The Pyramid

THE MAN WITH THE MASK

Wallander checked his watch. It was a quarter to five. He was sitting in his office at the Malmö police headquarters. It was Christmas Eve, 1975. The two other colleagues he shared the office with, Stefansson and Hörner, were off. He was leaving in less than an hour himself. He got up and walked to the window. It was raining. It would not be a white Christmas this year either. He stared absently out through the window, which had started to fog up. Then he yawned. His jaw popped. He carefully closed his mouth. Sometimes when he yawned wide he got a cramp in a muscle under his chin.

He went back and sat down at his desk. There were some papers on it that he didn't need to worry about right now. He leaned back in his chair and thought with pleasure about the holiday time that awaited. Almost a whole week. He was not returning to duty until New Year's Eve. He put his feet up on the desk, took out a cigarette and lit it. He started coughing immediately. He had decided to quit. Not as a New Year's resolution. He knew himself too well to think he would be able to succeed. He needed a long time to prepare. But one day he would wake up and know that it was the last day he would light a cigarette.

He looked at the time again. He could really leave now. It had been an unusually calm December. The Malmö crime squad had no cases of violent crime under investigation at the moment. The family conflicts that normally took place during the holidays would happen on someone else's watch.

Wallander took his feet down from the desk and called home to Mona. She answered at once.

'It's me.'

'Don't tell me you're going to be late.'

The irritation came out of nowhere. He didn't manage to conceal it.

'I'm actually just calling to say that I'm leaving now. But maybe that's a mistake?'

'Why are you so upset?'

'I sound upset?'

'You heard me.'

'I hear what you're saying. But can you hear me? That I was actually calling to tell you I was on my way home. If you don't have anything against that.'

'Just drive carefully.'

The call ended. Wallander sat there with the telephone receiver in his hand. Then he banged it hard onto the hook.

We can't even talk on the phone any more, he thought angrily. Mona starts to nag at the smallest provocation. And she probably says the same thing about me.

He sat back in the chair and watched the smoke rising towards the ceiling. He noticed that he was trying to avoid thinking about Mona and himself. And about the quarrels that were getting more frequent. But he couldn't. Increasingly, he found himself thinking the thought he most wanted to avoid. That it was their daughter of five years, Linda, who held their relationship together. But he chased it away. The thought of living without Mona and Linda was unbearable.

He also thought about the fact that he had not yet turned thirty. He knew he had the necessary qualifications to become a good policeman. If he wanted, he would be able to make a noteworthy career within the force. The six years he had spent in the crime squad and his quick advancement to criminal investigator had convinced him of this, even if he also often felt inadequate. But was this really what he wanted? Mona had often tried to convince him to apply to one of the private security firms that were becoming more common in Sweden. She clipped out job announcements and told him he would make considerably more money in the private sector. His work schedule would become more predictable. But he knew that deep inside she was pleading with him to switch professions because she was afraid. Afraid that something would happen to him again.

He walked back over to the window. Looked out over Malmö through the fogged-up glass.

It was his last year in this city. This summer he would start a job in Ystad. They had already moved there and had lived in a centrally located apartment since September. Mariagatan. They had actually never hesitated over the decision, despite the fact that it would hardly advance his career to move to a small town. Mona wanted Linda to grow up in a smaller city than Malmö. Wallander felt a desire for change. And the fact that his father lived in Österlen as of a few years back was yet another reason for them to move to Ystad. But even more important was the fact that Mona had been able to buy a hair salon for a good price.

He had visited the police headquarters in Ystad on several occasions and had got to know the people who would soon be his co-workers. Above all, he had developed an appreciation for a middle-aged policeman by the name of Rydberg.

Before meeting him Wallander had heard persistent rumours about Rydberg, that he was abrupt and dismissive. But from the first moment his impression had been different. It could not be disputed that Rydberg was a man who did things his own way. But Wallander had been impressed with his ability to accurately describe and analyse a crime under investigation with just a few words.

He walked back to the desk and put out his cigarette. It was a quarter past five. He could go now. He took his coat, which was hanging on the wall. He would drive home slowly and carefully.

Maybe he had sounded upset and unfriendly on the phone without knowing it? He was tired. He needed this time off. Mona would probably understand when he got the opportunity to explain himself.

He put on his coat and felt in his pocket for the keys to his Peugeot.

On the wall next to the door was a little shaving mirror. Wallander looked at his face. He felt satisfied with what he saw. He would soon turn twenty-seven, but in the mirror he saw a face that could have been five years younger.

