The Man Who Smiled

"And that Italian pistol, the Bernadelli, we don't know any more about that either," Nyberg said while Wallander made notes. "There's no report of one having been stolen. All the people registered in Sweden as owning one have been able to produce it. Now it's up to you and Per Akeson to decide whether we should call them all in and give them a test firing."

"Do you think that would be worth it?"

"Yes and no," Nyberg said. "Personally, I think we ought to run a check on stolen Smith & Wessons first. That'll take a few more days."

"We'll do as you suggest, then," Wallander said, making a note. Then they went on going through Nyberg's points.

"We didn't find any fingerprints in the solicitors' offices," Nyberg said. "Whoever shot Sten Torstensson didn't press his thumb helpfully on the window pane. An inspection of the threatening letters from Lars Borman produced negative results as well. But we did establish that it was his handwriting. Svedberg has samples from both of his children."

"What did they say about the language?" Wallander asked. "I forgot to ask Svedberg."

"What do you mean, the language?"

"The letters were very oddly phrased."

"I have a vague memory from one of our meetings that Svedberg said that Borman was word blind."

"Word blind?" Wallander frowned. "I don't remember hearing that."

"Maybe you'd left the room to fetch more coffee?"

"Could be. I'll have a word with Svedberg. Have you got anything else?"

"I went to give Gustaf Torstensson's car the onceover," Nyberg said. "No fingerprints there either. I examined the ignition and the boot, and I've spoken to the pathologist in Malmo. We're almost certain that he didn't get the fatal blow to the back of his head by hitting it against the car roof. There's nothing anywhere in the bodywork that matches the wound. So it's more probable that somebody hit him. He must have been outside the car when it happened. Unless there was somebody in the back seat."

"I thought about that," Wallander said. "The likelihood is that he stopped on the road and got out of the car. Somebody came up behind him and hit him. Then the accident was faked. But why did he stop in the fog? Why did he get out?"

"I couldn't say," Nyberg said.

Wallander put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. His back ached, and he needed to go home and get some sleep.

"The only thing of note we found in the car was a plastic container made in France," Nyberg said.

"What was in it?"

"Nothing."

"Why is it interesting, then?"

Nyberg shrugged and got up to leave. "I've seen a similar one before. Four years ago. When I was on a study visit at the hospital in Lund."

"The hospital?"

"I have a good memory. It was identical."

"What was it used for?"

Nyberg was already at the door. "How should I know?" he said. "But the container we found in Torstensson's car was chemically clean. Only a container that's never contained anything could be as clean as that one."

Nyberg left. Wallander could hear him stamping down the corridor.

Then he pushed the heap of paper to one side and stood up to go home. He put on his jacket, then paused. There was something Nyberg had said. Just before he left the room. Something about the plastic container.

Then it came to him, and he sat down again.

There's something funny there, he thought. Why would there be a plastic container that has never been used in Torstensson's car? An empty container, but evidently a very special one? There was only one possible answer.

When Torstensson left Farnholm Castle, the container had not been empty. There had been something in it. Which meant that this was not the same container. It had been exchanged for the other one. On the road in the fog. When Torstensson stopped and got out of his car. And was killed.

Wallander checked his watch. After midnight. He waited for a quarter of an hour, then he phoned Nyberg at home.

"What the hell do you want now?" Nyberg said as soon as he recognised Wallander's voice.

"Get yourself over here," Wallander said. "Now, right away."

He expected Nyberg to explode in fury, but he said nothing, just put down the receiver.

At 12.40 a.m., Nyberg was back in Wallander's office once more.

Chapter 11

That conversation with Nyberg in the middle of the night was crucial. It seemed to Wallander that yet again he had confirmation of the fact that criminal investigations achieve a breakthrough when it is least expected. Many of Wallander's colleagues thought this proved that even police officers needed a bit of luck now and again to find their way out of a cul-de-sac. Wallander said nothing, but he thought that what it really proved was that Rydberg was right to maintain that a good police officer must always listen to what his intuition tells him - without discarding his critical faculties, of course. He had known - without knowing why he knew - that the plastic container in Torstensson's wrecked car was important. And although he was exhausted, he also knew that he could not wait until the next day to have his suspicions confirmed. That's why he had phoned Nyberg, who had just walked into his office. He had anticipated an angry outburst from his temperamental colleague, but none had been forthcoming. Nyberg had simply sat down in the visitor's chair, and Wallander noted to his surprise that he was wearing pyjamas under his overcoat. He had Wellingtons on as well.

"You must have gone straight to bed," Wallander said. "If I'd known that I wouldn't have phoned."

"Are you telling me you've called me out for nothing?"

Wallander shook his head. "It's the plastic container," he said. "Tell me more about it."

"I've no more to say than I have already," Nyberg said.

Wallander sat down at his desk and looked hard at Nyberg. He knew that Nyberg was not only a good forensic officer, but that he had imagination too, and was blessed with an exceptional memory.

"You said you'd seen a similar container before," he said.

"Not a similar one," Nyberg said. "An identical one."

"That means it must be special," Wallander said. "Can you describe it for me?"

"Wouldn't it be better if I fetched it?"

"Let's go and look at it together," Wallander said, getting up.

The police station was deserted as they walked down the corridor. A radio could be heard in the distance. Nyberg unlocked the room where the police kept objects material to ongoing investigations. The container was on a shelf. Nyberg took it down and handed it to Wallander. It was rectangular, and reminded Wallander of a cool box. He put it on a table and tried to open the lid.

"It's screwed down," Nyberg said. "Notice also that it's perfectly airtight. There's a window on this side. I don't know what it's for, but I suspect there ought to be a thermometer mounted on the inside."

"You saw a similar one at the hospital in Lund," Wallander said, scrutinising the container. "Can you remember where? Which ward?"

"It was moving around," Nyberg said. "It was in a corridor outside the operating theatres. A nurse came with it. I seem to remember she was in a hurry."

"Anything else?"

"No, nothing."

"It reminds me of a cool box," Wallander said.

"I think that's what it is," Nyberg said. "For blood, possibly."

"I need you to find out," Wallander said. "I also want to know what that container was doing in Torstensson's car the night he died."

When they were back in Wallander's office, he remembered something Nyberg had said earlier in the evening.

"You said you thought it was made in France."

"It said 'Made in France' on the handle."

"I didn't notice that."

"The text on the one I saw in Lund was more obvious," Nyberg said. "I think we can excuse you."

"I may be wrong," Wallander said, "but I reckon the fact that this container was in Torstensson's car is remarkable. What was it doing there? Are you sure it was unused?"

"When I unscrewed the lid I could see that it was the first time it had been opened since it left the factory. Do you want me to explain how I knew?"

"It's enough to know that you're sure," Wallander said. "I wouldn't understand anyway."

"I can see you believe this container is important," Nyberg said, "but it's not unusual to find unexpected items in crashed cars."

"In this case we can't overlook a single detail," Wallander said.

"But we've never done that."

Wallander stood up. "Thank you for coming back," he said. "I'd like to know what the plastic container was used for sometime tomorrow."

They said goodnight outside the station. Wallander drove home and had a couple of sandwiches before going to bed. He couldn't sleep, and after tossing and turning for some time he got up again and went into the kitchen. He sat at the table without switching on the light. He felt uneasy and impatient. This investigation had too many loose ends. Even though they had decided on a way forward, he was still not convinced it was the right way. Had they overlooked something vital? He thought back to the day when Sten Torstensson came to see him on the Jutland coast. He could recall their conversation word for word. Even so, he wondered if he had missed the real message, whether there had been some other significance behind Sten's words.

It was gone 4.00 by the time he went back to bed. A wind had got up outside, and the temperature had plummeted. He shivered when he slid between the sheets. He did not think he had got anywhere. Nor had he succeeded in convincing himself that he would have to be patient. What he demanded of his colleagues was something he could not manage himself on this occasion.

When Wallander arrived at the station just before 8 a.m. there was a gale blowing. They told him in reception there were forecasts of hurricane-strength gusts before lunch. As he walked to his office he wondered if his father's house in Loderup would survive the winds. His conscience had been nagging him for some time over his failure to have the roof repaired, and there was a real risk that one violent storm would blow it right off. He sat at his desk thinking that he had better phone his father - he hadn't spoken to him since the fight at the off-licence. He was about to pick up the receiver when the phone rang.

"There's a call for you," Ebba said. "And have you noticed how strong the wind is?"

"I can console you with the news that it's going to get worse," Wallander said. "Who is it?"

"Farnholm Castle."

Wallander stretched out in his chair.

"Put them on," he said.

"It's a lady with a remarkable name," Ebba said. "She introduced herself as Jenny Lind."

"It sounds normal enough to me."

"I didn't say it was abnormal, I said it was remarkable. You must have heard of the Swedish Nightingale, the great singer Jenny Lind?"

"Put her through," Wallander said.

The voice he heard was that of a young woman. One more of all those secretaries, Wallander thought.

"Inspector Wallander?"

"Speaking."

"You were here the other day and expressed a wish to have an audience with Dr Harderberg."

"I don't do audiences," Wallander said in irritation. "I need to speak to him in connection with a murder investigation."

"I do realise that. We have received a telex this morning informing us that Dr Harderberg will be back home this afternoon and will be able to receive you tomorrow."

"Where did the telex come from?"

"Does that matter?"

"I wouldn't have asked otherwise," Wallander lied.

"Dr Harderberg is at the moment in Barcelona."

"I don't want to wait until tomorrow," Wallander said. "I need to talk to him as soon as possible. If he gets back to Sweden this afternoon he should be able to see me this evening."

"He has nothing in his diary for this evening," Lind said. "But I shall need to contact him in Barcelona before I can give you an answer."

"Do that if you wish," Wallander said. "Tell him he'll be receiving a visit from the Ystad police at 7 p.m."

"I'm afraid I can't agree to that. Dr Harderberg always decides on the time of visits himself."

"Not in this case," Wallander said. "We'll be there at 7.00."

"There will be someone else with you?"

"Yes."

"Could I ask for that person's name?"

"You may ask, but you won't get it. There will be another police officer from Ystad."

"I'll contact Dr Harderberg," Lind said. "You should be aware that he sometimes changes his plans at very short notice. He could be forced to go somewhere else before coming home."

"I can't allow that," Wallander said, fearing that he was far exceeding his authority in saying so.

"I must say you surprise me," Lind said. "Can a police officer really decide what Dr Harderberg does or doesn't do?"

Wallander continued to exceed his authority. "I have only to speak to a prosecutor - he can issue demands," Wallander said.

He realised his mistake even as he spoke. They had decided to tread carefully. Harderberg would be asked some questions, but as important as his answers was convincing him that their interest in him was purely routine. He tried to tone down what he had said.

"Dr Harderberg is suspected of nothing illegal, let me make that clear," he said. "It's just that we need to speak to him at the earliest possible moment, for reasons to do with our investigation. No doubt a prominent citizen like Dr Harderberg will be anxious to help the police solve a serious crime."

"I'll contact him," Lind repeated.

"Thank you for ringing," Wallander said and replaced the receiver.

A thought had struck him. With Ebba's help he tracked down Martinsson and asked him to come to his office.

"Harderberg has been in touch," he said. "He's in Barcelona, but on his way home. I thought of taking Ann-Britt with me and going to see him this evening."

"She's at home. Her kid's not well," Martinsson said. "She's just phoned."

"You can come instead, in that case," Wallander said.

"That's fine by me," Martinsson said. "I want to see that aquarium with gold dust for sand."

"There's another matter," Wallander said. "What do you know about aeroplanes?"

"Not a lot."

"I had a thought," Wallander said. "Harderberg has a private jet. A Gulfstream, whatever that is. It must be registered somewhere. There must be flight logs showing when he's out on his travels, and where he goes to."

"If nothing else he must have a few pilots," Martinsson said. "I'll look into it."

"Give that job to somebody else," Wallander said. "You've got more important things to do."

"Ann-Britt can do it from her phone at home," Martinsson said. "I think she'll be pleased to be doing something useful."

"She could develop into a good police officer."

"Let's hope so," Martinsson said. "But to tell you the truth, we have no way of knowing. All we know is that she did well at college."

"You're right," Wallander said. "It's awfully hard to imitate reality at a college."

After Martinsson had left, Wallander sat down to prepare for the meeting at 9.00. When he had woken that morning, all the thoughts he had had during the night about the loose ends of the investigation were still in the forefront of his mind. He had decided they would have to write off anything they judged to be of no immediate relevance to the investigation. If eventually they concluded that the route they had decided on was a cul-de-sac, they could always go back to the loose ends. But only then could the loose ends be allowed to occupy their attention.

Wallander pushed aside all the papers piled up on his desk and put an empty sheet in front of him. Many years ago Rydberg had taught him a way of approaching an investigation in a new light. We have to keep moving from one lookout tower to another, Rydberg had said. If we don't, our overviews become meaningless. No matter how complicated an investigation is, it has to be possible to describe it to a child. We have to see things simply, but without simplifying.

Wallander wrote: "Once upon a time there was an old solicitor who paid a visit to a rich man in his castle. On the way back home somebody killed him and tried to make us believe it had been a car accident. Soon afterwards his son was shot dead in his office. He had begun to suspect there hadn't been a car accident after all, and so he had been to see me to ask for help. He had made a secret trip to Denmark although his secretary was told he had gone to Finland. She had also had a postcard from there. A few days later somebody planted a mine in the garden of the secretary. A wide-awake officer from Ystad noticed that I was being followed by a car as we drove to Helsingborg. The solicitors had received threatening letters from an accountant working for a county council. The accountant later committed suicide by hanging himself in a tree near Malmo, although the probability is that he, too, was murdered. Just as with the car accident, the suicide was contrived. All these incidents are linked, but there is no obvious thread. Nothing has been stolen and there is no sign of passions such as hatred or jealousy running high. All that was left behind was a strange plastic container. And now we start all over again. Once upon a time there was an old solicitor who paid a visit to a rich man in his castle."

Wallander put down his pen.

Alfred Harderberg, he thought. A modern-day Silk Knight. Lurking in the background, everybody's background. Flying all over the world and doing his business deals that are so difficult to penetrate, as if it were all a kind of ritual for which only the initiated know the rules.

He read through what he had written. The words were transparent, but there was nothing in them to put the investigation in a new light. Least of all was there anything to suggest that Harderberg might be involved.

This must be something very big, Wallander thought. If my suspicions are right and he really is behind all this, then Gustaf Torstensson - and Borman too - must have discovered something that threatened his whole empire. Presumably Sten did not know what it was or he would have told me. But he came to visit me and he suspected he was being watched, and that turned out to be true. They could not take the risk of him passing on what he knew. Nor could they risk Mrs Duner knowing anything.

This must be something very big, he thought again. Something so big that might nevertheless fit into a plastic container that reminds you of a cool box.

Wallander went to fetch another cup of coffee. Then he phoned his father.

"It's blowing a gale," Wallander said. "There's a risk your roof might get blown off."

"I'm looking forward to that," his father said.

"Looking forward to what?"

"Seeing my roof flying off over the fields like a bird. I've never seen anything like that before."

"I ought to have had it repaired ages ago," Wallander said, "but I'll make sure it's done before winter sets in."

"I'll believe that when I see it," his father said. "It would mean you'd have to come here."

"I'll make time. Have you thought over what happened in Simrishamn?"

"What is there to think over?" his father said. "I just did what was right."

"You can't just attack people at the drop of a hat," Wallander said.

"I'm not going to pay any fines," his father said. "I'm not going to prison either."

"There's no question of that," Wallander said. "I'll phone you tonight to find out what's happened to the roof. There might be hurricane-strength gusts."

"Maybe I ought to climb up on the chimney."

"What on earth for?"

"So that I can go flying myself."

"You'll kill yourself. Isn't Gertrud there?"

"I'll take her with me," said his father, and put the receiver down.

Wallander was left sitting there with the telephone in his hand. Bjork came in at that very moment.

"I can wait if you're going to make a call," Bjork said.

Wallander put the receiver down.

"I heard from Martinsson that Dr Harderberg has shown signs of life," Bjork said.

"Was that a question?" he said. "If so, I can confirm that what Martinsson says is correct. Except that it wasn't Harderberg who phoned. He's in Barcelona and is expected back later today. I asked for a meeting this evening."

Wallander could see Bjork was put out.

"Martinsson said that he would be going with you," Bjork said. "I wonder if that's appropriate."

"Why shouldn't it be?" Wallander said, surprised.

"I don't mean that Martinsson isn't suitable," Bjork said. "I just thought perhaps I ought to go."

"Why?"

"Well, after all, Harderberg isn't just anybody."

"You're not as familiar with the case as Martinsson is. We're not going on a social call."

"If I went with you it might have a calming effect on the whole thing. We agreed we should be careful - Dr Harderberg mustn't be upset."

Although Wallander was annoyed that Bjork wanted to go with him to make sure he did not behave in a way that Bjork considered inappropriate, anything that might damage the force's reputation, nevertheless Bjork had a point: they did not want Harderberg worrying about the interest the police were showing in him.

"I take your point," Wallander said, "but it could also have the opposite effect. It could raise eyebrows if the Chief of Police is there for what's supposed to be a routine inquiry."

"I merely wanted to put the idea to you," Bjork said.

"It'll be best if Martinsson goes," Wallander said, getting to his feet. "I think our meeting is due to start."

On the way to the conference room Wallander told himself that one of these days he really would have to learn to be honest. He should have told Bjork the truth, that he did not want him to come because he could not abide his subservient attitude towards Harderberg. There was something in Bjork's behaviour that was typical of the peasant's awe of those in power. He had barely thought about it before, even though he knew it to be true of society at large. There was always somebody at the top who dictated the terms, specifically or by implication, that those below had to accept. As a child he remembered seeing workers doffing their caps whenever one of those who decided their fate went by. He thought about how his father used to bow to the Silk Knights. Caps were still being doffed even today, albeit invisible ones.

I, too, have a cap in my hand, Wallander thought. Sometimes I don't notice it's there.

They gathered around the conference-room table. Svedberg glumly produced a proposal for a new police uniform that had been sent out to all police stations.

"Do you want to see what we'll look like in future?" he said.

"We never wear uniform," Wallander said as he sat down.

"Ann-Britt's not as negative as the rest of us," Svedberg said. "She thinks it could look rather smart."

Bjork had sat down and dropped his hands on the table as a signal for the meeting to start.

"Per isn't here this morning," he said. "He has to try to make sure those twins who robbed the bank last year are convicted."

"What twins?" Wallander said.

"Can anybody have failed to be aware that Handelsbanken was robbed by two men who turned out to be twins?"

"I was away last year," Wallander said. "I haven't heard a thing about it."

"We got them in the end," Martinsson said. "They'd got themselves a basic university qualification in economics and then needed some capital so that they could put their ideas into practice. They had visions of a floating pleasure palace called Summerland that would travel back and forth along the south coast."

