Malin rings again.
Twice, three times. Five minutes, ten.
‘He’s not going to open up,’ Zeke says, and turns away.
Axel Fagelsjo has sat down in his leather armchair, looking into the fire crackling in the hearth, feeling its heat against his feet.
They’re here again, the police.
It was bound to happen.
Do they know about the financial affairs yet? Fredrik’s mess? Maybe even the attempt to buy back the castle? They must do, Axel Fagelsjo thinks. And they’re stupid enough to put two and two together in the most banal way possible.
But sometimes the truth is banal, often the most banal thing imaginable.
Like when Fredrik told him, he was sitting in this very chair, albeit out at the castle, and he had felt like ripping the head off his offspring, saw his son lying on his back whimpering like a worthless cockroach, and he had no choice but to get a grip on things himself.
Bettina, I did what I had to, what I promised you.
I stared at myself in the mirror, looked at the portraits on the wall, saw the derision in my forefathers’ eyes, the love in yours. I saved our son. But the feeling in that room, impossible to get around: You’re no son of mine. You can’t be.
They hadn’t spoken to each other for a month. Then he had phoned Fredrik, summoned him, and his son had wept at his feet again, clinging onto the doorframe like a wretched beast.
Derision and shame.
Love can encompass those feelings as well. But if we don’t take care of each other, who else is going to?
I promised your mother that I would love you, look after you, both of you, on her deathbed. Did you hear? Were you eavesdropping outside her sickroom that last night? That’s the only thing that has ever made me weak, Bettina, your illness, your blasted suffering, your terrible torment. And I trusted you, Fredrik. Against my better judgement. And now you’ve been so damn stupid, driving your car while you were drunk and trying to escape the police. Drawing everyone’s attention to us when there was no need. You should have stopped the car, taken your stupid punishment. We can deal with things like that. But sit there in your cell and feel the consequences of your actions. Your children, my grandchildren, I don’t recognise myself in them. But perhaps that’s because of their mother? That woman has never liked me, no matter how I’ve tried.
Fredrik.
Maybe it would have been better if you were retarded?
The police, that strong, intelligent, worn-out woman, and him, that obviously tough man, I didn’t let them in. If I’m going to tell them anything else, they’ll have to force me with all the means at their disposal.
Fredrik and Katarina.
You do whatever you like now, don’t you? Don’t they, Bettina?
Well, let’s see what happens. Even if Fredrik tells them everything, what will those police officers do with the information? Even if they both seem to be made of sterner stuff than you, beloved, derided son.
Katarina.
I don’t need to worry about her. She does as I say. Always has done. She’s the accepting sort.
Axel Fagelsjo gets up. Goes over to the window overlooking the Horticultural Society Park. Is that someone standing under the bare trees in the rain?
Is someone standing there looking up at me? Or do my eyes deceive me?
Fredrik Fagelsjo has asked to see Sven Sjoman.
Has asked him to sit down on the bunk in his cell again, and says in a voice full of resignation: ‘You don’t have to believe me, but I had nothing to do with the murder of Jerry Petersson. I don’t think anyone in the family did. But this is the story, as I see it.’
Fredrik takes a deep breath before going on: ‘When Father got depressed after Mother’s death, I was given access to the family fortune, to take care of day-to-day expenses. That made sense, because I work at a bank and know about finances.’
Fredrik falls silent, as though he is having second thoughts.
‘What do you do at the bank?’ Sven asks. ‘You’re a financial advisor, aren’t you?’
‘I work with business customers. We’re often involved when small businesses around here change ownership. I work with the financing of that.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘Well, it may not be quite what I used to dream about,’ Fredrik says. ‘But it’s a decent bank job, considering that it’s in Linkoping. Anyway. Mum’s death hit Father hard. He gave me power of attorney to look after the finances until he felt better.’
‘And you started to get involved in stock options?’
‘Yes,’ Fredrik says, leaning back against the wall of the cell, and then he started to explain about the poor condition of the castle, about his father’s relatively poor finances, about his mother’s death, and how he started dabbling in options until everything got out of control once he had access to the family fortune, but he had meant well.
Fredrik’s voice starts to fade, and Sven wonders whether he’s about to start crying, but he manages to hold back his tears if that was the case.
‘So Father was forced to let the right sort of people know that Skogsa was for sale, and that was when Petersson popped up. Him, of all people. It was only thanks to my and Dad’s contacts at the bank that we were able to stave off bankruptcy until the deal was concluded.’
‘The bank had no responsibility?’
‘No, I conducted all my dealings with the family fortune as a private individual. It was simply hushed up. And Father sold Skogsa to save me from bankruptcy. He promised Mum on her deathbed that he’d look after me and Katarina, no matter what it cost. And that’s what he did.’
‘It must have been hard,’ Sven says.
‘It was hard for Father,’ Fredrik replies, leaning forward. ‘But for me? I was just worried about Father. That might be hard to understand, but it’s the truth. Father
‘And after that? More recently? You tried to buy back Skogsa, didn’t you?’ Sven asks.
‘Yes.’
‘How? Where did the money come from?’
‘We came into an inheritance. The Danish side of the family. An elderly countess who had been a successful industrialist left enough of a fortune that even we inherited a very large sum of money.’
‘And then you decided you wanted to buy back the castle?’
‘Petersson just laughed at Father’s offer.’
‘Did you confront Petersson yourself?’ Sven asks, and Fredrik seems to hesitate before replying.
‘I’ll be completely honest. I was there the evening before Petersson was found murdered. He let me in, and rejected my offer in no uncertain terms. He asked if I’d like a glass of cognac in the rooms where I’d grown up. His smile was so arrogant that I’d have killed him happily, but I didn’t.’
Fredrik pauses, folds his hands on his lap.
‘Mind you, I should have,’ he says eventually.
‘So you think you should have killed him?’ Sven asks.
‘Yes,’ Fredrik says. ‘I should have. But how often do we ever do what we ought to?’
‘What car were you driving when you went out there?’
‘My black Volvo. The one you’ve got impounded.’
‘Your wife said you were at home when we spoke to her.’
‘She was trying to protect me. That’s natural enough, isn’t it? Trying to protect your nearest and dearest?’
