Sven shakes his head.

'What sort?'

'She didn't know.'

'We'll have to make a note of it. What does Axel Fgelsjo drive?'

'A black Mercedes,' Malin replies.

A dark car.

She could have seen Axel Fgelsjo. Or Johansson and Lindman as they arrived, Malin thinks. Or someone else. One of the children? Maybe Katarina Fgelsjo has another car? Someone from Petersson's past? Goldman?

'Have we had any tip-offs from the public?'

Waldemar sounds hopeful.

But Sven shakes his head.

'We'll have to keep working on what we've got for now. And hope the general public comes up with something now it's out in the media and Karim has put out an appeal.'

'The Correspondent's gone big on this today,' Johan says. 'The national media too. Murder, car chase, Fredrik Fgelsjo in custody.'

'Anything we don't already know?' Sven asks.

Johan shakes his head.

'We're bound to get something about his business dealings,' Lovisa says. 'Even if it's anonymous. That's if there's anything there.'

'If he was a bit shady, then he could have had contacts in the underworld here in the city,' Waldemar says. 'You're sure you don't want me to ask around among my contacts?'

'You just want to avoid the paperwork,' Sven says with a laugh. Then he's serious again. 'For the time being, you prioritise the paperwork, understood?'

Waldemar nods in response.

'Malin,' Sven goes on. 'Call Goldman. See what he has to say, if that really is his number.'

Malin closes her eyes.

Fredrik Fgelsjo trying to run.

A body dumped in a moat. By Fredrik? Maybe, maybe not.

In some ways Petersson's going to be left in the black water for ever.

Together with the dozens, maybe hundreds of other ancient souls, shackled in stone and time, Malin thinks. Caught in their own misfortune, their fate impossible to escape or come to terms with.

Loneliness runs like a red thread through human history, Malin thinks. It's the underlying note of our stories.

22.

Tenerife.

Like a poem, a sketch within Malin.

Scorched mountains, slumbering volcanoes, an eternally shining sun above a muddle of houses. Swaying palm trees, sunloungers in long rows along the beaches, pools casting glittering reflections on mutated liverspots, cancer forcing its way through the skin and on into the bloodstream, and in a few months the dreams are over, those dreams of eternal life in the sun.

Fraying pictures from her parents' paradise.

The flat she knows her mother thinks is far too small, maybe that's why she and Tove have only ever been invited out of politeness, because Mum thinks the place she's found for herself in the sun is too meagre?

Maybe Mum just wants to be left in peace. Ever since I first learned the word I've had the feeling that you're avoiding me, that you're pulling away. Are you ashamed of something, Mum, but don't want to admit it? Are you trying to avoid me so you don't have to see yourself in the mirror? Maybe it's OK to do that with grown-up children, but not the way you did with me when I was four, when I somehow worked out that that was what was going on.

And what would we say to each other, Mum? Malin thinks as she sits at her desk, surfing between various articles about Jochen Goldman.

On several sites he's described as the worst conman in Swedish history. It still isn't clear how many millions he got away with when they emptied the Finera Finance company of all its assets. And by the time it was uncovered, Jochen Goldman had fled the country and his bourgeois roots on the island of Lidingo, the wealthy enclave on the edge of Stockholm.

He managed to elude the police, and Interpol.

Jochen Goldman, seen in Punta del Este in Uruguay.

In Switzerland.

In Vietnam.

Jakarta. Surabaya.

But always one step ahead of the police, as if they didn't want to catch him, or else he had his own sources inside the force.

Jerry Petersson had been his lawyer. His intermediary in his dealings with the authorities and media at home. Goldman had written two books during his ten years on the run. One book about how he emptied the business and claimed he had every right to do so, then another about life as a fugitive, and to judge from the reviews, Jochen Goldman had tried to portray himself as a capitalist James Bond.

But he fell a long way short of that sort of style, Malin thinks.

Before Goldman carried out his heist, he spent three years in prison for fraud. At the same time he was also convicted of making unlawful threats, actual bodily harm, and extortion.

Pictures of him on the run.

A sharp nose in what was otherwise a round face, slicked back hair, playful brown eyes, and blond hair down to his shoulders. Big yachts, shiny sports cars made by Konigsegg.

