One Step Behind

Nyberg had just been given a freshly developed copy of the one photograph Rolf Haag had taken. The bride and groom smiled into the camera. Wallander looked at it intently for a moment. He suddenly remembered something Nyberg had said to him earlier.

"What was it you said?" he asked. "When we were standing here before. You had just discovered that he had managed to take a picture."

"I said something?"

"It was some kind of comment."

Nyberg thought hard. "I think I said that the killer didn't like happy people."

"What did you mean by that?"

"Svedberg is the exception, of course. But with the young people in the nature reserve, I think their celebration could be characterised as joyous."

Wallander sensed he was on to something. He looked at the wedding picture again, then gave it back to Nyberg and was about to say a few words to Hoglund when Martinsson pulled him aside.

"I thought you should know that someone has filed charges against you."

Wallander stared back at him.

"Against me? Why?"

"For assault."

Martinsson scratched his head apologetically. "Do you remember that jogger in the nature reserve? Nils Hagroth?"

"He was trespassing."

"Well, he filed the charges anyway. Thurnberg's got wind of it and seems to take it seriously."

Wallander was speechless.

"I just wanted to tell you," Martinsson said. "That's all."

It was raining harder now. Martinsson left.

A police spotlight illuminated the place where, a few hours earlier, a couple of newly-weds had been murdered. It was 10.30 p.m.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

It stopped raining shortly after midnight. Wallander walked down to the sea to think. It was what he most needed to do at this point. A fresh smell was rising up from the ground after the rain. There were no more wafts of rotting seaweed. The hot weather had lasted for two weeks. Now that the rain had passed, it was warming up again and there was still no wind. The waves against the shore were almost imperceptible.

Wallander pissed into the water. In his mind's eye he could see the little white grains of sugar congealing in his veins. He was constantly dry-mouthed, had trouble keeping his eyes focused on an object, and feared that his blood-sugar levels were increasing.

As he walked along the dark beach, his thoughts returned to the latest events. He was convinced that the lone swimmer, the man with the striped towel, was the one they were looking for. There was no other plausible suspect. He was the one who had been in the nature reserve, probably hidden behind the tree that Wallander had pinpointed. Later he had been in Svedberg's flat. And now he had emerged from the ocean. His weapon was concealed in the sand, his car parked on a nearby road.

The swimmer had been to this place more than once. He must have gone to the same spot and dug a hole in the sand. It could even have been in the middle of the night. Wallander felt he was getting closer to unlocking the secret now, but he wasn't quite there yet. The answer is quite simple, he thought. It's like looking for the pair of glasses on your nose.

He began walking slowly back. The spotlights shone in the distance. Now he tried following in Svedberg's footsteps. Who was the person he had let into his flat? Who was Louise? Who had sent those postcards from all over Europe? What was it you knew, Svedberg? Why didn't you want to tell me, even though Ylva Brink says I was your closest friend?

He stopped. The question he'd posed suddenly seemed more important than before. If Svedberg hadn't wanted to tell anyone what he was up to, it could only have been because he was hoping he was wrong. There was simply no other reason for it. But Svedberg had been right, and that was why he was killed.

Wallander had almost reached the police barricades. There was still a little group of people gathered around the perimeter, trying to see something of the sombre tragedy that had taken place. When Wallander came over the sand dunes, Nyberg had just finished making some notes.

"We have some footprints," Nyberg said. "I mean that quite literally, since the killer was barefoot."

"Have you pieced together what happened?"

Nyberg put the notebook away. "The photographer was hit first," he said. "There's no doubt about that. The bullet entered his neck at an angle, so he may have had his back partially turned. If the first shot had been aimed at the couple, he would have turned around and been shot from the front."

"And next?"

"It's hard to say. I think the groom was probably the next to go. A man is more of a threat, physically. Then the girl last."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing you don't already know. This killer is in total control of his weapon."

"His hand doesn't shake?"

"Hardly."

"You see a calm and determined killer?"

Nyberg looked grimly at Wallander. "I see a cold-blooded and heartless madman."

When Wallander returned to the police station, the phones were going mad. One of the officers on duty gestured for him to come over. Wallander waited while he finished a phone call about a drunk driver sighted in Svarte. The officer promised to send out a squad car as soon as possible, but Wallander knew no squad car would be making it to Svarte for another 24 hours.

"A police officer from Copenhagen called you. The name was something like Kjaer or Kraemp."

"What was it about?"

"The photograph of that woman."

Wallander took the piece of paper with the name and number on it and sat down at his desk to make the call without even removing his coat. The call had come in just before midnight. Kjaer or Kraemp might still be there. The call was answered and Wallander said who he was looking for.

"Kjaer."

Wallander was expecting a man's voice, but Kjaer was a woman.

"This is Kurt Wallander from Ystad. I'm returning your call."

"We have some information for you about the picture of that woman. We've had two calls from people who claim to have seen her."

Wallander banged the table with his fist.

"At last."

"I've spoken with one of the callers myself. He seemed very reliable. His name is Anton Bakke. He's a manager at a company that makes office furniture."

"Does he know her personally?"

"No, but he was absolutely convinced he had seen her here in Copenhagen at a bar, close to the Central Station. He's seen her there several times."

"It's extremely important that we speak to this woman."

"Has she committed a crime?"

"We don't know that yet, but she is wanted in connection with a growing murder investigation. That's why we sent you her photograph."

"I heard about what happened over there. Those young people in the park. And the police officer."

Wallander told her about the latest events.

"And you think this woman had something to do with it?"

"Not necessarily, but I would like to ask her some questions."

"Bakke says there have been periods when he went to this bar as often as several times a week. He saw her there about half the time."

"Was she usually alone?"

"He wasn't sure, but he thought she sometimes came with someone else."

"Did you ask him when he saw her last?"

"When he was there last, sometime in the middle of June."

"What about the other caller?"

"It was a taxi driver who claimed he gave her a ride in Copenhagen a couple of weeks ago."

"A taxi driver sees a lot of people. How can he be sure?"

"He remembered her because she spoke Swedish."

"Where did he pick her up?"

"She waved him down on the street one night, or rather, early one morning. It was around 4.30 a.m., and she said she was catching the first ferry back to Malmo."

Wallander knew he had to make a decision. "We can't ask you to arrest her," he said. "But we do need you to bring her in. We must talk to her."

"We should be able to do that. We can invent a reason."

"Just tell me when she next shows up at that bar. What was its name?"

"The Amigo."

"What kind of a place is it?"

"It's pretty nice, actually, even though it's down on Istedgade."

Wallander knew that the street was in downtown Copenhagen.

"I appreciate your help on this."

"We'll let you know when she turns up."

Wallander wrote down Kjaer's full name and her phone numbers. Her first name was Lone. Then he hung up.

It was 1.30 a.m. He rose slowly to his feet and went to the men's room, then drank some water in the canteen. Some dried-up sandwiches lay on a plate, and he picked one of them up. He heard Martinsson's voice out in the hall, speaking to one of the Malmo officers. They came into the canteen a few minutes later.

"How's it going?" he asked, between bites of the sandwich.

"No one's seen anyone other than that one swimmer."

"Do we have a description of him yet?"

"We're trying to piece together everything we've received so far."

"The Danish police called. They may have found Louise."

"Really?"

"Seems like it."

Wallander poured himself a cup of coffee. Martinsson was waiting for him to continue.

"Have they arrested her?"

"They have no grounds to do so. But reports have come in from both a taxi driver and a man who saw her in a bar. They recognised her from the photograph in the paper."

"So her name really is Louise?"

"We don't know that yet."

Wallander yawned. Martinsson did the same. One of the Malmo officers tried to rub the tiredness from his eyes.

"I'd like to see everyone in the conference room," Wallander said.

"Give us 15 minutes," Martinsson said. "I think Hansson's on his way over now, and I'll call Ann-Britt at home."

Wallander took his coffee with him to his office. He looked up and studied the map of Skane hanging on his wall. First he located Hagestad, then Nybrostrand. Ystad lay nestled in between. The area was small, but this fact didn't lead anywhere in itself. Wallander finally picked up his notebook and walked over to the conference room. He was met by tired, despondent faces. Their clothes were wrinkled, their bodies heavy.

Our killer's probably sleeping peacefully as we speak, Wallander thought, while we're fumbling around in his footsteps.

They went through the various points that were currently under investigation and reported the latest findings. The biggest breakthrough was the fact that no one had seen anyone other than the lone swimmer. That strengthened the case against him.

Wallander looked through his notes. "Unfortunately our description of him is strange and rather contradictory," he said gloomily. "The witnesses can't seem to agree whether he has very short hair or is bald. Those who think he has hair can't agree on the colour. Everyone, however, seems to concur that he doesn't have a round face. It seems to be long, or 'horsey', as two independent witnesses have said. Furthermore, everyone seems to agree that he wasn't very tanned. He was of average height - though in reality that could mean anything between a dwarf and a giant. He was of average build and there was nothing remarkable about the way he moved. No one has been able to say what colour his eyes were. The area of greatest confusion is in regard to his age. We have reports that range from 20 to 60. More people have his age between 35 and 45, but no one seems to have any grounds for these statements."

Wallander pushed the notebook away. "In other words, we really have no description at all," he said.

The silence lay heavy in the room. Wallander realised he had to try to lighten the mood.

"We have to remember that it's impressive how much information we've been able to gather in such a short time," he said. "We'll be able to do even more tomorrow. And it's an enormous step to be able to focus on one suspect. I wouldn't hesitate for a moment to call this a breakthrough."

At 2.40 a.m. he called the meeting to an end. Martinsson was the only one who stayed on. He wanted to fill Wallander in on the information he had received regarding the Divine Movers. He started going through the reports that had come in from the United States and Interpol, but Wallander interrupted him impatiently.

"Has there ever been an incidence of violent crime?" he said. "Have members of this sect ever been the targets of attack?"

"Not from what I can see so far. But I've been told that more files are on their way, both from Washington and Brussels. I'll read through them tonight."

"You should go home and sleep," Wallander said sternly.

"I thought this was important."

"It is, but we can't do everything at once. We have to concentrate on Nybrostrand right now. That's where we got the closest to this madman."

"So, you've changed your mind?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, now you're talking about a 'madman'."

"A murderer is always crazy. But he can also be cunning and cowardly. He can be like you and me."

Martinsson nodded tiredly and didn't manage to stifle his yawn.

"I'm going home," he said. "Remind me why I ever became a policeman."

Wallander didn't answer. He went into his office to get his coat and remained standing in the middle of the room. What should he do now? He was too tired to think, but he was also too tired to sleep. He sat down in his chair and looked at the picture of Louise that was lying on his desk. He was struck again by the feeling that there was something strange about her face, but he still couldn't put his finger on it. In an absentminded way he picked up the photo and slipped it into his coat pocket. He closed his eyes to let them rest from the light, and fell asleep almost immediately.

He woke with a start without knowing where he was. It was just before 4 a.m. He had slept for almost an hour. His body ached, and he sat for a long time without a single thought in his head. Then he went to the men's room and splashed cold water on his face. Although he was still plagued by indecision, he knew he needed to sleep, if only for a few hours. He needed to bathe and change his clothes. Without having made a firm decision, he left the station and headed home.

But once he was in his car, he turned in the direction of Nybrostrand. There would be nobody there at 4 a.m., only the officers assigned to guard the area. Being alone at the crime scene could make it easier to see new details. It didn't take him long to get there. As he expected, there were no longer any onlookers crowded around the police barricades. One squad car, with someone sleeping behind the wheel, was parked down on the beach. Another officer was outside it, smoking a cigarette. Wallander walked over and said hello. He saw that it was the same man who had been assigned to the nature reserve that night.

"Everything looks pretty quiet," he said.

"Actually the last of the gawkers didn't leave until just a little while ago. I always wonder what they expect to see."

"They probably get a thrill from being in the presence of the unthinkable," Wallander said. "Knowing that they themselves are safe."

He crossed the police line to the crime scene. A lone spotlight was illuminating the well-trodden grass. Wallander walked over to where the photographer had stood, then slowly turned around and walked down the dune to where the hole was.

The guy with the striped towel knew everything, Wallander thought. He wasn't just well informed, he knew everything down to the last detail. It was as if he had been there when they made their plans.

Was that a possibility? If the killer was Rolf Haag's assistant, that would explain his knowledge of this photo session. But how would such an assistant know about the party in the nature reserve? And Barnso Island? And what about Svedberg?

Wallander dropped the thought for now, although he meant to take it up again. He walked back up the side of the dune, thinking about the motive for killing young people dressed up in costume. Svedberg was the exception, but this was easy enough to interpret. Svedberg had never been a target; he had simply come too close to the truth.

It occurred to him that Rolf Haag could be dismissed: he had simply been in the way. That left six victims. Six young people in different kinds of costume, six very happy people. He thought about Nyberg's words: seems like this madman hates happy people. So far it made some sort of sense, but it wasn't enough.

He walked up to the road where the getaway car must had been parked. Again, the killer had planned things down to the last detail. There were no houses nearby, no potential witnesses. He returned to the crime scene, where the officer on duty was still smoking.

"I'm still thinking about the gawkers," he said, throwing the butt on the ground and grinding it into the sand, where many others were already strewn about. "I guess we would be there too if we hadn't joined the force."

"Probably," Wallander said.

"You see so many strange people. Some of them pretend not to be interested, but they hang around for hours. One of the last people to leave this evening was a woman. She was already here when I arrived."

Wallander was only half-listening, but decided he may as well stay and chat while he was waiting for dawn.

"At first I thought it was someone I knew," the policeman said. "But it wasn't. I just thought I had seen her somewhere before."

It took a while for his words to sink in. Finally Wallander looked over at the policeman.

"What was that last thing you said?"

"I thought the woman hanging around here was someone I had seen before. But it wasn't."

"You thought you had seen her somewhere before?"

"I thought maybe she was someone I was related to."

"Well, which was it? Someone you thought you knew, or someone you thought you had seen before?"

"I don't know. There was something familiar about her, that's all."

It was a long shot, perhaps just grasping at straws, but Wallander hauled out the photograph of Louise that he had tucked into his coat pocket. It was still dark, but the policeman took out his torch.

"Yeah, that's her. How did you know?"

Wallander held his breath. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I knew I had seen her somewhere before."

Wallander swore under his breath. A more attentive officer might have identified her on the spot and alerted the others. But he knew that was unfair. There were so many people coming and going. At least this policeman had noticed her.

"Show me where she was standing."

The policeman shone a torch over to a spot close to the beach.

"How long was she here?"

"Several hours."

"Was she alone?"

The policeman thought for a moment. "Yes." His tone was definite.

"And she was one of the last to leave?"

"Yes."

"Which direction did she go?"

"Towards the camping ground."

"Do you think she was staying there?"

"I didn't see exactly where she was headed, but she didn't look like a camper."

"Well, what do campers look like, in your opinion? And how was she dressed?"

"She was dressed in a blue suit of some kind, and in my experience campers tend to wear casual clothing."

"If she turns up again, let me know immediately," Wallander said. "Tell the others. Do you have this picture in the car?"

"I'll wake up my partner. He'll know."

"Don't bother."

Wallander gave him the photograph he had been holding. Then he left. It was almost 5 a.m., and he was already feeling less tired. His sense of excitement was mounting. The woman called Louise was not their lone swimmer. But she might just know who he was.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

He woke up when the phone rang, sat up in bed with a jerk, then staggered out into the kitchen. It was Lennart Westin.

"Were you sleeping?" Westin asked apologetically.

"Not at all," Wallander answered. "But I was in the shower. Can I call you back in a couple of minutes?"

"No problem. I'm at home."

There was a pen on the table, but no piece of paper in sight, not even the newspaper. Wallander wrote the number down on the table. Then he hung up and put his head in his hands. He had a pounding headache and he was more tired now than before he had gone to bed. He rinsed his face with cold water, looked around for some aspirin, and put water on for coffee. But there was no more coffee. That was the last straw. Almost 15 minutes went by before he called Lennart Westin back. The kitchen clock read 8.09 a.m. Westin answered.

"I think you must have been asleep after all," he said. "But you did say to call if I thought of anything that might be important."

"We work around the clock," Wallander said. "It's hard to get enough sleep. But I'm glad you called."

"It's two things, really. One is about that policeman who came by earlier, the one who was shot. When I woke up this morning, I remembered something he had said as we were going out to the islands."

Wallander stopped him and went to the living room to get a notebook.

"He asked me if I had ferried any women to Barnso Island recently."

"And had you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"Who?"

"A woman called Linnea Vederfeldt, who lives in Gusum."

"Why was she going out to Barnso?"

"Isa's mother had ordered new curtains for the house. She and Vederfeldt knew each other from childhood. She was going out there to measure everything."

"Did you tell Svedberg this?"

"I didn't think it was any of his business, so I avoided going into details."

"How did he react?"

"Well, that's just it. He insisted that I tell him more about her. Finally I told him she was a childhood friend of Isa's mother and then he completely lost interest."

"Did he ask anything else?"

"Not that I can think of. But he became agitated when he realised that I had taken a woman out to Barnso. I remember it so clearly now that I don't know how I ever forgot it."

"What do you mean by agitated?"

"I'm not so good at describing these things, I guess. But I would say 'afraid' even."

Wallander nodded. Svedberg had been afraid it was Louise.

"What about the other thing? You said there were two."

"I must have slept really well. This morning I also thought of what it was I said to you as we were approaching that first landing. I said that you end up knowing everything about people, whether or not you want to. Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"That's all. I hope it helps."

"Yes, it does. I'm glad you called."

"You should come out here sometime in the autumn," Westin added. "When it's quiet."

"Do I take that to mean you're inviting me?" Wallander asked.

"Take it any way you like," Westin laughed. "But you can normally take me at my word."

After they had finished the conversation, Wallander walked slowly into the living room. He remembered the conversation now, about delivering post in the islands. Suddenly he caught hold of the thought he had been trying to grasp for so long. They were looking for a killer who planned everything about his terrible crimes down to the last detail. This approach depended on his being able to get access to very specific information about his victims' lives without their knowing. Like being able to read other people's post. Wallander stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Who would have unlimited access to other people's letters? Lennart Westin had suggested a possibility: a postman. Someone who opened letters on the way, read them, sealed them again, and made sure they got to the intended address. No one would ever know they had been opened.

Something told Wallander it couldn't be this simple. This wasn't the way things worked. It was too far-fetched. Nonetheless, it answered one of the most difficult questions in the investigation: how the killer managed to gather all his information.

All trace of sleepiness was gone now. He realised he had hit on a possible explanation. There were weaknesses, of course, not least the consideration that the victims did not live along a single postal route. But perhaps it wasn't actually a postman. Could it be someone who sorted the post before it was carried out?

