no less. He had merely invested in the company, not acted as its legal advisor, so there was no question of bias. They hadn’t found a will, and during the course of the day Johan had made another twenty pointless calls to everyone from commercial lawyers whose names cropped up in the files to the carpenters, electricians and other workmen who had been employed by Jerry Petersson out at Skogsa. No one had anything interesting to say about him. He seemed to have managed all his business dealings in an irreproachable manner.
The clock on the yellow textured wallpaper says 2.25.
Lovisa looks at Johan, the pleasant, softly spoken officer out of the two she’s been set to work with. Competent and inoffensive.
Evidently Waldemar is also competent, and at lunch over at the National Forensics Laboratory she noticed how the other officers treated him with the respect the police usually reserve for officers who really know how to make things happen.
‘Time’s getting on,’ Waldemar says, settling down at his place at the table, in front of a screen showing the contents of Jerry Petersson’s hard-drives in neat folders.
‘I can’t think straight,’ Johan says. ‘So much fucking paper.’
‘The only thing I can see that could have a direct connection to the case,’ Lovisa says, ‘is the company Petersson owned with Jochen Goldman. The one dealing with the books and the income from interviews with Goldman. The company accounts look terrible. Maybe there’s more money somewhere, or else the interest or capitalisation value of Goldman’s celebrity status was a lot higher.’
‘Capitalisation value,’ Waldemar says. ‘You sound like a right nerd.’
‘We’ll mention it at the next meeting,’ Johan says.
‘The morning meeting first thing tomorrow,’ Waldemar says, and Lovisa thinks that no one could be less suited to paperwork than him.
Katarina Fagelsjo, dressed in dark jeans and a pink tennis shirt, is leaning back on a sofa that Malin knows comes from Svenskt Tenn and costs a fortune. The fabric of the sofa was designed by Josef Frank, old-fashioned black tendrils snaking through leaves in strong autumn colours against a pale blue background.
A fortune, she thinks. At least by my standards, and then she thinks how badly she fits in with this room, conscious of how cheap her H amp;M jeans look, her woollen sweater, how vulgar her sports socks are, and how scruffy she is as a whole compared to Katarina Fagelsjo. Malin feels like creeping along the walls, taking up as little space as possible, but she knows this won’t do, so she’ll have to hide her insecurity behind brusqueness.
A fragile wooden table in front of them, three cups of coffee that neither Malin, Zeke nor Katarina Fagelsjo have touched. The whole room smells of lemon-scented detergent and some expensive, famous perfume that Malin can’t place. Paintings on the walls. Classical, but with the same aura of quality as Jerry Petersson’s artworks. A lot of portraits of women by windows in bright light, women who all seem to be waiting for something. One painting in particular, of a woman by a window facing the sea, takes Malin’s interest. She reads the signature: Anna Ancher.
Through the large living-room windows Malin and Zeke can see the Stangan River flowing gently past, the raindrops forming small, fleeting craters as they hit the surface. On the other side of the river large villas clamber up the slope towards Tanneforsvagen, but it’s regarded as much smarter to live on this side of the river, closer to the centre.
As far as Malin can tell, Katarina lives alone in the large, modernist villa from the thirties beside the Stangan, and she’s in a more obliging frame of mind now than she was at the driving range.
‘Go ahead,’ she says with a smile. ‘I’ll answer as best as I can.’
‘Did you know that your father tried to buy back Skogsa from Jerry Petersson?’ Zeke asks.
‘I knew. And I didn’t approve.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s a closed chapter for me. We have everything we could possibly need anyway. But obviously I couldn’t stop him trying. Jerry Petersson was the rightful owner of the castle. That’s all there was to it.’
‘And your brother?’ Malin asks, looking at Katarina, the way she seems to be struggling with something, and if Malin asks open questions she might start talking, revealing some secret that could take them forward.
‘He would probably have liked to see the castle bought back.’
‘Were you angry with him because of his investments?’
‘So you know about that?’ Katarina acts surprised. ‘Naturally, it was a mistake that Father gave my brother access to the family capital. He’s never been particularly talented. But as to whether I was angry? No. Do you know about the Danish inheritance?’
Malin nods.
‘Do you think we got Petersson out of the way because he was the only thing standing between us and getting Skogsa back?’
Malin looks at Zeke, he’s gazing out of the windows, and she wonders what he’s thinking about. Karin Johannison? Maybe, maybe not. You’ve got a wife, Zeke, but who the hell am I to criticise anyone else? We share our secrets, Zeke.
‘You could have told us all this out at the golf club,’ Malin says.
‘At the driving range,’ Katarina corrects with a shrug.
‘Why do you think your brother tried to get away from us?’
‘He was driving under the influence. He couldn’t even handle a month in prison. He’s the timid sort. Like I said.’
‘Do you live here alone?’ Malin asks.
‘Yes. I’ve lived alone since the divorce.’
‘And your lover? The doctor. Does he usually stay here?’
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘Sorry,’ Malin says. ‘Nothing. It’s nothing to do with us.’
‘There’s no love there,’ Katarina says. ‘Just really good sex. A few more times. The sort of thing a woman needs every so often. You know what I mean, don’t you?’
A text message from Tove.
‘Got your message. Was at the cinema.’
Of course.
She was going to the cinema.
What should I reply?
She replies: ‘Great! Now I know.’
No: ‘Are you coming around later?’
Zeke behind the wheel. On the way to her flat to drop her off.
Can’t deal with anyone but herself tonight. If that.
Skirts.
Tops.
Sandals.
A photograph album.
Malin’s life in a big heap on the hall floor when she went into the flat.
Bags and boxes full of her clothes, shoes, books and things. Neatly piled up, and when Malin realised what was in front of her in the flat she felt like crying, and she sat down on the hall floor, but however much she tried to squeeze out some tears, none came.
My things, the person I am. No, not the person I am, more like a receipt for the pointless person I’ve become.
Janne had turned up with her things from the house during the day, using her spare key to get in, then dropping it through the letterbox afterwards. She would have liked to pick up her things herself, would have liked them to be at home when she went, him and Tove, and they would have asked her to sit down at a ready-laid table and would offer her some hot stew that would take the edge off all the chill and rawness, the thirst and confusion.
Now, instead, this pile of life. In this shitty-fucking-tiny-musty-raw-damp-lonely flat.
Did Tove help Janne? Have they turned against me in tandem?
But what can I expect? I hit him. In front of Tove. How the hell could I? Am I any better than the father and
