One Step Behind

"He was in contact with a society for the study of Native American culture. I think it was called 'Indian Science'. But their activities were mainly conducted by correspondence."

"Anything else?"

"Sometimes he mentioned a retired bank director who lives in town. They shared an interest in astronomy."

"What was his name?"

She thought for a moment. "Sundelius. Bror Sundelius. I never met him myself."

Wallander made a note of the name.

"Anyone else you can think of ?"

"Just me and my husband."

Wallander changed the subject.

"Do you recall anything unusual during his last weeks? Was he anxious, or did he seem distracted?"

"He didn't say anything except that he felt overworked."

"But he didn't say why?"

"No."

Wallander realised he had forgotten to ask her something. "Did it surprise you that he said he was overworked?"

"No, not at all."

"So he usually mentioned how he was feeling?"

"I should have thought of this before," she said. "There's one more thing I would add to my description of him - that he was a hypochondriac. The smallest little ache would worry him enormously. And he was terrified of germs."

Wallander could see him, the way he was always running to the bathroom to wash his hands. He always avoided people with colds. She looked at the clock again. Time was running out.

"Did he own any weapons?"

"Not that I know of."

"Is there anything else you would like to tell me, anything that seems important?"

"I'm going to miss him. Maybe he wasn't such an extraordinary person, but he was the most honourable person I knew. I'm going to miss him."

Wallander turned off the tape recorder and followed her out. For a moment she seemed helpless.

"What am I going to do about the funeral?" she asked. "Sture thinks the dead should be scattered to the wind without priests and rites. But I don't know what his own thoughts were."

"He didn't leave a will?"

"Not that I know of. I'm sure he would have told me."

"Did he have a safe-deposit box at the bank?"

"No."

"Would you have known about it?"

"Yes."

"The police will attend the funeral, of course," Wallander said. "I'll ask Lisa Holgersson to be in touch."

Ylva Brink went out through the front glass doors. Wallander returned to his office. Yet another name had cropped up: Bror Sundelius. As Wallander looked him up in the phone book, he thought about the conversation with Ylva Brink. What had she really told him that he hadn't already known? That Louise was a well-kept secret. A well-guarded secret, Wallander thought.

He made some notes to himself. Why would you keep a woman secret for so long? Ylva Brink had told him about Svedberg's strong aversion to homosexuality, and about his hypochondria. She had also said he met with a retired bank director from time to time to study the night sky. Wallander laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair. For the most part, his picture of Svedberg remained the same. The only revelation was this woman, Louise. And nothing seemed to point to an explanation of his death. He felt that he suddenly saw the whole drama clearly in front of him. Svedberg had failed to show up for work because he was already dead. He had caught a burglar by surprise who shot him on the spot, then fled with the telescope in his arms. The crime was unpremeditated, banal and horrifying. There was no other possible explanation.

It was 8.10 p.m. Wallander called Lisa Holgersson at home. She wanted to talk about the funeral and he told her to contact Ylva Brink. Then he told her what they had learned over the course of the afternoon. He also told her that he was starting to lean towards the violent-and-heavily-drugged-burglar theory.

"The national chief of police has called me," she said. "He wanted to express his condolences and his concern."

"In that order?"

"Yes, thank God."

Wallander told her he had arranged a meeting the next morning at 9 a.m., and promised to keep her abreast of any developments. After he'd hung up, Wallander dialled the number for Sundelius, but there was no answer or even an answerphone.

Once he put the phone down again he felt somewhat at a loss. Where should he go from here? He felt a growing impatience, but knew he had to wait for the autopsy report and the forensic evidence to come in.

He started to replay the conversation with Ylva Brink and thought about the last thing she had said, that Svedberg was honourable. There was a knock at the door and Martinsson entered.

"There's a bunch of impatient reporters at the door," he said. Wallander made a face.

"We don't have anything new to tell them."

"I think they'll make do with something old, just as long as they get something."

"Can't you send them away for now? Promise them a press conference as soon as we feel we have something to report."

"Have you forgotten the orders that came from on high instructing us to get along smoothly with the press?" Martinsson said, his voice heavy with irony.

Wallander hadn't forgotten. The national chief of police had recently issued directives to improve relations between the various police districts and local media. Reporters were now to be welcomed and treated with kid gloves.

Wallander got up heavily. "I'll talk to them," he said.

It took him 20 minutes to convince the reporters that he had no new information to give them. He almost lost his temper towards the end, when they continued to regard his claim with suspicion. But he managed to control himself and the reporters finally left. He got a cup of coffee from the canteen and went back to his office. He called Sundelius once more without success.

The phone rang. More reporters, Wallander thought despondently. But it was Sten Widen.

"Where are you?" Widen asked. "I realise you have a lot going on and you have my condolences, but I've been waiting here for a while now."

Wallander swore under his breath. He had completely forgotten his promise to visit Sten Widen at his horse ranch near the castle ruins at Stjarnsund. They had been friends since childhood and shared a passion for opera. As adults, they had started to grow apart. Wallander became a police officer and Sten Widen took over the ranch from his father, where he raised racehorses. A couple of years ago they had started seeing each other again, and they had made plans for this evening. It had totally slipped his mind.

"I should have called you," Wallander said. "I completely forgot."

"They announced it over the radio. Was your colleague murdered or was it manslaughter?"

"We don't know, it's too early to tell. But the last 24 hours have been horrific."

"We can get together some other time."

Wallander made up his mind. "Give me half an hour."

"Don't feel pressured."

"I don't; I need to get away for a while."

Wallander left the station, went to the flat and picked up his mobile phone, then took the E65 out of town. He saw the castle ruins and slowed down to turn into Widen's ranch. Apart from the neighing of a horse, all was quiet.

Widen came out to greet him. Wallander was used to seeing him in dirty work clothes, but now he was wearing a white shirt and his hair was combed back. As they shook hands Wallander smelt alcohol on his breath. He knew that Widen drank too much, but he had never said anything to him. Somehow it never came up.

"What a beautiful evening," Widen said. "Summer finally arrived in August. Or is it the other way around? August finally arrived with summer. Who really arrives with whom?"

Wallander felt a twinge of jealousy. This was what he had dreamed of, living out in the countryside with a dog and maybe even Baiba. But nothing had come of it.

"How's business?" he asked.

"Not so good. The eighties were the golden decade. Everyone seemed to have plenty of money then. Now they don't. People spend most of their time praying they won't lose their jobs."

"Isn't it just the wealthy who buy racehorses? I didn't think they had to worry about unemployment."

"They're still around," Widen agreed. "But there don't seem to be as many of them as before."

They walked down towards the stables. A girl wearing riding gear appeared around the corner with a horse.

"That's Sofia. She's the only one left. I had to get rid of everyone else," Widen said.

Wallander remembered hearing something a couple of years ago about Widen sleeping with one of the girls working on the ranch. What had her name been? Jenny?

Widen exchanged some words with the girl and Wallander caught the name of the horse, Black Triangle. The outlandish names still surprised him.

They went into the stables.

"This is Dreamgirl Express," Widen said, showing him another horse. "Right now she supports me almost all by herself. Owners complain about the upkeep being expensive, and my accountant keeps calling earlier and earlier in the morning. I really don't know how much longer I can get by."

Wallander stroked the horse's muzzle carefully.

"You've always managed before," he said.

Widen shook his head.

"Right now it doesn't look good," he said. "But I can probably get a good price for the place and then I'll take off."

"Where will you go?"

"I'm just going to pack my bags, get a good night's sleep, and decide in the morning."

They left the stables and walked up to the main house. Wallander remembered it being a huge mess, but surprisingly everything was very neatly arranged this time.

"A couple of months ago I realised that cleaning could be therapeutic," Widen said in answer to Wallander's obvious surprise.

"That doesn't work for me. God knows I've tried."

Widen gestured for him to sit at the table, where he had set out glasses and a couple of bottles. Wallander hesitated, then nodded and sat down. His doctor wouldn't like it but right now he didn't have the energy to abstain.

"Do you remember that time we went to Germany to hear Wagner?" Widen said, much later in the evening. "It's 25 years ago now. I found some photos the other day. Do you want to see them?"

"Sure."

"I treat them like valuables," Widen said. "I've put them in my secret compartment."

Wallander watched as Widen removed part of the wooden panelling next to the window and took out a metal box that had been jammed into the space underneath. The pictures were in the box. Widen held them out to Wallander, who took them, marvelling at what he saw.

One of the pictures was taken at a roadside rest area outside Lubeck. Wallander had a bottle of beer in his hand and was bellowing at the photographer.

"We had a great time," Widen said. "Maybe more fun than we've ever had since."

Wallander poured some more whisky into his glass. Widen was right. They had never had as much fun after that.

Close to 1 a.m., they called a company in Skurup and ordered a taxi. Widen agreed to drive his car in the next day. Wallander already had a headache and felt sick to his stomach. He was very, very tired.

"We should go back to Germany sometime," Widen said as they were waiting for the cab.

"No, we shouldn't go back," Wallander said. "We should take a new trip. Not that I have any property I can sell."

The car came and Wallander got into the back seat, leaned back, and fell asleep immediately.

Just as they passed the turn-off to Rydsgard something pulled him up to the surface again. At first he didn't know what it was. Something had flickered through his mind in the dream he'd been having. But then he remembered what it was: Widen had removed a piece of the wood panelling.

Wallander's mind became crystal clear at once. Svedberg had kept the woman in his life a secret for years. But when Wallander had searched his desk he hadn't found anything except some old letters from his parents. Svedberg must have a secret compartment, Wallander thought. Just like Sten Widen.

He leaned forward to the driver and changed the destination from Mariagatan to the town square. A little after 1.30 a.m. he got out of the cab. He still had the keys to Svedberg's flat in his pocket. He remembered seeing some aspirin in Svedberg's medicine cabinet. He unlocked the front door of the flat, held his breath, and listened. Then he poured himself a glass of water and took the aspirin.

Some drunken teenagers walked by on the street below, and then the silence returned. He put the glass down and started looking for Svedberg's secret compartment. By 2.45 a.m. he had found it. A corner of the plastic flooring under the chest of drawers in the bedroom could be peeled away from the concrete base. Wallander repositioned the bedside lamp so that light fell on the exposed area. There was a brown envelope stuffed in the space under the mat. It wasn't sealed. He took it out into the kitchen and opened it.

Like Widen, Svedberg treated his photographs as valuables. There were two pictures inside the envelope. One was a studio portrait of a woman's face. The other photograph was a snapshot of a group of young people who sat in the shadow of a tree and raised their wineglasses towards an unknown photographer.

The scene was idyllic. There was only one thing that struck Wallander as odd. The young people were dressed in elaborate, old-fashioned costumes, as if the party had taken place in a bygone era.

Wallander put on his glasses. His stomach started to ache. He recalled having seen a magnifying glass in one of Svedberg's drawers, and he got it out and studied the photograph more closely. There was something familiar about these young people, especially the girl who sat on the extreme right. Then he suddenly knew who it was. He had seen another picture of her recently, one in which she was not dressed up. The girl on the far right was Astrid Hillstrom.

Wallander slowly lowered the photograph. Somewhere a clock struck 3 a.m.

CHAPTER NINE

By 6 a.m. on Saturday, 10 August, Wallander couldn't stand it any longer. He had spent most of the remaining night pacing back and forth in his flat, too anxious to sleep. The two pictures he had found at Svedberg's place lay on the kitchen table. They had been burning a hole in his pocket ever since he'd made his way home through the deserted town. It wasn't until he took off his coat that he realised it must have been raining slightly outside.

The photographs in Svedberg's secret compartment were a crucial find. What convinced him of this he couldn't say, but the free-floating anxiety he had felt since the beginning of this case had now escalated into full-blown fear. A case that hadn't even been a case, three young people who were travelling around Europe somewhere, now appeared in the middle of one of the most serious murder investigations the Ystad police had ever undertaken - the killing of one of their own. During the hours after Wallander's discovery, his thoughts were muddled and contradictory. But he knew that this was a crucial breakthrough.

What was it the photographs told him? The picture of Louise was in black-and-white, the snapshot in colour. There was no date printed on the back of either. Did that mean they weren't developed in commercial laboratories? Or were there local businesses that didn't use automatic dating systems? The sizes of the photographs were standard. He tried to decide if the pictures were taken by an amateur or not, since he knew that pictures developed in private darkrooms often did not dry to a uniform finish. But he lacked the expertise to answer his questions.

Next he asked himself what feelings the two photographs evoked. What did they say about the photographer? He was not yet willing to assume that they were taken by the same person. Had Svedberg taken the picture of Louise? Her gaze was impenetrable. The picture of the young people was also hard to pin down. He did not see a conscious sense of composition. The dominating principle appeared to be the inclusion of everyone in the frame. Someone had picked up a camera, told everyone to look over, and pushed the button. Maybe there was a whole series of pictures from this festive occasion. But where were they?

The sheer implausibility of the connection worried him. They already knew that Svedberg had started investigating the disappearance of the young people only a few days before he had gone on holiday.

Why would he have done that? And why would he have done it in secret? Where did the photograph of the young revellers come from? Where was it taken? And then this picture of the woman. It couldn't be anyone but Louise. Wallander studied it for a long time as he sat at the kitchen table. The woman was in her 40s, perhaps a couple of years younger than Svedberg. If they had met 10 years earlier, she might have been 30 and he 35. That seemed pretty reasonable. The woman had straight, dark hair in a style Wallander knew was called a page boy cut. Because it was a black-and-white photograph, he couldn't tell what colour her eyes were. She had a thin nose and face, and her lips were pressed together in the hint of a smile. It was a Mona Lisa smile, but the woman had no glimmer of a smile in her eyes. Wallander thought the picture had been retouched, or else she was heavily made up. There was something veiled about the photograph, something he couldn't place. The woman's face was evasive. It had been captured by the camera but was still not there somehow.

These photographs have been kept in a vacuum, Wallander thought. They lack fingerprints, like two unread books.

He managed to hold out until 6 a.m. and then he called Martinsson, who was an early riser. He answered almost at once.

"I hope I didn't wake you."

"If you call me at 10 p.m. you'd be in danger of doing that. But not at 6 a.m. I was about to go out and work in the garden."

Wallander came right to the point. He told him about the photographs. Martinsson listened without asking any questions.

"I want to meet with everyone as soon as possible," Wallander said when he finished. "Not at 9 a.m. At 7 a.m."

"Have you talked to anyone else?"

"No, you're the first."

"Who do you want?"

"Everyone, including Nyberg."

"Then you'll have to call him yourself - he's so moody in the mornings. I can't deal with angry people until after I've had my morning coffee."

Martinsson volunteered to call Hansson and Hoglund, leaving the others to Wallander. He started with Nyberg, who was as sleepy and ill-tempered as expected.

"We're meeting at 7 a.m., not 9 a.m.," Wallander said.

"Has anything happened, or are you just doing this for the hell of it?"

"If you ever find you've been called to an investigative meeting just for the hell of it, you should contact your union representative."

He regretted that last comment to Nyberg. He went out to the kitchen and put on some water for a cup of coffee. Then he called Lisa Holgersson, who promised to be there. Wallander took the coffee with him out onto the balcony, where the thermometer indicated that it would be another warm day. There was the sudden clatter from something being pushed through the post slot in the front door.

It was his car keys. And after a night like that, he thought. Sten is amazing. He was weighed down with fatigue. With self-disgust, he suddenly imagined little white icebergs of sugar floating around in his veins.

He left the flat just after 6.30 a.m., and bumped into the person who delivered the newspapers, an older man named Stefansson who had bicycle clips around his trouser legs.

"Sorry I'm late today," he apologised. "There was something wrong with the presses this morning."

"Do you deliver papers at Lilla Norregatan as well?" Wallander asked.

Stefansson understood him at once. "You mean to the policeman who was killed?"

"Yes."

"A lady by the name of Selma works there. She's the oldest delivery person around. I think she started in 1947. What's that, nearly 50 years?"

"What's her last name?"

"Nylander."

Stefansson handed Wallander the paper.

"There's something about you in there," he said.

"Put it in my slot," Wallander said. "I won't have time to read it."

Wallander knew he could make it on time if he walked, but he took the car anyway. The start of his new life would have to be pushed back another day.

He ran into Hoglund in the car park. "The person who delivers papers to Svedberg's building is called Selma Nylander," he told her. "Have you talked to her?"

"No, it turns out she doesn't have a phone."

Wallander thought about Sture Bjorklund's decision to throw out his telephone. Was it becoming a general trend? They went into the conference room. Wallander made himself a cup of coffee, and stood out in the corridor for a while trying to think how to organise the meeting. He was normally very well prepared, but this time couldn't think of anything except putting the photographs on the table and seeing what people had to say.

He closed the door behind him and sat in his usual spot. Svedberg's chair was still empty. Wallander took the pictures out of his coat pocket and told them briefly how he had found them. He omitted the fact that the thought had come to him while he lay in a drunken stupor in the back of a taxi. Since being stopped for driving under the influence by some of his colleagues six years ago, he never mentioned drinking alcohol.

The photographs lay in front of him. Hansson set up the projector.

"I'd like to point out that the girl to the far right in this picture is Astrid Hillstrom, one of the young people who has been missing since Midsummer."

He put both pictures into the projector. There was silence around the table. Wallander took the opportunity to study the pictures more closely himself as he waited, but couldn't pick out any additional details. He had used the magnifying glass carefully during those early hours.

Martinsson finally broke the silence. "You have to hand it to Svedberg," he said. "She's beautiful. Does anyone recognise her? Ystad isn't a big city."

No one had seen her before, nor any of the young people. It was, however, clear to everyone in the room that the girl to the far right was Astrid Hillstrom. The picture of her on file resembled this one closely, except for the clothes.

"Is it a masquerade?" Chief Holgersson asked. "What period is it meant to be?"

"The 17th century," Hansson said confidently.

Wallander looked at him with surprise. "How do you know that?"

"Maybe it's more like the 18th century," he said, changing his mind.

"I think it's the 16th century," Hoglund said. "King Gustav I Vasa's time. They dressed in the same billowing sleeves and leggings."

"Are you sure?" Wallander asked.

"Of course I'm not sure. I'm just telling you what I think."

"Let's steer clear of educated guesses for a moment. The most important thing here is not how they're dressed up. It will eventually be important to figure out why they were dressed up, but even that can wait."

He looked around at everyone before continuing. "We have a picture of a woman in her 40s and a picture of a group of young people dressed up in some kind of costume. One of these young people is Astrid Hillstrom, who has been missing since Midsummer, although she's most probably travelling around Europe with two of her friends. This is what we know. I found these pictures hidden in the flat of our colleague Svedberg, who has been murdered. The way we need to begin our investigation is by determining what happened on Midsummer's Eve. That's where we start."

