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Autumn Killing - Mons Kallentoft
- Дата:05.11.2024
- Категория: Детективы и Триллеры / Триллер
- Название: Autumn Killing
- Автор: Mons Kallentoft
- Просмотров:0
- Комментариев:0
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No idea, and Waldemar seems to think the same, saying: ‘There’s so fucking much of it. We need help. And it’s all going to be financial stuff that I honestly won’t have a clue about. Do you know about stuff like that?’
Johan shakes his head. ‘Only a little.’
‘We need someone from Economic Crime.’
‘And it would make sense to do a serious search online first. See if we can find something that looks dodgy. Not least considering his dealings with Goldman.’
Then Waldemar drops a black folder on the floor. He swears as he picks it up and puts it on its own on the top shelf.
Paper, paper, paper, Johan thinks.
A life as a commercial lawyer, a solicitor.
A paper-producer.
As a surreptitious criminal? You don’t have friends like Goldman without being a bit suspect. Do you?
Jerry Petersson’s name produces 1,278,989 hits on Google. Maybe a thousand of them might be their Jerry Petersson. The name of his company in Stockholm appears in a few places. Petersson Legal Services Ltd.
Johan has checked the latest company results. Petersson seemed to have worked alone, not one single employee, not even a secretary. His accountants were named, but he needn’t necessarily even have had to meet them in person. No financial results for the company since Petersson bought Skogsa, just a declaration that the company was dormant. But at the same time he had started a new business, Rom Productions, to manage Skogsa. Nothing unusual anywhere, from what Johan could see at a quick glance, with his limited grasp of accounting.
There are still a fair number of hits, Johan thinks, trying to ignore the sour blast of coffee and smoke that hits him in the ear every time Waldemar breathes.
They’re sitting at Johan’s desk in the open-plan office, at his computer, keen to get out of the cell.
A lot of the hits seem to be about a seventeen-year-old golfer from Arboga.
Several of them link Petersson to Goldman. Articles in the main business dailies and magazines. It looks as if Petersson represented Goldman while he was on the run, acting as his intermediary in Goldman’s dealings with the authorities and media.
A few other hits concerned with business. But no juicy stories, only boring and apparently perfectly normal business dealings.
Then Jerry Petersson’s name pops up in connection with an IT company that was sold to Microsoft early in 2002. Petersson was said to be one of the main backers, and as a result of the sale he made a profit of almost two hundred and fifty million kronor.
Johan lets out a whistle.
Waldemar sighs, says: ‘Fuck off.’
Working as a lawyer may have made you well-off, Johan thinks, but Christ, this deal made you absurdly rich.
They read about the deal.
Nothing about any disagreements. Everything seems to have been done by the book. Nothing odd at all, only a number of happy new multi-millionaires.
And then Goldman again.
According to one article from earlier this year, when his crime fell under the statute of limitations, he was living in Tenerife at the time. The article was illustrated with several pictures of a rather fat toad-like man with dark hair and sunglasses. The man was shown seated behind the wheel of a large motor yacht in a sun-drenched harbour.
‘This is where we start,’ Johan says.
‘OK,’ Waldemar says. ‘But I still think we should ask out on the street as well.’
Sven Sjoman is walking up and down in his office, he almost misses his bulging stomach at times like this, the solid, thought-inspiring mound beneath his clasped hands. Instead there’s now practically nothing beneath his beige shirt and brown jacket.
Karim Akbar is standing by his desk. He’s just called Stockholm and asked for support from Economic Crime.
Press conference in twenty minutes.
They’ve just received Karin’s preliminary report.
The post-mortem on Jerry Petersson showed that he died of a blow to the back of the neck from a blunt instrument, possibly a rock. The knife wounds to his torso, forty in total, were in all likelihood inflicted after Petersson’s death, or after he lost consciousness from the blow to the head.
There was no water in his lungs, so he was definitely dead by the time his body was dumped in the moat. To judge by the condition of the body, death occurred some time between four and half past six that morning. He hadn’t been in the water for longer than four hours at the most. Murder was the only possible explanation for the cause of death. The perpetrator could be male or female, the knife wounds were deep, but not so deep that a woman couldn’t have inflicted them. The perpetrator was, to judge by the distribution and direction of the wounds, probably right-handed.
The forensic examination of Petersson’s car wasn’t yet complete, but the search of the gravel courtyard in front of the castle hadn’t produced anything. The rain had destroyed any evidence that might have been there.
