Wallander's First Case

CHAPTER 3

Hemberg came out to Arlov a little after midnight. At that point the forensic investigation was already under way. Wallander had sent Andersson home in his car without giving him a better explanation of what had happened. Then he had stood by the gate and waited for the first police car to arrive. He had spoken with a detective inspector by the name of Stefansson, who was his own age.

‘Did you know her?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Wallander answered.

‘Then what are you doing here?’

‘I’ll explain that to Hemberg,’ Wallander said.

Stefansson regarded him sceptically but did not ask any further questions.

Hemberg started by walking around the kitchen. He stood in the doorway for a long time, simply looking at the dead woman. Wallander saw how his gaze travelled around the room. After standing there for a length of time he turned to Stefansson, who appeared to have great respect for him.

‘Do we know who she is?’ Hemberg asked.

They went into the living room. Stefansson had opened a handbag and spread some identifying documentation on the table.

‘Alexandra Batista-Lundstrom,’ he answered. ‘A Swedish citizen, but born in Brazil in 1922. It seems she came over right after the war. If I have understood this correctly, she was married to a man named Lundstrom. There are divorce papers here from 1957. But at that point she already had citizenship. She gave up the Swedish surname later on. She has a post office savings account under the name of Batista. No Lundstrom.’

‘Did she have any children?’

Stefansson shook his head.

‘It doesn’t seem like anyone else lived here with her. We’ve talked to one of the neighbours. Apparently she has lived here since the place was built.’

Hemberg nodded and then turned to Wallander.

‘Let’s go up a floor,’ he said, ‘and let the technicians work undisturbed.’

Stefansson was on his way to join them, but Hemberg held him back. There were three rooms upstairs. The woman’s bedroom, a room that was basically empty except for a linen cupboard, and a guest room. Hemberg sat down on the bed in the guest room and indicated to Wallander that he should sit in the chair in the corner.

‘I really only have one question,’ Hemberg began. ‘What do you think it is?’

‘You’re of course wondering what I was doing here.’

‘I would probably put it more forcefully,’ Hemberg said. ‘How the hell did you end up here?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Wallander said.

‘Make it short,’ Hemberg replied. ‘But leave nothing out.’

Wallander told him. About the betting forms, the telephone calls, the taxicabs. Hemberg listened with his eyes stubbornly directed at the floor. When Wallander finished, he sat for a while without saying anything.

‘Since you’ve found a murder victim, I naturally have to praise you for it,’ he started. ‘There also seems to be nothing wrong with your determination. Nor has your thinking been completely wrong. But apart from these things, it goes without saying that your actions have been completely unjustifiable. There is no room in police work for anything resembling independent and secret surveillance, with detectives assigning themselves their own work. I say this only once.’

Wallander nodded. He understood.

‘Do you have anything else to tell me? Apart from what led you here to Arlov?’

Wallander told him about his visit to Helena at the shipping company.

‘Nothing more?’

‘Nothing.’

Wallander was prepared for a lecture. But Hemberg simply got up from the bed and nodded for him to follow suit.

On the stairs he stopped and turned round.

‘I looked for you today,’ he said. ‘To tell you the results of the weapons inspection. There was nothing unexpected in the report. But they said you had called in sick?’

‘I had a stomach ache this morning. Stomach flu.’

Hemberg gave him an ironic look.

‘That was quick,’ he said. ‘But since you seem to have got better you can stay here tonight. You may learn something. Don’t touch anything, don’t say anything. Just make mental notes.’

At half past three the woman’s body was taken away. Sjunnesson had arrived shortly after one. Wallander wondered why he didn’t seem at all tired even though it was the middle of the night. Hemberg, Stefansson and another detective had methodically searched the apartment, opened drawers and cupboards, and found a number of things that they put out on the table. Wallander had also listened to a conversation between Hemberg and a medical examiner called Jorne. There was no doubt that the woman had been strangled. In his initial examination Jorne had also found signs that she had been struck on the head from behind. Hemberg explained that what he most needed to know was how long she had been dead.

‘She has probably been sitting in that chair for a couple of days,’ Jorne answered.

‘How many?’

‘I won’t hazard a guess. You’ll have to wait until the autopsy is complete.’

When the conversation with Jorne was over, Hemberg turned to Wallander.

‘You understand, of course, why I asked him this,’ he said.

‘You want to know if she died before Halen?’

Hemberg nodded.

‘In that case it would give us a reasonable explanation for why a person had taken his own life. It is not unusual for murderers to commit suicide.’

Hemberg sat down on the couch in the living room. Stefansson was standing out in the hall, talking to the police photographer.

‘One thing we can nonetheless see quite clearly,’ Hemberg said after a pause. ‘The woman was killed as she sat in the chair. Someone hit her on the head. There are traces of blood on the floor and on the wax tablecloth. Then she was strangled. That gives us several possible points of departure.’

Hemberg looked at Wallander.

He’s testing me, Wallander thought. He wants to know if I measure up.

‘It must mean that the woman knew the person who killed her.’

‘Correct. And more?’

Wallander searched his mind. Were there any other conclusions to be drawn? He shook his head.

‘You have to use your eyes,’ Hemberg said. ‘Was there something on the table? One cup? Several cups? How was she dressed? It is one thing that she knew the person who killed her. Let us for the sake of simplicity assume it was a man. But how well did she know him?’

Wallander understood. It bothered him that he had initially missed what Hemberg had been getting at.

‘She was wearing a nightgown and robe,’ he said. ‘That’s not something you wear with just anyone.’

‘How did her bed look?’

‘It was unmade.’

‘Conclusion?’

‘Alexandra Batista may have had a relationship with the man who killed her.’

‘More?’

‘There were no cups on the table, but there were some unwashed glasses next to the stove.’

‘We will examine them,’ Hemberg said. ‘What did they drink? Are there fingerprints? Empty glasses have many exciting things to tell us.’

He rose heavily from the couch. Wallander suddenly realised that he was tired.

‘So we actually know a great deal,’ Hemberg continued. ‘Since there are no signs of an intruder we will work with the hypothesis that the murder was committed under the auspices of a personal connection.’

‘That still doesn’t explain the fire at Halen’s place,’ Wallander said.

Hemberg studied him critically.

‘You’re getting ahead of yourself,’ he said. ‘We are going to move forward calmly and methodically. We know some things with a great deal of certainty. We proceed from these things. What we do not know, or what we cannot be sure of, will have to wait. You cannot solve a puzzle if half of the pieces are still in the box.’

They had reached the hall. Stefansson had finished his conversation with the photographer and was now talking on the phone.

‘How did you get here?’ Hemberg asked.

‘Taxi.’

‘You can come back with me.’

During the trip back to Malmo Hemberg did not say anything. They drove through fog and a drizzling rain. Hemberg dropped Wallander off outside his building in Rosengard.

‘Get in touch with me later on today,’ Hemberg said. ‘If you’ve recovered from your stomach flu, that is.’

Wallander let himself into his apartment. It was already morning. The fog had begun to dissipate. He didn’t bother taking his clothes off. Instead, he lay down on top of the bed. He was soon asleep.

The doorbell jerked him awake. He sleepily stumbled out into the hall and opened the door. His sister, Kristina, was standing there.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

Wallander shook his head and let her in.

‘I’ve been working all night,’ he said. ‘What time is it?’

‘Seven. I’m going out to Loderup with Dad today. But I thought I would look in on you first.’

Wallander asked her to put some coffee on while he had a wash and changed his clothes. He bathed his face in cold water for a long time. By the time he came back out to the kitchen he had chased the long night out of his body. Kristina smiled at him.