At that moment, the door opened. It was Hemberg, his immediate supervisor since he'd joined the squad. Wallander often found it easy to work with him. The few times there were any problems were almost always due to Hemberg's violent temper.

Wallander knew that Hemberg was going to be on duty over both the Christmas and New Year holidays. As a bachelor, Hemberg was giving up his holiday to fill in for another supervising officer who had a family with many children.

'I was just wondering if you were still here,' Hemberg said.

'I was about to leave,' Wallander answered. 'I was thinking of slipping away half an hour early.'

'That's fine by me,' Hemberg said.

But Wallander had immediately understood that Hemberg had come into his office with a specific purpose.

'You want something,' he said.

Hemberg shrugged his shoulders.

'You've just moved to Ystad,' he began. 'It hit me that you might be able to make a little stop on the way. I don't have much manpower right now. And this is probably nothing anyway.'

Wallander waited impatiently for the continuation.

'A woman has called here several times this afternoon. She has a little grocery shop by the furniture warehouse right before the last roundabout to Jägersro. Next to the OK gas station.'

Wallander knew where that was. Hemberg glanced down at a piece of paper in his hand.

'Her name is Elma Hagman and she is most likely fairly old. She says that a strange individual has been hanging around outside the shop all afternoon.'

Wallander waited in vain for more.

'Is that it?'

Hemberg made a wide gesture with his arms.

'It appears so. She called again quite recently. That was when I thought of you.'

'So you want me to stop and talk to her?'

Hemberg cast an eye at the clock.

'She was going to close up at six. You'll just make it. But I expect she's imagining things. If nothing else, you can reassure her. And wish her a merry Christmas.'

Wallander thought quickly. It would take him at most ten minutes to stop by the shop and make sure that everything was as it should be.

'I'll talk to her,' he said. 'I am still on duty, after all.'

Hemberg nodded.

'Merry Christmas,' he added. 'I'll see you New Year's Eve.'

'I hope things are calm tonight,' Wallander replied.

'The conflicts start at night,' Hemberg said gloomily. 'We can only hope they don't turn too violent. And that not too many excited children are disappointed.'

They parted in the hallway. Wallander hurried down to his car, which he had parked in front of the building today. It was raining hard now. He pushed a cassette into the car stereo and turned up the volume. The city around him glittered with illuminated signs and street decorations. Jussi Björling's voice filled the car. He relished the thought of all the time off that awaited him.

He had almost forgotten what Hemberg had asked of him when he approached the last roundabout before the exit towards Ystad. He was abruptly forced to brake and change lanes. Then he turned by the furniture warehouse, which was closed. But the lights were on in the grocery shop just past the workshop. Wallander pulled up and got out. He left the keys in the car. He closed the door so carelessly that the interior light stayed on. But he let it be. His business here would be over and done with in a couple of minutes.

The rain was still very intense. He looked around quickly. No one could be seen. The roar of traffic that reached him was faint. He wondered briefly how a grocery shop of the old kind could survive in an area that consisted almost exclusively of warehouses and small industry. Without finding an answer he hurried through the rain and opened the door.

As soon as he came into the shop he knew that something was not as it should be.

Something was wrong, seriously wrong.

What it was that caused this immediate reaction, he could not say. He remained standing just inside the door. The shop was empty. Not a single person. And it was quiet.

Too quiet, he thought.

Too quiet and peaceful. And where was Elma Hagman?

He walked carefully towards the counter. Leaned over it and checked the floor. Nothing. The cash register was closed. The silence around him was deafening. It occurred to him that he really should leave the shop. Since he didn't have a radio in the car, he needed a telephone. He should call for reinforcements. There should be at least two policemen here: one was not enough for an emergency response.

But he dismissed the idea that something was wrong. He could not be controlled forever by his feelings.

'Is anyone here?' he called out. 'Mrs Hagman?'

No answer.

He walked round the counter. There was a door behind it that was closed. He knocked. Still no answer. He slowly depressed the handle. It was unlocked. He gently pushed the door open.

Then everything happened at once, very quickly. A woman was lying face down in the inner room. He registered that a chair was knocked over and that blood had run out from her face, which was turned away. He winced, although he had been prepared for something. The silence had been too substantial.

Even as he turned round he also knew there was someone behind him. As he completed his turn, he steeled himself, catching sight of a shadow that was coming towards his face at great speed. Then everything went dark.

