe you need to have a bit of a think about your priorities in life.’

‘Are you preaching morals to me?’

‘I’m going to hang up now, okay.’

‘So you mean it’s Tove’s responsibility and not yours?’

‘No, Malin. YOUR responsibility, and you’re trying to push it off on to Tove. Goodbye. Call when you’ve calmed down.’

‘National registration records,’ Johan calls. ‘I got their file from the national registration office and it says there that Rakel Murvall has four sons; her eldest is called Karl Murvall. Must be a half-brother, because it says father unknown in the register. He’s in the phone book, lives down on Tanneforsvägen.’

‘I know about him,’ Malin says. ‘We need to talk to him as soon as possible.’

‘Meeting in three minutes,’ Johan says, pointing to the door to the meeting room.

Malin wonders if the children will be outside today. Let’s hope so; isn’t it a degree or so milder today?

There are no children playing outside the nursery, instead deserted swings, climbing-frames, sandpits and slides.

Karim Akbar has joined them for the meeting, dressed in a stern grey suit, sitting next to Sven Sjöman at the head of the table.

‘So far they’ve only found blood from elk and deer,’ Sven says. ‘But they’re hard at work in the lab. Until we’re done we need to keep all our options open as far as the Murvall brothers are concerned. If nothing else, at least we’ve dug up a bit of shit.’

‘Machine guns and hand grenades are more than a bit of shit,’ Börje Svärd says.

‘Speaking of weapons,’ Sven says. ‘According to the weapons experts at the National Laboratory of Forensic Science, none of the weapons we found at the Murvalls’ could have been used to shoot rubber bullets into Bengt Andersson’s flat.’

‘Machine guns and hand grenades aren’t shit. But they’re not what we should be focusing on,’ Karim says. ‘Crime can deal with that.’

‘The question is, who did you see out in the forest?’ Sven says.

‘We don’t know,’ Malin says.

‘Whoever it was, they’ve got something to do with this,’ Zeke says.

‘Johan, tell us about the fourth brother,’ Sven says.

When Johan has told them what they know, silence settles over the table.

Questions hang in the air, until Zeke says, ‘None of the Murvalls has ever, not one single time, mentioned a half-brother. Did he grow up with them?’

‘Looks like it,’ Malin says. ‘Helen seemed to think so.’

‘Maybe he broke away,’ Johan says.

‘Some people might prefer a different sort of life to the one they offer,’ Börje adds.

‘Do we know anything else about this Karl Murvall?’ Karim wonders. ‘Do we know where he works, for instance?’

‘Not yet,’ Malin says. ‘But we’ll know by the end of the day.’

‘And we can always ask the Murvall brothers, and their charming mother,’ Zeke grins.

‘I can try,’ Sven says, and laughs.

‘What about the Æsir angle?’ Karim looks round the team expectantly. ‘Considering the crime-scene, we can’t just let that go.’

‘In all honesty,’ Johan says, ‘we’ve been busy elsewhere. But we’re definitely going to look more closely into that.’

‘Carry on as much as you can now,’ Sven says. ‘Malin and Zeke, how did you get on talking to the parents of Joakim Svensson and Jimmy Kalmvik?’

‘To their mothers,’ Malin says. ‘Joakim Svensson’s father is dead, and Göran Kalmvik works on an oil rig. We didn’t get anything new, really. It still isn’t clear if the boys have an alibi for Wednesday evening. There’s also some confusion about where Kalmvik’s father actually is.’

‘Confusion?’ Sven asks. ‘You know what I think about that.’

So Malin explains why the boys’ alibi is doubtful, that they were alone in Joakim’s flat, and that Göran Kalmvik is away, but that his wife thinks he’s still on an oil rig out in the North Sea.

‘But he’ll be home tomorrow. Early. We thought we’d try to catch him then.’

‘And Margaretha Svensson’s lover? Might he have something to say about what her son gets up to? If he’s been trying to build up a relationship?’

‘We’re going to talk to Niklas Nyrén today. We prioritised the Murvalls’ cabin last night.’

‘Good. But make the fourth Murvall brother the priority for now. I’ll talk to the family.’

‘What, Karl? He moved away to the city.’ Rakel Murvall’s voice over the phone.

Moved away to the city? It’s only ten kilometres or so, but she makes it sound like the other side of the world, Sven Sjöman thinks.

‘Nothing worth talking about,’ Rakel Murvall says and hangs up.

‘Here it is,’ Zeke says, parking the car outside the white three-storey building on Tanneforsvägen, close to the Saab factory complex. The building was probably constructed in the forties, when Saab was expanding and they were building fighter planes in their hundreds in the city. A pizzeria on the ground floor promises a Capricciosa for thirty-nine kronor, and the ICA supermarket opposite has a special offer on Classic brand coffee. The pizzeria’s yellow sign is peeling, and Malin can hardly read the name: Conya.

They dash through the chill across the broad pavement, tugging open the unlocked door into the stairwell. On the noticeboard: third floor, Andersson, Rydgren, Murvall.