‘You are actually one of the few men I know who doesn’t have long hair,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t suit me,’ Wallander answered. ‘But God knows I’ve tried. I can’t have a beard either. I look ridiculous. Mona threatened to leave me when she saw it.’

‘How is she doing?’

‘Fine.’

Wallander briefly considered telling her what had happened. About the silence that now lay between them.

Earlier, when they had both lived at home, he and Kristina had had a close and trusting relationship. Even so, Wallander decided to say nothing. After she had moved to Stockholm the contact between them had become vague and more irregular.

Wallander sat down at the table and asked how things were with her.

‘Good.’

‘Dad said you had met someone who works with kidneys.’

‘He’s an engineer and he works at developing a new kind of dialysis machine.’

‘I’m not sure I know what that is,’ Wallander said. ‘But it sounds very advanced.’

Then he realised that she had come for a particular reason. He could see it in her face.

‘I don’t know why,’ he said, ‘but I can tell that you want something in particular.’

‘I don’t understand how you can treat Dad this way.’

Wallander was taken aback.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think? You don’t help him pack. You don’t even want to see his house in Loderup and when you bump into him on the street you pretend you don’t know him.’

Wallander shook his head.

‘Did he say that?’

‘Yes. And he’s very upset.’

‘None of this is true.’

‘I haven’t seen you since I got here. He’s moving today.’

‘Didn’t he tell you that I came by? And that he basically threw me out?’

‘He hasn’t said anything like that.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything he says. At least not about me.’

‘So it isn’t true?’

‘Nothing is true. He didn’t even tell me he had bought the house. He hasn’t wanted to show it to me, hasn’t even told me what it cost. When I was helping him pack I dropped an old plate and all hell broke loose. And actually I do stop and talk to him when I see him on the street. Even though he often looks like a crazy person.’

Wallander could tell she wasn’t quite convinced. That irritated him. But even more upsetting was the fact that she was sitting here scolding him. That reminded him of his mother. Or Mona. Or Helena, for that matter. He couldn’t stand these meddling women who tried to tell him what to do.

‘You don’t believe me,’ Wallander said, ‘but you should. Don’t forget that you live in Stockholm and that I have the old man in my face all the time. That makes a big difference.’

The telephone rang. It was twenty minutes past seven. Wallander answered. It was Helena.

‘I called you last night,’ she said.

‘I worked all night.’

‘Since no one answered I thought I must have the wrong number, so I called Mona to check.’

Wallander almost dropped the receiver.

‘You did what?’

‘I called and asked Mona for your telephone number.’

Wallander had no illusions about what the consequences of this would be. If Helena had called Mona that meant Mona’s jealousy would flare up with full force. It would not improve their relationship.

‘Are you still there?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Wallander said, ‘but right now my sister is here.’

‘I’m at work. You can call me.’

Wallander hung up and went back to the kitchen. Kristina looked curiously at him.

‘Are you ill?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But I probably should go in to work now.’

They said goodbye in the hall.

‘You should believe me,’ Wallander said. ‘You can’t always rely on what he tells you. Let him know I’ll be out to see him as soon as I have time. If I’m welcome, that is, and if someone can tell me where this house is.’

‘At the edge of Loderup,’ Kristina said. ‘First you go past a country stall, then down a road bordered with willows. When that ends the house is on the left, with a stone wall to the road. It has a black roof and is very nice.’

‘When did you go there?’

‘The first load went yesterday.’

‘Do you know what he paid for it?’

‘He won’t say.’

Kristina left. Wallander waved at her through the kitchen window. He forced away his anger over what his father had said about him. What Helena had said was more serious. Wallander called her. When he was told she was on the line with another caller he banged the receiver back on the hook. He rarely lost control, but now he noticed that he was close. He called again. Still busy. Mona is going to end our relationship, he thought. She thinks I’ve started courting Helena again. It won’t matter what I say. She’s not going to believe me anyway. He called again. This time he got an answer.

‘What did you want?’

Her voice was cold when she replied.

‘Do you have to sound so unpleasant? I was actually trying to help you.’

‘Was it really necessary to call Mona?’

‘She knows I’m not interested in you any more.’

‘She does? You don’t know Mona.’

‘I’m not going to apologise for trying to find your telephone number.’

‘What did you want?’

‘I’ve received some information from Captain Verke. Do you remember? I said that we had an old sea captain here.’

Wallander remembered.

‘I have some paper copies in front of me. Lists of sailors and engineers who have worked for Swedish shipping lines for the past ten years. As you can imagine, this includes quite a number of people. By the way, are you sure that the man you mentioned had only served on Swedish-registered vessels?’

‘I’m not sure of anything,’ Wallander said.

‘You can pick up the lists from here,’ she said. ‘When you have time. But I’ll be in meetings all afternoon.’

Wallander promised to come by in the morning. Then he hung up and thought that what he should do now was call Mona and explain the situation. But he let it be. He simply didn’t dare.

It was ten minutes to eight. He started to put on his coat.

The thought of patrolling for a whole day increased his despondence.

He was just about to leave the apartment when the telephone rang again. Mona, he thought. Now she’s calling to tell me to go to hell. He drew a deep breath and lifted the receiver.

It was Hemberg.

‘How are you doing with that stomach flu?’

‘I was just on my way in to the station.’

‘Good. But come up and report to me. I have talked with Lohman. You are after all a witness who we need to talk to more. That means no patrolling today. And to top it off, you won’t have to participate in raids on drug-infested neighbourhoods.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Wallander said.

‘Come by at ten o’clock. I thought you could sit in on a meeting we have scheduled about the murder in Arlov.’

The conversation was over. Wallander checked his watch. He would have time to pick up the papers waiting for him at the shipping office. On the kitchen wall he had a schedule for the buses to and from Rosengard. If he hurried, he wouldn’t have to wait.

When he walked out the front door, Mona was there. He had not expected that. As little as he expected what happened next. She walked right over to him and slapped him on the left cheek. Then she twirled round and walked away.

Wallander was so shocked he did not even manage to react. His cheek burned and a man who was unlocking his car door stared at him with curiosity.

Mona was already gone. Slowly he started walking to the bus stop. He had a knot in his stomach now. It had never occurred to him that she would react so violently.

The bus arrived. Wallander made his way down towards the Central Station. The fog had gone. But it was overcast. The morning drizzle continued unabated. He sat in the bus and his head was completely empty. The events of last night no longer existed. The woman who had been sitting dead in her chair was part of a dream. The only thing that was real was that Mona had hit him and then walked away. Without a word, without hesitation.

I have to talk to her, he thought. Not now, while she is still upset. But later, tonight.

He got off the bus. His cheek still stung. The slap had been forceful. He checked his reflection in a shop window. The redness on his cheek was noticeable.

He lingered, confused about his course of action. Thought that he should talk to Lars Andersson as soon as possible. Thank him for his help and explain what had happened.

Then he thought about a house in Loderup he had never seen. And his childhood home, which no longer belonged to his family.

He started to walk. Nothing was made better by his standing unmoving on a pavement in downtown Malmo.

Wallander picked up the large envelope that Helena had left with the office receptionist.

‘I need to talk to her,’ he said to the receptionist.

‘She’s busy’ was the answer. ‘She just asked me to give you this.’

Wallander realised Helena was probably angry about the morning’s conversation and did not want to see him. He didn’t have great difficulties relating to this.

It wasn’t more than five minutes past nine when Wallander arrived at the police station. He walked to his office and to his relief found that no one was waiting for him. Once again he thought through everything that had happened this morning. If he called the hair salon where Mona worked she would say she didn’t have time to talk. He would have to wait until tonight.

