corner of her face. The car seems to contract. She’s having trouble breathing. Wants to jump out. Tove. Janne. How are you ever going to forgive me?
Damn.
Just give me a fucking big drink. Now. I’m pouring with sweat. I know all the things I ought to do, but I can’t handle any of it.
‘Are you OK?’ Zeke asks.
‘Fine,’ she replies. Forces herself to think about their heaven-sent case.
A black car in a dream? Lindman’s? Johansson’s? But why?
Jochen Goldman.
The entire Fågelsjö family.
Avaricious bastards in general.
I wonder which one it’s worth annoying most?
15
The very thought of going through all the files is making Johan Jakobsson annoyed. How many have they carried into the room now?
Two hundred? Three hundred?
His light blue shirt is flecked grey with dust from all the carrying.
Johan surveys the meeting room in the heart of the police station. Burps and gets a taste of the mince he had for lunch.
The windowless room, with its grey-white textured wallpaper and basic shelving, is going to be their strategy room for the duration of the investigation into the murder of Jerry Petersson.
Two hard-drives.
A successful working life gathered together in a corner of the police station. Grim, Johan thinks, but he is also rather glad that something’s actually happening today. They hadn’t even reached Nässjö and his parents-in-law when Sven Sjöman rang, told him what had happened and asked if he could come in.
‘I’m on my way. I’ll be there in an hour or two.’
His wife had been furious, and he didn’t really blame her. She had reluctantly driven him to Skogså, then turned back towards Nässjö on her own with the children.
Even all the impending paperwork is preferable to hobnobbing with the oldies in Nässjö. They have far too many opinions about things in general, and about Johan’s family in particular, for him to enjoy their company.
Everyone should mind their own business.
It is much better that way.
The files of documents and the hard-drives full of more documents are all concerned with instances of people minding their own business, Johan is certain of that. Who knows what they might find here? And what might that lead to? Or else they’ll find nothing. It’s not against the law to have a dodgy reputation.
The files are marked by year, and occasionally by name.
So far they’ve only taken a quick glance at a couple of them, but Jerry Petersson seems to have been a meticulous record-keeper, and every document appears to be in exactly the right place. This won’t make his and Waldemar Ekenberg’s job any less wide-ranging, but it will make it a fraction easier.
The names on the files.
He doesn’t recognise them, apart from one: Goldman. A mocking shadow who almost seems to be a fictional character, even though he really does exist. Malin called and mentioned the connection to Goldman, and now the files with his name on are on the table in front of Johan. There must be at least thirty of them, full of the specific details of avarice.
Malin’s voice. It sounded rough, in the way that only alcohol can make a voice rough. And she sounded tired and sad. She’s been looking more and more tired, and Johan has often felt like asking how she is, but Malin Fors isn’t the kind of person with whom you exchange small talk about feelings.
The door of the room flies open with an angry bang.
In the doorway stands Waldemar, weighed down by two boxes.
Files, documents, computer disks.
This is ideal for me, Johan thinks, but Waldemar sees the job as a punishment, and maybe it is on some level: Sven wants to keep their renowned loose cannon under control. His reputation is deserved, Johan has seen him use physical force to get information out of people. Once Waldemar shoved the barrel of his pistol deep into the throat of a suspect to make him tell the truth. But violence can work. In the short term. In the end it always ends up biting its own tail.
Waldemar drops the
Damn.
Just give me a fucking big drink. Now. I’m pouring with sweat. I know all the things I ought to do, but I can’t handle any of it.
‘Are you OK?’ Zeke asks.
‘Fine,’ she replies. Forces herself to think about their heaven-sent case.
A black car in a dream? Lindman’s? Johansson’s? But why?
Jochen Goldman.
The entire Fågelsjö family.
Avaricious bastards in general.
I wonder which one it’s worth annoying most?
15
The very thought of going through all the files is making Johan Jakobsson annoyed. How many have they carried into the room now?
Two hundred? Three hundred?
His light blue shirt is flecked grey with dust from all the carrying.
Johan surveys the meeting room in the heart of the police station. Burps and gets a taste of the mince he had for lunch.
The windowless room, with its grey-white textured wallpaper and basic shelving, is going to be their strategy room for the duration of the investigation into the murder of Jerry Petersson.
Two hard-drives.
A successful working life gathered together in a corner of the police station. Grim, Johan thinks, but he is also rather glad that something’s actually happening today. They hadn’t even reached Nässjö and his parents-in-law when Sven Sjöman rang, told him what had happened and asked if he could come in.
‘I’m on my way. I’ll be there in an hour or two.’
His wife had been furious, and he didn’t really blame her. She had reluctantly driven him to Skogså, then turned back towards Nässjö on her own with the children.
Even all the impending paperwork is preferable to hobnobbing with the oldies in Nässjö. They have far too many opinions about things in general, and about Johan’s family in particular, for him to enjoy their company.
Everyone should mind their own business.
It is much better that way.
The files of documents and the hard-drives full of more documents are all concerned with instances of people minding their own business, Johan is certain of that. Who knows what they might find here? And what might that lead to? Or else they’ll find nothing. It’s not against the law to have a dodgy reputation.
The files are marked by year, and occasionally by name.
So far they’ve only taken a quick glance at a couple of them, but Jerry Petersson seems to have been a meticulous record-keeper, and every document appears to be in exactly the right place. This won’t make his and Waldemar Ekenberg’s job any less wide-ranging, but it will make it a fraction easier.
The names on the files.
He doesn’t recognise them, apart from one: Goldman. A mocking shadow who almost seems to be a fictional character, even though he really does exist. Malin called and mentioned the connection to Goldman, and now the files with his name on are on the table in front of Johan. There must be at least thirty of them, full of the specific details of avarice.
Malin’s voice. It sounded rough, in the way that only alcohol can make a voice rough. And she sounded tired and sad. She’s been looking more and more tired, and Johan has often felt like asking how she is, but Malin Fors isn’t the kind of person with whom you exchange small talk about feelings.
The door of the room flies open with an angry bang.
In the doorway stands Waldemar, weighed down by two boxes.
Files, documents, computer disks.
This is ideal for me, Johan thinks, but Waldemar sees the job as a punishment, and maybe it is on some level: Sven wants to keep their renowned loose cannon under control. His reputation is deserved, Johan has seen him use physical force to get information out of people. Once Waldemar shoved the barrel of his pistol deep into the throat of a suspect to make him tell the truth. But violence can work. In the short term. In the end it always ends up biting its own tail.
Waldemar drops the
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