The search of the castle had yielded thousands of different fingerprints. A lot of them could be decades old, and there were no signs of obvious criminal activity anywhere. The victim’s possessions appeared to be untouched. In other words, no indications that robbery was the motive. The castle chapel and other buildings were also clean.
They were in the process of draining the moat in the search for the murder weapon, because the divers hadn’t been able to find anything in the sludge at the bottom. Sven was worried about the fish at first, until he accepted that they were a necessary sacrifice.
‘How are you going to play this?’
Sven looks over at Karim.
‘Tell it like it is. Without any details.’
‘The connection to Goldman?’
‘They’ve already found that. It’s on the Correspondent’s website. TV4 are running with it. And doubtless more to come. They’re making a bloody big deal out of it.’
Then Sven sees Malin’s face before him. She looked worse than ever out at the castle. Red and puffy, almost old. She might well have been drinking all night. Had something happened? With Tove? She blames herself for what happened in Finspang last summer. Or is this about her and Janne? It doesn’t seem to be going very well.
‘Bloody hell,’ Sven says finally. ‘Why do I have a feeling that we’re only at the start of a whole load of misery?’
16
Borje Svard is standing in the rain in his garden in Tornhagen wearing a light blue raincoat. From the car Malin sees him raise his hand and throw a stick between the apple trees down towards the red-painted kennel block. The two beautiful Alsatians’ coats are glistening with damp as they chase the stick, playfully fighting over it with sharp, bared teeth.
Borje is a thickset man, and his waxed moustache is drooping towards the grass.
Zeke stops in front of the gate, parking behind the blue car of a district nurse. In the back seat Jerry Petersson’s beagle has leaped up, not barking, just staring expectantly out at the dogs in the garden.
Borje looks over towards them. Waves them over to him, stays where he is in the middle of the garden.
The little single-storey house is painted white, well maintained. Borje’s wife Anna would never tolerate anything else, even though she’s so weak now that she can’t even breathe without help. The illness has destroyed the nerves around her lungs and she’s living on overtime, at the age of fifty.
They leave Jerry Petersson’s dog in the car, and the Alsatians rush over to them as they open the gate.
Not wary, but welcoming, sniffing and licking, before they set off down the garden again without paying any attention to the beagle in the back seat.
Zeke and Malin go over to Borje. Shake his wet hand.
‘How are you both doing?’ Zeke asks.
Borje shakes his head, turns away from the house.
‘I wouldn’t wish what she’s going through on anyone.’
‘That bad?’ Malin says.
‘The nurses are with her now. They come four times a day. Otherwise we manage by ourselves.’
‘Would she like to see us, do you think?’
‘No,’ Borje says. ‘She hardly wants to see me. I see you’ve got a dog in the car? I can’t imagine it’s yours, Fors?’
Malin explains what’s happened, who the dog belonged to, and would he mind looking after it for a while, until they know if there’s a relative or someone else who wants it?
Borje smiles. A smile that gradually breaks through layer upon layer of exhaustion, of grief experienced in advance.
‘A bitch?’
‘No. Male,’ Zeke says.
‘That might be OK,’ Borje replies, then he goes over to the car and the dog bounces about in the back seat, and a couple of minutes later it’s standing to attention beside Borje while the Alsatians sniff all around it.
‘Looks like he feels at home here,’ Malin says. ‘Nice and easy.’
‘Get back to work, I’ll look after the dog. What’s his name?’
‘No idea,’ Malin replies. ‘Maybe you could call him Jerry?’
‘That would just confuse him,’ Borje replies.
‘We’d better get going,’ Zeke says.
Borje nods.
‘I appreciate you dropping by.’
‘Look after yourselves,’ Malin says, then turns away.
The call comes at exactly a quarter past two, as Malin and Zeke are parking the car at the old bus station. There’s not much left of the buildings that stood on the square years ago. Now there’s a car park surrounded by buildings from different eras. Ugly grey-panelled blocks from the sixties, well-maintained buildings from the turn of the last century, with the skeletal black trees of the Horticultural Society Park in the background.
Close to Mum and Dad’s flat now. The damp, dark rooms that no one has lived in for years. The flat is pretentiously large, but it still isn’t a proper apartment. Why have they still got it? So Mum can tell her friends in Tenerife that they’ve got an apartment in the city? Their faces are starting to fade from my memory, Malin thinks as her mobile rings again. Mum’s thin cheeks and pointed nose, Dad’s laughter lines and oddly smooth forehead.
