Jan turned and gave his wife a cold look. ‘Didn’t I tell you not to talk about my mother that way?’
‘Your mother.’ Lisa snorted. ‘You can’t think that she really looks on you as a son, Jan. You’ll never be more than a charity case for her. If her darling Nils hadn’t disappeared, you would probably have been tossed out on your ear sooner or later. You’re nothing more than a temporary stand-in, Jan. Who else would slave away practically twenty-four hours a day for her for nothing? The only thing you have is a promise that when she croaks, you get all the money. First of all, the bitch will probably live to be at least a hundred, and second, I bet she’s willed the money to a home for abandoned dogs and is laughing her head off at us behind our backs. Sometimes you’re just so fucking dumb, Jan.’
Lisa rolled over onto her back and studied her well-manicured nails. With ice-cold calm Jan took a step towards Lisa where she lay on the bed. He squatted down, wound the long blonde hair hanging off the edge of the bed round his hand, and began pulling slowly, harder and harder, until she grimaced in pain. He put his face right up to hers, so close that he could feel her breath on his face, and snarled in a low voice: ‘Don’t you ever, ever call me dumb, you hear me? And believe me, the money will be mine some day. The only question is, whether you’ll be around long enough to enjoy it.’
With satisfaction he saw a spark of fear ignite in her eyes. He watched her stupid but primitively sly brain process the information and conclude that it was time to change tactics. She stretched out on the bed, pouting and cupping her hands round her breasts. She circled her finger round her nipples until they hardened and then purred, ‘Forgive me, that was stupid of me, Jan. You know how I am. I talk without thinking sometimes. Is there any way I can make it up to you?’
She sucked suggestively on her index finger and then slipped her hand down to her crotch.
Jan reluctantly felt his body respond and decided that at least there was one thing he could use her for. He undid his tie.
Mellberg scratched his crotch meditatively without noticing the expression of disgust that this gesture aroused in the faces of the people who sat gathered before him. In honour of the day he had put on a suit, even though it was a bit too tight, but he blamed that on the dry-cleaners, who must have screwed up and run it at too high a temperature. He didn’t have to weigh himself to know that he’d put on an ounce or two since he was a young recruit, but he thought that buying a new suit was a waste of money. Good quality was timeless. He couldn’t help it if the idiots at the dry-cleaners couldn’t do their job properly.
He cleared his throat to get everyone’s full attention. The chatter and scraping of chairs ceased, and all eyes turned towards him as he sat behind his desk. Chairs had been gathered and arranged in a semicircle in front of him. Mellberg looked at everyone in silence with a solemn expression. This was a moment he intended to milk as much as possible. He noticed with a frown that Patrik looked exhausted. Naturally the staff did what they liked in their free time, but considering it was the middle of the work week one ought to expect that they observe moderation in the form of partying and alcohol. Mellberg effectively repressed the memory of the half-bottle he himself had downed yesterday evening. He made a mental note to have a talk with Patrik in private about the station’s alcohol policy.
‘As you all know, at this time another murder has occurred in Fjallbacka. The probability that there are two killers is very low, so I think we can proceed from the assumption that the same person who murdered Alexandra Wijkner also murdered Anders Nilsson.’
He enjoyed the sound of his own voice and the zeal and interest he saw in the faces before him. He was in his true element. He was born to do this.
Mellberg went on. ‘Anders Nilsson was found this morning by Bengt Larsson, one of the victim’s drinking buddies. He had been hanged, and according to preliminary information from Goteborg, he’d been there at least since yesterday. Until we have more precise information this will be the hypothesis from which we’ll be working.’
He liked the feel of the word ‘hypothesis’ rolling off his tongue. The group before him was not particularly large, but in his mind it was many times bigger and the interest was impossible to misconstrue. It was his words and orders they were all waiting for. He looked about with pleasure. Annika was typing eagerly on a laptop computer, with a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Her ample feminine curves were clothed in a well- tailored yellow jacket with matching skirt; he gave her a wink. That would have to do. Best not to scare her off. Next to her sat Patrik, who looked as if he were going to fall apart at any moment. His eyelids were heavy and his eyes clearly bloodshot. Mellberg decided he would really have to have a talk with him at the earliest opportunity. After all, one had the right to demand a certain semblance of professionalism from one’s subordinates.
