Fine furniture that isn’t really that fine.
‘You’ll water the plants, won’t you?’
I’ve already watered them.
The plants. Smells. The smell of cabbage bake.
Of lies. Even here? Just like in Rakel Murvall’s house in Blasvadret. Just weaker, vaguer here. Have to go out there again, Malin thinks, have to go there and squeeze the secrets from the floorboards and walls.
Her mobile rings out in the hall.
It’s in her jacket pocket, and she gets up from the sofa, runs out, fumbles.
International call.
‘Hello, Malin.’
‘Malin, Dad here.’
‘Hello, I’m in the apartment, I’ve just watered the plants.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But that’s not why I’m ringing.’
He wants something, but doesn’t dare say, the same feeling as last time. Then her father takes a deep breath, and lets the air out before he starts to speak.
‘You know,’ he says, ‘we’ve been talking about Tove coming out here, and it must be her half-term break soon? Perhaps that would be a good time?’
Malin takes the phone from her ear and holds it out in front of her, and shakes her head.
Then she pulls herself together. Puts the phone to her ear.
‘In two weeks.’
‘Two weeks?’
‘Yes, it’s half-term in two weeks. There’s just one problem.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We haven’t got the money for a flight. I don’t have any spare and Janne had to pay for a new boiler just before Christmas.’
‘Yes, we talked about that, your mum and I. We can pay for her ticket. We went to a travel agent today, and there are cheap flights via London. Maybe you could get some time off as well?’
‘Impossible,’ Malin says. ‘Not at such short notice. And we’ve got a difficult case right now.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘It sounds like a great idea. But of course you’ll have to talk to Tove first.’
‘She can go swimming here, go horse-riding.’
‘She knows what she wants to do and what she doesn’t. Don’t worry about that.’
‘Will you talk to her?’
‘Call her yourself. She’s at the cinema right now, but she should be home by ten.’
‘Malin, can’t you talk-’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll talk to her, then I’ll call you back. Tomorrow.’
‘Don’t wait too long. Those tickets won’t last.’
52
The voices.
Let them fly.
Listen to them all in the investigation.
Let them have their say. Then they’ll lead you to your goal.
The hall of Niklas Nyren’s flat is full of transparent packs of biscuits, round, beige raspberry dreams, chocolate tops, chocolate balls that used to be called nigger-balls, and the green rug is covered in biscuit crumbs. There was a dark blue Volvo estate outside in the drive, parked far too close to a letterbox.
Be careful, Malin thought as she rang the doorbell. If the boys did it, he could have helped them with the body.
Niklas Nyren leads her into the flat, into the tidy living room which is entirely dominated by a big red sofa in front of a wall-mounted flat-screen television.
There’s nothing in the flat to suggest that Niklas Nyren is anything but a completely ordinary middle-aged man.
He’s wearing jeans and a green polo-neck sweater, his face is round and his stomach bulges out above his belt. Too much standing still. Too much driving, and too much of a taste for his own products.
‘I was going to ring you,’ Niklas Nyren says, and his voice is oddly dark to belong to someone with a weight problem; his voice ought to be higher, hoarser.
Malin doesn’t answer, and sits down on an imitation Myran chair at the little dining table by the window facing the Cloetta factory.
‘You had some questions?’ Niklas Nyren says, sitting down on the sofa.
‘As you know, Joakim Svensson’s name has cropped up in connection with the investigation into the murder of Bengt Andersson.’
Niklas Nyren nods. ‘I find it hard to imagine that the boy could be involved. He just needs to learn a few manners, get a few male role-models too.’
‘You get on well with him?’
‘I try,’ Niklas Nyren says. ‘I try. I had a pretty crap childhood myself, and I wanted to help the lad. He’s got keys to this flat. I want to show him I’ve got faith in him.’
‘Crap in what way?’
‘Nothing I want to talk about. But Dad was a hard drinker, if I can put it like that. And Mum wasn’t exactly affectionate.’
Malin nods.
‘And the night between Wednesday and Thursday last week, what were you doing then?’
‘Margaretha was here, and I’m pretty sure Jocke was watching that film with Jimmy. Like they said.’
‘Jimmy? You know Jimmy Kalmvik?’
Niklas Nyren gets up, goes over to the window and looks out at the factory.
‘They’re joined at the hip, those two. If you want a decent relationship with one of them, you have to build bridges in various directions. I usually try to come up with things I think they’ll like.’
‘And what do they like?’
‘What do boys like? I took them to a skateboarding show in Norrkoping. We went to Mantorp Park. I let them drive my car on the gravel track out by the old I4. Hell, I even took them to the rifle range once last summer.’
You probably don’t have to be too careful, Malin. Niklas Nyren exudes thoughtlessness, unless he’s just playing naive?
‘Do you hunt?’
‘No, but I used to shoot as a sport. Small-bore rifle. Why?’
‘I’m not going to get into trouble now, am I?’ Niklas Nyren is hunting through a wardrobe in his white-painted bedroom. ‘You don’t have to have a gun cabinet for a small-bore rifle, do you?’
‘I think you probably should.’
‘Here it is.’ Niklas Nyren holds a narrow, almost spindly, black rifle out to Malin, who loses her train of thought when she sees the weapon. No one is going to touch it until forensics have taken a look.
‘Just put it on the bed,’ she says, and Niklas Nyren looks perplexed and lays the gun on his bed.
‘Do you have any freezer-bags?’ Malin says.
‘Yes, in the kitchen. That’s where I keep the ammunition as well.’
‘Good,’ Malin says. ‘Go and get both of them. I’ll wait here.’
Malin sits down on the bed beside the gun. Breathes in the sour, stale air and looks at the pictures on the walls: Ikea prints of different sorts of fish, in cheap frames.
Malin shuts her eyes and sighs.
Joakim Svensson has a key to the flat.