He opened the envelope and was amazed at how long the lists of names from various shipping companies that Helena had managed to dig up were. He looked for Artur Halen’s name, but it wasn’t there. The closest names he saw were a seaman by the name of Hale who had mostly sailed for the Granges shipping line, and a chief engineer on the Johnson line by the name of Hallen. Wallander pushed aside the pile of paper. If the records he had in front of him were complete that meant that Halen had not worked on any ships registered in the Swedish merchant fleet. Then it would be nearly impossible to find him. Wallander suddenly did not know any longer what he was hoping to find. An explanation of what?

It had taken him almost three-quarters of an hour to go through the lists. He got to his feet and walked up to the next floor. He bumped into his boss, Inspector Lohman, in the corridor.

‘Weren’t you supposed to be with Hemberg today?’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘What were you doing out in Arlov, anyway?’

‘It’s a long story; that’s what the meeting with Hemberg is about.’

Lohman shook his head and hurried on. Wallander felt relief at not having to go to the dreary and depressing drug-infested neighbourhoods that his colleagues were going to have to deal with that day.

Hemberg was sitting in his office, sorting through some papers. As usual he had his feet up on the desk. He looked up when Wallander appeared in the doorway.

‘What happened to you?’ Hemberg asked and pointed to his cheek.

‘I bumped into a doorpost,’ Wallander said.

‘Just what abused wives say when they don’t want to turn in their husbands,’ Hemberg said breezily and sat up.

Wallander felt found out. It was getting harder and harder for him to determine what Hemberg was really thinking. Hemberg seemed to have a double-edged language, one that made the listener constantly search for the meaning behind the words.

‘We’re still waiting for definitive results from Jorne,’ Hemberg said. ‘That takes time. As long as we can’t pinpoint exactly when the woman died we also cannot proceed with the theory that Halen killed her and then went home and shot himself out of regret or fear.’

Hemberg stood with his papers tucked under his arm. Wallander followed him to a conference room further down the corridor. There were already several detectives there, among them Stefansson, who regarded Wallander with animosity. Sjunnesson was picking his teeth and did not look at anyone. There were also two other men who Wallander recognised. One was called Horner and the other Mattsson. Hemberg sat down at the short end of the table and pointed out a chair to Wallander.

‘Is the patrol squad helping us out now?’ Stefansson said. ‘Don’t they have enough to do with all those damn protestors?’

‘The patrol squad has nothing to do with this,’ Hemberg said. ‘But Wallander found that lady out in Arlov. It’s as simple as that.’

Only Stefansson seemed to object to Wallander’s presence. The others nodded kindly. Wallander imagined that more than anything they were happy to have an additional hand. Sjunnesson put down the toothpick with which he had been picking his teeth. Apparently this was the sign that Hemberg could begin. Wallander noted the methodical care that characterised the investigative unit’s proceedings. They worked from the existing facts, but they also took time – Hemberg, above all – to feel their way in exploring various directions. Why had Alexandra Batista been murdered? What could the connection to Halen be? Were there any other leads?

‘The precious stones in Halen’s stomach,’ Hemberg said towards the end of the meeting. ‘I have received an evaluation from a jeweller of about 150,000 kronor. A lot of money, in other words. People in this country have been murdered for much less.’

‘Someone hit a taxi driver on the head with an iron pipe a couple of years ago,’ Sjunnesson said. ‘He had twenty-two kronor in his wallet.’

Hemberg looked around the table.

‘The neighbours?’ he asked. ‘Have they seen anything? Heard anything?’

Mattsson glanced through his notes.

‘No observations,’ he said. ‘Batista lived an isolated life. Rarely went out except to buy groceries. Had no visitors.’

‘Someone must have seen Halen come by?’ Hemberg objected.

‘Apparently not. And the nearest neighbours gave the impression of being regular Swedish citizens. That is to say, extremely nosy.’

‘When did someone see her last?’

‘There were differing opinions on this. But of what I have been able to document, one can draw the conclusion that it was several days ago. What’s not clear is if it was two or three days ago.’

‘Do we know what she lived on?’

Then it was Horner’s turn.

‘She seems to have had a small annuity,’ he said. ‘In part with unclear origins. A bank in Portugal that in turn has affiliated branches in Brazil. It always takes a damn long time with banks. But she didn’t work. If you look at the contents of her cupboards, fridge and pantry, her life did not cost much.’

‘But the house?’

‘No loans. Paid for in cash by her former husband.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In a grave,’ Stefansson said. ‘He died a couple of years ago. Was buried in Karlskoga. I spoke to his widow. He had remarried. That was unfortunately somewhat embarrassing. I realised too late that she had no idea that there had once been an Alexandra Batista in his life. But he did not appear to have had any children with Batista.’

‘That’s how it can be,’ Hemberg said, and turned to Sjunnesson.

‘We’re in the process,’ he said. ‘Different fingerprints on the glasses. Seems to have been red wine in them. Spanish, I think. We’re trying to match this to an empty bottle that was in the kitchen. We’re checking to see if we have the prints in the register. Then of course we’ll also compare them to Halen’s.’

‘He may also be in Interpol’s registers,’ Hemberg pointed out. ‘It can take a while until we hear back from them.’

‘We can assume she let him in,’ Sjunnesson continued. ‘There were no signs of forced entry on the windows or doors. He can also have had his own key, for that matter. But there were none that fitted. The balcony door was open, as our friend Wallander has informed us. Since Batista had neither a dog nor a cat, one could imagine that it was open to let in the night air. Which in turn should mean that Batista did not fear or expect that anything would happen. Or else the perpetrator exited that way. The back of the house is more protected from prying eyes.’

‘Any other evidence?’ Hemberg said.

‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’

Hemberg pushed away the papers that were spread out in front of him.

‘Then all we can do is keep going,’ he said. ‘The medical examiner will have to hurry up. The best possible outcome is if Halen can be bound to the crime. Personally, that is what I believe. But we will have to keep talking to neighbours and digging around in background material.’

Then Hemberg turned to Wallander.

‘Do you have anything to add? You found her, after all.’

Wallander shook his head and noticed that his mouth was dry.

‘Nothing?’

‘I didn’t notice anything that you haven’t already commented on.’

Hemberg drummed his fingers against the tabletop.

‘Then we have no need to sit here any longer,’ he said. ‘Does anyone know what the lunch is today?’

‘Herring,’ Horner said. ‘It’s usually good.’

Hemberg asked Wallander to join him for lunch. But he declined. His appetite was gone. He felt that he needed to be alone to think. He went to his office to get his coat. He could see through the window that it had stopped raining. Just as he was about to leave his office, one of his colleagues from the patrol squad came in and threw his police cap on a table.

‘Shit,’ he said, and sat down heavily in a chair.

His name was Jorgen Berglund and he came from a farm outside Landskrona. Wallander sometimes had trouble understanding his dialect.

‘We’ve cleaned up two blocks,’ he said. ‘In one of them we found some runaway thirteen-year-old girls who had been missing for weeks. One of them smelled so bad we had to hold our noses. Another one bit Persson on the leg when we were going to lift them out. What is happening in this country, anyway? And why weren’t you there?’

‘I was called in by Hemberg,’ Wallander said. As to the other question, about what was happening in Sweden, he had no answer.

He took his coat and left. In the reception area he was stopped by one of the girls who worked in the call centre.

‘You have a message,’ she said and she handed him a note through the window. There was a phone number on it.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

‘Someone called and said he was a distant relative to you. He wasn’t sure you would even remember him.’

‘Didn’t he say what his name was?’

‘No, but he seemed old.’

