'They're just rumours,' Fgelsjo 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?'

Fgelsjo 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.'

Fgelsjo 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.'

'What sort of car do you drive?'

'I have two. A black Mercedes and a red Toyota SUV.'

'That's all for now,' Zeke says, getting up. 'Do you know where we can find your children?'

'I presume you have their telephone numbers. Call them. I don't know where they are.'

In the hall Malin notices a pair of black rubber boots. The mud on them is still wet.

'Have you been out in the forest?' she asks Fgelsjo, who has followed them to the door.

'No, just down to the Horticultural Society Park. That's quite muddy enough for me at this time of year.'

When the front door has closed Fgelsjo goes down the corridor towards the kitchen.

He picks up the phone. Dials a number that he has managed to memorise with great difficulty.

Waits for an answer.

Thinks about the instructions that need to be given, how abundantly clear he will need to be for the children to understand. Thinks: Bettina. I wish you were here now. So we could deal with this together.

'The best of both worlds,' Zeke says as they head back to the car.

'Sorry?'

'He lives, or would like to live, in the best of both worlds.'

'He's lying to us about the sale, that much is obvious. I wonder why? I mean, it's common knowledge that they'd fallen on hard times. It was in the Correspondent.'

Zeke nods. 'Did you see how he clenched his fists when you asked about the sale? It looked like he could hardly keep his anger under control.'

'Yes, I saw,' Malin says, opening the passenger door of the car and thinking about the feeling she had that Fgelsjo was only pretending to be angry. Why? she asks herself.

'We need to dig deeper,' Zeke says, looking at Malin, who looks as if she's about to fall asleep, or start screaming for a drink.

I've got to talk to Sven. She's gone right under the ice this time.

'Let's hope that's exactly what Ekenberg and Johan are doing right now, digging deeper.'

'And Karim must be basking in the glow of the flashbulbs as we speak,' Zeke says.

17.

Karim Akbar is absorbing the flashbulbs, his brain whirring as the reporters fire off their aggressive questions.

'Yes, he was murdered. By a blow from a blunt object to the back of the head. And in all likelihood he was also stabbed in the torso.'

'No, we don't have the object. Nor the knife.'

'We've got divers in the moat right now,' he lies. The diving is already finished. 'We may need to drain it,' he says. The water is probably gone by now. His massaging of the truth is silly really, the reporters can easily check the moat, but Karim can't help it, wants to show the hyenas who decides the speed they go at.

'At present we don't have a suspect. We're looking into a range of possibilities.'

The crowd of grey figures before him, most of them shabbily dressed, in line with all the cliches about journalists.

Daniel Hogfeldt an exception. Smart leather jacket, a neatly ironed black shirt.

Karim can answer questions and think about other things at the same time, he's done this so many times before.

Is that when it's time to stop?

When autopilot kicks in?

When you start to mess about with the seriousness of the situation?

He can see himself standing in the room, like a well-drilled press officer in the White House, pointing at reporters, answering their questions evasively, all the while getting his own agenda across.

'Yes, you're right. There could be a number of people with reason to be unhappy with Jerry Petersson's activities. We're looking into that.'

'And Goldman, have you spoken . . .'

'We're keeping all our options open at present.'

'We're appealing to members of the public who may have seen anything interesting that night between . . .'

Waldemar Ekenberg is leaning over the table in their strategy room, reading one of the files about Jochen Goldman.

Johan Jakobsson is slumped on the other side of the table, next to an IT expert who's installing a monitor.

'There's an address and a phone number here. Vistamar 34. Belongs to a J.G.,' Waldemar says.

'Must be Jochen Goldman.'

'This is from this year.'

'What's the context?'

'Figures, some company.'

'What's the international dialling code?'

'Thirty-four.'

'That could be Tenerife, if he does live there. Vistamar. Definitely Spanish. Shall I call?'

'Well, we want to talk to him.'

Johan leans back, reaching for the phone, makes the call.

'No answer, but at least it rang. Doesn't seem to have an answer machine.'

'Did you expect him to? We'll try again later.'

'Malin's parents live on Tenerife,' Johan says.

'Fucking hot down there.'

'Maybe we should get Malin to make the call.'

'What, you mean she should make the call because her parents live down there?'

Johan shakes his head.

'Well, you're getting to know her a bit now. She might get upset otherwise. She takes coincidences like that seriously.'

'Yeah, she believes in ghosts,' Waldemar says.

'Hold off from making the call. Let her do it. If it is even Jochen Goldman's number.'

Waldemar shuts the file.

'I don't get most of these figures. When's the bloke from Eco getting here?'

An officer, they don't yet know who, is supposed to be coming down by train the next day.

'Tomorrow morning,' Johan says.

Waldemar nods.

The ostgota Bank at the corner of Storgatan and St Larsgatan. Just a stone's throw from Malin's flat on gatan, but the two buildings couldn't be more different. Malin's block is late modern, from the sixties, low ceilings with plastic window frames installed in the mid-seventies. The ostgota Bank is a showy art nouveau building in brown stone with an ornate interior.

But the rain is the same for all buildings, Malin thinks as she pulls open the heavy door and steps into the large foyer, all polished marble and a ten-metre high ceiling. The reception desk for the offices upstairs is to the left of the cashiers, who are scarcely visible behind thick bullet-proof glass.

Malin and Zeke have called Fredrik Fgelsjo's mobile, but there was no answer. They tried him at home, no answer there either.

'Let's go to the bank and see if he's there,' Malin had said as they drove away from Axel Fgelsjo's apartment, and now a red-haired, hostile-looking receptionist the same age as Malin is staring at her police ID.

'Yes, he works here,' the receptionist says.

'Can we see him?' Malin asks.

'No.'

'I see. We're here on important police business. Is Fredrik Fgelsjo . . .?'

'You're too late,' the receptionist says neutrally, with a hint of triumph in her voice.

'Has he finished for the day?' Zeke asks.

'He usually leaves at three on Friday. What's this about?'

Never you mind about that, Malin thinks, saying: 'Do you know where he might have gone?'