When he opened his eyes he knew at once where he was. His head ached and he felt nauseous. He was sitting on the floor, behind the counter. He could not have been unconscious for long. Something dark had come towards him, a shadow that had struck him hard in the head. That was the last image in his memory. And it was very clear. He tried to get up but realised that he was tied up. A rope around his legs and arms bound him to something behind him that he couldn't see.

There was also something familiar about the rope. Then he realised that it was his own tow rope, which he always kept in the boot of his car.

At once his memory flooded back. He had discovered a dead woman in the office. A woman who could hardly be anyone other than Elma Hagman. Someone had subsequently hit him on the back of the head. And now he was bound with his own rope. He looked around, listening. There had to be someone nearby. Someone he had every reason to fear. The nausea came in waves. He tried to stretch the rope. Could he free himself? He strained his ears the whole time. It was still as quiet as before, but the silence had a different quality. It was not the one he had encountered when he entered the shop. He pulled on the rope. His arms and legs were not bound so tightly, but they were twisted in a way that did not allow him to make full use of his strength.

Now he also realised how afraid he was. Someone had murdered Elma Hagman and then struck him over the head and bound him. What was it Hemberg had said? An Elma Hagman has called and reported that a strange individual has been hanging around outside the shop. It turned out she had been right. Wallander tried to think calmly. Mona knew that he was on his way home. When he did not show up she would get worried and call the Malmö office. Hemberg would then immediately think of the fact that he had been on his way to Elma Hagman's shop. Then it would not take many minutes for the patrol cars to show up.

Wallander listened. Everything was quiet. He stretched to see if the cash register had now been opened. This could hardly be anything other than a robbery-homicide. If the cash register was open there would be every likelihood that the robber had taken off. He stretched as much as he could, but it was still impossible to see if the drawer was pulled out or not. Nonetheless, he was growing convinced of the fact that he was now alone in the shop with the dead owner.

The man who had murdered her and struck Wallander must have fled. The chances were also great that his car was gone, since he had left the keys in the ignition.

Wallander continued to struggle with the rope. After stretching out his arms and legs as far as they would go, he started to sense that he should concentrate on his left leg. If he kept pushing with his leg, he could stretch out the line and perhaps free himself. This would in turn mean that he would be able to twist his body and examine the manner in which he was attached to the wall.

He had broken out in a sweat. If it was due to his exertions or the crawling fear, he did not know. Six years earlier, when he had still been a very young and gullible police officer, he had been stabbed. Everything had happened so fast that he had not had time to react, to protect himself. The blade of the knife had entered his chest right next to his heart. That time the fear had come afterwards. But now it was here from the beginning. He tried to convince himself that nothing more would happen. Sooner or later he would be able to free himself. Sooner or later they would start looking for him.

He rested from his efforts for a moment. The whole situation suddenly came over him with full force. An old woman had been murdered on Christmas Eve in her own shop, shortly before closing. There was something frighteningly surreal about this act of brutality.

These things simply didn't happen in Sweden. Least of all on Christmas Eve.

He started to tug on the rope again. It went slowly but he thought it was already chafing less. He managed to turn his arm with great difficulty so he could read his watch. Nine minutes past six. It would not be long now before Mona would start to wonder. A half-hour more and she would start to worry. By seven thirty at the latest she would be calling Malmö.

Wallander was interrupted in his thoughts. He had picked up a sound somewhere close by. He held his breath and listened. Then he heard it again. A scraping sound. He had heard it before. It was the outer door. The same sound that he had heard when he himself walked into the store. Someone was on his way in, someone who was walking very quietly.

Then he saw the man.

He was standing next to the counter, looking down at him.

He was wearing a black hood pulled over his head, a thick coat and gloves on his hands. He was of average height and appeared thin. He was standing absolutely motionless. Wallander tried to pick out his eyes, but the light from the neon tubes in the ceiling were no help and he saw no face. Only two small holes were cut out for the eyes.

The man held a metal pipe in his hands. Or perhaps it was the end of a wrench.

He stood without moving.

Wallander felt fear and helplessness. The only thing he could do was to scream. But it would be useless. No one was around. No one would hear him.

The man in the hood continued to stare at him.

Then he swiftly turned and disappeared from view.

Wallander felt his heart thumping inside his chest. He strained to hear something. The door? But he heard nothing. The man must still be inside the shop.

Wallander thought frantically. Why didn't he go? Why did he linger? What was he waiting for?

He came from outside, Wallander thought. Then he returns to the shop. He comes over to check that I'm still tied up where he left me.

There is only one explanation. He's waiting for someone. Someone who should already be here.

He tried to finish this line of thought. He listened the whole time.

