I know why I called.

I want her to come home. I want them to stand in the kitchen having a hug, and I want to watch.

Don’t think about it, Tove.

She taps her mobile against her head.

Don’t think about it.

Some twenty metres away three of the older boys are grouped around a fat younger boy. Tove knows who he is. An Iraqi who can hardly speak a word of Swedish, and the older boys love bullying him. Bloody cowards.

She feels like getting up, going over and telling them to stop. But they’re bigger, much bigger than her.

Mum sounded disappointed when she said she was going back to Dad’s. Tove had been hoping that would make her want to go as well, but deep down she knows that’s not how things work in the adult world, everything’s so damn complicated there.

Now they’re hitting the boy.

Abbas, that’s his name.

And she puts her pen and notepad on the floor by her locker. She pushes her way through the crowd over to the three bullies. She shoves the tallest of them in the back, yelling: ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size instead?’ and Abbas is crying now, she can see that, and the force of her voice must have surprised the stupid bloody idiots, scared them, because they back away, staring at her. ‘Get lost,’ she yells, and they stare at her as if she’s a dangerous animal, and Tove realises why she frightens them, they must know what happened out in Finspang, what happened to her, and they respect her because of that.

Idiots, she thinks. Then she puts her arms around Abbas, he’s small and his body is soft, and she pretends he’s Mum, that she can comfort her with just a hug and a promise that everything’s going to be all right, from now on everything’s going to be all right.

Axel Fagelsjo’s apartment on Drottninggatan is, to put it in estate-agent jargon, magnificently appointed, Malin thinks. But it’s still only a fraction as ostentatious as Skogsa Castle.

Panelling, and shiny, tightly woven Oriental rugs that make her headache flare up again. Authentic, expensive, quite different from the cheap rugs bought at auction on the floors of her mum and dad’s flat. The worn leather of the armchairs shimmers in the light of the chandeliers and candelabra.

And the man in front of them.

He must be about seventy, Malin thinks. And right-handed. The embodiment of authority, and she tries to stay calm, not become defensive the way she knows she always is when she meets people higher up the social ladder than she could ever get.

All of this still exists.

The Social Democrats may have managed to create a superficial equality in this country for a while, but it’s thin and transparent and false.

Portraits of Count Axel Fagelsjo’s ancestors hang in a row above the panelling. Powerful men with sharp eyes. Warriors, many of them.

They are witness to Fagelsjo’s awareness that he’s better than the rest of us, worth more. Unless that’s just my own prejudice? Malin thinks.

There are still big differences between people in Sweden. Bigger than ever, perhaps, because there’s a professed political desire to create a blue sheen of equality, a mendacious glow, as if there’s still a green shimmer of cash casting a light over the lives of the poor.

The blues say we’re all equally valuable. That everyone should have the same opportunities. And then they repeat it. And it becomes a truth even if they implement policies that mean those with money in the bank keep on getting richer even in these troubled times.

The whole of society is tainted with lies, Malin thinks.

And those lies give rise to a feeling of being fooled, denied and rejected.

Maybe that’s how I feel, deep down, Malin thinks. Trampled on, without actually realising it.

Voiceless by nature.

And if you have neither words nor anyone’s ear, that’s when violence is born. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times.

Malin looks at the portraits in Fagelsjo’s sitting room, then at the stout, ruddy-cheeked count with the self-confident smile that has suddenly appeared.

New money, like Petersson’s. Old money, like Fagelsjo’s. Is there really any difference? And what on earth are inherited privileges doing in a modern society?

‘Thank you for seeing us,’ Malin says as she sits down on a ridiculously comfortable leather armchair, and Axel Fagelsjo stubs out his cigarette.

Fagelsjo smiles again, his smile is properly friendly now, he means us well, Malin thinks, but with all his privileges, he can probably afford to?

‘Of course I’m happy to see you. I understand why you’re here. I heard on the radio about Petersson, and it was only a matter of time before you came to see me.’

Zeke, sitting beside Malin, wary, evidently also affected by the old count’s presence.

‘Yes, we have reason to believe that he was murdered. So naturally that raises a number of questions,’ Zeke says.

‘I’m at your disposal.’

Fagelsjo leans forward, as if to demonstrate his interest.

‘To begin with,’ Malin says, ‘what were you doing last night and this morning?’

‘I was drinking tea with my daughter Katarina yesterday evening. Then, at ten o’clock, I came home.’

‘And after that?’

‘I was at home, as I said.’

‘Is there anyone who can confirm that?’

‘I’ve lived alone since my wife died.’

‘There are rumours,’ Zeke says, ‘that the family hit hard times and that was why you were forced to sell Skogsa to Petersson.’

‘And who would spread rumours like that?’

Fagelsjo’s eyes flashing with sudden anger, but nonetheless feigned anger, Malin thinks: no point trying to hide what everyone knows.

‘I can’t tell you that,’ Zeke says.

‘They’re just rumours,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘What they wrote in the Correspondent was nonsense. We sold the castle because it was time, it had served its role as the family seat. These are new times. Time had simply caught up with our way of life. Fredrik works for the Ostgota Bank, Katarina works in art. They don’t want to be farmers.’

You’re lying, Malin thinks. Then she thinks of her recent conversation with Tove, and feels sick at how, against her will, she had treated it like a work conversation, how she couldn’t break through and say the things that needed saying. How could you, Fors? How could anyone?

‘So there were no arguments?’ she goes on. ‘No disagreements?’

Fagelsjo doesn’t answer, and says instead: ‘I never met Petersson in relation to the sale. Our solicitors handled that, but I got the impression that he was one of those businessmen who want nothing more than to live in a castle. I daresay he had no idea of the work that requires, regardless of the amount of money one has to hire people to do it.’

‘He paid well?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

Fagelsjo smiles at his own words, and Malin can’t tell if he’s being consciously ironic and mimicking Zeke’s words or not.

‘I have difficulty seeing what significance the amount might have for your investigation.’

Malin nods. They can find out the amount, if it proves to be important.

‘Had you passed the castle on to your son?’

‘No. The castle was still in my ownership.’

‘The sale must have been upsetting for you,’ Malin says. ‘After all, your ancestors had lived there for centuries.’

‘It was time, Inspector Fors. That’s all there was to it.’

‘And your children? Did they react badly to the sale?’

‘Not at all. I daresay they were happy about the money. I tried to find a place for the children at the castle, but it didn’t suit them.’

‘A place?’

‘Yes, let one of them take over the running of it, but they weren’t interested.’

‘Are you happy here?’ Zeke asks, looking around at the spacious apartment.

‘Yes, I’m happy here. I’ve lived here since the sale. In fact, I’m so happy here that I’d like to be alone now, if you have no more questions.’