‘So there’s nothing you want to tell us? About bad business decisions? About why you hate Jerry Petersson, the clown who took over? The man you wanted to see dead?’

Waldemar’s voice is angry as he tosses the words across the table.

‘That Petersson,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘He was the worst sort of upstart, the sort who could never understand the importance of an estate like Skogsa. But he paid handsomely. And if you think I had anything to do with this, good luck to you. Prove it. Like I said, I got scared and I panicked. I’m prepared to take my punishment.’

‘Did you know Petersson from before?’

‘I knew who he was,’ Fagelsjo says. ‘We were at the same high school, the Cathedral School, at the same time. But I didn’t know him at all. We didn’t move in the same circles. We might have been at a few of the same parties. It’s a small world, after all.’

‘So you didn’t really have anything to do with each other? Neither then, nor later on?’

‘Only when the castle was going to be sold. But even then I didn’t actually meet him.’

‘I’m surprised,’ Waldemar says. ‘I thought your sort all went to Sigtuna or Landsberg.’

‘Lundsberg,’ Ehrenstierna says. ‘It’s Lundsberg. Even I went to Lundsberg. Have you got any more questions for my client? About his education, or anything else?’

Waldemar gets up quickly, fixing his snake’s gaze on Fagelsjo’s eyes.

‘Tell us what you know, you bastard. You’re hiding loads of shit, aren’t you?’

Fredrik Fagelsjo and his lawyer jerk back.

‘You were out at the castle, you wanted to pay Petersson back for taking the land away from you, didn’t you? You lost your grip and stabbed him, over and over again. Confess!’ Waldemar shouts. ‘Confess!’

The door of the room flies open, Karim rushes in, switches off the tape recorder, and he and Johan help calm Waldemar down as Sven tells Fagelsjo and his lawyer that the prosecutor has decided to remand him in custody under suspicion of aggravated drink-driving and aggravated reckless driving.

Ehrenstierna protests, but feebly, aware that the decision has already been taken and that he can’t do anything about it here and now.

Fagelsjo’s face is a mystery, Johan thinks, as the young aristocrat is led out of the room by a uniform.

Noble, but evasive. His anxious eyes superior now. Johan thinks, he knows we don’t have anything on him. But he could very well be guilty. And from now on, he’s our prime suspect.

Malin drops Zeke off outside his red-painted house.

‘Take the car,’ he says. ‘But try to drive carefully.’

He slams the door behind him, not in anger but exhaustion, and walks away.

The black tiles of the house are like a reluctant drum for the raindrops.

There’s a light on in the kitchen.

A Saturday at work tomorrow. No chance of getting any time off while they’ve got a completely fresh murder.

Sven Sjoman has called a meeting for eight o’clock. Police Constable Aronsson spoke to Fredrik Fagelsjo’s wife Christina immediately after Johan Jakobsson and Waldemar Ekenberg finished questioning him. His wife gave him an alibi for the night of the murder, said he probably panicked when they tried to pull him over, that he sometimes drank too much but that he wasn’t an alcoholic.

Malin lets the engine run in neutral, trying to summon the energy to drive off into the evening, but how, tell me how, she thinks, am I going to be able to face the hours that remain of today?

She doesn’t feel up to getting to grips with anything. What happened yesterday feels unreal, as if it took place a thousand years ago, if it actually happened at all.

She puts the car in first gear.

As she’s about to drive off she sees Zeke open the front door and run out into the rain, she can see the raindrops almost caressing his shaved head, but it’s not a good feeling, she can tell from the look on his face.

Malin winds the window down.

‘Gunilla’s wondering if you’d like to stay for dinner?’

‘But not you?’

‘Don’t be daft, Fors. Come in. Get some hot food. It’ll do you good.’

‘Another time, Zeke. Say hi to Gunilla, and thank her for the offer.’

Gunilla?

Wouldn’t you rather have Karin Johannison in there? Malin thinks.

‘Come in and have something to eat with us,’ Zeke says. ‘That’s an order. Do you really want to be on your own tonight?’

Malin gives him a tired smile.

‘You don’t give me orders.’

She drives off with the window open, in the rear-view mirror she sees Zeke standing in the rain, as some autumn leaves shimmer rust-red in the glow of the car’s rear lights.

It’s dark outside as she drives into the city. Damn this darkness.

What a day. A murder. A dirty great murder. A crazy car chase. An old woman with a shotgun. No time to think about all the other crap. Sometimes she loves all the human manure this city is capable of producing.

Clothes.

Must have clothes.

Maybe I could go out to the house and quickly pick up what I need. But maybe Janne would ask me to stay, Tove would watch me with that pleading look in her eyes, and then I’d want to as well.

Then Malin catches a glimpse of her face in the rear-view mirror and she turns away, and suddenly realises what she’s done: she’s left the man she loves, she’s hit him, she put their daughter in mortal danger, and instead of helping herself move on she’s flown straight into her own crap, given in to her worst instincts, given in to her love of intoxication, for the soft-edged cotton-wool world where nothing exists. No past, no here and now, and no future. But it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, and she feels so ashamed that it takes over her breathing, the whole of her body, and she wants to drive out to the house in Malmslatt, but instead she drives to Tornby, to the Ikea car park, parks in a distant corner and gets out.

She stands in the rain and looks at the darkness around her. The place is completely anonymous and deserted, and even though it’s wide open, the light from the retail units doesn’t reach this far.

She heads over to the shopping centre. Wants to call Tove, ask her for advice, but she can’t. After all, that’s why I’m here, because I’ve fucked everything up beyond hope of salvation.

She moves through the rows of clothes in H amp;M, grabbing underwear and socks and bras, tops, trousers and a cardigan. She pays without even trying on the clothes, they ought to fit, the last thing I want right now is to look at myself in a full-length mirror, my swollen body, red face, shame-filled eyes.

She sinks onto a bench in the main walkway of the shopping centre. Looks over at the bookshop on the other side, the window full of self-help books. How to Get Rich on Happiness, Self-Love!, How to be the Dream Partner!

Fucking hell, get me out of here, she thinks, as nausea takes a grip on her again.

Outside the newsagent’s she sees the flysheets for both Expressen and Aftonbladet:

Businessman Murdered in Castle.

Billionaire Murdered in Moat.

Which one’s going to sell best? The second one?

Half an hour later she’s sitting at the bar in the Hamlet pub. Tucked away at the end, but still within earshot of the old closet alcoholics who make up the regular clientele.

Two quick tequilas have made her vision agreeably foggy, the edges of the world cotton-wool soft and friendly, and it feels as if her heart has found a new, more forgiving rhythm.

Beer.

Warming spirits.

Happy people.

Malin looks around the bar. People enjoying each other’s company.

Mum and Dad. You only had one child, Malin thinks. Why? Dad, I’m sure you would have liked more. But you, Mum, I got in your way, didn’t I? That’s what you thought, isn’t it? You wanted to be more than just an increasingly peculiar secretary at Saab, didn’t you?

I’ve always wanted a brother. Damn you, Mum.