model?’
‘Maybe an estate car. It was big. I’ve never paid any attention to makes of cars.’
‘Do you rent this cottage from the estate?’ Malin asks.
‘No, thank heavens, my father bought it from the Fågelsjös in the fifties. I moved in twenty years ago when my father passed away.’
‘What about Petersson, what do you know about him?’
‘He called and introduced himself. Nice young man, even if he probably wasn’t always as nice as that. All that business with Goldman and so on.’
‘Goldman?’
‘Yes, Jochen Goldman. The one who conned all that money out of that financial firm up in Stockholm, several hundred million, then fled abroad. They’re supposed to have worked together. I read about it on the Net. Don’t you know anything, officers? That Goldman’s supposed to be a really nasty piece of work.’
‘Nasty?’ Malin asks.
Linnea Sjöstedt doesn’t answer, just shakes her head slowly.
Embarrassing, Malin thinks. Put to rights by an eighty-year-old woman. But she was right, Goldman did feature in the article in the
Correspondent
, even if the focus was more on Petersson here and now, his plans for the castle and how he was supposed to have all but driven out the Fågelsjös.
But she remembers Jochen Goldman. How he emptied a listed company of money with the help of some French count, how he’s spent ten years on the run, getting loads of media attention, publishing books about his life evading the law, until now; for the past year or so, his crimes can no longer be tried thanks to the statute of limitations.
And none of them remembered the connection between the financial crook and their victim during their meeting in the castle?
Strange. But presumably their detective brains hadn’t woken up properly by then. Just as foggy as this autumn weather.
Irritated, Malin asks: ‘What were you doing last night and this morning?’
‘Inspector, do you really think I had anything to do with Petersson’s demise?’
‘I don’t think anything,’ Malin says. ‘Just answer the question, please.’
‘I got home at about four o’clock this morning. With Linköping Taxis, so you can check that. I spent last night with my lover, Anton, he lives in Valla. You can have his number as well.’
‘Thank you,’ Zeke says, ‘but I don’t think that will be necessary. Is there anything else you think we ought to know?’
The old woman’s eyes sparkle.
She opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind before any words pass her lips.
Zeke is about to start the car. He’s just patted the dog’s head, talking to it, calming it down, settling it back down on the floor again. It doesn’t seem to want to look at the forest and fields.
My brain isn’t working properly, Malin thinks.
It wants more drink.
Goldman.
One of the biggest fraud cases in Swedish history, and he managed to stay hidden until the time limit for charges being pressed had elapsed.
And Petersson had dealings with someone like that. They’ve got a lot to look into, there are masses of files in several rooms of the castle, and when there’s been a murder they can seize whatever they want, without the permission of the victim’s solicitor. If Jerry Petersson was in business with Goldman, how many others like him are there?
Malin looks out over the mist-shrouded field and forest and road. Thousands of different shades of grey blurring together. The wind is strong enough to send the leaves flying like flakes of copper across the green-black ground, swirling to and fro like metallic stars hanging in an absurdly low sky. In a clearing there are several ridges of deep-red leaves, like the blood pouring from Jerry Petersson’s body.
Must call Tove.
Malin tries to focus her gaze, but everything is floating in front of her eyes. The rear-view mirror. She doesn’t want to look in it, hates her swollen features, the reason why she looks like that, doesn’t want to see the shame etched in her forehead, in the tiniest
‘Maybe an estate car. It was big. I’ve never paid any attention to makes of cars.’
‘Do you rent this cottage from the estate?’ Malin asks.
‘No, thank heavens, my father bought it from the Fågelsjös in the fifties. I moved in twenty years ago when my father passed away.’
‘What about Petersson, what do you know about him?’
‘He called and introduced himself. Nice young man, even if he probably wasn’t always as nice as that. All that business with Goldman and so on.’
‘Goldman?’
‘Yes, Jochen Goldman. The one who conned all that money out of that financial firm up in Stockholm, several hundred million, then fled abroad. They’re supposed to have worked together. I read about it on the Net. Don’t you know anything, officers? That Goldman’s supposed to be a really nasty piece of work.’
‘Nasty?’ Malin asks.
Linnea Sjöstedt doesn’t answer, just shakes her head slowly.
Embarrassing, Malin thinks. Put to rights by an eighty-year-old woman. But she was right, Goldman did feature in the article in the
Correspondent
, even if the focus was more on Petersson here and now, his plans for the castle and how he was supposed to have all but driven out the Fågelsjös.
But she remembers Jochen Goldman. How he emptied a listed company of money with the help of some French count, how he’s spent ten years on the run, getting loads of media attention, publishing books about his life evading the law, until now; for the past year or so, his crimes can no longer be tried thanks to the statute of limitations.
And none of them remembered the connection between the financial crook and their victim during their meeting in the castle?
Strange. But presumably their detective brains hadn’t woken up properly by then. Just as foggy as this autumn weather.
Irritated, Malin asks: ‘What were you doing last night and this morning?’
‘Inspector, do you really think I had anything to do with Petersson’s demise?’
‘I don’t think anything,’ Malin says. ‘Just answer the question, please.’
‘I got home at about four o’clock this morning. With Linköping Taxis, so you can check that. I spent last night with my lover, Anton, he lives in Valla. You can have his number as well.’
‘Thank you,’ Zeke says, ‘but I don’t think that will be necessary. Is there anything else you think we ought to know?’
The old woman’s eyes sparkle.
She opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind before any words pass her lips.
Zeke is about to start the car. He’s just patted the dog’s head, talking to it, calming it down, settling it back down on the floor again. It doesn’t seem to want to look at the forest and fields.
My brain isn’t working properly, Malin thinks.
It wants more drink.
Goldman.
One of the biggest fraud cases in Swedish history, and he managed to stay hidden until the time limit for charges being pressed had elapsed.
And Petersson had dealings with someone like that. They’ve got a lot to look into, there are masses of files in several rooms of the castle, and when there’s been a murder they can seize whatever they want, without the permission of the victim’s solicitor. If Jerry Petersson was in business with Goldman, how many others like him are there?
Malin looks out over the mist-shrouded field and forest and road. Thousands of different shades of grey blurring together. The wind is strong enough to send the leaves flying like flakes of copper across the green-black ground, swirling to and fro like metallic stars hanging in an absurdly low sky. In a clearing there are several ridges of deep-red leaves, like the blood pouring from Jerry Petersson’s body.
Must call Tove.
Malin tries to focus her gaze, but everything is floating in front of her eyes. The rear-view mirror. She doesn’t want to look in it, hates her swollen features, the reason why she looks like that, doesn’t want to see the shame etched in her forehead, in the tiniest
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