A silent love, theirs. An agreement. Like mine and Janne’s? A lingering love, clinging to the back of our memories, in a room to which we haven’t yet managed to close the door.
The plants they think are still alive.
Dried out.
Not a single damn plant alive any more, but what do they expect when they haven’t been home for more than two years?
She pulls her mobile from the pocket of the GORE-TEX jacket.
Hears the rain drumming on the roof of the car. Zeke wary beside her.
Tove’s number on the screen.
What can I say to her? Is she going to be sad, scared?
How can I talk to her without Zeke realising?
He’ll realise. He knows me too well.
‘Tove, hi. I saw you rang earlier.’
Silence at the other end.
‘I know it all ended weirdly yesterday and I should have called back, but something’s happened and I’ve been busy at work. Is Dad there?’
I hit him, Malin thinks. I hit him.
‘I’m at school,’ she finally hears Tove’s voice say. She’s not sad, not scared, almost sounds angry. ‘If you need to talk to Dad, call him.’
‘Of course, you’re at school. I’ll give him a call if I need to talk to him. Why don’t you come into the city this evening and we’ll have something to eat, OK?’
Tove sighs.
‘I’m going to go back to the house, to Dad.’
‘You’re going back to Dad.’
‘Yes.’
Another silence. It’s as if Tove wants to ask something, but what?
‘Well, you do whatever you want, Tove,’ Malin says, and she knows it’s exactly what she shouldn’t say, she ought to say things like: It’s all going to be OK, I’ll pick you up from school, I want to give you a big hug, I’ll make an effort, how are you, my darling daughter?
‘How are you, Mum?’
‘How am I?’
‘Forget it. I’ve got to go. I’ve got a lesson.’
‘OK, bye then. Talk to you later. Big kiss.’
Zeke looking at her sympathetically. He knows everything, absolutely everything.
‘So you’re living back in the city again? I wondered when I picked you up this morning.’
‘It’s nice to be home.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Malin. We’re only human.’
Tove clicks to end the call and watches her schoolmates hurrying to and fro along the corridor of the Folkunga School, sees the way the high ceiling and the dark light filtering in through the arched windows from the rain-drenched world outside makes the pupils look smaller, defenceless.
Bloody Mum.
The least she could have done is call back. She doesn’t even seem to be considering coming back to the house tonight. Now the pain in her stomach is growing again, below her heart, growing impossibly large. She sounded abrupt and businesslike, it was as if she wanted to finish the call as soon as possible, she didn’t even ask how I am, why did I even bother to call? She probably just wants to go and have a drink.
I know why I called.
I want her to come home. I want them to stand in the kitchen having a hug, and I want to watch.
Don’t think about it, Tove.
She taps her mobile against her head.
Don’t think about it.
Some twenty metres away three of the older boys are grouped around a fat younger boy. Tove knows who he is. An Iraqi who can hardly speak a word of Swedish, and the older boys love bullying him. Bloody cowards.
She feels like getting up, going over and telling them to stop. But they’re bigger, much bigger than her.
Mum sounded disappointed when she said she was going back to Dad’s. Tove had been hoping that would make her want to go as well, but deep down she knows that’s not how things work in the adult world, everything’s so damn complicated there.
Now they’re hitting the boy.
Abbas, that’s his name.
And she puts her pen and notepad on the floor by her locker. She pushes her way through the crowd over to the three bullies. She shoves the tallest of them in the back, yelling: ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size instead?’ and Abbas is crying now, she can see that, and the force of her voice must have surprised the stupid bloody idiots, scared them, because they back away, staring at her. ‘Get lost,’ she yells, and they stare at her as if she’s a dangerous animal, and Tove realises why she frightens them, they must know what happened out in Finspang, what happened to her, and they respect her because of that.
Idiots, she thinks. Then she puts her arms around Abbas, he’s small and his body is soft, and she pretends he’s Mum, that she can comfort her with just a hug and a promise that everything’s going to be all right, from now on everything’s going to be all right.
Axel Fagelsjo’s apartment on Drottninggatan is, to put it in estate-agent jargon, magnificently appointed, Malin thinks. But it’s still only a fraction as ostentatious as Skogsa Castle.
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