One Step Behind

"The national register is a blessing," Nyberg continued. "The gun that was used to kill Svedberg was stolen two years ago in Ludvika."

"Ludvika?"

"The report was filed on the 19 February 1994 to the Ludvika police. It was handled by an officer called Wester. The man who reported the gun stolen was Hans-Ake Hammarlund. He was an avid hunter who kept all his weapons securely locked up in accordance with the law. On 18 February, he went into Falun on business. That night someone broke into his house. His wife, who was sleeping in an upstairs bedroom, didn't hear anything. When Hammarlund returned from Falun the next day, he discovered that a number of his guns were missing and filed the report the same day. The shotgun was a Lambert Baron, a Spanish make. The numbers match perfectly. None of the missing guns ever turned up, nor were they ever able to identify any suspects."

"So other weapons were stolen as well?"

"The intruder left behind a very valuable shotgun designed for shooting elk, but took two revolvers, or rather one pistol and one revolver. It's not clear from the report how the intruder entered the property, but I take it you understand what this may mean?"

"That one of the other weapons might have been the one used in the nature reserve? Yes, we'll have to get that question answered as soon as possible."

"Ludvika is in the Dalarna region," Nyberg said. "That's quite far away from here, but weapons have a way of turning up where you least expect them."

"You don't think Svedberg stole the gun that was used to kill him?"

"When it comes to stolen weapons, the connections are rarely so straightforward," Nyberg replied. "Weapons are stolen, sold, used and resold. I think there may have been a very long chain of owners before this shotgun ended up in Svedberg's flat."

"It's still important," Wallander said. "I feel as though I'm trying to navigate through thick fog."

Nyberg promised to make the identification of the stolen guns a priority. Wallander was leaning over his notebook, trying to make an outline of recent events, when the phone rang again. This time it was Dr Goransson.

"You didn't come to your appointment this morning," he said sternly.

"I'm sorry," Wallander said. "I don't have much of an excuse."

"I know you're very busy. The papers are full of this terrible crime. I worked at a hospital in Dallas for a few years, and I think the headlines in the Ystad papers are getting frighteningly like those in Texas."

"We're working around the clock," Wallander said. "It's just the way it is."

"I still think you'll have to give your health a little of your time," Goransson said. "A mismanaged case of diabetes is no laughing matter."

Wallander told him about the blood test he had had in the hospital.

"That just emphasises what I'm saying. We have to do a complete check-up on you to see how well your liver, kidneys and pancreas are functioning. I really don't think it can wait any longer."

Wallander knew he'd have to go in. They decided that he would return the following morning at 8 a.m. He promised to come in on an empty stomach and to bring a urine sample.

Wallander hung up and pushed the notebook away. He saw clearly how badly he had been abusing his body these last few years. It had started when Mona told him she wanted a divorce, almost seven years ago. He was still tempted to blame her for it, but he knew deep down that it was his own doing.

He stared at the notebook for a moment longer, then started looking for the Edengrens. He checked the country codes in the phone book and saw that Isa Edengren's mother had been in Spain when he had talked to her last. He dialled the number again and waited. He was about to hang up when a man answered.

Wallander introduced himself. "I heard that you had called. I'm Isa's father."

He sounded as though he regretted this last fact, which enraged Wallander.

"I expect you're in the middle of making your arrangements to come home and take care of Isa," he said.

"Actually, no. It doesn't sound as if there's any immediate danger."

"How do you know that?"

"I spoke to the hospital."

"Did you say that your name was Lundberg when you made this call?"

"Why would I have done that?"

"It was just a question."

"Do you really have nothing better to do with your time than ask idiotic questions?"

"Oh, I do,"Wallander said and stopped trying to conceal his anger. "For example, I may very well contact the Spanish police to enlist their aid in getting you on the next flight home."

It wasn't true, of course, but Wallander had had enough of the Edengrens' indifference towards their daughter in spite of their son's suicide. He wondered how people could have such a total absence of affection for their children.

"I find your tone insulting."

"Three of Isa's friends have been murdered," Wallander said. "Isa was supposed to have been with them when it happened. I'm talking about murder here, and you're going to cooperate with me or I'm going to go to the Spanish authorities. Am I making myself clear?"

The man seemed to hesitate. "What is it that's happened?"

"As far as I know, they sell Swedish papers in Spain. Can you read?"

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Exactly what I just said. You have a summer house on Barnso Island. Does Isa have the keys to it, or do you lock her out of that house, too?"

"She has the keys."

"Is there a phone on the island?"

"We use our mobile phones."

"Does Isa have one?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"What's her number?"

"I don't know. I'm really not sure whether she has one."

"So which is it? Does she have a phone or not?"

"She has never asked me for money to buy one, and she couldn't afford one. She doesn't work, she doesn't do anything to try to get a grip on her life."

"Do you think it's possible that Isa has gone to Barnso? Does she often go there?"

"I thought she was still in the hospital."

"She's run away."

"Why?"

"We don't know. Is it possible that she would have gone to Barnso?"

"It's possible."

"How do you get there?"

"You take a boat from Fyrudden."

"Does she have access to a boat?"

"The one we have is currently being serviced in Stockholm."

"Are there any neighbours on the island I could get in touch with?"

"No, we're the only house on the island."

Wallander had been taking notes as they talked. For the moment he couldn't think of anything else to ask.

"You'll have to stay close to the phone so I can get hold of you," he said. "Is there any other place you can think of where Isa may have gone?"

"No."

"If you think of anything, you know where to reach me."

Wallander gave him the phone numbers to the station and his mobile phone, then hung up. His hands were damp with sweat. It was already past lunchtime, and Wallander ached from hunger and a headache. He ordered a pizza that arrived after 30 minutes, and ate it at his desk. Nyberg hadn't called back, and he wondered briefly if he should drive out to the nature reserve, but then decided against it. He wouldn't be able to speed anything up. Nyberg knew what he was doing. He wiped his mouth, threw out the pizza box, and went out to the men's room to wash his hands. Then he left the station, crossed the road, and started walking up towards the water tower. There he sat down in the shade and concentrated on a thought that kept returning to him.

His worst fear, that Svedberg was the one who killed the three young people, had started to fade. Svedberg was on the side of the pursuers in this case, still a little ahead of Wallander. It would be a while until they caught him up.

Svedberg could not be the murderer because he had been killed, too. Wallander's worst fear was starting to leave him, only to be replaced by another. Someone was observing their investigation, someone who kept himself very well informed. Wallander knew that he was right about this, even though he couldn't yet see how it all hung together.

The person who had killed Svedberg and killed the three young people had some means of access to the information he required. The Midsummer's Eve party was planned in complete secrecy and yet someone else knew about it, someone who realised that Svedberg was closing in on him.

Svedberg must simply have got too close, Wallander thought, without realising that he had wandered into forbidden territory. That was why he was murdered. There is no other reasonable explanation.

He could make sense of events up to this point, but beyond it the questions piled up one on top of the other. Why was the telescope at Bjorklund's house? Why had someone sent postcards from all over Europe?

I have to find Isa, he thought. I have to get her to tell me what she doesn't even know she knows. And I have to follow in Svedberg's footsteps. What had he discovered that we still haven't seen? Or did he have access to some information from the very beginning that we don't have?

Wallander thought briefly about Louise, the woman in Svedberg's life, whom he had kept secret. There was still something about her picture that disturbed him, although he couldn't put his finger on it. The feeling was strong enough that he knew he mustn't give up on it, that he must bide his time. It occurred to him that there was a similarity between the young people in the reserve and Svedberg. They had all had secrets. Was this also significant?

Wallander got up and walked back to the police station. His body still ached from the hours he had spent sleeping curled up on the back seat of his car. His biggest anxiety still lay at the back of his mind - the fear that the killer would strike again.

When he got to the station he realised what he had to do. He had to drive up to Barnso and see if Isa Edengren was there. He had to choose between all the important tasks that lay before him. The most important was to find her.

Time was running out. He returned to his office and managed to get in touch with Martinsson, who had finally left the Norman family's home.

"Has anything happened?" Martinsson asked.

"Not nearly enough. Why haven't we heard anything from the pathologist? We're helpless until we have a time of death. Why aren't we getting any good leads? Where are the missing cars? We have to talk. Get here as soon as you can."

While they were waiting for Hoglund, Wallander and Martinsson called the young people in Svedberg's photograph. It turned out that they had all visited Isa on Barnso at one time or another. Martinsson spoke to the pathologist in Lund and was told that no results were available yet, either for the Svedberg case or the three young people. Wallander worked through a list of the leads that had come in from the general public. Nothing looked significant. The strangest thing was that no one had called to say they recognised the woman they were calling Louise. It was the first thing Wallander brought up with his colleagues in one of the smaller conference rooms. He put the photograph of her on the projector again.

"Someone must recognise her," he said. "Or at least think they do. But no one has called in."

"The picture has only been out there a few hours," Martinsson said.

Wallander dismissed this explanation. "It's one thing to ask people to recall an event," he said. "That can take time. But this is a face."

"Perhaps she's foreign?" Hoglund suggested. "Even if she only lives in Denmark. Who bothers to read the Skane papers over there? The photo won't be published in the national papers until tomorrow."

"You might be right," Wallander said, thinking of Sture Bjorklund, who commuted between Hedeskoga and Copenhagen. "We'll get in touch with the Danish police."

They looked at the picture of Louise for a long time.

"I can't escape the feeling that there's something unusual about her," Wallander said. "I just don't know what it is."

No one could say what it was. Wallander turned off the projector.

"I'm going up to Ostergotland tomorrow," he said. "It's possible that Isa might have gone there. We have to find her and we have to get her to talk."

"What exactly do you think she can tell us? She wasn't there when it happened."

Wallander knew that Martinsson's objection was reasonable. He wasn't sure that he could give him a good answer. There were so many gaps, so many thoughts that were closer to vague assumption than firm opinion.

"She is a witness, in a way," he said. "We're convinced that this is not a crime of opportunity. Svedberg's murder may still turn out to be just that, although I doubt it, but the deaths of these young people were well planned. The crucial thing here is that they made their own arrangements in secret, but someone else seems to have had access to that information - what they were thinking, where they were going to meet, perhaps even the exact time. Someone was spying on them. Someone managed to find out what they were up to. If it turns out that the bodies were buried fairly close to the place where they were killed, then we'll know this for sure. Holes don't dig themselves. Isa was part of these elaborate preparations. But she fell ill at the moment when everything was to begin. If she had been able to go, she would have. Her illness saved her life. And she is the one who can help us find out what happened that night. Somewhere along the way, without their realising it, she and the others crossed paths with the person who decided to take their lives."

"Is that what you think Svedberg believed?" Martinsson asked.

"Yes. But he knew something else as well. Or at least suspected it. We don't know how this suspicion arose in the first place, or why he conducted his whole investigation in secret. But it must have been important. He dedicated his entire holiday to it. He insisted on taking all of his holiday time. He had never done that before."

"Something's still missing," Hoglund said. "And that's a motive. Revenge, hatred, jealousy. It doesn't add up. Who would've wanted to murder three young people? Or four, for that matter. Who could've hated them? Who had reason to be jealous? There's a brutality to this crime that goes beyond anything I've ever seen. It's worse than the case involving the poor boy who dressed up as an Indian."

"He may have chosen this party deliberately," Wallander said. "Although it's almost too terrible to imagine, he could have chosen his moment precisely because their joy was at its peak. Think how alone people can feel over Midsummer."

"In that case we're dealing with a madman," Martinsson said, visibly upset.

"A methodical and deliberate madman, yes," Wallander said. "But the important thing is to try to find the invisible common denominator in these crimes. The murderer got his information from some source. He must have had access to their lives. That's the key we're after. We have to look thoroughly into their lives. We'll find this point of intersection. We may already have come across it and not seen it."

"So you think Isa Edengren should be our focus," Hoglund said. "In a way you think she's leading this investigation, and we're carefully following in her footsteps."

"Something like that. We can't overlook the fact that she tried to kill herself. We have to find out why. We also don't know how the killer feels about the fact that she survived."

"You're thinking about the person who called the hospital and pretended to be Lundberg," Martinsson said.

Wallander nodded. "I want one of you to talk to whoever took that call. Find out what the caller sounded like. Was he old or young? What dialect did he speak? Anything could turn out to be important."

Martinsson promised to take on this task. For the next hour they went over what else had to be covered. At one point Holgersson came in to talk about the arrangements for Svedberg's funeral.

"Does anyone know what kind of music he liked?" she asked.

"Strangely enough, Ylva Brink says she has no idea."

Wallander realised to his surprise that he had no idea either. Holgersson left again, after he had given her an update on the investigation.

"I wish we could know what exactly happened and why when we attend his funeral," Martinsson said.

"I doubt we will," Wallander said. "But that's what we'd all like."

It was 5 p.m. They were about to leave when the phone rang. It was Ebba.

"Please, no reporters," Wallander said.

"It's Nyberg. It sounds important."

Wallander felt a twinge of excitement. There was a hiss of static, then Nyberg's voice came on.

"I think we were right."

"Have you found the spot?"

"That's what we think. We're taking pictures now, and we're trying to see if we can get a footprint."

"Were we right about the location?"

"This is about 80 metres from where they were found. It's a very well selected spot. It's surrounded by thick shrubbery and no one would choose to walk through it."

"When are you going to start digging?"

"I was going to see if you wanted to come and take a look at it first."

"I'm on my way."

Wallander hung up. "They think they've found the place where the bodies were buried," he said.

They quickly decided that Wallander would go out there alone. The others had a number of tasks to take care of as soon as possible.

When he got to the nature reserve, he drove his car past the roadblocks all the way up to the crime scene. A forensic technician was waiting for him, and escorted him to a spot where Nyberg had cordoned off an area of about 30 square metres. Wallander saw at once that the spot was well chosen, just as he had said. He crouched down beside Nyberg, who started to point things out to him.

"The ground over here has been dug up," he said. "Clumps of grass have been taken out and replanted. If you look over there under the leaves you'll see dirt that's been swept aside. If you dig a hole and fill it with something else, there'll be earth left over."

Wallander brushed his hand along the ground. "It's been carefully done."

Nyberg nodded. "It's very precise," he said. "He didn't take any shortcuts. We would never have noticed this place without having set out to look for it."

Wallander got up. "Let's dig it up," he said. "We've got no time to lose."

The work went slowly. Nyberg directed the others. It was beginning to get dark by the time the first layer of earth had been removed. Spotlights were set up around the site. The earth underneath the sod was porous and came out easily. As they removed it, a rectangular hole became visible. By this time it was after 9 p.m. Holgersson had come out with Hoglund and they watched in silence. By the time Nyberg was satisfied, Wallander knew what he was looking at. The rectangular hole in front of him was a grave.

They gathered in a semicircle around the edge.

"It's big enough," Nyberg said.

"Yes," Wallander said. "It's big enough. Even for four bodies."

He shivered. For the first time they were following closely in the killer's tracks. They had been right. Nyberg kneeled next to the hole.

"There's nothing here," he said. "It's possible that the bodies were sealed in airtight body bags. If there was also a tarpaulin tucked in around them under the sod, I doubt that even Edmundsson's dog would pick up anything. But of course we'll go over it, down to the last tiny speck of dirt."

Wallander walked back up to the main path with Holgersson and Hoglund.

"What is this killer doing?" Holgersson asked, distaste and fear in her voice.

"I don't know," Wallander said. "But at least we have a survivor."

"Isa Edengren?"

Wallander didn't answer. He didn't need to. They all knew what he meant. The grave had been intended for her as well.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At 5 a.m. on Tuesday, 13 August, Wallander left Ystad, deciding to drive along the coast, through Kalmar. He was already at Solvesborg when he realised he had forgotten his promise to visit Dr Goransson at the clinic that morning. He pulled over by the side of the road and called Martinsson. It was just past 7 a.m. Wallander told him about the doctor's appointment and asked Martinsson to call and give an excuse.

"Tell him an urgent matter called me out of town," Wallander said.

"Are you sick?" Martinsson asked.

"It's a routine check-up," Wallander told him. "That's all."

Afterwards, when he had pulled back out onto the road, it occurred to him that Martinsson must have wondered why he didn't call Dr Goransson himself. Wallander asked himself the same question. Why couldn't he tell people that he had in all likelihood developed diabetes? He was having trouble making sense of his own actions.

He was thirsty, and his body ached. When he passed a roadside cafe he stopped and had breakfast. On the way out he bought two bottles of mineral water. He made it to Kalmar by 9 a.m. The phone rang. It was Hoglund, who was going to help him with directions once he reached Ostergotland.

"I talked to a colleague in Valdemarsvik," she said. "I thought it would be best to make it sound like a personal favour."

"Good idea," Wallander said. "Police officers don't tend to like it when you trespass on their territory."

"Especially not you," she said with a laugh. She was right. He didn't like having police officers from other districts in Ystad.

"How do I get out to the island?" he asked.

"That depends on where you are right now. Are you far away?

"I've just passed Kalmar. Vastervik is 100 kilometres away, and then it's about another hundred after that."

"Then it'll be tight."

"What do you mean?"

"My contact in Valdemarsvik suggested that you take the post boat, but it leaves Fyrudden between 11 a.m. and 11.30."

"Is there no other way?"

"Oh, I'm sure there is. But you'll have to organise that once you get to the dock."

"I may be able to do that. Can't someone call the post office and tell them I'm on my way? Where does the post get sorted? In Norrkoping?"

"I'm looking at a map right now," she said. "I think it would have to be in Gryt, if there's even a post office there."

"Where's that?"

"Between Valdemarsvik and Fyrudden harbour. Don't you even have a map with you?"

"Unfortunately I left it on my desk."

"Let me call you back," she said. "But I really think the best thing would be for you to go out with the post boat. If my colleague is right, it's the easiest way for people to get out to the islands. Those that don't have their own boats, of course, or anyone who's willing to come and get them."

Wallander understood what she meant.

"Good thinking," he said. "You mean that Isa Edengren may have taken the post boat herself?"

"It was just an idea."

Wallander thought for a moment. "But do you really think she made it up there by 11 a.m. if she left the hospital at 6 a.m.?"

"She may have," Hoglund replied. "If she had a car, and Isa Edengren does have her licence. And we mustn't forget that she could have left the hospital as early as 4 a.m."

She promised to call him back. Wallander increased his speed. The traffic was getting heavier and there were a number of cars with trailers on the road. They reminded him that it was still summer, and holiday time. For a moment he considered turning on his police light, but decided against it. Instead he continued to increase his speed.

Hoglund called him back after 20 minutes.

"I was right," she said. "The post gets sorted in Gryt. I even talked to the captain of the post boat. He sounded very nice."

"What was his name?"

"I didn't catch it. But he'll wait for you until midday. Otherwise he can come and get you later in the afternoon but I think that will cost you more."