No lift.

At the landing of the second floor Malin can hear her heart beat faster, and she is starting to pant, and by the time they reach the third floor she is almost having trouble catching her breath. Zeke is panting alongside her.

‘It’s always such a shock,’ he says. ‘How bloody awful stairs are.’

‘Yes, the snow yesterday was nothing compared to this.’

Murvall.

They ring the bell, hear it ring behind the door. Silence from what seems to be an empty flat. They ring again, but there’s no answer.

‘Must be at work,’ Zeke says.

‘Shall we try the neighbours?’

Rydgren.

After two rings the door is opened by an elderly man with an outsized nose and deep-set eyes, and he looks at them suspiciously.

‘I’m not interested,’ he says.

Malin holds out her police ID.

‘We’re looking for Karl Murvall. He isn’t at home. Do you happen to know where he works?’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

The man is wary.

‘Do you know—’

‘No.’

The man slams the door shut.

The only other person who happens to be at home is an elderly lady who thinks they are from meals on wheels and have brought her lunch.

One by one the brothers are brought out of their cells, taken into the interview room, and answer Sven Sjöman’s questions.

‘I haven’t got a brother called Karl,’ Adam Murvall says, rubbing his forehead. ‘You can say we’re family if you like, and from your way of looking at it that’s probably right, but not the way I see it. He chose his own path, and we chose ours.’

‘Do you know where he works?’

‘I don’t have to answer that, do I?’

‘What do you think, Malin? Shall we wait in the pizzeria over lunch, see if he comes home to eat?’ They’re standing by the car, and Zeke is fumbling with the keys as he talks. ‘And it’s been a bloody age since I had pizza.’

‘Fine with me. Who knows, they may even know where he works.’

Inside the Conya pizzeria there is a smell of dried oregano and yeast. Not the usual woven wallpaper, but pink and green fabric and Bauhaus chairs around polished oak tables. A swarthy man with improbably clean hands takes their order.

I wonder if he’s the owner? Malin thinks. It’s no myth that immigrants have to start their own businesses if they want to make a living. What would Karim say about you? He’d probably call you a good example. Someone who hasn’t given up your responsibility for earning a living to other people, but actively trying to look after yourself.

The virtuous circle we all have to hope in. Your sons, Malin thinks, if you have any, will doubtless be among the best on their courses out at the university. Hope so.

‘What would you like to drink? It’s included in the price of lunch.’

‘Cola,’ Malin says.

‘Same here,’ Zeke says, and when he gets out his wallet to pay he pulls out his police ID.

‘Do you happen know a Karl Murvall who lives in one of the flats upstairs?’

‘No,’ the restaurant-owner says. ‘No one I know. Has he done something stupid?’

‘Not as far as we know,’ Zeke says. ‘We just want to talk to him.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Is this your place?’ Malin asks.

‘Yes, why do you ask?’

‘I just wondered.’

They sit down at a table with a view of the entrance to the flats. Five minutes later the man places two pizzas in front of them, the cheese has melted and the fat is floating in pools over the tomato sauce, ham and mushrooms.

‘Bon appétit,’ he says.

‘Great,’ Zeke says.

They eat, looking out at Tanneforsvägen, at the cars driving past, at the angry grey-white exhaust fumes falling heavily to the ground.

What would cause such a breach between people who share the same blood? Sven Sjöman wonders.

He has just finished questioning Jakob Murvall. His words have stuck in his head.

‘He lives his life. We live ours.’

‘But you’re still brothers.’

‘Brothers aren’t always brothers, are they?’

What makes people who ought to make each other happy, who ought to help each other, turn their backs on each other? Become something like enemies instead? People can fall out over any number of things: money, love, beliefs, pretty much anything. But family? Within a family? If we can’t even hold things together on a small scale, how on earth are we going to manage on a larger one?

It is half past one.

The pizza is sitting like sluggish concrete in their stomachs and they lean back against the flexible wicker backrests.

‘He’s not coming,’ Malin says. ‘We’ll have to come back tonight.’

Zeke nods. ‘I thought I might go back to the station. Write up the report from yesterday,’ he says. ‘Do you mind going out to Ljungsbro on your own to talk to Niklas Nyrén?’

‘Okay, I’ve got a few other things I want to check out,’ Malin says.

‘Do you need any help?’

‘I’m happy to go alone.’

Zeke nods. ‘Like you did with Gottfrid Karlsson in the home?’

‘Hmm.’

They wave in thanks at the restaurant-owner as they leave.

‘Pretty good pizza,’ Zeke says.

Karl Murvall is a human being, but he is at best uninteresting in the eyes of his family, that much is clear.

‘Karl?’

Elias Murvall looks at Sven Sjöman blankly.

‘Don’t talk about that jumped-up cry-baby.’

‘What did he do?’

Elias Murvall seems to consider this, to soften slightly. Then he says, ‘He’s always been different, he’s not like us.’