It took them three hours to go through the available material. Most of the time was spent formulating new questions and deciding who would do what. After two hours they took a short break and everyone except Chief Holgersson had coffee. Then they kept going. The team was starting to come together. At 10.15 a.m. Wallander felt they couldn't get any further.

Holgersson had been quiet for a long time, as she often was during their investigative work. Wallander knew she had great respect for their abilities. But now she raised her hand slightly.

"What do you really think has happened to them?" she asked. "If there's been any kind of an accident you would think it would have been discovered by now."

"I don't know," Wallander said. "The very supposition that something has happened to them leads us to conclude that their signatures on the postcards were forged. Why?"

"To cover up a crime," Nyberg suggested.

The room became quiet. Wallander looked at Nyberg and nodded slowly.

"And not just any crime," he said. "People who go missing either stay that way or turn up. There's only one possible explanation for these postcards having been forged, and that is that someone is trying to hide the fact that these three people - Boge, Norman and Hillstrom - are dead."

"That tells us another thing," Hoglund said. "The person who sent these postcards knows what happened to them."

"Not just that," Wallander said. "It's the person who killed them, a person who can forge their signatures and handwriting, and who knows where they live."

It was as if Wallander needed time to get to his final conclusion. "If our supposition is correct," he said, "then we have to assume that these three were the victims of a calculating and well-organised murderer."

His words were followed by a long silence. Wallander already knew what he wanted to say next but wondered if anyone would jump in. Outside in the hall someone laughed loudly. Nyberg blew his nose. Hansson was staring off into space and Martinsson drummed his fingers on the table. Hoglund and Holgersson were looking at Wallander.

My two allies, he thought.

"We are forced into the realm of speculation at this point," he said. "One line of reasoning will be particularly unpleasant and unimaginable, but we cannot overlook the part that Svedberg may have played in these events. We know he kept a photograph of Astrid Hillstrom and her friends hidden in his flat. We know that he conducted his investigations into their disappearance in secret. We don't know what drove him to do these things, but the three of them are still missing and he has been killed. It may have been a burglary of some kind, it may have been the case that someone was looking for something, perhaps for this very picture. But we cannot definitively rule out the possibility that Svedberg himself may have been involved in some way."

Hansson dropped his pen on the table. "You can't mean that!" he said, visibly upset. "One of our colleagues is brutally murdered, we're trying to find his killer, and you're suggesting that he was involved in an even greater crime."

"We have to consider it as a possibility," Wallander said.

"You're right," Nyberg interrupted. "However unappealing it is. Since the Belgian case I've had the feeling that anything is possible."

Nyberg was right. The macabre string of child murders in Belgium had been linked in unsavoury ways to both the police and politicians. These links were still tenuous, but no one doubted that many dramatic revelations were to come.

Wallander nodded for Nyberg to continue.

"What I'm wondering is how Louise fits into the picture."

"We don't know," Wallander said. "We have to try to proceed in as open-minded a fashion as possible and try to answer all our questions, including who this woman is."

A certain gloom fell over the group as they divided up the tasks and accepted that they would now be working around the clock. Holgersson would see about bringing in extra personnel. They finished a little after 10.30 a.m. Wallander signalled to Hoglund to remain behind. When they were alone, he gestured for her to close the door.

"Tell me what your thinking is on this," he said when she had sat down.

"Naturally some thoughts are so repulsive that you try to block them out."

"Of course. Svedberg was our friend. Now we have reason to speculate that he may have been a criminal."

"Do you really think so?"

"No, but I have to consider even what seems impossible, if that makes any sense."

"Then what do you think happened?"

"That's what I want you to tell me."

"Well, a connection has now been established between Svedberg and those three young people."

"No, that's not true. A connection has been established between Svedberg and Astrid Hillstrom."

She nodded.

"What else do you see?" he asked.

"That Svedberg was someone other than we thought."

Wallander pounced on this. "And how did we think he was?"

She thought a moment before answering. "That he was open, trustworthy."

"But in reality he turned out to be secretive and untrustworthy, is that what you mean?"

"Not exactly, but something like that."

"One of his secrets involved a woman, who may have been called Louise. We know what she looks like."

Wallander got up, turned on the projector, and slipped the picture back into the machine.

"I have the strange feeling that there's something wrong with this face. But I can't think what it is."

Hoglund hesitated, but Wallander sensed that his statement didn't surprise her.

"There's something odd about her hair," she said finally. "Although I can't put my finger on it."

"We have to find her," Wallander said. "And we will."

He put the second photograph in the projector and looked at Hoglund. Again she answered hesitantly.

"I'm quite convinced that they're wearing clothes from the 16th century. I have a book at home about fashion through the ages. But I could be wrong."

"What else do you see?"

"Young people who seem happy. Excited and drunk."

Wallander suddenly thought of the pictures that Sten Widen showed him from their trip to Germany, especially the drunken one of himself with the beer bottle in his hand. There was a similarity in the expressions on their faces.

"What else do you see?"

"The boy, the second from the left, is yelling something to the photographer."

"They're sitting on a blanket with food spread out, and they're dressed up. What does that mean?"

"A masquerade of some sort. A party."

"Let's assume it's a summer event of some kind," Wallander said.

"The whole picture gives the impression of warm weather. It could very well be a Midsummer's Eve party, but it can't have been taken this summer, since Norman isn't in the picture."

"And Astrid Hillstrom seems a little younger."

Wallander agreed. "I thought that too. The picture could be a couple of years old."

"There's nothing threatening in the photograph," she said. "At that age, they're as happy as they can be. Life seems endless, the sorrows few."

"I have such a strange feeling about this," Wallander said. "I've never been at the beginning of an investigation like this one. Svedberg is the centre, of course, but the compass needle keeps swinging back and forth. We can't see where we should go."

They left the room. Hoglund took the envelope with the two photographs to give to Nyberg so he could check them for fingerprints. First she would make some copies of both. Wallander went to the lavatory and then drank almost a litre of water in the canteen.

Everyone set to work on their assigned tasks. Wallander's job was to talk to Eva Hillstrom and Sture Bjorklund again. He sat down in his office and reached for the phone. He was going to start with Hillstrom, but he decided against phoning her first. Hoglund knocked on his door and handed him some photocopies of the pictures. The picture of the young people had been enlarged so that their faces appeared as clearly as possible.

It was around midday when Wallander left the station. He heard someone say that it was about 23degC. He took off his jacket before getting into the car.

Eva Hillstrom lived on Korlingsvag, which was just outside Ystad's eastern border. He parked the car outside the gate and looked at the house. It was a large, turn-of-the-century villa, with a beautifully maintained garden. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Eva Hillstrom opened the door and jumped when she saw who it was.

"Nothing's happened," Wallander said quickly, anxious to stop her from imagining the worst. "I just have some more questions."

She let him into a big hall that smelled strongly of disinfectant. She was barefoot and wearing a tracksuit. Her eyes darted anxiously around the room.

"I hope I'm not intruding," Wallander said.

She mumbled something unintelligible and he followed her into a spacious living room. The art and furniture gave the impression of being valuable. There was certainly nothing wrong with the Hillstroms' finances. He sat down obediently on the sofa that she indicated to him.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked.

Wallander shook his head. He was thirsty but didn't want to ask for a glass of water. She was sitting on the very edge of her seat, and Wallander had the strange impression that she was a runner at the start of a race, waiting for the gun to go off. He took out his photocopies, and handed her the picture of Louise. She looked at it briefly and then up at him.

"Who is this?"

"You don't recognise her?"

"Does she have anything to do with Astrid?"

Her attitude was hostile and Wallander forced himself to sound very firm.

"It is sometimes necessary for us to ask routine questions," he said. "I just showed you a picture, and my question is, do you know who it is?"

"Who is she?"

"Just answer the question."

"I've never seen her before."

"Then we don't have to say anything more about it."

She was about to ask him something else when Wallander gave her the other picture. She looked at it quickly, then got up out of her chair and left the room, as if the starting gun had just gone off. She came back after about a minute and handed Wallander a photograph.

"Photocopies are never as good as the original," she said in response to his puzzled face.

Wallander looked down at the photo. It was the same as the photocopy, the same picture he had found in Svedberg's flat. He felt a step closer to something important.

"Tell me about this photograph," he said. "When was it taken? Who are the other people in it?"

"I don't know exactly where it is," she said. "Somewhere around Osterlen, I think. Maybe at Brosarp's hill. Astrid gave it to me."

"When was it taken?"

"Last summer, in July. It was Magnus's birthday."

"Magnus?"

She pointed to the boy who was shouting at the unknown photographer. Wallander pulled out the notebook he had for once remembered to bring.

"What's his full name?"

"Magnus Holmgren. He lives in Trelleborg."

"Who are the rest?"

Wallander took down their names and where they lived. Suddenly he remembered something else.

"Who took the picture?" he asked.

"Astrid's camera had a self-timing mechanism."

"So she took it?"

"I just told you the camera had a self-timer!"

Wallander moved on.

"This is a birthday party for Magnus, but why are they dressed up?"

"That was something they did. I can't see anything strange about it."

"I don't either, I just have to ask these questions."

She lit a cigarette. Wallander felt she was on the verge of breaking down again.

"So Astrid has a lot of friends," he said.

"Not that many," Eva Hillstrom said. "But good ones."

She took up the photo again and pointed to the other girl.

"Isa wasn't with them this year at Midsummer," she said. "Unfortunately she fell ill."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. Then Wallander understood.

"You mean that this other girl was supposed to have been with them?"

"She fell ill."

"And so it was just the three of them? And they went ahead with the party and then took off together for a trip to Europe?"

"Yes."

Wallander looked down at his notes.

"What's her full name?"

"Isa Edengren. Her father is a businessman. They live in Skarby."

"What has she said about the trip?"

"That nothing had been decided in advance. But she's sure they've gone. They always took their passports with them on these occasions."

"Have they sent her any postcards?"

"No."

"Doesn't she think that's strange?"

"Yes."

Eva Hillstrom put out her cigarette.

"Something's happened," she said. "I don't know what it is, but Isa's wrong. They haven't left. They're still here."

Wallander saw that there were tears in her eyes.

"Why won't anyone listen to me?" she asked. "Only one person listened, but now he's gone too."

Wallander held his breath.

"Only one person has listened to you," he said. "Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Do you mean the police officer who visited you at the end of June?"

She looked at him with surprise. "He came many times," she said. "Not just then. During July he came every week, and a couple of times this week as well."

"Do you mean Officer Svedberg?"

"Why did he have to die?" she said. "He was the only one who listened, the only one who was as worried as I was."

Wallander was silent. Suddenly he had nothing to say.

CHAPTER TEN

The breeze was so gentle that sometimes he didn't feel it at all. He counted how often he actually felt the wind on his face, just to make the time go a little faster. He was going to add this to his list of pleasures in life, the joys of the happy person. He had remained hidden behind a large tree for several hours. The fact that he was so early gave him a feeling of satisfaction.

It was still a warm evening. When he had woken that morning, he had known that the time had come to go public. He couldn't wait any longer. He had slept for exactly eight hours, like he normally did. Somewhere in his subconscious the decision had been made. He was going to recreate the events that had occurred 50 days ago.

He got up around 5 a.m., again like always, making no exception to his routine although this was his day off. After drinking a cup of the tea that he ordered directly from Shanghai, he rolled away the red carpet in the living room and did his morning exercises. After 20 minutes he measured his heart rate, wrote it down in a notebook, and took a shower. At 6.15 a.m. he sat down to work. This morning he was making his way through a large report from the department of labour that examined possible solutions to the problem of unemployment. He marked some passages with a pen, occasionally also commenting on them, but nothing really struck him as new.

He put down his pen and thought about the anonymous people who had put this meaningless report together. They are in no danger of becoming unemployed, he thought. They are never to be granted the joy of being able to see straight through daily existence to what actually mattered, the things that gave life meaning.

He read until 10 a.m., and then dressed and went shopping. He made lunch and rested for a while until around 2 p.m. He had soundproofed his bedroom. It was very expensive but worth every penny. No sounds from the street ever intruded. The windows were gone. A soundless air conditioning unit provided him with air. On one side of the room he had a large picture of the world, on which he could follow the progression of sunlight around the globe. This room was the centre of his world. Here he could think clearly about what had happened and what was going to happen. He never had to think about who he was or if he was right. Right about there being no justice in the world.

They had been at a conference in the Jomtland mountains. The director of the engineering firm he worked for had suddenly appeared in his doorway and ordered him to go. Someone had fallen sick. Naturally he agreed, although he had already made plans for that weekend. He said yes because he wanted to please his boss. The conference was on something to do with new digital technology. It was spearheaded by an older man who had invented the mechanical cash registers that were manufactured in Atvidaberg. He talked about the new era, and everyone stared down at their notebooks. On one of the last evenings, they had all decided to go to the sauna. He didn't really like being naked in front of other men, so he waited for them in the bar. He didn't know exactly how to act. Afterwards they joined him and sat drinking for a long time. Someone started telling a story about good ways to fire employees. All of the men except for him were in important positions at their companies. They told one story after another and finally looked at him. But he had never fired anyone. It never even occurred to him that he would one day be fired. He had studied hard, could do his job, had paid off his student loans, and had learned how to agree with people. Afterwards, after the catastrophe was a fact, he suddenly remembered one of the stories. A small, unpleasantly plump man from a factory in Torshalla told them about how he had once summoned an old worker and said, "I don't know how we could have managed without you here all these years." "It was great," the fat man said, laughing. "The old guy was so proud and happy that he wasn't on guard. Then it was easy. I just said, 'But we'll just have to try, starting tomorrow.'" So the old man was fired. He often thought about that story. If it had been possible he would have gone to Torshalla and killed the person who had fired the old man like that, and had the gall to show off about it afterwards.

He left his flat around 3 p.m. He drove eastwards until he reached a car park in Nybrostrand, where he waited until there were no other people around. Then he quickly switched to another car he had parked there and drove away.

When he arrived at the nature reserve he saw that he was in luck. There were no other cars around, which meant he didn't have to bother with the fake number plates. It was already 4 p.m. and a Saturday, and so he doubted that anyone else would turn up that evening. He had spent three Saturdays watching the entrance to the nature reserve and had noted the pattern of visitors. Almost no one came in the evening. The few who did always left by 8 p.m. He took his tools out of the boot. He had also packed a few sandwiches and a thermos of tea. He looked around, listened, then disappeared down one of the trails.

When the time was right, he started making his way towards the place. He immediately saw that no one had been there. In the space between the two trees that was the only natural opening into the clearing, he had hung a thin thread. He knelt down to examine it and saw that it was untouched. Then he got out his collapsible shovel and started digging. He went about his task calmly and methodically. The last thing he wanted to do was break out in a sweat, which would increase the risk of his catching a cold. He paused after every eighth shovelful and listened for noises. It took 20 minutes to remove the layer of sod and reach the tarpaulin. Before lifting it aside he smeared some menthol ointment under his nostrils and put on a mask. The three plastic bags were lying undisturbed in the ground. There was no unpleasant odour, which meant they hadn't leaked. He lifted up one of the bags and threw it over his shoulder. His workouts had made him strong. It only took him 10 minutes to carry all three bags to their original location. Then he filled the hole, replaced the layer of sod, and stamped the ground on top until it was flat, pausing from time to time to listen out for sounds.

Next he went to the tree where he had placed the three bags. He unpacked the tablecloth, glasses, and the remains of the rotting food that he had stored in his refrigerator. Then he took the bodies out of the bags. Their wigs were a little yellowed and the bloodstains had taken on a greyish tinge. He put the bodies in their places, breaking and cracking what was necessary so that everything looked like it had when he had taken the picture on Midsummer's Eve. His last touch was to pour a little wine into one of the glasses. He listened. Everything was still.

He folded the bags under his arm, stuffed them into a sack, and left. He had already removed his mask and wiped away the menthol. He didn't see a single person on his way back to the car. He drove to Nybrostrand, changed cars again, and made it back to Ystad before 10 p.m. He didn't drive straight home but continued in the direction of Trelleborg. He pulled over at a spot where he could drive down towards the water without being observed. He put two of the big bags inside the third, weighted them down with pieces of steel pipe that he had procured for this purpose, and threw them into the water. They sank immediately.

He returned home, burned his mask, and threw his shoes into the rubbish. He put the menthol ointment in the bathroom cabinet. Then he took a shower and rubbed his body with disinfectant.

Later, he had some tea. When he looked into the tea container, he realised he would soon have to order more. He wrote it down on the noticeboard he kept in the kitchen. He watched a programme about the homeless on TV. No one said anything he didn't already know.

Around midnight he sat down at the kitchen table with a stack of letters in front of him. It was time for him to start thinking of the future. He opened the first letter carefully and started to read.

Shortly before 1.30 p.m. on Saturday, 10 August, Wallander left the Hillstroms' villa on Korlingsvag. He decided to drive straight to Skarby, where Isa Edengren, the girl whom Eva Hillstrom claimed should have been with the others on Midsummer's Eve, lived. Wallander had asked Hillstrom why she hadn't told him about this earlier, but inside he felt a growing sense of guilt over the fact that he had taken so long to realise that something might be seriously wrong.

He stopped at a cafe by the bus station and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He realised too late that he should have ordered his sandwich without butter. Now he was forced to try and scrape it off with his knife. A man at the next table was watching him, and Wallander guessed that he had recognised him from the papers. Probably this would lead to rumours about how the police frittered their time away scraping butter off sandwiches instead of searching for their colleague's killer. Wallander sighed. He had never been able to get used to the rumour mill.

He finished his coffee, went to the lavatory, and left the cafe. He chose to follow the smaller road that went through Bjaresjo. Just as he left the main road his mobile phone rang. It was Hoglund.

"I just spoke to Lena Norman's parents," she said. "I think I've found out something important."

Wallander held the phone more closely to his ear.

"There was supposed to be a fourth person at that Midsummer party," she said.

"I know. I'm on my way to her house right now."

"Isa Edengren?"

"Yes, Eva Hillstrom picked her out from Svedberg's picture. It turns out that she had the original. Astrid took it last summer with the self-timer on her camera."

"It feels like Svedberg is always one step ahead of us," she said.

"We'll catch up with him soon," Wallander said. "Anything else?"

"Some people have called in with leads, but nothing looks promising."

"Do me a favour and give Ylva Brink a call," Wallander said. "Ask her how big Svedberg's telescope was, and if it was heavy. I can't figure out where it's gone."

"Have we already ruled out the possibility of a burglary?"

"We haven't ruled anything out yet, but if someone made off with a telescope, you would think they would've been seen."

"Do you want me to do it right away, or can it wait? I'm on my way to see one of the boys from the photograph who lives in Trelleborg."

"It can wait. Who's going to talk to the other one?"

"Martinsson and Hansson are going together. I gave them his name. Right now they're in Simrishamn with the Boge family."