"I was planning to write this trip off to expenses," Wallander said. "But I'll get there before midday."

"There's a car park next to the wharf," she said. "And the post boat is just across from it."

"Do you have his phone number?"

Wallander pulled over to the side of the road and wrote down the number. As he sat there he was passed by a lorry he had finally managed to overtake a little earlier.

It was 11.40 a.m. when Wallander drove down the hill towards Fyrudden harbour. He found a car park and then walked out onto the pier. There was a soft wind. The harbour was full of boats. A man in his 50s was loading the last of his boxes into a large motorboat. Wallander hesitated, having imagined that the post boat would look different. He had even expected a flag bearing the post office logo. The man, who had just set down a crate of soda water, looked at Wallander.

"Are you the one going out to Barnso?"

"That's me."

The man stepped onto the dock and reached out his hand. "Lennart Westin."

"I'm sorry I'm a little late."

"Oh, there's no hurry."

"I don't know if the woman who called told you but I have to get back somehow, either later this afternoon or tonight."

"You aren't spending the night?"

The situation was starting to get confusing. Wallander didn't even know if Hoglund had told him that he was a policeman.

"I should tell you I'm a detective with the Ystad homicide unit," Wallander said and got out his identification. "I'm working on a particularly difficult and unpleasant case at the moment."

This postman called Westin was a fast thinker.

"Is it that case involving the young people that I read about in the paper? Wasn't there a police officer killed, too?"

Wallander nodded.

"I thought I recognised them from the picture in the paper," Westin said. "At least one of them. I had the feeling I had given them a ride a year or so ago."

"With Isa?"

"Yes, that's right. They were with her. I think it was late autumn a couple of years ago. There was a storm coming in from the southwest. I wasn't sure we could pull up to the Barnso landing. It's a particularly exposed spot when the wind is blowing from that direction. But we made it. One of their bags fell in the water, and we managed to fish it out. That's why I remember. But you should never be too sure of your memory."

"I think you're probably right," Wallander said. "Have you seen Isa recently? Today or the day before?"

"No."

"Does she normally catch a ride out with you?"

"When her parents are out here, they collect her. Otherwise she gets a ride with me."

"So she's not here now?"

"If she is, she went out with someone else."

"Who would that have been?"

Westin shrugged. "There are always people around out here who would be willing to give her a ride. Isa knows whom to call. But I think she would have asked me first."

Westin glanced at his watch. Wallander hurried back to his car to get the little bag he had packed. Then he got on the boat. Westin pointed to the map beside the steering wheel.

"I could take you directly to Barnso but that would be out of my way," he said. "Are you in a hurry? If we go to Barnso on my regular route we'll be there in an hour. I have three other stops first."

"That's fine."

"When do you want me to pick you up?"

Wallander thought for a moment. Isa was most likely not on the island. He had drawn the wrong conclusion, which was a disappointment. But now that he was here he might as well search the house. He would probably need a couple of hours.

"You don't need to make up your mind right now," Westin said and gave him his card. "You can reach me over the phone. I can either come by this afternoon or this evening. I live on an island that's not too far away."

He pointed it out on the map.

"I'll call you," Wallander said and put the card away.

Westin started both the engines and set off.

"How long have you been delivering the post?" Wallander asked. He had to shout to make himself heard above the engine noise.

"Too long," Westin shouted back. "More than 25 years now."

"What do you do in the winter?"

"Hydrocopter."

Wallander felt his exhaustion lifting. The speed, the experience of being out on the water, gave him a surprising sense of well-being. When had he last felt like this? Perhaps during those days with Linda on Gotland. He knew it must be hard work delivering the post in the archipelago. But right now all suggestion of storms and autumn darkness seemed far away. Westin looked over at him, as if he knew what he was thinking.

"Maybe that would be something for me," he said. "Being a policeman."

Normally Wallander rushed to defend his profession. But here with Westin, as they sped across the smooth surface of the water, the familiar topic coaxed a different response from him.

"Sometimes I have my doubts," he shouted. "But when you reach 50 you're kind of on your own. Most doors are closed."

"I turned 50 this spring," Westin said. "Everyone I know out here threw a big party."

"How many people out here do you know?"

"Everyone. It was a big party."

Westin turned the wheel and slowed the boat down. Right next to a big cliff there was a red boathouse and a pier built out over a row of old stone structures.

"Batmanso Island," Westin said. "When I was a child there were nine families living out here - more than 30 people. Now there are people out here over the summer, but come winter there's only one. His name is Zetterquist and he's 93 years old, but he still makes it through the winter. He's been widowed three times. He's the kind of old man you don't meet any more. I think the national board of health must have outlawed them."

His last remark took Wallander by surprise and made him laugh.

"Was he a fisherman?"

"He's been a jack-of-all-trades. He worked on a tugboat once upon a time."

"You know everybody. And they all know you?"

"That's the way it goes. If this old chap didn't show up to meet my boat, I'd go up and see if he was sick, or if he'd had a fall. If you're a country postman, either at sea or on land, you end up knowing everybody's business. What they're doing, where they're going, when they're due back. Whether or not you actually want to."

Westin had brought the boat softly alongside the landing, and now he unloaded a couple of boxes. Quite a few people had gathered on the pier. Westin took the packet of post and walked up to a small red house.

Wallander stretched his legs on the pier, looking at a pile of old-fashioned stone sinkers. The air was cooler. Westin came back after a couple of minutes and they left. Their route took them through the varied landscape of the archipelago. After two more post stops, they approached Barnso. They came out on an open stretch of sea called Vikfjarden. Barnso lay strangely isolated, as if it had been thrown out of the community of islands.

"You must know the whole Edengren family," Wallander said, when Westin had pulled back the throttle and they were gliding towards the little dock.

"I suppose you could say that," Westin said. "Although I haven't had much contact with the parents. Honestly speaking, I think they're rather snobbish. But Isa and Jorgen have caught a ride with me many times."

"You know that Jorgen is dead," Wallander said carefully.

"I heard he was in a car accident," Westin said. "His father told me. I had to collect him once when there was something wrong with their boat."

"It's tragic when children die," Wallander said.

"I had always thought Isa was the one who would have an accident."

"Why is that?"

"She lives her life to the extreme. At least, if you believe what she says."

"She talks to you? Maybe as a postman you become something of a confidant."

"Hell, no," Westin said. "My son is Isa's age. They were together for a while a couple of summers ago. But it ended, like these things often do at that age."

The boat hit the edge of the pier. Wallander took his bag and got off.

"I'll give you a call this afternoon."

"I eat at 6 p.m.," Westin answered. "Before or after is fine."

Wallander watched the boat disappear around the point. He thought about how Westin had described Jorgen's death. His parents had changed the story. A toaster in the bath had become a car accident.

Wallander walked onto the green, lush island. Next to the dock was a boathouse and a small guest house. It reminded him of the gazebo in Skarby where he had found Isa. An old wooden rowing boat lay turned over on some trestles. Wallander caught a faint whiff of tar. Several large oak trees grew on the hillside leading up to the main house. It was a red two-storey house, old but in good condition. Wallander walked up to it, looking around and listening. There was a sailing boat in the distance, and the dying sound of an outboard motor. Wallander was sweating. He put the bag down, took his coat off and threw it over the railing of the front steps. The curtains were drawn in the windows. He went up the steps and knocked on the door. He waited. Then he banged on it with his fist. No one answered. He felt the handle. It was locked. For a moment he hesitated, then he walked around the back, feeling as though he was repeating his visit to Skarby. There was a garden with fruit trees behind the house - apples, plums and a lone cherry tree. Garden furniture was piled up under a plastic sheet.

A path led away from the house towards the thick woods. Wallander started walking down the path, and came to an old well and an earth cellar. The numbers 1897 were carved into the rock above the door, and the key was in the lock. Wallander opened the door. It was dark and cool inside, and there was a smell of potatoes. When his eyes became accustomed to the dark he saw that it was empty. He closed the door and continued along the path, catching glimpses of the sea on his left. From the position of the sun he knew he was walking northwards. After about a kilometre he came to a junction where a smaller path led off to the left. He kept walking straight ahead, and after a couple of hundred metres came to the end. Ahead of him were smooth boulders and cliffs. Beyond them, just the open sea. It was the tip of the island. A seagull squawked above him, rising and falling on the wind. He climbed out onto the rocks, sat down, and wiped the sweat from his forehead, wishing that he'd brought some water with him. Gone were all thoughts of Svedberg and the dead young people.

He got up after a while and walked back. At the junction he took the smaller path, which led to a small, natural harbour. Some rusty iron rings were bolted into the rock face. The water was like a mirror, reflecting the tall trees. He turned and walked back to the main house. He checked his phone, went behind one of the oak trees, and took a piss. Then he got out a bottle of water and sat down on the main steps. His mouth was completely dry. As he put the bottle down something caught his attention. He stared at his bag that lay at the foot of the stairs. He was sure he had put it on the higher step. He got off the stairs and went over his actions in his mind.

First I put the bag down, then I removed my jacket and hung it on the railing, he thought. Then I moved the bag to the second step.

It had been moved. He looked around at everything with a new attentiveness. The trees, the bushes, the main house. The curtains were still drawn. He thought of the landing and the guest house, the guest house that reminded him of the gazebo in Skarby. He walked down the hill to the boathouse. The door was latched. He opened it and looked in. It was empty, but he could tell from the size of the berth and the ropes that it housed a big boat. Fishing nets were hanging on the walls. He went out again and locked the door. Part of the guest house was built out over the water with a ladder hanging over the end for swimming. He stood and stared at it for a moment. Then he walked up and felt the door. It was locked. He knocked lightly.

"Isa," he said. "I know you're in there."

He waited.

When she opened the door he didn't recognise her at first. She had tied her hair up in a knot. She was dressed in black, in some kind of overalls. Wallander thought her expression was full of animosity, but perhaps it was fear.

"How did you know I was here?" Her voice was hoarse.

"I didn't. Not until you told me."

"I haven't said anything. And I know you didn't see me."

"Policemen have the bad habit of noticing little things. Like someone lifting a bag, for instance. And not putting it back in the right place."

She stared back at him as if she couldn't understand what he had said. He saw that she was barefoot.

"I'm hungry," she said.

"So am I."

"There's food in the main house," she said and started walking. "Why did you come here?"

"We had to find you."

"Why?"

"Since you know what happened, I don't have to tell you."

She walked on in silence. Wallander looked at her. Her face was pale and drawn.

"How did you get out here?" he asked.

"I called Lage, who lives on Wetterso Island."

"Why didn't you get a ride with Westin?"

"I thought you might try to find out if I was here."

"And you didn't want to be found?"

She didn't answer this either. She unlocked the door and let them in, then walked around opening the curtains. She tugged at them in a careless way, as if she actually wanted to break everything around her. Wallander followed her into the kitchen. She opened the back door and connected a bottle of liquid gas to the stove. Wallander had already noticed that there was no electricity in the house. She turned around and looked at him.

"Cooking is one of the few things I can do."

She pointed out the refrigerator and a large freezer that were also hooked up to gas tanks. "They're full of food," she said disdainfully. "That's the way my parents want it. They pay someone to come out here and change the gas. They want food to be here in case they decide to come out for a couple of days. Which they never do."

She sounded like she was spitting. "My mother's an idiot," she said. "She's completely ignorant. She can't help it, I guess. My father, on the other hand, is not an idiot. But he's ruthless."

"I'd like to hear more."

"Not now. When we eat."

It was clear that she wanted him to leave the kitchen, so Wallander went out to the front of the house and called Ystad. He got hold of Hoglund.

"I was right," he said. "She's here, just like we thought."

"Like you thought," she corrected him. "To tell the truth, I don't think any of us were so sure."

"Well, everyone's right some of the time. I think we'll be back in Ystad some time tonight."

"Have you talked to her?"

"Not yet."

She told him some calls had come in from people who thought they recognised the picture of Louise. They were still in the process of checking them. She promised to get back to him when they were finished.

Wallander went back into the house. He kept returning to the same thought. He had to get her to tell him what she didn't even know she knew.

She set the table in the large glassed-in veranda that had been added on to the side of the house. She asked him what he wanted to drink and he opted for water. She drank wine. He worried that she would get drunk and become impossible to talk to, but she had only one glass. They ate in silence. Afterwards, she put on some coffee. She shook her head when Wallander started clearing the table. A sofa and some chairs stood in a corner of the veranda. A lone sailing boat drifted by with limp sails.

"It's very beautiful here," he said. "This is a part of Sweden I haven't seen before."

"They bought the house 30 years ago," she replied. "They claim I was conceived out here, which may be true since I was born in February. They bought the house from an old couple who'd lived here their whole lives. I don't know how my father heard about it but one day he came to see them with a suitcase full of 100-kronor notes. It looks very impressive, but it doesn't necessarily mean it's a large sum of money. Neither of them had ever seen so much money in their lives. It took a couple of months to convince them, but they finally accepted the offer. I don't know what the exact amount was but I'm sure he paid nothing close to what it was worth."

"Do you mean that he swindled them?"

"I mean that my father has always been a scoundrel."

"If he simply made a good deal perhaps he should be called an ambitious businessman."

"My father has been involved in deals all over the world. He smuggled diamonds and ivory in Africa. No one really knows what he does now, but lately a lot of Russians have come out to visit him in Skarby. You can't tell me they're up to anything legal."

"As far as I know he's never been in trouble with us," Wallander said.

"Yes, he's good," she said. "And persistent. You can accuse him of a lot of things but he's not lazy. Ruthless people don't tend to rest on their laurels."

Wallander set his coffee cup down. "Let's talk about you instead," he said. "That's why I'm here, and it's been a long trip. We'll be heading back soon."

"What makes you think I'll be coming with you?"

Wallander looked at her for a long time before answering. "Three of your closest friends have been murdered," he said. "You were supposed to have been there when it happened. Both of us know what conclusion to draw from that."

She curled up in her chair and Wallander saw that she was frightened.

"Since we don't know why it happened, we have to take every precaution," he said.

The importance of what he was saying finally seemed to sink in. "Am I in danger?"

"We can't rule that out. We have no motive, therefore we have to consider all possibilities."

"But why would anyone want to kill me?"

"Why would anyone want to kill your friends? Martin, Lena, Astrid?"

She shook her head. "I don't understand it," she said.

Wallander moved his chair closer to hers. "Nonetheless you're the one who's going to help us," he said. "We're going to catch whoever did this. And to get him, we have to know why he did it. You got away. You're the one who's going to tell us."

"But when it's completely incomprehensible?"

"You have to think back," Wallander said. "Who could have targeted you as a group? What united you? Why? There is an answer. It has to be there."

He quickly changed tack, knowing that she was starting to listen to him. He didn't want to lose this opportunity.

"You have to answer my questions," he said. "And you have to tell the truth. I'll know if you're lying. And I don't want that."

"Why would I lie?"

"When I found you, you had just tried to commit suicide," he said. "Why? Did you already know what had happened to your friends?"

She looked at him with surprise. "How could I have known that? I had the same questions as everybody else."

Wallander knew she was telling the truth. "Why did you want to kill yourself ?"

"I didn't want to live any more. Is there ever any other reason? My parents have ruined my life, just like they ruined Jorgen's. I just didn't want to live any more."

Wallander waited. Maybe she would keep talking. But she didn't say anything else.

For the next three hours he led her step by step through the events of the summer. He didn't leave anything untouched, however minor. He went through everything, sometimes more than once. There were no limits to how far back he could go. When had she first met Lena Norman? Which year, which month, what day? How had they met, how did they become friends? When she said she couldn't remember, or if she became unsure of herself, he slowed down and started again. An unclear memory could be overcome with patience. The whole time he was trying to get her to think about whether there had been anyone else there.

"A shadow in the corner," he said. "Was there a shadow in the corner? Anything you're forgetting?"

He asked about everything that might have seemed unexpected. As time went on she started to understand his methods, and then it was easier. Shortly after 5 p.m. they decided to stay the night and leave Barnso the following day. Wallander called Westin, who promised to come and get them when Wallander called. He didn't ask about Isa, but Wallander was sure he had known she was out there all along. They took a walk on the island, talking the whole time. Now and again Isa interrupted herself to point out places where she had played as a child. They walked out to the northernmost point. To his surprise she pointed to a shelf in the rock where she claimed to have lost her virginity one summer, but she didn't say with whom.

When they returned to the house it was starting to get dark. She walked around turning on the kerosene lamps, while Wallander called Ystad and talked to Martinsson. Nothing much had happened. No one had identified Louise. Wallander told him he was staying the night, and that he would return with the girl the next day.

Isa and Wallander continued their conversation all evening, pausing only to have tea and sandwiches. Wallander walked out in the dark and relieved himself against a tree. The wind moaned in the treetops. Everything was quiet. He was beginning to understand their games - the way they dressed up, had parties, and travelled to different ages. When the conversation approached the party that had turned out to be their last, Wallander proceeded with painstaking care. Who could possibly have known about their plans? No one? He simply couldn't accept her answer. Someone must have known.

It was 1.30 a.m. when they stopped for the night. Wallander was so tired that he felt nauseated. She still hadn't come up with anything, but they were going to keep going in the long car trip to Ystad. He wasn't going to give up.

She showed him to a bedroom on the second floor. She was sleeping downstairs. She said good night and gave him a kerosene lamp. He made his bed and opened the window. It was very dark outside. He lay down in the bed and blew out the lamp. He heard her cleaning up in the kitchen, then the sound of the front door being locked. Then nothing.

Wallander fell asleep immediately.

No one noticed the boat that crossed Vikfjarden late that evening with its lights turned off. And no one heard it as it glided into the natural harbour on the west side of Barnso Island.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Linda screamed.

She was somewhere close by. Her scream forced its way into his dreams. When he opened his eyes he had no idea where he was, but the faint scent from the kerosene lamp made him realise that it couldn't have been Linda who had screamed. His heart was pounding. It was quiet outside, just the whisper of the wind in the trees. He listened. Had it been a dream? He sat up and fumbled for the matches that he had placed beside the lamp on the table, lit it, and got dressed. He was putting his shoes on when he heard the sound. Something banging against the side of the house. Maybe the sound of a washing line hitting a drainpipe. But it was coming from downstairs. He got up, still with one shoe in his hand, and went over to the door. He opened it carefully and the sound came more clearly. The kitchen. The kitchen door must be open and banging in the wind. His fear came back with a vengeance. He hadn't been dreaming. The scream had been real.

Instead of putting his shoe on, he kicked off the other one, and walked downstairs with the lamp in his hand. He stopped halfway down and listened. The lamplight flickered over the walls. His hands were shaking. He realised that he had nothing to defend himself with. He tried to gather his thoughts. Nothing could happen out here. They were alone on the island. Maybe a bird had cried outside his window. And there was another possibility - that he wasn't the only one who had nightmares.