He quickly showered, put his clothes on, and left. It was 9.15 a.m. when he walked through the main doors of the police station. He felt the need to discuss his latest ideas with someone, and he knew exactly who that person was. He found her in her office.

"I hope I don't look like you do," said Hoglund as he walked through her door, "if you'll excuse me for being so blunt. Did you sleep at all last night?"

"A couple of hours."

"My husband's leaving for Dubai in four days. Do you think we'll have closed the door on this hell by then?"

"No."

"Then I don't know what I'm going to do," she said and let her arms fall by her sides.

"You'll just work when you can, it's as simple as that."

"It's not simple at all," she replied. "But men rarely understand that."

Wallander didn't want to be pulled into a conversation about the problems of finding childcare, so he quickly changed the topic to the latest events. He told her about the policeman who had seen Louise out at Nybrostrand. He also told her about his conversation with Lone Kjaer.

"So Louise exists. I was beginning to think she was a ghost."

"We still don't know if that really is her name, but she exists. I'm sure of it. And she's very interested in our investigation."

"Is she our killer?"

"I suppose we can't rule her out completely, but she could also be someone who has found herself in Svedberg's situation."

"Following in someone else's tracks?"

"Yes, something like that. I want everyone alerted to the fact that she may return to the crime scene."

Wallander now turned the conversation to Westin's phone call. Haglund listened attentively, but he could tell that she was sceptical.

"It's worth looking into," she said when he finished. "But I see a number of potential problems with your idea. For one, do people even write letters any more?"

"It's not perfect, but I see it more as an answer to part of the problem. An idea that may complete the picture, rather than give us the entire solution."

"We've come across a couple of postmen in the course of this investigation already, haven't we?"

"There have been two," Wallander said. "Westin, and the postman that Isa's neighbour, Erik Lundberg, mentioned had come by the day that Isa was taken to the hospital."

"Maybe we should find out if his voice matches the one that made the phone call to the hospital."

It took a moment for Wallander to follow her. "You mean the person who said he was Lundberg?"

"Yes. The postman knew she was in the hospital since Lundberg told him. He also knew that Lundberg knew."

Wallander's head was starting to spin. Was there something to all this? His fatigue was returning and he wasn't sure he could trust his own ability to reason any more.

"Then there's this matter with Svedberg," he said. He told her about the charges that had been filed. "I don't understand why he wouldn't investigate the alleged attack by Nils Stridh on his brother. He even resorted to threatening Stig Stridh, to protect Nils Stridh at all costs. Why? He was lucky the whole thing was dropped by the authorities. He could have been severely reprimanded."

"It doesn't sound like Svedberg at all."

"That's what makes me suspicious. He must have felt pressured to act in that way."

"By Nils Stridh?"

"Who else could it have been?"

They thought for a moment. "It sounds like blackmail to me," she said finally. "But what could Stridh have known about Svedberg?"

"That remains to be seen. But I think Bror Sundelius knows more than he's telling."

"We should put a little pressure on him."

"We will," Wallander answered. "As soon as we have some time to spare."

They had a meeting at 10 a.m. Martinsson, Hansson and the three officers from Malmo were there. Nyberg was still at the crime scene and Holgersson had barricaded herself in her office. She was dealing with the press. Thurnberg was keeping his distance, although Wallander caught sight of him in the hall. The meeting took a light-hearted turn when someone started passing around the complaint that had been filed by the jogger, Nils Hagroth, about Wallander's assault on him at the nature reserve. Wallander was the only one who failed to find it funny, not because he was bothered by the report itself, but because he didn't want his team to become distracted.

They had a lot to do. Wallander and Hoglund would drive out to Kopingebro to talk with Malin Skander's parents, while Martinsson and Hansson would handle Torbjorn Werner's relatives. Wallander nodded off the moment he got into Hoglund's car, and she let him sleep.

He woke up when she stopped the car, at a farm just outside Kopingebro. Although it was a beautiful day, an unnatural quiet reigned in the house and garden. All the doors and windows were shut. As they walked up to the main house, a man wearing a dark suit came walking towards them. He was well into middle age, tall and strongly built. His eyes were red. He introduced himself as Lars Skander, father of the bride.

"You'll have to talk to me," he said. "My wife isn't up to it."

"We offer you our condolences," Wallander said. "We're also sorry we couldn't leave you in peace, but it's imperative that we get answers to a few questions."

"Of course, if it can't wait." Lars Skander didn't try to hide either his bitterness or his sorrow. "You have to get this maniac."

The look he gave them was pleading. "How can someone do this? How can someone murder two people about to have their wedding pictures taken?"

Wallander was afraid that the man was going to break down, but Hoglund took charge of the situation.

"We're only going to ask you a few essential questions," she said. "Only as much as we need in order to catch whoever did it."

"Can we sit outside?" Lars Skander asked. "It's so oppressive inside."

They walked in silence to the garden at the back of the house. A table and four chairs stood under an old cherry tree.

"Can you think who might have done this?" Wallander asked after they had gone through the most straightforward details about the murdered couple. "Did they have any enemies?"

Lars Skander stared back at him, uncomprehending. "Why would Malin and Torbjorn have had enemies? They were friends with everyone. You couldn't find more peace-loving people."

"It's an important question. I need you to think very carefully before answering."

"I have thought about it. I can't think of a single person."

Wallander moved on. Information, he thought. What we need to know is how the killer got the information he needed.

"When did they choose the day for their wedding?"

"I can't recall exactly. Sometime in May, I think. First week of June at the latest."

"When did they decide upon Nybrostrand as the place where their wedding pictures would be taken?"

"That I don't know. Torbjorn and Malin planned everything carefully in advance, and Torbjorn and Rolf Haag went way back, so I'm sure the plans for the photography were made early."

"Two months ago, then?"

"Something like that."

"Who knew that the wedding pictures were going to be taken on the beach?"

The answer came as a surprise. "Almost no one."

"Why not?"

"They wanted to be left alone during that time, between the church and the reception. Only they and Rolf knew where they were going. They said it would be like a secret honeymoon for a couple of hours."

Wallander and Hoglund exchanged glances.

"This is extremely important," Wallander said. "I have to make sure I've understood you correctly. Apart from Malin and Torbjorn, only the photographer knew where the pictures were going to be taken?"

"That's right."

"And the location was chosen sometime at the end of May or beginning of June."

"Originally, they were going to have the pictures taken up by the Ale stones," Lars Skander said. "But then they changed their minds. It's become commonplace for couples to have their pictures taken up there, apparently."

Wallander frowned. "So you did know where they were going to have the pictures taken."

"I knew about the Ale stones plan. But then they changed their minds, like I said."

Wallander drew his breath in sharply. "When was it that they changed their minds?"

"Just a couple of weeks ago."

"And the new location was kept a secret?"

"Yes."

Wallander studied Lars Skander without speaking. Then he turned to Hoglund. He knew they were thinking the same thing. The location had been changed only a few weeks ago, and the couple had been sure it was their secret. But someone had still managed to trespass into their private plans.

"Call Martinsson," Wallander said to Hoglund. "Get him to confirm this with the Werner family."

She got up and walked away to make the call.

We haven't been this close before, Wallander thought. He tried to go through all the possibilities in his head. He still didn't know for sure if Rolf Haag had an assistant or not, and it was still possible that a close friend had known about the plans, despite what Lars Skander had told them.

At that moment, a window on the top floor of the house was flung open. A woman leaned out, screaming.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Wallander would retain the image of the screaming woman in his head for a long time. It had been one of the most beautiful days of an unusually warm summer, the garden was green and lush, and Hoglund was leaning against the pear tree talking on her mobile phone while he sat across from Lars Skander in a white wooden chair. Both he and Hoglund immediately thought it was too late, that the woman who had flung open the window was about to hurl herself down onto the flagstones. They would never get to her in time.

There was a moment of complete calm, as if everything was frozen. Then Hoglund dropped her phone and ran towards the window, while Wallander yelled something - he hardly knew what. Lars Skander got to his feet very slowly. The woman in the window continued to scream. She was the mother of the dead bride, and her pain cut that warm August day like a diamond cuts glass. They agreed afterwards that it was her scream that shook them the most.

Hoglund disappeared into the house, while Wallander remained under the window with outstretched arms. Lars Skander stood at his side like a ghost, staring up at the distraught woman in the window. Then Hoglund appeared out of nowhere behind her and pulled her into the room. Everything went quiet.

When Wallander and Lars Skander entered the bedroom, Hoglund was sitting on the floor with her arms around the woman. Wallander went back downstairs and called an ambulance. They returned to the garden at the back of the house once the ambulance had come and gone. Hoglund picked up the phone that lay in the grass.

"Martinsson had just answered when it happened. He must have wondered what was going on," she said.

He sat back down in one of the chairs. "Call him," he said.

She sat down across from him. A bee buzzed back and forth between them. Svedberg had a phobia of bees. Now he was dead. That's why they were there, in the Skanders' garden. Many others were also dead. Too many.

"I'm afraid he's going to strike again," Wallander said. "Every second I think I'll get a call telling me he's done it again. I'm going crazy looking for signs that the nightmare will soon be over, that we won't have to kneel over any more bodies of people who have been shot, but I can't find them."

"All of us have that fear," she replied.

That was all that needed to be said. Hoglund called Martinsson who, as expected, demanded to know what had happened. Wallander moved his chair over into the shade and took hold of his thoughts.

If the decision to move the photo session to Nybrostrand was made only a couple of weeks ago, who would have had access to that information? Why hadn't anyone confirmed whether or not Rolf Haag had an assistant?

Hoglund finished her conversation and also moved her chair into the shade.

"He'll call me back," she said. "Apparently the Werners are both very old. Martinsson can't tell whether they're in shock or just senile."

"What about the question of Rolf Haag's assistant?" Wallander asked brusquely. "The Malmo police were going to take care of that for us. Do you remember Birch? We worked with him on a case last year."

"How could I forget?"

Birch was a police officer of the old school. It had been a pleasure to meet him.

"He moved to Malmo," she said. "I think he was put in charge of this."

"Then he's already done the work," Wallander said firmly.

He took up his phone and dialled the Malmo police station. He was in luck: Birch was in his office. After exchanging greetings, Birch got straight to the point.

"I called Ystad with my report," he said. "It hasn't reached you?"

"Not yet."

"Then I'll tell you the main points of interest. Rolf Haag's studio is located close to the Nobel plaza, and his main occupation was studio photography, though he also published some travel books."

"I'm going to interrupt you here," Wallander said. "What I really need to know is whether or not he had an assistant."

"Yes, he did."

"What's his name?" Wallander gestured for Hoglund to give him a pen.

"Her name is Maria Hjortberg."

"Have you talked to her?"

"I couldn't. She's at her parents' house outside Hudiksvall for the weekend. It's a small place in the woods and they have no phone. She's coming back to Malmo this evening and I'm planning to meet her at the airport. But I very much doubt she's the person who shot her boss and this young couple."

This wasn't the answer that Wallander was looking for, and it irritated him, which he thought was probably a sign that he was a bad policeman.

"What I need to know is whether someone else knew where the wedding pictures were going to be taken."

"I searched the studio last night," Birch said. "It took half the night. I found a letter from Torbjorn Werner to Haag dated 28 July. In it he confirmed the time and place for the photo session."

"Where was it posted?"

"Ystad appears at the top of the page."

"There's no envelope? No postmark?"

"There's a big bag of paper in Haag's office, so it could be in there. Otherwise, I'm afraid it might already have been thrown away. It was written several weeks ago, after all."

"I need that envelope."

"Why is it so important? Can't we assume it was posted in Ystad, since that's where it was written?"

"I need to know if the envelope was opened by someone before it reached Haag. I want our forensics team to have a look at it, if only to rule out this possibility."

Birch didn't need further explanation. He promised to go down to the studio at once.

"That's some theory you've got," he said.

"It's all I have right now," Wallander answered.

Birch promised to call if he found anything.

It was already midday. Wallander went home, fried some eggs for lunch, then lay down to rest for half an hour. At 1.10 p.m. he was back at the police station.

Going through the notes in his office, he decided that the theory about someone having opened the letters needed to be explored before they dismissed it. He went out to the front desk and talked to the girl who filled in for Ebba on the weekends. He asked her if she knew where the post in Ystad was sorted. She didn't.

"Maybe you could find that out for me," Wallander said.

"But it's Sunday," she said.

"A regular working day, as far as I'm concerned."

"But surely not for the post office."

Wallander was starting to get angry, but he controlled himself.

"Post is collected even on Sundays," he said. "At least once. That means that someone is working down at the post office today."

She promised to try to find the answer to his question. Wallander hurried back to his office, feeling that he had disturbed her. Just as he closed his door, it struck him that he was wrong about one thing. He had told Hoglund that two postmen already figured in this investigation. But there were actually three. What was it Sture Bjorklund had said that day? He had the feeling that someone had been at his house when he wasn't there. His neighbours knew how much he valued his privacy. The only person who came by regularly was the postman.

Could it have been the postman who put Svedberg's telescope in Bjorklund's shed? It wasn't just a wholly unreasonable idea, it was crazy. He was grasping at straws. He growled angrily to himself and started leafing through the various reports that lay on his desk. Before he'd got very far, Martinsson appeared in the doorway.

"How did it go?" Wallander asked.

"Ann-Britt told me about the woman who tried to jump out the window. We didn't have quite as bad a time of it, but it's so tragic. Torbjorn had just taken over the farm. The old couple were getting ready to hand over all the responsibility to the next generation. One son died in a car crash a few years ago. And now they have no one."

"The killer doesn't consider things like that," Wallander said.

Martinsson walked over and stood by the window. Wallander could see how shaken he was. Once upon a time, he had been an eager young recruit with all the best intentions - and at a time when becoming a police officer was no longer seen as something noble. Young people seemed to despise the profession, in fact. But Martinsson held fast to his ideals and genuinely wanted to be a good policeman. It was only during the last few years that Wallander had noticed his faith starting to slip. Now Wallander doubted that Martinsson would make it to retirement.

"He's going to do it again," Martinsson said.

"We don't know that for sure."

"Why wouldn't he? He kills for the sake of killing - there's no other motive."

"We don't know that. We just haven't found his motive yet.

"You're wrong."

Martinsson's last words were delivered with such force that Wallander took them as an accusation.

"In what way am I wrong?"

"Until a few years ago, I would have agreed with you: there's an explanation for all violence. But that just isn't the case any more. Sweden's undergone a fundamental change. A whole generation of young people is losing its way. They don't know what's right or wrong. And I don't know what is the point of being a policeman any more."

"That's a question only you can answer."

"I'm trying."

Martinsson sat down. "You know what Sweden has become?" he asked. "A lawless nation. Who would have thought that could ever happen?"

"We're not quite there yet," Wallander said. "Even though I agree with you that it's where things seem to be heading. This is why it's so important for us not to give up."

"That's what I used to say to myself. But I'm not sure I think it's possible for us to make a difference any more."

"There isn't one police officer in this country who hasn't asked himself these same questions," Wallander said. "But that doesn't change the fact that we have to keep working, we have to resist the direction our society has taken. We have to stop this madman, and we're very close to him right now. We're going to get him."

"My son is convinced that he wants to be a policeman too," Martinsson said after a while. "He asks me what it's like. I never know what to say."

"Send him to me," Wallander said. "I'll have a talk with him."

"He's eleven."

"That's a good age."

"All right, I'll send him."

Wallander took advantage of the shift in their conversation to return to the matter at hand.

"How much did the Werners know about the photo session?"

"Nothing more than the time."

Wallander let his hands fall onto the table.

"Then we have a breakthrough. Tell everyone I want a meeting at 3 p.m. this afternoon."

Martinsson nodded and got ready to leave. He turned when he reached the door.

"Do you mean what you said about talking to my son?"

"I'll do it the moment all this is over," Wallander said. "I'll answer all his questions and even let him try on my policeman's cap."

"You have one of those?" Martinsson asked with surprise.

"Somewhere. I just have to find it."

Wallander went to the meeting that afternoon with the feeling that he was going to end up having another confrontation with Thurnberg. Apart from the unfortunate incident in Nybrostrand, there had been no further contact. Wallander was still unsure what would come of the charges the jogger had filed against him. Although Thurnberg hadn't said anything about it, Wallander felt that there was an ongoing war between them.

After the meeting, he realised he was wrong. Thurnberg surprised him by offering support when the others faltered or started to disagree. Whenever he made a comment, it was short and to the point. Perhaps Wallander had been too quick to judge him. Was Thurnberg's arrogance just a bluff, perhaps a sign of insecurity?

Wallander paused for a moment as they were getting ready to leave, wondering if he should say something to Thurnberg. But he couldn't think of anything.

It was now 4.30 p.m. In two hours, Haag's assistant would be arriving at the airport. Wallander tried to call Birch, but there was no answer. He decided to do something he had never done before. He had an old alarm clock in his desk drawer, and he got it out and set it. He locked the door of his office, stretched out on the floor, and pushed an old briefcase under his head for a pillow. Someone knocked on the door right before he fell asleep, but he didn't answer. If he was going to have the energy to keep working, he would need an hour of sleep.

* * *

A rapid succession of disjointed images passed before him. A glimpse of his father, the smell of turpentine, the holiday in Rome. Suddenly Martinsson was there, standing at the foot of the Spanish Steps. He looked like a small child. Wallander called out to him, but Martinsson couldn't hear him. Then the dream was gone.

It took some effort to get to his feet. His joints cracked as he walked to the men's room. He hated this crippling fatigue. It was getting harder and harder to bear as he got older. He splashed cold water on his face and took a long leak. He avoided looking at his face in the mirror. He reached Sturup Airport at 6.45 p.m. When he entered the arrivals area, he spotted Birch's imposing figure almost immediately. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. When he saw Wallander, his sombre face broke into a wide smile.

"You're here as well?"

"I thought you wouldn't mind the company."

"Let's go and grab a cup of coffee. Her plane's not due in for a while."

As they stood in line at the cafeteria, Birch told him he hadn't found the envelope Wallander was hoping for. "But I did talk to one of our forensic technicians," Birch said, as he helped himself to a piece of cake and a Danish pastry, "and he told me I'd never be able to tell if a letter had been opened and resealed. There have been new advances in this area, it seems. No more steam, like in the old days."

"I need that envelope," Wallander said. He forced himself not to follow Birch's example and kept to a cup of coffee. They walked over to the gate. Birch wiped crumbs from his mouth.

"I'm not sure I understand the relevance of the envelope. Of course, I'm also wondering why you decided to come out here. Maria Hjortberg must be important."

Wallander began to tell him about the latest developments as passengers started to stream in from the plane. Birch surprised Wallander by pulling a piece of paper from his coat pocket with Maria Hjortberg's name on it. He walked out into the middle of the gate area and held it up, while Wallander watched from the side.