A man with a hood and gloves is out to commit a burglary without being recognised. He has selected Elma Hagman's remote shop. Why he has killed her is incomprehensible. She cannot have offered any resistance. He also does not give the impression of being nervous or under the influence of drugs.

The crime is over, but still he lingers. He does not flee. Despite the fact that he most likely was not expecting to have killed someone. Or that anyone else would come by the shop just before it closes on Christmas Eve. And yet he stays. Why?

Wallander realised that there was something that did not add up. This was not an average burglary he had walked in on. Why was the man staying? Had he become paralysed? He knew it was important to find an answer to this question. But the pieces did not fit together.

There was also another circumstance that Wallander knew was significant.

The man in the hood did not know he was a policeman.

He had no reason to believe anything other than that Wallander was a late customer who had come into the shop. If this was an advantage or a disadvantage, Wallander could not decide.

He continued working his left leg, keeping an eye on the sides of the counter as well as he could. The man with the hood was there somewhere in the background. And he moved soundlessly. The rope had started to give a little. The sweat ran down Wallander's chest. With a violent effort he managed to free his leg. He sat still. Then he gently turned round. The rope had been pulled through a piece of hardware supporting a wall-mounted shelf. Wallander realised that he would not be able to free himself without tearing the shelf down. On the other hand he could now use his free leg to help release the other leg from the rope. He glanced at his watch. Only seven minutes had gone by since he had last checked it. Mona had probably not yet called Malmö. The question was if she had even started to worry. Wallander struggled on. Now there was no going back. If the man with the hood reappeared he would immediately realise that Wallander was about to free himself and at the same time Wallander had no way of defending himself.

He worked as quickly and silently as he could. Both legs were free now, shortly thereafter his left arm too. Now only the right arm remained. Then he could get up. What he would do then he did not know. He was not carrying a weapon. He would have to use his hands if he was attacked. But he had the feeling that the man in the mask was neither particularly big nor strong. In addition, he would be unprepared. The element of surprise was the only weapon Wallander had. Nothing else. And he was going to leave the shop as quickly as possible. He would not drag the fight out any longer than necessary. On his own he could not achieve anything. He had to get in touch with Hemberg at the station as soon as possible.

His right hand was now free. The rope lay at his side. Wallander noticed that he had already started to feel stiff in his joints. He carefully got to his knees and peeked out from behind one corner of the counter.

The man in the hood stood with his back to Wallander.

Wallander could now see him in full for the first time. His earlier impression was correct: the man was very thin. He was wearing dark jeans and white trainers.

He was standing completely still. The distance was not more than three metres. Wallander would be able to throw himself at him and deliver a blow to the neck. That should give him enough time to make it out of the shop.

But still he hesitated.

At that moment he caught sight of the iron pipe. It was lying on a shelf next to the man.

Wallander did not hesitate any longer. Without a weapon the man in the hood would not be able to defend himself.

Slowly he got to his feet. The man did not react. Wallander was now standing upright.

At that precise moment the man suddenly turned round. Wallander lunged forward. The man stepped aside swiftly. Wallander banged into a shelf stocked mainly with bread and rusks. But he did not fall over, he managed to keep his balance. He twisted round in order to grab the man. But he cut his movement short and drew back.

The man in the hood had a gun in his hand.

He was aiming it steadily at Wallander's chest.

Then he slowly raised his arm until the weapon pointed straight at Wallander's forehead.

For one dizzying moment Wallander thought he was going to die. Once he had survived a stabbing. But the pistol that was now directed at his forehead was not going to miss. He would die. On Christmas Eve. In a grocery shop on the outskirts of Malmö. A completely meaningless death, which Mona and Linda would have to live with for the rest of their lives.

He shut his eyes involuntarily. Maybe in order not to have to see. Or to make himself invisible. But he opened his eyes again. The gun was still directed at his forehead.

Wallander could hear his own breathing. Each time he exhaled it sounded like a groan. But the man who was pointing the gun at him was breathing without a sound. He appeared to be completely unaffected by the situation. Wallander still could not see into the two holes cut into the hood. Where his eyes were.

Thoughts whirled in his head. Why was the man staying in the shop? What was he waiting for? And why did he not say anything?

Wallander stared at the gun, at the hood with the two dark holes.

'Don't shoot,' he said and heard that his voice was unsteady and stammering.

The man did not react.

Wallander held out his hands. He had no weapon, he had no intention of resisting.