He went all the way downstairs and stopped outside her door, listened, then knocked. No answer. It's too quiet, he thought. He felt the handle. It was locked. Now he didn't hesitate. He banged the door and rattled the handle. Nothing. He went out to the kitchen. The back door was open and he closed it. He looked in the kitchen drawers and found a screwdriver, and used it to open her door. The bed was empty, the window open without being fastened. He tried to think what might have happened. He remembered seeing a big torch in the kitchen. He got it, and took a hammer as well. He opened the back door, and shone the light out into the darkness.

Once he was outside he realised that he was barefoot. A bird flew away from somewhere nearby. The sound of the wind was stronger. He called Isa's name, but there was no answer. He shone the light below her window. There were footprints on the ground, but they were so faint that he couldn't see where they led. He shone the light out into the darkness and called out again. Still no answer. His heart was pounding. He went back to the kitchen door and examined the lock. It had been forced, just as he'd thought. His fear grew stronger. He turned around and lifted his hammer, but there was no one there. He returned to the house. His phone was on the table next to his bed. He tried to imagine what had happened.

Someone breaks in through the kitchen door. Isa wakes because someone is trying to get into her room. Then she jumps out the window.

He couldn't think of any other explanation. He looked at his watch. It was 2.45 a.m. He dialled Martinsson's home number. He answered on the second ring. Wallander knew he had a phone by his bed.

"It's Kurt. I'm sorry to wake you."

"What's wrong?" Martinsson was still half-asleep.

"Get up," Wallander said. "Splash some cold water on your face. I'll call back in three minutes."

Martinsson started to protest, but Wallander hung up and looked at his watch. In exactly three minutes he called back, worrying about the battery to his phone running out.

"Listen carefully," he said. "I can't talk for long, my battery is going to run out. Do you have a pen and paper?"

Martinsson was wide awake now.

"I'm writing this down as we speak."

"Something's happened out here. I don't know what. Isa Edengren screamed, and I woke up. Now she's gone. The back door to the house has been forced. There's someone else on the island besides us. Whoever it is, he's come for her. I'm afraid she's in danger."

"What do you want me to do?"

"For now, just get the phone number of the coast guard in Fyrudden. Be prepared for my next call."

"What are you going to do?"

"Find her."

"If the killer's out there it'll be dangerous. You need help."

"And where would that come from? Norkopping? How long would that take?"

"You can't search an entire island by yourself."

"It's not that big. I'm going to hang up now, I want to conserve the battery."

Wallander put his shoes on and slipped the phone into his pocket, tucked the hammer into his belt, and left the house. He walked down to the landing and shone the torch. No boat. The boathouse and guest house were empty. He was calling her name. He ran back up to the main house, and started down the path. The bushes and trees looked white in the strong light. There was no one in the earth cellar.

He continued, calling her constantly. When he came to the junction in the path, he hesitated. Which way should he go? He looked at the ground, but couldn't see any prints. He headed for the northern tip of the island. He was out of breath when he reached the end. The wind coming in off the open sea was icy. He let the beam from the torch play over the rocks. Two eyes gleamed in the light. It was a little animal, a mink perhaps, that scuttled away between the rocks. He walked to the very end of the rocks, shining his light in the crevices. Nothing. He turned around to start back.

Something made him stop. He listened. The waves hit the shore in a rhythmic motion, but there was another sound. At first he didn't know what it was. Then he realised that it was an engine. The sound came from the west.

The harbour, he thought, and started running. I should have taken the other path.

He stopped only when he was about to reach the shore. He stepped out and flashed his light over the water. There was nothing there, and the sound had disappeared. A boat has just left, he thought. His fear increased. What had happened to her? He walked back along the path, trying to decide how to continue his search. Did the coast guard have dogs? Even though the island was small, he wouldn't be finished until morning. He tried to think out how she would have reacted. She had fled her bedroom in panic. The person trying to break in had blocked her way up to his room. She jumped out the window and took off into the darkness. He doubted that she'd had a torch.

Wallander reached the junction again. Suddenly he knew. As they were walking around the island, she had mentioned a favourite hiding place she and Jorgen had when they were little. He thought back to where they had been standing when she had pointed to the rock face that was the highest point on the island. It had been closer to the house, and he remembered two juniper trees. He left the path. Fallen trees and thick shrubbery slowed his progress. There were large boulders strewn about, and he shone his light on them as he walked by. As he was nearing the beginning of the rock face, he caught sight of a deep crevice behind some ferns. He walked up to the rock wall, parted the ferns, and shone his torch inside.

She was there, curled up against the side of the rock, wearing only a nightgown. Her arms were wrapped around her legs and her head was leaning against one shoulder. It looked like she was sleeping, but he knew at once that she was dead. She had been shot in the head.

Wallander sank down on the ground. The blood rushed to his head. He felt like he was dying, and he didn't really mind. He had failed. He hadn't managed to keep her safe. Even the hiding place where she had played as a child hadn't protected her. He hadn't heard a shot. The gun must have had a silencer.

He got up and leaned against a tree. The phone slid out of his grasp. He leaned down, picked it up, and started staggering back towards the house as he called Martinsson.

"I'm too late," he said.

"Too late for what?"

"She's dead. Shot, just like the others."

Martinsson didn't seem to understand. Wallander had to repeat himself.

"My God," Martinsson said. "Who killed her?"

"A man in a boat," Wallander said. "Call the police in Norrkoping. They'll have to do this. And talk to the coast guard."

Martinsson promised to do what he said.

"You might as well wake up the others," he said. "Lisa Holgersson, everyone. Once I get some help out here I'll call you again."

The conversation was over. Wallander sat on a chair in the kitchen, with the beam resting on a tapestry with the words "home sweet home". After a while he forced himself to get up, go into her room, and pull the blanket from her bed. Then he went out into the dark. Once he got back to the crevice he wrapped the blanket around her.

He sat down by the ferns that covered the opening. It was 3.20 a.m.

The wind picked up in the early, pale dawn. Wallander heard the coast guard arriving and went to the landing. The policemen approached him with suspicion. Wallander could understand their reaction. What was a police officer from Skane doing out here on one of their islands? If he had been on holiday, it would have been different. He led them to the crevice, and turned away as they lifted the blanket. One of the officers demanded to see Wallander's police ID. Wallander lost his temper. He tore his wallet from his pocket and threw his ID card on the ground. Then he walked away. His fury left him almost immediately, replaced by a paralysing fatigue. He sat down on the front steps to the house with a bottle of water.

Harry Lundstrom came and found him. He'd seen Wallander lose his temper and had thought how tactless it had been to ask him for his police badge at that moment. It was clear, after all, that he was a fellow police officer. The call had come from the Ystad police, with very specific information. A detective by the name of Kurt Wallander was on Barnso Island. He had found a dead girl, and he needed assistance.

Harry Lundstrom was 57 years old. He had been born in Norrkoping and was considered the best detective in the city by everyone but himself. When Wallander flew into a rage, Lundstrom had understood his reaction. He didn't know what events lay behind the murder, but he knew that it had to do with the dead police officer and the three young people. Beyond that it was very unclear. But Harry Lundstrom had a huge capacity for empathy. He could imagine what it might have felt like to find a girl dressed only in her nightgown, curled in a crevice, with a bullet hole in her head.

Lundstrom sat down next to Wallander on the steps.

"That was a thoughtless thing of them to do," he said. "Asking for your ID like that."

He stretched out his hand and introduced himself. Wallander immediately felt that he could trust him.

"Should I speak to you?"

Lundstrom nodded.

"Then let's go inside," Wallander said.

They sat in the living room. After he'd called Martinsson on Lundstrom's phone, and arranged for Isa's parents to be notified of her death, he took more than an hour to explain who the dead girl was, and the circumstances surrounding her murder. Lundstrom listened without taking notes. Now and again they were interrupted by officers with questions. Lundstrom provided simple and clear instructions. When Wallander had finished talking, Lundstrom asked about a few details. Wallander thought that they were exactly the questions he would have asked himself.

It was already 7 a.m. and through the windows they could see the coast guard's boat scraping against the dock.

"I'd better get back up there," Lundstrom said. "You can stay here, of course. You've seen more than enough."

The wind was very strong now, and Wallander shivered.

"It's an autumn wind," Lundstrom said. "The weather has started to turn."

"I've never been in this archipelago before," Wallander said. "It's very beautiful."

"I played handball when I was young," Lundstrom said. "I had a picture of the Ystad team on my bedroom wall, but I've almost never been to your parts."

As they walked along the path, they could hear dogs barking in the distance.

"I thought it would be best to comb the island," Lundstrom said, "in case the killer is still here somewhere."

"He arrived by boat," Wallander said. "He anchored on the west side."

"If we had more time, we'd arrange to put some of the nearby harbours under surveillance," Lundstrom said. "But it's too late now."

"Maybe someone saw something," Wallander said.

"We're on to it," Lundstrom said. "I've considered the possibility. Someone may have seen a boat anchoring here late last night."

Wallander remained at a distance while Lundstrom walked up to the crevice and had a brief discussion with his colleagues. He felt sick to his stomach. What he wanted most of all was to get off the island as soon as possible. His feeling of being somehow responsible for the crime was very strong. They should have left the island last night. He should have realised the danger of staying. The murderer seemed always to be in a position of knowing what they were doing. It had also been a mistake to let her sleep downstairs. He was aware that blaming himself was unreasonable, but he couldn't help it.

Lundstrom reappeared, and at the same time an officer with a dog came from the opposite direction. Lundstrom stopped him.

"Find anything?"

"There's no one on the island," the officer said. "She traced him to a bay on the west side, but the scent ended there."

Lundstrom looked at Wallander. "You were right," he said. "He came and left by boat."

They walked down to the main house again. Wallander thought about what Lundstrom had just said.

"The boat is important," he said. "Where did he get hold of it?"

"I was just thinking the same thing," Lundstrom said. "If we assume that the killer is not from around here, which I think we have to, then we have to find out where he got the boat from."

"He stole it," Wallander said.

Lundstrom stopped. "But how did he find his way here in the middle of the night?"

"He may have been out here before, and there are maps."

"Do you really think he's been out here before?"

"We can't rule that out."

Lundstrom started walking again.

"A stolen or borrowed boat," he said. "It must have happened near here. Either in Fyrudden, Snackvarp or Gryt. If he didn't steal it from a private dock, that is."

"He can't have had a lot of time," Wallander said. "Isa ran away from the hospital yesterday morning."

"Criminals in a hurry are always the easiest to trace," Lundstrom said.

They reached the landing and Lundstrom talked to a police officer who was adjusting one of the ropes. They took shelter from the wind by the boathouse.

"There's no reason to keep you here," Lundstrom said. "I assume that you want to go home."

Wallander felt a need to describe his feelings. "It shouldn't have happened," he said "I feel responsible. We should have left here yesterday. And now she's dead."

"I would have done the same thing that you did," Lundstrom said. "This was where she ran to. This was where you could start to get her talking. You couldn't have known what was going to happen."

Wallander shook his head. "I should have realised how much danger she was in."

They walked up to the house, and Lundstrom said he would do his best to ensure cooperation between the Norrkoping and Ystad police.

"I'm sure there'll be the odd complaint about our not being informed that you were up here, but I'll see that they keep quiet."

Wallander got his bag and they returned to the landing. The coast guard would drop him back on the mainland. Lundstrom remained on the landing and saw them off. Wallander lifted his hand in a gesture of gratitude.

He threw his bag in the car and went to pay his parking ticket. As he was walking back he saw Westin on his way into the harbour. Wallander walked out to meet him, noting Westin's sombre expression as he stepped ashore.

"I take it you've heard the news," Wallander said.

"Isa is dead."

"It happened last night. I woke up when she screamed, but I was too late."

Westin looked at him grimly. "So it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't come out here last night?"

There it is, Wallander thought. The accusation. The one I can't defend myself against.

He took out his wallet. "How much do I owe you for yesterday's trip?"

"Nothing," Westin said.

Westin began to walk away. Wallander remembered that he had one more question to ask him.

"There's one more thing," he said.

Westin turned.

"Sometime between 19 and 22 July, you took someone to Barnso."

"In July I had a lot of passengers every day."

"This was another detective," Wallander said. "His name was Karl Evert Svedberg. He spoke with an even stronger Skane accent than I do. Do you remember him?"

"Was he wearing his uniform?"

"I doubt it."

"Can you describe him?"

"He was almost completely bald, about as tall as me, solid but not overweight."

Westin thought it over.

"Between 19 and 22 July?"

"He would probably have crossed in the afternoon or early evening on the 19th. I don't know when he came back, but it would have been the 22nd at the latest."

"I'll check my records," Westin said. "But I don't remember off hand."

Wallander followed him out to the boat. Westin got out a notebook that lay under his chart, and came out of the wheelhouse.

"There's nothing here," he said. "But I do have a vague recollection of him. There were a lot of people on board, though. I might be confusing him with someone else."

"Do you have access to a fax machine?" Wallander asked. "We can send you a picture of him."

"I can get faxes at the post office."

Another possibility occurred to Wallander.

"You might already have seen a picture of him," he said. "Maybe on TV. He's the police officer who was murdered in Ystad a couple of days ago."

Westin frowned. "I heard about that," he said. "But I can't remember seeing a picture."

"You'll get one over the fax," Wallander said. "Give me the number."

Westin wrote it down for him in his notebook and tore out the page.

"Do you know if Isa was out here between 19 and 22 July?"

"No, but she was here a lot this summer."

"So it's a possibility?"

"Yes."

Wallander left Fyrudden. He stopped at a petrol station in Valdermarsvik, then took the coast road. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. He rolled down the window. When he reached Vastervik he realised that he didn't have the energy to continue. He had to eat something, and sleep. He found a roadside cafe and ordered an omelette, some mineral water and a cup of coffee. The woman who took his order smiled at him.

"At your age you shouldn't stay up all night," she said.

Wallander looked at her with surprise. "Is it so obvious?"

She bent down and got her bag from behind the counter, then fished out a make-up mirror and handed it over to him. She was right. He was pale and had dark circles under his eyes. His hair was a mess.

"You're right," he said. "I'll have my omelette, then I'll catch up on a bit of sleep in my car."

He went outside and sat down in the shade. She brought the food out on a tray.

"There's a small room off the kitchen with a bed in it," she said. "You could use it for a while if you'd like."

She walked away without waiting for an answer. Wallander watched her departing figure with surprise. After he'd finished eating he walked over to the door of the kitchen. It was open.

"Is the offer still open?" he asked.

"I don't go back on my word."

She showed him the room and the bed, which was a simple folding cot with a blanket.

"It's better than the back seat of your car," she said. "Of course, policemen are used to sleeping anywhere."

"How do you know I'm a policeman?"

"I saw your police ID in your wallet when you paid. I was married to a policeman, so I recognised it."

"My name is Kurt. Kurt Wallander."

"I'm Erika. Sleep well."

Wallander lay down on the bed. His whole body ached and his head felt completely empty. He knew he should call the station and let them know that he was on his way, but he couldn't be bothered. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

When he woke he had no idea where he was. He looked down at his watch. It was 7 p.m. He sat up with a jerk. He had slept for more than five hours. Cursing, he got the phone and called the station. Martinsson didn't answer, and so he tried Hansson.

"Where the hell have you been? We've been trying to reach you all day. Why wasn't your phone on?"

"There must have been something wrong with it. Has anything happened?"

"Nothing more than us wondering where you were."

"I'll be there as soon as I can. By 11 p.m. at the latest."

Wallander hung up. Erika appeared in the doorway.

"I think you needed that," she said.

"An hour would have been plenty. I should have asked you to wake me."

"There's coffee, but no hot food. I've closed for the day."

"You've been waiting for me?"

"There are always things that need doing around here."

They went out into the empty restaurant, and she brought him a cup of coffee and some sandwiches, and sat down across from him.

"I just heard on the radio about the girl who was killed in the archipelago, and the police officer who found her," she said. "I take it that was you."

"Yes, but I'd rather not talk about it. So, you were married to a policeman once?"

"When I lived in Kalmar. I moved here after the divorce, when I had the money to buy this place."

She told him about the first few years, when the restaurant didn't make enough money. But it was doing better now. Wallander listened, but all the while he was looking at her. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to hold on to something normal and real. He sat with her for half an hour, then paid and walked to his car. She followed him out.

"I don't really know how to thank you," he said.

"Why do people always need to thank each other?" she said. "Drive carefully."

Wallander reached the station at 11 p.m. and met with everyone in the large conference room. Nyberg and Holgersson were there. During the drive back, he had thought through everything that had happened, beginning on the night that he had woken thinking that something was wrong with Svedberg. He still felt guilty about Isa, but now he also felt anger at her death. His rage caused him to speed up without noticing it, and at one point he found himself doing more than 150 kilometres per hour.

His rage stemmed not only from her senseless murder, but also from his feeling of failure at their inability to see which way to turn. And now Isa Edengren had been shot out on Barnso Island, practically before his eyes.

Wallander told everyone about the events on the island. After answering their questions and listening to a report on developments in Ystad, he summed up the situation in a few sentences. It was well past midnight.

"Tomorrow we have to start from the beginning," he said. "We have to start from the beginning and work from there. We'll find the killer sooner or later. We have to. But I think that the best thing to do now is to go home and get some sleep. It's been hard up till now, and I think that it's just going to get harder."

Wallander finished. Martinsson looked as though he was about to speak, but then changed his mind. Wallander was the first to leave. He closed his office door, making it clear that he didn't want to be disturbed. He sat down and thought about what he hadn't brought up at the meeting, what they would have to discuss the following day.

Isa Edengren was dead. Did that mean that the killer had completed his task, or was he now preparing for something else?

No one knew the answer.

Part Two

CHAPTER TWENTY

On the morning of Thursday, 15 August, Wallander finally went back to Dr Goransson's office. He didn't have an appointment but was seen immediately. He hadn't slept well and was extremely tired, but he left the car at home. He knew that each new day would carry with it fresh excuses for not exercising. This day was just as inconvenient as any other, so he might as well start getting used to it.

The weather was still beautiful and calm. As he walked through the town he tried to recall when they had last had an August this warm. But his mind kept turning back to the investigation, and not just during his waking hours. It haunted him in his sleep as well.

Last night he had dreamed of Barnso. He kept hearing her scream. When he woke up he was halfway out of bed, drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. It had taken him a long time to fall back to sleep.

He sat at the kitchen table for a while after he woke. It was still dark outside. He couldn't think of a time when he'd felt as helpless as he did at that moment. It wasn't just the fatigue caused by the little icebergs of sugar floating around in his blood. It also came from a feeling of having been overtaken by age. Was he really too old? He wasn't even 50.