"Not such a bad idea in fact," Svedberg said, scratching his head ruminatively.

Wallander looked round the room.

"Alfred Harderberg has phoned," he said. "I'm going to Farnholm Castle this evening and taking Martinsson with me. There's a slight possibility that his travel plans may change, but I've made it clear that he cannot count on our unlimited patience."

"Mightn't that make him suspicious?" Svedberg said.

"I've stressed that it's a routine inquiry," Wallander said. "He was the one Gustaf Torstensson had been to see the night he died."

"It's about time," Martinsson said. "But we'd better think pretty carefully about what we're going to say to him."

"We've got all day to do that," Wallander said.

"Where has he been this time?" Svedberg wanted to know.

"Barcelona."

"He owns a lot of property in Barcelona," Svedberg said. "He also has an interest in a holiday village under construction near Marbella. All through a company called Casaco. I've seen the share brochures somewhere. I rather think the whole thing's run by a bank in Macao. Wherever that is."

"I don't know," Wallander said, "but it's not important just now."

"It's south of Hong Kong," Martinsson said. "Didn't anybody do geography at school?"

Wallander poured himself a glass of water and the meeting proceeded on its usual course. They took it in turns to report on what they had been doing since the last time they had met, each one concentrating on their allocated field. Martinsson passed on some messages he had received from Hoglund. The most important of which was that she was going the following day to meet Borman's children, and also his widow who was over from Spain on a visit. Wallander started by reporting on the plastic container. He soon saw that his colleagues could not make out why that particular detail should be so significant. Perhaps that's no bad thing, he thought. It might help me scale down my own expectations.

After half an hour or so the discussion became more general. Everybody agreed with Wallander that loose ends not directly linked with Farnholm Castle should be left dangling for the time being.

"We're still waiting to hear what the fraud squads in Stockholm and Malmo have to say," Wallander said as he drew the meeting to a close. "What we can say for now is that Gustaf and Sten Torstensson were killed for reasons which we have not yet identified. I incline towards robbery rather than revenge. Obviously we have to be prepared to continue investigating all their clients if the Farnholm lead goes cold, but for the moment we have to concentrate on Harderberg and Borman. Let's hope Ann-Britt can squeeze something important out of the widow and the children."

"Do you think she can handle it?" Svedberg said.

"Why ever not?"

"Let's face it, she's not very experienced," Svedberg said. "I was only asking."

"I have no doubt she will cope in exemplary fashion," Wallander said. "If there's nothing else, the meeting is closed."

Wallander went back to his office. He stood for a while looking out of the window, his mind a blank. Then he sat at his desk yet again and went through the material he had on Harderberg and his business empire. He had read most of it before, but he went through it one more time with a fine-tooth comb. There was a lot he did not understand. The most complicated commercial transactions - the way in which a company melted away and became something different, and the complex business of shares and bonds - made him feel that he was entering a world he could not begin to comprehend. Occasionally he broke off to try to get hold of Nyberg, but he had no luck. He gave lunch a miss, and did not leave the station until 3.30. There had been no word from Nyberg, and that was strange. Wallander began to accept that he would not know what that plastic container had been used for until after he had been to Farnholm Castle. He struggled through the gale as far as Stortorget and ordered a kebab. He was thinking all the time about Harderberg.

When he got back to the police station there was a note on his desk saying that someone in the office at Farnholm Castle had phoned and Dr Harderberg would expect him at 7.30 p.m. He went to look for Martinsson. They needed to prepare themselves, go through the questions they were going to ask, and which ones they would save for the time being. In the corridor he bumped into Svedberg, who was on his way out.

"Martinsson wants you to phone him at home," Svedberg said. "He left some time ago. I don't know why."

Wallander went back to his room and dialled Martinsson's number.

"I have to cry off, I'm afraid," Martinsson said. "My wife's ill. I haven't been able to find a babysitter. Can you take Svedberg instead?"

"He's just left," Wallander said. "I've no idea where he's going."

"I'm sorry about this," Martinsson said.

"Don't worry, of course you have to stay at home," Wallander said. "I'll find a solution somehow."

"You could take Bjork," Martinsson said ironically.

"You're right, I could," Wallander said in all seriousness. "I'll think about it."

The moment he put down the phone he decided to go to Farnholm Castle on his own. He realised that was what he had really wanted to do all along. My biggest weakness as a police officer, he thought. I always prefer to go alone. Over the years he had begun to question whether it really was a weakness.

In order to concentrate in peace and quiet, he left the police station without further ado, got into his car and drove out of Ystad. The gale really was gusting up to hurricane strength. The car swayed and rattled. Ragged clouds raced across the sky. He wondered how his father's roof was faring at Loderup. He felt a sudden need to listen to some opera, drove on to the hard shoulder and switched on the inside light. But he couldn't find any of his cassettes - and then it dawned on him that this wasn't his own car. He carried on towards Kristianstad. He tried to think through what he was going to say to Harderberg, but discovered that what he was most looking forward to was the meeting itself. There had not been a single photograph of the man at Farnholm, or in any of the press reports he had read, and Hoglund had said that he actively disliked being photographed. On the few occasions he appeared in public his staff ensured that there were no photographers around. An enquiry to Swedish Television revealed that they did not have a single clip of him in their archives.

Wallander thought back to his first visit to the castle. What had struck him then was that very rich people are characterised by silence and remoteness. Now he could add another characteristic: they were invisible. Faceless people in beautiful surroundings.

Just before he got to Tomelilla he ran over a hare that seemed hypnotised by his headlights. He stopped and got out into a wind that almost blew him over. The hare was lying on the verge, its hind legs kicking. Wallander searched for a big enough stone, but by the time he found one the hare was dead. He toed it into the ditch, and returned to his car with an ugly taste in his mouth. The gusts were so strong that they almost ripped the car door out of his grasp.

He drove on to Tomelilla where he stopped at a cafe and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was 5.45. He took out his notebook and wrote down questions that he could use as a framework for his interview. He felt tense. What concerned him was that this must mean he hoped he was going to come face to face with the murderer.

He stayed in the cafe for nearly an hour, refilling his cup and allowing his thoughts to wander. He found himself thinking about Rydberg. For a moment he had trouble conjuring up his face, and that worried him. If I lose Rydberg, he thought, I lose the only real friend I've got. Dead or alive.

He paid and left. A sign outside the cafe had been toppled by the wind. Cars flashed past but he couldn't see any people. A real November storm, he thought, as he drove off. Winter is blowing open its portals.

He arrived at the castle gates at 7.25. He expected Strom to come out and greet him, but nobody did. The bunker appeared to be deserted. Then the gates glided open without a sound. He drove towards the castle. Powerful spotlights lit up the facade and the grounds. It was like a stage set - an image of reality, not reality itself.

He stopped by the steps and switched off his engine. The castle door opened as he climbed out of the car. When he was halfway up the steps a powerful gust made him stumble and he dropped his notebook. It was carried away by the wind. He shook his head and continued up the steps. A young woman with close-cropped hair was waiting to receive him.

"Was that something important?" she asked.

Wallander recognised her voice. "It was only a notebook," he said.

"We'll send somebody out for it," Jenny Lind said.

Wallander contemplated her heavy earrings and the blue ribbons in her black hair.

"There was nothing in it," he said.

She let him in and the door closed behind them.

"You said you would have somebody with you," she said.

"They couldn't make it."

Wallander noticed two men hovering in the shadows by the great staircase. He recalled the shadows he had seen on his first visit. He could not make out their faces, and wondered fleetingly if they really were alive, or just two suits of armour.

"Dr Harderberg will be here in a moment," the girl said. "You can wait in the library."

She led him through a door to the left of the hall. Wallander could hear his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He wondered how the woman in front of him could move so quietly, then he saw to his surprise that she was barefoot.

"Isn't it cold?" he said, indicating her feet.

"There's under-floor heating," she said impassively, and showed him into the library.

"We'll look for your notes," she said, then left him and closed the door behind her.

Wallander found himself in a large, oval-shaped room lined with bookshelves. In the middle was a group of leather chairs and a serving table. The lights were dim and, unlike the entrance hall, the library had oriental carpets on the floor. Wallander stood quite still and listened. He was surprised to hear no sound from the storm raging outside. Then he realised that the room was soundproof. This was where Gustaf Torstensson had spent the last evening of his life, where he had met his employer and several other, unknown, men.

Wallander looked about him. Behind a column he discovered a large aquarium with strangely shaped fish slowly swimming around. He went closer to see if there was gold dust on the bottom: the sand certainly glittered. He continued his tour of the room. I am no doubt being observed, he thought. I can't see any cameras, but they'll be there, hidden among the books, and they'll be sensitive enough to beam adequate pictures despite the dim lighting. There'll be hidden tape recorders as well, of course. They expected me to have somebody with me. They would have left us alone together for a while in order to listen in on our conversation.

Wallander did not hear Harderberg come into the room, but at a certain moment he knew he was no longer alone. He turned and saw a man standing beside one of the sumptuous leather chairs.

"Inspector Wallander," the man said, and smiled. What Wallander would remember afterwards was that the smile never seemed to leave the man's tanned face. He could never forget it.

"Alfred Harderberg," Wallander said. "I'm very grateful you were able to receive me."

"We all need to do our bit when the police call in," Harderberg said.

The voice was unusually pleasant. They shook hands. Harderberg was wearing an immaculate and no doubt very expensive pinstriped suit. Wallander's first impression was that everything about him was perfect - his clothes, his way of moving, his way of speaking. And that smile never left his face.

They sat down.

"I've arranged for tea," Harderberg said in a friendly tone. "I hope you take tea, Inspector?"

"Yes, please," Wallander said. "Especially in weather like this. The walls here at Farnholm must be very thick."

"You're referring to the fact that we can't hear the wind, I suppose," Harderberg said. "You're right. The walls are indeed very thick. They were built to offer resistance, both to enemy soldiers and to raging gales."

"It must have been rather difficult to land today," Wallander said. "Did you come to Everod or Sturup?"

"I use Sturup," Harderberg said. "You can get straight out into the international routes from there. But the landing was excellent. I have only the best pilots."

The African woman Wallander had met on his first visit emerged from the shadows. They sat in silence while she poured tea.

"This is a very special tea," Harderberg said.

Wallander thought of something he had read that afternoon.

"I expect it's from one of your own plantations," he said.

The constant smile made it impossible to tell whether Harderberg was surprised that Wallander knew that he owned tea plantations.

"I see you are well informed, Inspector Wallander," he said. "It is true that we have a share in Lonrho's tea plantations in Mozambique."

"It's very good," Wallander said. "It's hard for me to imagine what is involved in doing business in all four corners of the world. A policeman's existence is rather different. But then, I suppose you must have found it pretty hard yourself in the early days: from Vimmerby to tea plantations in Africa."

"They were indeed very long strides," Harderberg said.

Wallander noted that Harderberg ended the opening exchanges with an invisible full stop. He put down his teacup, feeling rather insecure. The man opposite radiated controlled but apparently unlimited authority.

"I think we can keep this very brief," Wallander said after a moment's pause, during which he could not hear the slightest whisper from the storm outside. "The solicitor Gustaf Torstensson, who died in a car accident after visiting your castle, was in fact murdered. The accident was contrived in order to conceal the crime. Apart from whoever it was who killed him, you were the last person to see him alive."

"I must admit I find the whole business inconceivable," Harderberg said. "Who on earth would want to kill poor old Gustaf Torstensson?"

"That's precisely the question we are asking ourselves," Wallander said. "And who could be sufficiently cold-blooded to disguise it as a car accident?"

"You must have some idea?"

"Yes, we do, but I'm afraid I can say no more."

"I understand," Harderberg said. "You will realise how disturbed we were by what happened. Old Torstensson was a trusted colleague."

"Things didn't get any easier when his son, too, was murdered," Wallander said. "Did you know him?"

"I never met him. But I am aware of what happened, of course."

Wallander was feeling increasingly insecure. Harderberg seemed unmoved. Normally, Wallander could very quickly surmise whether or not a person was telling the truth, but this man, the man sitting opposite him, was different.

"You have business interests all over the world," Wallander said. "You preside over an empire with a turnover of billions. If I understand it rightly, yours is close to being listed among the world's biggest enterprises."

"We shall overtake Kankaku Securities and Pechiney International next year," Harderberg said. "And when we do, yes, we'll be one of the top one thousand companies in the world."

"I've never heard of the companies you referred to."

"Kankaku is Japanese, and Pechiney is French," Harderberg said.

"It's not a world I am at all familiar with," Wallander said. "It must have been quite unfamiliar to Gustaf Torstensson too. For most of his life he was a simple provincial solicitor. But nevertheless you found a place for him in your organisation."

"I freely admit that I was surprised myself. But when we decided to move our Swedish base to Farnholm Castle, I needed a lawyer with some local know-how. Torstensson was recommended to me."

"By whom?"

"I'm afraid I can no longer remember that."

That's it, Wallander thought. He knows very well who it was, but he prefers not to say. A barely perceptible shift in his impassive features had not escaped Wallander's notice.

"I gather he dealt exclusively with financial advice," Wallander said.

"He made sure the transactions we had with the rest of the world were in accordance with Swedish law," Harderberg said. "He was most meticulous. I had great faith in him."

"That last evening," Wallander said. "I suppose you were sitting in this very room. What was the meeting about?"

"We had made an offer for some properties in Germany that were owned by Horsham Holdings in Canada. I was due to meet Peter Munk a few days later to try to clinch the deal. We discussed if there were any formal obstacles in the way. Our proposal was that we should pay partly in cash and partly in shares."

"Peter Munk? Who is he?"

"The principal shareholder in Horsham Holdings," Harderberg said. "He's the one who runs the business."

"The discussions you had that night were routine?"

"As I remember, yes."

"I understand that other persons were present," Wallander said.

"There were two directors from Banca Commerciale Italiana," Harderberg said. "We'd intended paying for the German properties with some of our holdings in Montedison. The transaction was to be handled by the Italian bank."

"I'd be grateful for the names of those persons," Wallander said. "In case it arises that we need to speak to them as well."

"Of course."

"Gustaf Torstensson left Farnholm Castle immediately after the meeting, I take it," Wallander said. "Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about him that night?"

"Nothing at all."

"And you have no idea why he was murdered?"

"I find it totally incomprehensible. An old man who led a solitary life. Who would want to kill him?"

"That's just it," Wallander said. "Who would want to kill him? And who would want to shoot his son as well, a couple of weeks later?"

"I thought you indicated that the police had a lead?"

"We do have a lead," Wallander said, "but we don't have a motive."

"I wish I could help you," Harderberg said. "If nothing else I'd like the police to keep me informed about developments in the case."

"It's very possible that I may need to come back to you with some more questions," Wallander said, getting to his feet.

"I'll answer them as best I can," Harderberg said.

They shook hands again. Wallander tried to look beyond the smile, beyond those ice-blue eyes. But somewhere along the line he came up against an invisible wall.

"Did you buy those buildings?" Wallander asked.

"Which buildings?"

"In Germany."

The smile became even broader.

"Of course. It was a very good deal. For us."

They took leave of each other at the door. Miss Lind was standing there in her bare feet, waiting to escort him out.

"We've found your notebook," she said as they walked through the big entrance hall, and she handed him an envelope.

Wallander noticed that the shadows were no longer there. "This has the names of the two Italian bank directors," Wallander said.

She smiled.

Everybody smiles, Wallander thought. Does that include the men in the shadows?

Jenny Lind closed the door behind him. The gates opened silently, and Wallander felt relieved once he had passed through them. The gale hit him the moment he emerged from the castle grounds.

This is where Gustaf Torstensson drove that night, he thought. At more or less the same time. He felt scared. He looked over his shoulder to make sure there was nobody in the back seat. But he was alone. A cold draught was forcing its way through the windows.

He thought about Dr Harderberg, the man who smiled. He's the one, Wallander thought, the one who knows exactly what happened.

Chapter 12

The hurricane-force gusts that had hit Skane slowly moved away.

Kurt Wallander had spent another sleepless night in his flat. By dawn the storm seemed to be over. During the night he had several times stood at his kitchen window, watching the light hanging over the street writhing about in the wind like a snake.

Wallander had returned from the strange stage-set world of Farnholm Castle with the sense of having been put down. The smiling Dr Harderberg had made him play the same obsequious role his father had performed before the Silk Knights when he was a child. As he watched the storm raging outside, he thought how Farnholm Castle was but a variation of the sleek American cars that had swayed to a halt outside the house in Malmo where he had grown up. The loud-voiced Pole in his silk suit was a distant relation of the man in the castle with the soundproof library. Wallander had sat in Harderberg's leather armchair, invisible cap in hand, and afterwards he had the feeling of having been vanquished.

OK, that was an exaggeration. He had done what he set out to do, asked his questions, met the man with so much power whom so few people had ever seen, and he had put Harderberg's fears at rest, he was sure of that. Harderberg had no reason to think that he was thought anything but a prominent citizen beyond suspicion.

At the same time Wallander was convinced now that they were on the right track, that they had turned the stone which hid the secret of why the two solicitors had been murdered, and under that stone he had seen Alfred Harderberg's image. What he would have to do now was not merely wipe that smile off the man's face, he had also to slay a giant.

Over and over through that sleepless night he had replayed his conversation with Harderberg. He had pictured his face and tried to interpret the slight shifts in that silent smile, the way one tries to crack a secret code. Once he had hovered on the brink of an abyss, he was certain of that. This was when he had asked Harderberg who had recommended Gustaf Torstensson to him. The smile had shown signs of cracking, if only for a second, no doubt about it. So there were moments when Harderberg could not avoid being human, vulnerable, exposed. But there again, it did not necessarily mean much. It might just have been the momentary and irresistible weariness of the ever-busy world traveller, the barely discernible weakness of a man who no longer had the strength to put on a polite front while allowing himself to be questioned by this insignificant police officer from Ystad.

Wallander believed that this was where he should make the first move if he was going to slay the giant, wipe that smile off his face and discover the truth behind the death of the two solicitors. He had no doubt that the skilful and persistent officers in the fraud squad would uncover information that would be of use to them in the investigation. But as the night wore on Wallander had become increasingly convinced that it was Harderberg himself who would put them on the right track. Somewhere, sometime, the man with the smile would leave a trail which would enable them to hunt him down and use what they found to finish him off.

Wallander knew that it had not been Harderberg himself who had committed the murders. Nor had he planted the mine in Mrs Duner's garden. Or been in the car that had followed Wallander and Hoglund to Helsingborg. Nor put the explosives in the petrol tank. Wallander had noticed that Harderberg had repeatedly said we and us. Like a king, or a Crown prince. But also like a man who knew the importance of surrounding himself with loyal colleagues who never questioned the instructions they were given.

It seemed to Wallander that this trait also applied to Gustaf Torstensson, and he could understand why Harderberg had chosen to include him among his staff. He could expect total loyalty from Torstensson. Torstensson would always understand that his place at table was below the salt. Harderberg had presented him with an opportunity he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams.

