The welcome committee

The first fire was put down to accident. A faulty heater in the converted fritidshus of the Dutch couple who’d moved to Småland for the silence. The second, a week later, was harder to dismiss, a Molotov cocktail through the kitchen window of a Brighton-born dentist’s newly painted villa. By the time the third blaze lit up the pine-dark night, charring the porch of a Syrian architect’s modern timber dream-home, the word was whispered in the konditori and the Systembolaget queue: Välkommnad. Welcome. It was Inspector Mats Lundström, staring at the soot-streaked face of a weeping German web designer, who knew this was no spontaneous combustion. This was malice, methodically applied.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The rain in Växjö was a fine, persistent mist, the kind that soaked a man to the bones without the dignity of a proper downpour. Inspector Mats Lundström shrugged his worn tweed coat a little higher on his shoulders as he crunched across the gravel drive of ‘Lindenrotd’, a name he considered overly optimistic for a boxy yellow house currently missing half its thatched roof. The air stank of wet charcoal and regret.

“Inspector.” A young uniformed officer, looking chilled and miserable, nodded towards a huddle of figures.

A man and a woman, wrapped in identical foil survival blankets, stood like gleaming ghosts under a dripping birch. The man, Lars, was Danish, a freelance sommelier. The woman, Anya, was a potter. They’d moved six months ago.

“We were at a lecture in town,” Lars said, his voice flat. “On local fungi. The neighbour called.”

“Nothing valuable inside?” Lundström asked, his notebook a damp curl in his hand.

“Everything valuable,” Anya whispered, her eyes fixed on the wreckage. “My kiln. Our books. The peace. That was valuable.”

Lundström made a non-committal sound, a low hum in his throat. He’d seen this hollow look three times now. It wasn’t just the loss of objects; it was the violation of an idea. The idea of safety, of a fresh start in the postcard-perfect Småland woods.

At the station, the case wall was a depressing collage. Three fires. Three professional couples, none native Swedish, all having moved within the last eighteen months. No discernible connection between them—different nationalities, professions, social circles. The only common thread was their status as newcomers.

“It’s a pattern, Mats,” said Constable Erika Andersson, tapping the photos. “But a pattern of what? Random xenophobia?”

“Too organised,” Lundström grunted, sipping bitter station coffee. “The first looked like an accident. The second and third were blatant attacks. The perpetrator is learning, gaining confidence. Or getting angrier.”

His phone buzzed, a text from his son, David, in Cambridge. Saw this weird story about Swedish arsonists online. That’s your patch, isn’t it? Don’t work too hard. Love, D. A familiar ache, part pride, part loneliness, settled in his chest. He replied with a simple All under control. Stay focused on your essays.

The breakthrough, of a sort, came from an unexpected quarter. The local historical society’s secretary, a formidable woman named Mrs. Pettersson with a steel-grey bun, called. She’d heard about the fires. She wondered if the inspector knew about the ‘Hävd’.

“Hävd?” Lundström asked, seated in her overheated parlour amidst porcelain shepherds.

“Customary right. Prescriptive right,” she enunciated, as if to a child. “For centuries, certain families here had rights to forage, to cut timber, to hunt on specific lands. Not allmänsrätt, everyman’s right but private rights. Many of those rights were technically extinguished with modern laws, but… memories are long in the forest, Inspector.”

“And the new residents,” Lundström ventured, “they bought these lands?”

“Some. The Danish couple’s plot, for instance, was part of the old Nygård estate. The Nygård family died out, the land was sold to a developer… and then to your Danes.” She handed him a brittle, hand-drawn map. “The right to collect fallen timber and mushrooms on that land belonged to the crofters in Lilla By. Perhaps someone misses their mushrooms.”

It was a thread, gossamer-thin. Lundström and Andersson began cross-referencing property deeds with old records. The second victim’s land, they discovered, had once been part of a commons where villagers from Gränshult had the right to pick cloudberries. The third had ancient fishing rights attached to a stream now piped under a patio.

“It’s not about nationalism,” Lundström said, standing before the case wall, a red marker in his hand. He drew lines connecting the fires to small, nearby villages, Lilla By, Gränshult, Sjöglänta. “It’s about… a perceived theft. Someone who believes these newcomers aren’t just occupying houses, but are erasing old, cherished privileges.”

The next likely target was identified through agonising paperwork: a Belgian bio-chemist and his wife, who had renovated an old millhouse near Sjöglänta. The property had once come with a fiskehävd, a right to net the millpond, for the farmhands of a now-demolished manor.

