Empty fridge. Waking up hungry. Toiletries, clothes, and that was where her shopping spree had ended.

Zeke on his way there for a quick breakfast before the morning meeting at the station. Sunday like a normal Monday when they're dealing with a case of this size, Saturday working yesterday, Sabbath working today.

Two days since they found the body, no chance of any time off while the investigation is still in its infancy.

She should really have had the day off today. Come up with something to do with Tove. Going to the pool, anything. Maybe even picking up her wretched things, talking to Janne, they could have had lunch together, Sunday steak and cream sauce.

That could have worked.

Couldn't it?

That whole life feels like a mockery. And she wishes that Janne would call and shout at her, but he hasn't even done that. Should I call and shout at him because he hasn't called to be cross with me? Or to criticise me for ignoring Tove? But he must realise that I'm working today, the papers are full of the case.

She sits upstairs, with her three cheese rolls and a large mug of coffee, looking out at the desolate square, where a transparent, persistent rain makes all the shop signs pale, and only a few pigeons can bear to face the day, pecking away just as they always seem to.

She's finished one of the rolls by the time she sees Zeke's shaved head appear over by the stairs, and he smiles as he sees her, calling to her: 'You look a hell of a lot better today. And that top suits you.'

'Shut up,' she says, and Zeke smiles.

'You know I'm only concerned about you. And that is a nice top.'

Malin adjusts the pale blue top she's wearing, one of her new purchases from H&M. Maybe Zeke's being serious, she must have looked like a pig in that red top yesterday.

He's arrived empty-handed, and she wonders if he's not going to have anything, but at that moment her mobile rings. Sven's name on the screen. He sounds anxious: 'Malin, we've had a call from someone who says he's Petersson's lawyer. Says he wants to meet one of us. Sounded like he's got something to tell us.'

Zeke's face opposite her, watchful now.

'So the lawyer has a lawyer?' Malin says.

'Had, Malin. They all have.'

'And where is he?'

'A Max Persson, office at number 12 Hamngatan, close to Tradgrdstorget.'

'So he's there on Sunday morning?'

'He is.'

'What about talking to Fredrik Fgelsjo?'

'I'll deal with that myself. Without his lawyer. Just a polite conversation in his cell.'

'OK, we'll talk to Petersson's lawyer. We're at the Filbyter cafe having breakfast. We can skip the morning meeting.'

'Yes, not much has happened since yesterday,' Sven says.

'Anything else at all?' Malin asks.

'Nothing,' Sven says. 'And no tip-offs either.'

'Let's see what secrets the lawyer's got for us,' Malin says.

'Fingers crossed.'

'Our secrets are what make us human,' Malin says. 'Isn't that what you usually say, Sven?'

Sven laughs as he hangs up.

Max Persson's office is on the top floor of a yellow brick building from the fifties. Outside the room is a terrace where a couple of abandoned wooden chairs are fighting a losing battle against the wind and rain, and Malin can almost see the varnish disintegrating in the autumn weather.

Malin and Zeke are each sitting in a red armchair. Max Persson is sitting in majesty on an office chair on the other side of a gigantic glass-topped desk.

A pink Oriental rug on the floor.

Garishly coloured paintings on the walls, silhouettes made with what looks like spray-paint. The man behind the desk is a similar age to Jerry Petersson when he died. He's wearing a shiny grey suit, the cheapness of which is accentuated by a pink tie on a pale blue shirt.

Max Persson seems to think a lot of himself, Malin thinks.

A clown of a lawyer.

But very good-looking.

Clearly defined features, prominent cheekbones.

'We understand that you were Jerry Petersson's lawyer?' Zeke says.

'Well, that's not quite right. But I did help Jerry with the purchase of Skogs, with drawing up the contract. It gets quite complicated when you're dealing with such a large, special property.'

'So you weren't his lawyer?'

'Absolutely not,' Persson says.

And Malin suddenly realises that Persson wants to tell them something confidential, and that he doesn't want Jerry Petersson to look like his former client, because then he could be accused of breaching his code of confidentiality as a lawyer.

'Jerry,' Malin says. 'Were you friends?'

'Well, not friends as such. We studied together down in Lund, and I ended up here in Linkoping, which was his home city of course.'

'So you go way back?' Zeke wonders.

Persson nods.

'And there's something you want to tell us?' Malin says.

Persson nods again.

Then he starts talking.

'Like I said, I helped Jerry when he was buying Skogs. I met Axel Fgelsjo and his children when I was out inspecting the property, and I have to say that they seemed extremely bitter about the sale. Not that they said anything specific, but the whole time I got the impression that they didn't want to sell. Don't ask me why.'