Maybe it's as simple as that, Wallander thought as he watched the swaying street light. Maybe Gustaf Torstensson had discovered something he would not or could not accept? Had he also discovered a crack in that smile? A crack which gave him occasion to confront himself with the unpleasant role he had in fact been playing?

From time to time Wallander had left the window and sat at his kitchen table. Written his thoughts on a notepad and tried to make sense of them.

At 5 a.m. he had made himself a cup of coffee. Then he had gone to bed and dozed until 6.30. Got up again, showered and had another cup of coffee. Then he had made his way to the police station at 7.30. The storm had given way to a clear blue sky, and it felt distinctly colder. Although he had hardly slept, he felt full of energy as he stepped into his office. Second wind, he had thought on his way to the station. We're no longer feeling our way into an investigation, we're in the thick of it. He flung his jacket over the back of the visitor's chair, fetched a coffee, phoned Ebba in reception and asked her to get hold of Nyberg for him. While he was waiting he read through his summary of the conversation with Harderberg. Svedberg stuck his head round the door and asked how it had gone.

"You'll hear all about it shortly," Wallander said. "But I do reckon the murders and all the rest of it originate from Farnholm Castle."

"Ann-Britt phoned to say she would be going straight to Angelholm," Svedberg said. "To meet Lars Borman's widow and children."

"How's she getting on with Harderberg's jet?"

"She didn't mention that," Svedberg said. "I suppose it will take a while."

"I feel so impatient," Wallander said. "I wonder why?"

"You always have been. And you're the only one who doesn't seem to be aware of it," Svedberg said, as he left.

As soon as Nyberg came in, Wallander could see that something was up. He asked him to close the door behind him.

"You were right," Nyberg said. "The plastic container we were examining the other night is hardly the sort of thing that belongs in a solicitor's car."

Wallander waited expectantly.

"You were also right in thinking it was a sort of cool box. But it's not for medicine or blood. It's for body organs intended for transplants. A kidney, for instance."

Wallander looked at him thoughtfully. "Are you sure?"

"If I'm not sure, I'll tell you," Nyberg said.

"I know," Wallander said, brushing Nyberg's annoyance aside.

"This is a very advanced kind of plastic container. There aren't a lot of them around, so it should be possible to track it down. If what I've managed to find out so far is correct, the sole importers into Sweden are a company based in Sodertalje called Avanca. I'm about to investigate further."

"Good," Wallander said. "One other thing - don't forget to find out who owns the company."

"I take it you want to know whether Avanca is a part of Harderberg's empire?"

"That would be a start," Wallander said.

Nyberg paused in the doorway. "What do you know about organ transplants?"

"Not a lot," Wallander said. "I know they happen, that they're getting more common, and that more organs are being transplanted. For myself, I hope I never have to have one. It must be very strange to have somebody else's heart in your body."

"I spoke to a Dr Stromberg in Lund," Nyberg said. "He gave me quite a bit of insight. He says there's a side to transplants that's murky, to say the least. It's not just that poor people in the Third World sell their own organs in desperation to survive - obviously that's a business with lots of grey areas, from a moral point of view anyway. He also hinted at something much worse."

Wallander looked questioningly at Nyberg.

"Go on," he said, "I've got time."

"It was beyond me," Nyberg said, "but Stromberg persuaded me that there's no limit to what some people are prepared to do to earn money."

"Surely you know that already?" Wallander said.

Nyberg sat down on Wallander's visitor's chair.

"Like so much else, there's no proof," he said, "but Stromberg maintains that there are gangs in South America and Asia who take orders for particular organs, then go out and commit murder to get them."

Wallander said nothing.

"He said this practice is more widespread than anybody suspects. There are even rumours that it goes on in Eastern Europe and in the US. A kidney doesn't have a face, it doesn't have an individual identity. Somebody kills a child in South America and extends the life of someone in the West whose parents can afford to pay and don't want to wait in the queue. The murderers earn serious money."

"It can't be easy to extract an organ," Wallander said. "That means there must be doctors involved."

"Who's to say that doctors are any different from the rest of us when it comes to morals?"

"I find it difficult to believe," Wallander said.

"I expect everybody does," Nyberg said. "That's why the gangs can continue to operate in peace and quiet."

He took a notebook out of his pocket and thumbed through the pages.

"The doctor gave me the name of a journalist who's digging into this," he said. "A woman. Her name's Lisbeth Norin. She lives in Gothenburg and writes for several popular-science magazines."

Wallander made a note. "Let's think an outrageous thought," he said, looking Nyberg in the eye. "Let's suppose that Alfred Harderberg goes round killing people and selling their kidneys or whatever on the black market that apparently exists. And let's suppose that Gustaf Torstensson somehow or other discovered that. And took the cool box with him as proof. Let's think that outrageous thought."

Nyberg stared at Wallander, eyebrows raised. "Are you serious?"

"Of course not," Wallander said. "I'm just posing an outrageous thought."

Nyberg stood up to leave. "I'll see if I can trace that container," he said. "I'll make that the number-one priority."

When he had gone Wallander went to the window and thought over what Nyberg had said. He told himself that it really was an outrageous thought. Harderberg was a man who donated money for research. Especially for illnesses affecting children. Wallander also recalled that he had given money to support health care in several African and South American countries.

The cool box in Torstensson's car must have some other significance, he concluded. Or no significance at all.

Even so, he could not resist calling Directory Enquiries and getting Lisbeth Norin's number. When he called her, he found himself talking to an answering machine. He left his name and number.

Wallander spent the rest of the day waiting for things to happen. No matter what he did, what he was waiting for - reports from Hoglund and Nyberg - was more important. He phoned his father and discovered that the studio had somehow survived the gales. Then he turned his wavering attention to everything he could find about Harderberg. He could not help but be fascinated by the brilliant career that had started inauspiciously in Vimmerby. Wallander appreciated that Harderberg's commercial genius had made itself felt very early on. At nine he had sold Christmas cards. He had also used his savings to buy previous years' leftovers. These he had snapped up for next to nothing. The boy had sold cards for a number of years, adjusting his prices to whatever the market would stand. Clearly, Harderberg had always been a trader. He bought and sold what other people made. He created nothing himself, but he bought cheap and sold less cheap. He discovered value where nobody else had found it. At 14 he had recognised that there was a demand for veteran cars. He had got on his bike, cycled round the Vimmerby area, poked his nose into sheds and backyards, and bought up any clapped-out vehicle he thought he might be able to sell on. Very often he got them for nothing, as people were too high-minded to think that they should exploit an inexperienced young chap who cycled round the country districts and seemed to be interested in old wrecks. All the while he had saved the money he did not need to plough back into the business. To celebrate his seventeenth birthday, he had travelled to Stockholm. He had been accompanied by an older friend from a village near Vimmerby, an amazing ventriloquist. Harderberg paid all their expenses, and appointed himself the ventriloquist's manager. It seemed that Harderberg had established himself early on as an efficient and unfailingly smiling aide who could further the careers of the up-and-coming. Wallander read several reports about Harderberg and the ventriloquist. They had often featured in Picture Parade, a magazine Wallander thought he could remember; and the articles kept referring to how well bred, well dressed and how capable of a friendly smile the young manager was. There were photographs of the ventriloquist, but not - even then - of his manager. It seemed he had shed his Smaland dialect and adopted the way Stockholmers spoke. He paid for lessons from a speech therapist. After a while the ventriloquist was sent back to Vimmerby and anonymity, and Harderberg turned to new commercial projects. By the end of the 1960s his tax returns showed him to be a millionaire, but his big breakthrough came in the mid '70s. He had spent time in Zimbabwe, or Southern Rhodesia as it was then, and made some profitable investments in copper and gold mines together with a businessman called Tiny Rowland. Wallander assumed that this was when he had acquired the tea plantation.

At the beginning of the 1980s Harderberg had been married to a Brazilian woman, Carmen Dulce da Silva, but they divorced without having had any children. All the time Harderberg had remained as invisible as possible. He had never put in an appearance when hospitals he had helped to finance were opened, nor did he ever send anybody to represent him. But he did write letters and telex messages in which he was modesty itself, expressing his thanks for all the kindness that had been extended to him. He was never present at the ceremony when he was awarded an honorary doctorate.

His life is one long absence, Wallander thought. Until out of the blue he turned up in Skane and installed himself behind the walls of Farnholm Castle, nobody had any idea where he was. He was constantly moving from one house to another, being driven in curtained cars, and from the early '80s he had owned a jet.

But there were a few exceptions. One of them seemed to be more surprising and even stranger than the rest. According to something Mrs Duner had said in a conversation with Hoglund, Harderberg and Gustaf Torstensson had met for the first time over lunch at the Continental Hotel in Ystad. Torstensson had described Harderberg afterwards as likeable, suntanned and strikingly well dressed.

Why had he chosen to meet Torstensson at a restaurant so openly? Wallander wondered. Well-known journalists specialising in international commerce have to wait for years before getting a glimpse of the man. Could that be significant? Does he sometimes change tack to create even more confusion? Uncertainty can be a hiding place, Wallander thought. The world is allowed to know he exists, but never where he is.

Around midday Wallander went home for lunch. He was back by 1.30. He had just settled down to his files when Hoglund knocked and came in.

"Back so soon?" Wallander said in surprise. "I thought you were supposed to be in Angelholm?"

"It didn't take long to talk to Borman's family," she said. "Unfortunately."

Wallander could hear she was unhappy with the trip, and her mood immediately rubbed off on him. It's no good, then, he thought gloomily. Nothing here to help us break down the walls of Farnholm Castle.

She had sat down on his visitor's chair and was leafing through her notebook.

"How's the sick child?" Wallander said.

"Children don't stay ill for long nowadays," she said. "I've found out quite a bit about Harderberg's jet, by the way. I'm glad Svedberg phoned and gave me that to keep me occupied. Women always have a guilty conscience when they can't work."

"The Bormans first," Wallander said. "Let's start with them."

"There really isn't much to say," she said. "There's no doubt they think he committed suicide. I don't think the widow's got over it, nor the son or daughter. I think it's the first time I've realised what it must mean to a family when somebody takes his own life, and for no reason."

"He really hadn't left anything? No letter?"

"Not a thing."

"That doesn't fit with the picture we have of Borman. He wouldn't just drop his bike on the ground, and he wouldn't have taken his life without leaving some kind of explanation, or an apology."

"I went over everything I thought was important. He wasn't in debt, he didn't gamble, and he hadn't been involved in any kind of swindle."

"You mean you asked about that?" Wallander said, astonished.

"Indirect questions can produce direct answers," she said.

Wallander thought he understood what she meant. "People who know the police are coming make preparations," he said. "Is that it?"

"All three of them had decided to defend his reputation," she said. "They listed all his good qualities without my needing to ask if he had any weaknesses."

"The only question is whether what they said is true."

"They weren't lying. I don't know what he might have got up to in private, but he does not seem to have been the kind of man who leads a double life."

"Go on," Wallander said.

"It came as a total shock to them," she said. "And they haven't come to terms with it yet. I think they spend night and day worrying about why he would have taken his own life. Without being able to find an answer."

"Did you give any indication that it might not have been suicide?"

"No."

"Good. Go on."

"The only thing of any interest to us is that Borman was in touch with Gustaf Torstensson. They were able to confirm that. They could also tell me why. Torstensson and Borman were members of a society for the study of icons. Gustaf Torstensson occasionally used to visit the Bormans. And Borman visited Torstensson in Ystad now and then."

"You mean they were friends?"

"I wouldn't say that. I don't think they were that close. And that's what's interesting, it seems to me."

"I don't follow you," Wallander said.

"What I mean is this," she said. "Torstensson and Borman were both loners. One was married, the other a widower, but they were loners even so. They didn't meet very often, and when they did, it was to talk about icons. But don't you think that these two solitary men, caught up in a difficult situation, might confide in each other? They didn't have any real friends, but they did have each other."

"It's conceivable," Wallander said. "But it doesn't explain Borman's threatening letters to the whole firm of solicitors."

"The filing clerk, Lundin, wasn't threatened," she objected. "That might be more significant than we think."

Wallander leaned back in his chair and looked intently at her. "You think you're on to something."

"It's only speculation," she said. "Probably farfetched."

"We have nothing to lose by thinking," Wallander said. "I'm all ears."

"Let's suppose that Borman told Torstensson what had happened at the County Council. Fraud. I mean, they can't have talked about nothing but icons all the time. We know that Borman was disappointed and offended because there was no proper police investigation into what happened. Let's suppose, too, that Torstensson knew there was a link between Harderberg and that swindling company STRUFAB. He might have mentioned that he worked for Harderberg. Let's go a step further and suppose that Borman saw in Torstensson a solicitor with the same feelings about justice as he had himself, a sort of guardian angel. He asked for help. But Torstensson did nothing. You can interpret threatening letters in different ways."

"Can you?" Wallander said. "Threatening letters are threatening letters."

"Some more serious than others," she said. "Perhaps we should not have overlooked that Torstensson did not in fact take them seriously. He did not record them, he did not turn to the police or to the Bar Council. He just hid them away. The most dramatic discovery can sometimes be finding that an incident wasn't really very dramatic. The fact that Lundin wasn't mentioned might be because he did not know she existed."

"Good thinking," Wallander said. "Your speculations are no worse than any others. On the contrary. But there's just one thing you don't explain. The most important detail of all. Borman's murder. A carbon copy of Gustaf Torstensson's death. Executions disguised as something else."

"I think you might have given the answer yourself," she said. "Their deaths were similar."

Wallander thought for a moment. "You could be right," he said. "If we suppose that Gustaf Torstensson was already suspect in Alfred Harderberg's eyes. If he was being watched. Then what happened to Lars Borman could be a copy of what nearly happened to Mrs Duner."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," she said.

Wallander stood up. "We can't prove any of this," he said.

"Not yet," she said.

"We don't have much time," Wallander said. "I suspect Per Akeson will switch on the red light and demand that we broaden the investigation if nothing happens. Let's say we have a month in which to concentrate on our so-called prime suspect, Alfred Harderberg."

"That might be long enough," she said.

"I'm having a bad day today," Wallander said. "I think the whole investigation's going off the rails. That's why it's good to hear what you have to say. Detectives whose resolve starts to falter have no business to be in the force."

They went to fetch some coffee, but paused in the corridor.

"The private jet," Wallander said. "What do we know about that?"

"Not a great deal," she said. "It's a Grumman Gulf-stream dating from 1974. Its Swedish base is at Sturup. It gets serviced in Germany, in Bremen. Harderberg employs two pilots. One's from Austria and is called Karl Heider. He's been with Harderberg for many years and lives in Svedala. The other pilot has only been in the post a couple of years. His name is Luiz Manshino, originally from Mauritius. He has a flat in Malmo."

"Where did you get all that information from?"

"I pretended to be from a newspaper running a feature on the private jets of Swedish business executives. I spoke to somebody in charge of PR at the airport. I don't think Harderberg will be suspicious, even if he gets to hear about it. Obviously, though, I couldn't start asking if there were logbooks that recorded his travels."

"The pilots interest me," Wallander said. "People who travel that often with each other and spend so much time together must have a special relationship. They know a lot about each other. Don't they have to have some kind of stewardess with them? For safety reasons?"

"Evidently not," she said.

"We'll have to try to make contact with the pilots," Wallander said. "Hit on some way of finding out about the flight documentation."

"I'd be happy to continue with that," she said. "I promise to be discreet."

"Go ahead," Wallander said. "But get a move on. Time's at a premium."

That same afternoon Wallander called a meeting of his investigative team, without Bjork being there. They crammed into Wallander's office as the conference room was occupied by a meeting of police chiefs from all over the district, chaired by Bjork. After they had heard what Hoglund had to report about her meeting with the Bormans, Wallander informed them about his meeting with Harderberg at Farnholm Castle. Everybody listened intently, trying to find a lead, something he might himself have overlooked.

"My feeling that these murders and all the other incidents are linked to Harderberg is stronger now than it was before," Wallander said in conclusion. "If you agree with me, we'll go on following this line. But we can't rely on my feelings, we must acknowledge that we haven't solved anything yet. We could be wrong."

"What else do we have to go on?" Svedberg said.

"We can always go looking for a madman," Martinsson said. "A madman who doesn't exist."

"It's too cold-blooded for that," Hoglund said. "It all seems to be so well planned. There's nothing to suggest a madman at work."

"We must continue to take every precaution," Wallander said. "Somebody is keeping an eye on us, whether it's Harderberg or somebody else."

"It's a pity we can't count on Kurt Strom," Svedberg said. "What we need is a contact inside the castle. Somebody who can move around among all those secretaries without drawing attention to himself."

"I agree," Wallander said. "It would be even better if we could find somebody who worked for Harderberg until recently. Especially somebody with a grudge."

"The fraud squad people maintain that there are only a handful of people who are close to Harderberg," Martinsson said. "And they've all been with him for many years. The secretaries are not very important. I don't think they know much about what goes on."

"Even so, we ought to have somebody there," Svedberg insisted. "Somebody who could tell us about daily routines."

The meeting was drifting towards stalemate.

"I have a proposal," Wallander said. "Let's shut ourselves away somewhere different tomorrow. We need peace and quiet to work our way through all the material. We have to define where we stand one more time. We need to use our time efficiently."

"At this time of year the Continental Hotel is practically empty," Martinsson said. "I'd have thought they'd have a conference room we could rent for next to nothing."

"I like it," Wallander said. "The symbolism is attractive. That's where Gustaf Torstensson met Harderberg for the first time."

They met on the first floor of the Continental Hotel. Discussions continued through lunch and every coffee break. Come evening, they agreed to go on the next day as well. Somebody phoned Bjork, who gave his blessing. They shut out the outside world and worked their way through all the material yet again. They were well aware that time was running out. It was Friday, November 19.

It was late afternoon when they finally broke up. Wallander thought that Hoglund had summed up the state of the investigation best.

"I get the feeling everything is here," she said, "but we can't see how it hangs together. If it is Harderberg pulling the strings, he's doing it very skilfully. Whichever way we turn he moves the goalposts and we have to start all over."

They were all exhausted when they left the hotel. But this was no vanquished army beating a retreat. Wallander knew something important had happened. Everybody had shared all they knew with everybody else. Nobody needed to be unsure about what ideas or doubts their colleagues had.

"Let's have a break this weekend," Wallander said. "We need some rest. We need to be fit and raring to go again by Monday."

Wallander spent Saturday with his father in Loderup. He managed to repair the roof, then sat for hours with his father in the kitchen, playing cards. Over dinner Wallander could see quite clearly that Gertrud was genuinely enjoying life with his father. Before he left, Wallander asked her if she was familiar with Farnholm Castle.

"They used to say it was haunted," she said. "But perhaps they say that about all castles?"

It was midnight when Wallander set off for home. The temperature was below freezing, and he was not looking forward to winter.