Wallander nodded with satisfaction. "I'm glad we're getting hold of everyone today," he said. "I think we'll know a lot more about the case by this evening."

They hung up and Wallander continued to Skarby. He followed the directions Eva Hillstrom had given him. She had told him that Isa Edengren's father had a big piece of property with several full-time landscapers working on it. A private road lined with big trees led up to a two-storey house. A BMW was parked in front. Wallander got out of his car and rang the bell. No one answered. He banged on the door and rang the bell again. It was 2 p.m. He was sweating. He rang the bell once more, then walked around to the back of the house. The garden was large and old-fashioned, with a variety of well-pruned fruit trees. There was a pool and a set of sun loungers that Wallander thought looked expensive. At the bottom of the garden there was a glassed-in gazebo, surrounded and almost completely hidden by bushes and overhanging branches. Wallander walked towards it. The green door was slightly ajar. He knocked but there was no answer. He pushed the door open. The curtains in the windows were pulled shut and it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.

He saw that there was a person inside. Someone was sleeping on a divan. He could see black hair sticking up over a blanket, but the person's back was turned towards him. Wallander closed the door and knocked again. Still no answer. Wallander walked in and flicked on the light switch. Light flooded the room. He grabbed the sleeper by the shoulder and gave a couple of shakes. When there was still no reaction Wallander knew that something was wrong. He turned the person over and saw that it was Isa Edengren. He spoke to her, and shook her again. Her breathing was slow and laboured. He shook her hard and sat her up but she didn't show any signs of waking. After fumbling in his pocket for his mobile phone, he remembered he had left it on the car seat after talking to Hoglund. He ran back to the car and made an emergency call to the hospital on his way back to the gazebo, giving careful directions to the house.

"I think it's either a suicide attempt or serious illness," he said. "What do I do?"

"Make sure she doesn't stop breathing," he was told. "You're a police officer, you should be familiar with the procedure."

The ambulance arrived after 15 minutes. Wallander had managed to get hold of Hoglund, who had not yet left for Trelleborg, and asked her to meet the ambulance when it arrived at the hospital. He was going to stay in Skarby for a while. After the ambulance left, he tried the doors of the main house, but they were locked. Then he heard an approaching car. A man wearing rubber boots and overalls got out of a little Fiat.

"I saw the ambulance," he said.

Wallander saw the look of worry in his eyes. After telling him who he was, Wallander said that Isa Edengren was ill. That was all he could say for the moment.

"Where are her parents?" he asked.

"Away."

The answer seemed deliberately vague.

"Can you be more specific? We'll have to notify them."

"They may be in Spain," the man said. "But they could also be in France. They own houses in both countries."

Wallander thought about the locked doors.

"Does Isa live here even when they're away?"

The man shook his head.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's really none of my business," the man said and started backing towards his car.

"You've already made it your business," Wallander said firmly. "What's your name?"

"Erik Lundberg."

"Do you live close by?"

Lundberg pointed to a farm that lay south of where they were.

"Now I want you to answer my question: did Isa live here while her parents were away?"

"No, she wasn't allowed to."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She had to sleep in the gazebo."

"Why wasn't she allowed in the main house?"

"There had been trouble in the past. Some parties where things had either been broken or stolen."

"How do you know this?"

The answer came as a surprise.

"They don't treat her very well," Lundberg said. "Last winter when it was ten degrees below zero, they went away and locked up the house. But there's no heating in the gazebo. She came down to our place completely frozen and told us about it. Not me directly, that is, but my wife."

"Then we'll go back to your place," Wallander said. "I'd like to hear what she told your wife."

He asked Lundberg to go ahead of him. Wallander wanted to check the gazebo before he left. He found no trace of sleeping pills or letter, and nothing else of consequence. He looked around one more time then headed back to the car. His phone rang.

"She's just been admitted," Hoglund said.

"What are the doctors saying?"

"Not very much for now."

She promised to call as soon as she heard anything. Wallander relieved himself next to the car before he went down to Lundberg's farm. A wary dog met him on the front porch. Lundberg came out and chased it away, and invited Wallander into a cosy kitchen. Lundberg's wife was making coffee. Her name was Barbro and she spoke in a Gothenburg dialect.

"How is she?"

"My colleague will let me know as soon as she hears anything."

"Did she try to kill herself?"

"It's too soon to know," Wallander said. "But I wasn't able to wake her up."

He sat down at the table and put the phone beside him.

"I take it she's attempted suicide before, since you immediately assumed that was the case," he said.

"It's a suicidal family," Lundberg said with distaste.

Then he stopped talking, as if he regretted his remark.

Barbro Lundberg put the coffee pot on the table. "Isa's brother passed away two years ago," she said. "He was only 19 years old. Isa and Jorgen were only one year apart."

"How did he do it?"

"In the bathtub," Lundberg said. "He wrote a note to his parents telling them to go to hell. Then he plugged a toaster into the wall and dropped it in the water."

Wallander felt sick to his stomach. He had a vague recollection of the incident. It came to him that Svedberg had been the one in charge of the investigation. A newspaper lay on an old sofa under the window. Wallander caught sight of a photo of Svedberg on the front page. He reached out for it and showed them the photograph.

"You may have heard about the policeman who was killed," he said. He got his answer before he even asked the question.

"He was here about a month ago."

"Did he come to see you or the Edengrens?"

"First to see them. Then he came here, just like you did."

"Were her parents gone that time as well?"

"No."

"So he met Isa's parents?"

"We don't know exactly who he spoke to," Lundberg said. "But her parents weren't gone then."

"Why did he come down here? What did he ask you about?"

Barbro Lundberg sat down at the table.

"He asked us about the parties they had when Isa's parents were gone, before they started locking her out," she said.

"That was the only thing that interested him," Lundberg said.

Wallander grew more attentive. He realised that this might give him an insight into the way Svedberg had spent his summer.

"I want both of you to try to remember exactly what he said."

"A month is a long time," she said.

"But you sat here at the kitchen table?"

"Yes."

"And you had coffee?"

Barbro Lundberg smiled. "He liked my bundt cake."

Wallander proceeded carefully. "It must have been right after Midsummer."

The couple exchanged looks. Wallander saw that they were trying to help each other remember.

"It must have been right at the beginning of July. I'm sure of it," she said.

"So he came here at the end of June. First to see the Edengrens and then to see you."

"Isa came with him. But she was sick with some kind of stomach bug."

"Did Isa stay here the whole time?"

"No, she only came down with him to show him the way. Then she left."

"And he asked you about the parties?"

"Yes."

"What exactly did he ask?"

"If we knew the people who used to come. But of course we didn't."

"Why do you say 'of course'?"

"They were just young people who came in cars and then left the same way."

"What else did he ask?"

"If any of these parties were masquerades," Lundberg said.

"Did he use that word?"

"Yes."

His wife shook her head. "No, he didn't. He just asked if the people who attended the parties used to dress up."

"Did they?"

They both looked at Wallander with surprise.

"How on earth would we know?" Lundberg asked. "We weren't there, and we don't go around peeking through the curtains."

"But didn't you see something?"

"The parties were sometimes in the autumn, and it was usually dark. We couldn't see how people were dressed."

Wallander sat quietly and thought for a moment. "Did he ask anything else?"

"No. He sat for a while scratching his forehead with his pen. He was only here for about half an hour. Then he left."

Wallander's mobile phone rang. It was Hoglund.

"They're pumping her stomach."

"So it was a suicide attempt?"

"I don't think people can ingest this many sleeping pills by accident."

"Are the doctors saying anything at this stage?"

"The fact that she's unconscious suggests she may already be poisoned."

"Will she make it?"

"I haven't heard anything to the contrary."

"Then why don't you go on to Trelleborg?"

"That's what I was thinking. I'll see you later back at the station."

They hung up, and the couple looked at Wallander with anxious eyes.

"She'll make it," he said. "But I will need to contact her parents."

"We have a couple of phone numbers," Lundberg said, and got up.

"They wanted us to call if anything happened to the house," his wife explained. "They didn't say anything about this kind of situation."

"You mean what to do if anything happened to Isa?"

She nodded. Lundberg gave Wallander a piece of paper with the phone numbers.

"Can we visit her in the hospital?" Barbro Lundberg asked.

"I'm sure you can," Wallander answered. "But I think it would be best if you waited until tomorrow."

Erik Lundberg saw him out.

"Do you have any keys to the house?" Wallander asked.

"They would never entrust them to us," the man said.

Wallander said goodbye, returned to the Edengren house, and walked over to the gazebo. He searched it again thoroughly for about half an hour, unsure as to what exactly he was looking for. He ended up sitting on Isa's bed.

Something's repeating itself, he thought. Svedberg came to talk to the girl who didn't make it to the Midsummer celebration and did not go missing. Svedberg asked about parties, and about young people dressing up in costumes. Now Isa Edengren has tried to kill herself and Svedberg has been murdered.

Wallander got up and left the gazebo. He was worried. He wasn't finding anything reliable to point him in the right direction. There seemed to be clues pointing in many directions, but none of them seemed to lead anywhere. He got into his car and headed back to Ystad.

His next aim was to have another talk with Sture Bjorklund. It was almost 4 p.m. when he pulled into Bjorklund's yard. He knocked on the door and waited, but no one answered. Bjorklund had probably gone to Copenhagen, or else he was in Hollywood discussing his latest ideas for a monster. Wallander banged hard on the door but didn't wait for anyone to open it. Instead he walked around to the back. The garden was neglected. Some half-rotting pieces of furniture were scattered in the long grass. Wallander peered in through one of the windows of the house, then continued down to a little shed. Wallander felt the door. It was unlocked. He opened it wide and pushed a piece of wood underneath it to keep it in place. It was a mess inside. He was about to leave when his attention was caught by a tarpaulin folded over something in the corner. There seemed to be some kind of equipment under it. He carefully pulled off part of the cover. It was a machine all right; or more precisely, an instrument. Wallander had never seen one like it before, but he still knew immediately what it was. A telescope.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When Wallander walked back outside he noticed the wind had picked up. He turned his back to it and tried to collect his thoughts. How many people owned telescopes? Not many. The telescope had to be Svedberg's. He couldn't think of any other possible explanation. That brought up other questions: why hadn't Sture Bjorklund said anything?

Did he have something to hide, or didn't he know that the telescope was on his property? Could Sture Bjorklund have killed his own cousin? He doubted it.

He returned to his car and made some calls, but neither Martinsson nor Hansson was in his office. He asked the officer on duty to send a car out to Hedeskoga.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"I need some people to keep this place under surveillance," Wallander said. "For now you can simply say that it has to do with Svedberg's case."

"Do we know who shot him?"

"No. This is a routine matter."

Wallander asked for an unmarked car and described the intersection where he would meet it. When Wallander reached the intersection the car was already waiting for him. He explained to the patrol officers where they should wait, and that they should call him as soon as Sture Bjorklund turned up, then he started back to Ystad. He was very hungry and his mouth was dry. He stopped at a takeaway restaurant on Malmovagen and ordered a hamburger. While he was waiting for his food, he drank some soda water. After eating much too quickly he bought himself a litre of mineral water. He needed time to think, but knew he would inevitably be disturbed if he returned to the station, so he drove out of town and parked outside the Saltsjobaden hotel. The wind was quite strong now but he walked on until he found a sheltered spot. For some reason there was an old toboggan there and he sat down on it and shut his eyes.

There has to be a point of entry into this mess, he thought. A point of connection that I am overlooking. He went through everything that had happened so far as carefully and clearly as he could, but despite his efforts, the facts remained as muddled and obscure as before.

What would Rydberg have done? When Rydberg had been alive, Wallander had always been able to ask him for advice. They would take a walk on the beach or sit in the station late into the night discussing the facts of a case until they arrived at something important. But Rydberg was gone now. Wallander strained to hear his voice in his head, but there was nothing there.

Sometimes he thought Ann-Britt Hoglund was on her way to becoming his new partner. She listened as well as Rydberg and didn't hesitate to change track if she felt it could help them break through a new wall.

In time it may work out, he thought. Ann-Britt is a good police officer. But it takes time.

He got up heavily and started walking back to the car. There's only one thing that really sets this investigation apart, he thought. People dressed up in costume. Svedberg wanted to know about parties where people dressed up in costume. We have a photograph of people at a party dressed up in costume. There are people in costume at every turn.

Wallander knew it would be a long night. As soon as everyone had returned from their assignments, they would hunker down in the conference room. He went into his office, hung up his coat, and called the hospital. After being transferred a couple of times he finally reached a doctor who told him that Isa Edengren was in a stable condition and was expected to make a full recovery. He knew this doctor, having met him at least a couple of times before.

"Tell me something I know you aren't allowed to say," Wallander said. "Was it a cry for help or was she really trying to end it all?"

"I'm told you were the one who found her, is that right?" the doctor said.

"That's right."

"Then let me put it this way," he said. "It was lucky you found her when you did."

Wallander understood. He was about to hang up when another question came to him.

"Has anyone been to see her?"

"She's not allowed visitors yet."

"I understand. But has anyone asked to see her?"

"I'll find out for you."

While Wallander waited, he hunted out the piece of paper with Isa's parents' telephone numbers that Lundberg had given him. The doctor returned.

"No one has been here and no one has called," he said. "Who is going to get in touch with her parents?"

"We'll take care of that."

Wallander hung up and tried dialling the first number without knowing whether he was calling France or Spain. He counted 15 rings, then hung up and tried the other number. This time a woman answered almost immediately. Wallander introduced himself and she said she was Berit Edengren. Wallander told her what had happened. She listened without interrupting. Wallander thought about her son Jorgen, Isa's brother. He tried to keep his details to a minimum, but it was a suicide attempt and he couldn't cover that up.

She sounded calm when she replied. "I'll tell my husband," she said. "We'll have to talk about whether we should return home immediately."

She loves her daughter, Wallander reminded himself, but he couldn't help feeling angry at her response. "I hope you understand that it could have ended badly."

"Thankfully it didn't."

Wallander gave her the number of the hospital and the name of the doctor. He decided against asking any questions about Svedberg yet. What he did ask was for information about the Midsummer's Eve celebration that Isa was to have attended.

"Isa doesn't tell us very much," she answered. "I didn't know anything about a Midsummer's Eve party."

"Would she have told her father?"

"I doubt it."

"Martin Boge, Lena Norman, and Astrid Hillstrom," Wallander recited. "Do you recognise these names?"

"They're friends of Isa's," she said.

"But Isa hadn't told you about any special plans for Midsummer?"

"No."

"This is a very important question and I need you to think carefully. Could she have mentioned a place where they were to meet?"

"There's nothing wrong with my memory. I know she didn't say anything to us."

"Do you know if she had any fancy dress costumes at home?"

"Is this really important?"

"Yes. Please answer the question."

"I don't go through her cupboards."

"Is there a spare key to the house?"

"We keep a spare hidden key in a drainpipe on the right wing. Isa doesn't know about it."

"And she won't find out about it in the next couple of days."

Wallander had only one more question for her. "Did Isa say anything about going on a trip after Midsummer?"

"No."

"Would she have told you if she was thinking about it?"

"Only if she had needed the money, which she always did."

Wallander had trouble controlling his temper.

"You'll hear from us again," he said.

He slammed down the phone, realising as he did so that he still didn't know whether they were in France or Spain.

He went out to the canteen and got a cup of coffee. On his way back to his office he remembered that he had one more call to make. He found the phone number and dialled it. This time someone answered.

"Bror Sundelius?"

"Speaking."

Wallander introduced himself and was about to explain why he was calling when Sundelius interrupted him.

"I've been waiting for the police to give me a call. It seems to me you've taken a long time."

He was an elderly man with a direct way of speaking.

"I've already called a couple of times and got no answer. Why did you think we would be in touch?"

Sundelius answered without hesitation. "Karl Evert did not have many close friends. I was one of the few. That's why I assumed that you would contact me."

"What do you think we wanted to talk to you about?"

"You should know that better than I do."

True, Wallander thought. At least he isn't going senile.

"I'd like to meet with you," Wallander said. "Here or at your place, preferably tomorrow morning."

"I used to go to work every day. Now I climb the walls," Sundelius said. "I have an endless amount of time that simply goes to waste. You can come tomorrow any time after 4.30 a.m. I live on Vadergrand. My legs aren't so good. How old are you, Inspector?"

"I'll be 50 soon."

"Then your legs are better than mine. At your age it's important to keep moving. Otherwise you'll develop heart problems or diabetes."

Wallander listened to him with surprise.

"Are you still there, Inspector?"

"Yes," said Wallander. "I'm here. How about 9 a.m.?"

They crowded into the conference room at 7.30 p.m. Lisa Holgersson had arrived early with the chief prosecutor filling in for Per Akeson, who was in Uganda. Akeson had taken a leave of absence and was working for the International Refugee Commission. He had been gone almost eight months and sent Wallander letters every now and then, describing his daily life, and the dramatic ways in which the new environment and work were changing him. Wallander missed him, even though they had never been close. He also sometimes felt a stab of envy when he thought about the decision Akeson had made. Would he ever be anything other than a policeman? He would soon turn 50. The chances of starting something new were shrinking rapidly.

The acting chief prosecutor, Thurnberg, had come down from Orebro. Wallander had not had a lot to do with him up until now, as Thurnberg had only started in Ystad in the middle of May. He was a couple of years younger than Wallander, fit and quick-witted. Wallander had not yet decided what he thought about him. On a previous encounter, he had appeared rather arrogant.

Wallander knocked on the table with his pencil and looked around the room. Svedberg's chair was still empty. He wondered when someone was going to start using it. Wallander began by telling them about his find at Bjorklund's house, since he was expecting him to be back from Copenhagen later that evening.

"Before this meeting we were talking about something else that strikes us as odd," Martinsson said. "There are no diaries. I've asked the others, but none of the three seem to have kept a diary or a pocket calendar."

"There are no letters either," Hansson said.

"These people seem to have erased all traces of themselves," Hoglund said.

"Is that the case with the others, too? The ones who were in Svedberg's photograph?"

"Yes," Martinsson said. "But we should probably probe further."

Martinsson flipped through his notes and was about to add something when there was a knock on the door. An officer came in and nodded in Wallander's direction.

"Bjorklund has just got home."

Wallander got up. "I'll go out there alone. It won't be an arrest, after all. We'll continue when I get back."

Nyberg got up as well. "I should probably have a look at the telescope right away," he said.

They drove out to Hedeskoga in Nyberg's car. The unmarked police car was still parked at the intersection. Wallander got out and spoke to the officer behind the wheel.

"He arrived about 20 minutes ago in a Mazda."

"Then you can go back," Wallander said.

"You don't want us to stay?"

"It won't be necessary."

Wallander got back in the car and they pulled up outside the house.

