Midwinter Sacrifice (30 page)

They turn and are just about to go down the stairs when they hear a car slow up and stop outside the front door.

Malin leans over and peers down at the car through one of the windows in the stairwell: a dark green Volvo estate, with a roof-box for skis that looks improbably pink in the light of the streetlamp. A thin-haired man in a black jacket opens the door, gets out and hurries into the building.

‘Karl Murvall,’ Zeke says, holding up his ID. ‘We’re from the police, and we’d like a word with you if that’s all right.’

The man stops. Smiles.

‘Yes, I’m Karl Murvall,’ he repeats. ‘Sure, come on in.’

Karl Murvall has the same strong nose as his half-brothers, only his is sharper.

He is short, with the beginnings of a pot-belly, and his whole appearance gives the impression that he’d like to sink through the floor, yet at the same time he exudes a peculiar, primitive power.

Karl Murvall puts his key in the lock, opens the door. ‘I read in the paper about my brothers,’ he says. ‘I realised that you’d want to talk to me sooner or later.’

‘You didn’t think of contacting us yourself?’ Zeke says, but Karl Murvall doesn’t seem bothered by his words.

‘Hang on, and I’ll let you in,’ he says instead, with a smile.

44

Karl Murvall’s flat.

Two rooms.

Improbably tidy. Sparsely furnished.

It looks like Bengt Andersson’s home, Malin thinks. Just as functional, with a bookcase, sofa, a desk by the window.

No ornaments, no plants, no decoration, nothing to disturb the simplicity, or rather the emptiness, apart from a bowl of fragrant yellow and red winter apples on the desk.

Books about computer programming, maths, Stephen King. An engineer’s bookcase.

‘Coffee?’ Karl Murvall asks, and it strikes Malin that his voice is lighter than his brothers’, and that he makes a milder, but nonetheless harder impression somehow. Like someone who has been through a lot, who has seen and heard a great deal. A bit like Janne, the way he looks when someone talks about the hardships they’ve endured on their walking holiday in the mountains, that mixture of derision and sympathy, and a hint of ‘just be glad you don’t know what you’re talking about’.

‘Too late in the day for me,’ Zeke says. ‘But Detective Inspector Fors here would probably like a cup.’

‘Please.’

‘Sit yourselves down in the meantime.’

Karl Murvall gestures towards the sofa and they sit down, hear him busying himself in the kitchen, and after five minutes or so he’s back with a tray of steaming cups.

‘I brought a third anyway, just in case,’ Karl Murvall says, putting the tray on the coffee table before sitting down on the office chair by the desk.

‘Nice flat,’ Malin says.

‘Well, how can I help you?’

‘Have you been at work all day?’

Karl Murvall nods. ‘Did you try to get me earlier?’

‘Yes,’ Malin says.

‘I work a lot. I’m IT manager out at the Collins factory in Vikingstad. Three hundred and fifty employees, and increasing amounts of computerisation.’

‘A good job.’

‘Yes. I did computer engineering at university, and it’s paid off.’

‘You could afford something bigger,’ Malin says.

‘Material things don’t really interest me. Property just means responsibilities. I don’t need anything bigger than this.’

Karl Murvall takes a sip of coffee before going on: ‘But that’s not why you’re here.’

‘Bengt Andersson,’ Zeke says.

‘The man in the tree,’ Karl Murvall says quietly. ‘Awful.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘I’ve known who he was ever since my childhood in Ljungsbro. The whole family knew of him.’

‘But no more than that?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t know he was questioned during the investigation into the rape of your sister?’

Without his tone changing, Karl Murvall replies, ‘Well, that’s only natural. He was one of her clients, and she cared about all of them. She got him to take care of his personal hygiene.’

‘Are you and your sister close?’

‘It’s very hard to be close to her.’

‘But before?’

Karl Murvall looks away.

‘Do you visit her?’

Silence again.

‘You and your brothers seem to have a strained relationship,’ Zeke says.

‘My half-brothers,’ Karl Murvall says. ‘We don’t have any contact at all. That’s correct.’

‘Why is that?’ Malin asks.

‘I got an education. I’ve got a good job and I pay my taxes. That’s the sort of thing that doesn’t sit well with my half-brothers. I presume they’re angry about it. They probably think I imagine I’m better than them.’

