‘And we can write off the parents of the kids in the car crash,’ Malin says. ‘They had no reason to want Fredrik dead. If they wanted to kill him for organising the party, they’d have done so long ago.’
They mention Jochen Goldman, agree that the connection is a long shot, but that they can’t dismiss the possibility entirely.
The three detectives are silent for a while, considering all the possible scenarios, sensing how elusive and multifaceted the truth is.
‘You two go and tell Axel Fagelsjo,’ Sven goes on. ‘Johan and Waldemar can inform Katarina.’
‘And question them. We’ll handle the old man,’ Zeke says. ‘After all, they could well have had something to do with this.’
‘True enough,’ Sven says. ‘They might have wanted Fredrik out of the way because of his business dealings, or they could be guilty of Petersson’s death and he was on the point of cracking and talking.’
Malin shakes her head sceptically, but says nothing.
‘And we’ll have to take a closer look at Fredrik’s life. His dealings with the bank,’ Sven says. ‘Maybe he didn’t only lose his own family’s money? He could have enemies. More work for Johan, Waldemar and Lovisa in Hades.’
‘What a bloody mess,’ Zeke says. ‘How the hell are we going to get anywhere with all this?’
‘They can check all the business stuff in Hades. A bad deal seldom occurs in isolation,’ Sven says, then he gives Malin a sympathetic look that annoys her and makes her want to say: ‘Stop worrying so fucking much. I’ll be fine,’ then she thinks: What if I’m not, what if I can’t hold on? What happens then? And then the indistinct concept of rehab pops into her head like a small firework.
‘And we’ll have to talk to Fredrik’s wife,’ Zeke says. ‘She hasn’t reported him missing.’
‘You do that,’ Sven says. ‘He might have told her he was going somewhere. Any other thoughts?’ Sven goes on. ‘The car crash?’
‘Dubious. But we have to ask ourselves why he was laid on the family vault naked,’ Malin says. ‘Almost like a sacrifice.’
‘Do you think the murderer’s trying to tell us something?’
‘I really don’t know. Maybe he or she is trying to make us believe that there’s something to tell. Get us to look in a particular direction. Possibly towards the Fagelsjo family themselves. It’s all been in the papers, after all.’
‘You mean it could be someone in the family who wants to be discovered?’
Zeke, questioning, beside her.
‘More the opposite,’ Malin says.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Malin says. ‘It just feels like there’s something here that doesn’t make sense.’
‘You’re right about something not making sense. Well, we’ll have Karin’s report tomorrow, and we’ll take it from there,’ Sven says. ‘And we need to map out Fredrik’s last twenty-four hours. We haven’t exactly got very far with Petersson. Unless there really isn’t anything to fill in that we don’t already know about, apart from his encounter with the murderer.’
‘So how do we think Fredrik got here?’ Zeke asks.
‘Forensics are going to have a look for tyre tracks around the castle. See if they can find any that don’t match the solicitor’s car. There’s nothing to suggest that anyone’s been inside the castle. The alarm was on when they arrived. Well, go and see Axel Fagelsjo now. Before the media announce it.’
‘It’s already out,’ Zeke says.
Cars from the
Over-eager vultures. Even if they don’t mention any names, the victim’s relatives can always put two and two together, and no one should find out about a death through the media.
Still no Daniel out there.
In his place an older reporter that Malin, oddly enough, doesn’t recognise, and the photographer, the young girl with dreadlocks that Malin knows takes good pictures. What is it she’s trying to capture here?
Death?
Violence? Evil. Or fear.
Whatever you do, don’t take any pictures of me. I look like a pig.
Sven’s mobile rings.
He hmms a few times beside them. Hangs up.
‘That was Groth in Forensics,’ he says, turning towards Malin. ‘The examination of the pictures of your parents didn’t come up with anything, I’m afraid.’
Malin nods.
‘Shit,’ Zeke says quietly. He was furious when he found out about the pictures this morning. ‘Couldn’t the pictures have something to do with all this?’
‘Somehow it all fits together, doesn’t it?’ Malin says. ‘It’s just a question of how.’
Malin leaves the kitchen and goes out into the main hall, stopping once more in front of the huge painting of a man rubbing suncream onto a woman’s back.
Thinks that the picture is beautiful and tawdry at the same time.
She feels something as she looks at it, but she can’t put her finger on what.
Sven walks past her.
She says: ‘I’d like Zeke and I to deal with Katarina Fagelsjo.’
‘OK, if you think that’s a better idea,’ Sven says. ‘Waldemar and Johan can talk to Fredrik Fagelsjo’s wife instead. But start with his father. And not a word to the bloody media.’
51
Axel Fagelsjo is standing quietly in front of the sitting-room window. The fog that drifted in when the rain stopped is obstructing the view of the Horticultural Society Park, the naked trees are like thin silhouettes of bodies, and Axel seems to be looking for something, as if he has a feeling that someone down in the park is watching him from a distance and was just waiting for the right opportunity to attack him.
It was as if he knew why they were there, as if he knew what had happened, and, while they still were in the hallway, he said, ‘Out with it, then!’ to Malin and Zeke, as if he had spent all night waiting for them. They asked him to go through to the sitting room and take a seat, but the old man refused: ‘Just say what you’ve got to say here,’ and Malin sat on a worn old rococo stool by the door and said straight out: ‘Your son. Fredrik. He was found dead in the chapel at Skogsa this morning.’
The terrible meaning of the words blew away her insecurities.
‘Had he killed himself? Hanged himself?’
And in Axel Fagelsjo’s face, in the pink confusion of wrinkled skin stretched over fat, Malin saw a hardness, but also something like clarity.
I despised my son. I loved him.
He’s dead, and perhaps now his sins can be forgiven. His sins against me. Against the memory of his mother. His ancestors.
And, deep in his shiny pupils, grief, yet still somehow hidden behind layer upon layer of self-control.
‘He was murdered,’ Zeke said. ‘Your son was murdered.’
As if he wanted to provoke a reaction in Axel, but he merely turned away, went into the sitting room, and over to the window where he is now standing, his back to them as he answers their questions, apparently unconcerned by the circumstances. Malin wishes she could see his face now, his eyes, but she is sure there are no tears running down Axel Fagelsjo’s cheeks.
‘We can tell you the details of your son’s death if you want to hear them,’ Malin says. ‘We know a fair amount already.’
‘How he was found, you mean?’