He slept in on Sunday morning. Then he went for a walk, and inspected the boats in the harbour. He spent the afternoon cleaning his flat. Yet another Sunday wasted on unproductive matters.

When Wallander woke up on the morning of Monday, November 22, he had a headache. He was surprised, as he hadn't had a drop to drink the previous night. Then he realised he hadn't slept well. He had had one horrific nightmare after the other. His father had died suddenly, but when he went to see him in his dream coffin, he hadn't dared to look as he knew it was really Linda lying there.

He got up reluctantly and dissolved two painkillers in half a glass of water. It was still below freezing. As he waited for the coffee water to boil, he thought that his nightmares were a prologue to the meeting he and Bjork were due to have with Akeson that morning. Wallander knew it was going to be tricky. Although he had no doubt Akeson would give them the green light to continue concentrating on Harderberg, he knew that their results had been unsatisfactory so far. They had not been able to get their material to point in any one particular direction. The investigation was drifting. Akeson would, with good reason, want to know how much longer the investigators could go on standing on one leg, as it were.

He scrutinised his wall calendar, coffee mug in hand. Just over a month to go before Christmas. He would say they needed as long as that. If they were no nearer to cracking the case by then, he would have to accept that they would need to start investigating other leads in the new year.

A month, he thought. Something needs to happen pretty fast.

He was interrupted by the phone ringing.

"I hope I didn't wake you up," Hoglund said.

"I'm drinking coffee."

"Do you take Ystad Allehanda?" she said.

"Of course."

"Have you read it today?" she said.

"I haven't even collected it from the letter box."

"Do," she said. "Turn to the job adverts."

Wondering what was going on, he went out into the hall and fetched his paper. Telephone in hand, he started turning to the adverts.

"What am I supposed to be looking for?" he asked.

"You'll see," she said. "See you later."

She hung up. He saw it at once. An advertisement for a stablegirl at Farnholm Castle. To start immediately. That's why she had worded her call the way she did. She had not wanted to mention Farnholm Castle on the telephone.

This could be their chance. As soon as he had got through the meeting with Akeson he would phone his friend Sten Widen.

As Wallander and Bjork settled down in Akeson's office, Akeson told the switchboard they were not to be disturbed. He had a bad cold, and blew his nose frequently.

"I really ought to be at home in bed," he said, "but let's get through this meeting as arranged." He pointed to the heap of files before going on. "You won't be surprised to hear that with the best will in the world, I can't say the results you've achieved so far are satisfactory. A few extremely vague pointers in the direction of Alfred Harderberg is all we've got."

"We need more time," Wallander said. "This is a particularly complicated investigation. We knew it would be from the outset. This is the best lead we've got."

"If we can call it a lead," Akeson interrupted. "You made a case for concentrating on Harderberg, but we haven't really got any further since then. Looking through the material, I'm forced to conclude that we're only marking time. The fraud squad haven't come up with any financial irregularities either. Harderberg seems to be a remarkably honourable gentleman. We have nothing to link him or his businesses directly or indirectly with the murder of Gustaf Torstensson and his son."

"Time," Wallander said again. "That's what we need. We could also stand the whole thing on its head and say that the moment we can definitely exclude Harderberg from our deliberations, we'll be in a better position to approach the case from a different angle."

Bjork said nothing. Akeson looked hard at Wallander.

"I really ought to call a halt to it at this point," he said. "You know that. Convince me that we ought to carry on a little longer concentrating all our efforts on Harderberg."

"The justification is in the paperwork," Wallander said. "I'm still sure we're on the right track. The whole team agrees with me, come to that."

"I still think we ought to consider splitting the team and setting some of them to work from another angle," Akeson said.

"We don't have another angle," Wallander said. "Who fakes an accident to cover up a murder, and why? Why is a solicitor shot in his office? Who plants a mine in an elderly lady's garden? Who blows my car up? Are we supposed to think it could be a madman who's decided for no reason at all that it would be fun to kill off everybody employed by a firm of solicitors in Ystad, and why not a police officer as well while we're at it?"

"You still haven't sifted through all the files of the solicitors' clients," Akeson said. "There's a lot we don't know yet."

"I still think we need more time," Wallander said. "Not unlimited time. But more time."

"I'll give you two weeks," Akeson said. "If you haven't come up with anything more convincing by then, we'll take a new approach."

"That's not enough," Wallander said.

"I could stretch it to three," Akeson said with a sigh.

"Let's take Christmas as the landmark," Wallander said. "If anything crops up before then to suggest that we ought to change course, we can do that straight away. But let's keep going as we are until Christmas."

Akeson turned to Bjork. "What do you think?"

"I'm worried," Bjork said. "I don't think we're getting anywhere either. It's no secret that I've never really believed that Dr Harderberg has anything to do with all this."

Wallander felt the urge to protest, but resisted the temptation. If needs be he would have to accept three weeks.

Akeson turned to the pile of papers on his desk. "What's this about organ transports?" he said. "I read that you'd found a cool box for transporting human organs in Gustaf Torstensson's car. Is that true?"

Wallander told them what Nyberg had discovered, and what they had subsequently managed to find out.

"Avanca," Akeson said. "Is that a company quoted on the Stock Exchange? I've never heard of it."

"It's a small company," Wallander said. "Owned by a family called Roman. They started in the 1930s, importing wheelchairs."

"In other words, it's not owned by Harderberg," Akeson said.

"We don't know that yet."

Akeson eyed Wallander up and down. "How can a company owned by a family called Roman also be owned by Harderberg? You'll have to explain that to me."

"I'll explain when I can," Wallander said. "But what I do know on the basis of what I've learned this last month is that the real owner of a company can be someone quite different from what it says on the company logo."

Akeson shook his head. "You're a hard nut to crack," he said. He consulted his desk diary. "Let's say Monday, December 20. Unless we've made a breakthrough before then. But I'm not going to allow you a single day more if the investigation hasn't produced significant results by then."

"We'll make the most of the time," Wallander said. "I trust you realise that we're busting ourselves here."

"I know," Akeson said. "But the bottom line is that I'm the prosecutor, and I have to do my duty."

The meeting was over. Bjork and Wallander went back to their offices.

"It was good of him to give you as much time as that," Bjork said as they parted in the corridor.

"Give me time?" Wallander said. "You mean us, don't you?"

"You know exactly what I mean," Bjork said. "Let's not waste time discussing it."

"I entirely agree," Wallander said.

When he had got to his office and closed the door, he felt at a loose end. Somebody had put on his desk a photograph of Harderberg's jet parked at Sturup. Wallander glanced at it, then pushed it aside.

I've lost my touch, he thought. The whole investigation's gone to pot. I ought to pass it on to somebody else. I can't handle this.

He sat there in his chair, inert. His mind went back to Riga and Baiba. When he could no longer cope with doing nothing he penned her a letter, inviting her to Ystad for Christmas and New Year. To make sure that the letter would not just lie there or get torn to pieces, he put it in an envelope and without more ado handed it to Ebba in reception.

"Could you post that for me today?" he said. "It's really urgent."

"I'll take care of it myself," she said, with a smile. "Incidentally, you look shattered. Are you getting enough sleep?"

"Not as much as I need," Wallander said.

"Who's going to thank you if you work yourself to death?" she said. "Not me, for sure."

Wallander went back to his office.

A month, he thought. A month in which to wipe the smile off Harderberg's face. He doubted if it would be possible.

He forced himself to work, despite everything.

Then he phoned Widen.

He also made up his mind to buy some cassettes of opera recordings. He missed his music.

Chapter 13

At around noon on Monday, November 22, Kurt Wallander got into the police car that was still doing service as a temporary replacement for his own burned-out wreck and set off west from Ystad. He was heading for the stables next to the ruins of Stjarnsund Castle where Sten Widen ran his business. When he reached the top of the hill outside Ystad he turned off into the lay-by, cut the engine and stared out to sea. On the far horizon he could just dimly see the outline of a cargo vessel sailing out into the Baltic. All of a sudden he was overcome by a fit of dizziness. He was terrified that it was his heart, but then he realised it was something else, that he seemed to be about to faint. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and tried not to think. After a minute or so he opened his eyes. The sea was still there and the cargo vessel was still sailing out to the east.

I'm tired, he thought. Despite having rested all weekend. The feeling of exhaustion goes deep, deep down, I'm only half aware of the causes, and there is probably nothing I can do about it. Not now that I've made up my mind to return to work. The beach on Jutland no longer exists as far as I'm concerned. I renounced it of my own free will.

He did not know how long he sat there, but when he began to feel cold he started the engine and drove on. He would have preferred to go home and disappear into the security of his flat, but he forced himself to continue. He turned off towards Stjarnsund. After about a kilometre the road deteriorated badly. As always when he visited Widen, he wondered how big horseboxes could negotiate such a wretchedly maintained track.

The path sloped steeply towards the extensive farm with row upon row of stable blocks. He drove down into the yard and switched off the engine. A flock of crows were screeching in a nearby tree.

He got out of the car and made for the red-brick building Widen used as a combined home and office. The door was ajar, and he could hear Widen talking on the phone. He knocked and went in. As usual it was untidy and smelled strongly of horses. Two cats were lying asleep on the unmade bed. Wallander wondered how his friend could put up with living like this year after year.

The man who nodded to him as he came in without interrupting his telephone call was thin, with tousled hair and an angry red patch of eczema on his chin. He looked just as he had twenty-five years back. In those days they had seen a lot of each other. Widen had dreamed then of becoming an opera singer. He had a fine tenor voice, and they had planned a future with Wallander acting as his impresario. But the dream had collapsed, or rather, faded away; Wallander had become a police officer and Widen had inherited his father's business, training racehorses. They had drifted apart, without either of them really knowing why, and it was not until the early 1990s, in connection with a lengthy and complicated murder case, that they had come into contact again.

There was a time when he was my best friend, Wallander thought. I haven't had another one since then. Perhaps he will always be the best friend I ever had.

Widen finished his call and slammed the receiver down.

"What a bastard!" he snarled.

"A horse owner?" Wallander said.

"A crook," Widen said. "I bought a horse from him a month ago. He has some stables over at Hoor. I was going to collect it, but he's changed his mind. The bastard."

"If you've paid for the horse, there's not much he can do about it," Wallander said.

"Only a deposit," Widen said. "But I'm going to collect that horse no matter what he says."

Widen disappeared into the kitchen. When he came back Wallander could smell alcohol on his breath.

"You always come when I'm not expecting you," Widen said. "Would you like some coffee?"

Wallander accepted the offer and they went out to the kitchen. Widen shifted piles of old racing programmes to one side, exposing a small patch of plastic tablecloth.

"How about a drop of something stronger?" he asked, as he set about making the coffee.

"I'm driving," Wallander said. "How's it going with the horses?"

"It hasn't been a good year. And next year's not going to be any better. There isn't enough money in circulation. Fewer horses. I keep having to raise my training fees to make ends meet. What I'd really like to do is close down and sell up, but property prices are too low. In other words, I'm stuck fast in the Scanian mud."

He poured the coffee and sat down. Wallander noticed Widen's hand shaking as he reached for the cup. He's well on the way to drinking himself to death, he thought. I've never seen his hand shake like that in the middle of the day.

"What about you?" Widen asked. "What are you doing nowadays? Are you still off sick?"

"No, I'm back at work. A police officer again."

Widen looked bemused. "I didn't think so," he said.

"Didn't think what?"

"That you'd go back."

"What else could I do?"

"You were talking about getting a job with a security company. Or becoming head of security for some firm."

"I'll never be anything but a police officer."

"No," Widen agreed, "and I don't suppose I'll ever get away from these stables. That horse I've bought in Hoor is a good 'un, by the way. Out of Queen Blue. Nothing wrong with its pedigree."

A girl rode past the window on horseback.

"How many staff have you got?"

"Three. But I can't afford more than two. I really need four."

"That's why I'm here, actually," Wallander said.

"Don't tell me you want a job as a stableboy," Widen said. "I don't think you've got the necessary qualifications."

"I'm sure I haven't," Wallander said. "Let me explain."

Wallander could see no reason why he shouldn't explain about Alfred Harderberg; he knew Widen would never breathe a word to anybody else.

"It's not my idea," Wallander said. "We've recently acquired a new woman police officer in Ystad. She's good. She was the one who saw the advert and told me about it."

"You mean I should second one of my girls to Farnholm Castle, is that it?" Widen said. "As a sort of spy? You must be out of your mind."

"Murder is murder," Wallander said. "The castle is impenetrable. This advert gives us an opportunity to get in. You say you have a girl too many."

"I said I had one too few."

"She can't be stupid," Wallander said. "She has to be wide awake and notice things."

"I have a girl who would fit the bill," Widen said. "She's sharp, and nothing scares her. But there is a problem."

"What's that?"

"She doesn't like the police."

"Why's that?"

"You know that I often employ girls who've gone off the rails a bit. Over the years I've found them pretty good. I cooperate with a youth employment agency in Malmo. I have a girl from there at the moment, 19 years old. Name's Sofia. She was the one riding past the window just now."

"We don't need to mention the police," Wallander said. "We can think up some reason why you need to keep an eye on what's cooking at the castle. Then you can pass on to me what she tells you."

"Only if I must," Widen said. "I'd rather not get involved. Alright, we don't need to tell her you're a police officer. You're just somebody who wants to know what's going on there. If I say you're OK, she'll take my word for it."

"We can try," Wallander said.

"She hasn't got the job yet," Widen said. "I expect there'll be lots of horsey girls interested in a job at the castle."

"Go and get her," Wallander said. "Don't tell her my name."

"What the hell shall I call you, then?"

Wallander thought for a moment. "Roger Lundin," he said.

"Who's he?"

"From now on it's me."

Widen shook his head. "I hope you're right about this," he said. "I'll go and fetch her."

Sofia proved to be thin and leggy with a mop of unkempt hair. She came into the kitchen, nodded casually in Wallander's direction, then sat down and drank what remained of the coffee in Widen's cup. Wallander wondered if she was one of the girls who shared his bed. He knew of old that Widen often had affairs with the girls who worked for him.

"You know I have to cut back here," Widen said. "But we've heard about a job that might suit you at a castle over at Osterlen. If you take the job, or rather get it, things might pick up here later, and I promise to take you back if they do."

"What sort of horses are they?" she asked.

Widen looked at Wallander, who could only shrug his shoulders.

"I don't suppose they'll be Ardennes," Widen said. "What the hell does it matter? It's only going to be temporary. Besides, you'd be helping Roger here, who's a friend of mine. He'd like you to keep your eyes peeled and see what goes on there at the castle. Nothing special, just keeping your eyes open."

"What's the money like?" she asked.

"I've no idea," Wallander said.

"It's a castle, for God's sake," Widen said. "Stop being awkward."

He disappeared into the living room and came back with the paper. Wallander found the advert.

"Interview," he said. "Applicants should phone first."

"We can fix that," Widen said. "I'll drive you there tonight."

She suddenly looked up from the plastic tablecloth and stared Wallander in the eye.

"What sort of horses are they?" she asked.

"I really have no idea," Wallander said.

She cocked her head to one side. "I think you're police," she said.

"What on earth makes you think that?" Wallander said, astonished.

"I can feel it."

Widen interrupted her. "His name's Roger. That's all you need to know. Don't ask so many stupid bloody questions. Try to look comparatively respectable when we go there tonight. Wash your hair, for instance. And don't forget that Winter's Moon needs a bandage on her left hind leg."

She left the kitchen without another word.

"You can see for yourself," Widen said. "She's nobody's fool."

"Thanks for your help," Wallander said. "Let's hope she pulls it off."

"I'll drive her over. That's the best I can do."

"Phone me at home," Wallander said. "I need to know right away if she gets the job."

They went out to Wallander's car.

"I sometimes feel so desperately bloody tired of this whole business," Widen said.

"It would be nice if we could have our time over again," Wallander said.

"I sometimes say to myself, is that all it was? Life, that is. A few arias, loads of third-rate horses, constant money problems."

"Come on, it's not all that bad, is it?"

"Convince me."

"We have a reason to meet more often now. We can talk about it."

"She hasn't got the job yet."

"I know," Wallander said. "Phone me tonight."

He got into his car, nodded to Widen and drove off. It was still quite early in the day. He made up his mind to pay another visit.

Half an hour later he parked in a no-parking area in the narrow street behind the Continental Hotel and walked to Mrs Duner's little pink house. He was surprised to see no sign of a police car in the vicinity. What had happened to the protection Mrs Duner was supposed to be receiving? He grew annoyed and worried at the same time. He rang the doorbell. He would get on to Bjork immediately.

The door opened a fraction, but when Mrs Duner saw who it was, she seemed genuinely pleased.

"I apologise for not having phoned in advance," he said.

"It's always a pleasure to welcome Inspector Wallander," she said.

He accepted her offer of a cup of coffee, even though he knew he had drunk too much coffee already. While she was busy in the kitchen Wallander took another look at her back garden. The lawn had been repaired. He wondered if she was expecting the police to provide her with another phone directory.

In this investigation everything seems to have happened a long time ago, he thought, and yet it's only a few days since I threw the directory at the lawn and watched the garden explode.

She brought in the coffee, and he sat on the flower-patterned sofa.

"I didn't see a police car outside when I arrived," he said.

"Sometimes they're here, sometimes they're not," Mrs Duner said.

"I'll look into it," Wallander promised.

"Is it really necessary?" she said. "Do you really think somebody is trying to harm me?"

"You know what happened to your employers. I don't believe anything else is going to happen, but we have to take all the precautions we can."

"I wish I could make sense of it all," she said.

"That's why I'm here," Wallander said. "You've had time to do some thinking. Often one needs to let a bit of time pass before things become clear, to let your memory warm up."

"I have tried. Day and night."

"Let's go back a few years," Wallander said. "To when Gustaf Torstensson was first offered the opportunity of working for Alfred Harderberg. Did you ever meet him?"

"No, never."

"You spoke to him on the phone?"

"Not even that. It was always one of the secretaries who called."

"It must have been a big deal for the firm to get a client like that."

"Oh yes, of course. We began to earn much more money than we'd ever done before. We were able to renovate the whole building."

"Even if you never met or spoke to Harderberg, you must have formed some idea of what he was like. I know you have a good memory."

She thought before answering. Wallander watched a magpie hopping about in the garden while he waited.

"Everything was always urgent," she said. "Whenever he called in Mr Torstensson, everything else had to be put to one side."

"Mr Torstensson must have discussed his client now and then," he said. "Told you about his visits to the castle."

"I think he was very impressed. And also fearful of making a mistake. That was very important. I remember him saying several times that mistakes were forbidden."

"What do you think he meant by that?"

"That if that happened Harderberg would go to another firm of solicitors."

"Weren't you curious about Harderberg, and about the castle?"

"I wondered what it was like, of course. But he never said much. He was impressed, but reticent. I remember he once said that Sweden should be grateful for all the things Dr Harderberg was doing."

