She and Zeke had discussed the possibilities in the car on the way to Anders Dalstrom’s house after their visit to Bjorsater.
‘That definitely gives him another motive,’ Zeke had said.
‘Getting revenge for what happened to his father by murdering the son of the man who committed the offence.’
‘But why now?’ Zeke asked.
‘Maybe he’s got a taste for violence, like I said, if Petersson’s murder was a blackmail attempt that got out of control. If you’ve killed once, you can kill again. You’ve crossed a line. And maybe he thought he could confuse us even more, and that would help him get away with it.’
‘Don’t you just love human beings?’ Zeke said.
‘And no one knows where he is.’
Anders Dalstrom wasn’t home this time either. They’ve already called the station. Sven said they’d put out a call for him to be brought in, seeing as they needed to talk to him even if it didn’t lead to anything.
And now Sixten Eriksson’s darkness. On his own. No sign of Anders Dalstrom here either.
‘I made up the bit about Evaldsson. Sven, too,’ Sixten Eriksson says. ‘Anders took his mother’s name, Dalstrom. I don’t know anything about what he might or might not have done, but I’d never set the police on him no matter what’s happened. Of course I’m protecting him, I’ve always protected him.’
‘Do you think your son could have murdered Fredrik Fagelsjo in revenge for what happened to you?’
Malin tries to make her voice sound curious, gentle.
But Sixten Eriksson doesn’t answer.
‘Could he have murdered Jerry Petersson? What do you think?’
Zeke aggressive, pushy.
‘Pain needs a way out somehow,’ Sixten Eriksson says.
‘Has he said anything?’ Malin asks.
‘No, he hasn’t said anything.’
‘Do you know where he might be?’
Sixten Eriksson laughs at Zeke’s question. ‘If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t tell you. Why should I? But he comes here fairly often. Aren’t children funny, no matter what their parents do to them, they still come running back for love and reassurance.’
Malin and Zeke look into the old man’s blind eye and Malin thinks that it can see more than hers right now. His clouded lens seems to possess a certainty about how this autumn’s dark drama will end, that the man in front of them has delved deep into hate and evil through his own suffering.
‘So you used to hit him?’ Malin asks. ‘You used to beat Anders when he was small?’
‘Do you know what it’s like, not having any depth of perception?’ Sixten Eriksson asks. ‘Pain in your nerves that burns right into your brain, the whole time, day and night?’ He goes on: ‘I hope Axel Fagelsjo is suffering all the torments of hell right now, now that his son is dead. He can finally get his share of this life’s pain.’
‘Did you ask your son to kill any of the Fagelsjo family? Fredrik? Axel?’
‘No, but I’ve thought about it. I can’t deny it.’
Searching through the shelves. My hands, Dad used to hit them with a ruler.
Do you see my eye, boy?
What do I need?
Anders Dalstrom is moving through the aisles of the ironmongers’ store in Ekholmen shopping centre. The kebab he’s just eaten is gurgling in his stomach.
Rope.
Masking tape. The other people are looking at me, what do they want? The rifle’s in the car. I’m going to put an end to all this, and it will be a relief, the police will find him and wonder, utterly confused.
I’m going to kill him. After all, it started with him, didn’t it? Maybe Dad will be pleased?
Anders Dalstrom feels that the last of the snakes will soon be leaving him. Everything will be fine again, the way it should have been. Andreas, he thinks, can you see me now?
I’m going to get rid of the root of all this evil.
He pays. Gets in the car, heads off towards Drottninggatan.
Some voices are like the crack of a whip, Malin thinks. They cut right into your most vulnerable areas.
‘Jochen Goldman here,’ the voice says for a second time.
Bastard.
Malin feels the phone against her ear, the rain on her hand as she stands in Djurgardsgatan outside Serafen.
But she also feels a peculiar warmth when she hears his voice. A warmth in completely the wrong parts of her body.
His suntanned face by the edge of the pool. Hardness and softness in men like him and Petersson.
‘What do you want with me?’
With her free hand Malin opens the car door, sinks into the seat, holds the phone tightly against her ear, listening to Jochen Goldman’s breathing.
‘The photographs,’ she goes on. ‘You took those photographs of my parents and sent them to me, didn’t you? You got someone to take them.’
‘What photographs?’
She can see Jochen Goldman’s smile before her. The game it implies, we can have a bit of fun, can’t we, you and me?
‘You know which ones.’
‘I don’t know anything about any photographs. Of your parents? Why would I take pictures of them? I don’t even know where they live.’
‘Are you in Sweden?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been in Linkoping?’
‘What on earth would I want to go there for?’
‘Did you send Jerry Petersson a blackmail letter? Were you trying to get money out of him?’
‘I’ve got more money than I need. If that’s actually possible.’
The skies have opened again. Hail, little white grains, are drumming rhythmically against the body of the car.
‘Are you listening to negro music?’
‘Hail,’ Malin says.
‘If I wanted anything done in Linkoping, you hardly imagine I’d go myself?’
Inferences, intimations.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m at the Grand in Stockholm. I’ve got a suite. I thought maybe you’d like to come along. We could have a nice time. Drink some champagne. Maybe take some pictures. Just the two of us. What do you say?’
Malin clicks to end the call.
Shuts her eyes.
She’s not sure that Jochen Goldman really exists. That her parents exist. That there’s ever any explanation whatsoever for anyone’s actions.
They drive past Axel Fagelsjo’s door on Drottninggatan. Neither of them sees the long-haired figure slide through the door like a shadow.