Then, once his alleged crimes relating to Finera Finance had passed the statute of limitations, he popped up on Tenerife. A report in the online version of the business daily, Dagens Industri, shows a smiling, suntanned Goldman beside a black-tiled pool with a view of the sea and the mountains. A shimmering white house in the background.

Mum's dream.

This is what it looks like.

White-plastered concrete, glass, maybe a garden with scrupulously neat plants, and bulging armchairs to lean back in and forget all the denial and bitterness.

Finally she comes to an old report in the business weekly, Veckans Affarer.

The tone is vague, hinting that Jochen Goldman may have disposed of people who got in his way. That people who had done business with him had disappeared without a trace. The article concludes by pointing out that these are rumours, and that the myth of Goldman survives and grows precisely through such rumours.

Malin takes out the note with the number that might be Goldman's.

Nods to Zeke on the other side of the desk.

'OK, I'm going to call our shadow now.'

Waldemar Ekenberg is drumming his fingers on the desk in the cramped meeting room. He fiddles with his mobile, lights a cigarette without asking the newcomer Lovisa Segerberg if she minds, but she lets him smoke, carries on calmly reading a summary that she's found in one of the black files.

'Restless?' Johan Jakobsson says from his place.

'No problem,' Waldemar says. 'But I'm running out of cigs.'

'They sell them in the canteen over in the courthouse, don't they?'

'That's shut on Saturdays. I saw they had a special offer on boxes of ten packs down at Lucullus. Can I have fifteen minutes to pop down there?'

Johan smiles.

'Is that really a good idea? We need all three of us here, Waldemar. Come on, what the hell.'

'You know how I get if I haven't got any cigs.'

'You can cadge one off someone, can't you?'

'Fuck, the air in here is terrible.'

'Maybe because you smoke,' Lovisa says from her chair.

'Go on, then,' Johan says. 'But watch yourself, Waldemar. Watch yourself.'

'I'm only going to buy cigs,' Waldemar says with a grin.

The Spanish number is engaged the first time Malin dials, but the second time the phone is picked up on the fourth ring, and a nasal, slightly hoarse voice says: 'Jochen, who is this?'

A voice from Tenerife. Clear skies, sun, a bit of a breeze. And no fucking rain.

'My name is Malin Fors, I'm a detective inspector with the Linkoping Police. I was wondering if you had a moment to answer a few questions?'

Silence.

For a few moments Malin thinks Jochen Goldman has hung up, then he clears his throat and says with an amused chuckle: 'All my dealings with the authorities go through my lawyer. Can he contact you?'

The cat after the mouse.

The mouse after a bit of string.

You miss the game, Malin thinks. Don't you?

'That's just it, the lawyer Jerry Petersson, the man who represented . . .'

'I know what's happened to Jerry,' Jochen Goldman says. 'I manage to read the papers down here, Malin.'

And you've still got your contacts, Malin thinks.

'And you know why I want to ask you a few questions?'

'I'm all ears.'

'Were you in Tenerife on the night between Thursday and Friday?'

Jochen Goldman laughs, and Malin knows the question is banal, but she has to ask it, and it's just as well to get it out of the way.

'I was here. Ten people can confirm that. You can't think I had anything to do with the murder?'

'We don't think anything at this point in time.'

'Or that we had a difference of opinion, Jerry and me, so that I sent a hit man to get my revenge? Forgive me if I can't help laughing.'

'We're not insinuating anything of the sort. But it's interesting that you should mention that.'

Another silence.

Flatter him, Malin thinks. Flatter him, then maybe he'll drop his guard.

'Looks like you've got a pretty nice house down there.'

More silence. As if Jochen Goldman is looking out over his property, the pool and the sea. She wonders if her flattery makes him feel threatened.

'I can't complain. Maybe you'd like to visit? Swim a few lengths in the pool. I heard you like swimming.'

'So you know who I am?'

'You were mentioned in Svenska Dagbladet's article about the murder. Someone googled you. Doesn't everyone like swimming? I'm sure you look good in a bathing suit.'

His voice. Malin can feel it eating into her. Next question: 'So there were no problems between you and Jerry Petersson?'

'No. You need to bear in mind that for many years he was the only person who stood by me and took my side. Sure, he got paid well for it, but I felt I could trust him, that he was on my side. I regard him, or rather regarded him, as one of my best friends.'

'When did you stop regarding him as one of your best friends? Recently, or earlier?'