“We can’t protect them all,” Andersson sighed.

“We don’t have to,” Lundström said. “We just need to be there first.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

The millhouse was a picture of rustic charm, its new wooden shingles pale against the dark water of the pond. Lundström, feeling his age in every damp joint, had positioned Andersson and another officer in a patrol car down the lane. He himself sat in his own Volvo, parked in the overgrown remains of the old mill yard, a flask of coffee and a copy of Inspector Morse omnibus for company. The night was utterly black, the silence broken only by the drip of moisture from leaves.

Just after 2 AM, a sound. Not a car, but the soft, rhythmic crunch of a bicycle on gravel. Lundström slid down in his seat. A figure, dressed in dark clothing, a backpack visible, glided past his hiding place and towards the back of the millhouse. The figure moved with a rehearsed efficiency, pulling a bottle and rag from the pack.

Lundström was out of the car, his torch beam cutting through the night. “Police! Stop right there!”

The figure froze, then spun, hurling the unlit Molotov cocktail towards the house. It shattered harmlessly against the stone foundation. In the torchlight, Lundström saw not a wild-eyed fanatic, but a man in his late sixties, with a lined, resigned face. He didn’t run.

“Arne Persson,” the man said, his voice steady. “I live in Sjöglänta.”

In the interview room, Arne Persson was calm, almost relieved.

“The millpond,” he said. “My grandfather taught me to net pike there. My father taught me. I taught my son. For a hundred years. Then the old family sold up, and the new man from Belgium… he put up a sign. ‘Private. No Fishing.’ He put koi in the pond. Ornamental fish.” He said the word with profound disdain.

“And the others?” Lundström pressed. “The Danes? The Englishman?”

“The Nygård woods,” Arne said. “We always took the first autumn mushrooms there. The new people fenced it. Posted ‘No Trespassing’. The cloudberry moor near Gränshult is now a ‘natural garden’. The Syrian’s house blocks the old path to the spring.” He looked at Lundström, his eyes clear and hard. “They buy more than land, Inspector. They buy our memories. They wall off our past. A fire… it reminds them. The land can take back what it gives. It’s a welcome they understand.”

The logic was warped, tragic, and terrifyingly clear. Arne, it turned out, was a retired surveyor. He had the skills to research the old deeds, the hävd rights. He had no hatred for the people, he claimed. Only a desperate, flaming anger at the loss of a world he knew. He acted alone.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The rain had finally stopped. Mats Lundström stood on the shores of Helgasjön, looking out at the grey water. The case was closed. Arne Persson was in custody, his quiet confession detailing his grim, destructive campaign. The newspapers would call him a nostalgic terrorist. The sociologists would have a field day.

Lundström thought of David in England, building a new life in an old place. He thought of the Syrian architect, already vowing to rebuild, to stay. He thought of Arne’s lost spring, his vanished fishing pond.

Justice, in this instance, felt like a blunt instrument. It could punish the act, but it couldn’t mend the tear in the social fabric, nor restore a lost right. It was about laws, not the deeper, quieter laws of the heart and history.

His phone rang. It was Andersson. “Another call, Inspector. A complaint from a new family in Åryd. Someone’s been stealing apples from their orchard. They say it’s from a tree that’s always been for the village…”

Lundström sighed, a long, slow exhalation that fogged in the cool air. The mysteries here were never just about murder or arson. They were about the slow, simmering collision between the old and the new, about the price of a view, and the value of a childhood memory. He turned from the lake, back towards his car.

“Alright,” he said, his voice a tired rumble. “I’m on my way.”

The mist was rising from the fields, shrouding the dark line of the forest. Somewhere in the pines, an old story was ending, and a new, uneasy one was beginning. Inspector Mats Lundström buttoned his coat, and went to work.

The end

The poisoned petunia

The greenhouse was a paradise, a humid, fragrant oasis filled with the impossible colours of orchids and the heady scent of night-blooming jasmine. For an English county, or the quiet Swedish town of Växjö, it was a slice of the tropics. 

Arthur Pendelby, treasurer of the Växjö Garden Club, thought it the perfect place to check his investments. He wasn’t looking at the rare Dendrobium spectabile; he was peering at the roots, where carefully sealed, plant-waxed packets were nestled among the soil. Each packet contained not seeds, but a fine, pearlescent powder worth more than the entire greenhouse. As he reached for one, a shadow fell over the orchids. Arthur didn’t even have time to look up before the heavy, ceramic pot of a Venus Flytrap slammed into the back of his skull. The last thing he saw was dark, rich compost, smelling of earth and deceit.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Inspector Mats Lundström stirred the single sugar cube into his coffee and watched the granules dissolve. It was a small, daily rebellion against the doctor’s advice. His office was a monument to organised chaos, stacks of case files formed precarious towers, and a faded photograph of his son, Emil, laughing on a beach in Skåne, was the only personal touch. At fifty-six, Lundström felt the weight of every one of those years, a dull ache in his lower back a constant companion to the grey skies of Småland.