Wallander studied the telephone number. There was an area code: 0411. This can’t be true, he thought. My father calls and introduces himself as a distant relative. One I may not even remember.

‘Where is Loderup?’ he asked.

‘I think that’s the Ystad police district.’

‘I’m not asking about the police district. Which area code is it?’

‘It’s Ystad.’

Wallander tucked the note in his pocket and left. If he had had a car he would have driven straight out to Loderup and asked his father what he had meant by calling like that. When he had got an answer, he would let him have it. Say that from this point on all contact between them would be severed. No more poker evenings, no phone calls. Wallander would promise to come to the funeral, which he hoped was not too far off. But that was all.

Wallander walked along Fiskehamnsgatan. Then he swung onto Slottsgatan and continued into Kungsparken. I have two problems, he thought. The biggest and most important one is Mona. The other is my father. I have to solve both problems as soon as possible.

He sat down on a bench and watched some grey sparrows bathing in a puddle of water. A drunk man was sleeping behind some bushes. I should really lift him up, Wallander thought. Put him down on this bench or even make sure he gets picked up and can sleep it off somewhere. But right now I don’t care about him. He can stay where he is.

He rose from the bench and kept going. Left Kungsparken and came out on Regementsgatan. He still wasn’t feeling hungry. Even so, he stopped at a hot-dog stand on Gustav Adolf’s Square and bought a grilled hot dog on a bun. Then he returned to the station.

It was half past one. Hemberg was unavailable. What he should do with himself, he didn’t know. He should really talk to Lohman about what he was expected to do during the afternoon. But he didn’t. Instead he pulled out the lists that Helena had given him. Again he browsed through the names. Tried to see the faces, imagine their lives. Sailors and engineers. Their birth information was noted in the margins. Wallander put the lists down again. From the corridor he heard something that sounded like a taunting laugh.

Wallander tried to think about Halen. His neighbour. Who had turned in betting sheets, put in an extra lock and thereafter shot himself. Everything pointed to Hemberg’s theory holding water. For some reason Halen had killed Alexandra Batista and then taken his own life.

That’s where it came to a stop for Wallander. Hemberg’s theory was logical and straightforward. Nonetheless Wallander thought it was hollow. The outside coordinates matched up. But the content? It was still very murky. Not least, this idea did not fit very well with the impression Wallander had had of his neighbour. Wallander had never found anything passionate or violent in him.

Of course even the most retiring person was capable of exploding in anger and violence under certain circumstances. But did it actually make sense to think that Halen had taken the life of the woman he most likely had a relationship with?

Something is missing, Wallander thought. Inside this shell there is nothing.

He tried to think more deeply but didn’t get anywhere. Absently he gazed at the lists on the table. Without being able to say where the thought came from, he suddenly started to look through all of the birth information in the margins. How old had Halen been? He recalled that he was born in 1898. But which date? Wallander called reception and asked to be put through to Stefansson. He picked up at once.

‘This is Wallander. I’m wondering if you have Halen’s birthdate available?’

‘Are you planning to wish him a happy birthday?’

He doesn’t like me, Wallander thought. But in time I’ll show him that I am a much better investigator than he is.

‘Hemberg asked me to look into something,’ Wallander lied.

Stefansson put down the receiver. Wallander could hear him riffling through papers.

‘It’s 17 September 1898,’ Stefansson said. ‘Anything else?’

‘That’s all,’ Wallander said and hung up.

Then he pulled over the lists again.

On the third page he found what he had not been consciously aware of looking for. An engineer who was born on 17 September 1898. Anders Hansson. Same initials as Artur Halen, Wallander thought.

He went through the rest of the entries to assure himself that there were no others who were born on the same day. He found a sailor who was born on 19 September 1901. That was the closest thing. Wallander took out the phone book and looked up the number of his local pastor’s office. Since Wallander and Halen had lived in the same building, they must also be registered in the same parish. He dialled the number and waited. A woman answered. Wallander thought he might as well continue to introduce himself as a detective.

‘My name is Wallander and I’m with the Malmo police,’ he started. ‘This is in regard to a violent death that occurred a few days ago. I’m from the homicide unit.’

He gave Halen’s name, address and birthdate.

‘What is it you want to know?’ the woman asked.

‘If there is any information about Halen possibly having a different name earlier in his life.’

‘You mean such as changing his last name?’

Damn it, Wallander thought. People don’t change their first names. Only their last names.

‘Let me check,’ the woman said.

This was wrong, Wallander realised. I react before I’ve thought my ideas through enough.

He wondered if he should just hang up. But the woman would wonder about that, think the call had been cut off, and might call for him at the station. He waited. It took a long time before she returned.

‘His death was just in the process of being recorded,’ she said. ‘That’s why it took a while. But you were right.’

Wallander sat up.

‘His name was Hansson before. He changed his name in 1962.’

Right, Wallander thought. But wrong anyway.

‘The first name,’ he said. ‘What was it?’

‘Anders.’

‘It should have been Artur.’

The answer came as a surprise.

‘It was. He must have had parents who loved names, or who couldn’t agree. His name was Anders Erik Artur Hansson.’

Wallander held his breath.

‘Thank you so much for your help.’

When the call was over, Wallander felt a strong urge to contact Hemberg. But he stayed where he was. The question was how much his discovery was worth. I’ll follow up on this myself, he decided. If it doesn’t lead anywhere, no one has to know about it.

Wallander pulled over his notepad and started to make a summary. What did he really know? Artur Halen had changed his name seven years ago. Linnea Almquist had said at some point that Halen had moved in at the start of the 1960s. That could fit.

Wallander ended up sitting with the pen in his hand. Then he called back the pastor’s office. The same woman answered.

‘I forgot to ask you something,’ Wallander excused himself. ‘I need to know when Halen moved to Rosengard.’

‘You mean Hansson,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll go see.’

This time she was much faster.

‘He is registered as newly moved on 1 January 1962.’

‘Where did he live before?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I thought that information was available?’

‘He was registered as being out of the country. There is no information about where.’

Wallander nodded into the receiver.

‘Then I think that is all. I promise not to disturb you again.’

He returned to his notes. Hansson moves to Malmo from some unknown foreign location in 1962 and changes his name at the same time. A few years later he starts a relationship with a woman in Arlov. If they had known each other earlier, I don’t know. After several more years she is murdered and Halen commits suicide. It’s not clear in what order this occurs. But Halen kills himself. After first filling out a betting form and putting an extra lock on his door. And after swallowing a number of precious stones.

Wallander made a face. He still wasn’t finding a direction from which to proceed. Why does a person change his name? he thought. To make himself invisible? To make himself impossible to find? So that no one will know who he is or who he has been?

Who you are or who you have been?

Wallander thought about this. No one had known Halen. He had been a loner. There could, however, be people who had known a man by the name of Anders Hansson. The question was how he could find them.

At that moment he was reminded of something that had happened the preceding year that might help him find a solution. A fight had broken out between some drunks down by the ferry terminal. Wallander was one of the officers who responded to the dispatch and helped to break up the fight. One of the parties involved was a Danish sailor by the name of Holger Jespersen. Wallander had had the impression that he had unwillingly been dragged into the fight and said as much to his superiors. He had also insisted that Jespersen had not done anything and the man had been allowed to go free while the others were brought in. Later on Wallander had forgotten all about it.

But a few weeks later Jespersen had suddenly turned up outside his door in Rosengard and given him a bottle of Danish aquavit as thanks for his help. Wallander had never managed to establish how Jespersen had found him. But he had invited him in. Jespersen had problems with alcohol, but only from time to time. Usually he worked on various ships as an engineer. He was a good storyteller and seemed to know every northern sailor from the past fifty years. Jespersen had told him that he usually spent his evenings in a bar in Nyhavn. When he was sober he always drank coffee. Otherwise beer. But always in the same place. If he was not somewhere out at sea.