‘And your mum as well?’ Zeke goes on.

‘Maybe my mother most of all.’

‘You’re half-brothers. On your birth certificate it says that your father’s identity is unknown.’

‘I’m Rakel Murvall’s first child. My father was a sailor who disappeared in a shipwreck when she was pregnant. That’s all I know. Then she met him, their father, Blackie.’

‘What was he like?’

‘To begin with, a drunk. Then a crippled drunk. Then a dead drunk.’

‘But he took you on?’

‘I don’t understand what my childhood has to do with any of this, Detective Inspector Fors, I really don’t.’

And Malin can see the change in Karl Murvall’s eyes, how matter-of-factness turns to sadness, and then to anger.

‘Maybe you two ought to be therapists instead. Those people out on the plain live their lives, I live mine, and that’s just the way it is, all right?’

Zeke leans forward. ‘Just for the sake of formality: what were you doing on the night between Wednesday and Thursday last week?’

‘I was at work. I had a big update of the system to install and it had to be done at night. The security guard at Collins can confirm that. But is that really necessary?’

‘We don’t know yet, but no, probably not.’

‘Were you working alone?’

‘Yes, I always do when it’s a difficult job. To be honest, no one else understands what needs doing, and they just get in the way. But the guard can confirm that I was there all night.’

‘What do you know about your brothers’ affairs?’

‘Nothing. And if I knew anything I wouldn’t tell you. They are my brothers, in spite of everything. And if you don’t look after each other within your own family, when else would you?’

As they are pulling on their jackets and getting ready to leave the flat, Malin turns to face Karl Murvall.

‘I noticed the roof-box on the car. Do you ski?’

‘I have it for carrying things,’ Karl Murvall says, before going on: ‘I don’t ski. Sport has never been my thing.’

‘Well, thanks for the coffee,’ Malin says.

‘Thanks,’ Zeke says.

‘But you didn’t touch yours,’ Karl Murvall says.

‘Maybe, but thanks anyway,’ Zeke says.

Malin and Zeke are standing side by side next to Karl Murvall’s estate. The back of the car is covered by blankets, and on top of the blankets is a large toolbox.

‘He can’t have had it easy, growing up out there,’ Malin says.

‘No, just thinking about it gives me nightmares.’

‘Do you want to go out to see Niklas Nyrén?’

‘Malin, we must have called him at least ten times. He’ll have to wait till tomorrow. Go home and rest. Go home to Tove.’

45

Saturday, 11 February

The train moves forward slowly.

Göran Kalmvik is lying on the bunk in his compartment. Letting his thoughts come and go.

When won’t there be anything to come home to? he thinks. You can be away so much that away becomes home. And I, at least, pick up things along the way.

It’s still dark outside the windows of the train, but he can’t sleep, in spite of the carriage’s regular dunking against the joints of the rails, in spite of the fact that he is alone in a first-class compartment, and in spite of the fact that the sheets are crisp, yet warm and soft and smell soporific and freshly laundered.

Statoil is paying the fare.

He wonders how much longer he can do this.

It’s time to pick a life. He’s forty-eight and has been living a double life for almost ten years now, lying right in Henrietta’s face every time he comes home.

But she never seems to suspect anything. She seems happy with the money, pleased at not having to work, just buying things.

It’s worse with the lad. He gets more distant every time he goes away.

And the stories from school. Can it really be him acting up like that?

Little sod, Göran Kalmvik thinks, as he rolls over. Is it really so hard to behave properly? He’s fifteen now, and has always had everything he wanted.

Maybe it would be better to pack up and leave? Move to Oslo. Give it a try.

Work is terrible at this time of year. So cold that something freezes deep inside you even if you’re just moving back and forth in the icy wind on the drilling platform at the top of the rig, and your body never has time to warm up between shifts, and no one can be bothered to talk as they work.

But the pay is good.

It’s worth having experienced people out on the rigs considering how much it costs every time production grinds to a halt. Pipes like cold snakes full of black dreams.

Soon Norrköping. Then Linköping.

Then home.

Quarter to six.

Henrietta won’t meet him from the train. She stopped doing that a long time ago.

Home.

