'Even if Axel and Katarina didn't do it themselves,' Waldemar says, 'they could have arranged for it to happen. That goes for both murders.'

'But why such a grandiose gesture?' Zeke asks.

'To divert attention away from themselves,' Waldemar says.

'We just need to do more work here, into every aspect, this feels like our main line of inquiry right now,' Sven says. 'Try to work out what they've been up to recently, what calls they've made, to start with.'

'Email?' Johan Jakobsson says.

'We'd need to seize their computers for that,' Sven says. 'We'll start with their mobiles. We've got enough grounds for that now.'

'It's too early for computers,' Karim adds. 'After all, we've got nothing concrete on them at all.'

'We spent today checking the neighbours closest to the castle again,' Sven says, 'and around Fredrik Fgelsjo's house. Chances are he was there on the evening he was murdered. But no one saw anything. Linnea Sjostedt didn't bother with her shotgun this time round.'

The detectives laugh.

'And Karin's report?' Zeke goes on.

Sven nods.

'She was quick. It's just arrived, even though she said it would be tomorrow at the earliest. Fredrik Fgelsjo died of a blow to the back of the head. A blunt instrument, a rock, something like that. A hard blow, but not hard enough to rule out the perpetrator being a woman. And, as she said at the crime scene, it's impossible to tell if the perpetrator is right- or left-handed. Not much blood-loss, but the blow caused severe internal bleeding in the brain that will have made him lose consciousness immediately. Time of death sometime between ten o'clock on Thursday evening and two o'clock Friday morning, which basically gives Axel and Katarina Fgelsjo alibis, unless they're involved in this together. Axel's supposed to have left his daughter's at two o'clock that night.'

'Goldman,' Zeke says. 'He could have been there.'

Sven pauses before going on: 'Fredrik Fgelsjo was in all likelihood undressed in the chapel after his death. The body was free from soil and dirt, which suggests that he wasn't undressed elsewhere. But we haven't found any clothes. Karin found the same fibres on the body as on the floor of the chapel. These could have come from the perpetrator's clothing, probably an ordinary pair of jeans.'

'Can Karin say if he was killed there?' Zeke says.

'The blood found in the chapel is Fredrik Fgelsjo's, but it's impossible to tell if the blow was dealt there or somewhere else.'

'So,' Malin says, clearing her throat, 'what you're saying is that someone might have beaten Fredrik Fgelsjo to death at his home and driven the body to the chapel. Or that Fredrik Fgelsjo could have been murdered somewhere else and then taken to the chapel. Or that someone might have abducted him and taken him to the chapel, and killed him there?'

'Yes.'

'Unless he was in the chapel or out at the castle of his own free will,' Malin says, 'then got taken by surprise by someone there. Or he arranged to meet someone there. That gives us several thousand possible scenarios. I presume Forensics have checked the Villa Italia?'

'Forensics found no evidence of violence either in the villa or in the surrounding area,' Sven says. 'But there are plenty of stones in the farmyard that could have been used to hit him over the head. Seeing as it's been raining for ten hours solid, any traces of evidence have been washed away.'

'What about at the castle, around the chapel?' Zeke asks.

'The door was unlocked,' Malin says. 'And the Fgelsjo family had access to the keys, of course. But the murderer could have used the victim's keys, if he had them on him.'

'We haven't found any keys,' Sven Sjoman says. 'We'll have to ask Christina Fgelsjo if she knows where her husband's keys are.'

'The crime scene may have been free of forensic evidence,' Malin says, 'but it's still got a story to tell. He was laid on that vault like a sacrifice. A family sacrifice? Could it be some sort of ancient Nordic way of restoring family pride?'

'Hence the focus on the surviving Fgelsjos,' Karim says.

'But what if someone's trying to get us to concentrate on the Fgelsjo family?' Malin says, to put into words the doubts she felt when at the crime scene.

'You mean, to protect themselves?' Zeke asks.

'That's stretching it,' Waldemar says. 'What if Fredrik Fgelsjo murdered Petersson, and someone wanted revenge for his murder? Who would have any interest in avenging Petersson's death?'

'His father,' Johan says.

'But he's old and hardly capable of orchestrating something like that,' Malin says.

'So who actually liked Petersson?' Sven says.

'No one, as far as we can tell,' Zeke says.

'I think Katarina Fgelsjo liked him,' Malin says.

And the other detectives in the room fall silent, looking expectantly at Malin.

She throws out her arms.

'It's just a hunch, OK? Let me think about it a bit more. I want to break out of the circles we seem to be stuck in.'

'Try to uncover the facts, Malin,' Karim says. 'We haven't got time for hunches.'

Malin tries to focus on the whiteboard, on Sven's notes, make some sense of the words, pen-strokes, colours.

But any sense of context eludes her, this entire investigation is like a palette full of mixed-up paint, a grey mess.

'Neither of them seems to have been Mr Popular, exactly,' Zeke says. 'Fgelsjo was a failure. And if you ask some people, Petersson was a little piglet turned big swine.'

There you sit in your depressing room, trying to uncover the truth.

Me, a big swine?

I might have been a big swine once upon a time, if you mean that I was ruthless in business.

But where do you think my ruthlessness came from?

Why did I scare the other partners of that smart law firm to the point where they kicked me out, even though I brought in more money than anyone else?

Why did I lose the popularity contest?