'I was just doing some shopping,' Wallander said. Then he pointed at one of the shelves. He was careful to make sure that his hand gestures were not too quick.

'I was on my way home,' he continued. 'They're waiting for me. I have a daughter who is five years old.'

The man did not answer. Wallander could not perceive any reaction at all.

He tried to think. Was he making a mistake by presenting himself as simply a late customer? Maybe he should have told the truth instead. That he was a policeman and that he had been alerted because Elma Hagman had called and said that an unknown man was hanging around her shop.

He did not know. Thoughts spun in his head. But they always returned to the same point of departure.

Why doesn't he leave? What is he waiting for?

Suddenly the man with the hood took a step back. The gun was aimed at Wallander's head the whole time. With his foot he pulled over a little stool. Then he pointed at it with his gun, which he then immediately pointed at Wallander again.

Wallander realised he was supposed to sit down. As long as he doesn't tie me up again, he thought. If there's gunfire when Hemberg arrives, I don't want to be tied up.

He walked forward slowly and sat down on the stool. The man had pulled back a few steps. When Wallander had sat down the man tucked the gun inside his belt.

He knows that I have seen the dead woman, Wallander thought. He was here in these rooms without me discovering him. But that's why he's keeping me here. He doesn't dare let me go. That's why he tied me up.

Wallander considered throwing himself at the robber and then leaving the shop. But there was the weapon. And the front door to the shop was most likely locked at this point.

He dismissed the idea. The man gave the impression of being in complete control of the situation.

He hasn't said anything so far, Wallander thought. It is always easier to get a sense of a person when you have heard his voice. But the man standing here is mute.

Wallander made a slow movement with his head. As if he had started to get a stiff neck. But it was in order to be able to glance at his watch.

Twenty-five minutes to seven. By now Mona would have started to wonder. Perhaps she was even worried. But I can't count on the fact that she has already called. It is too early. She is much too accustomed to me being late.

'I don't know why you want to keep me here,' Wallander said. 'I don't know why you don't let me go.'

No reply. The man twitched but said nothing.

His fear had died down for several minutes. But now it returned in full force.

The man must be crazy in some way, Wallander thought. He robs a store on Christmas Eve and kills an old woman. He ties me up and threatens me with a pistol.

And he doesn't leave. That above all. He stays here.

The telephone next to the cash register started to ring. Wallander was startled, but the man in the hood appeared unmoved. He did not seem to hear it.

The ringing continued. The man did not move. Wallander tried to imagine who it could be. Someone who wondered why Elma Hagman had not come home? That was most likely. She should have closed up her shop by now. It was Christmas. Somewhere her family was waiting for her.

Anger welled up inside him. It was so strong that it swept away his fear. How could you kill an old woman so brutally? What was happening to Sweden?

They often talked about it at the station, over lunch or while drinking coffee. Or while commenting on a case they were handling.

What was happening? An underground fissure had suddenly surfaced in Swedish society. Radical seismographers had registered it. But where had it come from? The fact that criminal activity was always changing was nothing noteworthy in itself. As one of Wallander's colleagues had once put it: 'In the past, people stole hand-cranked record players. You didn't steal car stereos, for the simple reason that they didn't exist.'

But the emerging fissure was of a different order. It brought an increase in violence. A brutality that did not ask if it was necessary or not.

And now Wallander found himself caught in it. On Christmas Eve. Before him stood a man wearing a hood and with a gun in his belt. A dead woman lay a few metres behind him.

There was no logic in all of this. If you looked hard enough, there was often a factor that was comprehensible. But not this time. You didn't bludgeon a woman with an iron pipe in a remotely located shop if it wasn't absolutely necessary. If she hadn't offered violent resistance.

Above all, you did not linger at the scene with a hood over your face, waiting.

The telephone rang again. Wallander was now convinced that someone was expecting Elma Hagman. Someone who was starting to become concerned.

He tried to imagine what the man in the hood was thinking.

But the man remained quiet and unmoving. His arms hung by his sides.

The ringing stopped. In one of the neon tubes the light started to flicker.

Wallander noticed suddenly that he was thinking about Linda. He saw himself standing in the doorway to the apartment in Mariagatan, happily anticipating her running to meet him.

The whole situation is insane, he thought. I should not be sitting here on a stool. With a big bruise on the back of my neck, nauseous and afraid.

The only things people should wear on their heads at this time of year are Santa Claus hats. Nothing else.