He wondered if he was simply starting to crumble under the weight of all the responsibility and was now on a downward trajectory to a point where only fear remained. He was very close to making a new decision: to give up. To ask Holgersson to put someone else in charge.

The question was who to appoint in his place. Martinsson and Hansson both came to mind, but Wallander knew neither one of them was up to it. They would have to bring someone in from outside, which was not ideal. That would be like labelling themselves inadequate.

He didn't come to any conclusion. When he decided to go to the doctor it was in the hope that he'd hear the words that would free him, give him the chance to be forced to take leave on medical grounds.

But it turned out that Dr Goransson had no such plans for him. After telling Wallander that his blood sugar was still too high, that he was leaking sugar into his urine and had worryingly high blood pressure, he simply gave him a prescription for some medication and ordered him to make a radical change in his diet.

"We have to attack your symptoms from all sides," he said. "They're connected and have to be treated as such. But it's not going to be possible unless you take charge of your health."

He gave him the phone number of a dietician. Wallander left the office with the prescription in hand. It was a little after 8 a.m. and he knew he should go directly to the station, but he didn't feel ready. He went up to the cafe by the main square and had a cup of coffee, but this time he passed on the pastry.

What do I do now, he thought. I'm in charge of solving one of the most brutal serial killings in Sweden in years. Every police officer's eye is on me, since one of the victims was in the force. The press are hounding me. I'll probably be criticised by the victims' parents. Everyone expects me to find the killer in a few days and to have collected the kind of evidence against him that would make even the most hardened prosecutor weep. The only problem is that in reality I have nothing. Soon I'll gather my colleagues together and we'll start again. We aren't even close to anything like a breakthrough. What we're in is a vacuum.

He finished his coffee. A man was reading the paper at the next table. Wallander saw the big black headlines, and left the cafe in a hurry. Since he had time to spare, he decided to squeeze in an errand before returning to the station. He went to Vadergrand and rang the doorbell at Bror Sundelius's house. There was a chance that Sundelius didn't welcome surprise visits, but Wallander knew it would not be because he wasn't up yet.

The door opened. Even though it was only 8.30 a.m., Sundelius was dressed in a suit. The knot of his tie was an exercise in perfection. He opened the door wide without hesitation, invited Wallander in, and disappeared into the kitchen for coffee.

"I always keep the water hot," he said, "in case I have unexpected visitors. The last time that happened was about a year ago, of course, but you never know."

Wallander sat down on the sofa and pulled the cup towards him. Sundelius sat down across from him.

"Last time we spoke we were interrupted," Wallander said.

"The reason for that has become exceedingly clear," Sundelius replied dryly. "What kind of people do we let into this country anyway?"

His comment puzzled Wallander.

"There's no evidence that this was the work of an immigrant," he said. "Why would you think that?"

"It seems obvious to me," Sundelius said. "No Swede could have done anything like this."

He knew the best thing to do was to steer the conversation to safer ground. Sundelius did not seem like the kind of man who was easily swayed in his convictions. But Wallander couldn't keep himself from articulating his objections.

"Nothing points to a killer of foreign extraction. That much we know. Let's talk about Karl Evert instead. You knew him quite well?"

"He was always 'Kalle' to me."

"How long had you known each other?"

"Which day did he die?"

Wallander was puzzled again. "We haven't established that yet. Why?"

"If you had, I would have been able to give you an exact answer. Let me provisionally say that we knew each other 19 years, seven months, and around 15 days when he passed away so tragically. I have kept careful records my whole life. The only data I won't be able to record is the exact time of my own death, unless I commit suicide, which I have no plans to do. But my lawyer has instructions to burn all my notebooks when I die. They are of value only to me, not anyone else."

Wallander was starting to sense that Sundelius was one of these old people who did not get enough chances to talk to others. Wallander thought briefly of his father - one of the few people he had known who had been an exception to this rule.

"You were both interested in astronomy, is that correct?"

"That is correct."

"You don't have a Scanian accent. You moved here at some point?"

"I moved here from Vadstena on 12 May 1959. My furniture arrived on the 14th. I thought I would stay a few years, but it has been much longer than that."

Wallander cast his gaze hastily around the room. He didn't see any pictures of family. Sundelius wasn't wearing a ring.

"Are you married?"

"No."

"Divorced?"

"I'm a bachelor."

"Like Svedberg."

"Yes."

He might as well come right to the point. He still had a copy of the picture of Louise in his breast pocket. He took it out and laid it on the table.

"Have you ever seen this woman before?"

Sundelius put on some glasses after polishing the lenses with his handkerchief, and studied it carefully.

"Isn't that the same picture that was published in the paper the other day?"

"That's right."

"Members of the public were asked to call the police if they had any information regarding who she was."

Wallander nodded. Sundelius laid the photograph back on the table.

"So I should already have contacted you if I had known anything about her."

"Do you?"

"No. And I have a gift for faces. It's a necessity for a banker."

Wallander couldn't help himself. Why would bank directors need to have a gift for faces? He asked the question and got another long answer.

"There was a time when I was young when it was the only kind of credit information there was," Sundelius said. "That was before our society started recording its citizens' every move. We speak of before and after the birth of Christ, but it would be more accurate to speak of before and after the invention of personal identification numbers. When I was young, you had to make your decision on the spot. Was the person standing before you honest? Did he mean what he said? Did he have integrity, or was he a liar? I remember an old clerk in Vadstena who never gathered any credit reports on his clients, and this even after the regulations were tightened and it was easier to collect such information. However large the loan in question, he would simply study the person's face. And he was never wrong, not once over the course of his whole career. He rejected the scoundrels, and helped the honest and hardworking. Of course, he could never foresee a person's luck."

Wallander nodded and continued. "This woman has been connected with Kalle," he said. "According to reliable information, they saw each other for about ten years. Or, to be more precise, they had a relationship for ten years. Kalle remained a bachelor, but he was apparently involved with this woman for a very long time."

Sundelius froze with the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. When Wallander finished speaking, he slowly lowered it onto the saucer.

"That was not very reliable information," he said. "You're wrong."

"In what way?"

"In all ways. Kalle didn't have a girlfriend."

"We know these meetings took place in secret."

"They didn't take place at all."

Sundelius was sure of himself. But Wallander also sensed something else in the tone of his voice. At first he couldn't tell what it was. Then he realised that Sundelius was upset. He maintained his self-control, but an edge had crept into his voice.

"Let me make it clear that none of his colleagues nor anyone else knew about this woman," Wallander said. "Only one person knew about her. So we're all very surprised."

"Who knew about her?"

"I'd rather not tell you for now."

Sundelius looked at Wallander. There was something resolute and yet vacant in his gaze. But Wallander was sure: the indignation and irritation were there. It was not his imagination.

"Let us leave this unknown woman for a while," Wallander said. "How did you meet?"

Sundelius's manner was altered. Now his answers came reluctantly and without his previous fluency. He had been led into an area where he hadn't been expecting to go.

"We met in the home of mutual friends in Malmo."

"Is that what it says in your notebook?"

"I really don't know why the police would be interested in what my calendar does or does not say."

Now he's completely dismissive, Wallander thought. A photograph of an unknown woman changes everything. He continued carefully.

"But it was at that time that you started maintaining a friendship?"

Sundelius seemed to have realised that his new attitude was noticeable. He resumed his calm and friendly manner, but Wallander still felt his attention was elsewhere.

"We would study the night sky together. That was all."

"Where did you go?"

"Out into the countryside, where it's dark. Especially in the autumn. We would go to Fyledalen, among other places."

Wallander thought for a moment. "You were surprised when I first contacted you," he said. "You said you were surprised that I hadn't been in touch earlier, since Kalle didn't have many close friends. Did you count yourself among them?"

"I remember what I said."

"But now you describe a relationship based on a mutual interest in the night sky. Was that all it was?"

"Neither he nor I was the intrusive type."

"But it hardly qualifies you as a close friend, does it? Nor as the kind of friend we as his colleagues would have heard about."

"It was what it was."

No, Wallander thought. It wasn't. But I still don't know what it was.

"When was the last time you saw each other?"

"In the middle of July. The 16th, to be precise."

"You went to look at the stars?"

"We went out to Osterlen. It was a very clear night, although summer is not the best time."

"How was he?"

Sundelius looked at him blankly. "I don't understand the question."

"Was he his normal self? Did he say anything unexpected?"

"He was exactly as he always was. You don't talk much when you look at stars. At least we never did."

"And after that?"

"We didn't see each other again."

"Had you decided when you would see each other again?"

"He said he was going away for a few days and that he had a lot to do. We said we would be in touch in August, when he was due to take his holidays."

Wallander held his breath. Three days later Svedberg had gone to Barnso. What Sundelius had just said seemed to indicate that Svedberg had already decided to go. He'd said he had a lot to do, and that he was due to take his holiday in August, although he was actually in the middle of his holiday already.

Svedberg was lying, Wallander thought. Even to Sundelius, who was his friend, he had lied about the way he was spending his holiday. He didn't tell people at work either. For the first time Wallander felt that he was very close to a revelation. But he still didn't see what it could be.

Wallander thanked him for the coffee. Sundelius followed him to the door.

"I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again," Wallander said as he took his leave. Sundelius had completely regained his composure.

"I'd be grateful if you would let me know when the funeral is going to be."

Wallander promised him he would be notified. He walked along Vadergrand and sat down on a bench outside Cafe Backahasten. As he watched the ducks swimming in the pond, he went over his conversation with Sundelius. There were two moments of particular significance: one when Wallander had showed him the photograph, the other when he had realised that Svedberg was lying. He stayed with the photograph for a moment. It wasn't just the picture that had upset him; it was also the fact that Wallander had spoken of a ten-year love affair.

Perhaps it's that easy, he thought. Maybe there wasn't one love affair but two. Could Sundelius and Svedberg have had a relationship? Was there something to the rumour that Svedberg was gay? Wallander grabbed a handful of gravel and let it fall through his fingers. He still had doubts. The photograph was of a woman, and Sture Bjorklund was very sure of the fact that a woman called Louise had long been a part of Svedberg's life. That raised another important question. Why did Sture Bjorklund know about this woman when no one else did?

Wallander wiped off his hands and got up. He remembered the prescription, and stopped at a pharmacy to have it filled. When he took out the prescription slip, he noticed that his phone was turned off. He continued on to the station at a more rapid clip. His conversation with Sundelius had propelled him deeper into the investigation.

When Wallander walked through the station doors, Ebba told him that everyone was looking for him. He told her to tell people that they were meeting in half an hour. On his way to his office he bumped into Hansson.

"I was just coming to find you. Some results have come in from Lund."

"Can the pathologist give us a time of death?"

"It seems like it."

"Then let's have a look."

Wallander followed Hansson to his office. When they walked past Svedberg's office, he noticed to his surprise that the nameplate was already gone. His surprise turned into dismay, then anger.

"Who removed Svedberg's nameplate?"

"I don't know."

"Couldn't the bastards at least have waited until after the funeral?"

"The funeral is on Tuesday," Hansson said. "Lisa said that the minister of justice will be attending."

Wallander knew her from her TV appearances to be a very determined and self-confident woman. Right now her name escaped him. Hansson hastily brushed some racing forms off his desk and got out the pathologist's report. Wallander leaned against the wall while Hansson was rifling through the report.

"Here we are," he said finally.

"Let's start with Svedberg."

"He was hit with two shots from the front. Death was instantaneous."

"But when?" Wallander said impatiently. "Skip the rest unless it's important. I want a time."

"When you and Martinsson found him he couldn't have been dead more than 24 hours, and not less than ten."

"Are they sure? Or will they change their minds?"

"They seem sure. And just as sure that Svedberg was sober when he died."

"Were there speculations to the contrary?"

"I'm just stating what the report says. His last meal, taken a couple of hours before he died, was of yogurt."

"That suggests he died in the morning."

Hansson nodded. Everyone knew that Svedberg ate yogurt for breakfast. When he was forced to work a night shift he always put a container of yogurt in the fridge in the canteen.

"There it is," Wallander said.

"There's a lot more," Hansson continued. "Do you want the details?"

"I'll go over those myself later," Wallander said. "What does it say about the three young people?"

"That it's difficult to ascertain their time of death."

"We knew that already. But what's their conclusion?"

"Their tentative conclusion is that there needs to be further research done, but they don't rule out the possibility that the victims could have been killed as early as 21 June, Midsummer's Eve, with one stipulation."

"That the bodies weren't left out in the open air."

"Exactly. Of course, they're not sure."

"But I am. Now we can finally draw up a time frame. We'll start with that at the meeting."

"I haven't located the cars yet," Hansson said. "The killer must have disposed of them too somehow."

"Maybe he buried them as well," Wallander said. "Whatever he did with them, they have to be found as soon as possible."

He walked back to his office, got out his medication, and read the label. It was called Amaryl, and the instructions said to take it with food. Wallander wondered when he would have a chance to eat next. He got up with a heavy sigh and walked to the canteen, where he found some old biscuits on a plate. He managed to get them down and took his pills when he was finished.

He returned to his office, gathered up his papers, and went to the conference room. Just as Martinsson was about to close the door, Lisa Holgersson turned up with Thurnberg, the chief prosecutor, in tow. Wallander realised when he saw him that he hadn't really kept him informed of the investigation's progress. As might be expected, Thurnberg had a disapproving look on his face. He sat as far from Wallander as he could get.

Holgersson told them that Svedberg's funeral was to be held on Tuesday, 20 August, at 2 p.m.

She looked at Wallander. "I'll give a speech," she said. "So will the minister of justice and the national chief of police. But I wonder if one of you shouldn't also say a few words. I'm thinking especially of you, Kurt, since you've been here the longest."

Wallander held up his hands. "I can't give a speech," he said. "Standing in church next to Svedberg's coffin, I won't be able to get a single word out."

"You made a great speech when Bjork retired," Martinsson said. "One of us should say something, and it ought to be you."

Wallander knew he couldn't do it. Funerals terrified him.

"It's not that I don't want to do it," he said pleadingly. "I'll even write the speech. I'm just not going to be able to deliver it."

"I'll do it if you write it." Hoglund said. "I don't think anyone should be forced to speak at a funeral unless they want to. It can be so overwhelming. I can give the speech, unless anyone objects."

Wallander was sure that neither Hansson nor Martinsson actually thought this was the best solution. But neither one of them said so, and it was agreed that Hoglund would speak.

Wallander quickly turned the discussion to the case. Thurnberg sat motionless at his end of the table, an inscrutable expression on his face. His presence made Wallander nervous. There was something disdainful, even hostile, in his manner.

They went through the latest developments. Wallander gave them an abbreviated version of his conversation with Sundelius, completely leaving out Sundelius's reaction to hearing of Svedberg's ten-year relationship with an unknown woman.

Leads kept being phoned in to the station, but there were no credible reports about the woman's identity yet. Everyone agreed that this was unusual. They decided to send the picture to the Danish papers, as well as to Interpol. After a couple of hours, they reached the matter of the pathologist's report and Wallander suggested they take a short break. Thurnberg got up immediately and left the room. He hadn't said a single word. Lisa Holgersson lingered after the others had left.

"He doesn't seem very happy," Wallander said, referring to Thurnberg.

"No, I don't think he is," she answered. "I think you should talk to him. He thinks this is taking too long."

"We're working as hard as we can."

"But do we need reinforcements?"

"We'll discuss this issue, of course, but I can tell you right now that I for one am not going to oppose it."

His answer seemed to relieve her. He went out and got a cup of coffee. Then they all filed back into the room. Thurnberg returned to the same seat, his face as blank as before. They began to go through the autopsy report. Wallander sketched the possible time frame on the board.

"Svedberg was killed not more than 24 hours before we found him. Everything indicates that he was killed in the morning. As far as the young people go, it turns out that our hypothesis works better than we had imagined. It doesn't supply us with a motive or a killer, but it does tell us something significant."

He sat down before he continued. "These young people made the arrangement for their celebration in secret. They chose a place where they were sure they would be left alone. But someone knew about their plans. Someone kept himself incredibly well informed, and had the time to make meticulous preparations. We still have no motive for what happened in the nature reserve, but we have a killer who didn't give up until he had traced the only remaining survivor of this night and killed her too. Isa Edengren. He knew she fled to Barnso, and he found her out there among all those islands. This gives us a place to start. We're looking for a person who knew about the plans for the Midsummer celebration. Someone close to the source."

No one spoke for a long time.

"Where do we find this person who had access to so much information?" Wallander said. "That's where we have to start. If we do, then sooner or later we'll find out where Svedberg fits into the picture."

"We already have," Hansson said. "We know he started his investigation only a few days after Midsummer."

"I think we can say more than that," Wallander said. "I think Svedberg had a definite suspicion who killed, or was about to kill, the young people in the reserve."

"Why did the killer wait so long to kill Isa Edengren?" Martinsson asked. "He took more than a month to do it."

"We don't know why," Wallander agreed. "She wasn't particularly hard to find."

"And one more thing," Martinsson added. "Why did he dig up the bodies? Did he want them to be discovered?"

"There's no other explanation," Wallander said. "But it raises another set of questions about what motivates this killer. And in what way he and Svedberg had anything to do with each other."

Wallander sat back and looked at everyone gathered around the table.

Svedberg knew what had happened to the young people when they didn't return after Midsummer, he thought. Svedberg knew who the killer was, or at least had a very strong suspicion. That's why he was killed. There just isn't any other explanation. Which brings us to the most important question of all. Why didn't he want to tell us who the killer was?

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Shortly after 2 p.m., Wallander asked Martinsson a question regarding a call that had come in from a man who had a news-stand in Solvesborg. This man had stopped at Hagestad's nature reserve on the afternoon of Midsummer's Eve on his way to a party in Falsterbo. He had realised he was going to be too early, and had stopped to take a break. He thought he remembered two cars parked at the entrance. But Wallander never heard what additional details the man remembered. When he finished asking Martinsson his question, he fainted.

One moment he was waving his pencil in Martinsson's direction. The next he fell back in his chair, his chin to his chest. For a split second no one knew what had happened. Then Holgersson and Hoglund reacted almost simultaneously, before the others. Hansson later confessed that he had thought Wallander had had a stroke and died. What the rest of them thought, or feared, he never heard. They dragged him out of the chair and laid him out on the floor, loosened his collar, and took his pulse. Someone grabbed a phone and called an ambulance. But Wallander came to before it arrived. As they helped him to his feet, he was already thinking that his blood-sugar level must have dropped. He drank some water and took some lumps of sugar from a tray on the table. He was starting to feel his normal self again.

Everyone around him looked worried. They thought he should go down to the hospital for an examination or at the very least go home and rest. But Wallander didn't want to do either. He excused the episode as due to lack of sleep and then returned to the matter at hand with such determined energy the others had to back down.

