Sven Sjoman.
A master at coaxing, at getting people to talk.
Adam Murvall thinks that this policeman has been at it for a long time, but not long in this city, because then he should have remembered me. Because he couldn’t have forgotten me. They usually never forget. Or is he pretending? Now they’re standing behind the mirror, staring at me; fine, go on staring, what do I care? You think I’m going to talk, but how can you even think that? Don’t bother with the cars, but, sure, if you’re wondering about the cars I can always talk about them; what’s so secret about the cars?
Adam reluctantly feels his antipathy slip a little.
‘You weren’t here ten years ago,’ Adam Murvall says. ‘Where were you then?’
‘Believe me,’ Sven says, ‘my career is very dull. Ten years ago I was a detective inspector in Karlstad, but then the wife got a job here and I had to make the best of it.’
Adam Murvall nods and Malin can see he’s happy with the answer. Why does he care about Sjoman’s CV? Then it hits Malin: if Sjoman had been here for a while, he ought to have remembered the brothers.
‘What about the cars, then?’
‘Them? They’re just something we do.’
Adam Murvall sounds confident, his voice a well-oiled engine.
‘We take them apart and sell the good bits.’
‘Is that all you live off?’
‘We’ve got the petrol station as well. The one on the road down by the aqueduct. The Preem garage.’
‘And you make a living from that?’
‘More or less.’
‘Did you know Bengt Andersson?’
‘I knew who he was. Everybody knew that.’
‘Do you think he had anything to do with the rape of your sister?’
‘Shut up about that. Don’t talk about it.’
‘I have to ask, Adam, you know that.’
‘Don’t talk about Maria, her name shouldn’t be grunted by your sort.’
Sven makes himself comfortable, nothing in his body language giving any indication that he’s remotely upset by the insult.
‘Are you and your sister close? I’ve heard that you’re the one who visits her.’
‘Don’t talk about Maria. Leave her in peace.’
‘So that was why you wrote the note?’
‘This is nothing to do with you. We’ll sort this out ourselves.’
‘And what were you doing on the night between Wednesday and Thursday?’
‘We ate dinner at Mother’s. Then I went home with my family.’
‘So that’s what you did? You didn’t hang Bengt up in that tree, then? Did you sort that out yourselves as well?’
Adam shakes his head. ‘Pig.’
‘Who? Me or Bengt? And was it you or one of your brothers who shot through the window into his living room? Did you creep down there one evening, just like you crept to Inspector Fors’s flat tonight? To leave a message?’
‘I don’t know anything about any shots through any damn windows. I’m not saying anything else now. You can keep on all night. From now on I’m saying nothing.’
‘Like your sister?’
‘What do you know about my sister?’
‘I know she was kind-hearted. Everyone says so.’
The muscles of Adam Murvall’s face relax slightly.
‘You know things don’t look good for you, don’t you? Threatening an officer, resisting arrest, obstructing an investigation. With your background, those are pretty serious charges.’
‘I didn’t threaten anyone. I was just handing over a letter.’
‘I know how angry you can get, Adam. Were you angry with that repulsive fat Bengt? The man who raped your sister? The man who ruined her kind heart? Well? Adam? Did you hang—’
‘I should have.’
‘So you—’
‘You think you know it all.’
