‘No, but they’re the only calls where we don’t know who made them, and of course pretty much everyone has a mobile these days.’
‘Which phone-box was it?’
‘One out in the car park,’ Johan replied.
‘Is it covered by any of the security cameras?’
‘I’m afraid not, I checked. There’s no camera there. And the calls were made several months ago, so there’s next to no chance of finding any witnesses.’
Karim breaks the silence that has followed the run-through: ‘Any tip-offs from the public?’
‘It’s been remarkably quiet,’ Sven says. ‘I thought we’d get loads of calls about the things Petersson got up to, but maybe he was just the sort who left satisfied customers and people behind.’
‘Do people like that actually exist?’ Zeke asks.
‘No,’ Waldemar says.
‘And we haven’t found the murder weapon,’ Sven says.
‘Where do we go from here?’ Karim asks.
‘Well, the team in Hades will keep digging, trying to find out why the company Jochen Goldman and Petersson ran between them wasn’t more profitable,’ Sven says. ‘Malin and Zeke can try to talk to Axel Fagelsjo. Bring him in for questioning if he makes a fuss. After all, it isn’t that incredible that someone in that family killed Petersson so they could buy back the castle from his estate.’
‘Do you think they could have paid someone to do it?’ Malin asks.
‘Unlikely,’ Sven says. ‘But that did occur to me, even if there’s no evidence to suggest it.’
Malin nods.
‘Petersson’s father stands to inherit everything,’ she goes on. ‘Unless some unknown child or a wife pops up abroad.’
‘People have been killed for less,’ Waldemar says, and in his voice Malin can hear a longing, but she can’t grab hold of the feeling lurking at the back of Waldemar’s wishes.
Just as well, she thinks, looking at his bruise, which has turned orange and yellow around the edges, like an autumn leaf.
Sven picks up the phone on the third ring.
Number unknown on the display, yet the call has come straight through to his phone, bypassing reception.
The open-plan office is noisy now. The morning calm has gone, and the place stinks of coffee.
Police officers in uniform and plain clothes hurrying back and forth, talking into headsets, looking busy, stressed.
‘Sjoman.’
‘Sven Sjoman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, hello. This is Peter Svenungsson from Interpol up in Stockholm.’
‘Hello.’
‘I read on the Net about Jerry Petersson, that he’s been murdered.’
‘That’s right. A couple of men found him in the moat of the castle where he lived when they were about to go hunting.’
‘I’ve got something that might interest you.’
‘Go ahead. We’re grateful for any information.’
‘I’m sure you know that Petersson was Jochen Goldman’s lawyer while he was on the run. We only ever came close to catching Goldman once, we got a tip-off that he was in Verbier in Switzerland. The coffee was pretty much still warm in the pot when the local gendarmes got there, but he managed to get away again.’
‘And?’
‘Petersson gave us the tip-off. He called and told us where Goldman was.’
Sven can feel his heart skip a few beats.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘He didn’t give an explanation, and he was aware he was breaking his oath of confidentiality, but we promised he would stay anonymous.’
‘Thanks,’ Sven says. ‘Great. When did this happen?’
‘Three years ago this autumn. I remember it well. It was just before Goldman’s second book came out. If you want my opinion, I think you should check Jochen Goldman bloody carefully. If anything of that sort’s actually possible with that slippery bastard. He’s probably capable of waiting years for revenge until the right opportunity arises. And of course we all know the rumours about what he’s capable of.’
Sven is sitting on the edge of Zeke’s desk, pushed up against Malin’s.
‘So you think Goldman might have found out that Petersson gave him away, and he wanted revenge?’ Malin says, thinking that Sven seems to want to say something else, but won’t let it out.
‘That could fit,’ Zeke says.
Sven nods.
‘Goldman isn’t the sort to move on stoically and forget a betrayal. Don’t you think?’
Tenerife, Malin thinks. And sees her mum and dad on their balcony. Cardboard cut-outs, figures in an advertising brochure selling a happy retirement.
Sun, heat.
No clouds, no frost, no darkness, rain or hail.
Just light.
Just a beaming, wonderfully carefree life of the righteous. As the evangelical bastards who rented her flat might have put it.
31
Sven has left Malin and Zeke alone at their desks.
‘We need to have another word with Goldman again,’ Malin says. ‘Confront him. See what he says.’
‘Call him,’ Zeke says.
Malin dials the number. The phone rings ten times, no answer.
She shakes her head.
‘He could have sent someone,’ Zeke says. ‘We need to find out if any known hitmen have been active.’
‘The book,’ Malin says. ‘Didn’t Segerberg say in the meeting that Goldman’s book had sold badly? Worse than expected? And if they were partners in the business, they would have shared the profits.’
‘So you think Petersson wanted to shop Goldman to create a bit of a buzz about the book? So it would sell better?’
‘Maybe. Sven said that Interpol got the tip-off just before the second book was published.’
‘But why would he do that? He was already rolling in money,’ Zeke says.
‘A lot is never enough,’ Malin says. ‘And business is business. You know, the basic principles.’
‘Like Fredrik Fagelsjo,’ Zeke says. ‘He made a profit to start with, then wanted more, then lost it all.’
‘Greed,’ Malin says. ‘That’s killed a lot of people.’
