Jochen Goldman raises his eyebrows, to indicate that he isn’t going to answer.
‘How did you get to know each other?’ Malin asks instead.
‘It was when I got into trouble on one occasion. My usual lawyer at the same firm was on holiday. I liked him at once. And when he set up his own practice, I went with him.’
‘Do you know why he set up on his own?’
‘He scared the others.’
‘Scared them?’
‘Yes, he was much smarter than them, so they had to get rid of him.’
Malin smiles. Goldman strokes his stomach and flares his nostrils like Tony Soprano.
‘Is there anything you think I should know? About your business dealings? About Jerry?’
‘No. Surely you should do some of the work for yourselves?’
Goldman smiles.
‘So you didn’t decide to get your revenge in retrospect, you didn’t send a hitman?’
Goldman grins at Malin as if she herself were a hired killer, but a welcome, anticipated one.
He puts on his sunglasses and tilts his head so that the sharp sparkle of the jewels’ reflections hits Malin’s eyes and she has to squint.
‘Don’t bore me, Malin. You’re better than that. Anyway, if I did do that, I’m hardly likely to tell you.’
Malin turns her face to the sea.
Thinks about Tove.
Wonders what she’s doing now.
Thinks about Mum.
About Dad.
About the fact that he’s probably looking forward to her visit later that evening.
‘Take a walk with me,’ Goldman says. ‘Let me show you the grounds.’
She follows him down a steep flight of steps that winds down towards the beach.
He’s still wearing his swimming trunks, and his brown body shines in the sun as he tells her about the Spanish architect who designed the house, that he has also designed a house for Pedro Almodovar in the mountains outside Madrid.
Malin says nothing.
She lets Goldman talk, thinks that they’re out of sight of the gorillas now and that Gomez is probably still sitting up on the terrace talking into his mobile.
Goldman asks if she’s read his books, and she says no, then realises that she probably should have.
‘You haven’t missed anything,’ he says.
He jumps down onto the black sand of the beach, rushes down to the edge of the water so as not to burn his feet on the hot sand, and Malin sits down on the bottom step, takes off her canvas shoes, then runs down to the water as well.
‘Take your clothes off. Have a swim. I can get a swimming costume for you. You have no idea how wonderful it is to lie on this beach and feel the salt crystallise on your skin.’
‘I can imagine,’ Malin says, and against her will she wants to lie on this sand with him beside her, looking at him, at the misdirected energy that forms him.
Goldman throws a stone into the water. It bounces across the surface.
‘That stone,’ he says, ‘that’s what I felt like for ten years.’
‘Self-inflicted,’ Malin says. ‘And you were richly rewarded for it.’
‘You’re harsh,’ Goldman says.
‘A realist,’ Malin replies. ‘Did Jerry Petersson ever mention a car accident he was in once?’ she goes on.
Warm water between her toes, a little bubbling, frothing wave rolling over the black sand.
‘It was when he was in his late teens, people died.’
Goldman stops.
Looks at her, and she can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but she realises that he is about to tell her what they came down to the beach for him to say, what she has unconsciously been expecting him to say if she treated him like an ordinary person.
‘He bragged about it once. One New Year’s Eve in Punta del Este. That he was the one driving the car, that he was drunk, but managed to persuade someone else who was sober to say he had been driving. Jerry was proud as punch about it.’
37
Malin looks at the hotel room.
It’s hot now, the air conditioning shut off automatically when she left, and the smell of mould is more noticeable. She’s taken all her clothes off and is lying on the bed wishing she’d been booked into a hotel with a pool, would love to feel cold water embrace her body.
Instead she looks at the grey-green patches of damp on the ceiling and waits for Zeke to answer his mobile.
It’s four o’clock, he ought to answer now.
And there comes Zeke’s hoarse voice in her ear.
‘Malin. What are you up to? How are you?’
‘I’m lying in the shabbiest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in.’
‘How’s the weather?’
‘Sun. Hot.’
‘Have you seen Goldman?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
Suddenly there’s agitated shouting from one of the bars, then disco music pumping out at full volume.
‘A disco?’
‘A bar full of prostitutes,’ Malin says.
‘Exotic,’ Zeke says.
‘I was about to say that Goldman claims Jerry Petersson was driving the car that New Year’s Eve, not Jonas Karlsson. According to Goldman, Jerry Petersson was drunk and persuaded Jonas Karlsson to say he was driving to avoid prosecution.’
Silence over the line.
‘Bloody hell,’ Zeke finally says. ‘Do you believe him? Or is he playing with us?’