"He never said anything negative about him?"

"Yes, he did, actually. I remember because it only happened once."

"What did he say?"

"I can tell you word for word. He said: 'Dr Harderberg has a macabre sense of humour.'"

"What do you suppose he meant by that?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask, and he didn't explain."

"When was this?"

"About a year ago."

"In what context did he say it?"

"He had just come back from Farnholm Castle. One of the regular meetings. I don't remember it having been anything out of the ordinary."

Wallander could see he wasn't going to get any further on that tack.

"Let's talk about something completely different," he said. "When a solicitor's at work, there's always a lot of paper around. But we hear from the representatives of the Bar Council that there's very little in the files concerning the work Mr Torstensson did for Harderberg."

"I was expecting that question," she said. "There were very special routines as far as work for Dr Harderberg was concerned. The only documents kept were the ones a solicitor regards as essential. We had strict instructions not to copy or save anything that wasn't absolutely necessary. Mr Torstensson took all the documents he worked on back to Farnholm Castle. That's why there's so little in the archives."

"That must have seemed very odd to you."

"The reason given was that Dr Harderberg's affairs were extremely sensitive. I had no reason not to accept that, so long as no rules were broken."

"I understand that Mr Torstensson gave financial advice," Wallander said. "Can you remember any details?"

"I'm afraid I can't," she said. "They were complicated agreements between banks and companies in all four corners of the world. It was generally one of Dr Harderberg's secretaries who typed the documents. I was only rarely asked to type anything Mr Torstensson was going to take to Dr Harderberg. He typed up quite a lot of things himself."

"But he didn't do that for other clients?"

"Never."

"How would you explain that?"

"I assumed they were so sensitive that not even I was allowed to see them," she said frankly.

Wallander declined the offer of a top-up for his coffee.

"Can you remember noticing any mention of a company called Avanca in any of the documents you saw?"

He could see she was trying hard to remember.

"No," she said. "It's possible I saw it, but I don't remember it."

"Just one more question," he said. "Did you know about the threatening letters the firm received?"

"Gustaf Torstensson showed them to me," she said. "But he said they were nothing to worry about. That's why they weren't put in the archives. I thought he had thrown them away."

"Did you know that the man who wrote them, Lars Borman, was a friend of Gustaf Torstensson?"

"No, and I am surprised to hear it."

"They met through an icons club or society."

"I knew about the club, but I did not know that the man who wrote those letters was a member."

Wallander put down his coffee cup. "I won't disturb you any longer," he said, rising to his feet.

She remained seated, staring at him. "Haven't you any news at all to tell me?" she said.

"We don't know yet who committed the murders," Wallander said. "Nor do we know why they did it. When we know that, we'll know why somebody planted a mine in your garden."

She stood up and took hold of his arm. "You have to catch them," she said.-

"Yes," Wallander said. "But it could take time."

"I have to know what happened before I die."

"As soon as there is anything to tell you, I'll be in touch straight away," he said, knowing that this could not have sounded very satisfactory to her ears.

Wallander drove to the police station and was told that Bjork was in Malmo. So he went to Svedberg and asked him to find out why there was no proper protection at Mrs Duner's house.

"Do you really think she's at risk?" Svedberg said.

"I don't think anything," Wallander said. "But more than enough has happened already."

Svedberg handed him a note. "There was a call from somebody called Lisbeth Norin," he said. "You can get her on this number. She'll be there until 5.00."

It was a number in Malmo, not Gothenburg. Wallander went to his office and dialled the number. An old man's voice answered. After a pause Lisbeth Norin came to the phone, and Wallander introduced himself.

"I happen to be in Malmo for a few days," she said. "I'm visiting my father, he's broken his femur. I checked my answering machine and heard you'd been trying to reach me."

"Yes, I'd be grateful for a word with you," Wallander said. "Preferably not over the phone."

"What's it about?"

"I have some questions in connection with a case we're investigating at the moment," Wallander said. "I heard about you from a Dr Stromberg in Lund."

"I have some free time tomorrow," she said. "But it will have to be here in Malmo."

"I'll drive over," Wallander said. "Would 10 a.m. suit you?"

"That will do fine."

She gave him the address in central Malmo.

Wallander wondered how an old man with a broken femur could get to answer the phone. Then he realised he was extremely hungry. It was already late afternoon. He decided to work at home. He had a lot of material on Harderberg's business empire that he had not yet read. He found a plastic carrier bag in a drawer and filled it with files. He told Ebba that he would be working at home for the rest of the day.

He stopped at a grocer's and bought some food, and went into a tobacconist's to buy five lottery scratch cards. When he got home he cooked himself some blood pudding and had a beer with it. He looked in vain for the jar of lingonberry jam he thought he had. Then he washed up and checked his lottery cards. No luck. He decided he had had enough coffee for one day and lay on his unmade bed for a little rest before starting to go through the files.

He was woken up by the telephone ringing. He looked at the clock by his bed. It was 9.10 p.m.

He picked up the phone and recognised Widen's voice.

"I'm ringing from a phone box," he said. "I thought you'd like to know that Sofia got the job. She starts tomorrow."

Wallander was wide awake immediately.

"Good," he said. "Who gave her the job?"

"A woman called Karlen."

Wallander recalled his first visit to Farnholm Castle. "Anita Karlen," he said.

"A couple of cobs," Widen said. "Very valuable. That's what she'll be looking after. Nothing wrong with the wages either. The stables are small, but there's a one-room flat attached. I think Sofia has a much higher opinion of you now that she's had this opportunity."

"That's good," Wallander said.

"She's going to phone me in a few days' time. Just one problem: I can't remember your name."

Wallander also had to think hard before remembering. "Roger Lundin," he said.

"I'll write it down."

"I'd better do the same. Incidentally, better if she doesn't phone from the castle, tell her to use a call box the same as you're doing."

"There's a telephone in her flat. Why shouldn't she use that?"

"It could be bugged."

Wallander could hear Widen taking a deep breath at the other end of the line.

"I think you're out of your mind."

"I ought to be careful with my own phone, in fact," Wallander said. "But we keep a regular check on our police lines."

"Who is this Harderberg? A monster?"

"He's a friendly, suntanned man who's always smiling," Wallander said. "He's also elegantly dressed. There are lots of ways a monster can look."

Pips were sounding at the other end of the line. "I'll call you," Widen said, then he was cut off.

Wallander wondered if he ought to phone Hoglund and tell her what had happened, but decided not to. It was getting late. He spent the rest of the evening poring over the contents of the plastic carrier bag. At midnight he took out his old school atlas and looked up some of the exotic places to which the tentacles of Harderberg's empire reached. It was clear that it was a huge operation. Wallander also had a nagging worry that he was pointing the investigation and his colleagues in the wrong direction. Perhaps there was another solution to the deaths of the two solicitors after all.

It was 1 a.m. by the time he went to bed. It struck him that it was a long time since Linda had been in touch. On the other hand, he should have phoned her ages ago.

Tuesday, November 23 was a fine, clear autumn day.

He had taken the liberty of lying in that morning. He had phoned the station a little before 8.00 and told them he was going to Malmo. He had made coffee and stayed in bed for another hour. Then he had had a quick shower and set off. The address Norin had given him was near the Triangle in the centre of the city. He left his car in the multi-storey car park behind the Sheraton Hotel, and rang the doorbell at dead on 10.00. A woman of about his own age answered. She was wearing a brightly coloured tracksuit, and he wondered if he had got the wrong address. She did not fit the image he had of her after hearing her voice on the telephone, nor did it correspond to the general and no doubt prejudiced idea he had of journalists.

"So you're the police officer," she said cheerfully. "I'd expected a man in uniform."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Wallander said.

She invited him in. It was an old flat with high ceilings. She introduced him to her father, who was sitting in a chair with his leg in plaster. Wallander noticed the cordless telephone on his knee.

"I recognise you," the man said. "There was quite a bit about you in the newspapers a year or so ago. Or am I mixing you up with somebody else?"

"No, that was probably me," Wallander said.

"And something to do with a car that burned out on Oland Bridge," the man said. "I remember it because I used to be a sailor before the bridge was built, getting in the way of the ships."

"Newspapers exaggerate things," Wallander said.

"I remember you were described as an exceptionally successful police officer."

"That's right," the daughter said. "Now you mention it, I recognise Inspector Wallander from the photos in the papers. Weren't you on some television discussion programme too?"

"You must be mixing me up with somebody else."

"Let's go and sit in the kitchen," she said.

The autumn sun was shining through the high window. A cat was curled up asleep among the plant pots. He accepted the offer of a cup of coffee, and sat down.

"My questions are not going to be very precise," Wallander said. "Your answers are likely to be far more interesting. Let me just say that the Ystad police are currently investigating a murder, possibly two murders, and there are certain indications to suggest that the transportation and illegal selling of body organs might be involved. I can't say for certain if that is the case, and I'm afraid I can't go into any more detail for technical reasons associated with the case."

Why can't I express myself more simply? he wondered, crossly. I speak like a parody of a police officer. I sound like a machine.

"I see why Lasse Stromberg gave you my name," she said, and Wallander could tell that her interest had been aroused.

"If I understand it rightly you're doing work on this horrific traffic," he said. "It would be a big help to me if you could give me an overview."

"It would take all day to do that," she said. "Possibly all night as well. Besides, you'd soon find there was an invisible question mark behind every word I said. It's a gruesome activity that practically nobody has dared look into, apart from a handful of American journalists. I'm probably the only journalist in Scandinavia who's started digging into it."

"I take it that's a pretty risky business."

"Maybe not here, and maybe not for me," she said. "But I know personally one of the American journalists involved, Gary Becker from Minneapolis. He went to Brazil to look into rumours about a gang said to be operating in Sao Paulo. He wasn't just threatened - one night as his taxi stopped outside his hotel someone fired a whole magazine at it. He booked the next flight and got the hell out of there."

"Have you come across any suggestion that Swedes could be involved in the trafficking?"

"No. Should I have done?"

"I was only asking," Wallander said.

She studied him without speaking, then leaned across the table towards him. "If you and I are going to have a conversation, you have to be honest with me," she said. "Don't forget that I'm a journalist. You don't have to pay for this visit because you're a police officer, but the least I can ask is that you tell me the truth."

"You're right," Wallander said. "There is a slight possibility that there might be a connection. That's the nearest I can go to telling you the truth."

"OK," she said. "Now we understand each other. But I want just one more thing from you. If in fact there does turn out to be a connection, I want to be the first journalist who knows about it."

"I can't promise you that," Wallander said. "It's against our regulations."

"No doubt it is. But killing people to take their body parts goes against something much more important than regulations."

Wallander considered what she had said. He was citing regulations that he had long since ceased to observe uncritically himself. In recent years his experiences as a police officer had taken place in a no man's land where any good he might have been able to do had always involved his having to decide which regulations to abide by, and which not. Why should he change now?

"You'll be the first to know," he said. "But you'd better not quote me. I'll have to remain anonymous."

"That's good," she said again. "Now we understand each other even better."

*

When Wallander looked back over all the hours he spent in that hushed kitchen, with the cat asleep among the pot plants and the rays of the sun moving slowly over the plastic tablecloth before disappearing altogether, he was surprised at how quickly the time had passed. They had started talking at 10 a.m. and it was evening by the time they finished. They had had a few breaks, she had prepared lunch for him, and her father had entertained Wallander with stories about his life as captain of various ships plying the Baltic coast, with occasional voyages to Poland and the Baltic States. Otherwise they had been alone in the kitchen, and she had talked about her research. Wallander envied her. They both worked on investigations, they both spent their time constantly up against crime and human suffering. The difference was that she was trying to expose crime to prevent it happening, while Wallander was always occupied in clearing up crimes that had already been committed.

What he remembered most from his time in that kitchen was a journey into an unimagined world where human beings and body parts had been reduced to market commodities, with no sign of any moral consideration. If she was correct in her assumptions, the trade in body parts was so vast that it was almost beyond comprehension. What shook him most, however, was her claim that she could understand the people who killed healthy human beings in order to sell parts of their bodies.

"It's a reflection of the world," she said. "This is how things are, whether we like it or not. When a person is sufficiently poor, he's ready to do anything at all to keep body and soul together, no matter how squalid his life might be. How can we presume to make moral judgments about what they do? When their circumstances are so far beyond our understanding? In the slums on the edge of cities like Rio or Lagos or Calcutta or Madras, you can hold up 30 dollars and announce that you want to meet somebody who's prepared to kill another human being. Within a minute you have a queue of willing assassins. And they don't ask who they're going to be required to kill, nor do they wonder why. And they're prepared to do it for 20 dollars. Maybe even ten. I'm aware of a sort of abyss in the middle of what I'm working on. I get shocked, I feel desperate, but as long as the world continues as it is, I recognise that everything I do could be regarded as meaningless."

Wallander had sat in silence for most of the time. From time to time he asked a question the better to understand what she was saying. But he could see that she really was trying to pass on everything she knew - or suspected, because there was so little anybody could be 100 per cent certain about.

And then, hours later, they had come to a stop.

"I don't know any more," she said. "But if what I've said is of help to you, I'm glad of it."

"I don't even know if I'm on the right track," Wallander said. "But if I am, I know we've identified a Swedish link to this abominable trade. And if we can put a stop to it, that surely has to be a good thing."

"Of course it does," she said. "One plundered corpse fewer in a South American ditch - that makes it all worthwhile."

It was almost 7 p.m. by the time Wallander left Malmo. He knew he ought to have phoned Ystad and told them what he was doing, but he had been too taken up by his conversation with Norin.

She had accompanied him to the car park where they had said their goodbyes.

"You've given me an awful lot to think about," Wallander said. "I can't thank you enough."

"Who knows," she said, "perhaps I'll get payment in kind one of these days."

"You'll be hearing from me."

"I'm counting on that. You'll normally find me in Gothenburg. Unless I'm on my travels."

Wallander stopped at a grill bar near Jagersro for something to eat. He was thinking all the time about what she had told him, and how he could fit Harderberg into that picture. But he couldn't.

He wondered if they would ever find an answer to the question of why the two solicitors had been killed. In all his years as a police officer, he had so far been spared the experience of being involved in an unsolved murder case. Was he standing now outside a door that would never open?

He drove home to Ystad that evening feeling the weariness seep through his body. The only thing he had to look forward to was phoning Linda when he got in.

But the moment Wallander stepped into his flat he knew that something was not as it had been when he left that morning. He paused in the hall, listening intently. Maybe it was his imagination. Yet the feeling would not go away. He switched on the light in the living room, sat down on a chair and looked around him. Nothing was missing, nothing seemed to have been moved. He went into the bedroom. The unmade bed was exactly as he had left it. The half-empty coffee cup was still on his bedside table next to the alarm clock. He went into the kitchen.

Only when he opened the refrigerator to get out the margarine and a piece of cheese was he sure that he was right. He looked hard at the opened packet of blood pudding. He had an almost photographic memory and he knew he had put it on the third of the four shelves. It was on the second shelf now.

The packet of blood pudding had been at the very edge and could easily have fallen out on to the floor - it had happened to him before. Then somebody had put it back on the wrong shelf.

He had no doubt at all that he remembered it rightly. Somebody had been in his flat during the day. And whoever had been there had opened his refrigerator, either to look for something or to hide something.

His first reaction was to laugh. Then he closed the fridge door and walked quickly out of the flat. He was scared. He had to force himself to think clearly. They're not far away, he thought. I'll let them think I'm still in the flat.

He went down the stairs to the basement. There was a door at the back leading to the rubbish room. He unlocked and opened it. He looked out at the parking places lined up along the back of the building. There was no-one about. He closed the door behind him and edged his way through the shadows along the wall. When he came to where it opened out into Mariagatan, he kneeled down and peered at waist height from behind the drainpipe.

The car was parked about ten metres behind his own. The engine was not running and the lights were off. He could make out a man behind the wheel, but could not be sure if there was anybody else in the car.

He pulled back his head and stood up. From somewhere he could hear the sound of a TV set. He wondered feverishly what to do next. Then he made up his mind.

He started running across the empty car park, turned left at the first corner and was gone.

Chapter 14

He was gasping for breath before he had got as far as Blekegatan. Once more Wallander thought he was about to die. He had taken Oskarsgatan from Mariagatan, it was not very far, and he had not been running flat out. Even so, the raw autumn air was tearing at his lungs and his pulse was racing. He forced himself to slow down, fearful that his heart would stop. The feeling of lacking the strength to do anything worried him more than the discovery that someone had been in his flat and was now sitting in a car in the street, keeping watch on him. He struggled to suppress the thought, but what was upsetting him was really his fear, the fear he recognised so clearly from the previous year, and he did not want it back. It had taken him almost twelve months to shake it off, and he thought he had succeeded in burying it once and for all on the beaches at Skagen - but here it was, back to haunt him.

He started running again. It wasn't far to the block of flats in Lilla Norregatan where Svedberg lived. He had the hospital on his right, then he turned downhill towards the town centre. A torn poster outside the kiosk in Stora Norregatan caught his eye, then he turned right and almost immediately left and could see that the lights were on in the top-floor flat where Svedberg lived.

Wallander knew the lights were often on all night. Svedberg was afraid of the dark; indeed, that might have been why he chose to become a police officer, to try to cure his fear. But he still left the lights on in his flat at night, so his career had not been any help.

Everyone is frightened of something, Wallander thought, police officers or not. He stumbled through the front door and ran up the stairs, then paused when he reached the top floor to get his breath back. He rang Svedberg's bell. The door was opened almost immediately. Svedberg had a pair of reading glasses pushed up on to his forehead, and was holding a newspaper. Wallander knew he would be surprised to see him. During all the years they had known each other, Wallander had only been in Svedberg's flat two or three times, and then only after making an arrangement to meet there.

"I need your help," Wallander said when the astonished Svedberg had let him in and closed the door.

"You look shattered," Svedberg said. "What's happened?"

"I've been running. I want you to come with me. It won't take long. Where's your car?"

"It's right outside the front door."

"Drive me back to my place in Mariagatan," Wallander said. "Let me get out shortly before we get there. You know the car I'm using at the moment, a police Volvo?"

"The dark blue one or the red one?"

"The dark blue one. Turn into Mariagatan. There's another car parked behind my Volvo, you can't miss it. I want you to drive past and see whether there's anybody in the car apart from the driver. Then come back to where you've dropped me off. That's all. Then you can go home to your paper."

"You don't want to arrest somebody?"

"That's exactly the last thing I want to do. I just want to know how many there are in the car."

Svedberg had taken off his glasses and put down the newspaper.

"What's going on?" he said.

"I think somebody's watching my flat," Wallander said. "I only want to know how many of them there are. That's all. But I want whoever it is in the car to think I'm still in my flat. I came out by the back door."

"I'm not sure I understand all this. Wouldn't it be best to make an arrest? We can ask for help."

"You know what we've decided," Wallander said. "If it's anything to do with Harderberg we should pretend we're not very wide awake."