The call came just as he was contemplating a second cup.

“Lundström,” he grunted into the phone.

“Inspector, we have a body.” It was Sergeant Linnea Ek, young, sharp, and frustratingly energetic. “At the community greenhouses. It’s Arthur Pendelby. Looks like a burglary gone wrong.”

Lundström sighed. “A burglary. At a greenhouse. What did they take, the prize-winning marigolds?”

The scene was deceptively peaceful. Arthur Pendelby lay sprawled amidst a riot of blossoms, a grotesque still-life. The murder weapon, the pot, lay shattered beside him, the sinister little plant seemingly untouched.

“No forced entry,” Ek reported, her notebook already out. “Wallet, watch, all present. But his briefcase has been forced open. Empty.”

Lundström crouched, his knees complaining. He looked at the soil around the body, then at the pristine plants on the shelves. His eyes, the colour of a winter sea, narrowed.

“He wasn’t just killed, Linnea. He was interrupted. Look here.” He pointed to a specific orchid, its roots slightly disturbed, a faint, unnatural sheen on the dark compost. “He was looking for something. Or taking something. And someone didn’t want him to.”

Their first stop was the Garden Club’s weekly meeting, held in the impossibly neat sitting room of its chairwoman, Mrs. Eleanor Throckmorton-Smythe, a woman whose accent was as clipped and precise as her prize-winning hedges.

“A tragedy, a sheer tragedy!” she declared, pouring tea with a steady hand. “Arthur was such a dedicated soul. Our financial rock.”

The other members formed a chorus of genteel shock. There was Brendan Shaw, a ruddy-faced man who specialised in aggressive roses. Felicity Davenport, a fluttery woman obsessed with heritage vegetables. And the newest member, a quiet, intense young botanist named Isak Vogler.

“Did Mr. Pendelby have any enemies?” Lundström asked, accepting a cup of tea he didn’t want.

“Enemies? In a garden club? Inspector, really,” Mrs. Throckmorton-Smythe chided. “Our fiercest battles are over greenfly infestations.”

Lundström’s phone buzzed. It was the forensics report. The briefcase had traces of a complex organic compound, a cutting-edge synthetic opiate. And the soil from the orchid’s pot contained microscopic traces of the same substance, mixed with a unique, non-organic binding agent.

He looked around the room, at the harmless, tea-sipping enthusiasts. The garden club, he realised, was not just about gardens.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The investigation grew thorns. Isak Vogler, the botanist, had a record, not for violence, but for computer hacking. Brendan Shaw’s rose nursery was haemorrhaging money. Felicity Davenport, it turned out, made frequent, unexplained trips to Estonia. And Mrs. Throckmorton-Smythe’s late husband had been a shipping magnate with connections to the Baltic ports.

Lundström confronted them one by one in the interview room, its starkness a world away from their floral haven.

“The binding agent, Mr. Vogler,” Lundström said, sliding a lab report across the table. “It’s a polymer used in high-tech horticultural gels. Your field.”

Vogler didn’t flinch. “It’s a common compound. You can’t tie that to me.”

With Shaw, it was the money. “Your business is failing, Mr. Shaw. Yet you just paid off a significant loan. Where did the money come from?”

“A lucky bet on the horses,” Shaw blustered, his face turning the colour of his Red Dragon roses.

It was a delicate dance. Lundström and Ek pieced together the operation. The drugs, produced in a hidden lab, were shipped in via Mrs. Throckmorton-Smythe’s old contacts. Vogler developed the soil-wax coating to mask the scent from dogs. Shaw provided distribution through his nursery couriers. And Pendelby had been the financier, the money launderer, using the club's seemingly legitimate flower shows and plant sales to clean the profits.

“But why kill Pendelby?” Ek mused, as they sat in Lundström’s car, watching the rain sheet down.

“He was skimming,” Lundström said, his voice flat. “Or he wanted out. In this business, retirement is a permanent condition.”

The break came from an unexpected source. Felicity Davenport, terrified, came to the station. “I just grew the vegetables!” she wept. “I didn’t know what they were hiding in the seed packets! Eleanor… she’s not what she seems. She said Arthur was a ‘weak root that needed pruning’.”

