Autumn Killing

Malin thinks. But it’s still only a fraction as ostentatious as Skogsa Castle.

Panelling, and shiny, tightly woven Oriental rugs that make her headache flare up again. Authentic, expensive, quite different from the cheap rugs bought at auction on the floors of her mum and dad’s flat. The worn leather of the armchairs shimmers in the light of the chandeliers and candelabra.

And the man in front of them.

He must be about seventy, Malin thinks. And right-handed. The embodiment of authority, and she tries to stay calm, not become defensive the way she knows she always is when she meets people higher up the social ladder than she could ever get.

All of this still exists.

The Social Democrats may have managed to create a superficial equality in this country for a while, but it’s thin and transparent and false.

Portraits of Count Axel Fagelsjo’s ancestors hang in a row above the panelling. Powerful men with sharp eyes. Warriors, many of them.

They are witness to Fagelsjo’s awareness that he’s better than the rest of us, worth more. Unless that’s just my own prejudice? Malin thinks.

There are still big differences between people in Sweden. Bigger than ever, perhaps, because there’s a professed political desire to create a blue sheen of equality, a mendacious glow, as if there’s still a green shimmer of cash casting a light over the lives of the poor.

The blues say we’re all equally valuable. That everyone should have the same opportunities. And then they repeat it. And it becomes a truth even if they implement policies that mean those with money in the bank keep on getting richer even in these troubled times.

The whole of society is tainted with lies, Malin thinks.

And those lies give rise to a feeling of being fooled, denied and rejected.

Maybe that’s how I feel, deep down, Malin thinks. Trampled on, without actually realising it.

Voiceless by nature.

And if you have neither words nor anyone’s ear, that’s when violence is born. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.

Malin looks at the portraits in Fagelsjo’s sitting room, then at the stout, ruddy-cheeked count with the self- confident smile that has suddenly appeared.

New money, like Petersson’s. Old money, like Fagelsjo’s. Is there really any difference? And what on earth are inherited privileges doing in a modern society?

‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Malin says as she sits down on a ridiculously comfortable leather armchair, and Axel Fagelsjo stubs out his cigarette.

Fagelsjo smiles again, his smile is properly friendly now, he means us well, Malin thinks, but with all his privileges, he can probably afford to?

‘Of course I’m happy to see you. I understand why you’re here. I heard on the radio about Petersson, and it was only a matter of time before you came to see me.’

Zeke, sitting beside Malin, wary, evidently also affected by the old count’s presence.

‘Yes, we have reason to believe that he was murdered. So naturally that raises a number of questions,’ Zeke says.

‘I’m at your disposal.’

Fagelsjo leans forward, as if to demonstrate his interest.

‘To begin with,’ Malin says, ‘what were you doing last night and this morning?’

‘I was drinking tea with my daughter Katarina yesterday evening. Then, at ten o’clock, I came home.’

‘And after that?’

‘I was at home, as I said.’

‘Is there anyone who can confirm that?’

‘I’ve lived alone since my wife died.’

‘There are rumours,’ Zeke says, ‘that the family hit hard times and that was why you were forced to sell Skogsa to Petersson.’

‘And who would spread rumours like that?’

Fagelsjo’s eyes flashing with sudden anger, but nonetheless feigned anger, Malin thinks: no point trying to hide what everyone knows.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ Zeke says.

‘They’re just rumours,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘What they wrote in the Correspondent was nonsense. We sold the castle because it was time, it had served its role as the family seat. These are new times. Time had simply caught up with our way of life. Fredrik works for the Ostgota Bank, Katarina works in art. They don’t want to be farmers.’

You’re lying, Malin thinks. Then she thinks of her recent conversation with Tove, and feels sick at how, against her will, she had treated it like a work conversation, how she couldn’t break through and say the things that needed saying. How could you, Fors? How could anyone?

‘So there were no arguments?’ she goes on. ‘No disagreements?’

Fagelsjo doesn’t answer, and says instead: ‘I never met Petersson in relation to the sale. Our solicitors handled that, but I got the impression that he was one of those businessmen who want nothing more than to live in a castle. I daresay he had no idea of the work that requires, regardless of the amount of money one has to hire people to do it.’

‘He paid well?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

Fagelsjo smiles at his own words, and Malin can’t tell if he’s being consciously ironic and mimicking Zeke’s words or not.

‘I have difficulty seeing what significance the amount might have for your investigation.’

Malin nods. They can find out the amount, if it proves to be important.

‘Had you passed the castle on to your son?’

‘No. The castle was still in my ownership.’

‘The sale must have been upsetting for you,’ Malin says. ‘After all, your ancestors had lived there for centuries.’

‘It was time, Inspector Fors. That’s all there was to it.’

‘And your children? Did they react badly to the sale?’

‘Not at all. I daresay they were happy about the money. I tried to find a place for the children at the castle, but it didn’t suit them.’

‘A place?’

‘Yes, let one of them take over the running of it, but they weren’t interested.’

‘Are you happy here?’ Zeke asks, looking around at the spacious apartment.

‘Yes, I’m happy here. I’ve lived here since the sale. In fact, I’m so happy here that I’d like to be alone now, if you have no more questions.’

‘What sort of car do you drive?’

‘I have two. A black Mercedes and a red Toyota SUV.’

‘That’s all for now,’ Zeke says, getting up. ‘Do you know where we can find your children?’

‘I presume you have their telephone numbers. Call them. I don’t know where they are.’

In the hall Malin notices a pair of black rubber boots. The mud on them is still wet.

‘Have you been out in the forest?’ she asks Fagelsjo, who has followed them to the door.

‘No, just down to the Horticultural Society Park. That’s quite muddy enough for me at this time of year.’

When the front door has closed Fagelsjo goes down the corridor towards the kitchen.

He picks up the phone. Dials a number that he has managed to memorise with great difficulty.

Waits for an answer.

Thinks about the instructions that need to be given, how abundantly clear he will need to be for the children to understand. Thinks: Bettina. I wish you were here now. So we could deal with this together.

‘The best of both worlds,’ Zeke says as they head back to the car.

‘Sorry?’