Sven Sjoman 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 Tanneforsvagen, 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 Sjoman’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.
