"How does it feel?" Höglund said.

  "Not too good. You know what it's like."

  A year or so ago, Höglund had been shot and wounded in a field outside Ystad. It had been partly Wallander's fault, since he had ordered her to advance without realising that the suspect had the gun that Hansson had dropped earlier. She had been badly hurt and it had taken her a long time to mend. When she returned to her post she was a changed person. She had told Wallander about the fear that surfaced in her dreams.

  "At least I wasn't hit," Wallander said. "I was stabbed once, but so far I have never stopped a bullet."

  "You should talk to someone. There are support groups."

  Wallander shook his head impatiently. "No need," he said. "And I don't want to go on talking about it now."

  "Why do you always have to be so pig-headed about these things? You're a fine police officer, but you are no less human than the rest of us, whatever you like to think."

  Wallander was surprised by the anger boiling over in her. And she was right. When he put on his role as a policeman he tended to forget about the person inside.

  "I think you should go home."

  "What good would that do?"

  At the same moment Mrs Falk walked into the flat. Wallander saw an opportunity to be rid of Höglund and her annoying questions.

  "I'd prefer to talk to her alone," he said. "Thanks for your help."

  "What help?" Höglund said, and left.

  Wallander felt dizzy when he stood up.

  "What on earth happened?" Mrs Falk said.

  Wallander could see a big bruise starting on the left side of her jaw.

  "I was here, waiting for you. I heard someone at the door. I thought it was you."

  "Who was it?"

  "I don't know, and apparently you don't either."

  "I didn't have a chance to look at him."

  "But it was a man?"

  She was surprised by the question and took a moment to answer.

  "Yes," she said finally. "It was a man."

  Wallander had no way of proving it, but he was sure she was right. "Let's start in the living room," he said. "I want you to look everywhere, take stock of everything. Let me know if you think anything's missing. Then check the bedroom, and so on. Take your time, open drawers and look behind curtains."

  "Tynnes would never have allowed such a thing. He was so secretive."

  "We'll talk later," Wallander interrupted her. "Start with the living room."

  He stood in the doorway and watched her as she went around the room. She was trying her best to do as he said. The longer he looked the more beautiful she seemed to him. He wondered what kind of an ad he would have to compose to get her to answer. She continued into the bedroom. He was alert for signs of hesitation. When she had finished with the kitchen, half an hour had passed.

  "Did anything seem to be gone?"

  "Nothing that I could see."

  "How well did you know the flat?"

  "We never lived here together. This was where he moved after the divorce. He called from time to time and we had dinner together. But even the children probably saw more of him than I did."

  Wallander tried to remember the facts that Martinsson had laid out for him when they first discussed Falk's case.

  "Does your daughter live in Paris?"

  "Yes. Ina is only 17. She's working as a nanny at the Danish Embassy. She's learning French."

  "And your son?"

  "Jan? He's a student in Stockholm. He's 19."

  Wallander turned the conversation back to the flat.

  "Do you think you would have noticed if anything had been stolen?"

  "Only if it was something I'd been aware of before."

  Wallander excused himself, he went into the living room and took away one of three china cockerels from the window ledge. When he came back to the kitchen he asked her to go through the living room one more time. She spotted the missing rooster almost at once. They weren't going to get any further, Wallander realised. She had a good eye, even if she didn't know what Falk kept in his cupboards.

  They sat in the kitchen. It was almost 5 p.m. and the autumn darkness was blanketing the city.

  "Tell me what you know about his work," Wallander said. "He was self-employed, I know, and worked with computer systems."

  "He was a consultant."

  "What does that actually mean?"

  She looked at him with surprise. "The whole country is run by consultants nowadays. Soon even party leaders will be replaced by consultants. Consultants are highly paid outsiders who fly around to various companies and come up with solutions for their problems. If things go badly, they get the blame, but they're well rewarded for their suffering."

  "And your husband was a consultant who specialised in computer systems?"

  "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't refer to Tynnes as my husband."

  Her comment made Wallander impatient.

  "What more can you tell me of what he did?"

  "He was expert at designing systems for companies."

  "What does that mean?"

  She smiled for the first time. "I don't think I can explain it to you if you don't have even a basic grasp of how computers work."

  She was right. He didn't.

  "Who were his clients?"

  "As far as I know, he worked a lot for banks."

  "Which banks?"

  "I wouldn't know."

  "Who would know?"

  "He had an accountant."

  Wallander felt in his pockets for something to write the name on. All he found was the receipt for the work on the car.

  "His name is Rolf Stenius and his office is in Malmö. I don't have an address or phone number."

  Wallander put his pen down. He thought that he had overlooked something and he tried to catch hold of it. Mrs Falk took a packet of cigarettes from her bag.

  "Do you mind if I smoke?"

  "Not at all."

  She got a saucer from under the sideboard and lit up.

  "Tynnes would be spinning in his grave if he could see this. He hated cigarettes. All the time we were married he chased me out to the street to smoke. I guess this is my chance for revenge."

  Wallander took the opportunity to shift the conversation.