The only one who didn't show signs of either worry or fear was Thurnberg. He hardly had any reaction at all. He stood up when Wallander was laid on the ground, but he didn't leave his place. No one really noticed a significant shift in expression either.

When they took a break Wallander went to his office and called Dr Goransson, and told him about the fainting episode. Dr Goransson did not seem surprised.

"Your blood-sugar level will continue to fluctuate," he said. "It'll take us a while to get it stabilised. We may have to reduce your medication if it keeps happening, but until then keep an apple handy in case you get dizzy."

After that day Wallander walked around with lumps of sugar in his pocket, as if he were expecting to see a horse. He didn't tell anyone about his diabetes. It was still his secret.

The meeting dragged on until 5 p.m., but by then they had managed to go through every aspect of the investigation thoroughly. There was a new infusion of energy in the room. They decided to call for reinforcements from Malmo, although Wallander knew that it was the people gathered around the table who would remain the core members of the investigative team.

Thurnberg remained behind after everyone had filed out of the room, and Wallander realised he must want to have a word with him. As he made his way to the other side of the table, he thought regretfully of Per Akeson, who was somewhere under an African sun.

"I've been expecting a debriefing for quite a while," Thurnberg said. His voice was high-pitched and always sounded on the verge of cracking.

"We should have done this earlier, of course," Wallander said in a friendly tone. "But the direction of the investigation has shifted dramatically over the last couple of days."

Thurnberg ignored Wallander's last comment. "In the future I expect to be continuously apprised of the situation without having to ask. The justice department is naturally very interested when a police officer is killed."

Wallander felt no need to answer. He waited for him to continue.

"The investigation up to this point can hardly be called successful or even as thorough as one would hope," Thurnberg said, gesturing to a long list of points he had written on a pad of paper in front of him. Wallander felt as if he was back at school being told he had failed a test.

"If the criticisms are warranted we'll take the steps necessary to remedy the situation," he said.

He tried hard to sound calm and friendly, but he knew he would be unable to conceal his anger much longer. Who did this visiting prosecutor from Orebro think he was? How old was he? He couldn't be more than 33.

"I'll see to it that you have my list of complaints about the handling of the case on your desk tomorrow morning," Thurnberg said. "I'll be expecting a written response from you."

Wallander stared back at him quizzically. "Do you really mean you want us to waste time writing letters to each other while a killer who's committed five brutal murders is still running around out there?"

"What I mean is that the investigation so far has not been satisfactory."

Wallander hit the table with his fist and got up so violently that the chair fell to the ground. "There are no perfect investigations!" he roared. "But no one is going to accuse me or my colleagues of not having done everything that we can."

Thurnberg's expression finally changed. His face drained of all colour.

"Go ahead and send me your little note," Wallander said. "If you are right, we'll do as you say. But don't expect me to write you any letters in reply."

Wallander left the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

Hoglund was on her way into her office and turned around when she heard the noise.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

"It's Thurnberg," Wallander said. "The bastard's whining about the investigation."

"Why?"

"He doesn't think we're thorough enough. How could we possibly have done more?"

"He probably just wants to show you who's boss."

"In that case he's picked the wrong man."

Wallander went into her office and sat down heavily in her visitor's chair.

"What happened in there?" she asked. "When you fainted."

"I haven't been sleeping well," he said, dodging her question. "But I feel fine now."

He got the same feeling he had when he was in Gotland with Linda. She didn't believe him either. Martinsson poked his head round the door.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"No, it's good that you're here," Wallander said. "We should talk. Where's Hansson?"

"He's working on the cars."

"He should be here too," Wallander said. "But you'll have to fill him in later."

He gestured to Martinsson to close the door, then told them about his conversation with Sundelius, and his feeling that Svedberg might have been gay after all.

"Not that it matters one way or the other," he added. "Police officers are allowed to have whatever sexual orientation they like. The reason I'm not going public with this is that I don't want to start unnecessary rumours. Since Svedberg didn't talk about his sexuality while he was alive, I don't see the need for public speculation now that he's dead."

"It complicates this matter with Louise," Martinsson said.

"He may have been a man of many interests. But what is it that Sundelius knows? I had a strong feeling that he wasn't telling me everything. That means we have to dig deeper into both their lives. Are there other secrets? We have to do the same thing with these young people. Somewhere there's a point of intersection. A person who is a shadow to us right now, but who is there just the same."

"I have a vague recollection that someone lodged a complaint against Svedberg with the justice department's ombudsman a number of years ago," Martinsson said. "I forget what it was about."

"We should look into it, like everything else," Wallander said. "I thought we could divide these things up. I'll take Svedberg and Sundelius. I also have to talk to Bjorklund again, since he's the only one who knows anything about Louise."

"It's incomprehensible that no one's seen her," said Hoglund.

"It's not just incomprehensible," Wallander said. "It's an impossibility. We just have to find out why."

"Haven't we gone a little easy on Bjorklund?" Martinsson asked. "After all, we found Svedberg's telescope at his house."

"He's innocent until proven guilty," Wallander said. "It's a hackneyed phrase, but there's some truth to it."

He got up. "Remember to tell Hansson about this," he said and left the room.

It was 5.30 p.m. and he hadn't eaten anything all day except the dry old biscuits in the canteen. The thought of going home and cooking a meal was too overwhelming. Instead he went down to the Chinese restaurant on the main square. He drank a beer while he was waiting. Then another. When the food came he ate too fast, as usual. He was about to order dessert when he stopped himself, and headed home. It was another warm evening and he opened the door to the balcony. He tried to call Linda three times, then gave up. Her phone was constantly busy. He was too tired to think. The TV was on, with the sound down. He lay down on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. Shortly before 9 p.m. the phone rang. It was Lisa Holgersson.

"I think we have a problem," she said. "Thurnberg spoke to me after your argument."

Wallander grimaced, sensing what she was about to say. "Thurnberg was probably upset because I shouted at him. I made a lot of noise, thumped my fist on the table, that sort of thing."

"It's worse than that," she said. "He says you're not fit to be in charge of the investigation."

That came as a surprise. Wallander hadn't thought Thurnberg would go so far. He should have felt angry, but instead he was frightened. It was one thing to question your own abilities, but had it never occurred to him that someone else might do so.

"What were his reasons?"

"Mostly things to do with the running of the investigation. He's particularly concerned about the fact that he's been kept so poorly informed."

Wallander protested. What more could they have done?

"I'm just telling you what he said. He also thinks it was a serious lapse of judgment not to contact the police in Norrkoping before you went up to Ostergotland. He questions the validity of the trip itself, in fact."

"But what about the fact that I found Isa?"

"He thinks the police in Norrkoping could have done that, while you were down here leading the team, and he seems to imply that she might have lived if this had been the case."

"That's absurd," Wallander said flatly. "I hope that's what you told him."

"There's one last thing," she said. "Your health."

"I'm not sick."

"Look, you fainted right in front of everyone. In the middle of a meeting."

"That could happen to anyone who is overworked."

"I'm telling you what he said."

"But what did you say to him?"

"That I would speak to you. And consider it."

Suddenly Wallander felt unsure of her opinion. Could he still assume she was on his side? His suspicion flared up in an instant, and it was strong.

"So now you've talked to me," he said. "What do you think?"

"What do you think?"

"That Thurnberg is an annoying little man who doesn't like me or any of the others. Which is mutual, by the way. I think he looks on his time here simply as a springboard to greater things."

"That's hardly an objective statement."

"But true. I believe I did the right thing in going up to Barnso Island. The investigation here continued just the same. There was no reason to notify the police in Norrkoping because no crime had been committed, nor was there any reason to assume one would occur. On the contrary, there was every reason in the world to keep things quiet. Isa Edengren could easily have become even more frightened."

"Thurnberg understands all that," she said. "And I agree with you that he can seem very arrogant. What seems to worry him most is your health."

"I don't think he's worried about anyone but himself. The day I'm no longer up to leading the investigation I promise you'll be the first to know."

"I suppose Thurnberg will have to accept that as his answer for now. But it might be best if you kept him better informed from now on."

"It's going to be hard for me to trust him in the future," Wallander said. "I can stand a lot of things, but I hate it when people go behind my back."

"He hasn't gone behind your back. Telling me about his concerns was the right thing to do."

"No one can force me to like him."

"That's not what this is about. But I think he's going to react to any signs of weakness from now on."

"What the hell do you mean by that?"

The sudden flare of anger came from nowhere, and Wallander didn't manage to control it.

"You don't have to get upset. I'm just telling you what's happened."

"We have five murders to solve," Wallander said. "And a killer who's cold-blooded and well-organised. There are no apparent motives and we don't know if he's going to strike again. One of the victims was a close colleague. You have to assume people are going to get a little upset. This investigation isn't exactly a tea party."

She laughed. "I haven't heard that expression used before in this context."

"Just so you understand where I'm coming from," Wallander said. "That's all."

"I wanted to let you know about this as soon as possible."

"I know, I'm grateful that you did."

When the conversation was over, Wallander went back to the sofa. His suspicions still hadn't left him, and he was already plotting how he would get even with Thurnberg. Perhaps it was out of self-defence, perhaps self-pity. The thought of being relieved of his responsibilities frightened him. Being in charge of an investigation like this meant being under an almost unbearable strain, but the thought of humiliation was worse.

Wallander felt a great desire to talk to someone, anyone who could give him the kind of moral support he needed. It was 9.15 p.m. Who could he call? Martinsson or Hoglund? Most of all he wanted to talk to Rydberg, but he lay in his grave and couldn't speak. He thought of Nyberg. They never really talked about private matters, but Wallander knew Nyberg would understand. His irascible and outspoken nature was an advantage in this situation. Above all, Wallander knew Nyberg respected his abilities. He doubted that Nyberg would be able to stand working under anyone else.

Wallander dialled Nyberg's home number. As usual he answered the phone in an irritable voice. Wallander often said to Martinsson that he'd never heard Nyberg sound friendly on the phone.

"We need to talk," Wallander said.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing to do with the case. But I need to see you."

"Can't it wait?"

"No."

"I can be at the station in 15 minutes."

"Let's meet somewhere else. I thought we could go out and have a beer."

"We're going to a bar? What's this all about?"

"Do you have any suggestions where we could go?"

"I never go out," Nyberg said dismissively. "At least not in Ystad."

"There's a new restaurant and bar by the main square," Wallander said. "By the antiques shop. I'll see you there."

"Do I have to wear a suit and tie?"

"I can't imagine you would," Wallander answered.

Nyberg promised to be there in half an hour. Wallander changed his shirt, then left the flat on foot. There weren't many people in the restaurant. When he asked, they told him it closed at 11 p.m. He realised he was quite hungry, flipped through the menu, and was shocked by the prices. Who could afford to eat out any more? But he wanted to treat Nyberg to something to eat.

Nyberg arrived in exactly half an hour. He was dressed in a suit and tie, and had even slicked his normally wayward hair down with water. The suit was a little old and looked too big. Nyberg sat down across from Wallander.

"I had no idea there was a restaurant here," he said.

"It opened fairly recently," Wallander answered. "Five or so years ago. Let me treat you to something."

"I'm not hungry," Nyberg said.

"Then have a starter," Wallander said

"I'll leave it up to you" Nyberg said and pushed his menu away.

They had a couple of beers while they waited for the food to arrive. Wallander told him about his conversation with Holgersson. He recounted it in detail, but he also added the things he had thought and not said.

"It doesn't sound like the kind of thing you should pay much attention to," Nyberg said when Wallander had finished. "But I understand why it upset you. Internal disputes are the last thing we need right now."

Wallander pretended to take Thurnberg's side for a moment. "Do you think maybe he's right? Should someone else take charge?"

"Who would that be?"

"Martinsson?"

Nyberg stared back at him in disbelief. "You're joking."

"What about Hansson?"

"Maybe in ten years. But this is the worst case we've ever had. That's not a good time to suddenly weaken the leadership of the investigation."

The food appeared on the table and Wallander kept talking about Thurnberg. But Nyberg gave only one-word answers and offered no further comments. At last Wallander realised he was going too far. Nyberg was right. There was nothing more to say. If necessary, Nyberg would back him up. A couple of years earlier Wallander had taken up the matter of his unreasonable workload with Holgersson, soon after she had replaced Bjork as chief of police. Nyberg's situation improved after that. They had never talked about it, but Wallander was sure Nyberg knew the part he had played in the matter.

Nyberg was right. They shouldn't waste any more of their energy on Thurnberg, but save it for more pressing matters. They ordered more beers and were told it was the last round. Wallander asked Nyberg if he wanted coffee, but he declined.

"I have more than 20 cups a day," he said. "To keep my energy up. Actually, maybe just to keep going."

"Police work wouldn't be possible without coffee," Wallander said.

"No work would be possible without coffee."

They pondered the importance of coffee in silence. Some people at a nearby table got up and left.

"I don't think I've ever been involved in anything quite as strange as these murders," Nyberg said suddenly.

"Neither have I. It's senseless brutality. I can't imagine a motive."

"It could simply be for the love of killing," Nyberg said. "A killer with a lust for blood who carefully plans and arranges his crimes."

"You may be right," Wallander said. "But how did Svedberg get onto him so fast? That's what I can't understand."

"There's only one rational explanation, which is that Svedberg knew whoever it was. Or had a definite suspicion. Then the question of why he didn't want to tell anyone about this becomes crucial, perhaps the most important question of all."

"Could it be that it was someone we know?"

"Not necessarily. There's another possibility. Not that Svedberg knew who it was, or that he had definite suspicions, but that he feared it was someone he knew."

Wallander saw the logic of Nyberg's statement. To suspect someone and to fear something were not necessarily the same thing.

"That would explain the need for secrecy," Nyberg continued. "He's afraid the killer is someone he knows, but he's not sure. He wants to be convinced before he tells us about it, and he wants to be able to bury the whole thing in silence if his fears turn out to be mistaken."

Wallander watched Nyberg attentively. He was seeing a connection that had not been apparent to him earlier.

"Let's assume that Svedberg hears about the disappearance of the young people," he said. "Let's assume that he is driven by fear that is grounded in a reasonable suspicion. Let's even assume that he knows he's right and that he knows who is responsible for their disappearance. He doesn't even have to know they're dead."

"It isn't very likely that he knew," Nyberg said. "Since he would then have felt compelled to come clean. I can't imagine that Svedberg would have been able to carry a burden like that."

Wallander nodded. Nyberg was right.

"So he doesn't know they're dead," he said. "But he has strong fears and enough conviction to confront this particular person. Then what?"

"He's killed."

"The scene of the crime is hastily rearranged, so that our first thought was that there had been a burglary. And something's missing: the telescope. Which is then hidden in Sture Bjorklund's shed."

"The door," Nyberg said. "I'm convinced that the killer was let into Svedberg's flat. Or maybe even had his own set of keys."

"It must be someone he knows, someone who's been there before."

"Someone who knows he has a cousin. The killer tries to push the blame onto him, by planting the telescope at Bjorklund's place."

The waitress came over with the bill, but Wallander was reluctant to end their conversation.

"What's the common denominator? We really have only two people in the picture: Bror Sundelius and an unknown woman by the name of Louise."

Nyberg shook his head. "A woman didn't commit these murders," he said. "Although we said the same thing a couple of years ago and were proved wrong."

"It can hardly have been Bror Sundelius either," Wallander said. "His legs are bad. There's nothing wrong with his mind, but his health isn't the best."

"Then it's someone we still don't know about," Nyberg said. "Svedberg must have had other people he was close to."

"I'm going to go back a little," Wallander said. "Tomorrow I'm going to start searching Svedberg's life."

"That's probably the right way to do it," Nyberg agreed. "I'll check on the results of our forensic tests, especially the fingerprinting. Hopefully that'll tell us more."

"The weapons," Wallander said. "They're important."

"Wester in Ludvika is very pleasant," Nyberg said. "I'm getting full cooperation."

Wallander pulled the bill towards him. Nyberg wanted to split it with him.

"We could try to put it on the expense account," Wallander said.

"You'll never get this through," Nyberg said.

Wallander felt around for his wallet. It wasn't there. Suddenly he saw it in his mind's eye, lying on the kitchen table.

"I still want to treat you, but it seems I've left my wallet at home."

Nyberg took out his wallet and counted out 200 kronor. But the bill was almost twice that.

"There's a cashpoint around the corner," Wallander said.

"I don't use cards like that," Nyberg said firmly.

The waitress, who had turned the lights on and off several times, approached them. They were the only people left. Nyberg showed her his ID, which she regarded sceptically.

"We don't let guests have tabs here," she said.

"We're police officers," Wallander said angrily. "I just happen to have left my wallet at home."

"We don't give credit," she said. "If you can't pay I'll have to report you."

"Report us to who?"

"The police."

Wallander almost lost his temper, but Nyberg restrained him. "This could get interesting."

"Are you paying or not?" the waitress asked.

"I think you should call the police," Wallander said pleasantly.

The waitress walked off and made the call, making sure to lock the front door first.

"They're on their way," she said. "You'll have to stay until then."

They waited five minutes, then a police car pulled up outside and two officers got out. One of them was Edmundsson. He stared at Wallander and Nyberg.

"We seem to have a little problem," Wallander said. "I've left my wallet at home and Nyberg doesn't have enough cash to cover the bill. This lady doesn't give credit, nor was she impressed by Nyberg's ID."

Edmundsson took this in, then burst into laughter. "What's the bill?" he asked.

"It's 400 kronor."

He took out his wallet and paid.

"It's not my fault," the waitress said. "My boss says we should never give credit."

"Who owns this place?" Nyberg asked.

"His name's Fredriksson. Alf Fredriksson."

"Is he a big man?" Nyberg asked. "Does he live in Svarte?"

The waitress nodded.

"Then I know him," Nyberg said. "Nice man. Say hello to him from Nyberg and Wallander."

The squad car was already gone when they walked out onto the street.

"This is the strangest August I've ever known," Nyberg said. "It's already the 15th and it's still warm."

They parted ways when they got to Hamngatan.

"We just don't know if he's going to strike again," Wallander said. "That's the worst thing."

"That's why we have to get him," Nyberg said. "As fast as we can."

Wallander walked home slowly. He was inspired by his talk with Nyberg but felt no real peace of mind. He didn't want to admit it, but Thurnberg's reaction and his conversation with Holgersson had depressed him. Was he being unfair to Thurnberg? Was he right? Should someone else be in charge of this investigation?

When Wallander got home he put on a pot of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. The thermometer outside the window read 19degC. Wallander got out a pad of paper and a pencil, then looked for his glasses, and found a pair under the sofa.

