How she gradually realised that her mother was always trying to make their home seem smarter than it was, but that the few trained eyes that set foot over their threshold must have realised that the rugs were of low quality, that the prints on the walls came from vast print-runs, that the whole decor was an attempt to appear significant. Unless it was something else?
Maybe I should ask you next time we meet, Mum? But you’d probably just push my question aside, even if you doubtless understood what I meant.
‘What an idiot,’ Zeke says.
Malin hangs her jacket on the back of the chair behind her desk, and the whole station is breathing expectation, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee is noticeable the way it usually is only in the mornings.
‘Not too smart, was it?’
‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ Malin says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re the ones setting the pace here. Have you thought about that?’
Zeke shakes his head. ‘Don’t make things more complicated than they already are. Are you okay?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine.’
Two uniformed male officers come in from the staffroom, their cheeks glowing with warm coffee.
‘Martinsson,’ one of them calls. ‘Is your lad going to get a few goals against Modo?’
‘He was bloody good against Farjestad,’ the other one says.
Zeke ignores them, pretending that he’s busy, hasn’t heard.
Karim Akbar comes to Zeke’s rescue. Stops alongside him and Malin.
‘We’re bringing him in,’ Karim says. ‘Sjoman has arranged for the van to pick him up. They ought to be here any minute.’
‘What can we hold him on?’ Malin wonders.
‘Threatening a police officer in her own home.’
‘He rang on my door, and left a note.’
‘Have you got the note?’
‘Of course.’
Malin digs in her jacket pocket, pulls out the folded sheet of paper, holds it out to Karim, who carefully unfolds it and reads.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘An obvious case of obstructing a criminal investigation, on the verge of threatening behaviour.’
‘It is,’ Zeke says.
‘This is directed at you personally, Malin. Any idea why?’
Malin sighs. ‘Because I’m a woman. I think it’s as simple as that. Have a go at the easily scared woman. Tiresome.’
‘Prejudice is always tiresome,’ Karim says. ‘It couldn’t be anything else?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Where’s Sjoman?’ Zeke asks.
‘On his way in.’
A commotion over in reception.
Are they coming now? No, no flashing lights outside.
Then she sees him: Daniel Hogfeldt, gesticulating, talking non-stop, but nothing can be heard through the bulletproof, soundproofed pane of glass between the open-plan office and reception, just a familiar face, a figure in a leather jacket who wants something, knows something, looks serious but who somehow always seems to be playing a game.
Alongside Daniel is the young photographer. She is taking picture after picture of Ebba the receptionist, and Malin wonders if her nose-ring could ever get caught in the camera, if her rasta plaits ever get in the way of the lens. Borje Svard is trying to calm Daniel down, then he just shakes his head in resignation and walks away.
Daniel glances in Malin’s direction. Self-satisfaction washes across his face. Possibly also longing? Playfulness? Impossible to tell.
Fixed expression, Malin thinks.
‘Meet the press,’ Karim says, smiling at her as the skin on his face seems to change and become entirely new. Then he adds, ‘By the way, Malin. You look like it’s all getting to you. Is everything okay?’
‘Getting to me? You’d never say that to a male colleague,’ Malin says and turns towards her computer, trying to look busy.
Karim smiles again. ‘But Fors, it was just an innocent remark, no harm intended.’
Borje comes over to them. A look of faint amusement on his face, like someone who knows something no one else does, but isn’t telling.
‘The pride of the press corps. He wanted to know if Adam Murvall is suspected of the murder, or if we’re