Now Wallander came to think of him. Jespersen knows, he thought. Or else he can give me some advice.

Wallander had already made his decision. If he was lucky, Jespersen would be in Copenhagen and hopefully not in the middle of one of his drinking binges. It was not yet three o’clock. Wallander would spend the rest of the day going to Copenhagen and back. No one seemed to miss his presence at the station. But before he set off across the sound he had a telephone call to make. It was as if his decision to go to Copenhagen had given him the necessary courage. He dialled the number to the hair salon where Mona worked.

The woman who answered the phone was called Karin and was the owner. Wallander had met her on several occasions. He found her intrusive and nosy. But Mona thought she was a good boss. He told her who he was and asked her to give a message to Mona.

‘You can talk to her yourself,’ Karin said. ‘I have a woman under a dryer here.’

‘I’m in a case meeting,’ Wallander said and tried to sound busy. ‘Just tell her that I’ll be in touch by ten o’clock tonight.’

Karin promised to forward the message.

Afterwards Wallander noticed that he had started sweating during the short conversation. But he was still happy that he had accomplished it.

Then he left the station and just managed to catch the hydrofoil that left at three o’clock. Earlier in the year he had often gone to Copenhagen. First alone, and then with Mona. He liked the city, which was so much bigger than Malmo. Sometimes he also went to Det Kongelige Theatre when there was an opera performance he wanted to see.

He didn’t much care for the hydrofoils. The trip went too fast. The old ferries gave him a stronger feeling that there was actually some distance between Sweden and Denmark; that he was travelling abroad when he crossed the sound. He looked out the window as he drank his coffee. One day they will probably build a bridge here, he thought. But I probably won’t have to live to see that day.

When Wallander arrived in Copenhagen it had started to drizzle again. The boat docked in Nyhavn. Jespersen had told him where his regular pub was and it was not without a feeling of excitement that Wallander stepped into the semi-darkness. It was a quarter to four. He looked around the dim interior. There were a few customers scattered about, sitting at tables, drinking beer.

A radio was turned on somewhere. Or was it a record player? A Danish woman’s voice was singing something that seemed very sentimental. Wallander didn’t see Jespersen at any of the tables. The bartender was working on a crossword puzzle in a newspaper spread out over the counter. He looked up when Wallander approached.

‘A beer,’ Wallander said.

The man gave him a Tuborg.

‘I’m looking for Jespersen,’ Wallander said.

‘Holger? He won’t be in for another hour or so.’

‘He’s not out at sea, then?’

The bartender smiled.

‘If he was, he would hardly be coming in in an hour, would he? He usually comes in around five.’

Wallander sat down at a table and waited. The sentimental female voice had now been replaced by an equally schmaltzy male voice. If Jespersen came in around five, Wallander would have no trouble being back in Malmo before he was set to call Mona. Now he tried to think out what he was going to say. He would not even acknowledge the slap. He would tell her why he had contacted Helena. He would not give up until she believed what he said.

A man at one of the tables had fallen asleep. The bartender was still hunched over his crossword. Time was passing slowly. Now and again the door opened and let in a glimpse of daylight. Someone came in and a few others left. Wallander checked his watch. Ten to five. Still no Jespersen. He became hungry and was given some slices of sausage on a plate. And another Tuborg. Wallander had the feeling that the bartender was puzzling over the same word as he had been when Wallander had arrived at the bar an hour ago.

It was five o’clock. Still no Jespersen. He’s not coming, Wallander thought. Today of all days he’s slipped and started drinking again.

Two women walked in through the door. One of them ordered a schnapps and sat down at a table. The other one went behind the counter. The bartender left his newspaper and started to go through the bottles lined up on the shelves. Apparently the woman worked there. It was now twenty minutes past five. The door opened and Jespersen entered, dressed in a denim jacket and a cap. He walked straight to the counter and said hello. The bartender immediately poured him a cup of coffee and pointed to Wallander’s table. Jespersen took his cup and smiled when he saw Wallander.

‘This is unexpected,’ he said in broken Swedish. ‘A Swedish police servant in Copenhagen.’

‘Not a servant,’ Wallander said. ‘Constable. Or criminal investigator.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

Jespersen chuckled and dropped four lumps of sugar into his coffee.

‘In any case, it’s nice to get a visitor,’ he said. ‘I know everyone who comes here. I know what they’re going to drink and what they’re going to say. And they know the same about me. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t go someplace else. But I don’t think I dare.’

‘Why not?’

‘Maybe someone will say something I don’t want to hear.’

Wallander wasn’t sure he understood everything that Jespersen was saying. For one thing, his Swedo-Danish was unclear, for another his pronouncements were somewhat vague.

‘I came here to see you,’ Wallander said. ‘I thought you might be able to help me.’

‘With any other police servant I would have told you to go to hell,’ Jespersen answered jovially. ‘But with you it’s different. What is it you want to know?’

Wallander filled him in on what had happened.

‘A sailor, called both Anders Hansson and Artur Halen,’ he finished. ‘Who also worked as an engineer.’

‘Which line?’

‘Sahlen.’

Jespersen slowly shook his head.

‘I would have heard about someone who changed his name,’ he said. ‘That isn’t an everyday occurrence.’

Wallander tried to describe Halen’s appearance. At the same time he was thinking of the photographs he had seen in the sailor’s books. A man who changed. Maybe Halen also deliberately altered his appearance when he changed his name?

‘Can you add anything else?’ Jespersen said. ‘He was a sailor and an engineer. Which in itself is an unusual combination. Which ports did he sail to? Which type of vessel?’

‘I think he went to Brazil a number of times,’ Wallander said hesitantly. ‘Rio de Janeiro, of course. But also a place called Sao Luis.’

‘Northern Brazil,’ Jespersen said. ‘I’ve been there once. Had shore leave there and stayed in an elegant hotel called Casa Grande.’

‘I don’t think I have anything more to tell,’ Wallander said.

Jespersen studied him while he dropped a few more sugar cubes into his coffee.

‘Someone who knew him? Is that what you want to know? Someone who knew Anders Hansson? Or Artur Halen?’

Wallander nodded.

‘Then we won’t get any further right now,’ Jespersen said. ‘I’ll check around. Both here and in Malmo. Now I think we should go have a bite to eat.’

Wallander looked at his watch. Half past five. There was no need to hurry. If he took the hydrofoil back to Malmo at half past eight he would still get home in time to call Mona. And he was hungry anyway. The sausage slices had not been enough.

‘Mussels,’ Jespersen said and stood up. ‘We’re going to Anne-Birte’s to have a bite.’

Wallander paid for his drinks. Since Jespersen had already gone out to the street, Wallander had to pay for him as well.

Anne-Birte’s establishment was located in the lower part of Nyhavn. Since it was early, they had no problems getting a table. Mussels were not really what Wallander most wanted to have, but that was Jespersen’s choice and so mussels it was. Wallander kept drinking beer while Jespersen had switched to an intensely yellow lemon drink, Citronvand.

‘I’m not touching the drink right now,’ he said. ‘But I will in a few weeks.’

Wallander ate and listened to Jespersen’s many well-told stories from his years at sea. Shortly before half past eight they were ready to leave.

For a while, Wallander worried that he wouldn’t have enough money to pay the bill since Jespersen appeared to take for granted that Wallander would pay. But in the end Wallander had enough to cover it.