"He's home," he said to Nyberg. "No doubt about that."

Music was coming from an open window. It had a Latin beat. Wallander rang the bell and the music was turned down. Bjorklund opened the door wearing only a pair of shorts.

"I have a couple of questions that couldn't wait," Wallander said.

Bjorklund seemed to think for a moment, then smiled. "Now I understand," he said.

"What do you understand?"

"Why that car was parked up by the turn-off."

Wallander nodded. "I was looking for you earlier today. My questions can't wait."

Bjorklund let them in and Wallander introduced Nyberg.

"Once upon a time I also thought about becoming a forensic technician," Bjorklund said. "The idea of dedicating my life to interpreting evidence was appealing to me."

"It's not as exciting as you'd think," Nyberg replied.

Bjorklund looked mildly astonished.

"I wasn't talking about adventure," he said. "I was talking about being a person who follows traces."

They stopped in the entrance to the big room. Wallander noted Nyberg's amazement at Bjorklund's menage.

"I'm going to get right to the point," he said. "You have a small shed to the east of the house. There's an instrument in there hidden under a piece of tarpaulin. I think it's a telescope, and I want to determine whether or not it came from Svedberg's flat."

Bjorklund balked. "A telescope? In my shed?"

"Yes."

Bjorklund instinctively took a step back. "Who's been snooping around out here?"

"I told you that I came looking for you earlier today. The door to your shed was open and I went in. I found the telescope."

"Is that legal? Are the police allowed to enter other people's homes at will?"

"If you have an opinion to the contrary, feel free to make a report to the ombudsman."

Bjorklund looked at him with animosity. "I think I will," he said.

"For God's sake," Nyberg interrupted angrily. "Let's just get this cleared up."

"So you claim to have no knowledge of a telescope on your property."

"That's right."

"Do you realise that doesn't sound very believable?"

"I don't care what it sounds like. As far as I'm concerned, there's no telescope anywhere on my property."

"We'll soon determine whether that's the case," Wallander said. "If you refuse to cooperate I'll leave Nyberg here and get a search warrant from the chief prosecutor. You should have no doubts about that."

Bjorklund was still hostile. "Am I accused of a crime?"

"For now I simply want an answer to my question."

"I've already given you one."

"So you deny knowledge of the telescope? Could Svedberg have put it there without your knowledge?"

"Why would he have done that?"

"I'm simply asking if it's possible, that's all."

"Of course he could have done it while I was away over the summer. I never check what's in the shed."

Wallander sensed that Bjorklund was telling the truth, and experienced this as a relief.

"Shall we go and look?"

Bjorklund nodded and slipped on some clogs. His upper body was still bare.

When they had arrived at the shed and turned on the light, Wallander pulled the others back and turned to Bjorklund.

"Does anything in here look different?"

"Like what?"

"It's your shed. You should know."

Bjorklund looked around and shrugged. "It looks like it normally does."

Wallander directed them into the corner and lifted the tarpaulin. Bjorklund's surprise seemed genuine.

"I have no idea how that got there," he said.

Nyberg crouched down to have a better look, directing a strong torch beam at it.

"I don't think we need to speculate further about who it belongs to," he said, pointing to something.

Wallander looked more closely and saw a small metal plate with Svedberg's name on it. Bjorklund no longer seemed angry.

"I don't understand," he said. "Why would Karl Evert hide his telescope here?"

"Let's go back inside and leave Nyberg to his work," Wallander said.

As they walked back to the house, Bjorklund asked if he wanted some coffee. Wallander said no. He seated himself for a second time on the uncomfortable pew.

"Do you have any idea how long it could have been there?"

Bjorklund now seemed to be trying to give thorough answers.

"I don't have a good memory for rooms," he said. "My memory for objects is even worse. I don't think I could come up with any kind of a time frame for you."

Something seemed to occur to him. Wallander waited.

"Is it possible that someone else put it there?" Bjorklund asked.

"If so, it would probably have been someone who knew you two were related."

Wallander saw that something was troubling Bjorklund.

"What are you thinking about?"

"I don't know if this means anything," he said doubtfully. "But I had the feeling once that someone had been here."

"How did you get this feeling?"

"I don't know. It was just a feeling."

"Something must have set it off."

"That's what I'm trying to remember."

Wallander kept waiting. Bjorklund seemed lost in thought.

"It was a couple of weeks ago," he said. "I had been in Copenhagen and returned in the afternoon. It had been raining. As I walked across the yard something made me stop. At first I didn't know what it was, but then I saw that someone had moved one of the sculptures."

"One of the monsters?"

"They're copies of the medieval gargoyles from the cathedral in Rouen."

"I thought you had a poor memory for objects."

"That doesn't apply to my sculptures. Not when someone has changed their position. I was certain that someone had been in the yard while I was gone."

"And it wasn't Svedberg."

"No. He never came out here unless we had arranged it."

"You can't be sure of that, though."

"No, but I feel sure. I knew him, and he knew me."

Wallander nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"A stranger had been here."

"You didn't have anyone looking after the place when you were gone on short trips?"

"No one comes here except the postman."

Bjorklund sounded convinced and Wallander had no reason to doubt him.

"A stranger, then," he repeated. "And you think this person is the one who might have put the telescope in your shed?"

"I know it sounds unreasonable."

"Can you tell me the exact date when this happened?"

Bjorklund went and got a little pocket calendar and leafed through to a particular day.

"I was away on 14 and 15 July."

Wallander made a note of it. Nyberg came in, his mobile phone in hand.

"I've called for some equipment," he said. "I'd like to finish working on the telescope tonight. Why don't you take my car back and I'll have a squad car pick me up when I'm finished?"

Nyberg disappeared again. Wallander got up, and Bjorklund followed him to the door.

"You must have had time to think about what's happened," Wallander said to him.

"I don't understand why anyone would want to kill my cousin. I can't imagine a more meaningless act."

"No," Wallander agreed. "But these are the questions we have to answer: who would have wanted to kill him, and why?"

They parted in the yard. The gargoyles looked somewhat plaintive in the weak light from the house. Wallander returned to Ystad in Nyberg's car. Nothing had been resolved.

The meeting back at the station lasted almost until midnight. Everyone was tired, but Wallander didn't want to let them go.

"There's really just one thing we can do," he said. "We have to declare Boge, Norman and Hillstrom officially missing. We need to get them back home as soon as possible."

Everyone in the room agreed with him. Holgersson and Martinsson would see that it was done the next morning.

"It seems that all of these young people have been up to something," he said. "But we haven't been able to get them to tell us what it is. You've all said that you feel there's something they're not saying, that they have a secret. Is that right?"

"Yes," said Hoglund, "There's something they're not letting us in on."

"But they don't seem particularly concerned, either," Martinsson said. "They're convinced that Boge, Norman and Hillstrom are travelling."

"I hope they're right," Hansson said. "I'm starting to feel worried."

"So am I," Wallander said. He threw his pen down. "What the hell was Svedberg up to? That's what we have to figure out. And who in God's name is Louise?"

"We've checked all of our photographic records," Martinsson said.

"That's not enough," Wallander said. "We'll have to publish the picture in the papers. We have a murder to solve. Not that she's a suspect. At least not yet."

"Women don't tend to shoot their victims in the face with a shotgun," Hoglund said.

No one had anything further to say. They agreed to continue the following day. Wallander would start by visiting Sundelius. He walked out of the station with Martinsson.

"We have to get them home," he said again. "We'll talk to Isa Edengren, and we'll bring in the ones that you've already visited once. We'll get them to tell us what they know."

They walked to their cars. Wallander was extremely tired. The last thing he thought about before falling asleep was that Nyberg was still out in Bjorklund's shed.

A steady rain fell over Ystad at dawn. Then the clouds blew away. Sunday was going to be a warm and sunny day.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rosmarie Leman and her husband Mats often drove out to parks and nature reserves to take their Sunday walk, depending on the weather and season. This morning, Sunday, 11 August, they had talked about driving up to Fyledalen but settled on the Hagestad nature reserve instead. The deciding factor was that they hadn't been there for a long time, not since the middle of June.

They were early risers and left Ystad a little after 7 a.m. As usual they were planning to be gone the whole day. They put two rucksacks in the boot. These contained everything they might possibly need, even raincoats. Although it looked like it was going to be a fine day, you could never be sure. They lived a well-organised life. She was a teacher, he an engineer. They never left anything to chance.

They parked at the reserve shortly before 8 a.m., had a cup of coffee, then put on their rucksacks and started walking. At 8.15 a.m. they looked around for a nice place to have breakfast. They heard some dogs barking at a distance but had not yet seen any other people. It was warm and there was no breeze. When they found a good spot they spread out a blanket and sat down to eat. On Sundays they discussed the things they didn't have time for during the week. Today it was buying a new car. The one they had was getting old, but could they really afford a new one? After talking for a while, they decided they would wait another month or so. When they had finished eating, Rosmarie Leman stretched out on the blanket and fell asleep. Mats Leman intended to do the same, but first he had to relieve himself. He took some toilet paper with him and walked to the other side of the path and headed down the slope towards an area surrounded by thick bushes. Before squatting down, he looked around carefully but saw no one.

This is the best part of Sunday, he thought when he had finished. To lie down next to Rosmarie and doze for half an hour. As he had this thought, he noticed something in the bushes. He didn't know what it was, but there was some colour that contrasted with the green foliage. Normally he was not particularly curious, but he couldn't help walking closer and parting the branches for a better look. What he saw he would never forget as long as he lived.

Rosmarie was woken by his screams. At first she didn't know what it was, then she realised to her horror that it was her husband's voice calling for help. She had just managed to stand up when he came running towards her. She couldn't know what had happened or what he had seen, but his face was completely ashen. He made it to her side by the blanket and tried to tell her something.

Then he fainted.

The police station in Ystad took the call at 9.05 a.m. The caller was so hysterical that he was difficult to understand. Finally, however, the policeman taking the call pieced together that the caller's name was Mats Leman and he claimed to have found some dead bodies in Hagestad's nature reserve. Although his account was disjointed, the policeman on duty realised that it was serious. He took down the caller's mobile-phone number and told him to stay where he was. Then he went into Martinsson's office, since he had seen him come in just a few minutes before. The policeman stood in the doorway and told him about the call. There was one detail in particular that made Martinsson's stomach knot up.

"Did he say three?" he asked. "Three dead bodies?"

"That's what he said."

Martinsson got up. "I'll check it out right now," he said. "Have you seen Wallander?"

"No."

Martinsson remembered that Wallander was going to see someone this morning, someone named Sundberg - or was it Sundstrom? He called Wallander's mobile.

Wallander had walked to Vadergrand from his flat on Mariagatan, stopped in front of a beautiful house that he had admired many times, and rang the bell. Sundelius opened the door, dressed in a neatly pressed suit. They had just sat down in the living room when the phone rang. Wallander saw Sundelius's disapproving look as he pulled it out of his pocket with a quick apology.

He listened to what Martinsson had to say. He asked the same question as Martinsson.

"Did he say three? Three people?"

"It hasn't been confirmed, but that's what he thought he saw."

Wallander felt as though a weight was starting to press against his head.

"You realise what this might mean," he said.

"Yes," Martinsson answered. "We have to hope he was hallucinating."

"Did he give that impression?"

"Not according to the officer who took the call."

Wallander looked at a clock hanging on Sundelius's wall. It was 9.09 a.m.

"Come by and pick me up. I'm at number seven, Vadergrand," he said.

"Should we have full back up?"

"No, let's check it ourselves first."

Martinsson was on his way. Wallander got to his feet. "Unfortunately our conversation will have to wait," he said.

Sundelius said he understood. "I take it there's been an accident of some kind?"

"Yes," Wallander said. "A traffic accident. Unfortunately, there's no way of knowing when something like this will come up. I'll be in touch about visiting you again."

Sundelius walked him to the door. Martinsson pulled up and Wallander jumped in. He reached out and placed the flashing police light on the roof. When they arrived at the nature reserve, a woman ran out to meet them. Wallander could see a man sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. Wallander got out of the car. The woman was distraught and kept pointing and shouting something. Wallander took her by the shoulders and told her to calm down. The man remained where he was. When Wallander and Martinsson walked over to him he looked up. Wallander crouched down beside him.

"What happened?" he asked.

The man pointed into the nature reserve. "They're in there," he mumbled. "They're dead. They've been dead for a long time."

Wallander looked at Martinsson. Then he turned back to the man.

"You said that there were three of them."

"I think so."

One question remained, perhaps the worst one. "Could you tell how old they were?"

The man shook his head. "I don't know."

"I know it must have been a terrible sight," Wallander said. "But you have to lead us to the spot."

"I'm never going back there," he said. "Never."

"I know where it is."

It was the woman. She came up behind her husband and put her arm around him.

"But you never saw them yourself?"

"Our rucksacks and blanket are still up there. I know where it is."

Wallander got up. "Let's go," he said.

She led them into the reserve. The air was very still, and Wallander thought he could hear the faint sound of the sea. He wondered if the sound was simply the jumble of anxious thoughts inside his own head. They walked quickly and Wallander had trouble keeping up with the other two. Sweat ran down his chest. He needed to pee. A rabbit dashed across their path. Wallander couldn't imagine what they were about to find, but he knew that it would not be like anything he had seen before. Dead people are no more alike than the living, he thought. Nothing is ever repeated or the same, just like this anxiety. He recognised the knot in his stomach. It was still as if he were experiencing it for the first time.

The woman slowed down. They were getting closer. When they arrived at the blanket, she turned around and pointed down a slope on the other side of the path. Her hand shook. Until this moment Martinsson had been in front, but now Wallander took the lead. Rosmarie Leman waited by the rucksacks.

Wallander looked down the hillside. There was nothing but bushes below them. He started down the slope with Martinsson close behind. They arrived where the bushes started, and looked around.

"Do you think she might be wrong about the spot?" Martinsson asked. His voice was low, as though he were afraid someone would overhear them.

Wallander didn't answer. Something else had caught his attention. At first he didn't know what it was and then it struck him. A bad smell. He looked at Martinsson, who hadn't caught a whiff of it yet. Wallander started pushing his way through the bushes. He didn't see anything, just some trees up ahead. The smell disappeared, then returned more strongly.

"What's that?" Martinsson asked.

As soon as he had said it he realised what the answer was. Wallander proceeded slowly with Martinsson close behind. Then he stopped suddenly and saw Martinsson flinch. There was something behind the bushes to the left. The smell became stronger.

Martinsson and Wallander looked at each other, and each put a hand over his nose and mouth. A feeling of nausea washed over Wallander. He tried to take some deep breaths through his mouth while he kept his nose shut.

"Wait here," he told Martinsson. His voice quavered.

He forced himself forward and parted the branches. Three young people lay entwined on a blue linen cloth. They had been shot in the head. And they were in an advanced state of decomposition. Wallander shut his eyes and sat down.

After a moment he got up and returned to the place where he had left Martinsson, and pushed him along in front of him as if someone were following them. He stopped only when they were up on the path again.

"I've never seen anything so fucking horrible," Wallander stammered.

"Is it - "

"It has to be."

They stood there in silence. Wallander would later remember that a bird sang in a nearby tree. Everything was like a strange nightmare, and yet at the same time an excruciating reality. Wallander used all his inner resources to force himself to start thinking like a policeman again, to start practising his profession. He got out his phone and called the station. After about a minute he got Hoglund on the line.

"It's me, Kurt."

"Shouldn't you be visiting that retired bank manager this morning?"

"We've found them. All three of them. They're dead."

He heard her catch her breath. "You mean Boge and the others?"

"Yes."

"They're dead?"

"Shot."

"Oh my God."

"Listen to me. Here's what we have to do. This is a red alert. I want everybody out here. We're at Hagestad nature reserve. I'll put Martinsson at the turn-off to guide people down here. We need Lisa immediately. And we'll need extra help to keep the area cordoned off from the public."

"Who's going to call the parents?"

Wallander felt a degree of anguish and panic he had never experienced before. Of course the parents had to be notified; they had to identify their children's bodies. But he just couldn't do it.

"They've been dead for a long time," he said. "Do you understand? They may have been dead as long as a month."

She understood.

"I'll have to talk to Lisa about it," he said. "But we can't let the parents see this."

There was nothing else to say. Wallander was left staring down at the phone after they had hung up.

"You'd better get down to the turn-off," he told Martinsson.

Martinsson inclined his head in Rosmarie Leman's direction. "What do we do with her?"

"Get the important facts. Time, address, etcetera. Then send them home. Tell them not to talk to anyone about it until they hear otherwise."

"Are we allowed to do that?"

Wallander stared at Martinsson. "Right now we're allowed to do whatever the hell we want."

Martinsson and Leman left, and Wallander was alone. The bird kept singing. A couple of metres away, hidden behind thick bushes, three young people lay dead. How alone can a person possibly feel, he wondered. He sat down on a rock by the path. The bird flew away.

We didn't get them home, he thought. They never left for Europe. They were here the whole time and they were dead. Maybe even since Midsummer. Eva Hillstrom was right all along. Someone else wrote those postcards. They were here the whole time, in the same spot where they celebrated their Midsummer feast.

He thought about Isa Edengren. Did she realise what had happened? Was that why she had tried to commit suicide? Did she realise the others were dead, just as she would have been if she'd been with them that night?

There were already things that didn't make sense. Why had no one discovered the bodies for a whole month? Even if the spot was out of the way, someone would have come across it, or smelled them. Wallander didn't understand it, but he also couldn't quite bear to keep thinking about it. Who could possibly have wanted to kill three young people dressed up in costume and celebrating Midsummer together? It was an act of insanity. And somewhere in the network of connections to this act there was another dead body. Svedberg. How had he been involved in all this?

Wallander felt an increasing sense of helplessness. Although he had only gazed at the scene for a few seconds, he had not been able to mistake the bullet holes in their foreheads. The murderer knew what he was aiming at. And Svedberg had been the best shot in the force.

A breeze tossed the trees from time to time. In between the small gusts, all was calm. Svedberg was the best shot. Wallander forced himself to think this through. Could Svedberg possibly have been the one? What was there that spoke against this possibility? For that matter, were there any clear alternatives to choose from?

He got up and started walking to and fro along the path. He wished he could have called Rydberg on the phone. But Rydberg was dead, as dead as these three young people. As he moved along the path he had a sudden impulse to run away from it all. He didn't think he could handle the pressure any more. Someone else would have to take over: Martinsson or Hansson. He was burnt out. And he had developed diabetes. He was on a downward spiral.

Finally he heard people approaching. There were sounds of cars in the distance and branches breaking somewhere down the path. Then they were there, gathering around him. He would have to take charge and tell them what to do. He had known many of them for as long as 15 years. Lisa Holgersson was pale. Wallander wondered what he looked like himself.