Maria Hjortberg was a very beautiful woman, with intense dark eyes and long dark hair. She had a rucksack slung over one shoulder. She probably still didn't know that Rolf Haag was dead, but Birch was already telling her. She shook her head in disbelief. Birch took her rucksack, then led her over to Wallander and introduced him.

"Is anyone coming to pick you up?" Birch asked.

"I was going to take the bus."

"Then we'll give you a ride. Unfortunately we have some questions to ask you and they can't wait. But we can do this either at the police station or the studio."

"Is it really true?" she asked in a dazed voice. "Is Rolf really dead?"

"Yes. I'm sorry," Birch said. He asked her if she had more luggage, but she didn't. "How long have you worked as his assistant?"

"Not very long. Since April."

Her answer came as a relief to Wallander. Her grief wouldn't be too intense - unless, of course, she had been in a relationship with him. She told Birch that she preferred to speak to them at the studio.

"You take her in your car," Wallander said to Birch. "I have some phone calls to make."

* * *

Two hours later it became clear that Maria Hjortberg didn't have any crucial information to give them. She hadn't even known about Rolf Haag's photo session at Nybrostrand. He had told her that he would be attending a wedding on Saturday, but she had thought it was a personal invitation, not a job. She had never heard of Malin Skander or Torbjorn Werner. They had a calendar in the office where they noted their appointments, but there was nothing down for Saturday, August 17. When Birch showed her the letter he had found, she merely shook her head.

"He opened all the post," she said. "I helped him with the photo sessions, that was all."

"Who else could have seen this letter?" Wallander asked. "Who else has access to this studio? A cleaner?"

"We do our own cleaning. And clients didn't go into the office."

"So it was just you and Rolf?"

"Yes, although I was hardly ever here."

"Have there been any burglaries?"

"No."

"I looked for the envelope that this letter came in," Birch said. "I couldn't find it anywhere."

"It must have been thrown away," she said. "Rolf likes to keep things tidy. The rubbish is collected every Monday."

Wallander looked at Birch. There was no reason for her to lie. He didn't think they could get any further.

"How close was your relationship?" he asked.

She understood what he was getting at, but didn't seem to mind. "It was nothing personal," she said. "We worked well together and I learned a lot from him. I'm hoping to set up my own studio one day."

It was over. Birch said he would drive her home while Wallander drove back to Ystad. They parted outside on the street.

"I still don't understand it," she said. "I spent the last two days in an isolated house in an equally isolated forest, and I come back to this."

She began to cry and Birch put an arm around her protectively.

"I'll take her home now," he said. "Will you give me a call later?"

"I'll call you from Ystad," Wallander said. "Where are you going to be?"

"I'm going to search his flat later tonight."

Wallander made sure that he had Birch's mobile number, then crossed the street to his car. It was 10.30 p.m.

Before he had a chance to start the car, the phone buzzed in his pocket and he answered.

"Is this Kurt Wallander?"

"Yes."

"Lone Kjaer here. I just wanted to tell you that the woman we're calling Louise is at the Amigo right now. What do you want us to do?"

Wallander made a quick decision. "I'm already in Malmo. I'll be right over. If she leaves, have someone follow her."

"There's a boat leaving at 11 p.m., I think. That brings you to Copenhagen at around 11.45 p.m. I'll meet you on this side."

"Just don't lose her," Wallander said. "I need this one."

"We'll watch over her well, I promise."

Wallander hung up and stared unseeing into the darkness, his excitement growing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Wallander picked her out as soon as he got off the boat. She was wearing a leather coat, she had short blond hair, and she was younger than he imagined, and smaller. But there was no doubt that she was in the force. Why, he couldn't have said, but he could always pick out the police officer in a group of strangers.

He stopped in front of her and they exchanged greetings.

"Louise is still at the bar," she said.

"If that really is her name," Wallander said.

"Why is she so important to your investigation?"

Wallander had been thinking about this on the way over. He couldn't connect her to the crimes in any way. All he wanted to do was talk to her. He had so many questions.

"I think she may have interesting information for us. Of course, a bar is hardly the best place for this kind of a conversation."

"You can always use my office."

A police car was waiting for them, and they drove away in silence. Wallander thought about the last time he had been in Copenhagen. It was when he'd attended a performance of Tosca at Det Kongelige theatre. He'd gone to a bar after the performance and was dead drunk by the time he caught the last boat for Malmo.

Lone Kjaer was speaking to someone on the car radio.

"She's still there," she said, pointing out the window. "It's across the street. Do you want me to wait for you?"

"Why don't you come in?"

The broken neon sign simply read "igo". Wallander was about to meet the woman he'd been wondering about since he'd found her photograph in Svedberg's secret compartment under the floorboards.

They opened the door, pushed aside the heavy red curtain, and entered the bar. It was warm and smoky inside, the lighting was tinged red, and it was full of people. A man walked towards them on his way out.

"All the way at the end of the bar," he said to Lone Kjaer.

Wallander nodded to him, then left Kjaer by the door and started making his way through the crowd.

He caught sight of her. She was sitting at the far end of the bar. Her hair looked just as it had in the photograph. Wallander stood frozen, watching her. She looked like she was alone, although there were people on either side of her. She was drinking a glass of wine. When she turned her head in his direction, he slipped behind a tall man who was drinking a beer. When Wallander looked again she was staring down at her glass of wine. Wallander turned, nodded to Kjaer, and made his way over to Louise.

He was in luck. Just as he reached her, the man on her left stood up and left. Wallander sank down on the bar stool, and she glanced at him quickly.

"I think your name is Louise," Wallander said. "My name is Kurt Wallander, and I'm a police officer from Ystad. I need to speak to you."

She tensed up for a moment, then relaxed and smiled.

"All right, but I'd like to visit the ladies' room first, if you don't mind. I was just about to get up when you sat down."

She got up and walked towards the back of the room, where there were signs to the men's and women's lavatories.

The bartender caught Wallander's eye, but he shook his head to indicate he wouldn't be ordering anything. She doesn't speak with a Scanian dialect, he thought. But she is Swedish.

Kjaer came closer. Wallander gave her a sign that everything was proceeding smoothly. The clock hanging on the wall advertised a brand of whisky that Wallander had never heard of. Four minutes went by. Wallander looked over at the area leading to the lavatories. A man walked by, then another. He tried to concentrate on his questions, wondering which he should ask first.

Seven minutes had gone by now, and he realised something was wrong. He got up and walked towards the lavatories. Kjaer appeared at his side.

"Go into the ladies' room and look around."

"Why? She hasn't come out again. I would have seen her if she had tried to leave."

"Something's wrong," Wallander said. "I want you to check for me."

Kjaer went into the women's lavatory and Wallander waited. She was back again almost immediately.

"She's not in there."

"Damn it," Wallander said. "Is there a window in there?"

Without waiting for an answer he jerked the door open and went in. Two women were adjusting their make-up in front of the mirror. Wallander hardly noticed them. Louise was gone. He ran out again.

"She must still be here somewhere," Kjaer said in disbelief. "I would have seen her."

"But she isn't," Wallander said.

He made his way to the front door through a throng of people that seemed to be getting thicker all the time. The bouncer looked like a wrestler.

"Ask him," Wallander said. "We're looking for a woman with medium-length dark hair. Did anyone like that leave recently? It would have been ten minutes ago at the most."

Kjaer asked the bouncer but he shook his head, and said something that Wallander didn't catch.

"He's sure," she yelled over the noise in the room.

Wallander turned and started pushing his way through the crowd again. He was looking for her, but part of him knew she was already gone.

Finally he gave up, and made his way over to the bartender. He couldn't see the glass of wine Louise had been drinking.

"Where's the glass that was here?" he asked.

"I've already washed it."

Wallander waved to Kjaer and she came over. He pointed to the top of the bar.

"I don't know how likely we are to get anything, but let's try for some fingerprints."

"It'll be a first for me," she said. "I've never had to cordon off a section of a bar before. But I'll make sure it's done."

Wallander left and walked out into the street. He was drenched with sweat and shaking with anger. How could he have been so stupid? That smile, her willingness to speak with him, just a trip to the ladies' room first. Why hadn't he seen through it?

Kjaer came out after ten minutes. "I really don't know how she did it," she said. "I know I would have seen her if she had tried to leave."

But the pieces were starting to fit together. Slowly Wallander understood what must have happened. There was only one answer. It was so unexpected that he needed time to grasp its full implication.

"Can we go to your office?" he asked. "I need time to think."

When they got there, Kjaer brought him a cup of coffee and repeated her question.

"I just don't understand how she got away without being seen."

"That's because she never left," Wallander said. "Louise is still in there somewhere."

She looked at him with surprise. "Still there? Then why did we come here?"

Wallander shook his head dully. He was frustrated at his lack of awareness. He had sensed that there was something strange about her hair the first time he'd seen her picture in Svedberg's flat.

I should have seen it back then, he thought. That it was a wig.

She repeated her last question.

"In a way, Louise is still in the bar," he answered, "because Louise is just an act, put on by someone else. A man. That wrestler who was guarding the door said three men left the bar during the last ten minutes. One of them was Louise, with her wig in her pocket and all her make-up wiped off."

She didn't believe him, and he was too tired to go into more detail. The important thing was that he knew it. Still, he owed her an explanation. She had helped him. Although it was past midnight, he continued to explain.

"When she went into the lavatory, she took off her makeup and the wig, and then she walked out again," Wallander said. "She probably altered something about the way her clothing looked as well. Neither of us noticed anything, because we were waiting for a woman to come out. Who would have noticed a man?"

"The Amigo doesn't have a reputation as a transvestite bar."

"He may simply have gone there to play the role of a woman," Wallander said thoughtfully. "Not to be among his own kind."

"What does this mean for your investigation?"

"I don't know. It probably means a great deal, but I haven't thought it through yet."

She looked down at her watch.

"The last boat to Malmo has already left. The earliest leaves at 4.45 a.m. in the morning."

"I'll stay in a hotel," Wallander said.

She shook her head. "You can sleep on the sofa at my place," she said. "My husband comes home around this time. He's a waiter. We have sandwiches and a beer together before we go to bed."

They left the police station.

Wallander slept uneasily. At one point he got up and walked over to the window. He stared down at the empty street and wondered why all city streets resembled each other at night. He kept waiting for someone to appear, but all was quiet. He felt his anxiety grow stronger. The victims so far had been dressed up in costume. Just like Louise. When Wallander had told her who he was, she left.

It was him, he thought. There's no other explanation. I had the killer by my side without knowing it. But I didn't manage to see through his disguise, and he disappeared. Now he knows we're closing in, but he also knows we haven't guessed his real identity.

Wallander went back to the sofa and dozed until it was time to take the ferry back to Malmo.

He called Birch when he got to the other side, hoping he was an early riser. Birch answered and said he was just drinking his morning coffee.

"What happened to you last night? I thought we were going to be in touch."

Wallander explained what had happened.

"Were you really that close?"

"I let myself be fooled. I should have stood guard by the lavatories."

"It's easy to say so in hindsight," Birch said. "You're back in Malmo now, aren't you? You must be tired."

"The worst thing is that I can't get the car started. I left my lights on."

"I'll come over. I have jump leads," Birch said. "Where are you?"

Wallander gave him directions.

It took Birch less than 20 minutes to get there, during which time Wallander napped in his car.

Birch looked closely at Wallander. "You should really try to sleep for a few hours," he said. "It won't help matters if you collapse."

While they put the jump leads on, Birch told him he had searched Haag's flat but hadn't found anything significant.

"We'll do another search of the studio and his flat," Birch said. "And we'll stay in touch."

"I'll tell you how things go at our end," Wallander said.

He left Malmo. It was 6.25 a.m. At the turn-off for Jagersro, he pulled over to the side of the road and called Martinsson.

"I've been trying to reach you," Martinsson said. "We were supposed to have a meeting last night, but no one could contact you."

"I was in Denmark," Wallander said. "Tell everyone I want a meeting at 8 a.m."

"Has anything happened?"

"Yes, but I'll tell you about it later."

Wallander continued on towards Ystad. The weather was still beautiful. There were no clouds in the sky and no wind. He was feeling less tired, and his mind was starting to work again. He went through the meeting with Louise over and over, trying to home in on the face behind the wig and make-up. Sometimes he almost had it.

He reached Ystad at 7.40 a.m. Ebba was at the front desk. She sneezed.

"Caught a cold?" he asked. "In the middle of summer?"

"Even an old bag like me can have allergies," she replied good-naturedly. Then she looked sternly at him.

"You haven't had a wink of sleep, have you?"

"I was in Copenhagen. That's not conducive to a good night's sleep."

She didn't seem to see the humour in this. "If you don't start taking your health seriously, you'll pay for it," she said. "Mark my words."

He didn't answer. He was sometimes annoyed by her ability to see right through him. She was right, of course. He thought about the clumps of sugar in his bloodstream.

He got himself a cup of coffee and went into his office. Soon his colleagues would be waiting for him in the conference room. He would have to tell them what had happened the night before, how the killer had been there, gone to the lavatory, and disappeared.

A woman went up in smoke by taking on the form of a man. There was no Louise any more. All they had was an unknown man who simply removed his wig and disappeared without a trace. A man who had already killed eight people, and who might be preparing to strike again.

He thought about Isa Edengren, curled up in the cave behind the ferns, and shivered.

What do I tell them, Wallander thought. How do I find the right path through this unknown territory? We're pressed for time and can't afford to think through every possibility, every possible lead. How can I know which is the right way?

Wallander left his own questions unanswered and went to the men's room. He stared at his image in the mirror. He was swollen and pale, with watery bags under his eyes. For the first time in his life, the sight of his face made him nauseated.

I have to catch this killer, he thought. If only so I can go on medical leave and start taking control of my health.

It was now just after 8 a.m. Wallander left the men's room.

Everyone was already in the conference room when he entered. He felt like the tardy schoolboy, or perhaps the flustered teacher. There was Thurnberg, fingering his perfectly knotted tie. Holgersson smiled her quick, nervous smile. The others greeted him to the best of their exhausted capability: simply by being there.

Wallander sat down and told them exactly where things stood. How he had been inches away from the killer, and how he had let him slip away under his very nose. He told the story calmly, starting with Maria Hjortberg and ending with Louise's smile and her apparent willingness to talk to him, saying she just had to visit the lavatory first.

"He must have removed the wig while he was in there," he said. "It was the same one as in the picture, by the way. He must have wiped off his make-up as well. He's careful by nature, and he must have foreseen the risk of being recognised. He probably had some make-up remover with him. I didn't notice him slip out because I was waiting for a woman."

"What about his clothes?" Hoglund said.

"Some kind of trouser suit," Wallander said. "And low-heeled shoes. I suppose it might have been obvious that he was a man if one knew to look carefully. But you couldn't see while he sat at the bar."

Hoglund's was the only question.

"I have no doubts that he's the one," Wallander said after a pause. "Why else would he leave like that?"

"Did you consider the fact that he might have been on your boat this morning?" Hansson asked.

"I did think of it," Wallander said. "But by then it was too late."

They should blame me for this, he thought. For this and for many other aspects of the investigation. I should have known it was a wig from the moment I first saw the photograph. If we had known we were looking for a man from the beginning it would all have been different. The search for him would have taken precedence over everything else. But I didn't see it. I didn't understand what I was looking at.

Wallander poured himself a glass of mineral water. "We have to assume he could strike again at any moment, so we have no time to lose. We have to re-examine the facts of this investigation to see if we can find any trace of this man."

"The photograph," Martinsson said. "We can manipulate it on the computer and make it look more like a man."

"That's at the top of our list right now," Wallander said. "We'll have that done as soon as we leave this meeting. A face can be significantly altered with make-up and a wig, but it can't be completely changed."

There was a new surge of energy in the room. Wallander didn't want to keep them any longer, but Holgersson sensed he was about to bring the meeting to a close, and raised her hand.

"I want to remind you that Svedberg's funeral is tomorrow at 2 p.m. With the best interests of this investigation in mind, I'm cancelling the reception afterwards."

No one had any comments. Everyone seemed eager to leave.

Wallander went to his office to get his coat. There was something he wanted to follow up on even though it would most likely lead nowhere. He was just about to leave when Thurnberg appeared.

"Do we really have the resources to manipulate that photograph here?" he asked.

"Martinsson knows the most about that sort of thing," Wallander said. "If he has any doubts about his ability to do the job properly, he'll turn it over to the technicians, don't worry."

Thurnberg nodded. "I just wanted to make sure." But he clearly had something else to say. "I don't think you should blame yourself for letting him slip away in the bar. You couldn't have been expected to see through his disguise."

It seemed as if he really meant it. Was this his way of making amends? Wallander decided to accept him at face value.

"I appreciate your opinion," he said. "This investigation has been far from clear-cut."

"I'll get in touch if I think of anything that might be helpful," Thurnberg said.

Wallander left the station. He hesitated for a moment in the car park before deciding to walk. All he had to do was walk downtown, and he had to keep moving or else sleep would overtake him.

It took him ten minutes to reach the red building that was the central postal depot. Post was being unloaded from yellow postal vans. Wallander had never been down here before. He looked around for an entrance and found one. It was locked. He pressed a small buzzer and was let in.

The man who greeted him was the manager, a young man hardly more than 30 years old. His name was Kjell Albinsson, and he made a good impression. Albinsson escorted him to his office, where a fan placed on top of a filing cabinet was going at high speed. Wallander got out a pen and paper, wondering how he should go about phrasing his questions, such as "Do your postal workers ever open other people's post?" It was an impossible question to ask, an insult to the profession. Wallander thought of Westin, who would no doubt have been deeply offended. He decided instead to start from the beginning.

It was 10.43 a.m. on Monday, 19 August.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A map hung on the wall in Albinsson's room. Wallander started there, asking him about the rural postal routes. Albinsson wanted to know why the police were so interested in this information, and Wallander came close to telling him. Then he realised how preposterous it would sound if he said that the police suspected one of his staff of being a mass murderer, so he kept his explanations as vague as possible, making sure that Albinsson knew not to expect further clarification.

Albinsson described the various routes to him with great enthusiasm. Wallander took occasional notes.

"How many postmen work here?" Wallander asked after Albinsson had finished with the map and sat down at his desk.

"Eight."

"Do you have their names written down anywhere? Photographs would be helpful too."

"The Post Office is a proactive business these days," Albinsson said. "We have an information brochure that I think is just what you're looking for."

As Albinsson left the room, Wallander thought to himself that he had just had a stroke of luck. From the photographs of the postal workers he would immediately be able to determine if the man in Copenhagen worked here or not. Then he would have identified the killer in a single stroke.

Albinsson came back with the brochure, and Wallander looked around for his glasses, to no avail.

"Maybe mine will work," Albinsson suggested. "What's your prescription?"