They parted outside the restaurant.

‘I’ll look into this,’ Jespersen said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Wallander walked down to the ferries and stood in line. They cast off at exactly nine o’clock. Wallander closed his eyes and dozed off almost immediately.

He was awakened by the fact that everything had grown very quiet around him. The roar of the ship’s engines had stopped. He looked around in bewilderment. They were about halfway between Denmark and Sweden. Then an announcement from the captain came over the ship’s PA system. The ship had sustained engine damage and would have to be towed back to Copenhagen. Wallander leaped up out of his seat and asked one of the stewardesses if there was a telephone aboard. He received an answer in the negative.

‘When will we get to Copenhagen?’ he asked.

‘That will unfortunately take several hours. But we will be offering a range of sandwiches and beverages in the meantime.’

‘I don’t want a sandwich,’ Wallander said. ‘I want a telephone.’

But no one could help him. He turned to a ship’s mate who answered curtly that the radio phones could not be used for personal calls when the vessel was in a state of emergency.

Wallander sat back down in his seat.

She won’t believe me, he thought. A hydrofoil that breaks down. That will be the last straw for her. Then our relationship will break down as well, for good.

Wallander reached Malmo at half past two in the morning. They had not arrived in Copenhagen until shortly after midnight. At that point he had already abandoned all thoughts of calling her. When he landed in Malmo there was a downpour. Since he did not have enough money to take a taxi he had to walk all the way back to Rosengard. He had only just stepped inside the door when he suddenly became violently ill. After vomiting, he developed a fever.

The mussels, he thought. Don’t tell me I’m really getting the stomach flu now.

Wallander spent the rest of the night in a constant series of trips between the bedroom and the bathroom. He had the energy to remind himself that he had actually never called in to say he was over his illness. Therefore he was still on sick leave. At dawn he finally managed to catch a few hours of sleep. But at nine he started running to the toilet again. The thought of calling Mona while shitting and vomiting was beyond him. In the best-case scenario she would realise that something had happened to him, that he was sick. But the telephone didn’t ring. No one tried to reach him all day.

Late that evening he started to feel somewhat better. But he was so weak that he didn’t manage to make himself anything except a cup of tea. Before he fell asleep again he wondered how Jespersen was feeling. He hoped he was as sick since he was the one who had suggested the mussels.

The next morning he tried to have a boiled egg. But this only resulted in him having to rush to the toilet again. He spent the rest of the day in bed and felt that his stomach was slowly starting to get back to normal.

Shortly before five, the phone rang. It was Hemberg.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said.

‘I’m sick in bed,’ Wallander said.

‘The stomach flu?’

‘More precisely, mussels.’

‘Surely no sensible person eats mussels?’

‘I did, unfortunately. And was duly punished.’

Hemberg changed the subject.

‘I’m calling to tell you that Jorne is finished,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t what we thought. Halen killed himself before Alexandra Batista was strangled. This means, in other words, that we have to turn this investigation in another direction. There is an unknown perpetrator.’

‘Maybe it’s a coincidence,’ Wallander said.

‘That Batista dies and Halen shoots himself? With precious stones in his stomach? You can try to convince someone else of that. What is missing is the link in this chain of events. For the sake of simplicity we can say that a drama of two people has suddenly been changed into a triangle.’

Wallander wanted to tell Hemberg about Halen’s change of name but felt another urge to vomit coming on. He excused himself.

‘If you feel better tomorrow, then come up and see me,’ Hemberg said. ‘Remember to drink a lot. Liquids are the only thing that help.’

After very hastily concluding the conversation and making yet another trip to the bathroom, Wallander returned to his bed. He spent that evening and night somewhere in the no-man’s-land between sleep, wakefulness and half-sleep. His stomach had calmed itself now, but he was still very tired. He dreamed about Mona and thought about what Hemberg had said. But he did not have the energy to get worked up, could not bring himself to think in earnest.

He felt better in the morning. He toasted some bread and brewed a weak cup of coffee. His stomach did not react. He let fresh air into the apartment, which had started to smell bad. The rain clouds had gone away and it was warm. At lunchtime Wallander called the hair salon. Again it was Karin who answered.

‘Could you tell Mona I’ll call her tonight?’ he said. ‘I’ve been sick.’

‘I’ll let her know.’

Wallander could not determine if there was a tinge of sarcasm in her voice. He didn’t think Mona talked much about her personal life. At least he hoped she didn’t.

Around one o’clock Wallander got ready to go down to the police station. But to make sure, he called and asked if Hemberg was in. After several fruitless attempts to get hold of him or at least information about where he might be, Wallander gave up. He decided to go grocery shopping and then spend the rest of the afternoon preparing for the conversation with Mona, which was not going to be an easy matter.

He made soup for dinner and then lay down on the couch and watched TV. A little after seven the door rang. Mona, he thought. She has realised that something is wrong and she’s come over.

But when he opened the door, Jespersen was standing there.

‘You and your damn mussels,’ Wallander said angrily. ‘I’ve been ill for two days.’

Jespersen looked enquiringly at him.

‘I didn’t notice anything,’ he said. ‘I’m sure there was nothing wrong with the mussels.’

Wallander decided it was meaningless to keep talking about the dinner. He let Jespersen in. They sat down in the kitchen.

‘Something smells funny in here.’

‘It usually does when someone has spent almost forty hours on the toilet.’

Jespersen shook his head.

‘It must have been something else,’ he said. ‘Not Anne-Birte’s mussels.’

‘You’re here,’ Wallander said. ‘That means you have something to tell me.’

‘A little coffee would be nice,’ Jespersen said.

‘I’m all out, sorry. And anyway, I didn’t know you were coming.’

Jespersen nodded. He didn’t take offence.

‘Mussels can certainly give you a stomach ache,’ he said, ‘but if I’m not completely mistaken, it’s something else that’s worrying you.’

Wallander was amazed. Jespersen saw right into him, right into the centre of pain that was Mona.

‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘But that’s not something I want to talk about.’

Jespersen held up his hands.

‘You’re here. That means you have something to tell me,’ Wallander repeated.

‘Have I ever told you what respect I have for your president, Mr Palme?’

‘He’s not a president, he’s not even prime minister yet. But you hardly came all the way here to tell me that.’

‘Nonetheless, it should be said,’ Jespersen insisted. ‘But you are right that other reasons have brought me here. If you live in Copenhagen, only an errand will bring you to Malmo. If you know what I mean.’

Wallander nodded impatiently. Jespersen could be very long-winded. Except when he was telling his tales from his life at sea. Then he was a master.

‘I talked a little with some friends in Copenhagen,’ Jespersen said. ‘That gave me nothing. Then I went over to Malmo and things went better. I spoke with an old electrician who sailed the seven seas for a thousand years. Ljungstrom is his name. Lives in a retirement home nowadays. Except I’ve forgotten the name of the place. He could hardly stand on his two legs. But his memory is clear.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing. But he suggested that I chat a little with a man out in Frihamnen. And when I found him and asked him about Hansson and Halen he said, “Those two are in constant demand.”’

‘What did he mean by that?’

‘What do you think? You’re a policeman and should be able to understand what regular folks don’t.’

‘What did he say again, exactly?’

‘That “those two are in constant demand”.’

Wallander understood.

‘There must have been someone else who had been asking about them, or him, to be precise.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘He didn’t know the name. But he claimed it was a man who seemed a little unstable. How can I put this? Unshaven and badly dressed. And drunk.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘About a month ago.’

About the same time that Halen had the extra lock put in, Wallander thought.

‘He didn’t know the man’s name? Can I speak with this fellow in Frihamnen myself? He must have had a name?’