An hour later, Brendan Shaw was found dead in his greenhouse, a pair of specialist pruning shears plunged into his chest. The message was clear: the gardener was pruning the operation.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Lundström knew it was time to confront the mastermind. He and Ek drove to Mrs. Throckmorton-Smythe’s manor house, its gardens a masterpiece of controlled nature.

They found her in the walled garden, calmly deadheading roses with a pair of sharp, steel secateurs.

“Inspector,” she said, without turning around. “Come to admire the Rosa ‘Munstead Wood’? Its fragrance is quite intoxicating.”

“Like your business, Mrs. Throckmorton-Smythe,” Lundström said. “We know about the shipments. The lab. We know you had Pendelby and Shaw killed.”

She turned, her smile as cold and perfect as a frozen bloom. “This is England in miniature, Inspector. Or Sweden, for that matter. Beneath the beautiful, ordered surface, there is a relentless struggle for survival. The strong thrive. The weak are compost.”

“You’re not in a Jane Austen novel,” Ek snapped. “You’re under arrest for murder and drug trafficking.”

A flicker of anger crossed the woman’s face. “You have no proof.”

“We have Felicity Davenport,” Lundström said. “And we have Isak Vogler, who is currently explaining his polymer gel to my colleagues. Your garden is full of weeds, Eleanor. And it’s time to pull them up.”

For a moment, she looked like she might lunge, the secateurs glinting in the afternoon sun. But then she seemed to wilt, the formidable strength draining away, leaving just a tired, old woman standing amongst her beautiful, poisonous flowers.

* * * * * * * * * * *

A week later, Mats Lundström sat in his quiet apartment, a glass of single malt whisky in his hand, another small rebellion. He’d just finished a video call with Emil in England. His son was full of talk of exams and pubs, a world away from the dark soil of Växjö.

He looked out at the night, the lights of the town twinkling innocently below. A garden club. It was almost laughable. It was a reminder that evil rarely announced itself with a snarl; it more often arrived with a polite smile and an offer of tea, its roots buried deep in the most unexpected and ordinary of places. The case was closed, the poison pulled up. But Mats Lundström knew that in the hothouse of human greed, new, venomous blooms were always waiting to sprout. He took a slow sip of whisky, the peat smoke a comforting, solid taste in a deceptively fragile world.

END

The gavel’s fall

The air in the Växjö town hall chamber was thick enough to carve. What had begun as a routine debate on a new housing development had curdled into something ugly and personal. Councilman Erik Thorén, a man of considerable bulk and unshakeable conviction, had just used his gavel to call for order, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot. His face was florid with triumph as he shouted down his chief opponent, the elegant and icy Elsa Vogler. “Enough! The vote is passed! Progress will not be strangled by sentimental nonsense!”

He brought the heavy, polished oak gavel down one final, triumphant time. No one in the furious, murmuring crowd could have known it would be the last sound he ever made. An hour later, the janitor found him. Thorén was slumped over the council table, his head resting in a pool of dark crimson. The murder weapon, wiped clean of prints, lay neatly beside him. The instrument of order had become the tool of chaos.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Inspector Mats Lundström stood in the council chamber, the sterile glow of the police lights bleaching the rich wood of the historic room. He felt the familiar, dull throb behind his eyes that major cases always brought. He was a solid man in his mid-fifties, his hair a steely grey, his face a roadmap of late nights and unsolved puzzles. He missed his son, Karl, away at university in Bristol, and the silence of his own empty apartment was a presence he was constantly trying to outrun.

“Not a pretty sight, Mats,” said Constable Petra Lindgren, a sharp, young officer whose enthusiasm sometimes grated on his weary soul. “Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Single, massive blow. The killer was strong. Or very angry.”

“Or both,” Lundström murmured, his gaze sweeping the room. He picked up the evidence bag containing the gavel. It was heavy, solid, a symbol of authority now perverted. “Who found him?”

“The janitor, Stig Moberg. Shaken, but coherent.”

Lundström grunted. “And the cast of characters?”

Petra consulted her notebook. “The debate ended at 9:15 PM. The main players were the deceased, Erik Thorén, pro-development. His opponent, Elsa Vogler, leader of the ‘Heritage for Växjö’ group. The council chairman, Bengt Sörensson, who seems ineffectual. And a handful of others who stayed behind to argue.”

“Let’s start with them,” Lundström said, his voice a low rumble. “The angry ones are always the most interesting.”