He twisted his head again. It was nineteen minutes to seven. Now Mona would call and ask for him. And she would not give up. She was stubborn. In the end the call would be routed to Hemberg, who would send out a dispatch. In all likelihood he would check up on it personally. When something was thought to have happened to a police officer, there were always resources. Then even the commanding officers did not hesitate to immediately rush out into the field.

The nausea returned. On top of this he felt he would need to use the toilet soon.

At the same time he felt that he could no longer remain ignorant. There was only one way to go. He knew that. He had to start talking to the man in the black mask.

'I'm in civilian dress,' he started. 'But I'm a policeman. The best thing you can do is give up. Give up your weapon. It won't be long before there will be a lot of police cars outside. The best thing you can do is give up now. So things won't get any worse than they already are.'

Wallander had been speaking slowly and clearly. He had forced his voice to appear firm.

The man did not react.

'Put the gun on the counter,' Wallander said. 'You can stay or leave. But put the gun on the counter.'

Still no reaction.

Wallander started to wonder if the man was mute. Or was he so confused that he did not hear what Wallander said?

'I have my badge in my inside pocket,' Wallander continued. 'So you can see that I am a police officer. I am unarmed. But you probably already know that.'

And then at last came a reaction. From nowhere. A sound like clicking. Wallander thought that the man must have smacked his lips. Or clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

That was all. And he continued to stand without moving.

Perhaps as much as a minute went by.

Then he suddenly lifted one hand. Gripped the top of the mask and pulled it off.

Wallander stared at the man's face. He was looking straight into a pair of dark and tired eyes.

Later, Wallander would ask himself many times what he had really expected. How had he imagined the face under the mask? The only thing he was absolutely sure of was that he had never expected the face that he finally saw.

The man standing in front of him was a black man. Not brown, not copper-coloured, not a mestizo. Just that: black.

And he was young. Hardly more than twenty.

Different thoughts went through Wallander's head. He realised that the man probably had not understood him when he had been speaking Swedish. Wallander repeated what he had just said in his poor English. And now he could see that the man understood. Wallander spoke very slowly. And told him the facts. That he was a policeman. That the shop would soon be surrounded by patrol cars. That the best thing he could do would be to give himself up.

The man shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Wallander thought he gave an impression of great fatigue. It was visible now that the mask was removed.

I can't forget that he has brutally murdered an old woman, Wallander reminded himself. He knocked me down and tied me up. He pointed a gun at my head.

What had he really learned about how to behave in a situation like this? Retain his calm, not make any sudden movements or confrontational speeches. Speak calmly, an even stream of words. Patience and kindness. Try to start a conversation. Not lose control of oneself. Above all, not that. To lose control of oneself was to lose control, full stop.

Wallander thought a good start might be to talk about himself. So he said his name. That he had been on his way home to his wife and daughter to celebrate Christmas. He noticed that the man was listening now.

Wallander asked him if he could understand.

The man nodded. But he still said nothing.

Wallander looked at the time. By now Mona had surely called. Hemberg might already be on his way.

He decided to tell the man this.

The man listened. Wallander had the impression that he already expected to hear the approaching sirens.

Wallander paused. He tried to smile.

'What is your name?' he asked. 'Everyone has a name.'

'Oliver.'

His voice was unsteady. Despondent, Wallander thought. He is not waiting for someone to come. He is waiting for someone to explain to him what he has done.

'Do you live here in Sweden?'

Oliver nodded.

'Are you a Swedish citizen?'

Wallander immediately realised the superfluousness of this question.

'No.'

'Where do you come from?'

He did not answer. Wallander waited. He was sure that the answer would come. There was much that he wanted to know before Hemberg and the police cars arrived outside. But he could not hurry this up. The step towards the moment where this man raised his gun and shot him was not necessarily so great.

The ache in the back of his head had increased. But Wallander tried to think it away.

'Everyone comes from somewhere,' he said. 'And Africa is large. I read about Africa when I was at school. Geography was my best subject. I read about the deserts and rivers. And the drums, beating in the night.'

Oliver listened attentively. Wallander had the feeling that he was already now somewhat less on his guard.

'Gambia,' Wallander said. 'Swedes go there on holiday. Even some of my colleagues. Is that where you come from?'

'I come from South Africa.'

The answer came quickly and decidedly. Almost harshly.

Wallander was very poorly informed about what exactly was going on in South Africa. He did not know more than that the apartheid system and its racial laws were now more severe than ever before. But the resistance had also increased. He had read in newspapers about bombs exploding in Johannesburg and Cape Town.

He also knew that some South Africans had received asylum in Sweden. Not least those who had openly taken part in the black resistance and risked being sentenced to death by hanging if they remained.