‘He didn’t want to talk to a cop.’

‘Why not?’

Jespersen shrugged.

‘You know how things can be at the docks. Crates of alcohol that break open, some bags of coffee that go missing.’

Wallander had heard about such things.

‘But I kept asking around,’ Jespersen said. ‘And if I’m not mistaken I think there are some slightly scruffy individuals who have a habit of meeting up to share a bottle or two in that park in the middle of town that I’ve forgotten the name of. Something that starts with P?’

‘Pildamms Park?’

‘That’s the one. And the man who asked about Halen, or maybe it was Hansson, had a sagging eyelid.’

‘Which eye?’

‘I don’t think it’ll be hard to see if you find him.’

‘And he asked about Halen or Hansson about a month ago? And he hangs out in Pildamms Park?’

‘I thought maybe we could look him up before I head back,’ Jespersen said. ‘And maybe we’ll find a cafe on the way?’

Wallander checked his watch. It was half past seven.

‘I can’t do it tonight. I’m busy.’

‘Then I’m going back to Copenhagen. I’m going to have a word with Anne-Birte about her mussels.’

‘It could have been something else,’ Wallander said.

‘Just what I’ll say to Anne-Birte.’

They had walked out into the hall.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Wallander said. ‘And thanks for your help.’

‘Thank you,’ Jespersen said. ‘If you hadn’t been there I would have got nothing but trouble and fines that time the guys started to fight.’

‘I’ll see you around,’ Wallander said. ‘But no more mussels next time.’

‘No more mussels,’ Jespersen said and left.

Wallander went back into the kitchen and wrote down everything he had just heard. Someone had been asking about Halen or Hansson. This had taken place about a month ago. At around the same time that Halen had an extra lock put in. The man looking for Halen had a sagging eyelid. Seemed in one way or another to be drifting along. And was possibly hanging out in Pildamms Park.

Wallander put the pen down. I’m going to talk to Hemberg about this too, he thought. Right now this is actually a real lead.

Then Wallander thought that he should of course have asked Jespersen to find out if there was anyone in his circle who had heard of a woman named Alexandra Batista.

He was irritated at his sloppiness. I didn’t think it all the way through, he said to himself. I make unnecessary errors.

It was already a quarter to eight. Wallander walked to and fro in the apartment. He was nervous, but his stomach was fine now. He thought about calling his father at the new telephone number in Loderup, but chances were they would start quarrelling. It was enough to deal with Mona. In order to get the time to pass he took a walk around the block. Summer had arrived. The evening was warm. He wondered what would happen with their planned trip to Skagen.

At half past eight he walked back into his apartment. Sat down at the kitchen table with his watch laid out in front of him. I’m acting like a child, he thought. But right now I don’t know what to do in order to act any different.

He called at nine o’clock. Mona picked up almost immediately.

‘Before you hang up, I would like to explain myself,’ Wallander started.

‘Who said I was going to hang up?’

This threw him off guard. He had prepared himself carefully, knew what he was going to say. Instead she was the one who talked.

‘I actually do believe that you have an explanation,’ she said. ‘But right now that doesn’t interest me. I think we should meet and talk in person.’

‘Now?’

‘Not tonight. But tomorrow. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, I can do that.’

‘Then I’ll come to your place. But not until nine o’clock. It’s my mother’s birthday. I promised to stop by.’

‘I can cook dinner.’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

Wallander started over again from the beginning with his prepared explanations. But she interrupted him.

‘Let’s talk tomorrow. Not now, not on the phone.’

The conversation was over in less than a minute. Nothing had turned out the way Wallander had expected. It had been a conversation that he had hardly dared to dream about. Even if there had also been something that he could interpret as ominous.

The thought of staying in for the rest of the evening made him restless. It was only a quarter past nine. Nothing prevents me from taking a walk through Pildamms Park, he thought. Maybe I’ll even bump into a man with a sagging eyelid.

Wallander took out a hundred kronor in small notes which he kept tucked between the pages of a book in his bookcase. He put the notes in his pocket, picked up his coat and walked out. There was no wind and it was still warm. While he walked to the bus stop he hummed a melody from an opera. Rigoletto. He saw the bus come and started to run.

When he reached Pildamms Park he began to wonder if it had been such a good idea. It was a large park. In addition, he was actually looking for a suspected murderer. The regulations against officers acting on their own rang in his ears. But I can take a walk, he thought. I have no uniform, no one knows that I’m a policeman. I’m just a single man who’s out walking his invisible dog.

Wallander started to walk down one of the park paths. A group of young people were sitting under one of the trees. Someone was playing guitar. Wallander saw a few bottles of wine. He wondered how many laws they were breaking at this moment. Lohman would surely have moved in quickly. But Wallander simply walked on by. A few years ago he could have been one of the people sitting under the tree. But now he was a policeman and should instead arrest a person drinking wine in a public place. He shook his head at the thought. He could hardly wait until he got to work in criminal investigations. It wasn’t for this that he had joined the police. To seize young people who were playing guitar and drinking wine on one of the first warm evenings of the summer. It was to get the really big criminals. The ones who committed violent crimes or large-scale theft, or smuggled drugs.

He walked on into the park. Traffic roared in the distance. Two young people walked by, wrapped tightly around each other. Wallander thought about Mona. It would probably work out. Soon they would take their trip to Skagen, and he would never again be late for a date.

Wallander stopped. Some people were sitting and drinking alcohol on a bench not far ahead. One of them was pulling on the leash of a German shepherd who wouldn’t lie still. Wallander approached them slowly. They didn’t appear to pay him any attention. Wallander couldn’t see that any of them had a sagging eyelid. But suddenly one of the men stood up on swaying legs in front of Wallander. He was very burly. The muscles swelled out under his shirt, which was unbuttoned over his stomach.

‘I need a tenner,’ he said.

Wallander had at first intended to say no. Ten kronor was a lot of money. Then he changed his mind.

‘I’m looking for a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘A guy with a sagging eyelid.’

Wallander had not expected a hit. But to his amazement, he received an unexpected reply.

‘Rune’s not here. The devil only knows where he’s got to.’

‘That’s the one,’ Wallander said. ‘Rune.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ the swaying man said.

‘My name is Kurt,’ Wallander said. ‘I’m an old friend.’

‘I’ve never seen you before.’

Wallander gave him a ten.

‘Tell him if you see him,’ Wallander said. ‘Tell him Kurt was here. Do you happen to know Rune’s last name, by the way?’

‘I don’t even know if he has a last name. Rune is Rune.’

‘Where does he live, then?’

The man stopped swaying for a moment.

‘I thought you said you were friends? Then you should know where he lives.’

‘He moves around a lot.’

The man turned to the others who were sitting on the bench.

‘Do any of you know where Rune lives?’

The conversation that followed was extremely confused. At first it took a long time to establish which Rune they were talking about. Then many suggestions were offered to where this Rune might live. If he even had a home. Wallander waited. The German shepherd next to the bench barked the whole time.

The man with the muscles returned.

‘We don’t know where Rune lives,’ he said. ‘But we’ll tell him that Kurt was here.’

Wallander nodded and swiftly walked away. Of course, he might be wrong. There was more than one person with a sagging eyelid. But still, he was sure he was on the right track. It occurred to him that he should immediately contact Hemberg and suggest that the park be put under surveillance. Maybe the police already had a man with a sagging eyelid on their records?

But then Wallander felt doubtful. He was proceeding too fast again. First he should have a thorough conversation with Hemberg. He should tell him about the name change and what Jespersen had said. Then it would be up to Hemberg to decide if this was a lead or not.