Svedberg shook his head. "I don't like this," he said.

"All you need to do is to drive to Mariagatan and make an observation," Wallander said. "Then I'll go back to my flat. I'll phone you if I need help."

"I suppose you know best," Svedberg said, sitting on a stool in order to tie his shoelaces.

They went down to the street and got into Svedberg's Audi, then drove past Stortorget, down Hamngatan and left into Osterleden. When they got to Borgmastaregatan they turned left again. Wallander asked Svedberg to stop when they came to Tobaksgatan.

"I'll wait here," he said. "The car's ten metres behind."

Minutes later Svedberg was back. Wallander got into the car again.

"There was only the driver."

"Thanks for your help. You can go home now. I'll walk from here."

Svedberg gave him a worried look. "Why is it so important to know how many there are in the car?" he asked.

Wallander had forgotten to prepare for that question. He was so focused on what he had decided to do that he had not taken Svedberg's natural curiosity into account.

"I've seen that car before," he lied. "There were two men in it then. If there's only the driver in it now, it could mean the other man isn't far away."

This explanation was pretty feeble, but Svedberg raised no objections.

"FHC 803," he said. "But I expect you've noted that down already."

"Yes," Wallander said. "I'll look it up in the register. You don't need to bother about that. Just go home now. I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks for your help."

He got out of the car and waited until Svedberg had disappeared down Osterleden, then he started walking towards Mariagatan. Now that he was on his own again he could feel himself getting agitated, the nagging worry that his fear was making him weak.

He went in by the back door and left the stair lights off when he returned to his flat. If he stood on tiptoe on the toilet seat and looked through the little bathroom window, he could see the street below. The car was still there. Wallander went to the kitchen. If they had meant to blow me up, they'd have done that already, he thought. They must be waiting for me to go to bed, and for the lights to go out.

He waited until nearly midnight, then went back to the bathroom and checked to be sure the car was still there. Then he switched off the kitchen light and switched on in the bathroom. After ten minutes he switched off in the bathroom and switched on in the bedroom. He waited for ten more minutes, and switched off in there as well. Then he went rapidly down the stairs and left the building through the back door, crouched behind the drainpipe at the corner of the car park and waited. He wished he had put on a warmer jumper. A cold wind was getting up. He cautiously moved his feet about in an attempt to keep warm. By 1 a.m. the only incident of note was that Wallander needed to pee against the wall. Apart from the occasional car driving past, all was peaceful.

At about 1.40 he heard a noise from the street. He peered out from behind the drainpipe. The driver's door had opened, although the inside light had not come on. After a few seconds' pause the driver emerged and closed the door quietly behind him. He was staring up at Wallander's windows all the time. He was wearing dark clothes, and Wallander was too far away to make out his features. Even so, he was sure he had seen the man before. He tried to remember where. The man hurried across the street and vanished through the front entrance.

Then it came to Wallander where he had seen him. He was one of the men lurking in the shadows at the foot of the stairs at Farnholm Castle, on both occasions Wallander had been there. He was one of Harderberg's shadows. And now he was on his way up the stairs to Wallander's flat, perhaps with the objective of killing him. Wallander felt almost as if he were lying in bed, in spite of being where he was, outside in the street, in the cold.

I am witnessing my own death, he thought.

He pressed himself tightly against the drainpipe and waited. At 2.03 the door opened without a sound and the man emerged again into the street. He looked round, and Wallander drew back behind the corner. Then he heard the car take off in a racing start.

He's going to report to Harderberg, Wallander thought. But he's not going to tell him the truth because he would not be able to explain how I could be in the flat one minute, switch off the light and go to bed, and have disappeared the next.

Wallander could not exclude the possibility that the man had left some device in the flat, so he got into his car and drove to the police station. The officers on duty greeted him in surprise when he appeared in reception. He collected a mattress he knew was stored in the basement, then lay on the floor of his office. It was gone 3.00, and he was worn out. He had to get some sleep if he was going to be able to think clearly, but the man in the dark clothes followed him into his dreams.

Wallander woke up covered in sweat after a series of chaotic nightmares. It was shortly after 5 a.m. He spent a while thinking about what Norin had told him, then he got up and went to fetch some coffee. It tasted bitter after standing all night. He did not want to go back to his flat yet. He took a shower in the changing room downstairs. By 7.00 he was back at his desk. It was Wednesday, November 24.

He recalled what Hoglund had said a few days earlier: "We seem to have all the data, but we can't see how it hangs together." That's what we must start doing now, Wallander thought. Make everything fit together. He phoned Nyberg at home. "We have to meet," Wallander said.

"I tried to find you yesterday," Nyberg said. "Nobody knew where you were. We have some news."

"We? Who's we?"

"Ann-Britt Hoglund and I."

"About Avanca?"

"I got her to help me. I'm a technician, not a detective."

"I'll see you in my office as soon as you can get here. I'll phone Hoglund."

Half an hour later Nyberg and Hoglund were sitting in Wallander's office. Svedberg put his head round the door. "Do you need me?" he said.

"FHC 803. I haven't got round to looking it up. Could you do that for me, please?"

Svedberg nodded and closed the door.

"Avanca," Wallander said.

"Don't expect too much," Hoglund said. "We've only had a day in which to look into the company and who owns it, but we've already established that it's no longer a family business run by the Romans. The family let the company use their name - and their reputation - and they still have some shares, possibly quite big holdings. But for several years now Avanca has been part of a consortium comprising several different firms associated in some way or other with pharmaceuticals, health care and hospital equipment. It's incredibly complicated, and the firms all seem to be intertwined. The umbrella for the consortium is a holding company in Liechtenstein called Medicom. It is divided up in turn among several owning groups. They include a Brazilian company concerned mainly with producing and exporting coffee. But what's much more interesting is that Medicom has direct financial links with Bayerische Hypotheken-und-Wechsel-Bank."

"Why is that interesting?" Wallander said. He had already lost track of Avanca.

"Because Harderberg owns a plastics factory in Genoa," she said. "They make speedboats."

"I'm lost," Wallander said.

"Here comes the punchline," Hoglund said. "The factory in Genoa is called CFP, whatever that stands for, and helps its customers to arrange funding by way of a sort of leasing contract."

"Avanca, please," Wallander said. "I couldn't care less about Italian plastic boats just now."

"Perhaps you should," Hoglund said. "CFP's leasing contracts are drawn up in cooperation with Bayerische Hypotheken-und-Wechsel-Bank. In other words, there is a link with the Harderberg empire. The first one we've found since the investigation began."

"I can't make head nor tail of it," Wallander said.

"There could be even closer links," she said. "We'll have to ask the fraud squad to help us with this. I hardly know what I'm doing myself."

"This is impressive." Nyberg had not said a word until now. "Maybe we should find out if that plastics factory in Genoa makes other things besides speedboats."

"Such as cool boxes for transplant organs?" Wallander said.

"For instance."

"If this turns out to be true," Wallander said, "it means that Harderberg is in some degree involved in the manufacturing and importing of these plastic containers. He might even have control, even if at first glance it looks to be a maze of different but interconnected companies. Can it really be possible that a Brazilian coffee producer has links with a tiny firm in Sodertalje?"

"That would be no more odd than the fact that American car manufacturers also make wheelchairs," Hoglund said. "Cars cause car accidents, which in turn creates a demand for wheelchairs."

Wallander clapped his hands and stood up. "Right, let's turn up the pressure on this investigation," he said. "Ann-Britt, can you get the financial experts to draw up some kind of large-scale wall map showing what Harderberg's holdings really look like? I want everything on it - speedboats in Genoa, cobs at Farnholm Castle, everything we've found out so far. And Nyberg, can you devote yourself to this plastic container? Where it comes from, how it got into Gustaf Torstensson's car."

"That would mean that we blow the plan we've been working to so far," Hoglund objected. "Harderberg's bound to find out that we're digging into his companies."

"Not at all," Wallander said. "It's all a matter of routine questions. Nothing dramatic. Besides, I'll talk to Bjork and Akeson and suggest it's high time we had a press conference. It will be the first time in my life I've ever taken that initiative, but I think it would be a good thing if we could give the autumn a helping hand to spread about a bit more mist and fog."

"I heard that Akeson is still in bed with flu," Hoglund said.

"I'll call him," Wallander said. "We're turning up the pressure, so he'll have to come whether he's got a cold or not. Tell Martinsson and Svedberg we're meeting at 2.00 today."

Wallander had decided to wait until everybody was there before he said anything about what had happened the previous night.

"Right, let's get going," he said.

Nyberg went out, but Wallander asked Hoglund to stay behind. He told her that he and Widen had managed to place a stablegirl at Farnholm Castle.

"Your idea was an excellent one," he said. "We'll see if it produces the goods."

"Let's hope she comes to no harm."

"She'll just be looking after some horses," Wallander said. "And keeping her eyes open. Let's not get hysterical. Harderberg can't suspect everybody on his staff to be police officers in disguise."

"I hope you're right," she said.

"How's it going with the flight log?"

"I'm working at it," she said, "but Avanca took all my time yesterday."

"You've done well," Wallander said.

She was pleased to be told that, he noticed. We're far too reluctant to praise our colleagues, Wallander thought. Especially when there's no end to the amount of criticism and tittle-tattle we bandy about.

"That's all," he said.

She left, and Wallander went to stand at the window and ask himself what Rydberg would have done in this situation. But for once he felt that he had no time to wait for his old friend's answer. He just had to believe that the way he was running the investigation was right.

He used up a huge amount of energy over the rest of the morning. He convinced Bjork of the importance of holding a press conference the next day, and he promised him that he would himself take care of the journalists once he had agreed with Akeson what they were going to say.

"It's not like you to call in the mass media off your own bat," Bjork said.

"Maybe I'm becoming a better person," Wallander said. "They say it's never too late."

After meeting with Bjork he phoned Akeson at home. It was his wife who answered, and she was reluctant to let Wallander talk to her husband, who was in bed.

"Has he got a temperature?" Wallander asked.

"When you're ill, you're ill. Full stop," Mrs Akeson said.

"I'm sorry," Wallander insisted, "but I've got to speak to him."

After a considerable pause Akeson came to the phone. He sounded worn out. "I'm ill," he said. "Influenza. I've been on the loo all night."

"I wouldn't disturb you if it weren't important," Wallander said. "I'm afraid I need you for a few minutes this afternoon. We can send a car to collect you."

"I'll be there," Akeson said. "But I can take a taxi."

"Do you want me to explain why it's important?"

"Do you know who killed them?"

"No."

"Do you want me to approve a warrant for the arrest of Alfred Harderberg?"

"No."

"Then you can explain when I get in this afternoon."

Wallander next phoned Farnholm Castle. He did not recognise the voice of the woman who answered. Wallander introduced himself and asked if he could speak to Kurt Strom.

"He doesn't come on duty until this evening," the woman said. "No doubt you'll get him at home."

"I don't suppose you're prepared to give me his phone number," Wallander said.

"Why ever not?"

"I thought it might be against your rules, security and so on."

"No, not at all," she said, and gave him the number.

"Please pass on my greetings to Dr Harderberg, and thank him for his hospitality the other evening," Wallander said.

"He's in New York."

"Well, please tell him when he comes back. Will he be away for long?"

"We expect him back the day after tomorrow."

Something had changed. He wondered if Harderberg had issued instructions to respond positively to queries from the Ystad police.

Wallander dialled Strom's home number. He let it ring for some considerable time, but got no reply. He called reception and asked Ebba to find out where Strom lived. While he was waiting he went to fetch a cup of coffee. He remembered that he still had not been in touch with Linda, as he had promised himself he would be. But he decided to wait until evening.

Wallander left the station at around 9.30 and set off towards Osterlen. Strom apparently lived in a little farmhouse not far from Glimmingehus. Ebba knew the area better than most, so she had drawn him a rough map. Strom had not answered the phone, but Wallander had a hunch he would find him there. As he drove through Sandskogen he tried to remember what Svedberg had told him about the circumstances in which Strom had been kicked out of the police force. He tried to anticipate what his reception would be. Wallander had occasionally come across police officers who had been involved in a crime, and he recalled such occasions with distaste. But he could not avoid the conversation in store for him.

He had no difficulty following Ebba's map, and he drove straight to a small white-painted house typical of the area, to the east of Glimmingehus. It was set in a garden that was no doubt very pretty in the spring and summer. When he got out of the car two Alsatians in a steel cage started barking. There was a car in the garage, and Wallander assumed he had guessed right: Strom was at home. He did not need to wait long. Strom appeared from behind the house, wearing overalls and with a trowel in his hand. He stopped dead on seeing who his visitor was.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," Wallander said. "I did ring, but I got no answer."

"I'm busy filling in some cracks in the foundations," Strom said. "What do you want?"

Wallander could see Strom was on his guard.

"I've got something to ask you about," he said. "Maybe you can shut the dogs up."

Strom shouted at the dogs and at once they fell silent.

"Let's go inside," he said.

"No need," Wallander said. "We can stay here. It'll only take a minute." He looked around the little garden. "A nice place you've got here. A bit different from a flat in the middle of Malmo."

"It was OK there as well, but this is closer to work."

"It looks as though you live on your own here. I thought you were married?"

Strom glared at him with eyes of steel. "What's my private life got to do with you?"

Wallander opened wide his arms in apology. "Nothing," he said. "But you know how it is with former colleagues. You ask after the family."

"I'm not your colleague," Strom said.

"But you used to be, didn't you?"

Wallander had changed his tone. He was looking for a confrontation. He knew that toughness was the only thing Strom had any respect for.

"I don't suppose you've come here to discuss my family."

Wallander smiled at him. "Quite right," he said. "I haven't. I only reminded you that we used to be colleagues out of politeness."

Strom had turned ashen. For a brief moment Wallander thought he had gone too far, and that Strom would take a swing at him.

"Let's forget it," Wallander said. "Let's talk about something else. October 11. A Monday evening. Six weeks ago. You know the evening I mean?"

Strom nodded, but said nothing.

"I really only have one question," Wallander said. "But let's get an important thing out of the way first. I'm not going to let you get away with not answering on the grounds that you'd be breaking the security rules of Farnholm Castle. If you try that, I'll make life so hellish for you, you'll wonder what hit you."

"You can't do anything to me," Strom said.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Wallander said. "I could arrest you and take you to Ystad with me, or I could phone the castle ten times a day and ask to speak to Kurt Strom. They would soon get the feeling that the police were far too interested in their head of security. I wonder if they know about your past? That could be embarrassing for them. I doubt if Dr Harderberg would be pleased if the peace and quiet of Farnholm Castle were to be disturbed."

"Go to hell!" Strom said. "Get to the other side of that gate before I throw you out."

"I only want the answer to one question, about the night of October 11," Wallander said, unconcerned. "And I can assure you it won't go any further. Is it really worth risking the new life you lead? As I recall, when we met at the castle gates you said you were very happy with it."

Wallander could see that Strom was wavering. His eyes were still full of hatred, but Wallander knew he would get an answer.

"One question," he said. "One answer. But a truthful one. Then I'll be off. You can get on with your repairs and forget I was ever here. And you can carry on guarding the gates of Farnholm Castle till the day you die. Just one question and one answer."

An aeroplane flew past high above their heads. Wallander wondered if it was Alfred Harderberg's Gulfstream on its way back from New York already.

"What do you want to know?"

"That evening of October 11," Wallander said. "Gustaf Torstensson left the castle at 8.14 p.m. according to the printout of the gate checks I've seen. That could be forged, of course, but let's assume it's correct. We do know he did leave Farnholm Castle, after all. My question to you, Kurt Strom, is very simple. Did a car leave Farnholm Castle after Mr Torstensson arrived but before he left?"

Strom said nothing, but then he nodded slowly.

"That was the first part of the question," Wallander said. "Now comes the second part of the same question. Who was it who left the castle?"

"I don't know."

"But you saw a car?"

"I've already answered more than one question."

"Stop this shit, Strom. It's the same question. What make of car was it? And who was in it?"

"It was one of the cars that belong to the castle. A BMW."

"Who was in it?"

"I don't know."

"Your life will turn extremely unpleasant if you don't answer!"

Wallander discovered that he did not need to pretend to be furious. He was already furious.

"I honestly don't know who was in the car."

Wallander could see that Strom was telling the truth. He ought to have realised.

"Because the windows were fitted with dark glass," Wallander said. "So you can't see who's inside. Is that right?"

Strom nodded. "You've got your answer," he said. "Now get the hell out of here."

"Always a pleasure to bump into former colleagues," Wallander said. "And you're quite right, it is time I was off. Nice to talk to you."

The dogs started barking as soon as he turned his back. As he drove off Strom was still standing in the doorway, watching him go. Wallander could feel the sweat inside his shirt. He remembered that Strom could be violent.

But he had got a plausible answer to a question that had been troubling him. The starting point for what happened that October night when Gustaf Torstensson died, alone in his car. He had a good idea now how it had occurred. While Torstensson sat back in one of the sumptuous leather armchairs chatting to Harderberg and the Italian bankers, a car had left Farnholm Castle to lie in wait for the old man as he drove home. Somehow or other, by a display of force or cunning or convincing friendliness, they had got him to stop his car on that remote, carefully chosen stretch of road. Wallander had no idea if the decision to prevent Torstensson reaching home had been made that same night, or earlier; but at least he could now see the makings of an explanation.

He thought about the men lurking in the shadows in the entrance hall. Then he shuddered as he thought about what had happened the previous night.

Without realising it, he pressed harder on the accelerator. By the time he came to Sandskogen he was going so fast that if he had been stopped he would have had his licence suspended on the spot. He slowed down. When he reached Ystad he called at Fridolf's cafe and had a cup of coffee. He knew what advice Rydberg would have given him.

Patience, he would have said. When stones start rolling down a slope, it's important not to start running after them right away. Stay where you are and watch them rolling, see where they come to a stop. That's what he would have said.

And he would have been right, Wallander thought. That's how we're going to proceed.

*

In the days to come Wallander had evidence once more of how he was surrounded by colleagues who did not stint on effort when it was really needed. They had already been working intensively, but nobody protested when Wallander announced that they were going to have to work even harder. It had started that Wednesday afternoon when Wallander called the team to the conference room, and Akeson attended despite his diarrhoea and high temperature. They all agreed that Harderberg's business empire should be unravelled and mapped out with the greatest possible speed. While the meeting was in progress Akeson phoned the fraud squads in Malmo and Stockholm. The others present listened in admiration as he described how the need for them to work harder and give the job the highest priority was more or less essential if the country were to survive. When he hung up, the meeting burst into spontaneous applause.

