Frozen Moment (56 page)

    'There's
no need.'

    Tell
straightened up so quickly that his spine cracked ominously.

    'Check
1995. A bikers' club called the Evil Riders. The girl was Maya Granith. We also
have an address.'

    Karlberg,
Bärneflod and Beckman stared at Tell.

    'You
have an address?' said Beckman eventually.

    'We
know where Maya Granith was living in '92. The chance that some relative might
still be living there isn't great, but it's possible. Beckman, look for
relatives and go through the old investigation. And talk to Björkman, it's his
territory after all. The important thing is to see if we can link Edell to this
party at the bikers' club, and above all if we can get hold of some kind of
membership list to see if we can work out who the third person was. I don't
have to tell you he could be in danger too.'

    'But
what the hell were they doing in Borås?' wondered Bärneflod with genuine
puzzlement.

    Tell
realised he was incredibly hot, and shrugged off his coat with some difficulty
in the cramped kitchen. He barely registered Karlberg's grunt as his elbow made
contact with the man's stomach. 'Beckman, I came across something in your
transcript of the interview with the neighbours - was their name Mollberg?'

    'Molin,'
said Beckman, siting bolt upright.
'Bloody hell!
The
son! Edell was his best mate!'

    
'Exactly.
That's why I thought somebody should check.
Actually, just ring Björkman at home. Karlberg, could you take care of that?
And look for Molin's son. Call me or Beckman as soon as you get in touch with
him.'

    Karlberg
was still rubbing his stomach and could only manage a nod in the direction of
his boss.

    'Beckman
and I will go and see Mummy and Daddy.'

    The
last time they visited the Molins' farm, a wine-red somewhat rusty Renault had
been parked in front of the outhouse. Now only an enormous branch lay on the
gravelled parking area - it must have been blown down by the strong winds
during the night. Since the windows were dark rectangles in the dirty grey
facade of the house, it would have been easy for Tell and Beckman to assume that
nobody was at home, particularly as there was no answer when they repeatedly
rang the doorbell.

    Blessed
with the scepticism that came with the job, they took a walk around the house.
They found the Renault straight away. It had been driven up on to the grass
behind an annex, its wheels gouging deep wounds in the lawn which had already
filled with water.

    With
fresh determination Tell ignored the doorbell and hammered so hard on the
flimsy front door that the glass pane rattled. For a moment he thought it was
going to give way.

    'Open
up. We know you're in there.'

    He
was just about to park himself on the porch to wait it out when there were
footsteps inside the house accompanied by the muted sound of someone clearing
their throat. The key rattled in the lock and the door opened. Bertil Molin was
wearing cotton trousers and a blue and white check shirt. There was no
mistaking that he wasn't all that pleased to see them. When the throat-clearing
- which seemed to stem mainly from a desperate desire to avoid a challenging
silence - turned into a coughing fit, Tell thought the man had had sufficient
respite.

    'Are
you going to let us in?'

    'It
depends what you want,' replied Molin sourly, still red in the face from the
exertion.

    'Shall
we call it reliving old memories?'

    Tell
pushed past Molin. He walked through the hallway and into the small kitchen. A
table and two chairs were the only furnishings. He sat down heavily on one of
the wooden chairs without bothering to take off his coat.

    Beckman
followed him in and leaned against the draining board, below the collection of
blue and white plates covering most of the wall.

    On
top of the wood-burning stove stood a mug made of plainer china. Bertil Molin
had been drinking tea when he was disturbed. The aroma of lemon filled the
room.

    While
they were waiting for Molin to join them, Tell rang Karlberg, who answered
straight away.

    'Is
he answering his home number?'

    'Sven
Molin? No, and he's not answering his mobile.'

    'OK.
Keep trying.'

    It
was worryingly quiet out in the hallway. Tell caught Beckman's eye, and she
pulled a face.
Has Molin done a runner?
However, the next moment Molin
and his camouflaged anxiety appeared in the doorway.

    He
looked first of all at Tell sitting at the table, then at Beckman, and seemed
to find his options limited. He rubbed the palm of his hand frantically against
his trouser leg as if he had a particularly troublesome itch.

    'We
can go to the dining room. My wife's asleep upstairs. If we go in there she
won't-'

    'No
need,' Tell broke in. 'In fact, I think if you wake up your wife, we'll find
that she can contribute to our discussion. I have a number of questions about
your son.'

    Molin
twitched involuntarily. Then he seemed to resign himself, placed his palms flat
on his thighs and looked down at his hands as if he had never seen them before.

    'I
can't see why you would have any reason to speak about Sven,' he said
eventually. 'He can't possibly be involved in any of the bad stuff going on
here. He hasn't set foot in this place for years.'

    'And
what exactly do you mean by "bad stuff"?'

    Bertil
Molin raised his eyes slowly, as if trying to assess Tells intentions,
then
he let his gaze drift past the police officers towards
the darkness outside the window.