Wallander would wait to talk to Hemberg the following day.

Wallander left the park and took the bus home.

He was still tired from the stomach flu and fell asleep before midnight.

The following day Wallander woke up refreshed at seven o’clock. After noting that his stomach was completely restored to normal he had a cup of coffee. Then he dialled the number he had been given by the girl in reception.

His father answered after many rings.

‘Is that you?’ his father said brusquely. ‘I couldn’t find the telephone in all this mess.’

‘Why did you call the police station and introduce yourself as a distant relative? Can’t you damn well say that you’re my father?’

‘I don’t want anything to do with the police,’ his father answered. ‘Why don’t you come to see me?’

‘I don’t even know where you live. Kristina only explained it vaguely.’

‘You’re too lazy to figure it out. That’s your whole problem.’

Wallander realised the conversation had already taken a wrong turn. The best thing he could do now would be to end it as soon as possible.

‘I’ll be out in a few days,’ he said. ‘I’ll call first and get directions. How are you liking it?’

‘Fine.’

‘Is that it? “Fine”?’

‘Things are in a bit of disarray. But once I get that sorted out it will be excellent. I have a wonderful studio in an old barn.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Wallander said.

‘I won’t believe it until you stand here,’ his father said. ‘You can’t really trust the police.’

Wallander finished and hung up. He could live for twenty more years, he thought desperately. And I’m going to have him over me the whole time. I’ll never escape him. I may as well face that now. And if he’s bad-tempered now it will only get worse as he gets older.

Wallander ate some sandwiches with a newly regained appetite and then took the bus in to the station. He knocked on Hemberg’s half-open door shortly after eight. He heard a grunt in reply and walked in. For once Hemberg did not have his feet on the table. He was standing at the window, flipping through a morning paper. As Wallander walked in, Hemberg scrutinised him with an amused expression.

‘Mussels,’ he said. ‘You should watch out for them. They suck up everything that’s in the water.’

‘It could have been something else,’ Wallander said evasively.

Hemberg set the newspaper down and took his seat.

‘I need to talk to you,’ Wallander said. ‘And it will take longer than five minutes.’

Hemberg nodded at his visitor’s chair.

Wallander told him of his discovery, that Halen had changed his name a few years earlier. He noticed that Hemberg immediately became more attentive. Wallander went on and told him about his conversation with Jespersen, last night’s visit, and the walk in Pildamms Park.

‘A man named Rune,’ he concluded. ‘Who doesn’t have a last name. And has a droopy eyelid.’

Hemberg considered everything he had said in silence.

‘No person lacks a last name,’ he said thereafter. ‘And there can’t be that many people with droopy eyelids in a city like Malmo.’

Then he frowned.

‘I’ve already told you once not to act on your own. And you should have contacted me or someone else last night. We would have picked up the people you met in the park. With some thorough questioning and some time to sober up, people tend to remember more. Did you, for example, write down any of these men’s names?’

‘I didn’t say I was from the police. I said I was a friend of Rune’s.’

Hemberg shook his head.

‘You can’t do that kind of stuff,’ he said. ‘We act openly unless there are compelling reasons to the contrary.’

‘He wanted money,’ Wallander said, defending himself. ‘Otherwise I would simply have walked on by.’

Hemberg looked narrowly at him.

‘What were you doing in Pildamms Park?’

‘Taking a walk.’

‘You were not undertaking your own investigation?’

‘I needed some exercise after my illness.’

Hemberg’s face expressed strong disbelief.

‘It was, in other words, pure coincidence that made you choose Pildamms Park?’

Wallander did not reply. Hemberg got up out of his chair.

‘I’ll put some men on this development. Right now we need to proceed on the widest possible front. I think I had fixed on it being Halen who killed Batista, but you get it wrong sometimes. Then all you can do is strike it and start over.’

Wallander left Hemberg’s room and walked down to the lower floor. He was hoping to be able to avoid Lohman but it was as if his boss had been waiting for him. Lohman walked out of a conference room, a cup of coffee in his hand.

‘I had just started to wonder where you were,’ he said.

‘I’ve been ill,’ Wallander said.

‘And yet people reported seeing you in the building.’

‘I’m fine again now,’ Wallander said. ‘It was the stomach flu. Mussels.’

‘You’ve been assigned to foot patrol,’ Lohman said. ‘Talk to Hakansson.’

Wallander walked to the room where the patrol squad received their assignments. Hakansson, who was large and fat and always sweating, was sitting at a table and leafing through a magazine. He looked up when Wallander walked in.

‘Central city,’ he said. ‘Wittberg is leaving at nine. End at three. Go with him.’

Wallander nodded and walked to the changing room. He took his uniform out of his locker and changed. Just as he finished, Wittberg walked in. He was thirty years old and always talked about his dreams of one day driving a racing car.

They left the station at a quarter past nine.

‘Things are always calmer when it’s warm,’ Wittberg said. ‘No unnecessary intervention on our part, then perhaps the day will turn out calm.’

And the day did indeed turn out to be calm. By the time Wallander hung up his uniform, shortly after three, they had not made a single intervention, except for stopping a cyclist who was riding on the wrong side of the street.

Wallander got home at four o’clock. He had stopped at the shop on the way home, just in case Mona changed her mind and was hungry when she came by after all.

By half past four he had showered and changed his clothes. There were still four and a half hours until Mona would come. Nothing prevents me from taking another walk in Pildamms Park, Wallander thought. Especially if I’m out with my invisible dog.

He hesitated. Hemberg had given him express orders.

But he went anyway. At half past five he walked down the same path as before. The young people who had been playing guitar and drinking wine were gone. The bench where the drunk men had been sitting was also empty. Wallander decided to keep going for another quarter of an hour. Then he would go home. He walked down a hill and paused, watching some ducks swimming around in the large pond. He heard birds singing nearby. The trees gave off a strong scent of early summer. An older couple walked past. Wallander heard them talking about someone’s ‘poor sister’. Whose sister it was and why she was the object of pity, he never found out.

He was just about to walk back the same way he had come when he discovered two people sitting in the shade of a tree. If they were drunk, he couldn’t tell. One of the men stood up. His walk was unsteady. His friend still sitting under the tree had nodded off. His chin rested against his chest. Wallander walked closer but did not recognise him from the night before. The man was poorly dressed and there was an empty vodka bottle between his feet.

Wallander crouched down to try to see his face. At the same time he heard the crunch of steps on the gravel path behind him. When he turned round there were two girls standing there. He recognised one of them without being able to say from where.

‘It’s one of those damn cops,’ the girl said. ‘Who hit me at the demonstration.’

Then Wallander realised who it was: the girl who had verbally assaulted him at the cafe the week before.

Wallander rose to his feet. At that same moment he saw from the other girl’s face that something was happening behind his back. He quickly turned round. The man who had been leaning against the tree had not been asleep. Now he was standing. And he had a knife in his hand.

After that everything happened very quickly. Later Wallander would only remember that the girls had screamed and run away. Wallander had lifted his arms to shield himself, but it was too late. He had not managed to block the thrust. The knife struck him in the middle of his chest. A warm darkness washed over him.

Even before he sank down onto the gravel path his memory had stopped registering what was happening.

After that everything had been a fog. Or perhaps a thickly flowing sea in which everything was white and still.

Wallander lay sunken in deep unconsciousness for four days. He underwent two complicated operations. The knife had grazed his heart. But he survived. And slowly he returned from the fog. When at last, on the morning of the fifth day, he opened his eyes, he did not know what had happened or where he was.

But next to his bed there was a face he recognised.

A face that meant everything. Mona’s face.

And she was smiling.