His first interview was with Elsa Vogler. She sat perfectly composed in a side office, her hands folded on the table. She was a handsome woman in her sixties, dressed in a tailored suit.

“Inspector,” she said, her voice cool. “A terrible business.”

“You and Mr. Thorén had a very public disagreement,” Lundström began.

“We disagreed on principle,” she corrected him smoothly. “Erik saw concrete and kronor. I saw the destruction of our town’s soul. The ‘Kronoberg Meadows’ are a historical green space. He wanted to pave them for executive homes.”

“A motive for murder, some might say,” Lundström suggested mildly.

A flicker of ice entered her eyes. “Passion for preservation does not equate to passion for murder, Inspector. I left the hall at 9:20. My driver can confirm it. I was home by 9:40.”

Next was Bengt Sörensson, the chairman. He was a nervous man, wringing his hands. “That gavel… it was mine. My responsibility. I left it on the clerk’s desk when I adjourned the meeting. I was so flustered by the arguing, I just wanted to get to the lavatory and compose myself. Anyone could have taken it.”

“And did you see anyone near the desk?”

“I… I’m not sure. It was all a blur.”

The third person of interest was a surprise. Alex Thorén, the councilman’s twenty-five-year-old son, had been in the public gallery. He was a sullen young man with artistic pretensions and a palpable resentment for his father.

“He was a bully,” Alex stated flatly, not meeting Lundström’s eyes. “A bully in public and a bully in private. He was ashamed of me, of my ‘bohemian’ life. He was cutting me out of his will, you know. Giving his money to his new ‘project’.”

“The Kronoberg Meadows development?” Lundström asked.

“The very same. Ironic, isn’t it? He dies for the very thing that made him disown me.”

“Where were you after the meeting?”

“I went for a walk. To cool down. No, I have no one who saw me.”

Later, back at the station, Lundström stared at the incident board. Photos of Thorén, the gavel, the council chamber. Names: Vogler, Sörensson, Alex Thorén. Motives: Passion, Principle, Greed.

“It’s too neat,” he said to Petra. “It’s like a play. The angry environmentalist, the weak chairman, the disinherited son. It feels… staged.”

“But the forensics are clear,” Petra argued. “One blow. No prints. It was a crime of opportunity.”

“Or a crime designed to look like one,” Lundström replied, his instincts prickling. He felt the ghost of Colin Dexter’s Morse hovering nearby, whispering about opera and real estate being a similarly brutal business. “We’re missing something. Something quiet, in the background.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

The following day, Lundström decided to visit the site of the controversy: Kronoberg Meadows. It was a beautiful, rolling stretch of land on the edge of the city, bordering the serene Lake Helgasjön. As he walked, he saw a figure kneeling by the shoreline, tending to a small, unofficial-looking wooden post.

The man stood up as Lundström approached. He was in his late forties, with the weathered skin of someone who spent his life outdoors. “Can I help you?”

“Inspector Lundström, police. And you are?”

“Nils Åberg. I live there.” He pointed to a modest, well-kept cottage nestled in the trees, the only dwelling with a direct view of the meadows. “I suppose you’re here about Thorén.”

“You knew him?”

“I knew he wanted to destroy this,” Nils said, his voice thick with emotion. “This land has been in my family for generations. We sold most of it to the town decades ago, with a covenant that it remain a public green space. Thorén found a loophole. He was going to build his monstrosities right here, blocking my view, my light, my peace.”

Another motive, stronger and more personal than Elsa Vogler’s philosophical opposition. This was about a man’s home.

“Where were you on Tuesday night, Mr. Åberg?”

“Here. Alone. As always.”

As Lundström turned to leave, his phone rang. It was Petra, her voice excited. “Mats, we’ve got something. The council’s financial records. Bengt Sörensson, the chairman. He’s in deep debt. Gambling debts. And he received a large, unexplained cash deposit into his account two months ago.”

The meek chairman suddenly had a spine of greed. Lundström’s mind raced. Could Sörensson have been bribed by Thorén to push the development through? Or had he been bribed by someone else to stop it?

The case was becoming a hall of mirrors, each reflection a liar.

* * * * * * * * * * *

That evening, Lundström sat in his quiet apartment, a glass of single malt whisky in his hand, and called his son in England.

“Pappa,” Karl’s cheerful voice came down the line. “Caught any murderers lately?”

“They are being exceptionally elusive,” Lundström said, a genuine smile touching his lips for the first time in days. He told Karl about the case, about the gavel, the meadows, the tangled web of motives.

“Sounds like a classic,” Karl said. “Everyone has a secret. You just have to find the one who’s secret doesn’t fit with the others. Like that Morse episode we watched.”