He made a quick summary in his head. A young South African by the name of Oliver has killed Elma Hagman. That was what he knew. Neither more nor less.

No one would believe me, Wallander thought. This simply doesn't happen. Not in Sweden, and not on Christmas Eve.

'She started to scream,' Oliver said.

'She must have been frightened. A man who enters the store with a mask on is frightening,' Wallander said. 'Especially if he has a gun or an iron pipe in his hand.'

'She should not have screamed,' Oliver said.

'You should not have killed her,' Wallander answered. 'She would probably have given you the money anyway.'

Oliver pulled the gun out of his belt. It happened so fast that Wallander never had time to react. Again he saw the gun pointed at his head.

'She should not have screamed,' Oliver said, and now his voice was unsteady with distress and fear.

'I can kill you,' he added.

'Yes,' Wallander said. 'You can. But why would you do that?'

'She should not have screamed.'

Wallander now realised that he had been completely wrong. The South African was not in the least controlled and calm. He was at a breaking point. What exactly was on the point of breaking, Wallander did not know. But now he seriously started to fear what would happen when Hemberg arrived. It could become an all-out massacre.

I have to disarm him, Wallander thought. Nothing else is important. First I have to get him to tuck that gun back into his belt. This man is fully capable of starting to shoot wildly around him. Hemberg is probably on his way right now. And he doesn't sense anything. Even if he fears that something has happened, he isn't expecting this. As little as I did. It could be an all-out catastrophe.

'How long have you been here?' he asked.

'Three months.'

'Not longer?'

'I came from West Germany,' Oliver said. 'From Frankfurt. I could not stay there.'

'Why?'

Oliver did not answer. Wallander sensed that it was perhaps not the first time that Oliver had put a mask over his head and robbed a store in a remote location. He could be on the run from the West German authorities.

And in turn this would mean that he was in Sweden illegally.

'What was it that happened?' Wallander asked. 'Not in Frankfurt but in South Africa. Why did you have to leave?'

Oliver took a step closer to Wallander.

'What do you know about South Africa?'

'Not much. Only that the blacks are treated very badly.'

Wallander almost bit his tongue. Were you allowed to say 'blacks', or was that discrimination?

'My father was killed by the police. They beat him to death with a hammer and chopped off one of his hands. It is preserved in a jar of alcohol somewhere. Maybe in Sanderton. Maybe somewhere else in Johannesburg's white suburbs. As a souvenir. And the only thing he had done was join the ANC. The only thing he had done was speak to his co-workers. About resistance and freedom.'

Wallander did not doubt that Oliver was telling the truth. His voice was calm now, in the midst of all this uproar. There was no room for lies.

'The police started looking for me too,' Oliver continued. 'I hid.

Every night I slept in a new bed. At last I went to Namibia and from there to Europe. To Frankfurt. And then here. But I am still running.

In reality I don't exist.'

Oliver grew silent. Wallander listened for sounds of approaching cars.

'You need money,' he said. 'You found this shop. She started to scream and you killed her.'

'They killed my father with a hammer. And one of his hands is preserved in alcohol in a glass jar.'

He's confused, Wallander thought. Helpless and disorientated. He doesn't know what he's doing.

'I am a policeman,' Wallander said. 'But I have never hit anyone on the head with a hammer. As you hit me.'

'I did not know you were police.'

'Right now that is lucky for you. They have started looking for me. They know I am here. Together we have to try to resolve this situation.'

Oliver shook his head.

'If anyone tries to take me I will shoot.'

'That will make nothing better.'

'Nothing can get worse either.'

Suddenly Wallander saw how he should continue this strained conversation.

'What do you think your father would have said about what you have done?'

This travelled like a shiver through Oliver's body. Wallander realised that the youth had never thought about this before. Or else he had thought it too many times.

'I promise that you won't be beaten,' Wallander said. 'I guarantee it. But you have committed the gravest crime there is. You have killed a person. The only thing you can do now is give up.'

Oliver never had time to answer. The sound of approaching cars was suddenly very clear. They braked abruptly. Car doors opened and slammed shut again.

Hell, Wallander thought. I needed more time. He slowly stretched out his hand.

'Give me the gun,' he said. 'Nothing will happen. No one will hit you.'

There was a banging on the door. Wallander heard Hemberg's voice. Dazed, Oliver looked from Wallander to the door.

'The gun,' Wallander said. 'Give it to me.'

Hemberg called out and asked if Wallander was there.

