‘Who loves that land,’ Malin says.
‘And who wanted it back, but he couldn’t have it.’
‘Because Jerry Petersson refused to sell.’
‘As if he owned the man’s soul,’ Zeke said.
‘And Fredrik Fagelsjo who gambled the castle away,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe he wanted to put everything right? And if Petersson was out of the game, the family could buy back the castle. But where have they suddenly got the money from, the money behind Axel Fagelsjo’s offer for Skogsa? I’ll call Sven, maybe he hasn’t got around to talking to Fredrik Fagelsjo yet.’
The door to the cell opens.
Fredrik Fagelsjo is sitting on his bunk with a cup of coffee in his hand, reading a copy of
‘Can I come in for a few minutes?’ Sven Sjoman asks. He looks at Fredrik, at the way his shoulders seem to be weighed down by an invisible force, and the skin around his eyes seems to have become dried out during his time in the cell. His eyes seem to be pleading for alcohol, the way that Malin’s do sometimes. I’ll let you have what we know in tiny portions, Sven thinks.
‘Ehrenstierna isn’t here.’
‘I just want to ask a couple of questions,’ Sven says. ‘If that’s OK?’
‘OK.’
Fagelsjo seems tired, as if he’s already given up on something, Sven thinks, or as if he’s in the process of giving up on something.
He sits down beside him on the bunk’s mattress, detecting the smell of urine from the shiny, stainless-steel toilet.
‘A lot of people here at the station have problems with alcohol as well,’ Sven says. ‘There’s no shame in it.’
‘I haven’t got a problem,’ Fagelsjo replies.
‘No, but no one here would look down on you if that were the case.’
‘Good to know.’
‘We know about your dealings in stock options,’ Sven goes on.
Fagelsjo doesn’t reply.
Sven looks around the cell, at how bare it is.
‘You’ve got children, young children. And a wife. Do you miss them?’
‘Yes. I do. But you’re not letting me have any visitors.’
‘Not us. The prosecutor. Is everything OK with your family?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘That’s good. My wife and I have been married thirty-five years, and we still enjoy each other’s company.’
‘I got scared. I panicked,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘I didn’t want to spend time in Skanninge. Missing such a large chunk of the children’s lives. Can you understand that?’
Sven nods, moves a bit closer to him.
‘What about your father? He must have been pretty mad about your financial affairs?’
‘He’s always been a bit mad,’ Fagelsjo says with a smile. ‘He was angry.’
‘And yet you all told us that it was time to sell?’
‘If you come from a family like ours, you do anything you can to protect the family name.’
‘Perhaps that was what you were doing?’ Sven says. ‘Going out to Skogsa that morning to get your revenge on Jerry Petersson for taking the castle away from you? I promise you, it will feel better if you tell us.’
‘I’m not even going to dignify that with a denial,’ Fagelsjo says. Then he adjusts the newspaper in his lap with an exaggerated gesture. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’
‘Then last week you tried to buy back the castle.’
Fagelsjo raises his eyes from the paper with a look of surprise.
So you know about that? he seems to be thinking.
Sven nods.
‘We know. Where did you get the money from? As I understand it, you gambled away the family fortune, and plenty more besides.’
‘We got some money,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘But it isn’t my place to explain how.’
‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Sven says. ‘And Petersson just laughed at your father. Did you want to show your father how strong you were, Fredrik? Did you just want to put everything right, I can imagine it must be difficult having a father like that, and now you just wanted to put everything right, so you went out there that morning and killed Jerry Petersson. Is that how it was? And you lost control? It will feel better if you. .’
Fagelsjo leaps up from the bunk. Throws the paper at the wall, shouting: ‘I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything!’
27
Rented flats.
The logo of Stanga Council on the noticeboard by the front door.
Malin didn’t notice the housing association sign the first time they were here, took it for granted that a man like Axel Fagelsjo would own his own apartment.
What sort of contacts would you need to get a rented flat on Drottninggatan with a view of the Horticultural Society Park? Either way, I live in a rented flat, Axel Fagelsjo lives in a rented flat.
The building’s lift is broken so Malin and Zeke have to take the stairs up to the apartment on the fourth floor.
Malin is out of breath.
Feeling sick, but if you feel sick as often as I do, she thinks, then feeling sick becomes a natural state. She knows why her body is protesting, alcohol functions just like any other drug, when your body wants more it lets you know, protesting noisily that the pleasure-fuel had stopped flowing. Her body is taking last night’s abstinence as an insult.
Taking flight in drink.
Breathing, deep, breathless breaths, and she loses count of the number of steps, and she tries to concentrate on the Fagelsjo family instead.
They were forced to sell.
It wasn’t time.
Maintain the facade.
And they wanted to buy back the castle.
But where did the money come from? Sven has just called. Didn’t manage to get it out of Fredrik Fagelsjo, who had lost vast amounts. And Petersson had merely laughed at Axel Fagelsjo’s proposal.
How to proceed?
Get your son to kill Petersson so you can buy back the castle and land from the dead man’s estate, at whatever cost? Or kill him yourself in a fit of rage?
Malin looks at Zeke, can see he’s thoughtful as they pant their way upstairs in their dripping raincoats, knows he’s thinking the same thing as she is, he’s not stupid, and through the windows of the stairwell they can see the rain hammering down, large drops, small drops, all about to be smashed on the tarmac below.
But are the Fagelsjos, father and son, murderers? Malin feels uncertainty wrench at her stomach, an uncertainty bordering on disbelief.
They are standing outside Axel Fagelsjo’s apartment.
Zeke nods to her, says: ‘Let’s see what he’s got to say.’
Malin rings the bell, and they hear it ring on the other side of the heavy, brown-painted wooden door, then footsteps, and they glimpse an eye peering through the peephole before the footsteps go away again,