After hanging up, Karl’s words echoed in his mind. The secret that doesn’t fit. He thought about Alex Thorén’s resentment, Elsa Vogler’s icy principle, Nils Åberg’s desperate connection to his land, and Bengt Sörensson’s hidden greed. They all fit. Too well.

He went over the timeline again. The meeting ended at 9:15. The janitor found the body at 10:30. The forensics report estimated time of death between 9:30 and 10:00. A window of opportunity. But who was unaccounted for?

He picked up the crime scene photos again. Thorén, slumped. The gavel, clean. And then he saw it. Something that had been niggling at the corner of his mind. On the council table, next to the deceased’s papers, was a small, dried smear of dark mud. The weather had been dry for days. The town hall was spotless.

He grabbed his coat.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Lundström drove back to Kronoberg Meadows, his headlights cutting through the dark. He didn’t go to Nils Åberg’s cottage. Instead, he parked and walked to the spot where he had met Åberg, by the water’s edge. He looked at the wooden post Åberg had been tending. It wasn’t a marker. It was a simple, hand-carved memorial. The name on it was “Karin Åberg. Beloved Wife.” The date was from two years prior.

He heard a footstep behind him. Nils Åberg stood there, his face grim in the moonlight. In his hand was not a gavel, but a heavy, sharp-edged trowel.

“She loved this place,” Nils said, his voice quiet but firm. “She died looking out over this lake. Thorén wasn’t just taking my land. He was taking her final resting place. He was going to pour a foundation over her memory.”

“So you killed him,” Lundström stated.

“I went to reason with him,” Nils said, the words tumbling out now. “After the meeting. He was alone in the chamber, gloating over his papers. I begged him. I got on my knees. He laughed. He said sentiment was for the weak. That progress demanded sacrifice. And I saw her face… I saw Karin… and I saw his gavel on the table. I just… picked it up.”

The crime of opportunity. But not premeditated. A moment of devastating, personal passion.

“The mud on the table,” Lundström said. “From your knees. It matched the clay from this shore. Your secret wasn’t your motive, Mr. Åberg. It was your grief. And it left a trace.”

Nils Åberg didn’t resist as Lundström called it in. He just stood, looking out over the dark, peaceful water, finally defeated not by the law, but by the memory of what he had lost.

* * * * * * * * * * *

A week later, the case was closed. Lundström met Petra for a fika at a café overlooking the main square.

“It’s sad,” Petra said, stirring her cappuccino. “He wasn’t a bad man. Just a broken one.”

“Murder often comes from a broken place,” Lundström replied, his gaze distant. “We look for grand conspiracies and complex motives, but sometimes it’s just a simple, human tragedy. A man, his grief, and a moment of terrible rage.”

He thought of the quiet, ordered life he led, the silence of his apartment, and the sharp ache of missing his son. He understood the weight of loneliness, though not the depth of Åberg’s despair. It was this understanding, this weary empathy, that made him a good detective.

He paid the bill and stepped out into the crisp Växjö air. The town council would find a new councilman, the debate would move on, and the Kronoberg Meadows would remain, for now, a peaceful green space. Another mystery solved, another fracture in the world momentarily mended. For Inspector Mats Lundström, it was enough. For now.

END

The unkindness of ravens

The first one they wrote off as a tragedy. A retired schoolteacher, Arne Persson, found dead in his immaculate garden, a cup of cold coffee beside him. A heart attack, the pathologist assumed. 

It was only during the routine, almost cursory autopsy that the anomaly was found, a minute, untraceable alkaloid compound, a ghost in the machine that had stopped that machine with terrifying efficiency. By then, the second victim, a young, ambitious lawyer named Lena Ekström, was already cold in her minimalist apartment. The same poison. No motive, no connection, and a killer who left a signature that was, to all but the most advanced toxicology reports, entirely invisible.

The call went to the one man in the Växjö police force who appreciated the subtlety of a well-hidden crime. The hunt, silent and invisible, had begun. And Inspector Mats Lundström felt a familiar, grim chill settle in his bones.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The drizzle in Växjö was a permanent state of being in early autumn, a fine mist that clung to the windows of Mats Lundström’s Volvo and blurred the lines of the sombre pine forests. He sat for a moment outside the third crime scene, a handsome wooden villa on the outskirts of the city, and felt the weight of the two previous files on the passenger seat. Two dead. No leads. A poisoner of rare, almost artistic, skill.