"They're down there," he said and pointed to the bushes. "They've been shot. Although they haven't been identified yet, I'm sure they're the three missing young people, the ones we assumed, or hoped, were travelling through Europe. Now we know that isn't the case."

He paused before continuing. "I want to prepare you for the fact that the bodies may have been lying here since Midsummer. You all know what that means. There is every reason to put on a mask."

He looked at Holgersson. Did she want to see them? She nodded. Wallander led the way. The only sounds were rustling leaves and small branches breaking underfoot. When the smell of the bodies came wafting over them, someone groaned. Holgersson grabbed Wallander's arm. Wallander knew it was easier to deal with a macabre scene like this in a group rather than alone. Only one of the younger police officers had to turn away and vomit.

"We can't let their parents see this," Holgersson said with a shaky voice. "It's horrible."

Wallander turned to the doctor who had accompanied them. He was also very pale.

"The investigation has to be as quick as possible," Wallander said. "We need to take the bodies back and get them fixed up as soon as possible before the parents have to identify them."

The doctor shook his head. "I'm not touching this," he said simply. "I'm calling Lund."

He went off to the side and made a call on Martinsson's phone.

"We need to be clear about one thing," Wallander said to Holgersson. "We already have a dead police officer on our hands. Now we have three more murder victims. That means four murders to solve, and it's going to be huge when it gets out. There will be enormous pressure on us to catch the killer. We also have to be prepared for rumours of a connection between the two events. You understand where that may lead."

"The suspicion that Svedberg was the killer?"

"Yes."

"Do you think he did it?"

Her question came so quickly that he was taken by surprise. "I don't know," Wallander said slowly. "There are no indications that Svedberg had a motive. Somewhere there's a connection, yes. But we don't know what it is."

"How much should we say at this point?"

"I don't actually think it matters. We've never been able to protect ourselves from idle speculation."

Hoglund was listening to their conversation. He noticed that she was shaking.

"There's one more thing to keep in mind," she said. "Eva Hillstrom is going to accuse us of not moving on this soon enough."

"She may be right about that," Wallander said. "It may be something we'll have to acknowledge. I'll bear responsibility for it."

"Why you?" Holgersson asked.

"Someone has to," Wallander said simply. "It doesn't matter who it is."

Nyberg gave them all rubber gloves, and they started working. There were specific routines to be followed, tasks that had to be done in a certain order. Wallander walked over to Nyberg, who was instructing someone with a camera.

"I want everything on video," Wallander said. "Both close-up and from far away."

"Will do."

"Try to get someone whose hand won't shake."

"It's always easier to look at death through the lens," Nyberg said. "But we'll use a tripod just in case."

Wallander gathered his team together: Martinsson, Hansson and Hoglund. He started looking around for Svedberg but stopped himself.

"They're dressed up," Hansson said. "And they're wearing wigs."

"It's the 18th century," Hoglund said. "This time I'm sure."

"So it happened on Midsummer's Eve," Martinsson said. "That's two months ago."

"We don't know that," Wallander broke in. "We don't even know that this is where the crime took place."

He knew how ridiculous it sounded, but it was strange that no one had discovered them for so long. Wallander started walking around the blue linen cloth. He tried to see what had happened. He slowly let his mind pull back from everything else.

They were here to have a party. There were supposed to be four of them but one had fallen ill. They carried food, drink and a tape recorder with them in two big baskets.

Wallander interrupted himself and went over to Hansson, who was talking on the phone. Wallander waited until he was done.

"The cars," he said. "Where are the cars that we assumed were somewhere in Europe? They must have got here somehow."

Hansson promised to look into it. Wallander resumed his slow circling of the tablecloth where the dead lay. They set their things out, they ate and drank. Wallander crouched down. There was an empty bottle of wine in one of the baskets, two more in the grass. Three empty bottles altogether.

When death came for you, you had already emptied three bottles. That means you were drunk. Wallander got up thoughtfully. Nyberg came up behind him.

"I'd like to know if any wine ran out into the grass or if we can determine if they drank it all."

Nyberg pointed to a stain on the blue cloth.

"Some of it spilled right there. It's not blood, if that's what you're thinking."

Wallander kept going. You ate and drank and became intoxicated. You had a tape recorder, you were listening to music. Someone entered this scene and killed you when you were resting on the blue cloth with your arms around each other. One of you, Astrid Hillstrom, may in fact have been asleep. It was probably already morning, maybe early dawn.

Wallander paused.

His eyes fell on a wineglass near one of the baskets. He knelt down to examine it and waved a photographer over to get a close-up. The glass was leaning against the basket but there was a little pebble supporting it underneath. Wallander looked around. He lifted the edge of the cloth carefully but didn't see any stones or rocks anywhere. He tried to think what it meant. When Nyberg walked by he stopped him.

"There's a pebble propping up that wineglass. If you see any others like it please let me know."

Nyberg made a note of it. Wallander continued his rounds. Then he pulled back a bit and surveyed the scene from more of a distance.

You spread your feast out at the foot of a tree. You chose a private place where no one would see you. Wallander pushed his way through the bushes and stood on the other side of the tree.

He must have come from somewhere. There are no signs of panic. You were resting on the cloth, and one of you was already asleep. But the other two were perhaps still awake.

Wallander went back and studied the corpses for a long time. Something wasn't right. Then he realised what it was. The picture in front of him wasn't real. It had been arranged.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As dusk approached on Sunday, 11 August, and police spotlights gave an unearthly glow to the scene, Wallander did something unexpected. He left. The only person he spoke to was Hoglund. He needed to borrow her car since his own was still parked at Mariagatan. He told her to get in touch with him on his mobile phone if he was needed. He didn't tell her where he was going. She returned to the crime scene, where there were no longer any bodies. They had been carried out around 4 p.m. Once the bodies had been removed, Wallander felt consumed by fatigue and nausea. He forced himself to put in a couple more hours; then he felt the need to leave the scene. When he asked Hoglund for her car keys, he knew where he was going. He wasn't simply going away. However tired and depressed he got, he rarely functioned without a clear plan. He drove off almost in a hurry. There was something he wanted to see, a mirror he wanted to hold up in front of himself.

Wallander pulled up outside Svedberg's building on Lilla Norregatan. The cement mixer was still there, and Svedberg's keys were in his pocket. The air inside the flat was stale. He went into the kitchen and opened the window. Then he drank a glass of water and reminded himself that he had an appointment with Dr Goransson the next morning. He knew he was going to miss it. He hadn't managed to improve his habits at all since receiving the diagnosis. He still ate as poorly, and had taken no exercise. At this point even his own health would have to be put on hold.

The streetlamps cast a faint light into the living room. Wallander stood completely still in the twilight. He had left the crime scene because he needed some perspective on what had happened. But there was also a thought that had occurred to him earlier and that he wanted time to consider. They had all talked about the connections between the crimes and the hideous possibility that Svedberg was involved. But suddenly it occurred to Wallander that they were ignoring the most likely scenario. Svedberg had been conducting his own investigation without telling anyone what he was doing. It looked like he spent most of his holiday investigating the disappearance of these three young people. Of course, this could mean that he had something to hide. But it could also be that he had stumbled upon the truth. He might have had grounds to doubt that Boge, Norman and Hillstrom were travelling around Europe. He might have believed that something was wrong, and he might have crossed someone's path, only to end up murdered himself. Wallander knew that this did not explain why Svedberg hadn't told his colleagues what he was doing, but he may have had a good reason.

The events of the day slowly passed through his mind. Only an hour or so after they had discovered the bodies, Wallander had come to the conclusion that there was something wrong with the scene. He discovered what it was when the pathologist told him he was certain that the time of death was not as long ago as 50 days. This suggested two possibilities: either the shots were fired later than Midsummer, or else the bodies had been stored somewhere in the meantime, where they would have been better preserved. They couldn't conclude that the place where the bodies were found was necessarily the same place as the location of the crime.

For Wallander and the team, it didn't seem possible that someone had killed the three people where they were found, moved them to an unknown location for storage, then returned them to their original place. Hansson had suggested that they really did go on their European holiday, but that they returned earlier than anticipated. Wallander acknowledged this as a possibility, however unlikely. But he didn't write anything off yet. He made his observations, listened to anyone who had anything to say, and felt he was being forced deeper and deeper into an endless fog.

The warm August day had seemed never-ending. They took refuge in the structure of police routines and made their thorough examination of the scene. Wallander watched his colleagues, downcast and horrified, do what was expected of them. He watched them and wondered if every one of them was wishing that he or she had become anything but a police officer. People left as soon as they got the chance. Some camping chairs and tables were placed along the path where they could drink cups of coffee that got colder each time the thermoses were opened. Wallander didn't see anyone eat anything all day.

It was Nyberg's tenacity that was the most impressive of all. He rummaged around the half-rotten, stinking food remains with sullen determination. He directed the photographer and the policeman doing the videotaping, sealed countless objects in plastic bags, and made detailed maps of the crime scene. Wallander sensed the hatred Nyberg felt for the person who had caused the mess he was now forced to root around in. He knew that no one else was capable of Nyberg's thoroughness. At one point Wallander had realised that Martinsson was exhausted. He took him aside and ordered him to go home, or at the very least to go down to the forensic technicians' van and sleep for a while. But Martinsson simply shook his head and continued his work on the area closest to the cloth. Some dog patrols from Ystad arrived. Edmundsson was there with his dog, Kall. The dogs had picked up a couple of different scents. One of them had found human excrement behind one of the bushes. In other places there were beer cans and pieces of paper. Everything was duly noted on Nyberg's maps. In one particular spot, under a tree a little distance away, Kall indicated a find but after a careful search they were still unable to locate any human object. Wallander returned to the spot behind this tree several times that day. He discovered that it was one of the most sheltered locations from which to observe the place where the Midsummer celebrations had taken place. He felt a cold grip around his stomach. Had the murderer stood in this very place? What had he seen?

Shortly after midday, Nyberg told Wallander to take a look at the tape recorder that lay on its side by the cloth. They found a number of unmarked cassette tapes in one of the baskets.' Everyone stopped talking when Wallander turned on the tape recorder. A dusky male voice they all recognised came on: the singer Fred Akerstrom interpreting a ballad from the collection Fredman's Epistles. Wallander looked at Hoglund. She had been right. This was a celebration set in the 18th century, the age of that eternally popular poet Bellman.

Wallander got up and went into Svedberg's study. First he looked around for a minute, then he sat down at the desk. He let images from the investigation come to him. There were the three postcards that Eva Hillstrom had doubted from the very beginning. Wallander hadn't believed her; no one had. It had been inconceivable that someone would send fake postcards. But now they had found her daughter dead, they knew that the postcards had been sent by someone else. Someone had travelled all over Europe, to Hamburg, Paris and Vienna for this. Why? Even if the three young people were not killed on Midsummer's Eve, there was no doubt that they were killed before the last postcard came from Vienna. But what was the reason for this false trail?

Wallander stared blankly out into the dimly lit room.

I'm afraid, he thought. I've never believed in pure evil. There are no evil people, no one with brutality in their genes. There are evil circumstances and environments, not evil per se. But here I sense the actions of a truly darkened mind.

Wallander reached for Svedberg's pocket calendar and went through it again. There was the recurring name, "Adamsson". Could this be the surname of the woman in the photograph whom Sture Bjorklund told them was called Louise? Louise Adamsson. He went back to the kitchen and looked in the phone book. There was no Louise Adamsson listed. She could be married, of course, and have a different surname. He made a mental note to ask Martinsson to find out what Svedberg had done on the days marked "Adamsson" in his calendar.

He turned out the light and went to the living room. Here someone had walked across the floor with a shotgun in his hand. It had been aimed and fired at Svedberg's head, then thrown to the floor and left behind. Wallander tried to think whether this marked the beginning or end of a series of events. Or was it part of something even larger? He almost didn't have the energy to follow this last thought to its conclusion. Was there really someone out there who was going to continue the senseless killing? He didn't know. Nothing gave him the mental foothold he was looking for. He walked over to the place where the shotgun had been found and tried to see where Svedberg must have been sitting. The cement mixer would have been rumbling on the street. Two shots, Svedberg thrown to the ground - probably dead before he even hit the floor. Wallander didn't hear any argument or raised voices, only the dry shots from the gun. He changed his position and walked over to the chair that lay on the ground.

You let in a person you know, someone you are not afraid of. Or else someone enters who has his own key. Perhaps someone picks the lock. There are no marks on the door; he didn't use a crowbar. We'll assume it's a he. He has a shotgun, or else you keep an unregistered shotgun in the flat. A shotgun that is loaded, and that the person you have let in knows about. There are so many questions, but in the end it comes down to a who and a why. Only one who. And one lone why.

He went back to the kitchen and called the hospital. Luckily, the doctor he had spoken to before was in.

"Isa Edengren is doing well. She'll be released tomorrow or the day after."

"Has she said anything?"

"Not really. But I think she's happy you found her."

"Does she know it was me?"

"Shouldn't we have told her that?"

"What was her reaction?"

"I don't think I understand your question."

"How did she react when she was told that a policeman had come looking for her?"

"I don't know."

"I need to talk to her as soon as possible."

"Tomorrow will be fine."

"I'd rather talk to her tonight. I need to talk to you, too."

"It sounds rather urgent."

"It is."

"I'm actually on my way out. It would be more convenient to talk tomorrow."

"I wish it were that unimportant," Wallander said. "But I have to ask you to stay. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Has something happened?"

"Yes. Something I don't think you could possibly imagine."

Wallander drank a glass of water and left the flat. It was still warm outside, with only a faint breeze.

When he arrived at the ward where Isa Edengren was being kept, the doctor was waiting for him. They went into an empty office and Wallander closed the door. On the way over he had decided to level with the doctor completely. He told him what they had found out in the nature reserve, that three young people had been murdered, and that Isa Edengren was meant to have been with them. The only detail he left out was the fact that they had been dressed up. The doctor listened in disbelief.

"I thought about going into pathology," he said afterwards. "But hearing this I'm glad I decided against it."

"You're right. It was a terrible sight."

The doctor got up. "I take it you want to see her now."

"Just one more thing. Naturally I'd like you not to mention this to anyone."

"Doctors have to take an oath."

"So do police officers. But information seems to have a way of getting out anyway."

They stopped outside Isa's door.

"I'll just make sure she's awake."

Wallander waited. He didn't like hospitals. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. He remembered what Dr Goransson said about checking his blood-sugar levels. It was apparently a very simple test. The doctor came back out.

"She's awake."

"One more thing," Wallander said. "This will sound strange, but can you check my blood-sugar level?"

The doctor looked at him with astonishment.

"Why?"

"I have an appointment with one of your colleagues tomorrow morning that I won't be able to attend. But I was going to have it checked."

"Are you diabetic?"

"No. My blood-sugar level is too high."

"Then you're diabetic."

"I just want to know if you can measure it or not. I don't have my insurance card with me but maybe you could make an exception in my case."

A nurse walked by and the doctor stopped her.

"Could you check this man's blood-sugar level? He's going to speak with Edengren afterwards."

"Of course."

The nurse's name tag said "Brundin". Wallander thanked the doctor for his help and followed the nurse. She pricked his finger and squeezed a drop of blood onto a strip of tape in a machine that looked like a Walkman.

"It's very high - 15.5," she said.

"It's way too high," Wallander said. "That's all I wanted to know."

She looked closely at him, but in a friendly way.

"You're a little on the heavy side," she said.

Wallander nodded. He felt suddenly ashamed of himself, like a naughty child.

He went back to Isa Edengren's room. He had expected her to be lying in bed, but she was curled up in an armchair with a blanket drawn tightly around her. The only light in the room came from the bedside lamp. As he came closer he saw something like fear in her eyes. He put out his hand and introduced himself, then sat down on a stool next to her.

She doesn't know what's happened, he thought. That three of her closest friends are dead. Or does she suspect it already? Has she been waiting for this discovery? Is that why she couldn't take it any longer?

He pulled his stool around so he was facing her. Her eyes never left him. When he had first walked into the room she had reminded him of Linda. Linda had also tried to commit suicide, at the age of 15. Wallander later realised it was part of the series of events that had led Mona to leave him. He had never really understood it, even though he and Linda talked about it years later. There was something there that he would never quite grasp. He wondered if he would be able to understand why this girl had tried to take her life.

"I'm the one who found you," he said. "I know you know that already. But you don't know why I came out to Skarby. You don't know why I walked around the back of the locked house and kept looking for you until I found you in the gazebo where you were sleeping."

He paused so she could speak, but she remained silent, watching him.

"You were supposed to have celebrated Midsummer with your friends Martin, Lena and Astrid," he continued. "But you fell ill. You had some kind of stomach bug and stayed at home. Isn't that right?"

No reaction. Wallander was suddenly unsure of how to proceed. How could he tell her what had happened? On the other hand it would be in all the papers tomorrow. She would suffer a great shock in either case.

I wish Ann-Britt were here, he thought. She would be better at this than I am.

"Astrid's mother received some postcards," he said. "They were signed by all three, or just by Astrid, and sent from Hamburg, Paris and Vienna. Had the four of you talked about going away after Midsummer?"

She finally began to answer his questions, but her voice was so low that Wallander had trouble hearing her.

"No, we hadn't decided anything," she whispered.

Wallander felt a lump in his throat. Her voice sounded as if it might break at any moment. He thought about what she was going to hear, that a simple virus had saved her life. Wallander wanted to call the doctor he had spoken to before and ask him what he should do. How would he tell her? He put it off for now.

"Tell me about the Midsummer party," he said.

"Why should I?"

He wondered how such a fragile voice could sound so determined. But she wasn't hostile. Her answers would depend on his questions.

"Because I'd like to know. Because Astrid's mother is worried."

"It was just a party."

"But you were going to dress up like 18th-century courtiers."

She couldn't know how he knew. He was taking a risk in asking the question, but she might be impossible to talk to after she found out what had happened to her friends.

"We did that sometimes."

"Why?"

"It made things different."

"To leave your own age and enter another?"

"Yes."

"Was it always the 18th century?"

There was an undertone of disdain in her answer. "We never repeated ourselves."

"Why not?"

She didn't reply, and Wallander immediately knew he had hit an important point. He tried to approach it from another direction.

"Is it possible to know how people dressed in the 12th century?"

"Yes, but we never entered that age."

"How did you choose an era?"

She didn't answer that either, and Wallander was starting to discern a pattern in the questions she wouldn't answer.

"Tell me what happened that Midsummer's Eve."

"I was sick."

"It must have come on suddenly."

"Diarrhoea usually does."

"What happened?"

"Martin came to get me and I told him I couldn't come."

"How did he react?"

"Like he was supposed to."

"How?"

"By asking me if it was true. Like he was supposed to."

Wallander didn't understand her answer. "What do you mean?"

"You're supposed to tell the truth. If you don't, they kick you out."