On Akeson's advice they had decided that they themselves would continue to concentrate on Avanca without worrying about running into conflict with the work being carried out by the fraud squads. Wallander also established that Hoglund was the best qualified officer for this task. Nobody objected, and from that moment on she was no longer a raw recruit but a fully fledged member of the investigative team. Svedberg took over some of the work she had been doing before, including the efforts to obtain the flight plans of Harderberg's aircraft. There was some discussion between Wallander and Akeson as to whether this was a sufficiently valuable source of information to warrant the effort. Wallander argued that sooner or later they would have to establish Harderberg's movements, not least on the day Sten Torstensson died. Akeson maintained that if it really did now seem likely that Harderberg was behind what had happened, he would have access to state-of-the-art resources and could be in contact with Farnholm Castle even if he were crossing the Atlantic in his Gulfstream, or in the Australian outback, where the financial experts claimed he had substantial mining interests. Wallander could see Akeson's point and was just about to cave in when Akeson threw up his hands and said he had only been putting a personal point of view and did not want any obstacles in the way of work that was ongoing.

When it came to the recruitment of the stablegirl Sofia, Wallander made a presentation that Hoglund went out of her way to congratulate him on in private afterwards. Wallander knew that not only might Bjork and Akeson protest, but that Martinsson and Svedberg might object to involving a complete outsider in the investigation. Without actually lying, although perhaps he was economical with the truth, Wallander explained that by chance they had acquired a source of information at Farnholm Castle, somebody Wallander happened to know, who was looking after the horses there. He provided this information more or less in passing, just as a tray of sandwiches had been delivered and nobody was listening with more than half an ear to what he was saying. He exchanged glances with Hoglund, and could tell that she had seen through his tactic.

Afterwards, when they had finished the sandwiches and aired the room, Wallander described how his flat had been watched the previous night. He did not mention, however, that the man in the car had actually been inside his flat. He was afraid that information would lead Bjork to apply the brakes and put restrictions on what they could or could not do for security reasons. Svedberg was able to supply the astonishing news that the car was registered to a person who lived in Ostersund and was the manager of a holiday camp in the Jamtland mountains. Wallander insisted that the man be investigated, the holiday camp as well. If Harderberg had interests in Australian mines there was no reason why he should not also be involved in a winter sports establishment in the north of Sweden. The meeting ended with Wallander telling them about his meeting with Strom. On hearing his account the room fell silent.

"That was the detail we needed," Wallander said afterwards to Hoglund. "Police officers are practical people. The little fact that a car left Farnholm Castle before old man Torstensson began his final journey means that all the vague and obscure aspects of the sequence of events now have a little detail to rest on at last. If that is what happened, and it could very well have been, we've also got confirmation of the fact that Torstensson was murdered in a cold-blooded and well-planned operation. That means we know we're looking for a solution to something where nothing is coincidental. We can forget accidents and dramatic passions. We know now where we don't need to look."

The meeting had ended in a mood Wallander interpreted as resolute determination. That was what he had been hoping for. Before Akeson went home to bed he had joined in a discussion with Bjork and Wallander. They talked about the press conference the following day. Wallander had urged that, without actually telling lies, they could maintain that they had a lead to follow, but that they could not yet give any details for reasons associated with the investigation.

"But," Akeson wondered, "how are you going to describe the lead without Harderberg realising that it points to Farnholm Castle?"

"A tragedy arising from somebody's private life," Wallander said.

"That doesn't sound particularly credible," Akeson objected. "It's also a suspiciously thin basis on which to call a press conference. Make sure you're fully prepared. You need to have detailed and definite answers to every likely question."

Wallander drove home after the meeting.

He examined his telephone to see if there was any sign of a bug. He found nothing, but nevertheless decided that from now on he would not discuss anything to do with Harderberg on the phone from home.

Then he had a shower and got changed.

He had supper at the pizzeria in Hamngatan. Then he spent the rest of the evening preparing for the press conference. Now and then he went to the kitchen window and looked down into the street, but there was only his own car parked outside.

The press conference went more smoothly than Wallander had expected. The murder of the two solicitors was apparently not considered by the media to be of great public interest, and so there were not many newspapers represented, no television, and the local radio station only ran a short item.

"That ought to keep Harderberg calm," Wallander said to Bjork when the reporters had left the police station.

"Unless he can read our minds," Bjork said.

"He can speculate, of course," Wallander said, "but he can't be completely sure."

When he got back to his office he found a message on his desk to phone Mr S. Widen. He dialled the number and after it had been ringing for a very long time, Widen answered.

"You rang," Wallander said.

"Hi there, Roger," Widen said. "Our friend called me a few minutes ago. She was in Simrishamn. She had something to say that I think might be of interest to you."

"What's that?"

"That her post is evidently going to be short-lived."

"What does she mean by that?"

"It looks as if her employer is preparing to leave his castle."

Wallander was struck dumb.

"Are you still there?" Widen said, eventually.

"Yes," Wallander said. "I'm still here."

"That was all," Widen said.

Chapter 15

By the time Ove Hanson returned to work in Ystad on the afternoon of November 25, he had been away for over a month. He had been in Halmstad attending a course on computerised crime-solving arranged by the National Police Board. After Sten Torstensson's murder he had contacted Bjork and asked if he should abandon the course and return to duty in Ystad, but Bjork had told him to stay on. That was when he first heard Wallander had come back to work. The same evening he had telephoned Martinsson from his hotel to check whether it could really be true. Martinsson had confirmed it, and added that personally he thought that Wallander seemed more energetic than ever.

Even so, Hanson had not been prepared for what was in store for him when he returned and paused outside the office he had been using while Wallander had been away. He tapped on the door and went straight in without waiting to be asked, but almost jumped out of his skin at what he saw, and made to leave again immediately. Wallander was standing in the middle of the room holding a chair over his head, and staring at Hanson with a look on his face that could only be described as lunatic. It all happened very quickly and Wallander put the chair down, his expression returning to normal. But the image had burned itself into Hanson's memory. For a long time afterwards Hanson kept it to himself, and he wondered when Wallander would finally break down and go mad.

"I see I've come at a bad moment," Hanson said. "I was just going to say hello and tell you I'm back on duty."

"Did I scare you?" Wallander asked. "That wasn't the intention. I've just had a phone call that made me furious. It's a good job you came in when you did, or I'd have smashed the chair against the wall."

Then they sat down, Wallander behind his desk and Hanson on the chair he had inadvertently saved from destruction. Hanson was one of the detectives Wallander knew least well, although they'd been working together for many years. They were like chalk and cheese in character and approach, and often got into awkward discussions that turned into screaming arguments. Nevertheless, Wallander respected Hanson's ability. He could be abrupt and obstinate and difficult to work with, but he was thorough and persistent, and could occasionally surprise his colleagues with cleverly worked-out analyses that could make a breakthrough in a seemingly insoluble case. Wallander had at times missed Hanson over the past month. He had seriously considered asking Bjork to call him back, but had never got round to doing anything about it.

He knew too that Hanson was probably the colleague who would have had fewest regrets if Wallander had never come back to work. Hanson was ambitious, which was not of itself a bad thing for a police officer, but he had never been able to accept that Wallander had taken over Rydberg's invisible mantle. Hanson thought he was the one who should have assumed it. But it was not to be, and as a result Hanson had never managed to overcome his antagonism.

From Wallander's side there were other factors, such as his irritation at Hanson spending so much of his time playing the horses. His desk was always piled high with racing cards and betting systems. Wallander was persuaded that Hanson sometimes spent half his working day trying to work out how hundreds of horses at courses up and down the country were going to perform at their next outings. And Wallander knew that Hanson couldn't bear opera.

But now they were facing each other across the desk, and Hanson was back on duty. He would strengthen the team, extend their scope. That was all that mattered.

"So you came back," Hanson said. "The last I heard you were about to resign."

"Sten's murder made me reconsider," Wallander said.

"And then you found out that his father had been murdered as well," Hanson said. "We had that down as an accident."

"It was cleverly disguised," Wallander said. "My finding that chair leg in the mud was pure luck."

"Chair leg?" Hanson sounded surprised.

"You'll have to set aside time to get up to speed on the detail of the case," Wallander said. "You're going to be crucial, make no mistake about it. Not least after that call I'd just received when you came in."

"What was it about?" Hanson said.

"It looks as if the man we're putting all our resources into pinning down intends to move out. That would cause us enormous problems."

"I'd better get reading."

"I'd have liked to give you a thorough rundown myself," Wallander said, "but I don't have the time. Talk to Ann-Britt. She's good at summarising what matters and leaving out what doesn't."

"Is she really?" Hanson asked.

Wallander stared at him. "Is she what?"

"Good. Is Hoglund good?"

Wallander remembered something Martinsson had said when he had first come back to work, to the effect that Hanson thought his position was under threat thanks to Hoglund's arrival on the scene.

"Yes," Wallander said. "She's a good police officer already, and she's going to get even better."

"I find that hard to believe," Hanson said, getting to his feet.

"You'll see," Wallander said. "Let me put it this way: Ann-Britt Hoglund's here to stay."

"I think I'd prefer to talk to Martinsson," Hanson said.

"You do as you wish," Wallander said.

Hanson was already halfway out of the door when Wallander asked him another question.

"What did you do in Halmstad?"

"Thanks to the National Police Board, I had an opportunity to look into the future," Hanson said. "When police officers all over the world will be sitting at their computers, tracking down criminals. We'll be part of a communications network covering the whole world and all the information collected by forces in different countries will be available to everybody by means of cleverly constructed databases."

"Sounds frightening," Wallander said. "And boring."

"But probably also very efficient," Hanson said. "Mind you, I imagine we'll both be retired by then."

"Hoglund will see it," Wallander said. "Is there a trotting course in Halmstad, by the way?"

"One night a week," Hanson said.

"How did you do?"

Hanson shrugged. "Swings and roundabouts," he said. "Usual thing. Some horses run as they should. Others don't."

Hanson left, closing the door behind him. Wallander thought of the fury that had welled up inside him when he heard that Harderberg was making preparations to move out. He rarely lost his temper completely, and he could not remember the last time he had so lost control that he had started throwing things around.

Now that he was alone again in his office, he tried to think calmly. The apparent fact that Harderberg intended leaving Farnholm Castle did not necessarily mean anything more than that he had decided to do what he had done many times before: move on to pastures new. There was no good reason to think that he was running away. What was there for him to run away from? And where would he run to? At worst it would make the investigation more complicated. Other police districts would have to be involved, depending on where he decided to settle.

It was a possibility that Wallander needed to look into without delay. He phoned Widen. One of the girls answered. She sounded very young.

"Sten's in the stables," she said. "The blacksmith's here."

"He has a telephone out there," Wallander said. "Put me through."

"The stables phone is out of order," the girl said.

"Then you'll have to go and fetch him. Tell him Roger Lundin wants to speak to him."

It was almost five minutes before he came to the phone.

"What is it now?" he asked. He was obviously annoyed at having been disturbed.

"Sofia didn't happen to say where Harderberg was going to move to, did she?"

"How the hell would she know?"

"I'm only asking. She didn't say anything about him intending to leave the country?"

"She only said what I told you. Nothing more."

"I have to see her. As soon as possible."

"Come off it, she has a job to do."

"You'll have to find some excuse. She used to work for you. You have some forms she needs to fill in. You must be able to fix that."

"I haven't time. The blacksmith's here. The vet's on his way. I have meetings arranged with several owners."

"This is important. Believe me."

"I'll do what I can. I'll call you back."

Wallander put down the receiver. It was 3.30 p.m. already. He waited. After a quarter of an hour he went to fetch a cup of coffee. Five minutes later Svedberg knocked on the door and came in.

"We can forget about the man in Ostersund," he said. "His car with the registration number FHC 803 was stolen when he was in Stockholm a week ago. There are no grounds for not believing him. Besides, he's a local councillor."

"Why would a councillor be more trustworthy than anybody else?" Wallander objected. "Where was the car stolen? And when? Make sure we get a copy of his theft report."

"Is that really important?" Svedberg said.

"It might be," Wallander said. "And in any case, it won't take long. Have you spoken to Hanson?"

"Only briefly," Svedberg said. "He's in with Martinsson at the moment, going through the investigation material."

"Give him the job, it's about right as something for him to start with."

Svedberg left. It was 4.00 and Widen still had not phoned. Wallander went to the cloakroom after asking reception to make a note of any incoming calls. He found an evening paper in the toilet and leafed through it, his mind elsewhere. He was back at his desk and had snapped twelve paper clips by the time Widen eventually called.

"I've invented a pack of lies," he said, "but you can meet her in Simrishamn an hour from now. I told her to take a taxi and that you'd pay. There's a cafe on the hill leading down to the harbour. Do you know the one I mean?"

Wallander did.

"She hasn't got much time," Widen said. "Take some forms with you so that she can pretend to fill them in."

"Do you think she's under suspicion?"

"How the devil should I know?"

"Thanks for your help anyway."

"You'll have to give her money for her taxi back to the castle as well."

"I'll leave right away," Wallander said.

"What's happened?" Widen said.

"I'll tell you when I know," Wallander said. "I'll phone."

Wallander left the police station at exactly 5 p.m. When he got to Simrishamn he parked by the harbour and walked up the hill to the cafe. As he had hoped, she was not yet there. He crossed the road and continued up the street. He stopped to look in a shop window while keeping an eye on the cafe. Not more than five minutes passed before he saw her coming up the street from the harbour, where she must have left the taxi. She went into the cafe. Wallander scrutinised the passers-by, and when he was as sure as he could be that she was not being followed, he went into the cafe. He should have taken somebody with him, to keep a lookout. She was sitting at a table in the corner. She watched him approach her table without greeting him.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said.

"So am I," she said. "What do you want? I have to get back to the castle as quickly as possible. Aren't you going to pay for the taxi?"

Wallander took out his wallet and gave her a 500-kronor note. "Is that enough?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I need a thousand," she said.

"What? It costs a thousand kronor to get to Simrishamn and back?" He gave her another 500-kronor note, thinking that she was probably conning him. He was annoyed, but there was no time for that.

"What would you like?" he said. "Or have you already ordered?"

"I wouldn't mind a coffee," she said. "And a bun."

Wallander went to the counter and ordered. When he paid he asked for a receipt. He went back to the table with his tray.

Sofia was looking at him with an expression which Wallander recognised as being full of contempt.

"Roger Lundin," she said. "I don't know what your real name is, and I don't care either. But it's not Roger Lundin. And you're a policeman."

Wallander thought he may as well tell her the truth. "You're right, I'm not Roger Lundin. And I am a police officer. But you don't need to know my real name."

"Why not?"

"Because I say so," Wallander said, making it clear that he would brook no discussion. She noticed his attitude changed towards her, and she regarded him with something that might even be of interest.

"Listen carefully," Wallander said. "One day I'll explain to you why all this secrecy stuff is necessary. For now all I will say is that I'm a police officer investigating a bloody murder. Just so you realise this isn't a game. OK?"

"Perhaps," she said.

"Right now you're going to answer some questions," Wallander said. "And then you can go back to the castle."

He remembered the forms he had in his pocket. He put them on the table and passed her a pen.

"It could be that somebody's been following you," he said. "That's why you're now going to fill in these forms. Pretend this is what our meeting is about. Write your name at the top."

"Who's following me?" she said, looking round the cafe.

"Look at me," Wallander snapped. "Don't look anywhere else. If there is anybody following you we can be quite sure he can see you and that you won't see him."

"How do you know it's a man?"

"I don't."

"This is ridiculous."

"Drink your coffee, eat your bun, write in the form and look at me," Wallander said. "If you don't do as I say I'll make damn sure you never get back to Widen again."

She seemed to believe him. She did as she was told.

"Why do you think they're planning to move out of the castle?" he said.

"I was told I'd only be working there for a month, and that would be it. They'd be leaving the castle."

"Who told you that?"

"A man came to the stables."

"What did he look like?"

"He was sort of black."

"A black man?"

"No, but he was wearing dark clothes and had black hair."

"A foreigner?"

"He spoke Swedish."

"With a foreign accent?"

"Could be."

"Do you know his name?"

"No."

"Do you know what he does?"

"No."

"But he works at the castle?"

"I suppose he must do."

"What else did he say?"

"I didn't like him. In fact, he was horrible."

"In what way?"

"He wandered about the stables, watching me grooming one of the horses. He asked me where I was from."

"What did you say?"

"I said I'd applied for the job because I couldn't stay on with Sten."

"Did he ask anything else?"

"No."

"Why was he horrible?"

She thought before answering. "He asked questions in a way that made it seem he didn't want me to notice he was asking anything."

"Have you met anybody else?"

"Only the woman who took me on."

"Anita Karlen."

"I think that was her name, yes."

"Nobody else?"

"No."

"Is there nobody else looking after the horses?"

"No, only me. Two horses aren't much of a problem."

"Who looked after them before?"

"I don't know."

"Did they say why they suddenly needed a new stablegirl?"

"The Karlen woman said something about somebody being ill."

"But you didn't meet them?"

"No."

"What else have you seen?"

"What do you mean?"

"You must have seen other people. Cars coming or going."

"The stables are apart, out of the way. I can only see one of the gables. The paddock is further away in the other direction. And anyway, I'm not allowed to go to the castle itself."

"Who told you that?"

"Anita Karlen. I'd be sacked on the spot if I broke any rule. And I have to phone and get permission if I want to leave the castle."

"Where did the taxi pick you up?"

"At the gates."

"Is there anything else that you think might be of interest to me?"

"How do I know what you're interested in?"

He sensed that there was something else, but that she wasn't sure whether to mention it or not. He paused for a moment before going on, cautiously, as if he were feeling his way in the dark.

"Let's go back a bit," he said. "To that man who came to see you in the stables. Did he say anything else?"

"No."

"He didn't say anything about them leaving Farnholm Castle and moving abroad?"

"No."

That's true, Wallander thought. She's telling the truth. And I don't need to worry about her remembering wrongly, but there is something else.

"Tell me about the horses," he said.

"They are two really beautiful riding horses," she said. "One of them, Aphrodite, is nine years old. She's light brown. The other, Juno, is seven and black. It's ages since anybody has ridden them, that's for sure."

"How would you know that? I know very little about horses."

"I gathered."

Wallander smiled at her comment. But he didn't say anything, just waited for her to continue.

"They got really excited when I came with the saddles," she said. "You could see they were dying to have a gallop."

"And you gave them their heads?"

"Yes."

"You rode in the estate's grounds, I suppose?"

"I'd been told which paths I could go on."

A slight change of tone, barely perceptible, a hint of anxiety made Wallander prick up his ears. He was getting close to what she was wondering whether to mention or not.

"So you rode off."

"I started with Aphrodite," she said. "Meanwhile, Juno was careering round the paddock."

"How long were you out on Aphrodite?"

"Half an hour. The grounds are huge."

"Then you came back?"

"I let Aphrodite loose and saddled up Juno. Half an hour later I was back."

Wallander knew at once. It was while she was out with the second horse that something had happened. Her answer came much too quickly, as if she had been steeling herself to get past a frightening obstacle. The only thing to do, he decided, was to come straight to the point.

"I'm sure that everything you're telling me is true," he said, sounding as friendly as possible.