"I don't know, around ten-point-five, I think."

Albinsson looked at him curiously. "That would mean you were blind," he said. "I take it you mean one-point-five. I'm a two, so go ahead and try them."

Wallander put on the glasses and found that they helped. He unfolded the brochure and looked closely at the pictures of the eight postal workers. There were four men and four women. Wallander studied the men's faces, but none of them bore any likeness to Louise. He hesitated for a moment at the face of a man called Lars-Goran Berg, but quickly realised that it couldn't be him. He looked briefly at the women, and recognised one who regularly delivered post to his father's house in Loderup.

"Can I keep this?" he asked.

"You can have more copies if you like."

"Just one will do."

"Have I answered all your questions?"

"Not quite. There's one more point I need to cover. All of the post is sorted here in this building, right? Do the postmen sort their own post?"

"Yes."

He gave the glasses back to Albinsson. "That's all. I won't keep you from your work any longer."

He stood up. "What is it you're trying to find out?" Albinsson asked.

"Just what I said. This is a routine check."

Albinsson shook his head. "I don't believe that. Why would the chief inspector on a pressing murder case drop by as a matter of routine? You're trying to solve the murder of one of your colleagues, as well as that of those youngsters in the Hagestad nature reserve, and the newly-weds. Your visit here has something to do with all that, doesn't it?"

"That wouldn't change the fact that this is still a routine check," Wallander said.

"I think you're looking for something in particular," Albinsson said.

"I've told you as much as I can."

Albinsson didn't ask any more questions. They parted at the front door, and Wallander walked out into the sunny yard. What a strange August this is, he thought. The heat just won't let up, and there's never even a hint of a breeze.

He walked back to the station, wondering whether to wear his uniform at Svedberg's funeral. He also wondered whether Hoglund was regretting having promised to give a speech, let alone one she hadn't written herself.

When he walked into reception, Ebba said that Holgersson wanted to speak to him. Ebba seemed depressed.

"How are things with you these days?" he asked. "We never have time to talk any more."

"Things are as they are," she said.

It was the kind of thing his father used to say when he spoke of getting old.

"As soon as all this is over, we'll talk," he said.

She nodded. Wallander sensed that something was different about her, but he had no time to ask more. He went to Holgersson's office. Her door was wide open as usual.

"This is a significant breakthrough," she said as soon as he had sat down in the comfortable armchair across from her. "Thurnberg is impressed."

"Impressed by what?"

"You'll have to ask him that. But you're living up to your reputation."

Wallander was surprised. "Are things really so bad?"

"I'd say just the opposite."

Wallander made an impatient gesture with his hand. He didn't want to talk about his own performance, especially since he knew it was seriously flawed.

"The national chief of police will officiate at the funeral tomorrow," she said, "together with the minister of justice. They're landing at Sturup tomorrow morning at 11 a.m. I'll be there to greet them and escort them back here. They have both requested a briefing on the state of our investigation, so I've scheduled that for 11.30 a.m., in the large conference room. It'll be you, me, and Thurnberg."

"Could you handle it on your own, or with Martinsson? He can speak more eloquently than I can."

"You're the one in charge of the investigation," she said. "It'll only take half an hour, then we'll break for lunch. They fly back to Stockholm straight after the funeral."

"I'm dreading this funeral," Wallander said. "It's different when the dead person has been brutally murdered."

"You're thinking about your old friend Rydberg?"

"Yes."

The phone rang and she picked it up, listened for a moment, and then asked the caller to get back to her later.

"Have you chosen the music?" Wallander asked.

"We let the cantor choose it for us. I'm sure it'll be appropriate. What is it usually? Bach and Buxtehude? And then the old standard hymns, of course."

Wallander got up to leave. "I hope you'll make the most of this opportunity," he said. "What with the national chief of police and the minister of justice here."

"What opportunity?"

"To tell them they can't let things go on like this. The cuts in staff and funding are starting to look like a conspiracy to make us unable to do our jobs, not like a matter of fiscal responsibility. The criminal element is taking over. Tell them it will be the end of all of us if they don't do something to stop it. We're not quite there yet, but we will be soon."

Holgersson shook her head in amazement. "I don't think we see eye to eye on this."

"I know you've noticed it too."

"Why don't you tell them yourself?"

"I probably will. But I have a killer to track down in the meantime."

"Not you," she corrected him. "We."

Wallander went to Martinsson's office. Hoglund was with him and they were studying a picture on the computer screen: Louise's face. Martinsson had erased her hair.

"I'm using a programme developed by the FBI," Martinsson told him. "We can add details such as hairstyles, beards and moustaches. You can even add pimples."

"I don't think he had any of those," Wallander said. "The only thing I'm interested in is what was under his wig."

"I called a wigmaker in Stockholm about that," Hoglund said. "I asked him how much hair you could hide under a wig, but it was hard to get a clear answer from him."

"So he could have bushy hair for all we know," Wallander said.

"The programme can do other things, too," Martinsson said "We can fold out the ears and flatten the nose."

"We don't have to fold out or flatten anything," Wallander said. "The photograph is already so similar to his face."

"What about the eye colour?" Martinsson asked.

Wallander thought for a moment. "Blue," he answered.

"Did you see her teeth?"

"Not her teeth. His teeth."

"Did you see them?"

"Not very closely. But I think they were white and well kept."

"Psychopaths are often fanatics about oral hygiene," Martinsson said.

"We don't know if he's a psychopath," Wallander said.

Martinsson entered the information about eyes and teeth into the computer.

"How old was she?" Hoglund asked.

"You mean he," Wallander said.

"But the person you saw was a woman. You only realised later that she had to be a man."

She was right. He had seen a woman, not a man, and that was the image he had to return to in order to judge the person's age.

"It's always hard to tell with women who wear a lot of make-up," he said. "But the photograph we have must be fairly recent. I would say around 40 years old."

"How tall was she?" Martinsson asked.

Wallander tried hard to remember. "I'm not sure," he answered. "But I think she was quite tall, between 170 and 175 centimetres."

Martinsson entered in the numbers. "What about her body?" he said. "Was she wearing falsies?"

Wallander realised he hadn't noticed very much about her at all.

"I don't know," he said.

Hoglund looked at him with a hint of a smile. "The latest studies indicate that the first thing a man notices about a woman is her breasts," she said. "He registers whether they are small or large, then usually proceeds to her legs, and finally her behind."

Martinsson chuckled from his place at the computer. Wallander saw the absurdity of the situation. He was supposed to describe a woman who was actually a man, but who should still be regarded as a woman, at least until Martinsson had finished entering the data into the computer.

"She was wearing a jacket," he said. "Maybe I'm an unusual male, but I really didn't notice her breasts. And the bar hid most of her body. I didn't see much of her when she stood up and went to the ladies' room, because she was swallowed up by the crowd. It was a full house."

"We have quite a lot already," Martinsson said reassuringly. "We just have to work out what kind of hairstyle he had under the wig."

"There must be a hundred different styles," Wallander said. "Let's try circulating the face without any hair. Someone may recognise his features."

"According to the FBI, that's almost impossible."

"Let's do it anyway."

Something else occurred to Wallander. "Who questioned the nurse who received the call from the man pretending to be Erik Lundberg?"

"I did," Hoglund said.

"What did she remember about his voice?"

"Not very much. He had a Scanian accent."

"Did it sound real?"

She looked at him with surprise. "Actually, no. She said there was something funny about his dialect, although she couldn't put her finger on it."

"So it could have been fake?"

"Yes."

"Was it a low or high voice?"

"Low."

Wallander thought back to his time in the Amigo. Louise had smiled at him, then excused herself, and her voice had been deep, although she had tried to make it sound feminine.

"I think we can assume it was him," Wallander said. "Even though we have no proof."

He told them about his visit to the postal depot. "I've only been able to find one common denominator so far," he said. "Isa Edengren and Sture Bjorklund had the same postman. The other people in this investigation bring the number of postmen involved to three, in addition to someone who works outside of Ystad altogether. It therefore seems reasonable to ditch this theory, since it's absurd to think there's a conspiracy between postal workers."

He sat back in his chair and looked at the other two. "I see no pattern yet," he said. "We have costumes and secrets, but nothing more."

"What happens if we ignore the costumes?" Hoglund said. "What do we have then?"

"Young people," Wallander said. "Happy people, having a party or getting married."

"You don't think Haag is a target?"

"No. He falls outside the parameters."

"What about Isa Edengren?"

"She was supposed to have been there."

"That changes our picture," Hoglund said. "A new motive emerges. She's not allowed to escape, but escape what? Is it revenge, or hatred? There also doesn't seem to be any point of connection between the young people and the wedding couple. And then there's Svedberg. What lead was he following?"

"I think I can answer the last question," Wallander said. "At least for now. Svedberg knew this man who dresses as a woman. Something made him suspicious. Over the course of the summer, his investigation confirmed his suspicion. That's why he was killed - he knew too much. But he didn't have time to tell us what he knew."

"But what does it all add up to?" Martinsson said. "Svedberg told his cousin he was involved with a woman called Louise. Now it turns out she's a man. Svedberg must have known that after all these years, so where does that lead us? Was Svedberg a transvestite? Was he homosexual after all?"

"A number of explanations are possible," Wallander said. "I doubt that Svedberg had a passion for dressing up in women's clothing, but he may very well have been homosexual without any of us knowing about it."

"One person in our investigation seems to be growing in importance," Hoglund said.

Wallander knew to whom she was referring: Bror Sundelius.

"I agree," he said. "We need to maintain that end of the investigation, not as an alternative but as part of our search for the killer. We need to know more about the people involved in charges filed against Svedberg. He may very well have been the victim of blackmail or had some other reason to keep Stridh quiet."

"If Bror Sundelius has deviant tendencies then it all starts to make sense," Martinsson said.

Wallander bristled at Martinsson's words. "In this day and age, homosexuality can hardly be regarded as 'deviant'," he said. "Maybe in the 1950s, but not now. That people might still want to conceal their sexual preferences is another matter entirely."

Martinsson registered Wallander's disapproval, but said nothing.

"The question is what connected these three men, Sundelius, Stridh, and Svedberg," Wallander said. "A bank director, a petty criminal and a policeman, whose surnames all start with the letter 'S'."

"I wonder if Louise was in the picture at that point," Hoglund said.

Wallander made a face. "We have to call him something else," he said. "Louise disappeared in the lavatory of that bar back in Copenhagen. We'll confuse ourselves if we don't use another name."

"What about Louis?" Martinsson said. "That would make it easy."

They all agreed, and Louise was renamed. Now they were looking for a man called Louis. They decided that Martinsson should spend part of his time keeping an eye on Sundelius. Wallander left the room and went back to his office. He bumped into Edmundsson on his way.

"We didn't find anything in that area of the nature reserve you wanted us to search," he said. It took Wallander a moment to remember what this had been about.

"Nothing?"

"We found a wad of chewing tobacco by a tree," Edmundsson said. "That was it."

Wallander looked closely at him. "I hope you collected that wad of chewing tobacco, or at least alerted Nyberg."

Edmundsson surprised him with his answer. "Actually, I did."

"This could be more important than you realise," he said.

He kept walking towards his office. He was right. The killer had been there that night, hiding where he had the best view of their comings and goings. He had spat out a wad of chewing tobacco, just like on the beach. And later he had turned up outside the police barricades at Nybrostrand, although this time he was disguised as a woman.

He's following us, Wallander thought. He's somewhere close by, both a step ahead and a step behind. Is he trying to find out what we know? Or is he trying to prove to himself that we can't find him?

Something occurred to him and he called Martinsson. "Is there anyone who has shown an unexpected interest in our investigation?"

"You mean like a journalist?"

"Let people know to be on the lookout for someone who takes an interest in the case, something out of the ordinary. I don't think I can give you a more precise description - just someone who seems odd."

Martinsson promised to pass it on. Wallander hung up.

It was midday and he felt nauseated with hunger. He left the station and walked to a restaurant in the middle of town. He got back at 1.30 p.m., took off his coat, and looked through the brochure that he had picked up at the post office.

The first postman was called Olov Andersson. Wallander picked up the receiver and dialled his number, wondering how long he could keep going.

He returned to Ystad shortly after 11 a.m. Since he didn't want to risk running into the policeman who had found him in Copenhagen, he took the ferry from Helsing0r. When he arrived at Helsingborg, he took a taxi to Malmo where his car was parked. The unexpected inheritance he'd received from a relative meant he no longer had to worry about money. He watched the car park from a distance before approaching his car. There had never been a moment when he doubted that he would get away with it, just as he hadn't doubted the fact that he would get away the night before at the Amigo. That had been a major triumph. He hadn't expected a policeman to stroll in and sit down beside him, but he hadn't panicked or lost control of himself, only done what he had long ago planned to do in such a situation.

He walked calmly into the women's lavatory, took off his wig and tucked it inside his shirt above his belt, removed his make-up with the cream he always carried with him, and then left, timing his departure so it coincided with a man leaving the men's room. He still had the ability to escape. It had not failed him.

When he was certain that the car park wasn't under surveillance, he got into the car and drove to Ystad. Once he was back at home he'd taken a long shower and crawled into bed in the soundproofed room. There was so much he had to think through. He didn't know how that policeman Wallander had found him. He must inadvertently have left a trace of himself behind. That upset him more than it worried him. The only thing he could think of was that Svedberg had kept a photo of him in his flat after all. A photograph of Louise. He hadn't found it during his search. Nonetheless, this thought calmed him. The policeman was expecting to talk to a woman. Nothing suggested that he had seen through the disguise, although by now he might have put two and two together.

The thought of his narrow escape excited him. It spurred him on, although he now encountered a problem. He hadn't selected any more people to kill. According to his original plans, he was going to wait for a whole year before acting again. He needed to plan his next move carefully so he could outdo himself. He would wait just long enough for people to start to forget about him, and then he would show himself again.

But his recent encounter with the policeman changed everything. Now he couldn't stand the idea of waiting a whole year before striking again. He stayed in bed all afternoon, analysing his situation methodically. There were a number of courses of action to be evaluated. A few times he almost gave up.

At last he thought he had hit upon a solution. It went against the original plan, which was its biggest flaw, but he felt he had no alternative. It was also a great temptation. The more he thought about it, the more it struck him as ingenious. He would create something completely unexpected, a riddle no one would see through.

It would have to be Wallander, the policeman, and soon. Svedberg's funeral was tomorrow. He would need that day for his preparations. He smiled at the thought that Svedberg would actually come to his aid. During the funeral, the policeman's flat would be empty. Svedberg had told him on several occasions that Wallander was divorced and lived alone. He would wait no longer than Wednesday. The idea filled him with exhilaration. He would shoot him first, and then give him a disguise. A very particular disguise.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Monday had been a wasted day. That was the first thought that went through Wallander's mind when he woke up Tuesday morning. For the first time in a long while he felt fully rested, as he'd left the station at 9 p.m. the night before.

It was 6 a.m. and he lay motionless in his bed. Through the gap in the curtains he saw blue sky. Monday had been a wasted day because it hadn't brought them closer to their goal. He'd spoken to two of the postal workers assigned to rural routes, but neither one had been able to tell him anything of significance. Around 6 p.m., Wallander had conferred with the other members of the investigative team. By then they had covered all six postal workers. But what were they supposed to have asked, and what answers had they been expecting?

Wallander was forced to admit that his hunch had been wrong. And it wasn't just the postmen who had proved a dead end; Lone Kjaer had called from Copenhagen to say that they hadn't been able to recover any prints from the bar top at the Amigo. They had even worked on the bar stool. Wallander knew it had been unlikely that they'd get anything, but he'd still been hoping that they would. A print would have identified the killer beyond doubt. Now they had to carry around that vague and disconcerting anxiety that this lead would also turn out to be false; that the man in the dark wig was only a step along the path, not the answer itself.

They'd spent a long time wondering whether or not to publish the digitally enhanced picture of Louis - too long for Wallander's liking. He'd sent for Thurnberg. The members of his team had wildly differing opinions, but Wallander had insisted that it should be published. Someone might recognise the face now that the wig was gone. All they needed was one person. Thurnberg had joined the discussion for the first time, supporting Wallander. In his opinion, the picture should be released to the press as soon as possible.

They decided to wait until Wednesday, the day after the funeral.

"People love these composite sketches," Wallander had said. "It doesn't matter if it really looks like him or not. There's something extraordinary, almost magical about this act of throwing out a half-finished face in the hope that someone will bite."

They had worked non-stop all Monday afternoon. Hansson had searched the various databases of the Swedish Police for information on Bror Sundelius. As expected, there was nothing. In terms of digital records at least, he was clean. They'd decided that Wallander would go back and talk to him on Wednesday, pressing him harder this time. Wallander knew that Sundelius was coming to the funeral, and he'd reminded the others of this fact.

Other things had come up on that Monday afternoon, even though Wallander now saw the day as a waste. Shortly after 4 p.m., a journalist from one of the national papers had called him to say that Eva Hillstrom had been in contact with them. The parents of the young murder victims were planning to criticise the police investigation. They didn't think the police had done enough, and they felt they had been denied information that they'd had a right to. The reporter had told him that their criticism was strong. In addition, Eva Hillstrom seemed to regard Wallander as the person responsible, or rather, the one who was not responsible enough. It would be a big article, and it would come out the day after next. The reporter had called to give Wallander a chance to respond to the allegations. Somewhat to his own surprise, Wallander had sharply declined to comment. He'd said he would be in touch when he had read the article and seen for himself what the parents had to say. If he had any reason to disagree with their claims, he would send a rebuttal. End of story.

After speaking to the journalist he'd felt a new knot in his already overtaxed stomach. This one took up residence right next to the fear that the killer was going to strike again. He'd gone over it all again in his mind, asking himself if they could have done more, if they had really done everything in their power up to this point. The reason that they hadn't caught the killer yet was because the investigation was so complicated, not because of laziness, lack of focus, or poor police work. They had so little to go on. The internal blunders made along the way were another matter. The perfect investigation didn't exist; not even Eva Hillstrom could claim otherwise.

After the 6 p.m. meeting, when they had ruled out the postal workers and studied different images of Louis with exhausted eyes, Wallander told them about his conversation with the newspaper reporter. Thurnberg, immediately concerned, had questioned Wallander's decision not to respond to the allegations.

"There just isn't time to do everything at once," Wallander had said. "We're so overworked right now that even these allegations will have to wait."

"The national chief of police is going to be here tomorrow," Thurnberg had replied, "and the minister of justice. It's particularly unfortunate that this article is going to coincide with their visit."

Wallander had suddenly understood Thurnberg's real concern. "Not even a shadow of these allegations falls on you," he'd said. "It seems that Eva Hillstrom and the other parents are critical of the work of the police, not the chief prosecutor's office."