Wallander thought for a moment. "You took your friendship seriously, then. No one was allowed to lie. One untruth meant expulsion?"

She looked genuinely puzzled. "What would friendship be otherwise?"

He nodded. "Of course friendship is always based on mutual trust."

"What else is there?"

"I don't know," Wallander said. "Love, perhaps."

She pulled the blanket up under her chin.

"How did you feel when you realised that they had left to travel around Europe without you?"

She looked at him for a long time before answering. "I've already answered that question."

It took Wallander a moment before he made the connection. "Are you referring to the police officer who visited you earlier this summer?"

"Who else would I be referring to?"

"Do you remember when he came to see you?"

"On 1 or 2 July."

"What else did he ask you?"

She leaned in towards Wallander so suddenly that he pulled back involuntarily.

"I know he's dead. He was called Svedberg. Have you come here to tell me about him?"

"Not exactly, but I'd like to hear more about your conversation with him."

"There's nothing more to tell."

Wallander frowned. "What do you mean? He must have asked you something else."

"He didn't. I have it on tape."

"You recorded your conversation with Svedberg?"

"In secret, yes. I do that a lot."

"And that's what you did when Svedberg came to see you?"

"Yes."

"Where is that tape now?"

"In the gazebo, where you found me. There's a blue angel on the outside of the tape."

"A blue angel?"

"I make the wrappers myself."

Wallander nodded. "Do you mind if I have someone get the tape for me?"

"Why would I mind?"

Wallander called the station and instructed the policeman on duty to send a squad car to the house to get the tape. He also told them to get the Walkman he had seen on the bedside table.

"A blue angel?" the policeman asked.

"Yes, a blue angel on the wrapper. Tell them to hurry."

It took them exactly 29 minutes. While he was waiting, Isa spent more than 15 minutes in the bathroom. When she came back Wallander realised she had washed her hair. It occurred to him that perhaps he should have worried that she was making a second attempt on her life.

An officer came into the room and gave him the tape recorder and tape. Isa nodded in recognition. She took the Walkman and fast-forwarded to the place she was looking for.

"Here," she said and handed the headphones to Wallander.

Svedberg's voice came at him full-strength. He flinched as if he had been struck. He heard Svedberg clear his throat and ask a question. Her answer disappeared in the surrounding noise. He rewound the tape and listened again. He had heard correctly.

Svedberg had asked a similar question. But Isa was wrong - it wasn't the same question. Wallander had asked, "How did you feel when you realised that they had left to travel around Europe without you?"

The way Svedberg phrased his question dramatically altered its meaning: "Do you really think they have gone on a trip to Europe?"

Wallander listened to it a third time. Isa's reply couldn't be heard. He took off the headphones.

Svedberg knew, he thought. By 1 or 2 July, Svedberg had known they weren't travelling around Europe.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They continued their conversation, although Wallander was finding it hard to concentrate. By 9 p.m. he didn't think he could hold off telling her the truth any longer. He excused himself by saying he was going to get a cup of coffee. In the hall he called Martinsson, who said that most of the officers were starting to return to Ystad. Soon only the forensic technicians and the security guards would be left. Nyberg and his team would work through the night. Wallander told him where he was and asked to speak to Hoglund. She came to the phone, and he told her that he needed her help.

"Isa Edengren has to be notified of the deaths. I don't know how she's going to react."

"Well, at least she's already in the hospital. What do you think could happen to her?"

Her answer seemed unusually cold to Wallander until he realised that she was distancing herself from the situation. Nothing could be worse than the way she had spent this long August day.

"I'd still appreciate it if you could come over," he said. "That way at least I don't have to do this alone. She has just tried to commit suicide."

After they hung up, he looked for the nurse who had checked his blood-sugar levels and got the name and home number of the doctor he had spoken to. He also asked her what her impression of Isa Edengren was.

"Many people who try to commit suicide are very strong," she said. "There are always exceptions to the rule, but it's my impression that Isa Edengren is one such person."

He asked where he could get some coffee and she directed him to a vending machine in the foyer. Wallander called the doctor at home. A child's voice answered the phone, then he got a woman, and finally the doctor.

"I haven't been thinking clearly," Wallander said. "We have to tell her what happened right away, or she'll hear it herself tomorrow morning. Then we may not be able to intervene. I don't know how she's going to react."

The doctor said he would come in. Wallander set off in search of the vending machine, but when he found it he realised that he had no change in his pockets. An elderly man pushing a walking frame came by. When Wallander carefully asked him if he had any change, the old man simply shook his head.

"I'm going to die soon," he said. "In about three weeks or so. What do I need money for?"

He kept going, seemingly in high spirits. Wallander was left with a note in his outstretched hand. When he did find some change, he pushed the wrong button and ended up with cream in his coffee, which he almost never had.

When he returned to the ward, Hoglund had arrived. She was pale and had dark circles under her eyes. They hadn't found any significant leads, she told him, and he could hear how tired she was.

We're all tired, he thought. Exhausted, before we've even begun to penetrate this nightmare we're in.

He told her about his conversation with Isa Edengren, and she listened with surprise when he mentioned the recording of Svedberg's voice. He told her his conclusion: that Svedberg knew, or at least strongly suspected, that the three missing people hadn't set off on a trip.

"How on earth could he have known that," she asked, "unless he was extremely close to what happened?"

"The situation seems clearer to me now," Wallander said. "He is somehow very close to the events, but he doesn't know everything. If he did he would have no reason to be asking these questions."

"That would suggest that Svedberg wasn't the one who killed them," she said. "Not that any of us really thought so."

"It passed through my mind," Wallander said. "I'll admit it. Now the picture has changed. I'm prepared to go a step further and say that Svedberg knew only a couple of days after Midsummer that something was wrong. But what was it that he feared?"

"That they were dead?"

"Not necessarily. He's in the same situation we were in before we found them. But where does his fear or suspicion come from?"

"He knows something we don't?"

"Something makes him suspicious. Perhaps it is only a vague feeling, we'll never know. But he doesn't share these suspicions. He keeps them to himself, conducts a thorough investigation during his holiday."

"So we have to ask ourselves what he knew."

"That's what we're looking for, nothing else."

"But that won't explain why he was shot."

"Nor does it explain why he didn't tell us what he was doing."

She frowned. "Why do you keep something hidden?"

"Because there's information you don't want to get out. Or you don't want to be discovered," he answered. "We may find a link."

"I've thought the same thing. There may very well be a link between Svedberg and the young people. Someone else."

"Louise?"

"Maybe."

They heard a door slam at the end of the corridor and the doctor came walking towards them. It was time. Isa Edengren was still sitting in the chair when Wallander went back in.

"There's one last thing I have to talk to you about," he said, sitting down next to her. "I'm afraid it will be difficult for you to hear. That's why I'd like your doctor to be here while I tell you. And one of my colleagues, Ann-Britt Hoglund."

He saw that she was getting scared. But there was no way out now. The others joined them, and Wallander told her the facts. Her three friends had been found, but they were dead. Someone had killed them.

"We wanted to tell you now," he finished. "So you don't read about it in the papers tomorrow."

She didn't react.

"I know this is hard for you," he said. "But I have to ask you if you have any idea who might have done this."

"No."

Her voice was weak but clear.

"Did anyone else know about your plans that night?"

"No outsider is ever told."

It occurred to Wallander that she sounded like she was reciting a rule. Perhaps she was.

"No one knew except you?"

"No one."

"You weren't there since you got sick. But you knew where they were going to be?"

"In the nature reserve."

"And you knew they were going to dress up?"

"Yes."

"Why was it so secret?"

She didn't answer. I've trespassed onto secret territory again, Wallander thought. She refuses to answer when I go too far. But he knew she was right. No one had known about their plans. He had no further questions.

"We're leaving," he said. "Please be in touch if you think of anything else. The people around here know how to get hold of me. I also want you to know that I spoke to your mother."

She jerked her head back. "Why? What has she got to do with this?"

Her voice was suddenly shrill, making Wallander feel uncomfortable.

"I had to tell her," he said. "When I found you, you were unconscious. It's my duty to notify the next of kin."

She seemed about to say more, but then she stopped herself, and started to cry. The doctor indicated that it was time for Wallander and Hoglund to leave. When they were out in the corridor again and the door shut behind them, Wallander noticed that he was dripping with sweat.

"Every time it gets worse," he said. "Soon I won't be able to get through this any more."

They arrived back at the station around 10.30 p.m. Wallander was surprised to see that there were no reporters outside. He'd thought the news about the murders would already have been leaked. Wallander hung up his coat and went to the canteen. Tired police officers sat silently over their cups of coffee and the remains of takeaway pizzas. It occurred to Wallander that he ought to say something to cheer them up. But how did you lighten the mood after the killing of three innocent people on a summer picnic? Somewhere in the background was also the murder of one of their own.

Wallander said nothing, but he nodded to them and tried to show that he was there for them. Hansson looked at him with weary eyes.

"When are we meeting?" he asked.

Wallander glanced at his watch. "Now. Is Martinsson here?"

"He's on his way."

"Lisa?"

"In her office. I think things were hard for her in Lund. All the parents, couple after couple, stepped up to identify their child. Although I think Eva Hillstrom came by herself."

Wallander went straight to Lisa Holgersson's office. The door was slightly ajar, and he could see her behind the desk. Her eyes seemed wet. He knocked and looked in. She gestured for him to come in.

"Do you regret going to Lund?"

"There's nothing to regret. But it was as terrible as you said it would be. There are no words to offer someone at a time like this. Parents are called down on a summer's day to identify their dead child. The people who had fixed up the bodies had done a great job, but they couldn't completely hide the fact that they had been dead for a long time."

"Hansson said Eva Hillstrom came by herself."

"She was the most restrained, perhaps because she had feared the worst all along."

"She's going to accuse us of not moving fast enough on this. Perhaps with some justification."

"Is that really your opinion?"

"No, but I don't know how much my opinion matters. If we had had more personnel, if it hadn't been in the middle of everyone's holiday time . . . things might have been different. But there are always excuses. And now a mother is forced to confront her worst fear."

"I'd like to discuss the possibility of getting some reinforcements down here as soon as possible."

Wallander was too tired to argue, but he didn't agree with her. There was always the hope that greater numbers meant greater efficiency. But in his experience this was almost never the case. It was often a small, well-run investigative team that produced the best results.

"What do you think?"

Wallander shrugged. "I think you know my opinion on this. But I'm not going to object if you want reinforcements."

"I'd like to talk to the others about it tonight."

"They're exhausted," he said. "You won't get any rational answers. Why don't you wait until tomorrow?"

It was 10.45 p.m. Wallander got up and went to the conference room. Svedberg's chair was still empty. Nyberg came in straight from the crime scene and Wallander saw him shake his head. No new finds.

Wallander started by telling them about his visit to the hospital. He had brought the tape recorder and cassette with him. There was an eerie silence in the room when he played the recording of Svedberg's voice. After Wallander told them about his conclusions, he noticed that the exhaustion of the group seemed to lift a little. Svedberg had known something. Was that why he had been killed?

They slowly went over all the facts of the case again. The meeting stretched long into the night, and the team slowly overcame their tiredness and low spirits. They took a short break just after midnight. When they returned, Martinsson sat down in Svedberg's chair by mistake. He changed his seat when he realised what he had done. Wallander got up to go to the men's room and drink some water. His mouth was dry and his head ached, but he knew he had to push on. During the break he went to his office to call the hospital. After waiting for a long time he finally talked to the nurse who had checked his blood-sugar level.

"She's sleeping," she said. "She wanted a sleeping pill. Naturally we couldn't give her one, but she fell asleep anyway."

"Has anyone called her? Her mother?"

"Only a man who said he was her neighbour."

"Lundberg?"

"Yes, that was his name."

"The full impact of what has happened will probably only hit her tomorrow," Wallander said.

"What is it that's happened?"

Wallander couldn't think of any reason not to tell her. There was a stunned silence.

"I can't believe it," she said.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't understand it any better than you."

He returned to the conference room. It was time for him to summarise the events as they knew them.

"I don't know why this happened," he started. "I see no possible motive and therefore no possible suspect. But I am aware of a chain of events, as you all are. This chain is not completely without gaps, but I'll tell you what I see. Correct me if I leave anything out."

He reached for some sparkling mineral water and filled his glass. "Some time during the afternoon on 21 June, three young people drove out to Hagestad nature reserve. They probably arrived in two cars, both of which remain missing. According to Isa Edengren, who was supposed to have been with them but fell ill, they had chosen the place for their party in advance. They were going to make it a masquerade, which they had done before. We should try to understand this game as well as we can. I think there were very strong ties between these young people, something more than simple friendship.

"Their era this time was the 18th century, the age of Bellman. They wore costumes and wigs and played songs from Fredman's Epistles. We don't know if they were being observed at this point. The spot they had chosen was hidden from view. The killer appeared from somewhere and shot them. They were each shot in the forehead. We don't yet know what kind of weapon was used. Everything points to the killer carrying out the deed deliberately and without hesitation. We find them 51 days later. That's the most likely scenario, but until we know exactly how long they have been dead we cannot rule out that they may not have been killed at the Midsummer feast. It may have happened at a later date. We simply don't know. But we do know that the killer must have been privy to certain information. It's not really believable that this triple homicide was a chance occurrence. We can't rule out the possibility of a lunatic, since we can't rule anything out, but the signs point to a carefully planned and executed killing. The motive for this crime I cannot even begin to speculate about. Who would want to kill young people in the midst of the happiest time of their lives? I don't think I've ever been involved in a case like this before."

He looked around. He wasn't quite done with his summary of the events, but he wanted to see if there were any questions. No one spoke.

"There is more to this story," he said. "We don't know if it is a beginning, an end, or a parallel event, but Svedberg was also murdered, and we found a photograph of these young people in his flat. We know that he was investigating their disappearance and that he started to do so as soon as he heard from Eva Hillstrom and the other parents. There is a connection here. We don't know what it is but we have to find it. That's where we have to begin."

He put his pencil down and leaned back in his chair. His back ached. He looked over at Nyberg.

"I should perhaps add that both Nyberg and I feel there is something artificial and arranged about the scene of the crime."

"I just can't understand how they could have lain there for 51 days without anyone finding them," Hansson said despondently. "A lot of people visit the reserve during the summer."

"I don't either," Wallander said. "There are three possibilities. We could be completely wrong about the time of death. Maybe it wasn't Midsummer's Eve; maybe it was later than that. Or else the scene of the crime and the place we found the bodies aren't the same. The third possibility is that these two places are one and the same, but someone moved the bodies and returned them at a later date."

"Who would do that?" Hoglund asked. "And why?"

"That's what I think happened," Nyberg said.

Everyone looked at him. It was unusual for Nyberg to speak with such conviction so early on in an investigation.

"At first I just kept seeing the same thing Kurt did," he began. "That there was something fake about the whole scene, like a photographer had arranged it for the camera. Then I found some things that made me rethink."

Wallander waited with excitement, but it was as if Nyberg lost his train of thought.

"Go on," he said.

Nyberg shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense," he said. "Why would anyone move the bodies just to return them at a later date?"

"There might be a lot of reasons," Wallander said. "To delay a discovery or to give himself time to escape."

"Or to send a number of postcards," Martinsson said.

Wallander nodded. "We'll take this step by step. We don't know if our thinking is right or wrong."

"Well, it was the glasses that made me think again," Nyberg said slowly. "There was wine left in two of them. A little less in one, a little more in the other. It should have evaporated a long time ago, but what really surprised me was what wasn't there. There were no insects in the glasses, which there should have been. We know what happens if you let even an empty glass that has had wine in it sit out overnight. In the morning it's full of insects. But there was nothing in these glasses."

"What do you make of that?"

"That the glasses had been sitting out for only a couple of hours when Leman found the bodies."

"How many hours?"

"I can't tell you exactly."

"What about the remains of the food?" Martinsson objected. "The chicken was rotten, the salad mouldy, and the bread stale. Food doesn't go bad that quickly."

Nyberg looked at him. "But isn't that exactly what we're discussing now? That the scene that Mats and Rosmarie Leman discovered had been pre-arranged. Someone puts out a couple of glasses and splashes wine in the bottom. The food has been decomposing elsewhere, and is distributed on the plates."

Nyberg sounded as certain as he had when he'd begun to speak. "We'll be able to prove it, if it is the case," he said. "We'll be able to determine exactly how long the wine we found in the glasses had been exposed to air. But I already know what I think. I think the Lemans would not have found anything at all if they had gone for their walk on Saturday morning."

The room was silent. Nyberg had followed his train of thought much further than Wallander had realised. It hadn't occurred to Wallander that the bodies might only have been lying out for about a day. The killer must have been close by. What Nyberg said also affected Svedberg's relationship to the crime. He could have killed them and hidden the bodies, but he could not have brought them out again.

"I can tell you feel sure of this," Wallander said. "What's the likelihood that you could be mistaken?"

"None. I may be wrong in the exact hours and times I've been suggesting. But it must have happened in the way I have described."

"Is the place we found them also the scene of the crime?"

"We're not finished yet," Nyberg said. "But it does seem as if blood has seeped through into the ground."

"So you think they were shot there and then moved?"

"Exactly."

"So where were they taken?"

They all sensed the importance of this question. They were charting the movements of the killer. Although they couldn't see him clearly, they were zeroing in on his actions. That was a crucial step.

"I think we should assume that this is the work of a man acting alone," Wallander said. "But there may have been more than one person involved. This seems more probable if it turns out that the bodies were moved and later replaced."

"Perhaps we're using the wrong words," Hoglund said. "Perhaps instead of moved we should be saying concealed."

Wallander was thinking the same thing. "The spot is not deep inside the reserve," he said. "It's possible to drive a car up there, but it is not allowed and it would attract attention. The alternative is easy. The bodies could have been concealed somewhere in the area, perhaps quite close to the scene of the crime."

"The dogs didn't pick up any tracks," Hansson said. "Not that that means anything."

Wallander had made up his mind. "We can't wait for all the results to come in. I want to search the area again at dawn for somewhere the bodies may have been concealed. If we're right, it'll be nearby."

It was just after 1 a.m. Wallander knew everyone needed a few hours' sleep before the morning.

He was the last to leave the room. The night air was warm, with no hint of wind. He pulled the air deep into his lungs, walked behind the back of a police car, and relieved himself. He would miss his appointment with Dr Goransson in the morning. His blood-sugar level was way too high at 15.5, but how could he think about his health at a time like this?

He started to walk home through the deserted town. Something was bothering him, a fear he knew he shared with the others although no one had said so. They were close to tracking the killer's movements, but they had no idea what he was thinking or what motivated him. They had no idea if he was planning to strike again.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Wallander didn't make it into bed that night. As soon as he stopped outside his door on Mariagatan and fumbled for his keys, anxiety overtook him. He put the keys back in his pocket, walked over to his car and jumped in. Somewhere out there a killer was hiding in the shadows and he would remain there until they caught him. They had to find him. He simply couldn't be allowed to get away, to become one of the people who would haunt Wallander in his dreams.