'Wait!' Wallander called back. Then he repeated himself in English.

'Is everything all right?' Hemberg's voice was anxious.

Nothing is all right, Wallander thought. This is a nightmare.

'Yes,' he said. 'Wait. Do nothing.'

Again he repeated these words in English.

'Give me the gun. Give it to me now.'

Oliver suddenly pointed it to the ceiling and fired. The noise was deafening.

Then he turned the weapon to the door. Wallander shouted a warning to Hemberg to keep clear at the same time as he threw himself onto Oliver. They tumbled to the floor and took a magazine rack with them. All of Wallander's consciousness was focused on trying to get hold of the weapon. Oliver clawed him in the face and screamed words in a language that Wallander did not understand. When Wallander felt how Oliver was trying to tear his ear off he became furious. He freed one hand and tried to hit Oliver in the face with his fist. The gun had slid to the side and lay on the floor among the strewn newspapers. Wallander was just about to grab it when Oliver struck him with a kick right in the stomach. Wallander lost his breath while watching Oliver lunging after the weapon. He couldn't do anything. The kick had paralysed him. Oliver sat on the floor in the newspaper pile and pointed the gun at him.

For the second time that evening Wallander closed his eyes in the face of the unavoidable. Now he would die. There was no longer anything he could do. Outside the shop several sirens approached and agitated voices shouted questions about what was going on.

I am dying, Wallander thought. That is all.

The shot was deafening. Wallander was thrown back. He fought to get his breath back.

Then he realised he had not been hit. He opened his eyes.

Oliver lay stretched out on the floor in front of him.

He had shot himself in the head. The gun lay next to him.

Hell, Wallander thought. Why did he do that?

At that moment the door was kicked in. Wallander caught sight of Hemberg. Then he looked down at his hands. They shook. His whole body was shaking.

Wallander had been given a cup of coffee and been patched up. He had given Hemberg a brief summary of the events.

'I had no idea about this,' Hemberg said later. 'And I was the one who asked you to stop by on your way home.'

'How were you supposed to know?' Wallander said. 'How could anyone be expected to imagine something like this?'

Hemberg appeared to consider what Wallander had said.

'Something is happening,' he said finally. 'Anxiety is streaming in across our borders.'

'We create it just as much ourselves,' Wallander answered. 'Even if Oliver here was an unhappy and restless young man from South Africa.'

Hemberg flinched, as if Wallander had said something inappropriate.

'Restless?' he said finally. 'I don't like the fact that foreign criminals are pouring in across our borders.'

'What you just said is not true,' Wallander said.

Then there was silence. Neither Hemberg nor Wallander had the energy to continue the conversation. They both knew they would not be able to agree.

Even here there is a crack, Wallander thought. Just now I was caught in one. Now I am standing in another that is growing wider between me and Hemberg.

'Why did he stay in here, anyway?' Hemberg said.

'Where should he have gone?'

Neither of them had anything to add.

'It was your wife who called,' Hemberg said after a while. 'She was wondering why you hadn't shown up. You had apparently called and said you were on your way?'

Wallander thought back to that telephone call. The brief quarrel. But he did not feel anything other than emptiness and fatigue. He chased the thoughts away.

'You should probably call home,' Hemberg said gently.

Wallander looked at him.

'What should I say?'

'That you've been delayed. But if I were you I wouldn't tell her everything in detail. I would wait to do that until I got home.'

'Aren't you unmarried?'

Hemberg smiled.

'I can still imagine what it's like to have someone waiting for you at home.'

Wallander nodded. Then he got up heavily from the chair. His body ached. The nausea came and went in waves.

He made his way past Sjunnesson and the other forensic technicians at work.

When he came out of the building he sat completely still and pulled the chilly air into his lungs. Then he kept going to one of the patrol cars. He got into the front seat and looked at the radio dispatcher and then at his watch. Ten minutes past eight.

Christmas Eve, 1975.

Through the wet windscreen he discovered a telephone booth next to the gas station. He stepped out of the car and walked over. It was most likely out of order. But he still wanted to try it.

A man with a dog on a leash was standing in the rain, looking at the patrol cars and the lit-up shop.

'What has happened?' he asked.

He regarded Wallander's scraped-up face with a furrowed brow.

'Nothing,' Wallander said. 'An accident.'

The man with the dog realised that what Wallander said wasn't true.

But he asked no further questions.

'Merry Christmas' was all he said.

'And to you too,' Wallander answered.

Then he called Mona.

It was raining more heavily.

The wind had picked up.

A gusty wind from the north.