Thurnberg had had nothing else to say. Shortly afterwards they'd called it a day. Hoglund had followed Wallander out into the hall and told him that Thurnberg had been asking questions about events in the nature reserve on the day the jogger, Nils Hagroth, claimed to have been assaulted by Wallander. On hearing this, Wallander had been hit by another a wave of exhaustion. Didn't they have enough on their plates without Nils Hagroth's absurd charges? That had been the moment when, despite the consistently high level of activity, the entire day had begun to seem like a waste.

Wallander reluctantly got out of bed at 7.30 a.m. He was already dreading this day. His uniform hung on the cupboard door. He had to put it on now, because there wouldn't be enough time between his meeting with the national chief of police and the minister of justice and the funeral itself. He looked at himself in the mirror after he put it on. The trousers strained alarmingly across his belly. He would have to leave the top button undone. He couldn't remember when he had last worn his uniform but it must have been a long time ago.

On the way to the station he stopped at a news-stand and bought a paper. The reporter had not been exaggerating. It was a big article, with pictures. The parents' allegations were threefold. First, the police had waited too long before acting on the disappearance of their children. Second, they felt the investigation had not been as organised as it could have been. Third, they felt they had been poorly informed of the developments in the case.

The national chief isn't going to be very happy, Wallander thought. It's not going to matter if we tell him that these allegations are unjust. The fact that they've been made will hurt the police.

Wallander approached the station feeling shaken and angry. It was just before 8 a.m. It was going to be a long and depressing day, although the weather was still warm and beautiful.

Holgersson called him from her car at 11.30 a.m. They were on their way from Sturup and would arrive at the station in five minutes. Wallander walked out to reception to greet them. Thurnberg was already there. They exchanged pleasantries, neither of them mentioning the article. The car pulled up outside and everyone got out. The national chief of police and the minister of justice were appropriately dressed for a funeral. Everyone was introduced, and they all proceeded to Holgersson's office for coffee. Before they entered the room, Holgersson pulled Wallander aside.

"They read the article on the plane," she said, "and the national chief is not pleased."

"What about the minister?"

"She seemed more eager to hear your side of the story before giving an opinion."

"Should I say something?"

"No. Only if they bring it up."

They sat down with their coffee and Wallander received their condolences for Svedberg's death. After that, it was his turn to say something. As usual he had forgotten to bring the piece of paper he'd scribbled some notes on. But it didn't really matter. He knew what he wanted to tell them: that they had a lead. They had identified the killer. Things were picking up, there were new developments.

"This whole matter is very unfortunate," the national chief said when Wallander finished. "A policeman and some innocent youngsters murdered. I hope we can count on you to wrap this up shortly. I'm pleased to hear you have a breakthrough."

It was clear that he was extremely anxious.

"No society will ever be free of lunatics," the minister said. "Mass murders happen in democracies and dictatorships the world over."

"And lunatics don't act according to a predictable pattern," Wallander added. "They can't be easily categorised. They plan their deeds carefully, often appearing from nowhere, with no previous criminal record."

"Community policing," the national chief said. "That's where it has to start."

Wallander didn't quite understand the link between lunatics and community policing but he said nothing. The minister asked Thurnberg some questions, then it was over. As they were about to leave for lunch, the national chief noticed that some papers were missing from his briefcase.

"I have a temporary secretary right now," he said glumly. "I never know where anything is. I hardly have time to learn their names before they leave again."

As they toured the station, the minister of justice fell in beside Wallander.

"I heard someone's filed charges against you. Is there anything to it?"

"I'm not concerned about it," Wallander said. "The man was trespassing at the scene of a murder investigation. There was no assault involved."

"I didn't think so," she said encouragingly.

Once they had returned to the reception area, the national chief asked Wallander the same question.

"The timing is very unfortunate," he said.

"It's always unfortunate," Wallander said. "But I have to give you the same answer that I gave the minister. The allegations of an assault are unfounded."

"Then what was it?"

"A man who was trespassing on the scene of a police investigation."

"It's important for the police to maintain a good relationship with the public and the media."

"Once this case is completed, I'll issue a statement to the papers," Wallander said.

"I'd like to see that before it goes to press," the national chief said.

Wallander promised to oblige. He declined to accompany them to lunch, and stopped by Hoglund's office instead. It was empty. He returned to his own office and sat down at his desk. The germ of an idea was dancing somewhere deep in his mind, but he couldn't quite catch it. Was it something the minister had said? The national chief? It was gone.

At 2 p.m., Saint Mary's Cathedral by the main square was full of people. Wallander was one of the pallbearers. The coffin was white and simply adorned with roses. They carried it into the church.

Wallander searched the crowd for a man's face, although he wasn't expecting Louis to be there. He didn't see him. But Bror Sundelius was there. Wallander greeted him. Sundelius asked him how the investigation was proceeding.

"We've had a breakthrough," Wallander replied. "That's all I can tell you."

"Just be sure you get him," Sundelius said.

Svedberg's murder had obviously shaken him. Wallander wondered if Sundelius knew what Svedberg had known. Did he feel the same fear? He must talk to him again as soon as possible.

Wallander sat in the front row of the cathedral with a sense of dread in his stomach. Dread at the idea of his own annihilation. He wondered if funerals really had to be such an ordeal. The minister of justice spoke about democracy and the right to a secure life, the national chief of police about the tragic nature of this death. Wallander wondered if he was going to weave in a piece about community policing, then decided he was being unfair. There was no reason for him to question the man's sincerity. When the national chief was finished, it was Ann-Britt Hoglund's turn. Wallander had never seen her in her uniform before. She read Wallander's words in a loud, clear voice, and to his surprise he didn't cringe when he heard them.

It was towards the end of the service, right before the processional, when Wallander finally seized the thought that had been skirting the edges of his consciousness. The national chief had said something while rifling through his papers, something about temporary employees who came and went and whose names one never learned before they were gone. At first he didn't know why this comment had stayed with him, but then he suddenly saw the connection. Postal workers must have substitutes who filled in for them when they were away.

It was past 5 p.m. when Wallander was able to return home and take off his tight uniform. He called the postal depot, but no one answered. Before trying to reach Albinsson, he showered and changed, found a pair of glasses and looked in the phone book. Kjell Albinsson lived in Rydsgard. He dialled the number and Albinsson's wife answered. Her husband was playing football for the post office team. She didn't know where the game was being played, but she promised she would have him return Wallander's call.

Wallander heated up tomato soup and ate some slices of crisp bread, then lay on his bed, exhausted despite his good night's sleep. The funeral had tired him out. He was woken by the phone at 7.30 p.m. It was Kjell Albinsson.

"How was the game?" Wallander asked.

"Not so good. We were playing a slaughterhouse team. They have some good players. But it was only a pre-season game. The regular season doesn't start for a while."

"It's a great way to stay in shape."

"Or get your bones broken."

Wallander decided to launch straight into his question. "There was one thing I forgot to ask you the other day. I take it you sometimes employ substitute postal workers."

"That's right. Both short-term and long-term."

"Who do you normally use?"

"We prefer to use people with experience, and we've been pretty lucky. With today's unemployment, we have many to choose from. There are two people who do most of our substituting. One is a woman called Lena Stivell. She had a permanent position, but chose to go to part-time and then to occasional work."

"Is the other one also a woman?"

"No, he's a man called Ake Larstam. He used to be an engineer, but he retrained."

"To become a postal worker?"

"It's not as strange as it sounds. The hours are good and you meet a lot of people."

"Is he working at the moment?"

"He subbed for someone about a week ago. I'm not sure what he's up right now."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about him?"

"He's a very private person, but conscientious. I think he's about 44 years old, and he lives here in Ystad - at number 18, Harmonigatan, if I'm not mistaken."

Wallander thought for a moment. "And these substitutes might be placed on any of your routes?"

"It's supposed to work that way. You never know when someone's going to come down with a cold."

"Which route was Larstam working on last time?"

"The district to the west of Ystad."

Wrong again, Wallander thought. Neither the nature reserve nor Nybrostrand lay to the west.

"Thanks, that's all I wanted to know," he said. "I appreciate you taking the time to call me back."

Wallander hung up and decided to return to the station. The investigative team had no plans to meet that evening, but he would use the time to re-examine material in the case files. The phone rang. It was Albinsson again.

"I made a mistake," he said. "I mixed up Lena's and Ake's assignments. Lena took the route to the west of Ystad."

"And was Ake Larstam also working?"

"That's where I was wrong. He last subbed on a route in Nybrostrand."

"When was that?"

"In July. The assignment was only for a couple of weeks."

"Do you remember the route he had before that?"

"He had a long-term assignment out towards Rogla. That must have been from March to June."

"Thanks for telling me," Wallander said.

He replaced the receiver. Ake Larstam had recently been delivering post in the area where Torbjorn Werner and Malin Skander lived. Before then, he had been delivering post in an area that included Skarby, where Isa Edengren lived. It was probably mere coincidence, but he couldn't help taking out the phone book and looking for Larstam's entry. There was no one by that name in the book. He called information and was told that Larstam had an unlisted number.

Wallander dressed and went down to the station. To his surprise, Hoglund was also there. She was in her office, looking through a thick pile of papers.

"I didn't think anyone else would be here," he said.

She was still dressed in her uniform. Wallander had already complimented her on her speech earlier in the day.

"My babysitter is there tonight," she said. "I have to make the most of it. There's so much paperwork to do."

"Same here. That's why I came down too."

He sat down in her visitor's chair. She saw he wanted to discuss something with her, and she pushed her pile of paper to the side. Wallander told her about the idea he'd had after hearing the national chief mention his temporary secretary. Then he described his conversation with Albinsson.

"From his description, he hardly sounds like a mass murderer," she said.

"Who does? My point is that we finally have someone whose activities we can trace to three of the victims' homes."

"So what are you suggesting we do?"

"I just came here to talk to you about it, nothing more."

"We've talked to the regular postal workers, so we should talk to these substitutes too. Is that what you want?"

"I don't think we need to bother with Lena Stivell."

Hoglund looked down at her watch. "We could take a short walk," she said. "Get some fresh air. We could walk by Harmonigatan and ring Larstam's bell. It's not that late."

"Even I hadn't thought that far," he said. "But I like your idea."

It took them ten minutes to walk to Harmonigatan, which lay in the western part of the city. Number 18 was an older, three-storey block of flats. Larstam lived on the top floor. Wallander rang the bell and they waited. He rang it again.

"I suppose he isn't home," she said. Wallander crossed the street and looked up at the flat. Two of the windows were lit. He went back and tried the front door. It was open, so they walked in. There was no elevator. They walked up the wide stairs. Wallander rang the doorbell, and they heard it ring inside. Nothing happened. He rang it three times. Hoglund bent down and looked through the post slot.

"There's no sound," she said. "But the light's on."

Wallander rang the bell one last time, then Hoglund banged on the door.

"We'll have to try again tomorrow," she said.

Wallander was struck by the feeling that something wasn't quite right. She noticed it immediately.

"What are you thinking?"

"I don't know. That something doesn't add up."

"He's probably not home. The manager at the post office said that he's not working at the moment. He might have gone somewhere for a few days. That's a logical explanation."

"You're probably right," Wallander said doubtfully.

She started down the stairs. "Let's try again tomorrow," she said.

"That is if we don't try to go in tonight anyway."

She looked up at him with genuine surprise. "Are you suggesting that we break in? Is he even a suspect?"

"It's just that we happen to be here now."

She shook her head vigorously. "I can't let you do it. It goes against all the rules."

Wallander shrugged. "You're right. We'll try again tomorrow."

They returned to the station. During the walk they discussed how the workload should be distributed over the next couple of days. They parted in reception, and Wallander returned to his office to deal with some pressing paperwork.

Shortly before 11 p.m. he dialled the number of the Stockholm restaurant where Linda worked. For once he succeeded in getting through, but Linda was very busy. They agreed that she would call him in the morning.

"How is everything?" he asked. "Have you decided where you're going to go?"

"Not yet. I will."

The conversation gave him a burst of energy. He returned to his paperwork. At 11.30 p.m., Hoglund came to say she was leaving.

"I'll try to be here before 8 a.m.," she said. "We can start by visiting Larstam again."

"We'll fit it in when we have the time," Wallander said.

Wallander waited for five minutes, then took a set of skeleton keys out of his desk drawer and left the office. He had already made up his mind while they were deliberating outside Larstam's door. If she didn't want to be party to breaking in, he would do it alone. There was something about Ake Larstam that bothered him.

He walked back to Harmonigatan. It was just before midnight and there was a soft, easterly breeze. Wallander thought he could feel a touch of autumn chill in the air. Maybe the heat wave was nearing its end. He rang the bell from downstairs and noted that the same lights were on. When there was no answer, he pushed open the front door and walked up the stairs.

He had a feeling of being back where it all began; of reliving the night when he and Martinsson had gone up to Svedberg's flat. He shuddered, then listened intently outside the door of the flat. Not a sound. He carefully opened the post slot. No sound, just a soft beam of light. He rang the doorbell and waited, then rang it again. After waiting for five minutes, he got out the skeleton keys, and looked closely at the door. It was fitted with the most elaborate set of locks he had ever seen in his life. Ake Larstam was clearly a person who valued his privacy. There was no way he would be able to open these locks with his skeleton keys. At the same time, the need to get inside seemed more pressing than ever. He hesitated for only a moment before getting out his phone and calling Nyberg.

Nyberg answered in his usual irritated tone. Wallander didn't need to ask if he had been asleep.

"I need your help," he said.

"Don't tell me it's happened again," Nyberg groaned.

"No one's dead," Wallander said. "But I need your help opening a door."

"You don't need a technician for that."

"In this case I do."

Nyberg growled on the other end, but he was fully awake now. Wallander described the locks to him and gave him the address. Nyberg promised to come. Wallander walked quietly down the stairs and waited for him out on the street. He would need to explain to him what was going on, and Nyberg was probably going to protest loudly. With good reason.

Wallander knew he was doing something he shouldn't.

Nyberg arrived within ten minutes. Wallander guessed he was wearing pyjamas under his coat. As he had expected, Nyberg immediately issued a furious protest.

"You can't just break into the homes of innocent people."

"I need you to open the door," Wallander said. "Then you're free to go. I take full responsibility, and I won't tell a soul you've been here."

Nyberg still expressed his reluctance, but when Wallander insisted he walked up the stairs and studied the locks carefully.

"No one will believe you," he said. "There's no way you'd get past this on your own."

Then he got to work. At just before 1 a.m., the door finally opened.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The first thing he noticed was the smell. After he stepped into the hall, he stood absolutely still to and listened for sounds within the flat. That's when it hit him. Nyberg stayed where he was on the other side of the door. The smell was overpowering.

He realised that it was merely the smell of a place that was never aired. The air had actually gone bad. Wallander gestured for Nyberg to follow him in, which he did unwillingly. Wallander told him to wait there and walked into the rest of the flat on his own. There were three rooms and a little kitchen, all clean and orderly. The neatness contrasted strongly with the bad air.

The door to one of the rooms differed from the others. It looked as if it had been specially made. When Wallander pushed it open he saw that it was extremely thick. It reminded him of a door to a recording studio, like the ones he had seen on the few occasions he'd done radio interviews. Wallander stepped inside. There was something strange about the room. There were no windows and the walls were reinforced. There was a bed and a lamp in the room, nothing else. The bed was made, but there was a faint imprint of a body on the bedspread. It took him a while to put it together: the room looked as it did because it had been soundproofed. His curiosity piqued, Wallander walked through the rest of the flat again, hoping to find a picture of the man who lived there. There were shelves full of porcelain figures, but not a single photograph. Wallander came to a halt in the living room, suddenly overtaken by the sense that he was violating someone's privacy.

He had no business being here. He should leave at once. But something held him back. He returned to the hall where Nyberg was waiting.

"Five more minutes," he said. "That's all."

Nyberg didn't reply. Wallander returned to the flat, conducting a methodical search now. He knew what he was looking for. He went through the three cupboards one by one. In the first two he found only men's clothing. He was about to close the door of the third when he caught sight of something. He reached into one end of the cupboard, where some clothes had been hung behind the others, and pulled out a hanger. It held a red dress. He started going through the drawers with equal concentration, feeling underneath the neatly folded piles of men's clothing. The sense that time was running out, that he had to hurry, spurred him on. Again, he came up lucky. Various articles of women's underclothing were hidden away. He returned to the third cupboard, crept around on hands and knees, and found some women's shoes. He was careful to return things as they had been. Nyberg came out into the living room as he worked.

Wallander could see that he was furious. Or possibly afraid.

"It's been almost 15 minutes," he hissed. "What the hell are we doing here?"

Wallander didn't answer. Now he was looking around for a desk. There was an old secretary's desk in the corner. It was locked. He motioned for Nyberg to work on it, but Nyberg objected.

Wallander interrupted his protests, giving him the shortest possible answer he could think of.

"Louise lives here," he said. "You know, the woman in the picture we found in Svedberg's flat. The woman in Copenhagen. The one who doesn't really exist. She lives here."

"You could have said that a little earlier," Nyberg said.

"I didn't know for sure," Wallander said. "Not until this moment. Could you open that desk for me, without leaving any marks?"

Nyberg unlocked it quickly with his tools. The lid folded down into a writing surface.

It had often seemed to Wallander that police work was characterised by a series of expectations that were inevitably disappointed. What he had been expecting at this particular moment, he was later unable to determine, but it could not have been what actually awaited his gaze.

There was a plastic folder full of newspaper clippings, all related to the murder investigation. There was a copy of Svedberg's obituary, which Wallander hadn't seen until then.

Nyberg was waiting behind him. "You should take a look at this," Wallander said slowly. "It'll explain what we're doing in this flat."

Nyberg took a few steps forward, flinched, then looked at Wallander.

"We could leave," Wallander said, "and put the house under surveillance. Or we could call for reinforcements and start going through the flat right away."

"He's killed eight people," Nyberg said. "That means he's armed and dangerous."

It hadn't occurred to Wallander that they might be in danger. That made up his mind for him: they'd get reinforcements. Nyberg closed the desk. Wallander went into the kitchen, where he had seen some glasses on the counter. He wrapped one of them in paper and put it in his pocket. He was about to leave the kitchen when he noticed that the back door was slightly ajar. He felt a wave of fear so powerful it almost knocked him over. He thought someone was about to push the door open and shoot. But nothing happened. Gingerly he approached the back door and nudged it gently. The back stairs were empty. Nyberg was already on his way out of the flat by the front door. Wallander joined him.

They listened carefully. Nothing. Nyberg softly closed the front door. He examined the threshold with a torch.

"There are a few scratches," he said. "But they're not noticeable unless you're really looking for them."

Wallander thought about the back door that had been slightly ajar. He decided to keep it to himself for now. When they got to the station, Wallander literally ran down the corridor to his office. The first person he called was Martinsson, since he wanted him there as soon as possible.