Unless it has now become away.

46

Sleeping-cars from Oslo sent on from Stockholm down towards Copenhagen, a slow, steady train full of people dreaming or about to wake up.

It is 6.15. The train is due at sixteen minutes past, and the morning has only just started to make itself felt. It is almost even colder than last night. But she managed to get up, wanted to check if Göran Kalmvik was actually on the train as they had been told, and, if he was, find out exactly what his secrets were.

She has called the security guards at Collins. They checked their logs and confirmed that Karl Murvall was in the factory from 19.15 on Wednesday evening until 7.30 the following morning. He had worked all night on a big update which had gone according to plan. She had asked if there was any other exit, or if there was any way he could have got out, and the guard had sounded certain: ‘He was here all night. The main gate is the only way out. And the fence has sensors connected to our office. We would have noticed if anyone was messing about with it right away. And where. And he was up in the server room when we made our rounds.’

Dinner with Tove yesterday. They talked about Markus. Then they watched ten minutes of a Pink Panther film before Malin fell asleep on the sofa.

Now she can just make out the train coming over the Stångån bridge.

The Cloetta Centre like a UFO off to the left on the other side, and the chimney of Tekniska Verken obstinately struggling against the smoke, the lettering of the logo glowing red like eyes on an unsuccessful photograph.

The train appears to increase in size as it approaches, the engine now at the end of the platform, a grandiose projectile fashioned by engineers.

Malin is alone at the station. She wraps her arms round her padded jacket and adjusts her hat.

No Henrietta Kalmvik, Malin thinks. I’m the only one here to meet someone. And I’m hunting a murderer.

Only one train door opens, two carriages away, and Malin hurries over, feeling the frozen air tug at her lungs. Only one man gets out on to the platform, carrying two big red suitcases, one in each hand.

A weather-beaten face and a body that is heavy but still muscular, and his whole being radiates familiarity with cold and privation; his blue coat isn’t even done up.

‘Göran Kalmvik?’

The man looks surprised. ‘Yes, and who are you?’

The door of the carriage closes again, and the sound of the conductor’s whistle almost drowns out Malin’s voice as she says her name and title. When the whistle has faded away and the train has left the platform, she quickly explains why she is there.

‘So you’ve been trying to get hold of me?’

‘Yes,’ Malin says. ‘For a few explanations.’

‘Then you’ll know that I wasn’t out on the rig.’

Malin nods. ‘We can talk in my car,’ she says. ‘It’s warm. I left it running in neutral.’

Göran Kalmvik inclines his head. His expression is one of relief, tinged with guilt.

A minute later he is sitting beside her in the passenger seat, and his breath smells strongly of coffee and toothpaste, and he starts talking without her having to ask.

‘I’ve had a woman in Oslo for about ten years now. I’ve been lying to Henrietta for ten years; she still thinks I work three weeks and have two off, but it’s the other way round. I spend the missing week in Oslo, with Nora and her lad. I like him, he’s more straightforward than Jimmy. I’ve never really understood that boy.’

Because you’re never at home, Malin thinks.

‘And guns? Do you have any idea where Jimmy might have got hold of a gun?’

‘No, I’ve never been interested in that sort of thing.’

‘And you don’t know what he used to do to Bengt Andersson?’

‘Sorry.’

Because you’re never at home, Malin thinks again.

‘I’ll need the number of your woman in Oslo.’

‘Does Henrietta have to find out about any of this? I don’t know what I want. I’ve tried telling her, but you know how it can be. So if she has to find out . . .’

Malin shakes her head. As an answer, as an attempt to get Göran Kalmvik to shut up, and as a reflection on the other gender’s occasionally incurable weakness.

Malin is sitting in the car, watching Göran Kalmvik’s taxi disappear off towards Ljungsbro, past the miserable brick box of the supermarket.

She is thinking.

Letting the possibilities wander freely through her head, then takes out her mobile and calls Niklas Nyrén’s various numbers. But he doesn’t answer, hasn’t called back, and she wonders if he might be at Margaretha Svensson’s, clicks up her number from the list, then stops when she sees what time it is: 6.59. Saturday morning.

It can wait.

There have to be some limits, even in a murder investigation. Let the worn-out single mother sleep.