‘Do you mean anything in particular?’ Malin asks.

‘Who knows what evil might come up with. Something must have happened, seeing as you’re here.’

‘Yes,’ Malin says. ‘Jerry Petersson, the new owner of Skogsa, has been found dead.’

Linnea Sjostedt nods.

‘Murdered?’

‘We believe so,’ Zeke replies.

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ the old woman says, pouring out the coffee.‘I haven’t got any cake. It makes me fat.’

‘So we’re wondering if you saw anything unusual yesterday, or last night, or this morning. Or anything else you thought was odd recently?’

‘This morning,’ Linnea says, ‘I saw Johansson and Lindman heading towards the castle. It must have been about half past seven.’

Malin nods.

‘Anything else?’

Malin takes a sip of the coffee.

Boiled coffee.

So strong it makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

‘Sometimes, when you’re as old as I am,’ Linnea Sjostedt says, ‘you don’t always know if you’re dreaming or if what you see or think you see has really happened. I’m sure about Johansson and Lindman, because I’d already had my first cup of coffee by then, but could I have seen something before that? I’m not sure.’

‘So you did see something before that, Linnea?’

Malin is making an effort to sound serious. As if dreams really did exist.

‘Well, I think I saw a black car driving towards the castle at the crack of dawn. But I’m not sure. Sometimes I dream that I’ve got up, and this could have been one of those dreams.’

‘A black car?’

Linnea Sjostedt nods.

‘Any particular make or model?’

‘Maybe an estate car. It was big. I’ve never paid any attention to makes of cars.’

‘Do you rent this cottage from the estate?’ Malin asks.

‘No, thank heavens, my father bought it from the Fagelsjos in the fifties. I moved in twenty years ago when my father passed away.’

‘What about Petersson, what do you know about him?’

‘He called and introduced himself. Nice young man, even if he probably wasn’t always as nice as that. All that business with Goldman and so on.’

‘Goldman?’

‘Yes, Jochen Goldman. The one who conned all that money out of that financial firm up in Stockholm, several hundred million, then fled abroad. They’re supposed to have worked together. I read about it on the Net. Don’t you know anything, officers? That Goldman’s supposed to be a really nasty piece of work.’

‘Nasty?’ Malin asks.

Linnea Sjostedt doesn’t answer, just shakes her head slowly.

Embarrassing, Malin thinks. Put to rights by an eighty-year-old woman. But she was right, Goldman did feature in the article in the Correspondent, even if the focus was more on Petersson here and now, his plans for the castle and how he was supposed to have all but driven out the Fagelsjos.

But she remembers Jochen Goldman. How he emptied a listed company of money with the help of some French count, how he’s spent ten years on the run, getting loads of media attention, publishing books about his life evading the law, until now; for the past year or so, his crimes can no longer be tried thanks to the statute of limitations.

And none of them remembered the connection between the financial crook and their victim during their meeting in the castle?

Strange. But presumably their detective brains hadn’t woken up properly by then. Just as foggy as this autumn weather.

Irritated, Malin asks: ‘What were you doing last night and this morning?’

‘Inspector, do you really think I had anything to do with Petersson’s demise?’

‘I don’t think anything,’ Malin says. ‘Just answer the question, please.’

‘I got home at about four o’clock this morning. With Linkoping Taxis, so you can check that. I spent last night with my lover, Anton, he lives in Valla. You can have his number as well.’

‘Thank you,’ Zeke says, ‘but I don’t think that will be necessary. Is there anything else you think we ought to know?’

The old woman’s eyes sparkle.

She opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind before any words pass her lips.

Zeke is about to start the car. He’s just patted the dog’s head, talking to it, calming it down, settling it back down on the floor again. It doesn’t seem to want to look at the forest and fields.

My brain isn’t working properly, Malin thinks.

It wants more drink.

Goldman.

One of the biggest fraud cases in Swedish history, and he managed to stay hidden until the time limit for charges being pressed had elapsed.

And Petersson had dealings with someone like that. They’ve got a lot to look into, there are masses of files in several rooms of the castle, and when there’s been a murder they can seize whatever they want, without the permission of the victim’s solicitor. If Jerry Petersson was in business with Goldman, how many others like him are there?

Malin looks out over the mist-shrouded field and forest and road. Thousands of different shades of grey blurring together. The wind is strong enough to send the leaves flying like flakes of copper across the green-black ground, swirling to and fro like metallic stars hanging in an absurdly low sky. In a clearing there are several ridges of deep-red leaves, like the blood pouring from Jerry Petersson’s body.

Must call Tove.

Malin tries to focus her gaze, but everything is floating in front of her eyes. The rear-view mirror. She doesn’t want to look in it, hates her swollen features, the reason why she looks like that, doesn’t want to see the shame etched in her forehead, in the tiniest corner of her face. The car seems to contract. She’s having trouble breathing. Wants to jump out. Tove. Janne. How are you ever going to forgive me?

Damn.

Just give me a fucking big drink. Now. I’m pouring with sweat. I know all the things I ought to do, but I can’t handle any of it.

‘Are you OK?’ Zeke asks.

‘Fine,’ she replies. Forces herself to think about their heaven-sent case.

A black car in a dream? Lindman’s? Johansson’s? But why?

Jochen Goldman.

The entire Fagelsjo family.

Avaricious bastards in general.

I wonder which one it’s worth annoying most?

The very thought of going through all the files is making Johan Jakobsson annoyed. How many have they carried into the room now?

Two hundred? Three hundred?

His light blue shirt is flecked grey with dust from all the carrying.

Johan surveys the meeting room in the heart of the police station. Burps and gets a taste of the mince he had for lunch.

The windowless room, with its grey-white textured wallpaper and basic shelving, is going to be their strategy room for the duration of the investigation into the murder of Jerry Petersson.

Two hard-drives.

A successful working life gathered together in a corner of the police station. Grim, Johan thinks, but he is also rather glad that something’s actually happening today. They hadn’t even reached Nassjo and his parents-in-law when Sven Sjoman rang, told him what had happened and asked if he could come in.

‘I’m on my way. I’ll be there in an hour or two.’

His wife had been furious, and he didn’t really blame her. She had reluctantly driven him to Skogsa, then turned back towards Nassjo on her own with the children.

Even all the impending paperwork is preferable to hobnobbing with the oldies in Nassjo. They have far too many opinions about things in general, and about Johan’s family in particular, for him to enjoy their company.

Everyone should mind their own business.

It is much better that way.

The files of documents and the hard-drives full of more documents are all concerned with instances of people minding their own business, Johan is certain of that. Who knows what they might find here? And what might that lead to? Or else they’ll find nothing. It’s not against the law to have a dodgy reputation.