During the next ten minutes he talked to a number of sleepy people who became surprisingly alert when he told them about his find. Martinsson was the first to arrive, then Hoglund and the others in rapid succession.

"I'm lucky," she said. "My mother's visiting."

"I went back to Harmonigatan," Wallander said. "I had the feeling it couldn't wait."

By 2 a.m., everyone was assembled. Wallander looked around the table. He wondered briefly how Thurnberg had found the time to get such a perfect knot in his tie. Then he told them about his discovery.

"What made you go over there in the middle of the night?" Hansson asked.

"I'm usually sceptical of my intuition," Wallander said. "But this time I was right."

He shook off his tiredness. Now he had to shape his investigative team into hunters, stalking their prey in ever-narrowing circles until he was caught.

"We don't know where he is right now," he said. "But the back door was open. Given the nature of the locks on his front door, I think we can assume he heard us working on them and fled. In other words, he knows we're closing in on him."

"That means he's not likely to return," Martinsson said.

"We don't know that for sure. I'd like to put the place under surveillance. One car is fine, as long as there are several others close by."

Wallander brought his palms down heavily on the table.

"This man is extremely dangerous," he said. "I want everyone to be fully armed."

Hansson and one of the reinforcements from Malmo volunteered to take the first watch. Nyberg said he would take them to the flat and see if there had been any change in the lights in the window.

"I want to talk to Kjell Albinsson in Rydsgard," Wallander continued. "A car should be sent out to bring him in."

No one remembered Albinsson. Wallander explained that he was the manager at the postal depot and moved on.

"We need to check if Ake Larstam turns up in any police records," he said. "That's your responsibility, Martinsson. It may be the middle of the night to everyone else, but to us it's a normal working day. Feel free to call anyone you can think of who may have important information. Albinsson will give us some details about Larstam, but it may not be enough. This man dresses up as a woman and takes on other personas. His name may not even be Larstam. We have to look everywhere we can think of for clues. Everywhere."

Wallander now took out the glass he had taken from the flat and placed it on the table.

"If we're lucky, there are prints on this glass," he said. "And if I'm right, they're going to match the ones we found in Svedberg's flat, as well as the ones in the nature reserve."

"What about Sundelius?" Hoglund asked. "Shouldn't we wake him up as well? He may know something about Larstam."

Wallander nodded and glanced briefly at Thurnberg, who seemed to have no objections.

"Why don't you do the honours, Ann-Britt? Don't let him off easily this time. He's been hiding something from us, I'm sure of it. Now we have no more time for secrets."

Thurnberg nodded. "That sounds reasonable enough," he said. "But let me just ask this: is there any possibility that we're mistaken?"

"No," Wallander said. "We're not mistaken."

"I just want to make sure, since the only thing we really have on this man is a file of newspaper clippings."

Wallander felt perfectly calm as he answered. "It's him. There's not a single doubt in my mind."

They made the conference room their provisional headquarters. Wallander was still in his chair at the end of the table when they brought in Kjell Albinsson. He was very pale and seemed bewildered at having been woken up in the middle of the night and brought to the police station. Wallander asked someone to bring him a cup of coffee. In the background he saw Hoglund go by with an indignant Sundelius.

"I want to explain the whole situation to you," he began. "We think Ake Larstam is the person who killed a police officer by the name of Svedberg a few weeks ago, the same man who was buried yesterday."

Albinsson went whiter still. "That's just not possible."

"There's more," Wallander said. "We're also convinced he killed three young people in Hagestad's nature reserve, as well as a young woman on an island in the Ostergot-land archipelago, and finally a couple of newly-weds out in Nybrostrand. What I'm telling you is that this person has killed eight people in a relatively short space of time, making him one of the worst mass murderers that Sweden has ever had."

Albinsson simply shook his head. "There has to be some mistake. It can't be Ake."

"I wouldn't be talking with you now if I wasn't utterly certain. You must take my word for it, and make sure you answer my questions as thoroughly as you can. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Thurnberg walked in and sat across the table from Albinsson without a word.

"This is chief prosecutor Thurnberg," Wallander said. "The fact that he's here means you're not being charged with anything."

Albinsson didn't seem to understand. "I'm not charged with anything?"

"That's what I said. Now try to concentrate on my questions."

Albinsson nodded. The realisation of where he was and why seemed slowly to be sinking in.

"Ake Larstam lives at number 18, Harmonigatan," Wallander said. "We know he isn't there now, and we suspect he's fled. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

"I don't really know him outside work."

"Does he have a summer house? Any close friends?"

"Not that I know of."

"You must know something."

"There's some information about him in the employee records. But all that's kept at the depot."

Wallander swore under his breath. He should have thought of that himself. "Then we'll get it," he said. "Now."

He called in some patrol officers and sent them off with Albinsson. When he returned to his seat, Thurnberg was making notes on a pad.

"How did you enter the flat in the first place?" he said.

"I broke in," Wallander said. "Nyberg was present but the responsibility was wholly mine."

"I hope you're right about Larstam. Otherwise this is going to look very bad."

"I envy you that you should have time to think about such things right now."

"You have to understand my position," Thurnberg said. "Sometimes people make mistakes."

Wallander controlled his temper with some difficulty.

"I don't want another murder on my hands," he said. "That's the bottom line. And Ake Larstam is the man we've been looking for."

"No one wants any more murders," Thurnberg said. "But we also don't want any more police errors."

Wallander was about to ask Thurnberg what he meant by this when Martinsson came in.

"Nyberg called," he said. "The lights in the window haven't changed."

"What about the neighbours?" Wallander asked.

"Where do you want me to start?" Martinsson asked. "With Larstam and the police records? Or with the neighbours?"

"You should do both at the same time. But if we can find anything on Larstam in our files, it would be useful."

Martinsson left and silence filled the room. Somewhere a dog barked and Wallander wondered absently if it was Kall. It was just before 3 a.m. Wallander left to get some coffee. The door to Hoglund's office was closed. She was in there with Sundelius. For a moment he wondered if he should go in, but he decided against it.

Wallander returned to the conference room and saw that Thurnberg had left. He glanced at his pad to see what Thurnberg had written. Dashes, ashes, lashes. A random series of rhyming words. Wallander shook his head.

Five minutes went by, then Albinsson came in. He was less pale now. He held a yellow folder in his hands.

"These are confidential records," he said. "I should really consult the postmaster before handing them over."

"If you do that I'll get the chief prosecutor back in here," Wallander said, "and have you arrested for obstruction of justice and aiding a criminal."

Albinsson seemed to take this seriously. Wallander stretched out his hand and took the file. The records confirmed what Albinsson had already told him. From the beginning of March to the middle of June Larstam had worked on the Skarby route. In July he had delivered post in Nybrostrand.

There was little personal information. Ake Larstam had been born on 10 November 1952, in Eskilstuna. His full name was Ake Leonard Larstam. He had graduated from high school in 1970, had done his compulsory military training in Skovde the following year, then had enrolled at the prestigious Chalmers School of Engineering in Gothenburg in 1972. He had graduated from Chalmers in 1979 and taken a job in Stockholm with Strand Consulting. He'd worked there until 1985, when he'd given notice and started to retrain for the postal service. That year he had moved first to Hoor and then to Ystad. He was unmarried and had no children. The space allotted to "emergency contact" was blank.

"Doesn't this man even have any relatives?"

"Apparently not," Albinsson said.

"But he must have socialised with someone."

"He was very private, as I said."

Wallander put down the file. All of the facts would be verified, but for now Wallander had to concentrate on finding where Larstam was.

"No one is completely without personal relationships," Wallander said. "Who did he talk to? Who did he have coffee with? Did he have any strong opinions? There has to be something more you can say about him."

"We talked about him sometimes," Albinsson said. "He was so hard to get to know. But since he was always so friendly and helpful, everyone left him alone. You can grow fond of people you know nothing about."

Wallander thought about what Albinsson had just said. Then he chose a different tack.

"Some of these jobs were long-term, some just a matter of days. Did you ever know him to turn down an assignment?"

"No."

"So he didn't seem to have another job?"

"Not that we knew about. He could get ready at a few hours' notice."

"That means you always managed to get hold of him."

"Yes."

"He was always at home waiting for the phone to ring?"

Albinsson was very serious when he answered. "It seemed like that."

"You've described him as conscientious, helpful, careful and responsible. And introverted. Did he ever do anything that surprised you?"

Albinsson thought for a while. "He sang to himself."

"Sang?"

"Yes. He hummed melodies under his breath."

"What kinds of things?"

"Mainly hymns, I think. He would do it as he was sorting the post, or as he was walking out to his car. I don't know how to describe it. He sang in a very low voice, probably because he didn't want it to bother anyone."

"He sang hymns?"

"Or religious songs."

"Was he religious?"

"How would I know that?"

"Just answer the question."

"There's a thing called freedom of religion in this country. Ake Larstam could be a Buddhist for all I know."

"Buddhists don't go around shooting people," Wallander said sharply. "Did he have any other peculiar characteristics?"

"He washed his hands a lot."

"Anything else?"

"The only time I saw him in a bad mood was when people around him were laughing. But that seemed to pass quickly enough."

Wallander stared at Albinsson. "Can you elaborate on what you just said?"

"Not really. It's just what I told you."

"He didn't like people being happy?"

"I wouldn't say that, but he seemed to withdraw more when other people were laughing. I suppose you could call that being happy. It seemed to irritate him."

Wallander had a flashback to the crime scene at Nybrostrand. Nyberg had turned to him and said that the killer didn't seem to like happy people.

"Did he ever show any violent tendencies?"

"Never."

"Any other tendencies?"

"He had no tendencies. You hardly noticed him."

Wallander sensed there was something else that Albinsson was trying to get at. He waited.

"Maybe you could say that his strongest characteristic was the fact that he didn't seem to want to be noticed. He was the kind of person who never turns his back to a door."

"What do you mean by that?"

"That he always wanted to know who was coming and going."

Wallander thought he knew what Albinsson was saying. He looked at his watch. It was 3.41 a.m. He called Hoglund.

"Are you still with Sundelius?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to see you out in the hall for a moment."

Wallander got up. "Can I go home now?" Albinsson asked. "I know my wife must be worried."

"Please feel free to call her. But you can't go home just yet."

Wallander went out into the hall and closed the door. Hoglund was already waiting for him.

"What did Sundelius say?"

"He claims he doesn't know who Ake Larstam is. He keeps repeating that he and Svedberg never did anything but look at stars, and that once they went to a natural healer together. He's very upset. I don't think he's comfortable talking to a female police officer."

Wallander nodded thoughtfully. "I think we can send him home for now," he said. "He probably didn't know Larstam. I think what we have is two separate nests of secrets. We have Larstam, who eavesdropped on his victims' most intimate affairs. And we have Svedberg, who kept a part of his life secret from Sundelius."

"And what would that have been?"

"Just think about it."

"You mean there's a love triangle of sorts behind all this?"

"Not behind. In the middle of."

She nodded. "I'll send him home. When are Hansson and the others supposed to be relieved?"

Wallander realised he had already made up his mind.

"They can stay. We're going in. Ake Larstam isn't coming back tonight. He's holed up somewhere - the question is where. If we're going to find the answer, our best place to start is in his flat."

Wallander returned to the conference room while Albinsson was talking on the phone to his wife. Wallander signalled for him to finish his call.

"Have you been able to think of anything else?" he asked. "Where could Ake Larstam have gone?"

"I don't know. But that makes me think of another way to describe him."

"How?"

"That he was always trying to hide."

Wallander nodded. "I'll have someone take you home now," he said. "But give me a call if you think of anything else."

They went back into Ake Larstam's flat at 4.15 a.m. Wallander gathered everyone outside the door to the soundproofed bedroom.

"We're looking for two things," he said. "The first is where he could be hiding. Does he have a secret hiding place? How do we force him to show himself? The second is whether he is planning to kill again. That's the most important point. It would also be useful if anyone found a picture of him."

He took Nyberg aside when he finished. "We need fingerprints," he said. "Thurnberg is nervous. We have to have something that places Larstam at the scene of the crime. This has to take precedence over anything else."

"I'll see what I can do," Nyberg said.

"Don't see what you can do, just do it," Wallander said.

Wallander went into the soundproofed room and sat down on the bed. Hansson appeared in the doorway, but Wallander waved him away.

Why build a soundproofed room? To keep sounds out, or to keep them in? Why, in a town like Ystad? Traffic is never that bad. His thoughts wandered. The bed was uncomfortable to sit on. He got up and looked under the sheets. There was no mattress, just the hard platform of the bedframe. He's a masochist, Wallander thought. Why? He stooped to peer under the bed. There was nothing there, not even a speck of dust. Wallander tried to summon forth the spirit of the man who lived here. Ake Larstam, 44 years of age. Born in Eskilstuna, a graduate of Chalmers. An engineer turned postal worker. You suddenly go out and kill eight people. Apart from Svedberg and the photographer, your victims were all dressed up. The photographer just happened to be in the way, and you killed Svedberg because he was on to you. His worst fears were confirmed. But the others were dressed up, and they were happy. Why did you kill them? Was it in here, in your soundproofed chamber, that you planned everything?

Wallander didn't feel any closer to the killer's thoughts. He walked out into the living room, and looked around at all the porcelain figures. Dogs, roosters, dolls in 19th-century dress, gnomes and trolls. It's like a doll's house, Wallander thought. A doll's house inhabited by a lunatic with bad taste. He wondered why Larstam kept all these kitsch souvenirs.

Hoglund came in from the kitchen and interrupted his train of thought. Wallander knew immediately that she had found something.

"I think you'd better take a look at this," she said. Wallander followed her into the kitchen. One of the drawers had been pulled out and placed on the table. At the top of a pile of papers in the drawer was a piece of mathematical paper. Something was written on it in pencil. If that was Larstam's handwriting, he wrote in an unusually spiky style. Wallander put on his glasses and read what it said.

There were only ten words, forming a macabre poem of sorts. Number 9. Wednesday 21. He giveth and He taketh away. The meaning was immediately clear to Wallander, as it must have been to Hoglund.

"He's already killed eight people," Wallander said. "This is about victim number nine."

"It's the 21st today," she said. "And it's Wednesday."

"We have to find him," Wallander said, "before he gets a chance to do this."

"What about the last part? What does he mean by 'He giveth and He taketh away'?"

"It means Larstam hates happy people. He wants what they have to be taken from them."

Wallander told her what Albinsson had said.

"How do you go about locating happy people?" she asked.

"You go out and look for them."

He felt the knot in his stomach return.

"One thing is strange," she said. "This number nine sounds like a single person. But if you disregard Svedberg, he's always gone for a group of some sort in the past."

"You're right to disregard Svedberg. He's not part of the pattern. It's a good point."

It was 4.20 a.m. Wallander walked over to the window and looked out into the night. It was still dark. Ake Larstam was out there in that darkness. Wallander felt a sudden twinge of panic. We're not going to get him in time, he thought. We're going to be too late. He's already chosen his victim and we have no idea who it is. We're scurrying around like blind mice, not knowing where to turn. We know nothing.

Wallander put on a pair of rubber gloves and starting going through the rest of the papers in the drawer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The sea. That would be his place of last resort, if it ever came to that. He imagined himself walking straight out, slowly sinking down to the place where eternal darkness and silence reigned. A place where no one would ever find a single trace of him.

He took one of his cars and drove down to the sea, just west of Ystad. Mossbystrand was deserted this August evening. Few cars went by on the road to Trelleborg. He parked so that none of the lights from oncoming traffic would hit him, and so that he could make a quick getaway if he was being followed.

There was one detail about the latest events that disturbed him. He had been lucky. If his bedroom door had been completely closed, as it usually was, he would never have heard them breaking into the flat that evening. He had woken up with a start, realised what was happening, and slipped out the back door. He had no idea if he had remembered to close it behind him. The only thing that he had grabbed, apart from some clothes, was his gun.

Although he had been shaken, he'd forced himself to drive calmly. He didn't want to risk having an accident.

Now it was 4 a.m. and it would be a while before the sun came up. He thought about everything that had happened and wondered if he had made a mistake. But he couldn't find anything. He was not going to alter his plans.

Everything had gone well. During Svedberg's funeral he had gone to the policeman's flat on Mariagatan. It was easy enough to pick the lock. He'd looked through the flat and quickly established that the man lived alone. Then he'd made his plans. It was easier than he expected; he found a set of spare keys to the flat in a kitchen drawer. He wouldn't have to pick the lock next time. For fun he lay down on the policeman's bed, but it was much too soft. He felt as though he was drowning.

Afterwards he had gone home, showered, eaten and rested in the soundproofed room. Later he'd done something that he had been planning to do for a long time. He polished all his porcelain figurines. That had taken quite a while. When he was done, he'd eaten his supper and gone to bed. He had been sleeping for several hours when he'd heard the policemen at the door.

He thought about the fact that the police were in his flat right now, pulling out drawers, dirtying the floor, moving his porcelain figurines around. It enraged him, and he could hardly control his desire to rush back and shoot them all. But self-preservation was more important than revenge, and he knew they would find nothing in the flat to help them in their search. He kept no photographs there, no private documents, nothing. They didn't know about the safe-deposit box he kept at the bank under an assumed name. That's where all the important documents were, such as his car registration and his financial information.

They would probably be in his flat for many hours but sooner or later the policeman would return home, exhausted after his sleepless night. And he would be there waiting for him.

He returned to the car. The most important thing was for him to catch up on the sleep he had missed. He could of course sleep in one of his cars, but there was a slight chance that he could be discovered. He also disliked the idea of curling up in the back seat. It was undignified. He wanted to stretch out in a real bed, one where he could remove the mattress to give him the firm support he liked.

He considered checking into a hotel under a false name, but dismissed the possibility when he had a sudden flash of inspiration. There was one place he could go where no one would disturb him. And there was always the back door if someone turned up unexpectedly. He started the engine and turned on the headlights. It was almost time for the sun to rise. He needed to sleep, to rest in preparation for the coming day.

He turned on to the main road and drove back to Ystad.

It was close to 5 a.m. when Wallander started to realise how best to describe the kind of person Ake Larstam was. He was someone who left no trace of himself. They had nearly finished their search of the flat and hadn't managed to find even one object that revealed anything about the person who lived there. There was no post, not even a piece of paper with Ake Larstam's name on it.

"I've never seen anything like it," Wallander said. "Ake Larstam doesn't seem to exist. We can't find a single document that verifies his existence, even though we know he's real."

"Maybe he keeps another flat somewhere," Martinsson said.

"Maybe he has ten other flats," Wallander answered. "He might have all kinds of villas and summer houses, but if so we have nothing here that will lead us to them."

"Perhaps he took everything with him when he fled," Hansson said. "He may have known we were closing in on him."