    'Well…
a man was murdered on the other side of the meadow, wasn't he? That's why
you're here, unless I'm wrong? I can't see that you would have any reason to
come here asking me questions unless it had something to do with the murder.
And if you're asking questions about my son Sven, I presume you think he has
something to do with it.
Which is insane, given that he
hasn't exchanged a single word with Lise-Lott in over ten years.
'

    Tell
and Beckman had to take a moment to recover from Molin's unexpected bout of
talkativeness. On the way from the station they had discussed how best to
confront the Molins with their hypothesis. The only thing they had to offer so
far was the fact that their son, according to hearsay, used to hang out with
two men who, also according to hearsay, might possibly have attacked a young
woman about twelve years ago.
A crime that had never been
proved.

    If
they had ever doubted whether Molin had any dark secrets, these were now blown
away like leaves on an October day. There was definitely a skeleton in the
cupboard here.

    'Why
are you so worked up?' Beckman looked searchingly at Molin as she dug a nasal
spray out of her handbag. She sprayed into each nostril and tipped her head
back. A packet of chewing gum fell out of an inside pocket and landed on the
floor by her feet. She bent down to pick it up. 'You've moved your car round
the back of the house.'

    'So?'
said Molin, but couldn't quite manage the insolent expression to match the
tone.

    Beckman
shrugged. 'I thought it might be the kind of thing a person would do to make it
look as if they weren't at home.'

    They
heard a thud from upstairs, followed by a faint creaking, as if someone had
padded to the top of the stairs in their stocking feet. Perhaps this someone
wanted to get an idea of what was going on without joining in.

    'Stay
there, Dagny!'

    Tell
raised his eyebrows as Molin called out to his wife.

    'Stay
where you are.'

    They
heard an indistinct mumbling in response.

    'She
has to think about her heart,' he explained to Tell and Beckman. His tone was
unexpectedly confiding all of a sudden. 'She mustn't get upset.'

    'Which
brings us back to my question,' said Beckman. 'What is there to get upset
about?'

    Molin
sighed heavily and shook his head. He excused himself and went out into the
hallway. They heard him take the staircase in a few powerful strides, an
achievement for anyone, let alone a pensioner. Then everything went quiet. No
muffled whispers penetrated the silence. Nobody seemed to be shinning down the
outside of the house with the help of sheets knotted together.

    Tell
shushed crossly at the splash of the tap as Beckman took opportunity to get a
drink of water.

    'But
it's so bloody hot in here,' she hissed, pushing the window open.

    'Are
you going to bring them downstairs?' she asked after they had waited a while.
'Or shall we just go straight for Sven Molin?'

    'Hang
on. It won't take long. You can see how wound up he is. I just want to make
sure it's for the reason we think.'

    A
door closed upstairs, and Bertil Molin came down the stairs with heavy
footsteps. He made a vague gesture in the direction of Tell and Beckman,
slipped on a pair of shabby slippers and went outside ahead of them. At the
corner of the house he burrowed deep in his breast pocket for a box of matches
and a small pipe held together with an elastic band.

    Bertil
Molin seemed to gain strength once the pipe was glowing and he had taken a
couple of deep pulls. He turned to Tell; he was of the age when a female police
officer could be ignored once things got serious. Beckman knew the type. Early
on in her career, when she had also been discounted because of her age, it used
to drive her mad. These days she was happy to leave the interviews with the
whingeing old sods to her male colleagues, since she was perfectly confident in
her own abilities and didn't need their approval.

    'Let's
have it - what is it you think you know?' Bertil said.

    Tell
nodded, happy to cooperate.

    'We
think your son Sven was involved in an attack on a girl
at a
bikers' club just outside Borås twelve years ago. We think the two other lads
who were there and who knocked the girl down were Olof Pilgren and Thomas
Edell.'

    Bertil
Molin opened his mouth. The frustration on his face was transformed into
exhaustion and he gave a quivering sigh. Tell took a step towards Molin, and
noticed the yellowing line around his shirt collar.

    'Listen
to me. We don't actually need anything from you. While we're standing here our
colleague back at the station is checking up on your son, everything from where
he went to nursery to how many unpaid parking fines he has piled up at home.'

    He
dug out his mobile and held it out to Molin.

    'As
soon as I hit speed dial I'll find out if that nineteen-year-old girl died as a
result of injuries sustained that night.
If she was raped.
If there were any suspects.'

    Molin
stubbornly refused to look Tell in the eye. Instead his gaze was fixed on the
attic window just below the roof, the moss-covered slates and the collection of
clouds above it.

    'The
only reason my colleague and I are standing here,' Tell went on, 'is that
Sven's life could be in danger, and something tells me you've already worked
that out. So, either you help us get in touch with him as quickly as possible,
or there's a chance the murderer will get hold of him first.
Your
choice.'

    Molin
started to breathe heavily, wheezing and clutching at his chest.

    'Calm
down.'

    Tell
took a step back to give the older man some space. Molin cupped his hands over
his mouth and his breathing soon eased.

    'Do
you know of any hiding places Sven might have had?' Tell persisted. 'And what
about Sven's involvement back in 1995?'

    'He
was beside himself.'

    The
voice came from behind them. Tell turned and met Dagny Molin's tear-filled
eyes. She was dressed in a faded ankle-length skirt and had thrown a flowery
dressing gown over her shoulders. She was trembling and had to lean against the
wall of the house to remain upright.

    'Dagny…'
Bertil Molin warned, but his wife shook her head.