“Mats. You’re here.” Detective Inspector Anja Vinter, his partner, appeared at the car window, her blonde hair beaded with moisture. She was young, sharp, and carried a digital tablet like a secular rosary.

“The weather matches the mood,” Lundström grunted, heaving himself out of the car. His knee complained, a relic of a chase through a Gothenburg shipyard two decades ago. “What have we got?”

“Björn Carlsson. Sixty-eight. Widower. Found by his cleaning lady this morning. No signs of a struggle. Looks like he died reading the paper.”

“But he wasn’t reading the paper, was he?” Lundström said, his voice a low rumble. “He was being murdered.”

Inside, the scene was deceptively peaceful. Björn Carlsson sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace, a copy of Smaländska Posten folded on his lap. A half-finished glass of cloudberry liqueur sat on a small table beside him.

“The glass?” Lundström asked.

“Being analysed. But if it’s our man, we won’t find anything,” Anja said, her frustration evident. “The preliminary report is already back. Same toxin. A derivative of a South American frog venom, synthesised. Impossible to source, impossible to trace without a specific panel. The killer might as well be using a ghost for a weapon.”

Lundström moved slowly around the room, his eyes missing nothing and yet seeming to look at nothing in particular. He was a large man, built for endurance rather than speed, with a face that looked like it had been weathered by a lifetime of staring into middle-distance truths. He was divorced, his son, Tomas, was reading History at Oxford, and the silence of his own apartment was a presence he had learned to negotiate with, like a difficult but familiar neighbour.

“Arne Persson, the teacher. Lena Ekström, the lawyer. And now Björn Carlsson, retired… what was he?”

“Businessman. Import-Export. Quite successful.”

“Three people. Different walks of life, different ages. What links them?” He picked up a photograph from the mantelpiece. Carlsson, a younger, smiling woman, and a teenage boy, standing before the Eiffel Tower. A happy memory, frozen in time, now part of a crime scene.

“We’ve been over their lives, Mats. Bank records, phone logs. They didn’t know each other. They didn’t frequent the same places. They might as well have lived on different planets.”

“Nobody lives on a different planet, Anja. They all lived in Småland. That’s connection enough for a start.” He replaced the photo with a sigh. “Let’s go and bother the dead. I want to see the pathologist.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

Dr. Isaksson was a small, precise man who treated the human body as a complex and often disappointing puzzle. He met them in the stark brightness of the morgue, the body of Björn Carlsson lying covered on a steel slab between them.

“The cause of death is neuro-paralysis,” Isaksson said, his voice clipped. “It mimics a massive coronary. The toxin binds to the acetylcholine receptors. The victim simply… stops. Breathing, heart, everything. It’s very fast, and from what I understand, completely painless.”

“A merciful murderer?” Anja queried, sceptical.

“An efficient one,” Lundström corrected. “No drama. No mess. It’s not about rage. It’s about… removal.” He looked down at Carlsson’s peaceful face. “Where could someone get this poison, Isaksson?”

The pathologist spread his hands. “You might as well ask where one buys a unicorn horn, Inspector. This is boutique work. A brilliant biochemist, perhaps. A specialised, and highly illegal, online marketplace. It is not the tool of a common criminal.”

Later, back at the station, Lundström spread the three victim files across his desk like a tarot reading predicting only death. Arne Persson, the gentle teacher, fond of birdwatching. Lena Ekström, the ruthless lawyer, known for her cutthroat divorce cases. Björn Carlsson, the affable businessman.

“A saint, a sinner, and… a normal bloke,” he muttered to himself, stirring a bitter black coffee.

Anja burst into his office, her tablet held aloft. “We missed it. A thread.”

Lundström looked up, his interest piqued.

“It’s not them. It’s their families. Twenty-five years ago. There was a case. A young woman. Elsa Vestergaard. She drowned in Lake Helgasjön. It was ruled a suicide.”

“Go on.”

“Her fiancé was devastated. He claimed she was murdered. He was a volatile young man, made a scene at the inquest, accused several people of lying. The case was closed. Suicide.”

“And the people he accused?” Lundström asked, a familiar, cold clarity beginning to dawn.

“Arne Persson was her form tutor. He testified she’d been depressed. Lena Ekström’s father was the original lead investigator on the case; she was just a girl, but her father’s reputation was built on it. And Björn Carlsson… he was the last person to see Elsa alive. He gave her a lift to the lake that day. He said she seemed perfectly happy.”

Lundström leaned back, the old chair groaning in protest. “And the fiancé? The one who cried murder?”