Besides Patrik and Annika, there were another three employees from the Tanumshede police station. Gosta Flygare was the eldest at the station. He devoted all his energy to doing as little as possible until retirement, which was now only a couple of years off. After that he would devote all his time to his grand passion-golf. He had started playing ten years ago when his wife died of cancer, and weekends suddenly felt much too long and desolate. Sport had soon become like a poison in his blood. He now regarded his job, in which he had never been terribly interested in the first place, only as a disruptive element that prevented him from being out on the golf course.
Despite the fact that his salary was meagre, he had managed to save enough to buy a flat on the Costa del Sol in Spain. Soon he’d be able to devote the summer months to playing golf in Sweden and the rest of the year he could spend on the courses in Spain. Although, he had to admit, these murders had succeeded in arousing his interest for the first time in ages. But not so much that he wouldn’t rather play eighteen holes right now if the season had permitted it.
Next to him sat the station’s youngest member. Martin Molin elicited varying degrees of parental instincts in all of them. They took turns acting as invisible crutches for him at work, although they were careful that he never notice anything. They only gave him assignments that a child could do, and they went over and corrected everything he wrote before his reports reached Mellberg’s desk.
He had graduated from the Police Academy no more than a year ago. Everyone was astonished that he’d been able, first of all, to immerse himself in the difficult booking procedures and second, complete his training and pass the exam. But Martin was pleasant and good-natured, and despite his naivete, which made him totally unsuitable for police work, they all reckoned that he couldn’t do any great damage here in Tanumshede. So they gladly helped him over all obstacles. Annika in particular had taken him under her wing and sometimes, to everyone’s great amusement, she showed her feelings by spontaneously pressing him to her large bosom in a bear hug.
On those occasions Martin’s fiery red hair, which always stood on end, and his equally red freckles competed with the colour of his face. But he worshipped Annika and had spent many evenings visiting her and her husband when he needed to ask advice about being unlucky in love-which he always was. His innocence and amiability seemed to make him an irresistible magnet for women who ate men for breakfast and then spat out the remains. But Annika was always there to listen, patch up the shreds of his self-confidence, and then send him back out into the world, in the hope that one day he would find a woman who could appreciate this gem of a man, hiding beneath the freckled exterior.
The last member of the group was also the least popular. Ernst Lundgren was a big-time arse-kisser who never missed a chance to promote himself, preferably at the expense of others. No one was surprised that he was still single. He was a far from attractive man. Even though uglier men than he had found a partner thanks to a helpfully pleasant personality, Ernst lacked this attribute completely. That’s why he was now living with his old mother on a farm six miles south of Tanumshede. Rumour had it that his father, who was notorious in the area as an alcoholic and highly aggressive man, had received a helping hand from his wife when he fell from the hayloft and landed on a pitchfork. That was many years ago now, but the rumour was revived whenever people had nothing more exciting to talk about. In any case, it was true that only a mother could love Ernst, since his buck teeth, straggly hair and big ears were accompanied by a choleric disposition and a self-promoting manner. Right now he was hanging on Mellberg’s every syllable as though his words were pearls, and he took every opportunity to shush the others testily if they dared make the slightest noise to distract attention from Mellberg’s speech. He eagerly raised his hand like a schoolboy to ask a question.
‘How do we know that Anders wasn’t murdered by the drunk, who later merely pretended to discover him this morning?’
Mellberg gave Lundgren an appreciative nod.
‘A very good question, Ernst, very good. But as I said, we’re going on the assumption that it’s the same person who killed Alex Wijkner. Just to be safe, though, we’ll check out Bengt Larsson’s alibi for yesterday.’