Coffee cup in hand, he found himself walking around the kitchen table a couple of times as if to coax himself into the right frame of mind for the task ahead. He had never written a speech in memory of a murdered colleague before. Now he regretted having agreed to do it. How did you describe the feeling of finding your colleague with his face blown off in his flat only one week earlier?

Finally he sat down and got started. He could still remember when he first met Svedberg, 20 years earlier, when Svedberg had already begun to bald. He was halfway through when he tore everything up and started again. It was after 1 a.m. when he'd finished. This time it was good enough.

He walked out onto the balcony. The town was quiet, and it was still quite warm. He recalled his conversation with Nyberg and let his mind wander. Suddenly the image of Isa Edengren was there, curled up in the cave that had protected her as a child but no longer could. Wallander went back in, leaving the door to the balcony open. There was a thought that wouldn't go away. That the man out there in the darkness was preparing to strike again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It had been a long day. There were many packages, certified letters, and international money orders. He wasn't done with the bookkeeping until it was almost 2 p.m.

His old self would have been irritated by the fact that the work took longer than expected. Now it didn't affect him any more. The enormous change he'd undergone had made him impervious to time. He realised there was no such thing as past or future. There was no time that could be lost or won. The only thing that counted was action.

He put away his postbag and cashbox, then showered and changed his clothes. He hadn't eaten since early that morning, before he'd driven to the depot to start sorting his post. But he wasn't hungry. This was a feeling that he remembered from his childhood. When something exciting lay in store for him, he lost his appetite. He went into the soundproofed room and turned on all the lights. He'd made the bed before leaving that morning, and now he spread the letters out over the dark-blue bedspread. He sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed. He had read these letters before. That was the first step, to pick out letters that caught his eye. He opened them carefully, without doing any damage to the envelope. He copied them and then he read them. He didn't know exactly how many letters he had opened, copied and read this past year. It must have been close to 200. Most of them were nothing special. They were vacuous, boring. It wasn't until he had opened the letter from Lena Norman to Martin Boge . . .

He interrupted the thought. That was over and done with. He didn't need to think about them any more. The last phase had been so difficult and tiring. First there was the trip to Ostergotland, then he had hunted around for a suitable boat in the darkness, one that was big enough to take him to the little island at the far edge of the archipelago.

It had been a bothersome undertaking, and he hadn't liked having to put in the extra effort. It meant overcoming his own resistance, something he tried to avoid. He looked at the letters spread around him on the bed. Choosing a couple that were planning to get married had not occurred to him until sometime in May. The idea came to him by chance, like so much else in life. During his years as an engineer, chance had not been allowed in his orderly existence. Now everything had changed. The interplay of luck and coincidence meant a person's life was a steady stream of unexpected opportunities. He could pick and choose what he wanted.

The little raised flag on the letter box told him nothing. But when he knocked on the door and entered the kitchen, he found more than a hundred invitations lying on the table. The bride-to-be let him in. He could no longer remember her name, but he remembered her joy, and it enraged him. He took her letters and posted them, and if he hadn't been so embroiled in complicated plans for participating in the upcoming Midsummer celebration he would perhaps have become involved in her wedding.

New opportunities kept presenting themselves. All six envelopes in front of him were wedding invitations. He had read their letters, got to know each couple. He knew where they lived, what they looked like, and where they were to be married. The invitations in front of him were merely printed cards, there to remind him of the different couples.

Now he faced his most important task, deciding which of the couples was the happiest. He went through the envelopes one by one, reminding himself of other letters that they had written, to each other or their friends. He savoured the moment, suffused with contentment. He was in charge. In this soundproofed room he could not be touched by the things that had made him suffer in his earlier life - the feeling of being an outsider and being misunderstood. In here he could bear to think about the great catastrophe, when he was shut out and declared superfluous.

Nothing was hard any more. Or almost nothing. He still couldn't bear to think about how he had subjected himself to humiliation for more than two years. He had answered ads in the paper, sent in his CV, gone to countless interviews.

That was before he cut himself off from his former existence and left everything behind. Becoming another.

He knew he was one of the lucky ones. Today he would never have got a job as a substitute postman. There were blocks to most professions. People were laid off. He noticed this as he went along his post route. People sat in their houses waiting for letters. More and more of them ended up on the outside and had not yet learned how to break free.

He finally picked the couple getting married on Saturday, 17 August, at their home just outside Kopingebro. They had invited a lot of people. He couldn't even remember how many invitations they had given him. But both of them had been standing there when he came in through the door, and their happiness seemed limitless. He could have killed them on the spot. But as usual he controlled himself. He congratulated them, and no one could have guessed what he was really thinking.

It was the most important art a person could learn: self-control.

On Friday morning, Wallander began the task of mapping out Svedberg's life in earnest. He arrived at the station shortly after 7 a.m. and went about his task with some reluctance. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but somewhere in Svedberg's life there had to be a point leading to the reason for his murder. It was like trying to find a trace of life in a person who had already died.

What interested him most this morning was a man called Jan Soderblom, who Ylva Brink said knew Svedberg when he was young, during his days of compulsory military service and police training. The connection was severed when Soderblom married and moved away, she thought to Malmo or Landskrona. What interested Wallander was that Soderblom had become a police officer just like Svedberg. He was about to call the station in Malmo when Nyberg appeared at the door. Wallander could tell from his expression that something was up.

"Things are happening," Nyberg said and waved some faxes at him. "We can start with the murder weapons, if you like. Turns out the revolver stolen in Ludvika along with the shotgun could have been the same as the one in the nature reserve."

"Could have been?"

"In my language that means it's the one."

"Good," Wallander said. "We needed that."

"Then there are the fingerprints," Nyberg continued. "We found a good right thumbprint on the shotgun. We found another good thumbprint on a wineglass out in the reserve."

"Same thumb?"

"Yes."

"Previous record?"

"Not in our files. But we're going to send that thumbprint all around the world if we have to."

"So it is the same man," Wallander said slowly. "At least we know that much."

"There were no fingerprints on the telescope, however, other than Svedberg's own."

"Does that mean he hid it at Bjorklund's place himself?"

"Not necessarily. The person could have been wearing gloves."

"We have this thumbprint on the shotgun," Wallander said. "But what about in Svedberg's flat in general? We have to know who created that chaos, if it was Svedberg or someone else. Or both."

"We'll have to wait on that, but they're working on it."

Wallander got up and leaned against the wall. He felt that there was more to this.

"We found none of Svedberg's prints on the shotgun," Nyberg said. "That may or may not mean anything."

"We've come a long way," Wallander said. "We have a single killer."

"Maybe we should notify the chief prosecutor," Nyberg said, smiling. "That might cheer him up."

"Or not. We're not living up to our bad reputation. But we'll make sure he gets his report."

Nyberg left the room and Wallander grabbed the phone, called Malmo and asked to speak to Officer Jan Soderblom. Sure enough there was a detective by that name who worked mainly on theft cases, but he was on holiday on a Greek island until the following Wednesday. Wallander left a message that he wanted to speak to him as soon as possible. He also made a note of Soderblom's home phone number. He had just hung up when Hoglund knocked on the half-open door. She held his speech about Svedberg in her hands.

"I've read it," she said. "And I think it's honest and moving. I suppose those two things always go together. No one's touched simply by empty talk of eternity and light conquering the darkness."

"It's not too long?" Wallander asked anxiously.

"I read it aloud to myself and it took less than five minutes. I don't usually speak at funerals, but I think it's just the right length."

She was about to slip out again when Wallander told her Nyberg's news.

"That's a huge step forward," she said when he had finished. "If we could only find the person or people who stole the guns."

"It'll be hard, but of course we'll try. I was wondering if it wouldn't be worth it to put pictures of the guns in the papers. Both the revolver and the shotgun."

"There's a press conference at 11 a.m.," she said. "Lisa has been overrun by the press lately. Maybe we should tell them about the weapons. What do we really have to lose by telling them there's a connection between the two cases? It'll be murder on a scale this country hasn't seen for a long time."

"You're right," Wallander said. "I'll be there."

She lingered in the doorway. "Then there's the elusive Louise," she said. "Whom no one seems to have seen. There have been a lot of calls but nothing reliable."

"That's strange," Wallander said. "But someone somewhere knows her. We talked about trying Denmark."

"Why not all of Europe?"

"Yes," he agreed. "Why not? But let's start with Denmark and let's do it now, as soon as possible."

"I'm on my way to Lund to go through Lena Norman's flat," she said. "But I'll ask Hansson to do it."

"Not Hansson," Wallander said. "He's still working on finding the cars. There has to be someone else who can do it."

"We're going to need those reinforcements," Hoglund said. "Lisa says some people are arriving from Malmo this afternoon."

"We need Svedberg," Wallander said. "That's what it is. We just aren't used to not having him around."

They were silent for a while after this; then she left. Wallander opened the window. It was still warm, and there was only a gentle breeze. The phone rang. It was Ebba. She sounded tired, and Wallander thought how much she had seemed to age during the last few years. Before, she had always helped them keep their spirits up. Now she was often down herself, and sometimes she forgot to pass along their messages. She was due to retire next summer, but no one could bring themselves to think about it.

"There's a call here from an officer called Larsson. He says he's from the police in Valdemarsvik" she told him. "Can you take it? Everyone else is busy."

Larsson spoke with an Ostgota dialect.

"Harry Lundstrom from Norrkoping told us to inform you about anything stolen around Gryt on the day that girl was shot out on Barnso Island."

"That's right."

"We may have something that will interest you, stolen from Snackvarp. The owner can't say exactly when, because he wasn't there when it happened. But it was found in an inlet just south of Snackvarp. It's a six-metre fibreglass boat with a raised steering platform."

Wallander felt his usual insecurity in discussing boats.

"Is it big enough to take out to Barnso?"

"If the wind wasn't too strong it could take you all the way out to Gotland."

Wallander thought for a moment. "Any fingerprints?" he asked.

"We've checked," Larsson said. "There was oil on the steering wheel so we found a couple of good prints there. They're already on their way over to you, via Norrkoping. Harry is the one in charge of the whole thing."

"Was there a road near where the boat was found?" Wallander asked.

"The boat was hidden in a mass of reeds. But you can walk to Snackvarp in about ten minutes and there's a dirt road from there."

"This is important," Wallander said.

"How are things going? Are you closing in on the killer?"

"Yes, but these things take time."

"I never met the girl, but I had a run-in with Edengren a couple of years ago."

"Oh, what happened?"

"Illegal fishing. He was putting nets and eel traps in other people's water."

"Isn't it free fishing out there?"

"It varies. Not that he bothered to find out. If I may speak plainly, I thought he was a royal pain in the arse. But of course I feel sorry for him now, with the girl and all."

"Was that it? Illegal fishing?"

"As far as I know."

Wallander thanked him for the call. Then he tried to reach Harry Lundstrom in Norrkoping, and was directed to his mobile phone. Lundstrom was in a car somewhere out in Vikboland. Wallander told him they had a positive ID on the murder weapon from the reserve, and that they would soon know about the gun used on Barnso Island. Lundstrom in turn told him they weren't sure of any prints found on the island, but he assumed the stolen boat in Snackvarp was the one the killer had used.

"People out here on the islands are getting worried," he said. "You have to get this man."

"Yes," Wallander said. "Yes, we do. And we will."

He went and got a cup of coffee when he was done with the conversation. It was already 9.30 a.m. Something occurred to him, and he went back to his office and looked up the number for the Lundberg family in Skarby. The wife answered. Wallander realised he hadn't spoken to them since Isa was murdered, and so he began by offering her his condolences.

"Erik is still in bed," she said. "He doesn't have the energy to get up. He says we should sell the house and move away. Who could do something like this to a child?"

Isa was like a daughter to her, Wallander thought. I should have thought of it earlier.

He couldn't really answer her question, but he sensed that she held him responsible for Isa's death.

"I called to see if her parents have come home," he said.

"They came back last night."

"That was all I wanted to know," he said. He expressed his regrets once again and then hung up.

He planned to drive out to Skarby immediately after the press conference. He wanted to go right away, but there wasn't time. He picked up the phone and called Thurnberg. Without mentioning what he had heard the previous night, he gave him a short update on the latest findings from the forensic investigation. Wallander concluded by stressing that the findings meant they could now concentrate on searching for a single killer. Thurnberg said he looked forward to seeing the written report, and Wallander promised to send him a copy.

"There will be a press conference at 11 a.m.," Wallander said. "I think we should reveal these latest findings to the press and have pictures of the guns published."

"Do we have any pictures of them available now?"

"We'll get them tomorrow at the latest." Thurnberg made no objections, and said he would participate in the press conference. They kept the conversation brief, but Wallander noticed by the end that he had broken into a sweat.

They held the press conference in the largest room available. Wallander couldn't remember another case ever getting so much attention. As usual he got terribly nervous when he walked up to the podium. To his surprise, Thurnberg began. That had never happened in all the years he had worked there. Per Akeson always let Wallander or the chief of police take on that task. Thurnberg spoke as if he was accustomed to speaking to the press. It's a new era, Wallander thought. He wasn't sure that he didn't feel a tiny bit envious. He listened carefully to what Thurnberg said, and couldn't deny that he expressed himself well.

Next it was his turn to speak. He had made some notes on a piece of paper to remind himself of what to say, but now, naturally, couldn't find it. He told them they had traced the murder weapons to Ludvika, with a possible link to a robbery in Orsa. He also told them that they were still waiting for a positive ID on the weapon used on Barnso Island in the Ostergotland archipelago. As he spoke he thought of Westin, the postman who had taken him out to the island. Why he thought of him at that moment he couldn't say. He also talked about the findings regarding the stolen boat. When he finished, there were many questions. Thurnberg handled most of them, with Wallander jumping in from time to time. Martinsson was listening to the proceedings from the very back of the room.

Finally a woman from one of the evening papers indicated that she wanted to ask a question. Wallander had never seen her before.

"Would it be accurate to say that the police have no leads at this time?" she said, turning directly to Wallander.

"We have many leads," Wallander said. "We're just not close to making an arrest."

"It seems to me that the police investigation hasn't yielded any results. It seems more than likely that this killer will strike again. After all, I think it's clear to all of us that we're dealing with a madman."

"We don't know that," Wallander answered. "That's why we're keeping our approach as comprehensive as we can."

"That sounds like a strategy," the reporter said. "But it could also give the impression that you don't know where to turn, that you're helpless."

Wallander glanced at Thurnberg, who encouraged him to continue with an almost invisible nod of his head.

"The police are never helpless," Wallander said. "If we were, we wouldn't be police officers."

"Don't you agree that you're looking for a madman?"

"No."

"What else could this person be?"

"We don't know yet."

"Do you think you'll catch whoever did this?"

"Yes, without a doubt."

"Will he strike again?"

"We don't know."

There was a brief pause. Wallander got up, which the others took as a signal that the conference was over. Wallander thought Thurnberg had probably intended to end it in a more formal manner, but Wallander left the room before Thurnberg had a chance to talk to him. TV news teams were waiting to interview him in the reception area. Wallander told them to speak with Thurnberg. Later Ebba told him that Thurnberg was more than happy to oblige.

Wallander went into his office to get his coat. He tried to think what it was that made him think of Westin during the press conference. He knew it was significant. He sat down at his desk and tried to coax the thought to the surface, but it wouldn't come. He gave up. As he was putting his coat on, Hansson called.

"I found the cars," he said. "Norman's and Boge's: a 1991 Toyota and a Volvo that's one year older. They were in a car park down by Sandhammaren. I've already called Nyberg. He's on his way there."

"So am I."

At the edge of town, Wallander pulled over at a takeaway bar and ate a hotdog. It had become habit now to buy one-litre bottles of mineral water. He had forgotten to take the medication that Dr Goransson had prescribed for him, and he didn't have it with him.

He drove back to Mariagatan in a bad temper. There was a heap of post on the floor in the hall, and he noticed a postcard from Linda, who was visiting friends in Hudiksvall, and a letter from his sister Kristina. Wallander took the post with him into the kitchen. His sister had put the name and address of a hotel on the back of the envelope. It was in Kemi, which Wallander knew was in northern Finland. He wondered what she was doing there, but he let the post wait, and took his medicine instead. Before he left the kitchen, he glanced at the post lying on the table and again his thoughts returned to Westin. Now he was able to catch hold of the thought.

There was something Westin had said during their trip out to Barnso Island, something that Wallander's subconscious had been turning over and was trying to send to the surface. He tried to reconstruct their conversation in the noisy wheelhouse without success. But Westin had said something important. He decided to call him after he had looked at the two cars.

Nyberg was already there when Wallander got out of his car. The Toyota and Volvo were parked next to each other. Police tape was plastered all around the area and the cars were being photographed. The doors and boots were wide open. Wallander walked up to Nyberg, who was getting a bag out of his car.

"Thanks again for meeting me last night," he said.

"An old friend came down to see me from Stockholm in 1973," Nyberg replied. "We went out to a bar one evening. I don't think I've been out since then."

Wallander remembered that he hadn't paid Edmundsson back.

"Well, anyway, I had a nice time," he said.

"There's already a rumour going around that we were caught trying to get out of paying the bill," Nyberg said.

"Just as long as Thurnberg doesn't get wind of it. He might take it the wrong way."

Wallander walked over to Hansson, who was making some notes.

"Any doubt they're the right ones?"

"The Toyota is Lena Norman's, the Volvo belongs to Martin Boge."

"How long have they been here?"

"We don't know. In July the car park is full of cars coming and going. It's only in August that it starts to slow down and that people start noticing which cars haven't been moved."

"Is there any other way to find out if they've been here since Midsummer?"

"You'll have to talk to Nyberg about that."

Wallander went back to Nyberg, who was staring at the Toyota.

"Fingerprints are the most important," Wallander said. "The cars must have been driven here from the reserve."

"Someone who leaves his prints on a boat might well leave us a greeting on a steering wheel."

"That's what I'm hoping."

"That probably also means our killer is fairly sure his prints don't appear in any records, either here or abroad."

"I was thinking the same thing," Wallander said. "We'll just have to hope you're wrong."

Wallander didn't need to stay any longer. As he passed the turn-off to his father's house, he couldn't resist having a look. There was a For Sale sign by the driveway. He didn't stop. Seeing the sign gave him a fanny feeling. He had just made it back to Ystad when the mobile phone rang. It was Hoglund.

"I'm in Lund," she said. "In Lena Norman's flat. I think you should come here."

"What is it?"

"You'll see when you get here. I think it's important."

Wallander wrote down the address and was on his way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The block of flats was on the outskirts of Lund. It was four storeys high, one of five buildings comprising a large housing estate. Once, many years ago when Wallander had come down to Lund with Linda, she had pointed them out to him and told him they were student flats. If she had chosen to study in Lund, she would have lived in a place like this. Wallander shivered, imagining Linda out in the reserve.