"I've nothing else to say. I have to be going now. If I'm late I'll get the sack."

"You can leave in a couple of minutes. Just a few more questions. Let's go back to the stables and that man who came to see you. I don't think you told me quite everything he said. Is that right? Didn't he also say that there were certain places you weren't to go anywhere near?"

"It was Miss Karlen who said that."

"Maybe she did too. But the man in the stables said it in such a way that you were frightened? Am I right?"

She looked away and nodded slowly.

"But when you were out with Juno you took a wrong turning. Or maybe out of curiosity you took another path? It hasn't escaped my notice that you like to do whatever you want. Is that what happened?"

"I took a wrong turning." She was now speaking so softly that Wallander had to lean over the table to hear what she was saying.

"I believe you," he said. "Tell me what happened on that path."

"Juno suddenly reared up and threw me off. It was only when I was lying there that I saw what had scared him. It looked as if somebody had fallen on the path. I thought it was a dead body. But when I went to look I saw it was a human-sized doll."

Wallander could see she was still fearful. He recalled what Gustaf Torstensson had said to Mrs Duner, about Harderberg having a macabre sense of humour.

"I'd have been frightened to death as well," he said. "But nothing's going to happen to you. Not if you keep in touch with me."

"I like the horses," Sofia said. "But not the rest of it."

"Stick to the horses," Wallander said. "And remember which paths you're not supposed to ride on."

He could see she felt relieved, now that she had told him what had happened.

"Go back now," he said, gathering up the papers on the table. "I'll stay here for a while. You're right, you mustn't be late."

She stood up and left. Half a minute later Wallander followed her into the street. He supposed she would have gone down to the harbour to get a taxi from there, but he was just in time to see her get into a taxi next to the newspaper stall. The car drove away, and he waited to make sure it was not followed. Then he went to his own car and drove back to Ystad, thinking about what she had said. He certainly could not, on her evidence, be sure about Harderberg's plans.

The pilots, he thought. And the flight plans. We have to be one step ahead of him if he really is going to move abroad.

It was time for another visit to Farnholm Castle. He wanted to talk to Harderberg himself again.

Wallander was at the police station by 7.45. He bumped into Hoglund in the corridor. She nodded at him, curtly, and disappeared into her office. Wallander stopped in mid-stride, bewildered. Why had she been so abrupt? He turned back and knocked on her office door. When she responded he opened the door but did not go in.

"It's customary to say 'hello' in this police station," he said.

She went on poring over a file.

"What's the matter?"

She looked up at him. "I wouldn't have thought you needed to ask me that," she said.

Wallander stepped inside her office. "I don't understand," he said. "What have I done?"

"I thought you were different," she said, "but now I see that you're the same as all the rest of them."

"I still don't get it," Wallander said. "Would you mind explaining?"

"I've nothing else to say. I'd prefer you to leave."

"Not until I've had an explanation."

Wallander was not sure if she was about to throw a fit of rage, or burst into tears.

"I thought we were well on the way to becoming friends," he said, "not just colleagues."

"So did I," she said. "But no longer."

"Explain!"

"I'll be honest with you," she said, "even though that's the very opposite of what you've been with me. I thought you were someone I could trust, but you're not. It may take me some time to get used to that."

Wallander flung his arms out wide. "Do please explain."

"Hanson came back today," she said. "You must know that because he came to my office and told me about a conversation he had just had with you."

"What did he say?"

"That you were glad he was back."

"So I am. We need every officer we can get."

"The more so since you're disappointed in me."

Wallander stared at her in bewilderment. "He said that? That I was disappointed in you? He said I'd told him that?"

"I only wish you'd said it to me first."

"But it's not true. I said exactly the opposite. I told him you'd already proved yourself to be a good police officer."

"He sounded very convincing."

Wallander was furious. "That bloody Hanson!" he almost shouted. "If you like I'll phone him and tell him to get himself in here this minute. Surely you accept that not a word of what he said is true?"

"Why did he say it then?"

"Because he's nervous."

"Of me?"

"Why do you think he's away on courses all the time? Because he's afraid you'll overtake him. He hates to think that you are going to prove to be a better police officer than he is."

He could tell that she was beginning to believe him. "It's true," he said. "Tomorrow you and I are going to have a little talk with Mr Hanson. And it's not going to be a pleasant little talk as far as he's concerned, I can promise you that."

She looked up at him. "In that case, I apologise," she said.

"He's the one who needs to apologise," Wallander said. "Not you."

But the following day, Friday, November 26, the frost white on the trees outside the police station, Hoglund asked Wallander not to say anything to Hanson. After sleeping on it, she had decided that she would prefer to speak to him herself, at some stage in the future, when she had had a chance to distance herself from it. Wallander was persuaded that she believed him now, so he raised no objection. Which did not mean that he would forget what Hanson had done. Later in the morning, with everybody seeming to be frozen stiff and out of sorts, apart from Akeson who was fighting fit again, Wallander called a meeting. He told the team about his meeting with Sofia in Simrishamn, but it did not seem to improve the mood of his colleagues. On the other hand, Svedberg produced a map of the Farnholm Castle estate. It was very big. Svedberg told them that the extensive grounds had been acquired in the late nineteenth century when the castle belonged to a family with the strikingly unnoble name of Martensson. The head of the household had made a fortune building houses in Stockholm and then he had built what some would call a folly. Apparently, he was not only obsessed with grandeur, but may even have been close to actual lunacy. When Svedberg had exhausted all he had discovered about the castle, they continued to cross off their list aspects of the investigation that either had proved to be insignificant, or at the least could be put to one side for the present, being of little importance. Hoglund had finally managed to have a detailed conversation with Kim Sung-Lee, the cleaner at the Torstensson offices. As anticipated, she had nothing of significance to say, and her papers had proved to be in order and her presence in Sweden totally legal. Hoglund had also on her own initiative talked to the clerk, Sonia Lundin. Wallander could not help being pleased to note that Hanson was unable to conceal his disapproval of the way she had acted on her own initiative. Unfortunately, Sonia Lundin had nothing helpful to say either. One more possible lead could be crossed off. Eventually, when everybody appeared to be still more out of sorts and inert, and a grey fog seemed to have settled over the conference table, Wallander tried to bring them back to life by urging them to concentrate on the flight plans of Harderberg's Gulfstream. He also suggested that Hanson should make discreet enquiries about the two pilots. But he failed to blow away the fog, the inertia that had started to worry him, and it now seemed to him that their only hope was that the financial experts with all their computer expertise might be able to breathe new life into the investigation. They had undertaken a thorough investigation into the Harderberg empire, but they had been forced to ask for an extension of the deadline, and the meeting had been postponed until the following Monday, November 29.

Wallander had just decided to declare the meeting closed when Akeson put his hand up. "We must talk about the state of play in the investigation," he said. "I've allowed you to concentrate on Alfred Harderberg for another month, but at the same time I can't ignore the fact that we have only extremely thin evidence to justify it. It's as if we're drifting further from something crucial with every day that passes. I think we'd all benefit from making one more clear and simple summary of where we've got to, based exclusively on the facts. Nothing else."

Everybody looked at Wallander. Akeson's comments came as no surprise, even if Wallander would have rather not been confronted by them.

"You're right," he said. "We need to see where we are. Even without any results from the fraud squads' analyses."

"Unravelling a financial empire doesn't necessarily identify a murderer, let alone several," Akeson said.

"I know that," Wallander said, "but nevertheless, the picture is not complete without their information."

"There is no complete picture," Martinsson said glumly. "There's no picture at all."

Wallander could see he would need to get a grip on the situation before it slid out of control. To give himself time to gather his thoughts he suggested they should have a short break and air the room. When they reassembled, he was firm and decisive.

"I can see a possible pattern," he began, "just as you all can. But let's approach it from a different angle and begin by taking a look at what this case isn't. There's nothing to convince us that we're dealing with a madman. It's true, of course, that a clever psychopath could have planned a murder disguised as a car accident, but there are no apparent motives, and what happened to Sten Torstensson doesn't seem to hang together with what happened to his father, from a psychopathic point of view. Nor do the attempts to blow up Mrs Duner and me. I say me rather than Hoglund because I think that's the way it was. Which brings me to the pattern that revolves around Farnholm Castle and Alfred Harderberg. Let's go back in time. Let's start with the day about five years ago when Gustaf Torstensson was first approached by Alfred Harderberg."

At that moment Bjork came into the conference room and sat at the table. Wallander suspected that Akeson had spoken to him during the short pause and asked him to be there for the rest of the meeting.

"Gustaf Torstensson starts working for Harderberg," Wallander began again. "It's an unusual arrangement - one wonders how on earth a provincial solicitor can be of use to an international industrial magnate. One might suspect that Harderberg intended to use Torstensson's shortcomings for his own advantage, expecting that he would be able to manipulate him if necessary. We don't know that, it's guesswork on my part. But somewhere along the line something unexpected happens. Torstensson starts to appear uneasy, or maybe I should say he appears to be depressed. His son notices, and so does his secretary. She even talks about him seeming to be afraid. Something else happens at about the same time. Torstensson and Lars Borman have got to know each other through a society devoted to the study of icons. Their relationship suddenly becomes strained, and we may assume that this has a connection with Harderberg because he's somehow in the background of the fraud executed on the Malmohus County Council. But the key question is: why did old man Torstensson start behaving in unexpected ways?

"I suspect that he discovered in the work he was doing for Harderberg something that upset him. Perhaps it was the same thing that upset Borman. We don't know what it was. Then Torstensson is killed in a stage-managed accident. Thanks to what Kurt Strom has told us, we can picture roughly what happened. Sten Torstensson comes to see me at Skagen. A few days later, he too is dead. He, no doubt, felt that he was in danger because he tries to set a false trail in Finland when in fact he's gone to Denmark. I'm convinced that somebody followed him to Denmark. Somebody watched our meeting on the beach. The people who killed Gustaf Torstensson were snapping at the heels of Sten Torstensson. They could not have known whether the father had discussed his discoveries with his son. Nor could they know what Sten said to me. Or what Mrs Duner knew. That's why Sten dies, that's why they try to kill Mrs Duner and why my car is torched. It's also the reason why I am being watched and not the rest of you. But everything leads us back to the question of what old man Torstensson had discovered. We are trying to establish whether it has anything to do with the plastic container we found on the back seat of his car. It could also be something else that the financial analysts will be able to tell us. Come what may, there is a pattern here that starts with the cold-blooded killing of Gustaf Torstensson. Sten Torstensson sealed his fate when he came to see me in Skagen. In the background of the pattern all we have is Alfred Harderberg and his empire. Nothing else - not that we can see, at least."

When Wallander had finished, no-one had a question.

"You paint a very plausible picture," Akeson said when the silence began to feel oppressive. "You could conceivably be plum right. The only problem is that we don't have a shred of proof, no forensic evidence at all."

"That's why we must speed up the work that's being done on the plastic container," Wallander said. "We have to take the lid off Avanca and see what's underneath. There must be a thread we can start to pull somewhere inside there."

"I wonder if we ought to have a down-to-earth chat with Kurt Strom," Akeson said. "Those men hanging around Harderberg all the time - who are they?"

"That thought had occurred to me too," Wallander said. "Strom might be able to throw a bit of light on matters. But the moment we contact Farnholm Castle and ask to speak to Strom, Harderberg will realise we suspect him of being directly involved. And once that happens, I doubt that we will ever solve these murders. With the resources he has at his disposal he can sweep the ground clean all around him. On the other hand, I think I'll pay him one more visit to lay our own false trail."

"You'll have to be very convincing," Akeson said, "or he'll see through you immediately." He put his briefcase on the table and began packing away his files. "Kurt has described where we stand. It's plausible, but it's vague. However, let's see what the fraud squads have to say for themselves on Monday."

The meeting broke up. Wallander felt uneasy. His own words were resounding inside his head. Perhaps Akeson was right. Wallander's summary had sounded plausible, but nevertheless would the course they were on end up by leaving them unable to prove anything?

Something's got to happen, he thought. Something's got to happen very soon.

When Wallander looked back on the weeks that followed, he would think of them as among the worst he had ever experienced in all his years as a police officer. Contrary to his expectations, nothing at all happened. The financial experts went through everything over and over again, but all they had to say was that they needed more time. Wallander managed to curb his impatience - or perhaps what really happened was that he managed to suppress his disappointment, because he could see that the fraud squads were working as hard as they could. When Wallander tried to contact Strom again, he found that he had left for Vasteras to bury his mother. Rather than chase him up there, Wallander elected to wait. He never managed to make contact with the two Gulfstream pilots since they were always out and about with Harderberg. The only thing the team did achieve during this grim period was to get access to the flight plans of the private jet. Alfred Harderberg had an astonishing itinerary. Svedberg calculated that the fuel bill alone would come to many millions of kronor per year. The financial analysts copied the flight plans and tried to fit them in with Harderberg's hectic programme of business deals.

Wallander met Sofia twice, on both occasions at the cafe in Simrishamn; but she had nothing more to report.

It was December, and it seemed to Wallander that the investigation was close to collapse. Perhaps it had collapsed already.

Nothing of any use to them happened. Nothing at all.

On Saturday, December 4, Hoglund invited him for dinner. Her husband was at home, a brief pause between his unending trips round the globe looking for faulty water pumps. Wallander had much too much to drink. The investigation was not mentioned once during the evening. It was very late by the time Wallander realised he should go home. He decided to walk. When he got to the post office in Kyrkogardsgatan, he had to lean against a wall and throw up. When eventually he got home to Mariagatan, he sat with his hand on the telephone, meaning to call Baiba in Riga. But common sense prevailed and he called Linda in Stockholm instead. When she gathered who it was she was annoyed, and told him to ring back the next morning. It was only after the brisk exchange was over that Wallander realised that probably she was not alone. That thought worried him, and he felt guilty as a result, but when he telephoned her the next day he did not refer to the matter. She told him about her work as an apprentice at an upholstery factory, and he could hear that she was happy in what she was doing. But he was disappointed that she made no mention of coming to visit him in Skane for Christmas. She and a few friends had rented a cottage in the Vasterbotten mountains. Eventually she asked him what he was up to.

"I'm chasing a Silk Knight," he said.

"A Silk Knight?"

"One of these days I'll explain to you what a Silk Knight is."

"It sounds very attractive."

"But it isn't. I'm a police officer. We seldom chase anybody or anything attractive."

*

Still nothing happened. On Thursday, December 9, Wallander was well on the way to giving up. The next day he would suggest to Akeson that they should start looking at some other leads.

But on Friday, December 10, something actually did happen. He did not know it at the time, but the wilderness days were over. When Wallander got to his office, there was a note on his desk asking him to phone Kurt Strom without delay. He hung up his jacket, sat at his desk and dialled the number. Strom answered immediately.

"I want to see you," he said,

"Here or at your home?" Wallander asked.

"Neither," Strom said. "I've got a cottage in Svartavagen in Sandskogen. Number 12. Can you be there in an hour?"

"I'll be there."

Wallander put down the receiver and looked out of the window. Then he stood up, put on his jacket and hurried out of the police station.

Chapter 16

Rain clouds scudded across the sky.

Wallander was nervous. Leaving the police station he had headed east, turned right down Jaktpaviljongsvagen and stopped when he came to the youth hostel. Despite the cold and the wind he walked down to the deserted beach. He felt as if he had been transported back a few months in time. The beach was Jutland and Skagen, and he was once more on patrol, pacing up and down his territory.

But that feeling passed just as quickly as it had come. He had no time for unnecessary daydreams. He tried to work out why Strom had made contact with him. His restlessness was due to the hope that Strom might be able to give him something that would lead to the breakthrough they so badly needed. But he knew that was wishful thinking. Strom not only hated him personally, he had no time at all for the force that had cast him out. They could not count on receiving help from Strom. Wallander had no idea what the man wanted.

It started raining. The raging wind sent him retreating to his car. He started the engine and turned up the heat. A woman walked past with her dog, heading for the beach. Wallander recalled the woman he kept seeing on the beach at Skagen. There was still almost half an hour to go before he was due to meet Strom in Svartavagen. He drove slowly back towards town and inspected the summer cottages at Sandskogen. He had no difficulty in identifying the red house Strom had described. He parked and walked into the little garden. The house looked like a magnified doll's house. It was in a poor state of repair. As there was no car outside, Wallander thought he must have got there first. But the front door opened and Strom was standing there.

"I didn't see a car," Wallander said. "I thought you hadn't come yet."

"But I had. You can forget about my car."

Wallander went in as bidden. He was met by a faint smell of apples. The curtains were drawn and the furniture was covered by white dust sheets.

"A nice house you have here," Wallander said.

"Who said it was mine?" Strom said, taking off two of the sheets.

"I have no coffee," he said. "You'll have to do without."

Wallander sat down in one of the chairs. The house felt raw and damp. Strom sat down opposite him. He was wearing a crumpled suit and a long, heavy overcoat.

"You wanted to see me," Wallander said. "Well, here I am."

"I thought we could strike a deal, you and me," Strom said. "Let's say that I have something you want."

"I don't do deals," Wallander said.

"You're too quick off the mark," Strom said. "If I were you I'd at least listen to what I have to say."

Wallander conceded the point. He should have waited before rejecting the offer. He gestured to Strom to continue.

"I've been off work for a couple of weeks, burying my mother," he said. "That gave me a lot of time to think. Not least about why the police were interested in Farnholm Castle. After you'd been to my place I could see of course that you suspected the murder of those two solicitors had something to do with the castle. The problem is simply that I can't understand why. I mean, the son had never been there. It was the old man who was dealing with Harderberg. The one we thought had died in a car accident."

He looked at Wallander, as if he were waiting for a reaction.

"Go on," Wallander said.

"When I came back and started work again, I suppose I'd forgotten all about your visit," he said. "But then something happened to put it in a new light."

Strom produced a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from an overcoat pocket. He offered the packet to Wallander, who shook his head.

"If there's one thing I've learned in this life," Strom said, "it's that you should keep your friends at arm's length. But you can let your enemies get as close to you as they can."

"I take it that's why I'm here," Wallander said.

"Could be," Strom said. "You should know that I don't like you, Wallander. As far as I'm concerned you represent the worst kind of upright bourgeois values the Swedish police force is stuffed so full of. But you can do deals with your enemies, or people you don't like. Pretty good deals, even."

Strom disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a saucer to use as an ashtray. Wallander waited.

"A new light," Strom said again. "I came back to find that I was being made redundant as from Christmas. I hadn't expected anything like that. But it was obvious that Harderberg had decided to leave Farnholm."

It used to be Dr Harderberg, Wallander noted. Now it's plain Harderberg, and he has trouble spitting even that out.

"Needless to say I was shattered," Strom said. "When I accepted the job of security chief, I was assured that it was permanent. Nobody mentioned the possibility of Harderberg leaving the place. The wages were good, and I'd bought a house. Now I was going to be out of work again. I didn't like it."