“His name is Mikael Rydell. He was a promising biochemistry student at the time. Dropped out of university after the inquest. Became a recluse. He lives out in the woods, near Asa. People say he’s… odd. Feeds the ravens.”

A slow, grim smile spread across Lundström’s face. It was the first real expression he’d shown all week. “An unkindness of ravens,” he murmured. “That’s the collective noun. Fitting. Get a car, Anja. Let’s go and talk to a man who has been nursing a grudge for a quarter of a century.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

The house was a stuga lost in the deep pine forest, its wood stained dark with age and damp. An assortment of hand-carved bird feeders dotted the clearing, and large, glossy ravens perched on the roof ridge, their black eyes watching the detectives with intelligent suspicion.

Mikael Rydell was a tall, gaunt man with eyes that held a disturbing stillness. He did not seem surprised to see them.

“Inspector Lundström,” he said, his voice soft. “I wondered when you would come. The ravens have been noisy these past few weeks.”

“Mikael Rydell?” Lundström began, his tone deliberately neutral. “We’re investigating the deaths of Arne Persson, Lena Ekström, and Björn Carlsson.”

Rydell’s face showed no emotion. “I read about them. A tragedy. But why come to me? That was all a long time ago.”

“Elsa Vestergaard,” Anja said, watching him closely. “You never believed it was suicide.”

The stillness in Rydell’s eyes fractured, replaced by a flash of raw, ancient pain. “It wasn’t. They lied. All of them. Persson, he knew she was being bullied, but he did nothing. Ekström’s father, he was lazy, he wanted an easy case to close. And Carlsson… he was there. He saw something. He knew. But he was a coward. He valued his comfortable life over the truth.” He looked out at his ravens. “They killed her as surely as if they had held her head under the water.”

“You studied biochemistry,” Lundström stated, his eyes scanning the man’s hands. They were clean, but the nails were stained with something dark.

“A lifetime ago. I find my peace here now. With my birds. They are honest creatures.”

Lundström took a step closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “I understand the desire for justice, Mikael. I do. But this… this poison. It’s a coward’s weapon. It doesn’t restore honour. It just makes you a ghost, like them.”

Rydell met his gaze, and for a second, Lundström saw the brilliant, broken student inside the recluse. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Inspector. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to feed the ravens.”

They had no evidence, nothing to hold him on. As they drove away, Lundström watched the stuga disappear in the rearview mirror, a dark speck in a green sea.

“He’s our man,” Anja said, slamming her palm on the steering wheel. “I know it.”

“Knowing and proving are two different countries, and we don’t have a passport to cross the border,” Lundström replied. “He’s too careful. He’s waited twenty-five years. He won’t make a mistake.”

But the killer did.

The next target was the fourth name from the inquest: the coroner who had officially ruled it a suicide. He was an old man now, living in a retirement village. The attempt was made via a bottle of fine cognac, delivered as a gift. But the old man, suspicious of unexpected generosity, had given it to his son-in-law. The son-in-law took a sip, felt unwell, and vomited. He survived. And the bottle had fingerprints on the delivery note.

Mikael Rydell was arrested at his cabin. He offered no resistance. In his shed, behind sacks of birdseed, they found a small, sophisticated chemistry set and a notebook filled with formulas and timelines. It was all there, a ledger of grief and vengeance.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Lundström visited him in the holding cell. Rydell looked smaller, the fire in him extinguished.

“It’s over, Mikael,” Lundström said.

“Is it?” Rydell looked up, his eyes clear now, and terrifyingly sane. “They destroyed my life. They took the one thing that gave it meaning. They needed to be… removed. Like diseased branches. It was a pruning. An act of care.”

“It was murder,” Lundström said, his voice flat and final. There was no triumph in this, only the sad, administrative conclusion of a life warped by loss.

Later that evening, Lundström sat in his silent apartment, the lights of Växjö twinkling in the distance through the rain-streaked glass. He poured a small measure of whisky, not to celebrate, but to mark the closing of a file. He thought of Tomas, in England, building a life far from the damp melancholy and hidden poisons of Småland. He thought of the quiet, respectable faces of the victims, and the terrible secret they had shared.

He picked up the phone and dialled. After a few rings, his son’s cheerful voice answered, tinged with the faint, cosmopolitan accent he was acquiring.

“Pappa! This is a surprise. Everything alright?”

Lundström looked out at the dark, forgiving night. “Everything is fine, Tomas,” he said, his voice softening for the first time in days. “I just… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

And for a little while, in the warmth of that distant connection, the ghosts of the case retreated, leaving only the living, and the fragile, precious peace between tragedies.

END