The ambulance with the perforated body.

It’s heading purposefully off towards the forest, slowly, as if anxious not to wake or upset the dead man. The dog in the car barks after the ambulance, jumping up at the window.

Standing in front of the castle, Malin can see the green lanterns swaying in the wind, and their forest-tinted light makes the grey daylight hazy. Mouldering heaps of leaves at the edge of the forest. Like crumpled paper painted in bright colours by the children at a closure-threatened nursery school. And the trees, their bare crowns watching the day’s peculiar performance from their elevated position above the leaves, waving goodbye when the wind helps the branches to move.

The same questions as always at the start of an investigation. Malin poses them to herself, aware that all the others in the team will be asking the same things.

How to make sense of this?

What’s happened?

Who was he, Jerry Petersson? The answer to the question of where the violence came from is always hidden in the victim’s life. And death. What prompted him to return to the city and surrounding area? He had been back for about a year, but sometimes evil moves slowly.

Then the forest seems to open up before her eyes, the gaps in the trees seem to get wider, and the space is filled with a darkness teeming with shapeless figures.

Malin imagines she can hear a voice, as if all the figures were speaking with one voice, saying the same thing: ‘I shall drift here for a thousand years. I shall be lord of this land.

‘Save me!’ the voice goes on. ‘I was guilty of many things, but save me, grant me forgiveness.’

Then it calms down, whispering: ‘Why did I become the person I ended up as?’

Young snakes, pale yellow, seem to be slithering around Malin’s boots. She stamps her feet but they don’t disappear.

She blinks slowly.

The snakes and the shapes are gone.

An ordinary, depressing, grey, misty, autumn forest. Gravel beneath her feet.

What was that all about? Am I going mad? But she isn’t worried, the drinking and all the rest of it has probably just got a bit much. Then she thinks about the fact that just a few hours ago someone was wielding a knife here.

Murdering.

Killing Jerry Petersson.

She switches on her mobile again, she’s had it turned off since she arrived.

Two missed calls. Both from Tove, but no messages. I ought to call her now, I really ought to.

The dog is quiet, calm. Must have lain down on the back seat.

‘Malin! Malin!’

She recognises Daniel Hogfeldt’s voice. He’s calling to her from the driver’s seat of one of the Correspondent’s reporters’ cars.

She feels like giving him the finger.

Instead she waves at him.

‘What have you got for me?’

His voice, eager.

‘Forget it, Daniel,’ she calls.

‘He was murdered, wasn’t he? And it was Petersson.’

‘You’ll find out later. Karim’s bound to call a press conference.’

‘Come on, Malin.’

She shakes her head, and he smiles a warm, gentle smile, exactly the sort of smile she needs.

Is it that obvious?

Daniel wrote the article about Petersson. Might he know something? Can’t ask him now, that would be giving too much away.

She had thought that her trysts with Daniel would come to an end when she moved back in with Janne. Then one evening, after she’d sweated everything out in the gym in the basement of the police station and still felt it wasn’t enough to calm her down, he had called when she was about to get in the car and go home.

‘Can you come over?’

Ten minutes later she was lying in his bed in Linnegatan.

They didn’t say a word to each other. Not then. Nor the next time, or the next, or the next.

He simply took her as hard as he could, and she took him in return, and they yelled out together, looked at each other, seeming to ask, what the hell is this? What are we doing? What’s wrong with us?

Daniel Hogfeldt looks at Malin, and can’t help thinking that she looks terrible, almost so terrible that she isn’t sexy any more.

He’s tried to get her to see him as more than just a body, but that hasn’t been possible. She can’t seem to shake her low opinion of him, assuming he only wants information about cases, when in actual fact it’s her that he wants to find out more about.

She’s moved back in with her ex-husband again. But how well can that really be going? When she still wants to fuck my brains out?

It’s fairly obvious that she isn’t happy. But if I tried to say anything she’d turn on her heel, do anything to avoid the issue.

Daniel leans back in his seat. Sees the bald detective that he knows is called Zeke go over to Malin.

Daniel closes his eyes. Gets ready to play at being the tough reporter when he tries to get something out of the other officers.

As Malin and Zeke approach the car the dog stands up on the back seat. Its cropped stump of a tail is wagging, and it’s staring greedily at the bowl of water in Zeke’s hand. But when they open the doors the dog backs away. It lies down on the floor behind the driver’s seat and seems to be waiting for something. Zeke gives him the water and they can hear it lapping at it.

‘Let’s get it to Borje,’ Malin says.

‘OK,’ Zeke replies.

Malin goes for the passenger seat. Zeke can do the driving.

The dog whimpers in the back seat.

Daniel Hogfeldt’s naked body.

What’s wrong with me? Malin thinks.

The red-painted cottage sits beside the road leading up towards Skogsa, not far from the turning to Linkoping. The forest around the cottage opens up to give space for a field that looks more like a large vegetable patch. They’ve stopped on their way back to the city, something inside Malin told her that they ought to talk to the person living there, that they shouldn’t leave it to the uniforms.

‘The dog will be OK.’

Malin has one hand on the car door.

But before she can open it the cottage door flies open.

Malin jerks back. Zeke throws himself down, already outside. The barrel of a shotgun is pointing right at them, and behind it stands a short, grey-haired old woman.

‘So who are you?’ she croaks in a hoarse voice.

Malin backs away a bit further, and from the corner of her eye she can see Zeke feeling for his pistol.

‘Easy, easy,’ Malin says. ‘We’re from the police. Let me show you my ID.’

The old woman looks at Malin.

Seems to recognise her.

Lowers the gun.

Says: ‘I recognise you from the local news. Come in. Sorry about the gun, but you never know what you’re going to get around here.’

Inside the car the dog has started barking again.

‘Hang your coats in the hall. Coffee? It’s lunchtime, but I haven’t got anything to offer you.’

The old woman, who’s just introduced herself as Linnea Sjostedt, leads them into the kitchen.

The way she walks makes me look like an invalid, Malin thinks, the thought of lunch making her feel sick.

The old woman puts the shotgun down on a rustic table standing on a yellow and green, almost certainly home-woven, rag-rug. An old Husqvarna stove. Collectable plates on the walls.

An old person’s smell, sour but not unpleasant, and a strong sense that time will have its due, no matter what anyone might want.

‘Sit yourselves down.’

For the old woman the business with the shotgun is already long forgotten, but Malin can still feel the adrenalin pumping in her veins, and Zeke’s clothes are wet from the grass he landed on. They watch her put an old-fashioned coffeepot on the stove and take out some blue-flowered cups.

‘You can’t go around pointing guns at people like that,’ Zeke says as he sits down.

‘Like I said, you never know what you’re going to get around here.’

Uncomfortable ladder-backed chairs, hard on the backside.