"The state of this flat doesn't suggest that," Wallander said. "I think he lived like this. The man has a professionally soundproofed room. But you may be right. I hope you are; then perhaps we'll find something after all."

The piece of paper lay on the table in front of them.

"Are we misinterpreting it?" Hoglund asked.

"It says what it says. Nyberg claims it was written recently. He can tell that from the consistency of the graphite, or something like that."

"Why do you think he wrote it?"

Martinsson was the one who asked the last question, and Wallander knew it was an important one.

"You're right," he said. "It stands out as the only personal item we've found. What does it mean? I'm assuming that he was here when Nyberg and I were at the door. The unlocked back door seems to imply a hasty departure."

"Then this was something he left behind inadvertently?" Martinsson asked.

"That's the most plausible explanation. Or rather the most obvious. But is it the right one?"

"What would the alternative be?"

"That he wanted us to find it."

No one seemed to grasp what Wallander was getting at. He knew it was a flimsy theory.

"What do we know about Ake Larstam? We know he's good at getting the information he needs. He ferrets out other people's secrets. I'm not saying he has access to our investigation, but I think the information he does have is aided by a fair amount of foresight. He must have considered the possibility that we would find him. The fact that I turned up at that bar in Copenhagen, if nothing else, would have forced him to think about this. What does he do? He prepares to flee, but first he prepares a greeting for us. He knows we'll find it, since there's nothing much else here to find."

"But that still doesn't tell us why," Martinsson said.

"He's teasing us. That's not so unusual. Lunatics like this often enjoy taunting the police. He must have exulted over his triumph in Copenhagen. There he was, parading around as Louise just after the Danish papers had run her picture, and he still managed to get away."

"It still strikes me as strange that we would find this piece of paper on the very day he's planning to kill again."

"He couldn't have known when we would get here."

But the words sounded unconvincing even to his ears. Wallander let it drop.

"We have to take his threats seriously," he said. "We have to assume he intends to strike again."

"Do we have any leads whatsoever?" The question came from Thurnberg, who had appeared in the doorway.

"No," Wallander said. "We have nothing. We might as well be honest about that."

No one said anything. Wallander knew he had to counteract the sense of hopelessness that was spreading through the team. It was 5.20 a.m. Wallander suggested that they report back at 8 a.m. That would give everyone an opportunity to rest for an hour or so. They would station a couple of officers outside the block of flats, and they would also start questioning the neighbours about Larstam.

Nyberg waited until everyone except Wallander had left the room.

"He keeps a clean house," he said. "But we have fingerprints."

"Anything else?"

"Not really."

"Any weapons?"

"No, I would have already told you about something like that."

Wallander nodded. Nyberg's face was ashen with exhaustion.

"I think you were right about the killer and happy people."

"Will we find him?"

"Sooner or later. But I dread what may happen today."

"Couldn't we make some kind of announcement?"

"Saying what exactly? That people should avoid laughing today? He's already chosen his victim. It's probably someone who isn't giving a thought to the idea of being followed."

"I guess we might have a better chance of locating his hideout if we keep quiet."

"That's my thought, too. I just don't know how much time we have."

"Shouldn't we also consider the possibility that he may not have an extra flat or summer house to run to? What then? Where would he go?"

Nyberg was right. Wallander hadn't considered this possibility. The fatigue had wrung his brain dry. "What do you think?" he asked.

Nyberg shrugged. "We know he has a car. Maybe he's curled up in the back seat. It's still warm enough to sleep outside. That's another possibility. Or he may have a boat. There are a number of options."

"Too many," Wallander said. "We have no time to look for him."

"I understand the hell you're in right now," Nyberg said. "Don't think I don't."

It was rare for Nyberg to express anything remotely close to emotion. Wallander sensed his support, and for once felt somewhat less alone.

Once Wallander was out on the street, he was no longer sure what to do. He knew he needed to go home, shower, and sleep for at least half an hour. But anxiety drove him to keep going. A squad car took him back to the station. He felt queasy and thought about trying to eat something, but instead he drank some more coffee and took his medication. He sat down at his desk and started working through the file again. He saw himself back at Svedberg's flat, with Martinsson close behind. Ake Larstam was the one who had been there and killed Svedberg. Wallander still couldn't see their relationship clearly, but the photo Svedberg had was of Larstam dressed as a woman. Now he knew why the flat had looked the way it did. Larstam's greatest fear was leaving traces of himself. After shooting Svedberg, he had turned the flat upside down looking for that photograph. But Svedberg had had a secret of his own.

The team met promptly at 8 a.m. When Wallander saw the fatigue and anxiety on the faces around him, he worried that he had failed them. Not that he had led them down the wrong path, but that he hadn't led them down the right one. They were still fumbling around in a no-man's-land, not knowing which way to turn. He had one clear thought in his head.

"From now on we work together," he said. "This room will be our headquarters and our meeting place."

The others went to their offices to get the materials they needed. Only Martinsson lingered in the doorway.

"Have you slept at all?" he asked.

Wallander shook his head. "You have to," Martinsson said firmly. "We can't do this if you collapse."

"I can keep going a while longer."

"You've already crossed the line. I slept for an hour. It helped."

"I'll take a walk soon," Wallander said. "I'll go home and change my shirt."

Martinsson looked as if he was going to add something, but Wallander held his hand up to stop him. He didn't have the energy to listen. He didn't know if he was ever going to have the energy to get up from his chair again. They all filed back into the room and closed the door. Thurnberg loosened his tie and actually looked tired. Holgersson sent a message saying that she was in her office dealing with the press.

Everyone looked at Wallander.

"We have to try to understand the way he thinks," he said. "And we have to figure out where can we look for answers. We're not only going to look back through our files on this investigation; some of us will have to examine this man's past. We need to know if he has any living relatives at all, if anyone remembers him from his time at Chalmers, or his old workplace. Where did he retrain to become a postal worker? Our biggest problem is time. We have to assume that the note we found was a message to us about his intentions. Somehow we have to decide what information to look for first."

"We should find out about his parents," Hoglund said. "We can only hope his mother is still alive. A mother knows her children; we've learned that lesson."

"Why don't you look into that?" Wallander said.

"One more thing," she said. "I think there's something strange about his career switch from engineer to postal worker. That needs to be explored."

"I recently heard about a bishop who started driving a taxi," Hansson said.

"This is different," she said. "I heard about that bishop, too. He was already 55 - maybe he wanted to try something completely different before he got too old. But Ake Larstam made his switch before he turned 40."

Wallander sensed that this was important. "You mean that something happened?"

"Yes, something significant had to have happened to make him change his life so completely."

"He moved, too," Thurnberg said. "That suggests that Ann-Britt is right."

"I'll look into this myself," Wallander said. "I'll call that engineering firm - what was it called?"

Martinsson flipped through his papers. "Strand Consulting. He left in 1985, which means he was then 33 years old."

"We'll start there," Wallander said. "The rest of you will keep looking through the material we already have. You're trying to find out where he might be, and who his next victim is."

"What about bringing in Kjell Albinsson again?" Thurnberg asked. "He might think of something else, particularly if he participates in our discussion."

"You're right," Wallander said. "We'll bring him back. Someone also has to run Larstam's name through the database."

"His name isn't there," Martinsson said. "I've already checked."

Wallander was surprised that he had found the time to do it, but then he realised that Martinsson must have lied when he said he had slept for an hour. He had been working as hard as Wallander, but had lied out of consideration. He didn't know if he should be touched or angry. He decided against both, and pushed on.

"Get me the number of that firm."

He dialled the number that was read out to him and reached a recording stating that the number had been changed. He dialled the new number, which was in Vaxholm, an island very close to Stockholm. This time someone answered.

"Strand Consulting," a female voice said.

"My name is Kurt Wallander. I'm a detective with the criminal division in Ystad. I need some information about a former employee at your company."

"And who might that be?"

"An engineer by the name of Ake Larstam."

"There's no one here by that name."

"I know. That's what I just said. He's a former employee. Please listen."

"There's no need to take that tone with me. How do I know you're really from the police, anyway?"

Wallander was about to pull the phone out of the wall but managed to calm himself.

"Of course you have no way of knowing who I am," he said. "But all the same, I need information on Ake Larstam. He left the firm in 1985."

"That was before my time. You'd better speak with Persson."

"Why don't I give you my number? That way he can double-check that I'm calling from the Ystad police station."

She wrote down the number.

"This is an urgent matter. Is Persson available?"

"He's meeting with a client right now, but I'll have him call you when he's done."

"That's not soon enough," Wallander said. "He'll have to interrupt his meeting and call me back immediately."

"I'll tell him it's important, but that's all I can do."

"Then tell him this: if he doesn't return my call in three minutes, a police helicopter will be dispatched from Stockholm to bring him in for questioning."

Wallander hung up, aware that everyone was staring at him. He looked over at Thurnberg, who burst out laughing.

"I'm sorry about that," Wallander said. "I had to say something."

Thurnberg nodded. "I didn't hear you say anything."

The phone rang in less than two minutes. The man on the other end said he was Hans Persson. Wallander told him what he needed to know, without saying that Ake Larstam was wanted for murder.

"According to our information, he stopped working for you in 1985," Wallander said.

"That's right. It was in November, if I recall."

"You remember?"

"Vividly."

Wallander pushed the receiver closer to his ear.

"Why was it so memorable? What happened?"

"He was fired. He's the only engineer I've ever let go. I should explain at this point that I founded this company. There's never been a 'Strand' here, I just thought Strand sounded better than Persson."

"So you fired Ake Larstam. Why?"

"It's hard to explain, but he just didn't fit in here."

"Why not?"

"It will sound strange when I explain it."

"I'm a policeman, I'm used to strange things."

"He wasn't independent enough. He always agreed with everything, even when we knew he had a different opinion. It isn't possible to have constructive discussions with people who are only out to please others. You can't get anywhere with them."

"That's how he was?"

"Yes. It just wasn't working out. He never came up with any ideas of his own."

"How were his technical abilities?"

"Excellent. That was never the issue."

"How did he react to his termination?"

"He didn't show any emotion at all, as far as I could tell. I was expecting to keep him on for another half a year at least, but he left immediately. He walked out of my office, got his coat, and just left. He didn't even pick up the severance pay due to him. It was as if he vanished into thin air."

"Did you have any contact with him after that?"

"I tried to, but I never managed to speak with him in person."

"Did you know he went to work for the post office?"

"I heard about it. There was some paperwork that came through from the employment office."

"Did he have any close friends that you were aware of?"

"I knew nothing about his personal life. He wasn't particularly close to anyone at this office. Sometimes he looked after other people's flats when they were gone, but otherwise I think he simply kept to himself."

"Do you know if his parents were still alive, or if he had any siblings?"

"I have no idea. His life outside this office was a complete blank. That's a real problem at a small firm."

"I understand. Thanks for your help."

"You'll understand if my curiosity has been piqued," Persson said. "Can you tell me what this is about?"

"You'll hear about it soon enough," Wallander said. "I can't tell you more than that right now."

Wallander hung up abruptly. He was struck by something Persson had said, something about how Larstam looked after other people's flats when they were away on holiday. He hesitated, but decided it should be looked into.

"Has anything been done with Svedberg's flat?" he asked.

"Ylva Brink said at the funeral that she was going to empty it soon, but she hasn't started yet."

Wallander thought about the keys that were still in his desk drawer.

"Hansson," he said. "You and someone else should go down to his flat and look around. See if you can tell if anyone's been there recently. The keys are in my top drawer."

Hansson left with one of the officers from Malmo. It was just before 9 a.m. Hoglund was trying to find Larstam's parents. Martinsson went back to double-check the database. Wallander went to the men's room, refusing to look at himself in the mirror. When he returned to the conference room, someone was passing around a plate of sandwiches, but he shook his head. Hoglund appeared in the doorway.

"Both of his parents are dead," she said.

"Any siblings?"

"Two older sisters."

"Find them."

She left, and Wallander thought about his own sister, Kristina. How would she describe him if the police came around asking questions?

He heard someone shouting in the corridor. Wallander got up quickly as a policeman appeared in the door.

"Gunfire," he shouted. "Down at the main square."

Wallander knew what it meant. "It must be Svedberg's flat," he shouted back. "Anyone injured?"

"I don't know. But the gunfire has been confirmed."

Four cars with blaring sirens were on their way in less than a minute. Wallander sat in the back seat with his gun held tightly in his hand. Larstam was there, he thought. What had happened to Hansson and the colleague from Malmo? He feared the worst, but pushed the thought away. It was too unbearable.

Wallander was out of the car before it came to a halt. A crowd had gathered at the door to the block of flats on Lilla Norregatan. Wallander dived through the crowd at full speed, bellowing, he was later told, like a charging bull. Then he saw both Hansson and the officer from Malmo. They were unhurt.

"What happened?" Wallander yelled.

Hansson was pale and shaking. The Malmo officer was sitting on the kerb.

"He was there," Hansson said. "I had just unlocked the door and stepped inside. He appeared out of nowhere and fired his gun. Then he was gone. It was pure luck we weren't hit. We turned and ran. It was sheer luck."

Wallander didn't say anything, but he knew luck had nothing to do with it. Larstam was an excellent marksman. He could have taken out both of them if he had wanted to. But he hadn't. Someone else was marked as his victim.

The flat was now empty. The back door was ajar. A greeting, Wallander thought when he saw it. A second door left open. He's showing us how good he is at getting away.

Martinsson emerged from Svedberg's bedroom.

"He's been sleeping in there," he said. "Now at least we know how he thinks. He takes shelter in empty nests."

"We know how he thought," Wallander corrected. "He won't do the same thing twice."

"Are you sure?" Martinsson said. "He's probably trying to figure out how we think. Maybe it makes sense to leave some men here. We don't expect him to return here, so that may be exactly what he does."

"He can't read our thoughts."

"It seems to me," Martinsson said, "that he gets pretty damn close to that. He always manages to stay one step ahead of us and one step behind at the same time."

Wallander didn't reply. He was thinking the same thing.

It was 10.30 a.m. There was only one thing Wallander was sure of and that was that Larstam had not yet killed victim number nine. If he had, Hansson would have been number ten, and their colleague from Malmo number eleven.

Why is he waiting, Wallander thought. Because he has to? Is his victim out of reach, or is there another explanation? Wallander left Svedberg's flat with nothing but more questions. I might as well face it, he thought. I'm back to square one.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

He felt a sense of regret when it was over. Should he have aimed at their heads after all? He knew that it had to be the police. Who else would have reason to visit Karl Evert's flat, now that he was dead and buried? He also knew that they were trying to track him down. There was no other reasonable explanation.

Once again he had managed to escape, something that was both reassuring and satisfying. Although he hadn't expected them to come looking for him there, he had taken the necessary precautions by unlocking the back door and propping a chair against the front door. It would fall to the ground if someone tried to enter. The gun lay loaded on the bedside table. He slept with his shoes on.

The noise from the street disturbed him. It wasn't like sleeping in his soundproofed room. How many times had he tried to convince Karl Evert to renovate his bedroom? But nothing had come of it, and now it was too late.

The images had been blurry and indistinct, but he'd known he was dreaming of his own childhood. He was standing behind the sofa. He was very young. Two people were fighting, probably his parents. There was the harsh, domineering voice of a man. It swooped over his head like a bird of prey. Then there was a woman's voice, weak and afraid. When he heard it, he thought he was hearing his own voice, though he was still safely hidden behind the sofa.

That was when he was woken by the sounds from the hall. They entered his dreams by force. By the time the chair fell over, he was on his feet, the gun cocked in his hand. It would have meant changing his plans, but he should have shot them. He had left the building, his gun tucked into his coat pocket. The car was parked down at the railway station. He'd heard sirens in the distance. He'd driven out past Sandskogen, towards Osterlen. He stopped in Kaseberga and took a walk down to the harbour. He thought about what he should do next. He needed more sleep, but it was getting late and he had no idea when Wallander would return home. He had to be there when he did. He had already decided that it should happen today, and he couldn't risk changing his plans.

When he arrived at the far end of the pier, he made up his mind. He drove back to Ystad and parked at the back of the block of flats on Mariagatan. No one saw him slip in through the front door of the building. He rang the doorbell and listened carefully. No one was home. He unlocked the door, walked in, and sat down on the sofa in the living room. He put his gun down on the coffee table. It was a few minutes after 11 a.m.

Hansson and the Malmo officer were still so shaken that they had to be sent home. This meant that the team shrank by two people, and Wallander detected a new level of tension among members of the group when they gathered after the chaotic events at Lilla Norregatan.

Holgersson took him aside to ask if it was time to send for more reinforcements. Wallander wavered, exhausted and starting to doubt his judgment, but then answered with an emphatic no. They didn't need reinforcements, they just needed to focus.

"Do you really think we can find him?" she asked. "Or are you just hoping there will be another breakthrough?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

They sat back down at the conference table. Martinsson had still not been able to find anything on Larstam in the police registers, so he turned the matter over to a subordinate who would search the files in the basement. Hoglund hadn't yet managed to find anything on the two sisters. Now that Hansson was out of the game, Wallander asked her to hold off on that. He needed to have her close by; the sisters would have to wait. They had to concentrate on finding Larstam before he turned to victim number nine.

"We have to ask ourselves what we know," Wallander said, for the umpteenth time.

"He's still in town," Martinsson said. "That must mean he's preparing to strike somewhere close by."

"He's not unaffected by us," Thurnberg said, who rarely commented on the action. "He knows we're on his heels."

"It's also possible he likes it this way," Wallander said.

Kjell Albinsson, who was sitting silently in a corner of the room, now indicated that he wanted to speak. Wallander nodded to him and he got up and approached the table.

"I don't know if this is anything," he said. "But I just remembered that last summer someone at work claimed to have seen Larstam down at the marina. That might mean he owns a boat."

Wallander hit the table with the flat of his hand. "How seriously can we take this?"

"It was one of the other postmen who saw him. He was sure it was him."

"Did he ever actually see Larstam climb onto one of the boats?"

"No, but he said he was carrying a container of petrol."

"Then it can't be a sailing boat," said one of the Malmo officers. But this comment met with a storm of protests.

"Sailing boats often have engines as well," Martinsson said. "We can't rule anything out, even a little sea plane."

Martinsson's last suggestion met with even more protests. Wallander silenced them.

"A boat is a good hiding place," he said. "The question is how much stock we put in this."

He turned to Albinsson again. "Are you sure you're right?"

"Yes."

Wallander looked over at Thurnberg, who nodded.

"Get some plainclothes officers to look around the marina," Wallander said. "Make the whole thing as discreet as possible. If there's even a hint of a suspicion that Larstam is there, they should turn back. We'll have to decide how to proceed at that point."

"There are probably a lot of people down there," Hoglund said, "with this weather we've been having."