As he drove through the calm night, he thought about a case in the early 1980s, shortly after he had moved to Ystad with Mona and Linda. Rydberg had called him late one night with the news that a young girl had been found dead in a field outside of Borrie. She had been bludgeoned to death. They drove out there together that November evening. Hard flecks of snow were drifting through the air.

The girl had taken the bus from Ystad after going to the cinema, got off at her normal stop, and followed her usual shortcut through the fields to the farm where she lived. When she hadn't arrived at the time she said she would be home, her father went down to the road to look for her, and found her.

The investigation went on for years and filled thousands of pages of reports, but they never found the killer, nor any possible motive. The only clue was a piece of a wooden clothes-peg found close to the dead girl's body which bore traces of blood. Apart from that there was nothing. Rydberg would often come to Wallander's office to talk about it. During his last days, when he was dying of cancer, he mentioned her again. Wallander understood that he didn't want him to forget about the dead girl in the field. Once he was gone, only Wallander would be left to solve the case. He seldom thought about her now, but occasionally she appeared in his dreams. The image was always the same. Wallander was leaning over her, with Rydberg somewhere in the background. She looked back at him but was unable to speak.

Wallander took the turn-off for the nature reserve. I don't want three young people haunting my dreams, he thought. Nor do I want Svedberg there. We have to find the one who did this.

He parked his car and saw to his surprise that the officer on duty was Edmundsson.

"Where's your dog?" Wallander asked.

"At home," Edmundsson said. "I don't see why he should have to sleep in the car."

Wallander nodded. "How is everything out here?"

"Only Nyberg is here, as well as those of us on duty."

"Nyberg?"

"He arrived a little while ago."

He's also haunted by anxiety, Wallander thought. It shouldn't surprise me.

"It's too hot to be August."

"Autumn will come, just you wait," Wallander said. "It'll come when you least expect it."

He turned on his torch and walked into the reserve.

The man had been hiding in the shadows for a long time. In order to enter the nature reserve without being seen, he had approached it from the sea. He followed the beach, climbed the dunes, and disappeared into the woods. To avoid running into the policemen or their dogs, he took a circuitous route towards the trail that led into the main hiking area. From there he could always make his way onto the road if the dogs picked up his scent. But he wasn't worried. They wouldn't expect him to be there.

Under the cover of darkness he saw police officers come and go along the path. Two of the officers were women. Shortly after 10 p.m. many of them left the reserve, and he sat down to drink the tea he had brought with him in a thermos. The order he sent to Shanghai had already been filled. He would pick it up early the next day. When he finished his tea, he packed the thermos away and made his way to the place where he had killed them. There were no more dogs in the area, so he felt safe. From a distance he could see big spotlights that were set up around the scene, casting an unearthly glow. It was like a theatre production, but one that was closed to the ordinary public. He was tempted to sneak close enough so he could hear what the policemen were saying and watch their faces. But he controlled himself, as he always did. Without self-control you couldn't be sure that you would get away and be safe.

The shadows danced in the spotlights. The police looked like giants, although he knew it was just an illusion. They fumbled around like blind animals in the world he had created. For a moment he allowed himself to enjoy a feeling of satisfaction. But only for a moment. He knew pride was dangerous and could make you vulnerable.

He returned to his lookout beside the main trail. He was thinking of leaving when someone walked by. The beam of a torch flickered over the ground. A face was visible for an instant and the man recognised him from the papers. His name was Nyberg and he was a forensic specialist. He smiled to himself. Nyberg might be able to identify the individual pieces, but he would never see the whole pattern.

He had finished putting his rucksack on and was about to cross the path when he heard another person approaching. Again a torch flickered between the trees and he jumped back into the shadows. The officer was large and moved heavily. The man felt a sudden impulse to make his presence known, to dash out like an animal of the night, before being swallowed up again by the darkness.

Suddenly the officer stopped. He let the torch shine on the bushes to the side of the trail. In a moment that lengthened into sheer terror the man thought that he had been caught. He was frozen and couldn't get away. Finally the light disappeared as the officer walked away. But then he stopped a second time, turned off the light, and waited in the dark. After a while he turned the torch back on and continued.

The man lay still for a long time, his heart pounding. What had caused the policeman to stop? He couldn't have heard anything, or seen him. For once his inner clock failed him. He had no idea how long he lay there before getting up, crossing the path, and making his way back down to the sea. It could have been an hour, maybe more. When he reached the beach it was starting to get light.

Wallander saw the lights from a distance. From time to time he heard Nyberg's tired and irritated voice. One officer was up on the path, smoking. He stopped again and listened. He didn't know where the feeling had come from, the sense that the killer was out there somewhere in the dark. Had he heard something? He stopped and felt a rush of fear. Then he realised that it must be his imagination. He stopped one more time, turned off the light, and listened. But there was only the sound of the sea.

He greeted the officer, who made an attempt to put out his cigarette. Wallander stopped him. He was a young policeman by the name of Bernt Svensson.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"I think I saw a fox," Svensson said.

"A fox?"

"I thought I saw a shadow back there. It was bigger than a cat."

"There are no foxes in Skane. They all died from the plague."

"I still think it was a fox."

Wallander nodded. "Then we'll say it was a fox. Just a fox."

He continued on down and into the ring of light. Nyberg was examining the place under the tree where the three bodies had lain. Even the blue cloth was gone now.

"What are you doing here?" he asked when he saw Wallander. "You should sleep. You have to have the energy to keep going."

"I know. But sometimes you can't sleep."

"Everyone should sleep," Nyberg said. His voice was cracking with fatigue. Wallander sensed how distraught he was.

"Everyone should sleep," he repeated. "And things like this shouldn't happen."

"I've been in the force for 40 years," Nyberg said. "I'm going to retire in another two."

"What will you do then?"

"Go crazy with boredom maybe," he said. "But you can bet I won't be standing around forests looking at the half-rotten corpses of some young people."

Wallander remembered what Sundelius had said. I used to go to work every day. Now I climb the walls.

"You'll find something," Wallander said encouragingly.

Nyberg muttered something unintelligible. Wallander tried to shake the tiredness out of his body.

"I came out to start planning the morning's activities," he said.

"You mean digging around for a possible hiding place?"

"If we're right about this, we should be able to deduce where he hid the bodies."

"He, or they. He may not have been alone," Nyberg answered.

"I think he was. It just doesn't make sense for two people to organise this kind of massacre. We're assuming the killer is a man, but I think that's a safe assumption. Women don't shoot people in the head. Especially young people."

"What about last year?"

Nyberg was referring to a case in which the killer of several people turned out to be a woman. But that did not change Wallander's mind.

"Not this time," he said. "So who are we looking for? An escaped lunatic?"

"Maybe. I'm not sure."

"But this gives us a starting point."

"Exactly. If he's alone, he has three bodies to hide. What does he do?"

"He won't move them very far, for practical reasons. He has to carry them, unless he brought a wheelbarrow, which would have drawn attention. I think he's a cautious person."

"So he buries them near here?"

"If he buried them at all," Wallander said. "Did you have the impression that the bodies had been exposed to animals or birds?"

"No. But I'm not a pathologist."

"Still, that confirms our idea that the bodies were in the ground. But animals can dig. That means the bodies have been protected somehow, by a box or plastic sheeting."

"I'm not an expert on these things," Nyberg said, "but I do know that bodies in sealed containers decompose at a different rate to bodies exposed directly to the earth."

They were closing in on something that could be significant.

"Where does that lead us?" Wallander said.

Nyberg gestured with one arm.

"He wouldn't have gone uphill," he said and pointed back to the path. "Nor would he have crossed a path unless he had to."

They turned their backs to the hillside and looked past the lights, where insects danced in front of the hot lenses.

"To the left of us the ground slopes away steeply, then goes up again almost as sharply. I don't think he'd try there," Nyberg said.

"Straight ahead?"

"It's level, surrounded by thick brush."

"To the right?"

"Also brush, but not as thick. The ground is probably waterlogged from time to time."

"So probably somewhere straight ahead or to the right," Wallander said.

"To the right, I think," Nyberg said. "I forgot to mention something. If you go straight you hit another path."

"So we'll try to the right, once it gets light," Wallander said. "In a spot that looks like it might have been disturbed."

"I hope we're right," Nyberg said.

Wallander was so tired he could no longer speak. He decided to go back to his car and sleep for a few hours. Nyberg followed him up to the main path.

"I had a feeling there was someone sneaking around in the dark when I came up here," Wallander said. "And Svensson said he thought he saw a fox."

"Normal people have nightmares in their sleep," Nyberg answered. "We have our nightmares when we're awake."

"I'm worried he's going to strike again," Wallander said. "Aren't you?"

Nyberg was silent for a moment before answering. "I'm always worried. But I also have the feeling that what happened here won't be repeated."

"I hope you're right," Wallander said. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

He returned to the car park, without experiencing the feeling that someone was out there in the darkness. He curled up in the back seat of his car and fell asleep immediately.

It was broad daylight and someone was knocking on the window. He saw Hoglund's face and hauled himself out of the car. His whole body ached.

"What time is it?"

"It's 7 a.m."

"Damn it, I've slept in. They have to start looking for a place to dig."

"They've already started," she said. "That's why I came to find you. Hansson's on his way."

They hurried up along the path. "I hate this," Wallander grumbled. "Sleeping in the back of a car, getting up unwashed and looking like hell. I'm too old for this. How am I supposed to think without even having a cup of coffee?"

"I think we can fix that," she said. "If the station hasn't supplied us with anything, you can have some of mine. I'll even give you a sandwich."

Wallander picked up his pace, but she still seemed to walk more quickly than he did. It annoyed him. They passed the place where he had felt as if someone was hiding in the bushes. He stopped and looked around, realising that it was the perfect lookout. Hoglund looked at him expectantly, but Wallander didn't feel like explaining.

"Do me a favour," he said. "Get Edmundsson and his dog to search this place. Have them go 20 metres into the woods on either side."

"Why?"

"Because I want them to. That's all the explanation I can give right now."

"What do you want the dog to look for?"

"I don't know. Something that shouldn't be there."

She asked no further questions, and he already regretted not telling her more. It was too late now. They kept walking and she handed him a copy of the newspaper. It had a picture of "Louise" printed on the front page. He read the headline without stopping.

"Who's in charge of this?" he asked.

"Martinsson is organising and checking the leads as they come in."

"It's important that it's done right."

"Martinsson is very careful."

"Not always."

He heard how irritated and disapproving he sounded and knew there was no reason to take his tiredness out on her. But there was no one else around.

When all this is over I'll have to speak to her, he thought helplessly.

At that moment a jogger came towards them. Wallander reacted without a second thought by placing himself in the man's way.

"Haven't they sealed off the area? No one should be here except the police!"

The jogger was in his 30s and was wearing headphones. As he tried to run past, Wallander reached out to stop him. The jogger, thinking he was being attacked, hit back. He caught Wallander on the side of his jaw. Wallander was taken by surprise and collapsed. When he got his bearings, Hoglund had the man pinned to the ground with his arm twisted behind his back. The headphones had fallen onto the path, and Wallander heard to his surprise that the jogger had been listening to opera. Some officers came running down to help them and handcuffed the jogger. Wallander got up gingerly and felt his jaw. It hurt, and he had bitten the inside of his mouth, but his teeth were unharmed. He looked over at the jogger.

"The reserve has been sealed off," he said. "Did that fact escape you?"

"Sealed off?"

The man's surprise seemed genuine.

"Get his name," Wallander ordered. "Make sure the barriers are up. Then take him out and let him go."

"I'm going to report this," the jogger said angrily.

Wallander turned away and felt the inside of his mouth with a finger. Then he slowly turned back around to face him.

"What's your name?"

"Hagroth."

"What else?"

"Nils."

"And what is it you're going to report?"

"Excessive force. Here I am jogging peacefully and then I'm attacked without warning."

"You're wrong," Wallander said. "The person who was assaulted was me, not you. I'm a police officer and I was trying to stop you because you were inside a restricted area."

The jogger began to protest but Wallander lifted his hand. "You can get a year's jail time for assault of a police officer. It's a very serious offence. You're obliged to follow police orders and you were trespassing in a restricted area. You could get three years. Don't think you'll get away with a fine and a slap on the wrist. Do you have a previous criminal record?"

"Of course not."

"Then we'll say three years. But if you forget about this and stay away from here I'll think about letting it drop."

The jogger tried to protest again but once more Wallander's hand went up.

"You have ten seconds to make up your mind."

The jogger nodded.

"Take off the handcuffs," Wallander ordered. "See that you get him out of here and get his address."

Wallander continued walking up the path. His jaw hurt, but he was no longer tired.

"He wouldn't get three years," Hoglund said.

"He doesn't know that," Wallander said. "And I don't think he's likely to go to any length to find out if it's true."

"I thought this was exactly the kind of thing the head of the national police wants us to avoid," she said. "Shaking the people's trust in the police."

"It'll be shaken more if we don't find whoever killed Boge, Norman and Hillstrom. Plus one of our colleagues."

When they finally arrived at the crime scene, Wallander poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup and went looking for Nyberg, who was supervising preparations for the dig. Nyberg's hair was standing on end, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was in a foul mood.

"I don't know why I'm the one who's suddenly in charge of this," he said. "Where the hell is everybody? Why is your face all bloody?"

Wallander felt his cheek with one hand. The corner of his mouth was bleeding.

"I got into a fight with a jogger," he said. "Hansson's on his way."

"A fight with a jogger?"

"It's a long story."

Wallander filled Hoglund in on their conversation about where the bodies might be buried, and put her in charge of the search. He made some rapid calculations. With Hoglund and Hansson at the crime scene, there was no reason for him to stay. If Martinsson was taking care of things back at the station, that meant Wallander could turn his attention to other tasks.

He dialled Martinsson's number. "I'm coming in," he told him. "Having Hansson and Ann-Britt here is enough."

"Any results?"

"It's too early for that. Have we heard anything from Lund?"

"I can try to call now."

"Good. Tell them it's urgent. What we really need is to establish a time of death. It would also be good to know who was killed first, if possible."

"Why is that important?"

"I don't know if it's important. But it's possible the killer was actually only after one of the three."

Martinsson promised to call Lund straight away.

Wallander put his phone back in his pocket. "I'm going back to Ystad," he told the others. "Let me know if you find anything."

He started walking back to the car and bumped into Edmundsson and his dog along the way. Hoglund must already have made the call. Edmundsson had been equally swift.

"Did you fly him in?" Wallander asked, pointing at the dog.

"A colleague drove him in. What was it you wanted us to do?"

Wallander showed him the place and explained what he wanted. "If you find anything, you should let Nyberg know. When you're done, join the search up at the crime scene. They're looking for a place to start digging right now."

Edmundsson went pale. "Are there more bodies?" he asked.

His words jolted Wallander. He hadn't even considered this possibility, but he realised it was improbable.

"No," he said, "we don't expect to find more bodies, just a spot where they might have been buried for a while."

"Why would they have been buried?"

Wallander didn't answer. Edmundsson is right, he thought. Why would the killer hide the bodies? We've raised the question and tried to answer it, but it may turn out to be more important than we thought. He got into his car. His jaw still ached. He was about to start the engine when his phone rang. It was Martinsson.

He's got information from Lund, Wallander thought and felt a rising excitement.

"What did they say?"

"Who?"

"You haven't talked to Lund?"

"No, I haven't had time. I've just had a call."

Wallander could tell that Martinsson was worried, which was uncharacteristic.

Don't let it be someone else, he thought. Not more dead bodies. Not now.

"The hospital called," Martinsson said. "Isa Edengren has disappeared."

It was 8.03 a.m. on Monday, 12 August.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Wallander drove straight to the hospital, much too fast. Martinsson was waiting for him when he arrived. He left the car in a no-parking zone.

"What happened?"

Martinsson was carrying a notebook. "No one really knows," he said. "She must have left around dawn, but no one saw her leave."

"Did she call anyone? Did anyone come and pick her up?"

"It's hard to get a straight answer. There are so many patients in her ward, and almost no staff on night duty. But she must have left before 6 a.m. Someone came in at 4 a.m. and saw her sleeping."

"Which of course she wasn't," Wallander said. "She was waiting for the right moment to take off."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think she'll try to kill herself again?"

"Possibly. But let's think this through. We tell her what happened to her friends and the next day she makes her escape. What does that mean?"

"That she's scared."

"Exactly. But what is she scared of?"

There was only one place Wallander could think of to start looking for her, and that was the house outside Skarby. He wanted Martinsson with him, if only so he wouldn't have to be alone. When they arrived in Skarby, they stopped first at Lundberg's house. The man was out in the yard inspecting his tractor. He looked surprised when two cars pulled into his driveway. Wallander introduced Martinsson.

"You called the hospital last night and were told that Isa was OK, all things considered. Sometime early this morning, between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m., she disappeared. Escaped. What time do you get up?"

"Early. My wife and I are up by 4.30 a.m."

"And Isa hasn't turned up?"

"No."

"Did you hear any cars go by early this morning?"

The answer was very firm. "Ake Nilsson, who lives up the road, went by at about 5 a.m. He works at the slaughterhouse three days a week. But apart from him there was no one."

Lundberg's wife appeared at the door. She had heard the last part of the conversation.

"Isa hasn't been here," she said. "And there haven't been any cars, either."

"Is there anywhere else she might have gone?" Martinsson asked.

"Not that we know of."

"If she contacts you, you'll have to let us know," Wallander said. "It's very important for us to find out where she is. Is that clear?"

"She never calls," the woman said.

Wallander was already on his way back to his car. They drove to the Edengrens' house. He put his hand into the drainpipe and pulled out the spare keys. Then he showed Martinsson the gazebo in the back of the house. Everything seemed as it had when he was last there. They returned to the main house and unlocked the door. The house looked even bigger from the inside. No expense had been spared on the interior decorating but the impression was chilly, like a museum. There were few traces of the inhabitants. They walked through the rooms on the first floor, then went upstairs to the bedrooms. A large model aeroplane was suspended from the ceiling of one of the bedrooms. There was a computer on a desk, and someone had thrown a sweater over it. It was probably Jorgen's room, the brother who had committed suicide. Wallander went into the bathroom and saw a plug by the mirror. Reluctantly he pointed it out to Martinsson. It was probably here that Isa's brother had died.

"I bet that doesn't happen every day," Martinsson said. "Who kills himself with a toaster?"

Wallander was already on his way out of the bathroom. Next door was another bedroom. When he entered he knew it was Isa's.

"We have to search this room," he said.

