They felt as if they were truly standing in the centre of Stockholm. Jacobsson, who knew much more about the city than Knutas did, pointed out the characteristic red-brick Laurinska building with its pinnacles and turrets situated on Mariaberget, the yellow façade of Södra Theatre near Mosebacke Square, and the statue of Karl XIV Johan seated on his horse and proudly gesturing towards the city.
The furniture in the living room, which easily measured over 45 square metres, consisted solely of a sofa, coffee table and two armchairs. An old-fashioned tile stove stood in one corner. The room was so empty that any sound echoed. They sat down around the coffee table. Even though it was hot and stuffy in the flat, their host offered them nothing to drink.
Simon Hammar immediately lit a cigarette.
‘Would it be possible to open a window?’ asked Knutas.
‘Can’t do that. Too noisy.’
Knutas and Jacobsson exchanged glances. This wasn’t going to be easy. Knutas decided to get right to the point.
‘Do you know whether your mother has any enemies – someone who might wish to harm her?’
Simon stared at the police officers, his expression inscrutable.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘We think her life is in danger. We have reason to believe that someone is trying to kill her. Her boyfriend, Viktor Algård, was murdered, but all indications are that he wasn’t the intended victim. We think the killer was after your mother. And then someone tried to kill her by burning down her cabin.’
‘Viktor Algård? He and Mamma were an item?’
‘Yes.’
Simon managed a lopsided grin as he shook his head.
‘You didn’t know that?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘No, she’s never mentioned it.’
‘So you are in contact with each other?’
‘Sure, but only by phone at the moment. Although it’s been a while since she called.’
‘And you haven’t called her?’
‘No.’
‘Could you describe what sort of relationship you have with your mother?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Because we think it’s relevant to our investigation.’
Simon looked at Knutas with suspicion. He didn’t say anything for so long that both officers began to feel uncomfortable.
‘What exactly do I have to do with all this?’
‘We’re not saying that you have anything to do with it. But we’d like to know how you view your mother.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ he asked heatedly. ‘How I view her?’
‘Take it easy,’ said Jacobsson, annoyed at Simon’s stonewalling. ‘We’re in the process of investigating more than one serious crime, and your mother appears to be the target. So I want you to tell me now what sort of relationship you have with her. Just answer the question.’
‘And how the hell do you expect me to answer that in five minutes? What do you want to know? How often we see each other or talk on the phone? What kind of criteria am I supposed to go by?’
‘It hasn’t escaped our attention that your sister has broken off all contact with your mother. Why did she do that?’
‘Mikaela probably wanted to be able to live her own life,’ he said quietly.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Mamma has a tendency to suffocate her children. What Mikaela did was the only right thing to do.’
‘And why haven’t you done the same thing?’
‘I suppose I’m too weak. Or too strong, depending on how you look at it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think that despite all the things she has ruined for me, I still hold on to a faint hope that everything will turn out OK in the long run. That we’ll be reconciled and that one day she’ll be happy. We’ll have a happy ending.’
His voice faded. For a while none of them spoke. Simon lit another cigarette.
‘You don’t really think that you can fix things in her life so that she’ll be happy, do you?’ Jacobsson asked at last.
‘I guess I do. I’ve always thought that.’
‘Can I bum a smoke from you?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘And how about a cold beer? I’m going to open a window, whether you like it or not.’
They stayed in that flat for several hours. Surprisingly enough, Simon decided to open up and tell them about all the difficulties he’d encountered, both in his childhood and more recently. Jacobsson proved to be very sympathetic, and she was the one who was able to encourage him to talk. Knutas mostly kept to the background, listening and watching. It was 9 p.m. by the time they left.
As they took the lift down, Jacobsson looked at Knutas and said, ‘I don’t think it’s him.’
THE MINUTE I got on the commuter train to Nynäshamn, I knew. The end was near. Mutely I gazed at the landscape rushing past outside the window. The rolling hills, horse pastures, and fields of Södertörn.
In Nynäshamn I got off, bought a newspaper and some chocolate biscuits at a kiosk, and then strolled down to the ferry terminal. It was an overcast day, and the sea looked forbidding. A strong wind was blowing at the dock, and I pulled up my jacket collar over the turtleneck of my sweater.
The weather suited my mood. I was filled with foreboding. It had to end. The boat was half empty. The tourist season hadn’t really begun yet, and it was an ordinary weekday.