He didn't have to guess which building it was, as a police car was parked outside one of them. Wallander put his phone in his pocket and got out. A woman was stretched out in the sun on one of the lawns. Wallander wished he could lie down beside her and sleep for a while. His tiredness came and went in heavy waves. An officer stood inside the doorway, yawning. Wallander waved his identification in front of him and the officer pointed up the stairs absentmindedly.

"All the way up. No elevator."

Then he yawned again and Wallander felt a sudden urge to whip him into shape. Wallander was the superior officer, and one from another district at that. They were trying to catch a man who had killed five people so far. He didn't need to be greeted by an officer who yawned and could hardly bring himself to speak.

But he said nothing. He walked up the stairs. Apart from the loud, raucous music coming from one flat, the building seemed abandoned. It was still August and the autumn term had not yet begun. The door to Lena Norman's flat was slightly ajar but Wallander rang the bell anyway.

Hoglund came to the door herself. He tried to read her expression without success.

"I didn't mean to sound so dramatic over the phone," she said quickly. "But I think you'll understand why I wanted you to see this."

He followed her into the flat, which hadn't been aired out for a while. The air had that characteristic but indescribable dry quality he had so often encountered in concrete buildings. He had read somewhere that the FBI had developed a method for determining how long a house had been locked up. He didn't know whether Nyberg had the technique at his disposal.

At the thought of Nyberg he made another mental note to repay Edmundsson. The flat had two rooms and a kitchen. They reached the combined living room and study. The sun was shining in through the window and dust drifted slowly in the still air. There were a number of photographs tacked up on one wall. Wallander put on his glasses and peered at them. He recognised her at once. Lena Norman was dressed up in a scene that looked like it was supposed to be from the 17th century. Martin Boge was also in the picture, which was taken with what appeared to be a castle in the background. The next picture was also of a party. Lena Norman was in that one too, and now Astrid Hillstrom was there. They were indoors somewhere, half-naked. Wallander guessed they were staging a bordello scene. Neither Norman nor Hillstrom was particularly convincing. Wallander straightened up and cast a glance over the entire wall.

"They play different roles at their parties," he said.

"It goes further than that," she said and went over to a desk that stood at right angles to one of the windows. It was covered with binders and plastic folders.

"I've gone through this material," she said. "Not completely, of course, but what I've seen so far worries me." Wallander lifted his hand to interrupt her.

"Wait a second. I need to drink a glass of water, and use the bathroom."

"My father has diabetes," she said.

Wallander froze on his way to the door. "What do you mean by that?"

"If I didn't know any better I'd think you had it too, the way you drink water these days. And need to go to the loo constantly."

For a moment Wallander thought he was going to break his silence and tell her the truth: that she was right. But instead he just muttered something inaudible and left the room. When he came out of the kitchen, the toilet was still flushing.

"The flushing mechanism is broken," he said. "I guess that's not our problem."

She was looking at him as if she was expecting him to talk.

"Why are you worried?" he asked.

"I'll tell you what I've found so far," she said. "But I'm convinced there's more, and that it'll become apparent when we've gone through everything."

Wallander sat down on a chair by the desk. She remained standing.

"They dress up," she started. "They have parties, and move between our own time and that of past ages. From time to time they even go into the future, but not very often. Probably because it's harder - no one knows how people will dress in a thousand years, or even 50. We know all this, of course. We've talked to the friends who weren't with them at Midsummer. You even had a chance to talk to Isa Edengren. We know they rented their costumes in Copenhagen. But there's a deeper level to this."

She picked up a folder covered in geometric figures. "They appear to have belonged to a sect," she said. "It has its roots in the United States, in Minneapolis. It strikes me as an updated version of the Jim Jones cult or the Branch Davidians. Their rules are horrifying, something akin to the threatening letters people who have broken chain mail or pyramid schemes hand over to us. Anyone who divulges their secrets will suffer violent retribution - always death, of course. They pay dues to the head office that in turn sends out lists of suggestions for their parties and explains how to maintain their secrecy. But there is also a spiritual dimension to their activities. They think that people who practise moving through time like this will be able to choose the age of their rebirth at the moment of their death. It was highly unpleasant reading. I think Lena Norman was the head of the Swedish chapter."

Wallander was listening with rapt attention. Hoglund had called him down here with good reason.

"Does the organisation have a name?"

"I don't know what it would be in Swedish. In English they call themselves the Divine Movers."

Wallander flipped through the folder she had given him. There were geometric figures everywhere, but also pictures of old gods and the mutilated bodies of tortured people. He put the material down with disgust.

"Do you think what happened in the nature reserve was a result of vengeance? That they had divulged the secret and had to be killed?"

"In this day and age I hardly think that can be ruled out."

Wallander knew she was right. Only a short time ago a number of members of a sect in Switzerland and France had committed mass suicide. In May, Martinsson had taken part in a conference in Stockholm devoted to the role of the police in stemming this increased activity. It was getting harder, since modern sects no longer circled around a single crazed individual. Now they were well-organised corporations that had their own lawyers and accountants. Members took out loans to pay fees they couldn't really afford. It wasn't even clear these days if the emotional blackmail that took place could be classified as criminal activity. Martinsson had told Wallander after he returned from the conference that new laws would have to be enacted if they were to have any hope in prosecuting these soul-sucking vampires who were profiting from the increased sense of helplessness in society.

"This is an important discovery," he said to Hoglund. "We're going to need help with this. The national police have a special division devoted to working on new sects. We'll also need help from the United States on the Divine Movers. Above all, we have to get the other young people involved in this to talk, get them to divulge their carefully guarded secrets."

"They take their vows and then eat horse liver. Raw," she said, leafing through the folder.

"Who officiates at these ceremonies?"

"It must be Lena Norman."

Wallander shook his head, baffled. "And she's dead now. Do you think she would have broken her vows? Was there someone waiting to replace her?"

"I don't know. Maybe we'll find a name among these papers when we've had a chance to go through them properly."

Wallander stood up and looked out the window. The woman was still down on the lawn. He thought of the woman he had met at the roadside restaurant outside Vastervik. He searched for her name for a while before it came to him: Erika. He had a sudden longing to see her again.

"We probably shouldn't get too distracted by all this," he said in an absentminded way. "We shouldn't rule out our other theories."

"Which are?"

He didn't need to spell it out for her. The only possible theory was a deranged killer acting alone. The theory you always worked with when you had no leads.

"I have difficulty seeing Svedberg getting tangled up in all this," he said. "Even though he's surprised us."

"Maybe he wasn't directly involved," Hoglund said. "He may simply have known someone who was."

He thought again of Westin, the seafaring postman. Wallander was still desperately trying to catch hold of something he had said during that boat trip. But it remained out of reach.

"There's really only one thing we need to know," Wallander said, "as in all complicated cases. One thing, that would set everything else in motion."

"The identity of Svedberg's killer?"

He nodded. "Exactly. Then we would have an answer to everything, except perhaps the question of the motive. But we could piece that together as well."

Wallander returned to the chair and sat down. "Did you have time to talk to the Danes about Louise?"

"The photograph will be published tomorrow."

Wallander got up again. "We have to go through this flat thoroughly," he said. "From top to bottom. But I think I'll be of more use in Ystad. If we have time, we'll contact Interpol today and get the Americans involved. Martinsson will love taking charge of that."

"I think he dreams about being a federal agent in the United States," Hoglund agreed. "Not just a policeman in Ystad."

"We all have our dreams," Wallander said, in an awkward and completely unnecessary attempt to come to Martinsson's defence. He gathered the papers from the desk while Hoglund looked around the kitchen for some plastic bags to put them in. They talked for a while in the small hall before he left.

"I keep having this feeling that I'm overlooking something," Wallander said. "I think it has something to do with Westin."

"Westin?"

"He was the one who took me out to Barnso Island. He's the postman in the archipelago. He said something when we were standing in the wheelhouse. I just can't remember what it was."

"Why don't you call him? The two of you might be able to reconstruct the conversation. Maybe simply hearing his voice will bring whatever it was back to you."

"You may be right," Wallander said doubtfully. "I'll call."

Then he remembered another voice. "What happened with Lundberg? I mean the person who wasn't him, but who pretended to be. The one who called the hospital and asked about Isa."

"I passed that on to Martinsson. We exchanged a couple of tasks; I can't remember now what they were. I took on something he hadn't had time to do. He promised to talk to the nurse."

Wallander sensed a note of criticism in her voice. They all had so much to do. The tasks were piling up.

Wallander drove back to Ystad, thinking over the latest events. How did the revelations in Lena Norman's flat alter the picture? Were these parties much more sinister than he had thought? He recalled the time a few years earlier, when Linda had undergone what might be described as a religious crisis. It was right after the divorce. Linda was as lost as he was, and one night he had heard a soft mumbling from inside her bedroom that he thought must be prayer. When he found books in her room about Scientology, he'd become seriously concerned. He tried to reason with her without much success. Finally Mona sorted things out. He didn't know exactly what happened, but one day the soft mumbles behind her door stopped and she went back to her old interests.

He shivered at the thought of sects. Were the answers to this case lying somewhere in these plastic bags? He accelerated. He was in a hurry.

The first thing he did back at the station was to find Edmundsson and pay him the money he owed. Then he went to the conference room where Martinsson was briefing the three police officers from Malmo who were joining the investigation. Wallander had met one of them before, a detective in his 60s by the name of Rytter. He didn't recognise either of the other two, who were younger. Wallander said hello, but didn't stay. He asked Martinsson to try to catch him sometime later that evening. Then he went to his office and started going through the papers from Lena Norman's flat. He was about half finished when Martinsson appeared. It was a little after 11 p.m. Martinsson was pale and bleary-eyed. Wallander wondered how he looked himself.

"How's it going?" he asked.

"They're good," Martinsson said. "Especially the old guy, Rytter."

"They're going to make a real difference," Wallander said enthusiastically. "It will give us the break we need."

Martinsson pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his collar.

"I have a project for you," Wallander said. He told him in some detail about the materials that had turned up in Lena Norman's flat. Martinsson became more and more interested. The thought that he would be contacting colleagues in the U.S. was clearly invigorating.

"The most important thing is to get a clear picture of these people," Wallander said.

Martinsson looked at his watch. "I guess this isn't the best time of day to get in touch with the U.S., but I'll give it a shot."

Wallander got up and gathered the papers together, and they went to copy the material that Wallander hadn't had time to look through.

"Apart from drugs, sects are the thing I'm most afraid of for my children," Martinsson said. "I'm afraid of them getting pulled into some religious nightmare they won't be able to get out of, where I won't be able to reach them."

"There was a time when I had those exact worries about Linda," Wallander said. He didn't say anything more, and Martinsson didn't ask any questions.

The copier suddenly stopped working. Martinsson reloaded it with a new sheaf of blank paper. Wallander left Martinsson and returned to his office. A report on the charges once filed against Svedberg was lying on his desk. He read through it quickly to get a sense of what had happened. It was dated 19 September 1985. A man named Stig Stridh, the complainant, was assaulted by his brother, an alcoholic, who had come to ask him for money. He knocked out two of Stridh's teeth, stole a camera, and demolished a large part of his living room. Two police officers, one by the name of Andersson, showed up at the flat and took down details of the incident. Stridh was called down to the police station on 26 August for a meeting with Inspector Karl Evert Svedberg. Svedberg explained to him that there would not be an investigation into the case since there was no evidence. Stridh argued vehemently that a camera was missing and a large part of his living room was damaged, and that the two officers had seen his cuts and bruises. According to Stridh, at this point Svedberg's manner became threatening and he ordered him to drop the charges. Stridh left and later wrote a letter to Bjork, in which he complained about the treatment he had received.

Two days later Svedberg showed up at Stridh's door and repeated his threats. After some deliberation with friends, Stridh had decided to file charges against Svedberg with the department of justice. Wallander read the report with a growing sense of disbelief. Svedberg's response to the report was brief and denied all charges. Svedberg's behaviour in the case simply couldn't be explained. But this was exactly the kind of thing they had to get to the bottom of.

It was past midnight when Wallander had finished reading the report. He hadn't managed to fit in the visit to Isa Edengren's parents. He couldn't find a Stig Stridh in the phone book. Both matters would have to wait until the morning. Now he had to get some sleep. He took his coat and left the station. There was a faint breeze outside, but it was still warm. He found his car keys and unlocked the door.

Suddenly he jerked around. He couldn't say what had frightened him. He listened hard and stared into the shadows at the edge of the car park. There was no one there, he told himself. He got into his car. I'm always afraid that he's out there, close by, he thought. Whoever he is, he keeps himself well informed, and I'm afraid he will kill again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

On Saturday, 17 August, Wallander woke to the sound of rain drumming against the bedroom window. The alarm clock read 6.30 a.m. Wallander listened to the sound of the rain. Soft morning light was streaming in through a gap in the curtains. He tried to recall when it had last rained. It had to have been before the night when he and Martinsson found Svedberg's body, and that was eight days ago. It's an unfathomable length of time, he thought. Neither long, nor short. He went out to the bathroom and had a pee, then drank some water at the kitchen counter and returned to bed. The fear from the night before was still with him, just as mysterious, just as strong.

He was showered and dressed by 7.15 a.m. For breakfast he had a cup of coffee and a tomato. The rain had stopped and the thermometer read 15degC. The clouds were already starting to clear. He decided to make his calls from the flat rather than the station. First he would call Westin, then the operator to try and get Stig Stridh's phone number. He had already found the piece of paper with Westin's numbers on it. He was counting on Westin having Saturdays off, but he probably wasn't the type to stay in bed, either. Wallander took his coffee with him into the living room and dialled the first of the three numbers on the scrap of paper. A woman answered after the third ring. Wallander introduced himself and apologised for calling so early.

"I'll get him," she said. "He's chopping wood."

Wallander thought he could hear the sound of wood splitting in the background. Then the sound stopped and he heard children's voices. Westin finally came to the phone, and they exchanged greetings.

"You're chopping wood," Wallander said.

"The cold weather always comes sooner than you think," Westin said. "How are things going? I've been trying to follow the case in the papers and on the news. Have you caught him yet?"

"Not yet. It takes time. But we'll get him."

Westin was silent on the other end. He probably saw right through Wallander's optimism, which was as hollow as it was necessary. Pessimistic policemen rarely solved complicated crimes.

"Do you remember any of our conversation when we were heading out to Barnso?" Wallander asked.

"Which part?" Westin answered. "We talked all the way there, if I recall. Between stops."

"One of our conversations was a little longer - I think it was the very first part of the trip."

Suddenly Wallander remembered. Westin had slowed the boat down and they were coasting in towards the first or perhaps the second island. It had a name that reminded him of Barnso.

"It was one of the first stops," Wallander said. "What were the names of those islands?"

"You must be thinking of Haro or Batmanso Island."

"Batmanso. That was it. An old man lived there."

"Zetterquist."

It was starting to come back to him now. "We were on our way in towards the dock," he said. "You were telling me about Zetterquist, who spends the winters out there all alone. Do you remember what you said?"

Westin laughed, but in a jovial way. "I'm sure I could have said any number of things."

"I know this seems strange, but it's actually quite important," Wallander said.

Westin seemed to sense that Wallander was serious. "I think you asked me what it was like to deliver the post," he said.

"Then I'll ask you that same question. What's it like being a postman in the islands?"

"It gives you a sense of freedom, but it's also hard work. And no one knows how long I'll keep my job. I wouldn't put it past them to cut my route entirely and stop servicing the archipelago. Zetterquist once told me he might even have to put in an advance order to have his body collected, just to make sure he wasn't left lying out there indefinitely when his time came."

"You didn't say that. I would have remembered it. I'll ask you again. What's it like to be a postman in the islands?"

Westin hesitated this time. "I don't recall saying much else."

But Wallander knew there had been something else. Something mundane, about what delivering post to people who lived out there was like.

"We were on our way in towards the landing," Wallander said. "That much I remember. The boat had slowed down a lot and you were telling me about Zetterquist."

"Maybe I said something about how you end up looking out for people. If they don't come down to meet you, you go up and make sure they're all right."

Almost, Wallander thought. We're almost there now. But you said something more, Lennart Westin. I know you did.

"I can't think of anything else. I really can't," Westin said.

"We're not giving up just yet. Try again."

But Westin couldn't come up with anything else and Wallander wasn't able to coax it out of him.

"Keep at it," Wallander said. "Call me if it comes back to you."

"I'm not normally the curious type, but why is this so important?"

"I don't know," Wallander said simply. "But when I do, I'll tell you, I promise."

Wallander felt despondent after the call. Not only had he been unable to get Westin to remember what he'd said, it was probably irrelevant anyway. His thoughts of giving up, and letting Holgersson put someone else in charge returned more strongly. But then he thought of Thurnberg and felt an even stronger urge to prove him wrong. He called the operator and asked for a number for Stig Stridh. It was unlisted but not private. He dialled the number and counted nine rings before someone answered. The voice was old and drawling.

"Stridh."

"This is Inspector Kurt Wallander from the Ystad police."

Stridh sounded like he was spitting when he replied. "It wasn't me who shot Svedberg, but maybe I should have."

His attitude angered Wallander. Stridh should show more respect, even if Svedberg had acted inappropriately towards him in the past. He had trouble holding back his irritation.

"You filed charges against Svedberg ten years ago. They were dismissed."

"I still can't understand how they could do that," Stridh said. "Svedberg should have lost his job."

"I'm not calling to discuss the decision," Wallander said curtly. "I want to talk to you about what happened."

"What's there to talk about? My brother was drunk."

"What's his name?"

"Nisse."

"Does he live in Ystad?"

"He died in 1991. Cirrhosis of the liver, what a surprise."

Wallander was momentarily at a loss. He had assumed the call to Stig Stridh was the first step towards eventually meeting the brother who played the leading role in the whole strange episode.

"You have my condolences," Wallander said.

"The hell I do. But whatever. I'm not particularly sorry. I get left in peace now and I have the place to myself. At least more often."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nisse has a widow, or whatever one should call her."

"Is she his widow?"

"That's what she says, but he never married her."

"Do they have children?"

"She did, but not with him. That was just as well. One of hers is doing time."

"What for?"

"Robbed a bank."

"What's his name?"

"It's a she. Stella."

"Your brother's stepdaughter robbed a bank?"

"Is that so strange?"

"It's unusual for a woman to commit that kind of crime. Where did it take place?"

"In Sundsvall. She fired a number of shots at the ceiling."

A vague recollection of this event was coming back to Wallander. He looked for something to write with. Wallander turned back to the matter at hand. Stridh's answers came slowly and with great unwillingness. It took what seemed like an eternity, but Wallander finally had a clearer picture of the events. Stig Stridh had been married, had two grown sons who now lived in Malmo and Laholm. His brother, Nils, called Nisse, who was three years younger, became an alcoholic early on. He began a career in the military but was discharged on account of his heavy drinking. At first Stig tried to be patient with his brother, but the relationship deteriorated, not least because he always came asking for money. Tensions had reached breaking point eleven years earlier. This was the point Wallander wanted to reach.