"What are we looking for?"

"I don't know. But Isa was supposed to have been out there with them in the nature reserve. She tried to commit suicide, and now she's run away. We both think she's scared."

Wallander sat down at her desk while Martinsson started going through the dresser and the large cupboard that took up a whole side of the room. The drawers in the desk were unlocked, which surprised him. But after going through them he realised there was no need for privacy. The drawers were almost completely empty. He frowned. Had someone emptied them? He picked up a green writing pad. Underneath it was a poorly executed watercolour. "I.E. '95" was written in the corner. The watercolour depicted a coastal landscape of sea and cliffs. He put the pad back.

In a bookshelf next to the bed were several rows of books. He recognised some that Linda had read. He felt along the back of the shelves and found two that had fallen behind the others or were concealed. Both of them were in English. One had the title Journey to the Unknown by someone called Timothy Neil. The other was called How to Cast Yourself in the Play of Life by Rebecka Stanford. The book covers looked similar, with geometric signs, numbers, and letters that seemed to be suspended in a universe of some kind. Wallander took the books with him back to the desk. They were well-thumbed. He put on his glasses and read the blurb on the back cover of the first book. Timothy Neil discussed the importance of following the spiritual map as revealed by people's dreams. Wallander made a face and put the book down. Rebecka Stanford in turn discussed what she referred to as "chronological dissolution". Something caught his attention. There seemed to be a discussion of how groups of people could control time and move back and forth through the ages. She seemed to be arguing that this technique was useful for "self-actualisation in a time of increased meaninglessness and confusion".

"Have you ever heard of an author by the name of Rebecka Stanford?" Wallander asked Martinsson, who was standing on a chair looking through the contents of the highest shelf in the cupboard. He got down and came over to look at the book, then shook his head.

"It must be a young person's book. You'd better ask Linda," he said.

Wallander nodded. Martinsson was right; he should ask Linda, who read a lot. During their holiday on Gotland he had been surprised by all the books she had brought with her. He hadn't recognised the name of even a single author.

Martinsson returned to the cupboard, and Wallander turned to the shelf beside the bed. There were some photo albums there, which he brought back to the desk. Inside were pictures of Isa and her brother. The colours had started to fade. In one, the two of them were standing on either side of a snowman. They both held themselves stiffly, looking unhappy. After this photograph were several pages of Isa by herself. School photographs, images of Isa and her friends in Copenhagen. Then some more of her with Jorgen. Here he was older, perhaps 15, and sombre. Whether his attitude was affected or genuine, Wallander couldn't tell. The approaching suicide could be read in the pictures, Wallander thought, but did he know it himself? Isa was smiling in these pictures, while Jorgen looked miserable. Next were shots of a coastal landscape. Wallander was reminded of the watercolour painting. On one of the pictures he read "Barnso, 1989." Wallander kept leafing through the pages. There were no photographs of the parents, just Jorgen and Isa, her friends, and landscape shots of the same coastline and small islands.

"Where is Barnso?" Wallander asked.

"Isn't it one of the islands that gets mentioned in the marine weather report?"

Wallander wasn't sure. He looked for a long time at a picture of Isa standing on a rock just below the waves. It almost looked like she was walking on water. Who had taken it? Martinsson suddenly whistled with surprise.

"You'd better take a look at this," he said.

Wallander got up quickly. Martinsson held a wig in his hand that looked like the ones Boge, Norman and Hillstrom had been wearing. There was a slip of paper attached to a strand of hair. Wallander carefully removed it. Holmsted's Costume Rental, he read. Copenhagen. There was an address and phone number. He turned the slip over and saw that the wig had been rented on 19 June, to be returned on the 28th.

"Should we give them a call right now?" Martinsson asked.

"Or visit them in person," Wallander said, thinking. "No, let's start by calling."

"You'd better do it," Martinsson said. "Danes never understand my Swedish."

"You're the one who doesn't understand them," Wallander said gently. "Since you never listen properly."

"I'll find out where Barnso is. Why did you want to know that?"

"I'm trying to figure that out myself," Wallander answered and dialled the number. A woman answered. He introduced himself and explained what he wanted to know.

"The wig was rented by Isa Edengren, from Skarby, Sweden," he said.

"I'll check. Just a moment," she said.

Wallander waited. He could hear Martinsson asking someone for the number of the coast guard. The woman came back to the phone.

"There's no record of any rentals to Isa Edengren," she said. "Not on that day nor the days before."

"I'll give you another name to try," Wallander said.

"I'm the only person working here right now and I have some customers. Can it wait?"

"No. If you can't help me, I'll have to contact the Danish police."

She made no further protests and he gave her the other names - Martin Boge, Lena Norman and Astrid Hillstrom. Then he waited again. Martinsson sounded irritated. He didn't seem to be getting anywhere. The woman returned.

"Yes, that's right," she said. "Lena Norman came in and rented four wigs and some costumes on 19 June. It was all due back on 28 June but she hasn't shown up. We were just about to send off a reminder."

"Do you remember serving her? Was she alone?"

"My colleague was here that day. His name is Mr Sorensen."

"Can I talk to him?"

"He's on holiday until the end of August."

"Where is he?"

"He's on his way to the Antarctic."

"Where?"

"He's on his way to the South Pole. He's visiting some old Norwegian whale fishing stations along the way. Mr Sorensen's father was a whale fisherman. I think he was even the one who operated the harpoon."

"So there's no one at the shop who can identify Lena Norman, or tell me if she came in alone to rent the wigs?"

"No, I'm sorry. Of course, we would like to have them back. Otherwise we'll have to charge a replacement fee."

"It'll be a little while. They're involved in a case we're working on."

"Has anything happened?"

"You could say that, but I'll explain later. Please tell Mr Sorensen to contact the Ystad police as soon as he returns."

"I'll tell him. Wallander, was it?"

"Kurt Wallander."

Wallander hung up. So Lena Norman had been in Copenhagen. But had she gone there alone?

Martinsson came back into the room. "Barnso Island is off the coast of Ostergatland," he said. "Or more precisely, it's part of the Gryt archipelago. There's also a Barnso way up north, but that's more of a reef."

Wallander told him about his conversation with the fancy dress shop in Copenhagen.

"We should talk to Lena Norman's parents," Martinsson said.

"I would have liked to wait a few days," Wallander said, "but I don't think that will be possible."

They both sat quietly for a moment, considering what lay ahead of them. At that moment they heard the front door open. They were both struck by the thought that it might be Isa Edengren. When they went to the top of the stairs, however, they saw Lundberg standing in the hall. When he caught sight of them he kicked off his boots and walked upstairs.

"Has Isa been in touch with you?" Wallander asked.

"No, it's something else. I don't mean to take up your time, but there was something you said when we were talking in the yard, about me calling the hospital to ask how Isa was."

"It was perfectly natural for you to want to know how she was doing."

Lundberg looked at Wallander with concern. "But that's just it. I didn't call, and neither did my wife. We didn't call to see how she was, although we should have."

Wallander and Martinsson exchanged glances.

"You didn't call?"

"No. Neither one of us."

"Is there another Lundberg who might have called?"

"Who would that be?"

Wallander looked thoughtfully at the man in front of him. There was no reason to doubt he was telling the truth. So someone else had called the hospital. Someone who knew that Isa was in close contact with the Lundbergs. Someone who also knew that she was there. But what had that person wanted to know? That Isa was getting better, or if she had died?

"I just don't understand. Who would pretend to be me?" Lundberg asked.

"You're the one who can best answer that question," Wallander said. "Who knew that Isa used to come to you when she had problems with her parents?"

"Everyone in the village knew," Lundberg said. "But I can't think of anyone who would have called and used my name."

"Someone could have seen the ambulance," Martinsson said. "Did no one call to ask what had happened?"

"Karin Persson called," Lundberg said. "She lives in the hollow down by the main road. She's very curious and keeps tabs on everyone. But I can't imagine she can make herself sound like a man on the phone."

"Was there no one else?"

"Ake Nilsson dropped by on his way back from work. He brought some pork chops. We told him what had happened, but he didn't even know Isa so he wouldn't have called."

"Anyone else?"

"The postman came by with some unexpected news. We won 300 kronor in the Lottery. He wanted to know if the Edengrens were home. We told him that Isa was in the hospital, but what reason would he have to call?"

"There was no one else?"

"No."

"You did the right thing in telling us about this," Wallander said firmly, ending the conversation. Lundberg went back down the stairs, pulled his boots back on and left.

"When I was out at the nature reserve last night," Wallander said, "I had the feeling that I was being watched by someone in the darkness. I thought I'd imagined it, but now I'm starting to wonder. This morning I even asked Edmundsson to examine the spot with his dog. Is someone keeping an eye on us?"

"I know what Svedberg would have said."

Wallander looked at Martinsson with surprise. "What would he have said?"

"It was something he said when we were working on the smuggling case, during the spring of 1988, if you remember. That we should stop from time to time and look back over our shoulders. Like the Indians."

"What would we see?"

"Someone who shouldn't be there."

"That would mean we should station men out here to keep watch over the house, in case someone decides to search Isa's room. Is that what you mean?"

"Something like that."

"There's no 'something' about it. You either think that's what we should do, or you don't."

"I'm just telling you what I think Svedberg would have said."

Wallander realised how tired he felt. His irritation lay just below the surface. He knew he should apologise to Martinsson, just as he should have explained himself to Hoglund at the nature reserve. But he didn't.

They went back to Isa's room. The wig was lying on the desk next to Wallander's phone. He knelt down and looked under the bed, but found nothing. When he stood up he felt dizzy. He grabbed Martinsson's arm to steady himself.

"Don't you feel well?"

Wallander shook his head. "It's been years since I could stay up this many nights in a row without really feeling it. It'll happen to you, too."

"We should ask Lisa for extra staff."

"She's already talked to me about it." Wallander said. "I told her we'd get back to her. Is there anything else we need to look at here?"

"I don't think so. There's nothing unusual in the cupboard."

"How about anything that seems to be missing? Anything that should be in a young woman's cupboard that isn't there?"

"Nothing that I can think of."

"Then let's get going."

It was close to 9.30 a.m. when they returned to their cars.

"I'll call Isa's parents myself," Wallander said. "The rest of you will have to take on Boge, Norman and Hillstrom's parents. I don't want to be responsible for what might happen if we don't get hold of Isa. They may know something, and so might the others in the photo that we found at Svedberg's flat."

"Do you think something's happened?"

"I don't know."

They drove away. Wallander thought back to the conversation with Lundberg. Who had made that call? He had a gnawing feeling that Lundberg had said something else that was important, but he couldn't think what it was. I'm tired, he thought. I don't listen to what people say and then I have the feeling that I missed something important.

When they arrived back at the station, they went off in separate directions. Ebba stopped him as he walked past the reception desk.

"Mona called you," she said.

Wallander came to a complete stop. "What did she want?"

"She didn't tell me."

Ebba gave him her phone number in Malmo. Wallander already knew it by heart, but Ebba was very thoughtful. She also handed him a number of other phone messages.

"Most of them are from reporters," she said consolingly. "You don't have to get back to them."

Wallander got some coffee and went into his office. He had just taken off his jacket and sat down when the phone rang. It was Hansson.

"There's nothing new to report," he said. "Just so you know."

"I want either you or Ann-Britt to come back to the station," Wallander said. "Martinsson and I can't quite keep up with everything that has to be done. For example, who's in charge of searching for the cars?"

"I am. I'm working on it. Has anything happened?"

"Isa Edengren escaped from the hospital this morning. It worries me."

"Which one of us would you rather have?"

Wallander would have preferred Hoglund. She was a better police officer than Hansson. But he didn't say so.

"It doesn't matter. Just one of you."

He hung up and dialled Mona's number in Malmo. Every time she called, which wasn't often, he feared that something had happened to Linda. She answered on the second ring. Wallander always felt a twinge of sorrow when he heard her voice. Was it his imagination or was the feeling getting weaker? He wasn't sure.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," she said. "How are you?"

"I'm the one who called you," he said. "I'm fine."

"You sound tired."

"I am tired. You've probably seen in the papers that one of my colleagues is dead. Svedberg. Do you remember him?"

"Barely."

"What did you want?"

"I wanted to tell you that I'm going to get married again."

Wallander was quiet. For a moment he nearly hung up, but he stayed as he was, speechless.

"Are you there?"

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

"I'm telling you that I'm getting remarried."

"Who to?"

"Clas-Henrik. Who else would it be?"

"Should you really be marrying a golfer?"

"That's not a very nice thing to say."

"Then I should apologise. Does Linda know?"

"I wanted to tell you first."

"I don't know what to say. Perhaps I should congratulate you."

"That would be nice. We don't have to continue this conversation. I just wanted you to know."

"Why the hell would I want to know? What the hell do I care about you and your fucking golfer?"

Wallander was enraged. He didn't know exactly where it came from. Perhaps it was the tiredness, or the last remnant of pain at realising that now Mona was leaving him for good. The first time he had felt such pain was when she told him she wanted to leave him. And now, when she told him she was getting married again, he discovered that it was still there.

He slammed down the phone so hard that it broke. Martinsson was walking into his office as it happened, and he jumped when the receiver fell apart. Wallander pulled the phone out of the jack and threw the whole mess in the rubbish. Martinsson watched this, obviously afraid to incur Wallander's wrath. He raised his hands up in front of his chest and turned to leave.

"What did you want?"

"It can wait."

"My anger is a private matter," Wallander said. "Tell me what you want."

"I'm going to see Norman's family. I thought I'd start with them. Lillemor Norman may know where Isa has gone."

Wallander nodded. "Either Hansson or Ann-Britt will be in soon. Tell them to take care of the other families."

Martinsson nodded, then remained in the doorway. "You'll need a new phone," he said. "I'll see to it."

Wallander didn't answer. He waved for Martinsson to leave. He didn't know how long he sat there doing nothing. Once more he'd been forced to face the fact that Mona was still the woman he was closest to in his life. It was only when someone showed up at his door with a new phone that he got up and left. Without knowing why, he ended up wandering down the hall and coming to a halt outside Svedberg's office. The door was open slightly and he looked in. The sun coming in through the window revealed a thin layer of dust on the desk. Wallander closed the door and sat down in Svedberg's chair.

Hoglund had already gone through all his papers. She was very thorough. It would be a waste of time to go over them again. Then he remembered that, like all of them, Svedberg had a locker in the basement. Hoglund had probably checked it, but she had never mentioned having done so. Wallander went out to the reception area and asked Ebba for the keys.

"His spare keys are right here," she said with obvious distaste.

Wallander took them and was about to leave when she stopped him.

"When is the funeral going to be?"

"I don't know."

"It's not going to be easy."

"At least we don't have to face a widow and crying children," said Wallander. "But you're right. It's not going to be easy."

He went down the stairs and found Svedberg's locker. He didn't know what he was looking for; there was probably nothing to find. There were some towels, soap and a shampoo bottle, for Svedberg's Friday night saunas. There was also a pair of old trainers. Wallander felt with his hand along the top shelf. There was a thin plastic folder containing some papers. He took it out, put on his glasses, and looked through it. Inside was a reminder from Svedberg's mechanic to bring his car in for a tune. There were some handwritten notes that looked like shopping lists. But there were also some ticket stubs for the bus and the train. On 19 July Svedberg, or somebody, had taken the morning train to Norrkoping. He had returned to Ystad on 22 July. He could tell from the way that the ticket was stamped that it had been used. The stubs from the bus were very blurry. He held them up to the light but couldn't read them. With the help of a magnifying glass he could just decipher the price and the words "Ostgota Public Transit". He called Ylva Brink, who was at home for once, but she had no idea what Svedberg would be doing in Ostergotland. He had no family there as far as she knew.

"Maybe this Louise person lives there," she said. "Have you found out who she is yet?"

"Not yet, but you may be right."

Wallander got another cup of coffee. His mind kept returning to his conversation with Mona. He still couldn't comprehend how she could marry that skinny little golfer who supported himself by importing sardines. He returned to his office and kept staring at the ticket stubs. Suddenly he froze, the cup halfway to his mouth.

He should have thought of it at once. What was that island in Isa Edengren's photo album called? Barnso? Hadn't Martinsson said that Barnso was off the coast of Ostergotland? He put the coffee cup down so roughly that some of the liquid spilled, and tried out his new phone by calling Martinsson.

"Where are you?"

"I'm having coffee with Lillemor Norman. Her husband will be home soon."

Wallander could hear from Martinsson's voice that the visit was difficult.

"I want you to ask her something," he said. "Now, while I'm still on the line. I want to know if she's heard of an island called Barnso, and if she knows of any connection between the island and Isa Edengren."

"Just that?"

"Just that. Do it now."

While Wallander was waiting, Hoglund appeared in the doorway. Perhaps Hansson had sensed that Wallander would rather have her with him. She pointed to his coffee cup and disappeared. Martinsson came back on the phone.

"Well, that was unexpected," he said. "She says that the Edengrens not only have houses in Spain and France, but also one on Barnso Island."

"Good," Wallander said. "Finally things are starting to make some sense."

"Wait, there's more. Apparently the others have been there with her many times. Lena Norman, Boge and Hillstrom."

"I know someone else who's been out there," Wallander said.

"Who?"

"Svedberg. Between 19 and 22 July."

"What the hell? How do you know that?"

"I'll tell you when you get here. Now go back to what you were doing."

Wallander hung up, carefully this time. Hoglund came in again. She sensed at once that something was up.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Wallander was right. It had not occurred to Hoglund to go down into the basement and look through Svedberg's things. He couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction that she had missed this. He thought of her as good at her job. But the fact that she had forgotten about the storage locker meant she wasn't infallible.

They quickly compared notes. Isa Edengren was gone. Wallander wanted the search for her to be their top priority. Hoglund encouraged him to spell out what he thought might have happened to Isa. He couldn't get past the facts. Isa was supposed to have been at that party. She had tried to commit suicide. And now she had run away.

"There's a possibility we haven't considered," Hoglund said. "Although it's unpleasant and rather improbable."

Wallander sensed what she was thinking. "You mean the possibility that Isa killed her friends? I've considered that, but she was genuinely ill on Midsummer's Eve."

"If that's when it really happened," Hoglund said. "We still don't know that for sure."

Wallander knew she was right. "In that case we have even more reason to try to find her as soon as possible. We also shouldn't forget that someone called for her at the hospital posing as Lundberg."

She left his office to visit the Hillstrom and Boge families, as well as the young people from the photograph they'd found in Svedberg's flat. She promised that she'd ask about Barnso Island. Nyberg called just after she had gone. Wallander immediately thought they must have located the place where the bodies had been buried.

"Not yet," Nyberg said. "This process can take a long time. I'm calling because we've received some information on the gun that was found in Svedberg's flat."

Wallander reached for a notebook.