The man standing alone in an office on Kungsgatan, close to the smart social hub of Stureplan, feeling the breeze from the newly installed air conditioning against his face, doesn't care about that. In all respects except one, he's looking to the future.

53.

Stockholm, 1997 and onwards Jerry feels the cool air stroke his cheeks. Below him, on the other side of the polished office windows, Kungsgatan snakes down towards Stureplan in the late-summer sun. In Humlegrden, red lawnmowers are moving over tired grass, their blades in his dreams like bearers of all he thinks he has left behind. The blades force him onward, give him no time to rest, but he knows that at some point he will have to stand up to them.

He is standing here for the sake of money, at least that's what he thinks, unless it's because having an office here makes a good impression when he's standing at the upstairs bar of the Sturehof. He doesn't know, and he doesn't care.

The boxes from the move haven't been unpacked yet, and he has just had a call from his first client at Petersson Legal Services Ltd. Jochen Goldman wanted help setting up an endowment insurance in Liechtenstein.

This room. Its fine lines, free from dirt, the opportunity it gives him to create his reality himself. The sofa in the corner upholstered in shiny white fabric.

Clients come and go through the room. People and buses and cars hurry past in all seasons along Kungsgatan, a young man, little more than twenty years old, sits before him and explains an idea, an opportunity, an advanced piece of technology that might come in useful in the new economy.

Jerry is amused by the young man and gives him and his idea two million kronor, and three years later, a year after foreign minister Anna Lindh was murdered, the company is sold, and the man in the room on Kungsgatan is several hundred million kronor richer.

A bigger flat at the top of a turn-of-the-century building at Tegnerlunden, where the art comes into its own, is all he treats himself to. He could have bought it long before, but never actually got around to it until now.

A balcony railing to balance on in his memory, the park like a mirage of the life that was once his, swallows that fly close yet so far from their shadows.

Sometimes he thinks he sees her in other people. Her hair, way of moving, a smell in the NK department store one Saturday. He keeps himself up to date about her life, there are ways, but he never approaches her. He thinks that what he feels will disappear as the years pass, but it doesn't. It gets deeper and deeper.

Instead he gets to know all of them.

The superannuated gold-diggers of the Sturehof, their tragic, slack genitals, the Russian whores out in Bandhagen, the casual fucks that seem to pop up all over the place, body to body, hard and quick, arms tied to a bedstead, maybe. Sometimes he pretends that they are her, gives them her face, but he no longer knows what she looks like, she's become a hazy memory.

Then an acquaintance phones, the estate agent who helped him with the flat in Tegnerlunden, to tell him that a castle south-west of Linkoping is for sale wasn't that where you're from? thought he might be interested.

The memory becomes clear again.

Sweeps through his body.

He stands in all the rooms that have been his and feels all the cold hands that have ever caressed his cheeks or chest. He feels that he has always been on his way there: that is where I shall go, maybe one black autumn night full of fluid darkness. But I shall get there.

54.

Axel Fgelsjo has dug out a photograph album from the old oak cupboard in the dining room and now he is sitting in his leather armchair going through the plastic sleeves with their black-and-white pictures.

Bettina with the children in her arms in front of the chapel, before they went to school.

Katarina with a beach ball down by the lake.

Fredrik looking anxious beside one of the strawberry fields.

A staff photograph. Men and women who worked for me. And that great oaf of a man, the one who drove the tractor into the chapel door, and we had to have a new one put in.

Fredrik and Katarina running over a meadow towards the forest in one picture. You took that picture, didn't you, Bettina?

Is he with you now, Bettina? Is Fredrik with you?

He shuts his eyes. Feels more tired than he has ever done before. Wishes Fredrik were here with him. Talk to him. Say something nice.

Then his head empties, all his thoughts stop, and for a moment Axel Fgelsjo believes he's about to die, that his heart or some blood vessel in his brain has given up, but he can feel himself breathing. He wants to open his eyes, but they stay shut.

He seems to hear Fredrik's voice: 'I can see you in the armchair in the sitting room, Father.

'See myself in the pictures in the album. And I can say that I miss those days, when I was little and didn't yet know what burden history lays upon people like me.

'I was little then, but I remember the staff in the photograph.

'That you called them farmhands and maids.

'And how violent you could be towards them.

'You're alone now, Dad, but you don't realise it.

'Buy back Skogs. Install yourself there once again.

'Sit here in your apartment for now and look around, look at Mum and me and Katarina in the photographs.

'You'll never understand that the only three things that matter are birth and love, Dad.

'The third?

'Death, Dad. Death.

'That's where I am now. Do you want to come with me?'

And with that the voice is gone, and Axel Fgelsjo's thoughts fill his mind once more, and he wants to call the voice back, but knows it's gone, never to return. What remains are the pictures. Like a broken film, they stretch out through the album.

You can't hear me, can you, Father? You can't see me, Fredrik, you can only see me as a photograph. Are you even sad? Or are you just mourning your own inadequacies, your inability to understand yourself?

It's not too late yet, Father. You've got Katarina. You've got the grandchildren, and Christina would be happy to let you into her and their lives, if only you take the first step and let her know that she really is good enough.

You won't get any invitations with your elbows.

You have to be bigger than your own instincts. You have to be adult about it, otherwise you're on your own. You have to realise that we, your creations, are the people we are, and that there's nothing you can do about it.

And Father.

There's one thing you should know: I always tried to do my best.