Martinsson and one of the Malmo officers headed down to the marina. Wallander asked Albinsson to sit at the table.

"If you have any more of these boat stories up your sleeve, I'd love to hear them."

"I've been trying to think of everything I can, but it's just making me realise how little I knew about him," Albinsson said.

Wallander checked his watch. It was 11.30 a.m. We're not going to get him in time, he thought. At any moment the phone will ring with the news of another murder.

Hoglund started talking about Larstam's motive.

"It must be some kind of revenge," Wallander said.

"For what?" she asked. "Because he was fired from his job? What would the newly-weds have to do with that?"

Wallander got up to get some coffee and Hoglund came along.

"You're right. There's another motive here," Wallander said, as they were nursing their mugs of coffee in the canteen. "There may be an element of revenge at the bottom of it, but Larstam kills people who are happy. Nyberg was struck by this thought in Nybrostrand. Albinsson confirmed it. Ake Larstam doesn't like it when people laugh."

"Then he's more disturbed than we realised. You don't kill people just because they're happy. What kind of world is this?"

"Good question," Wallander said. "We ask ourselves what kind of world we live in, but it's too painful to face the truth. Maybe our worst fears have already been realised - maybe the justice system has collapsed. More and more people are feeling overlooked and superfluous, and that feeds the escalation of senseless violence we're seeing. Violence has become part of our daily reality. We complain about the way things are, but sometimes I think things are even worse than we're admitting."

Wallander was about to continue with this line of thought when he was told that Martinsson was on the phone. He spilled coffee on his shirt as he ran back to the conference room.

"We haven't found anything," Martinsson said. "There isn't a boat registered under Larstam's name."

Wallander thought for a moment. "He may have registered his boat under someone else's name," he said.

"These marinas are so small that people generally know each other," Martinsson said. "I doubt he would have felt safe using an assumed name."

But Wallander wasn't prepared to let go of the idea just yet. "Did you check under Svedberg's name?"

"I did, actually. But there wasn't anything."

"I want you to check the register one more time. Try anyone's name who's been associated with this investigation, either centrally or otherwise."

"You're thinking of names like Hillstrom and Skander?"

"Exactly."

"I see what you're saying, but do you really think it's a reasonable assumption?"

"Nothing is reasonable. Just do it. Call me if you find anything."

Wallander hung up, and looked down at the large coffee stain on his shirt. He was fairly sure he had at least one clean shirt in his cupboard, and it would take him only 20 minutes to go home and change. But he decided to wait until he heard from Martinsson again.

Thurnberg came over. "I'd like to send Albinsson home," he said. "I don't think he has anything to add at this point."

Wallander got up, walked over to Albinsson, and shook his hand. "You've been a great help to us."

"I still don't understand any of this."

"None of us do."

"Nothing should go further than this room," Thurnberg said.

Albinsson promised to keep quiet.

"Does anyone know where Nyberg is?" Wallander asked.

"He's using the phone in Hansson's office."

"That's where I'll be if Martinsson calls."

Wallander went to Hansson's office, where Nyberg sat with the telephone receiver pressed to his ear. He was writing something on a pad. He looked up when Wallander came in.

"We'll know whether or not it's Larstam's thumb before the end of the day," Nyberg said when he'd hung up.

"It is his thumb," Wallander said. "We just need confirmation."

"What will you do if it isn't his thumb?"

"Resign from this investigation."

Nyberg pondered these words. Wallander sat down in Hansson's chair.

"Do you remember the telescope?" Wallander asked. "Why was it over at Bjorklund's house? Who put it there?"

"You don't think it was someone other than Larstam, do you?"

"Why did he put it there?"

"Maybe to cause confusion. Perhaps a half-hearted attempt to pin the blame on Svedberg's cousin."

"He must have thought of everything."

"If he hasn't, we'll get him."

"His prints should be on the telescope."

"If he didn't think to wipe it off first."

The phone rang and Wallander grabbed it. It was Martinsson.

"You're right," he said.

Wallander jumped to his feet so fast the chair was knocked over.

"What do you have?"

"A berth registered in Isa Edengren's name. I even saw the contract and it looks like he imitated her signature. I recall what her handwriting looked like. Someone in the office remembers the person who signed it. He says it was a dark-haired woman."

"Louise."

"Exactly. She even told them her brother would often be using the boat."

"He's good," Wallander said.

"It's a small wooden boat," Martinsson said. "Big enough for a couple of sleeping berths below deck. There's another boat on one side but nothing on the other."

"I'm coming down," Wallander said. "Keep your distance, and above all stay vigilant. We have to assume he's being very careful now and he won't approach the marina unless he's sure the coast is clear."

"I guess we haven't kept as low a profile as we should have."

Wallander hung up and told Nyberg what had happened. He returned to the conference room and placed Hoglund and Thurnberg in charge of coordinating assistance in the event that he needed it.

"What will you do if you find him?" she asked.

Wallander shook his head. "I'll think about that when I get there."

It was almost 1 p.m. when Wallander arrived at the docks. It was warm, and there was an occasional breeze from the southwest. He took out the binoculars he had remembered to bring and took his first look at the boat.

"It looks empty," Martinsson said.

"Is there anyone on the boat to the left?" Wallander asked.

"No."

Wallander let the binoculars glide over the rest of the boats. There were people on many of them.

"We can't risk any shots being fired," Martinsson said. "But I also don't see how we can evacuate the entire marina."

"We can't wait," Wallander said. "We have to know if he's there or not, and if he is, we have to bring him in."

"Should we start cordoning off the area around the boat?"

"No," Wallander said. "I'm climbing aboard."

Martinsson jumped. "Are you insane?"

"It would take us at least an hour to secure the area. We don't have the luxury of time in this case. I'm going in, and you'll have to back me up from the pier. I'll be as quick as I can. I doubt he's keeping a lookout. If he's there, he's probably sleeping."

"I can't let you do this," Martinsson said. "It's suicide."

"Keep in mind that Larstam didn't kill Hansson or the Malmo officer, and not because he missed. Neither was his ninth victim. This man is very particular about who he kills, and when."

"So he won't shoot you?"

"I think I have a good chance, that's all."

But Martinsson wasn't about to give in. "He has no escape route this time. What's he going to do? Jump into the water?"

"We have to take that chance," Wallander said. "I know that his not having an escape route could change everything."

"It's irresponsible."

Wallander's mind was made up. "All right then, we'll proceed with the necessary caution. Return to the station and see to it that we get the proper reinforcements. I'll stay here and keep an eye on the boat."

Martinsson left. Wallander instructed the Malmo officer to guard the car park. He walked out onto the pier, thinking that he was about to violate the most fundamental rule of police work. He was about to confront a ruthless killer, alone, without a single person to back him up, in an area that wasn't properly secured. Some children were playing on the pier. Wallander made himself sound as stern as possible and ordered them to move their games. His hand squeezed the gun in his pocket. He had already disengaged the safety catch. He studied the boat carefully and realised there was no way to approach it from the pier. If Larstam was on board he would see him. The only chance he had was to approach the boat from behind, but for that he needed a dinghy. He looked around. There was a party going on in the boat next to him, and a little red dinghy lay tied to its side. Wallander didn't hesitate. He climbed aboard and showed the surprised revellers his police identification.

"I need to borrow your dinghy," he said.

A bald man with a glass of wine in his hand stood up.

"Has there been an accident?"

"No," Wallander said. "But I have no time to explain it to you. Everyone stays put, no one climbs out onto the dock. Understood?"

No one argued with him. Wallander stepped clumsily into the dinghy and fumbled with the oars, dropping one. As he reached for it, the gun almost slid out of his pocket. He swore and broke out into a sweat. Eventually he got the oars under control and made his way into the harbour. He wondered if the dinghy was going to sink under his weight, but managed to approach the back of Larstam's boat without a mishap. He grabbed it with one hand and felt his heart pounding. He secured his dinghy, careful to avoid setting the other boat in motion. Then he stopped and listened. The only sound he heard was his own heart. Gun in hand, he slowly undid the fastenings of the covering on the back of the boat. Still no sound. Once he had undone a big enough portion of the covering he faced the hardest part. Now he had to flip the covering off and then throw himself to one side to avoid the person who might be waiting inside with a gun aimed at his head. His mind was blank, and the hand holding his gun was trembling and sweaty.

All at once he performed the manoeuvre. The dinghy rolled so hard he thought he was going to end up in the water. But he grasped a railing on the side of the boat and kept his balance. Nothing happened. He peeked inside and saw that the boat was empty. The small doors to the lower cabin were open, and he could see all the way in. No one was there. He climbed aboard, still holding his gun in front of him. It was two steps down to the bunk area. He saw that the bunks were not made up. The mattresses were covered with plastic.

The man with the bald head grabbed the mooring line when Wallander returned the dinghy. "Now maybe you'll tell us what that was all about," he said.

"No," Wallander replied.

He was in a hurry now. The others might already be on their way and he had to stop them. Larstam wasn't in the boat. That could mean they were one step ahead of him for the first time. Wallander paused on the pier and called Martinsson.

"We're on our way," Martinsson said.

"Abort!" yelled Wallander. "I don't want to see a single car! Come down here alone."

"Has anything happened?"

"He's not here."

"How do you know for sure?"

"I just know."

Martinsson was silent. "You went aboard," he said finally.

"We're under pressure," Wallander said. "We'll discuss this some other time."

Martinsson arrived in five minutes and Wallander told him about his hunch that they were one step ahead of Larstam at last. When Martinsson caught sight of the flapping covering at the back of the boat, he shook his head in disapproval.

"We'll have to fix that," Wallander said quickly. "You stand guard in case he's on his way."

Martinsson stayed on the pier while Wallander climbed aboard and into the cabin. He looked around but saw nothing. When he had fastened the covering, he returned to the pier.

"How did you manage it?" Martinsson asked.

"I borrowed a dinghy."

"You're crazy."

"Maybe. But I don't think so."

Wallander walked up to the Malmo officer guarding the car park and told him to keep an eye on the harbour and the marina. He also called the station and posted more officers on the job.

"You should go home and change your shirt," Martinsson said, staring at Wallander.

"I will," he said. "I just want to talk this through with the others."

No one at the station asked him how he had got onto the boat. No one seemed to think to ask him if he had done it alone. Martinsson sat through the meeting as if he had been struck dumb. Wallander realised how upset he was, but he would have to deal with that later.

"We have to keep looking for him," Wallander said. "He used Isa Edengren's name to rent his berth. He doesn't seem to be following a pattern, but somewhere we're going to run across a clue that will blow this whole case wide open. I'm sure of it."

Wallander felt for a moment as if he were preaching to the converted, but he didn't know what else to do.

"Why did Larstam choose Isa Edengren's name?" he said. "Is it a coincidence, or is there something more here?"

"Isa's funeral is the day after tomorrow," Martinsson said.

"Call her parents. Tell them I want them to come down so someone can ask them about the boat."

Wallander got to his feet. "Right now I'm going to excuse myself for 20 minutes so I can run home and change my shirt."

Ebba came into the room with a plate full of sandwiches. "If you give me your keys, I'll go and get it for you," she said. "It's no bother."

Wallander thanked her but declined her offer. He needed to get away, if only for a short while. He was about to leave the room when the phone rang. Hoglund answered and immediately gestured for him to stay in the room.

"It's the Ludvika police," she says. "That's where one of Ake Larstam's sisters lives."

Wallander decided to stay. He looked around for Ebba, but she had left. Martinsson took over the call from Ludvika, while Hoglund called Isa Edengren's parents. Wallander stared down at his coffee stain. Martinsson hung up.

"Berit Larstam," he said. "She's 47, an unemployed social worker. She lives in Fredriksberg, wherever that is."

"That's where the weapons were stolen," Wallander said. "Maybe Larstam was visiting his sister at the time."

Martinsson waved a small piece of paper at him, then dialled the number.

Wallander felt he was no longer needed for the moment. He looked for Ebba in reception, but couldn't see her, so he returned to the conference room.

"Axel Edengren, the father, has promised to come in," Hoglund said. "I think we can expect a pompous arse who doesn't think much of the police."

"What makes you say that?"

"He lectured me at length about how incompetent we were. I almost lost my temper."

"That's what you should have done."

Martinsson ended his conversation. "Ake Larstam visited her about once every three years. They weren't particularly close."

Wallander stared at him with surprise. "Is that all?"

"What do you mean?"

"Didn't you ask her anything else?"

"Of course I did, but she asked if she could return my call later. She was in the middle of something."

Wallander was starting to get irritable, and Martinsson was on the defensive. Tension filled the air. Wallander left and went to reception. Ebba was there.

"I think I will ask you to get it for me after all," he said, handing her the keys. "There should be a clean shirt in the cupboard. If not, you'll have to take the cleanest one you find from the hamper."

"I'll take care of it."

"Can anyone give you a ride?"

"I have my trusty old Volvo," she said. "You haven't forgotten about it, have you?"

Wallander smiled. He watched her as she walked out the front doors. He thought again about how hard these last few years had been on her. He returned to the conference room and apologised to Martinsson for his bad temper. They continued their work.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Ebba still wasn't back with his shirt by the time Axel Edengren arrived at the station. Wallander started wondering what was taking so long. Was she having trouble finding a clean shirt? Wallander felt somewhat ill at ease as he walked out to reception to greet Axel Edengren. Not so much because of the large coffee stain on his chest as because of his recollection of the strange way in which the Edengrens had treated their daughter. Wallander wondered what kind of man he was about to meet, and for once the reality matched his expectations. Axel Edengren was a big, powerfully built man, with a spiky crew-cut and intense blue eyes. He was one of the largest men Wallander had ever seen, and there was something unappealing about his bulk. His handshake was dismissive. As Wallander showed him to his office, he felt as though he was being followed by a bull about to skewer him with his horns. Axel Edengren started speaking before they sat down.

"You were the one who found my daughter," he said. "What brought you to Barnso in the first place?" He used the polite form of the Swedish "you" in addressing Wallander.

"Please feel free to use the informal 'you' with me," Wallander said.

Edengren's reply was swift and unexpected. "I prefer to use the polite form of address with people I don't know, and whom I plan to meet only once. What were you doing in Barnso, Inspector?"

Wallander felt a spark of anger, but he didn't think he had the energy to wield his usual authority.

"I had reason to believe Isa had gone there. And it turned out I was right."

"I've heard about the sequence of events. I can't believe you allowed it to happen."

"I didn't let anything happen. If I had had even the slightest inkling of what was about to happen, I would have done everything in my power to prevent it. I assume that goes for you too, not only in the case of Isa, but with Jorgen."

Edengren flinched at the sound of his son's name. It was as if he had been knocked to his knees while running at top speed. Wallander took the opportunity to turn the conversation around.

"We're pressed for time, so let me simply express my condolences for what happened. I met Isa several times and thought she was a nice young woman."

Edengren was about to say something, but Wallander pressed on. "There's a berth at the marina here in Ystad that has been rented in Isa's name."

Edengren regarded Wallander with suspicion. "That's a lie."

"No, it's quite true."

"Isa doesn't have a boat."

"That's what I thought. Do you have a berth here?"

"No, my boats are in a marina in Ostergotland."

Wallander had no reason to doubt him. "We think someone else rented the berth in your daughter's name."

"Who would that be?"

"The person we believe killed your daughter."

Edengren stared at him. "Who is that?"

"His name is Ake Larstam."

There was no reaction. Edengren didn't recognise the name.

"Have you arrested him?"

"Not yet."

"Why not? You believe he killed my daughter, don't you?"

"We haven't managed to locate him. That's why we asked you to come down. We're hoping you can make our task easier."

"Who is he?"

"For security reasons I can't give you all the information right now. Let's just say he's been working as a postman for the past couple of years."

Edengren shook his head. "Is this some kind of joke? The postman killed my daughter?"

"Unfortunately it's no joke."

Edengren was about to ask him something else, but Wallander stopped him. The moment of low energy had passed.

"Did Isa have any contact with the sailing club that you know of? Did any of her friends have boats?"

Edengren's answer came as a surprise. "Not Isa, but Jorgen did. He had a sailing boat. In the summer he kept it in Gryt. He sailed all around Barnso. The rest of the year it was kept down here."

"But Isa never used the boat?"

"Only with her brother. They got along well together, at least most of the time."

For the first time Wallander sensed something like sorrow in his voice. There was nothing to read on the surface, but Wallander thought there was probably a volcano of feelings locked up inside his enormous body.

"How long did Jorgen sail for?"

"He started in 1992. He had a little informal sailing club with regular meetings. They had parties and sent letters back and forth in bottles. Jorgen was often the secretary. I had to show him how to write up the minutes."

"Do you still have those records?"

"I remember putting all the minutes in a box after he died. They must still be there."

I need names, Wallander thought.

"Can you think of the names of any of his friends?"

"Some, but not all."

"But the names are probably recorded in the minutes."

"Probably."

"Then I'd like you to go and get them," Wallander said. "It could be important."

Wallander offered to send a police car to Skarby, but Edengren wanted to get them himself. He turned around in the doorway.

"I don't know how I'm going to stand it," he said. "I've lost both my children. What else is there?"

He didn't wait for an answer, and Wallander would not have been able to give him one. He got up and walked to the conference room. Ebba wasn't there, and no one had seen her. Wallander called his home number. The phone rang eight times but no one answered. Ebba must be on her way back.

Edengren returned after 40 minutes, and handed Wallander a big brown envelope.

"That's all I have. I think there are eleven sets of minutes in there. They seem not to have taken it so seriously."

Wallander leafed through the papers. They were typewritten and contained a number of mistakes. He found seven names altogether, but recognised none of them. Another dead end, he thought. I'm still looking for a pattern, but Ake Larstam doesn't follow one. He went to the conference room, showed the material to Martinsson and asked him to look over the names. Wallander was about to walk out the door when Martinsson gave a yell. Wallander turned and walked back. Martinsson pointed to the name "Stefan Berg".

"Wasn't one of the postmen called Berg?"

It had slipped Wallander's mind, but he now realised that Martinsson was right.

"I'll call him," Martinsson said.

Wallander returned to Edengren. He paused before walking into the room. Was there anything else he needed to ask? He didn't think so. He pushed open the door. Edengren was standing at the window and turned when he heard Wallander come in. To his surprise, Wallander saw that his eyes were red.

"You're free to go home now," he said. "We have no reason to keep you."

Edengren looked searchingly at him. "Will you get him? The bastard who killed Isa?"

"Yes, we'll get him."

"Why did he do it?"

"We don't know."

Edengren shook his hand and Wallander followed him out to reception. Still no sign of Ebba.

"We'll stay in Sweden until after the funeral," Edengren said. "Then I don't know. Maybe we'll leave Sweden, sell the house in Skarby and in Barnso too. The thought of going back there is too unbearable."