'Had you heard anything about financial difficulties?' Malin asks. 'Did the Fgelsjos say anything?'

'No, but, like I said, I got the impression they were forced to sell up, and that they didn't really want to. And that impression was reinforced by what happened last week.'

Persson, evidently taking great delight in everyday drama, lets what he is about to say hang in the air.

'Well?' Malin prompts.

'Well, at the beginning of last week Axel Fgelsjo approached me. He wanted to buy back the castle and estate. He was prepared to pay twenty million more than they got for it. He was adamant. I took the offer to Jerry, but he just shook his head, had a good laugh, and told me to turn down the old man's offer.'

Lies.

A family estate that no one wanted to sell. Trying to run from the police. Dealing in stock options. 'It was time.' Not a chance. This had nothing to do with a way of life that had become outdated.

The thoughts are flying through Malin's head and she thinks about Axel Fgelsjo, his powerful figure and his magnificent apartment.

Maybe they ought to concentrate more on Axel than Fredrik? Who knows what the old man might be capable of?

'How did Fgelsjo take Petersson's reply?'

'He was furious on the phone. Utterly furious. I almost thought he was going to have a heart attack. It sounded like he was throwing things.'

Malin looks at Zeke, who nods back at her.

'Do you know anything else about Jerry Petersson that you think we should know?'

'We didn't have a great deal of contact,' Persson says. 'Not even after he moved back here. Jerry was a lone wolf. He always was, even back in Lund. Quite brilliant, he got away with doing maybe a fifth of the studying the rest of us had to do, but he still finished top. He didn't need other people the way us mere mortals do. He never seemed to be searching for someone to love, he was looking for people who could be useful to him. People like me.'

'We've been having trouble finding friends and acquaintances,' Malin says.

'You won't find any,' Max Persson says. 'Friendship wasn't Jerry's thing.'

They're standing in the doorway of the building housing Max Persson's office. It's pouring with rain now, the drops drumming the ground like a plague of locusts ready to destroy everything in their path.

Not a soul in sight.

The city paralysed by the season.

'So, a frustrated Count Axel Fgelsjo,' Zeke says.

'Who loves that land,' Malin says.

'And who wanted it back, but he couldn't have it.'

'Because Jerry Petersson refused to sell.'

'As if he owned the man's soul,' Zeke said.

'And Fredrik Fgelsjo who gambled the castle away,' Malin says. 'Maybe he wanted to put everything right? And if Petersson was out of the game, the family could buy back the castle. But where have they suddenly got the money from, the money behind Axel Fgelsjo's offer for Skogs? I'll call Sven, maybe he hasn't got around to talking to Fredrik Fgelsjo yet.'

The door to the cell opens.

Fredrik Fgelsjo is sitting on his bunk with a cup of coffee in his hand, reading a copy of Svenska Dagbladet.

'Can I come in for a few minutes?' Sven Sjoman asks. He looks at Fredrik, at the way his shoulders seem to be weighed down by an invisible force, and the skin around his eyes seems to have become dried out during his time in the cell. His eyes seem to be pleading for alcohol, the way that Malin's do sometimes. I'll let you have what we know in tiny portions, Sven thinks.

'Ehrenstierna isn't here.'

'I just want to ask a couple of questions,' Sven says. 'If that's OK?'

'OK.'

Fgelsjo seems tired, as if he's already given up on something, Sven thinks, or as if he's in the process of giving up on something.

He sits down beside him on the bunk's mattress, detecting the smell of urine from the shiny, stainless-steel toilet.

'A lot of people here at the station have problems with alcohol as well,' Sven says. 'There's no shame in it.'

'I haven't got a problem,' Fgelsjo replies.

'No, but no one here would look down on you if that were the case.'

'Good to know.'

'We know about your dealings in stock options,' Sven goes on.

Fgelsjo doesn't reply.

Sven looks around the cell, at how bare it is.

'You've got children, young children. And a wife. Do you miss them?'

'Yes. I do. But you're not letting me have any visitors.'

'Not us. The prosecutor. Is everything OK with your family?'

'Everything's fine.'

'That's good. My wife and I have been married thirty-five years, and we still enjoy each other's company.'

'I got scared. I panicked,' Fgelsjo says. 'I didn't want to spend time in Skanninge. Missing such a large chunk of the children's lives. Can you understand that?'

Sven nods, moves a bit closer to him.

'What about your father? He must have been pretty mad about your financial affairs?'

'He's always been a bit mad,' Fgelsjo says with a smile. 'He was angry.'