‘Let’s get some coffee.’
They settle down at a corner table in the staffroom.
‘Well, let me start by saying that Christina Fagelsjo hasn’t managed to find Fredrik’s keys,’ Zeke says. ‘So it looks like he had them on him, and the murderer used his keys to open the chapel.’
Malin nods.
‘Anders Dalstrom,’ she goes on. ‘Andreas Ekstrom who died in the car accident was his only friend. He looked out for him, as Andreas’s mum put it. Think about it. It’s like his life stopped when Andreas died in the crash. What if he found out somehow that Jerry Petersson was driving? Maybe he met up with Jonas Karlsson in the pub and Karlsson told him the truth about that New Year’s Eve but couldn’t remember doing so afterwards? Unless he found out some other way. He might have accepted that it was an accident, but that would all have changed when he found out that Petersson was driving. Petersson was drunk, after all, which makes it a serious offence.’
‘So Dalstrom decided he wanted revenge?’
‘Well, possibly. Maybe he was bullied before Andreas turned up in his class. Maybe there’s a load of pent-up violence inside him that started to leak out? But he’d probably have preferred to blackmail Jerry Petersson for money. Maybe he went out to Skogsa that morning to put pressure on Petersson, and something went wrong and it got out of hand. And he ended up killing Petersson. What if Dalstrom felt that the violence made him feel stronger? That it gave him some sort of pleasure and he found he couldn’t stop once he’d started? That the aggression. .’
Zeke is looking sceptical, and says: ‘But why wait until now? Petersson had been living at Skogsa for eighteen months. And even if Karlsson only let the cat out of the bag fairly recently, Dalstrom doesn’t look like the vengeful type, Malin. He doesn’t seem energetic or courageous enough to blackmail anyone for money. Besides, I thought he seemed pretty good-natured.’
‘Maybe,’ Malin says. ‘But the victims of bullying, if that’s what he was, are often said to have a propensity for violence when they grow up. And what do we really know about him?’
Zeke nods.
‘That might be true,’ he says. ‘But what about Fredrik Fagelsjo? How do you explain that? Or was someone else responsible for his murder?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ Malin says. ‘What if Anders Dalstrom murdered Fredrik for the simple reason that he wanted to divert attention away from himself and towards the family instead? After all, they had good reason to be pretty upset with Fredrik. That might explain the call Daniel got from an insistent informant.’
‘So it’s Daniel now, is it?’
‘Shut up.’
‘OK. But what call?’
Malin tells Zeke about the conversation, but he just raises his eyebrows.
‘It’s still too vague,’ he says. ‘Could anyone really commit two murders on such flimsy grounds?’
‘People have killed for less. And he might have developed a taste for violence after the first murder. Maybe violence gave him the outlet he needed. And the different methods could be explained by the fact that he felt more confident once he’d got away with the first one?’
‘So you’re seriously suggesting that Anders Dalstrom carried out what looks like a ritual murder of Fredrik Fagelsjo just to save his own skin? And all because he’s discovered some sort of necessary violence inside himself?’
Malin nods.
‘Is that really enough, Malin? The body was lying naked on the family vault. We haven’t seen many cases worse than that.’
‘There’s still a piece of the puzzle missing,’ Malin says. ‘Maybe I’m completely wrong. It’s like I’m having trouble thinking straight. Too much shit floating about.’
‘There’s still a slim chance that it was the Fagelsjos. Fredrik could have murdered Jerry, and Axel and Katarina could have had Fredrik killed. Or Goldman might have sent a hitman. Or it could be something else entirely.’
‘I know,’ Malin says.
‘And Anders Dalstrom has alibis. He’s supposed to have been working on the nights of both murders.’
‘I’ll call and check again,’ Malin says.
‘Let’s go in person,’ Zeke says. ‘Make sure they check properly.’
The staff nurse in Bjorsater old people’s home shows Malin and Zeke into the nurses’ office, tucked away in a corner of a well-lit room with a view of a recently planted forest of fir trees. There’s a colourful embroidery on the wall, presumably made by the residents in occupational therapy.
‘No,’ the nurse says, ‘Anders isn’t working today. He mostly works nights.’
Malin nods.
She paces restlessly up and down the small, windowless room, looking at the bottles of pills lined up behind locked glass doors.
‘I did call and ask before,’ Malin says. ‘But we’d like to ask again: was he working the night between Thursday 23 October and Friday 24? And the night between Thursday and Friday last week?’
The nurse pulls a folder from a low shelf.
Opens it and checks carefully, as if to demonstrate that she is taking Malin’s question seriously.
‘According to the rota, he was working both nights.’
‘According to the rota?’
‘Yes, sometimes they swap without telling me. It’s against regulations, but as long as everything works. .’
‘Could you do me a favour?’ Malin says. ‘Can you check to see if he swapped shifts with anyone on either of those nights?’
The nurse nods.
‘Yes, but I’ll have to call the other night staff. Most of them will be asleep now. Is it urgent?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Zeke says.
Five minutes later the nurse holds out her hands in defeat.
‘No answers from any of them. They’re all asleep. Can I call you back later this afternoon?’
‘Yes, please do,’ Malin says.
‘Do you have any idea where Anders might be?’
‘He wasn’t on duty last night. But he’s probably at home.’
‘I was there an hour or so ago. He wasn’t there.’
‘Have you tried his mobile?’
‘No answer,’ Malin says.
‘No? You could try asking his dad. He lives in sheltered accommodation in the city. His dad’s blind, Anders visits him fairly often.’
‘Which home is he in?’ Zeke asks.
‘Serafen.’
Serafen, Malin thinks.
The same place as the blind Sixten Eriksson whom Axel Fagelsjo beat up. Malin and Zeke exchange glances.
‘Do you know his father’s name?’
‘Sixten,’ the nurse says. ‘Sixten Eriksson.’
64
Sixten Eriksson is sitting on the sofa in his room at Serafen, staring into his darkness, unable to see the cheap reproductions on the walls. The smell of tobacco is even more pronounced than it was last time.
He doesn’t want to face us, Malin thinks, even though he can’t see anything.
