So he screams.

He breaks things.

He draws on the walls with crayons.

He gets hold of matches and sets fire to the world, watches his wooden boat burn in the sand, and feelings that he doesn’t know the name of, feelings that might not even have any names, drift through the flames, and the smouldering hull rests on a desolate patch of sand enclosed by a wooden frame.

Daddy’s despair. How the boy’s little body flies into the radiator beneath the living-room window when drunk Daddy stumbles over him. Mummy’s tired blinking eyes.

Pain, which as yet is always new.

Nothing is fixed.

Nothing has set into its final form.

Perhaps that is why nothing is possible.

The boy lies in his bed at night. He is awake. In the August evening there is a hint of the first chill of autumn.

He already knows there is another world, but he doesn’t think about it, he is busy living in the world of directly experienced reality.

There is no reflection as he daydreams in the darkness about killing his father. Killing him with rays that shoot from his blue pebble-eyes. He will make the lawnmower shut up.

Its blades will no longer snap at his heels.

The eye, as black as the water, seems to wink at Malin Fors as the head bobs in the gentle, scarcely perceptible waves.

The yellow raincoat is almost luminous in the water.

The throbbing in her own skull.

The dog barking over in the car by the edge of the forest. The sound like distant cannon-fire, as if it were inside a pressure cooker.

The dog was standing by the edge of the moat when they arrived. Barking like crazy, but it didn’t object when it was led to the car, just carried on barking.

Bang, bang.

What can that eye in the water see now? What was the last thing that eye saw?

The bobbing motion of the head, the little snake-like fish around it, the throbbing in Malin’s own head: two things that will give this day its very own insane structure and logic.

Skogsa Castle. She’s driven past the end of the drive many times, but she’s never seen the castle before, never had any reason to drive into the forest and out across the fields. But she’s seen pictures of it in a book about Swedish castles and manor houses in her parents’ apartment by the old Infection Park. A fuck-off great stone box, jam-packed with snobbery, even if there’s something restrained about the building itself. The lines are straight, practically no ornamentation; humility in the face of the dramas that have unfolded here over the years.

Malin is crouching at the side of the moat. Large, smooth rocks that must have come straight from the quarry slope steeply down into the water, the green light from the lanterns reflected in its surface. The fish down there, hundreds of them, not much bigger than sprats, blacker than the water as they move around the body.

Malin has pulled the zip of her GORE-TEX jacket right up, the hood tight around her head, three layers underneath and still she’s freezing, feeling the heavy raindrops hammering the fabric. Zeke had the coat in the car, making a comment about her ancient sweater when he picked her up, asked if she’d bought it at the Salvation Army. When he saw her jeans he grinned: ‘Eastern European fashion’s the next big thing, is it?’

But he didn’t remark upon the fact that he was picking her up from the flat, even if he must have wondered what she was doing there.

The cold helps her head to clear.

Helps her gaze focus, so she can concentrate on the corpse floating on the surface, on the blond hair, on the eye staring up at them.

Zeke by her side.

Wide awake. Curious.

‘How the hell are we going to get him out?’

‘We’ll have to get divers from the fire brigade.’

The report of the body had reached the police station at a quarter past eight. Malin had heard the phone ringing when she got out of the shower and it had had an unmistakable note of urgency, as if the phone had its own consciousness and could change the way it sounded according to the circumstances.

Zeke’s voice: ‘Some farmers have called in to say that they’ve found a man murdered out at Skogsa Castle.’

She had thrown on her clothes and they had set off south towards Skogsa. He had commented on her breath and told her she looked terrible, wondered if she’d been drinking, but she just said she’d had a couple of glasses of tequila yesterday evening, joking that he must have a very sensitive nose.

They had been the first unit on the scene, and as they arrived and parked at the edge of the forest, the large castle doors had opened and out came the two men that she now knows are the tenant farmers, Ingmar Johansson and Gote Lindman.

They had waited where they had been told while she and Zeke looked at the scene and led the dog away, carefully, without contaminating the crime scene. The pair had explained that they were supposed to be hunting deer with Jerry Petersson, but that he hadn’t met them at the agreed time, and that they had found him, or at least what they assumed to be his body, down in the moat.

‘I mean, you can’t really see for sure,’ Johansson had said.

‘But it’s him,’ Lindman had added. ‘He had a coat just like that.’

The corpse in the water.

Jerry Petersson.

Hotshot lawyer. Businessman. The slightly dodgy commercial lawyer who had made a fortune in Stockholm and moved back home when he got the chance to buy Skogsa Castle. Malin had read the profile in the Correspondent.

If it really is him.

The throbbing in her head. The dog’s barking. Two patrol cars had just arrived at the edge of the forest. No holding back with a suspected murder.

Jerry Petersson.

But who else could it be? Malin closes her eyes, feeling her headache, listening to the air, and she imagines she can hear the rain falling on an invisible body, someone whispering words she can’t understand, words that want to make the world comprehensible, easy to understand and absorb, but they vanish before she has time to work out what they mean.

The divers arrived thirty minutes later, and now their red emergency vehicle is parked alongside Zeke’s car, forensics expert Karin Johannison’s blue Mercedes, and Sven Sjoman’s red Volvo. The cars are parked in a clearing on the other side of the moat, a long way from Petersson’s Range Rover and the tenant farmers’ Saab. The journalists have started to appear, and they are standing in a huddle with cameras of all sizes, flashing as though they were some huge lightning-filled stormcloud. They’re shouting at the police, but are ignored.

They can smell something tasty, the reporters. Front pages. A paper-selling story that will appeal to people’s desire to read about death and violence from a safe distance.

Just like some shoddy thriller, Malin thinks. Life imitating art.

None of the police or fire brigade have driven up in front of the castle.

No one wants to spoil any tyre tracks, footprints or signs of a struggle on the gravel, or whatever else Karin Johannison can find. Malin can see Karin moving around the Range Rover, taking pictures, shaking her head, wiping the rain from her forehead. Even in a yellow raincoat, that woman still manages to look glamorous.

She nodded to Zeke when she arrived, and he pulled his dark-blue raincoat tighter round him.

The nod back took far too long, Malin thinks, knowing that it hides something she’d rather not know about, a truth made visible in the way that only a real hangover can give a new slant on things.

With listlessness comes clarity.

But what do I know about what they get up to? Maybe I’m just imagining it.

None of the firemen, the divers is anyone she recognises.

Thank God. But they must know who she is, they must know all about her and their colleague Janne.