"We don't have to go through the events in detail," he said. "I just want to know one thing: why do you think Svedberg acted the way he did?"

"He said we had no evidence, but that was bullshit."

"We know that. We don't have to go into it. What I want to know is why you think he acted like this."

"Because he was an idiot."

Wallander was prepared for the answers to anger him, and he knew that Stig had good reasons for his hostility. Svedberg's behaviour had been incomprehensible.

"Svedberg was no idiot," Wallander said. "There must be another explanation. Had you ever met him before?"

"When would that have been?"

"Just answer my questions," Wallander said shortly.

"I'd never met him before."

"Have you had any run-ins with the law yourself?"

"No."

That answer came a little too fast, Wallander thought. It isn't true.

"Stick to the truth, Stridh. If you tell me lies I'll have you hauled straight down to the station in the blink of an eye."

It worked. "Well, I did a little car-dealing in the 1960s," he said. "There was some trouble once about a car that was supposed to be stolen, but that's all."

Wallander decided to take him at his word.

"How about your brother?"

"He probably did all kinds of things, but he never did any time for anything except his drinking."

Again, Wallander felt that Stridh was telling the truth. The man didn't know of a connection between his brother and Svedberg. It's hopeless, he thought. I'm banging my head against the wall. Wallander ended the conversation, having decided to talk to Rut Lundin, the "widow".

He left the flat and walked to the station.

Shortly after 11 a.m., as he went to get another cup of coffee, he realised that most of his colleagues were around, including the officers from Malmo, and took the opportunity to call a meeting in the conference room. He started by going through his own attempts to shed light on the events surrounding the complaint filed against Svedberg eleven years ago. Martinsson told him that Hugo Andersson, the policeman who'd answered Stridh's call that night, now worked as a janitor at a school in Varnamo. The officer who'd been his partner was a policeman by the name of Holmstrom, who now worked in Malmo.

Martinsson promised to check up on both of them. Wallander told them he was driving out to meet Isa Edengren's parents. After the meeting, Wallander shared a pizza with Hansson. All day he had been trying to keep track of how much water he had drunk and how many times he'd relieved himself, but he had already lost track. He called Rut Lundin. Once she understood why he was calling, she answered most of his questions - but she had nothing useful to add. He asked her specifically about Nisse's drinking buddies, and she said she remembered a few. When he pressed her for names, she said she needed time to think. He told her he would drop by later that afternoon.

At 4 p.m. he called Bjork, their former chief of police, who now lived in Malmo. They started by catching up on the latest gossip, and Bjork expressed deep sympathy at their having to deal with the case at hand. They talked at length about Svedberg. Bjork said he was planning to attend the funeral, which surprised Wallander, although he didn't know why. Bjork had nothing to say about the complaint filed against Svedberg. He couldn't remember any more why Svedberg had dismissed the investigation, but since the department of justice hadn't intervened, he was sure the whole thing was above board.

Wallander left the station at 4.30 p.m., on his way to Skarby. First he stopped by Rut Lundin's flat to pick up the list of names she had promised him. When he rang her doorbell she opened the door at once, as if she had been waiting for him in the hall. He could see that she was drunk. She thrust a piece of paper in his hand and said it was all she could remember. Wallander saw she didn't want him to come in, so he thanked her and left.

Back out on the footpath, he stopped under the shade of a tree and read through what she had written. He immediately saw a name he recognised about halfway down the list. Bror Sundelius. Wallander caught his breath. A pattern was finally starting to emerge. Svedberg, Bror Sundelius, Nisse Stridh. He didn't get any further. The phone in his pocket rang.

It was Martinsson, and his voice was shaking.

"He's done it again," he said. "He's done it again."

It was 4.55 p.m. on Saturday, 17 August 1996.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

He knew he was taking a risk. He hadn't done that before, since taking risks was beneath him and he had devoted his whole life to learning how to escape. But he was attracted by the challenge, and the situation was much too tempting.

He had almost lost control when he came by to pick up their invitations. Their joy was so great that it felt like a physical blow, an act specifically aimed at humiliating him, which of course it was.

Then, when he read the letter, he made up his mind. Between the ceremony at the church and the reception, they were going to stop off at a nearby beach to have their wedding portraits taken. The photographer was very clear in his directions and had even drawn a little map for them. The couple agreed. They would meet him there at 4 p.m., weather permitting.

He went there to scout it out. The photographer's directions were so clear that he had no problem in locating the exact spot. The beach was big, with a camping ground at one end. At first, he wasn't sure that he'd be able to carry out his plans, but then he saw that they would be quite sheltered in their spot among the sand dunes. There would be others on the beach, but they would keep their distance while the photographs were being taken. The challenge was figuring out which direction to approach them from. Disappearing afterwards would be relatively easy, since it was only about 200 metres to the car. If anything went wrong and he was chased, he had his gun. Someone might notice what kind of car he was driving, but he would have three different cars standing by so he could switch them.

He didn't solve the question of his approach on the first visit. But on the second visit, he saw what he had overlooked on the first. He saw the dramatic solution that would enable him to transform the comedy into tragedy.

Suddenly everything was planned and he was running out of time. Cars had to be stolen and parked in their various locations. A small revolver wrapped in plastic had to be buried in the sand. He also put a towel in with it.

The only thing he couldn't count on was the weather, but August had been beautiful this year.

They were married in the church where she had been confirmed nine years earlier. The minister who had officiated then had died, but she had a relative who was a minister and he agreed to step in. Everything went according to plan. The church was bursting with family and friends, and once the photo session was over they would have a big reception. The photographer was at the church with them taking pictures. He had already planned out the pictures he wanted to take at the beach. He had used the spot before and it worked well. He had never been as lucky with the weather as today.

They arrived at the beach just before 4 p.m. The camping ground was full of people, and a number of children were playing on the beach. A lone swimmer was out in the water. It took the photographer only a few minutes to set up his gear, which included the tripod and the light reflectors. They were completely undisturbed.

Everything was ready. The photographer paused behind the camera while the bridegroom helped his bride check her make-up in a small mirror. The swimmer was on his way up out of the water. His towel lay on the beach. He sat down on it, with his back to them. The bride thought it looked like he was digging a hole in the sand. They were ready. The photographer told them what he had planned for the first photo. They debated whether they should be serious or smiling, and the photographer suggested trying it both ways. It was 4.09 p.m. They had plenty of time.

They had just taken the first picture when the man on the beach below them got up and started walking. The photographer was getting ready to take the next picture but at that moment the bride saw that the man had changed his course and was heading towards them. She held up her hand to stop the photographer from taking the picture, thinking it best to wait until he had passed. He was almost upon them now, carrying his towel like a shield in front of his body. The photographer smiled at him and turned back to the couple. The man smiled in return, unwrapped the towel from his gun, and shot the photographer in the neck. He quickly advanced a couple of steps and shot the bride and groom in turn. All that was heard were some dry crackles. He looked all around. No one had noticed anything.

He continued on over the sand dunes and waited until he was out of sight of the camping ground. Then he started running. He reached the car safely, unlocked it, and jumped in. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes.

He realised that he was cold. It was another risk he had taken, as he could have caught cold. But the temptation had simply been too great. It was wonderful to emerge from the water like that, like the invincible person he really was.

At the edge of Ystad he stopped the car and pulled on the tracksuit he had laid out on the back seat. Then he settled in to wait.

It took a little longer than he expected. Was it one of the children playing on the beach, or someone at the camping ground taking a walk? He would read about it in the papers soon enough.

Finally he heard the noise of the sirens. It was just before 5 p.m. The vehicles drove past him at high speed, among them an ambulance. He felt like waving at them, but controlled himself. He drove home. He had again achieved what he had set out to do. And escaped again, with dignity.

Wallander was picked up outside Rut Lundin's building. The officers assigned to get him didn't know anything other than that they were to take him to Nybrostrand. From the information on the police radio, he gathered that several people were dead. He hadn't managed to get anything more out of Martinsson. Wallander leaned back in his seat. Martinsson's words still echoed in his head. "He's done it again."

He opened the door before the car had even come to a halt. A woman stood there crying, her hands in front of her face. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with a slogan supporting Sweden joining NATO.

"What happened?" Wallander asked.

People from the camping ground were rushing around, waving and gesturing. They were running all over the sand dunes. Wallander made it out there before the rest. He stopped dead. The nightmare was repeating itself. At first he couldn't take in what he was seeing, and then he understood that three bodies lay before him. There was a camera on a tripod.

"They had just been married," he heard Hoglund say, somewhere nearby. Wallander walked closer and crouched down. All three of them had been shot. The shots had struck the bride and groom in the forehead. The bride's white veil was stained with blood. He touched her arm very carefully. It was still warm. He stood up again and hoped he wouldn't get dizzy. Hansson arrived, as well as Nyberg. He walked over to them.

"It's him again. This happened minutes ago. Are there any tracks? Has anyone seen anything? Who found them?"

Everyone around him seemed dumbstruck, as if they had been looking to him to supply them with the answers.

"Don't just stand there - move!" he shouted. "It just happened! This time we've got to get him!"

Their paralysis lifted, and after a couple of minutes Wallander was able to get a clearer idea of what had happened. The couple had come here to have their wedding pictures taken. They had gone into the sand dunes. A child playing on the beach had left his friends because he needed to pee. He had discovered the dead bodies and run screaming to the camping ground. No one had heard shots, and no one had noticed anything unusual. Several witnesses confirmed that the photographer and the couple had arrived alone.

"Some of the children saw a man swimming in the water," Hansson said. "According to their accounts, he came up out of the sea, sat down in the sand, and then disappeared."

"What do you mean, 'disappeared'?" Wallander was having trouble concealing his impatience.

"A woman who was hanging up her laundry when the couple arrived said the same thing," Hoglund said. "She thought she saw a swimmer, but when she looked again he was gone."

Wallander shook his head. "What does that mean? That he drowned? Buried himself in the sand?"

Hansson pointed to the stretch of beach that lay directly below the crime scene.

"The place he sat down was right there," he said. "At least according to one child who seems believable. He had his eyes open."

They walked down on the beach. Hansson ran over to a dark-haired boy and his father. Wallander made them all walk in a wide circle to avoid ruining the tracks in the sand and making it harder for the dog to pick up a scent. They could see the marks of someone sitting in the sand, the remains of a little hole and a piece of plastic sheeting.

Wallander shouted for Edmundsson and Nyberg to join him.

"This plastic reminds me of something," he said, and Nyberg nodded. "Maybe it matches the plastic sheeting we found in the nature reserve."

Wallander turned to Edmundsson. "Let her smell this and see what she finds."

They walked off to the side and watched the dog, who immediately took off into the sand dunes. Then she veered to the left. Wallander and Martinsson followed at a distance. The dog was still excited. They arrived at a small road, and there the scent ended. Edmundsson shook his head.

"A car," Martinsson said.

"Someone may have seen it," Wallander said. "Get every police officer out here to work on this: we're looking for a man in a bathing suit. He left about an hour ago in a car that was parked here."

Wallander ran back to the crime scene. One of the forensic technicians was making a mould of a footprint in the sand. Edmundsson's dog was searching the area.

Hansson was just ending a conversation with a woman from the camping ground. Wallander waved him over.

"More people saw him," Hansson said.

"The swimmer?"

"He was down in the water when the couple arrived. Then he walked up onto the beach. Someone said it looked as though he started to build a sand castle, then got up and disappeared."

"No one's seen anyone else in the area?"

"One man, who is clearly under the influence, claimed two masked men were riding down the beach on bicycles, but I think we can safely disregard this."

"Then we'll stick with the swimmer for now," Wallander said. "Do we know who the victims are?"

"The photographer had this invitation in his pocket," Hoglund said and handed it over to Wallander. He was overcome by such a wave of despair that he wanted to scream.

"Malin Skander and Torbjorn Werner," he read out loud. "They were married at 2 p.m. this afternoon."

Hansson had tears in his eyes. Hoglund was staring at the ground.

"They were man and wife for two whole hours," he said. "They came down here to have their pictures taken. Who was the photographer?"

"We found his name on the inside of the camera bag," Hansson said. "His name was Rolf Haag and he had a studio in Malmo."

"We have to notify the next of kin," Wallander said. "The press will be all over this place before we know it."

"Shouldn't we put up roadblocks?" Martinsson asked. He had just joined them.

"Why? We have no idea what the car looked like. Even though we know when this happened, it's already too late."

"I just want to nail the bastard," Martinsson said.

"We all do," Wallander said. "So let's go through everything we know at this point. The one lead we have is a lone swimmer. We have to assume he's our man. We know two things about him: he's well informed and plans his crimes meticulously."

"You think he was out there swimming in the ocean while he waited for them?" Hansson asked hesitantly.

Wallander tried to imagine the chain of events. "He knew the newly-weds were having their wedding pictures taken here," he said. "On the invitation it said the reception was starting at 5 p.m. He knew the photo session would be around 4 p.m. He waited out in the water, having parked his car nearby in a spot where he could get down to the beach without walking through the camping ground."

"He had his gun with him the whole time he was out in the water?" Hansson was clearly sceptical, but Wallander was starting to see how it hung together.

"Remember that this is a well-informed and meticulous killer," he said. "He's waiting for his victims out in the water. That means he's only wearing a bathing suit, and with his hair wet his whole appearance is altered. No one pays any attention to a swimmer. Everyone saw him and knew he was there, but no one could describe him."

He looked around and they nodded in agreement. None of the witnesses had managed to describe him yet.

"The newly-weds arrive with their photographer," Wallander said. "That's his cue to come up out of the water and sit down on the beach."

"He has a towel," Hoglund added. "A striped one. Several people recalled that detail."

"That's good," Wallander said. "The more detail the better. He sits down on his striped towel, and what does he do?"

"He starts to dig in the sand," Hansson said.

The pieces were starting to fit together. The killer followed his own rules, and often varied them, but Wallander was starting to see a pattern.

"He's not building a sand castle," he said. "He's uncovering a gun that he's buried in the sand under a piece of plastic sheeting."

Now they followed his train of thought. Wallander continued slowly. "He planted the gun there at some earlier point," he said. "He just has to wait for the right moment, when no one happens to be walking by. He gets up, probably shielding the gun from view with his towel. He fires the gun three times. The victims die immediately. He must have had a silencer on the gun. He continues past the sand dunes, gets to the road where his car is parked, and escapes. The whole thing doesn't take longer than a minute. But we don't know where he went."

Nyberg walked over and joined them.

"We don't know anything about this killer, other than what he's done," Wallander said. "But we're going to find similarities between these crimes, and new details will emerge."

"I know something about him," Nyberg interjected. "He uses snuff. There's some down there in the hole in the sand. He must have tried to kick some sand over it, but the dog found it. We're sending it to the laboratory. You can find out quite a lot about a person from his saliva."

Wallander saw Holgersson approaching from a distance, with Thurnberg a couple of steps behind. The sense of failure washed over him again. Even though he had acted in good faith, he had failed. They hadn't found the man who had killed their colleague, three young people in a nature reserve, a girl curled up in a cave on an island in the Ostergotland archipelago, and now some newly-weds and their photographer. There was only one thing he could do, and that was ask Holgersson to put someone else in charge. Maybe Thurnberg had already asked the national police to step in.

Wallander didn't have the energy to go over the events with them. Instead, he walked to Nyberg, who was turning his attention to the tripod.

"He was able to take one picture before it happened," Nyberg said. "We'll get it developed as soon as possible."

"They were married for two hours," Wallander said.

"It seems like this madman hates happy people, sees it as his life's calling to turn joy into misery."

Wallander listened absently to Nyberg's last comment, but he didn't reply. He still didn't have the energy to comprehend the enormity of what had happened. He had been convinced that the killer would strike again, but he was hoping he would be proved wrong.

A good policeman always hopes for the best outcome, Rydberg had often said. And what else? That fighting crime is simply a question of endurance; about which side can outlast the other.

Holgersson and Thurnberg appeared at his side. Wallander had been so lost in thought that he jumped.

"The road should have been blocked off," Thurnberg said, by way of greeting.

Wallander looked back at him stonily. At that moment he decided two things. He wasn't going to relinquish leadership in this case willingly, and he was going to start speaking his mind, the latter effective immediately.

"Wrong," he answered. "The roads shouldn't have been blocked off at all. You can of course order us to do so, but it won't receive my endorsement."

This wasn't the answer Thurnberg was expecting, and he looked taken aback.

He was too puffed up, Wallander thought with satisfaction. He was so puffed up by his own sense of importance that he burst. Wallander turned his back on Thurnberg. Holgersson looked paler than he'd ever seen her before. He could see his own fear in her eyes.

"It's the same man?"

"I'm sure of it."

"But a couple of newly-weds?"

It was the first thought that had come to him as well.

"You could say that wedding clothes are a kind of costume."

"Is that what he's after?"

"I don't know."

"What else could it be?"

Wallander didn't answer. The only possibility he could see was a madman. A madman who wasn't a madman, but who had killed eight people, including a police officer.

"I've never been involved in anything so horrible in my whole life," she said. After a moment she added, "I heard they were married nearby."

"In Kopingebro," Wallander told her. "The reception is about to begin."

She looked at him and he knew what she was thinking.

"I'm going to ask Martinsson to contact the photographer's family," he said. "He can contact the Malmo police for help. You and I will drive out to Kopingebro."

Thurnberg stood a short distance away, talking to someone on his mobile phone. Wallander wondered who it was. He gathered everyone around him and asked Hansson to take charge until he returned.

"Answer all of Thurnberg's questions," Wallander said. "But if he tries to tell you what to do, let me know."

"Why on earth would a chief prosecutor try to tell the police how to do their work?"

Now there's a good question, Wallander thought. But he left without answering and joined Holgersson, who was waiting silently in her car.

At 10 p.m. on Saturday, 17 August, it began to rain. Wallander was already back at the crime scene. Notifying the next of kin, entering that room of joy with his brutal news, was even worse than he had imagined. Holgersson was strangely passive during the visit, perhaps because her encounters with the parents of the young people in the reserve the week before had drained her of any remaining energy. Maybe we have a set quota for these kinds of experiences, Wallander thought. I must have met mine by now.

It was a relief to get back to Nybrostrand. Holgersson had already returned to Ystad by then. Wallander had been in touch with Hansson by phone several times, but there was nothing new to report. Hansson told him that Rolf Haag was unmarried and childless. Martinsson had delivered the news to his aged father, who was in a nursing home. A nurse assured Martinsson that the old man had long since forgotten he even had a son.