  "When we talked the first time, you said he had enemies and that he was anxious."

  "Yes, he gave that impression."

  "It's possible to see if a person is anxious or not. But you can't tell from observing them that a person has enemies. He must have said something that gave you that idea."

  She paused before answering. She smoked and looked out of the window. It was dark now.

  "It started a couple of years ago," she said. "I could see that he was anxious, but also that he was excited. As if he were in a kind of manic state. He started making strange comments. For example, if I were here having coffee with him he could say something like, 'If people knew what I was doing, they would do away with me' or 'You can never know how close your pursuers are.'"

  "He actually said those things?"

  "Yes."

  "But he never gave you an explanation?"

  "No."

  "Did you ask him?"

  "He would get upset and tell me to be quiet."

  Wallander thought carefully before continuing.

  "Do you think either of your children experienced these things that you describe? The anxiety or the talk about enemies?"

  "I doubt it. They didn't have that much contact with him. They lived with me, and Tynnes wasn't always that eager to have them over. I don't say these things to be mean. I think Jan and Ina would agree with me."

  "He must have had some friends."

  "Very few. I realised soon after our wedding that I had married a hermit."

  "Who knew him well besides you?"

  "He used to have regular contact with a woman who was also a computer consultant. Her name is Siv Eriksson. I don't have her number, but she has an office in Skansgränd, next to Sjömansgatan. They worked on some assignments together."

  Wallander made a note of the name. Mrs Falk put out her cigarette.

  "One last question," Wallander said. "At least for now. A couple of years ago Tynnes was caught on a mink farm by the police. He was letting minks out of their cages. He was charged and fined for this."

  She looked at him, genuinely startled. "I never heard a word about that."

  "Does it fit any sort of pattern?"

  "To be letting minks out of their cages? Why on earth would it?"

  "So you don't know of his being in contact with organisations who get into this kind of thing?"

  "What organisations would those be?"

  "Militant environmental groups. Animal rights activists."

  "I'm not sure I can get my head round all this," she said.

  Wallander knew she was telling the truth. She got up.

  "I will need to speak to you again," Wallander said.

  As he was showing her out, she stopped by the hole left in the wall.

  "Do you carry a weapon in self-defence?"

  "No."

  She shook her head, stretched out her hand and said goodbye.

  "One more thing," Wallander said. "Did Tynnes have any interest in outer space?"

  "What sort of thing?"

  "Spaceships, astronomy . . ."

  "You asked me that already, and I'll give you the same answer. As far as I know, not. If he ever did look at the stars, it would have been to make sure they were still there. He was pragmatic rather than romantic by nature."

  She went down the stairs and Wallander went back into the flat and sat again in the kitchen. That was where he first had the feeling he was missing something. It was Rydberg who had taught him to listen to his inner alarm system. Even in the high-tech and necessarily rational world of police work, intuition remained crucially important.

  He sat without moving for a few minutes. Then he caught hold of it. Marianne Falk had not been able to find anything that was missing. Could it be that the man who broke in and later fired the shot at Wallander was coming to put something back? Wallander shook his head at the idea. He was about to get up when he jumped. There was a knock at the door. Wallander's heart was racing. It was only when the knocking stopped that he realised it could hardly be someone announcing their intention to take another shot at him. He went into the hall and opened the door. There was an old man on the landing, holding a cane.

  "I want to talk to Mr Falk," he said in a stern voice. "I have a complaint."

  "May I ask who you are?" Wallander said.

  "My name is Carl-Anders Setterkvist and I own this building. There have been a number of complaints from other residents lately about excessive noise and loud visits by military men. I would prefer to speak to Mr Falk about it personally, if possible."

  "Mr Falk is dead," Wallander said brusquely.

  Setterkvist stared at him. "Dead? Whatever do you mean?"

  "I'm a police officer," Wallander said,"CID. There's been a burglary here. But Mr Falk died last Monday. There are no military personnel running up and down these stairs, they're police."

  Setterkvist seemed to be trying to gauge whether Wallander was telling the truth.

  "I would like to see your identification badge, please," he said.

  "Badges disappeared a long time ago," Wallander said, "but you can see my identification card." Setterkvist studied it carefully.

  Wallander told him briefly what had happened.

  "How unfortunate," Setterkvist said. "What will happen to the flats?"

  Wallander frowned. "The flats?"

  "I simply mean that it's difficult when new people move in. One wants to know what kind of people they are before renting the place, especially in this sort of building with a number of elderly tenants."

  "Do you live here yourself?"

  Setterkvist was clearly insulted. "I live in a house outside town."

  "You said 'flats'."

  "What else would I have called them?"

  "Did you mean that Falk rented more than one flat?"

  Setterkvist gestured that he wanted to be let in. Wallander stepped aside for him.

  "I should warn you that it's so messy in here because there's been a burglary."

  "I've been the victim of a burglary myself," Setterkvist said calmly. "I know how it is."

  Wallander ushered him into the kitchen.

  "Mr Falk was an excellent tenant" Setterkvist said. "Never late with the rent. At my age one is surprised by nothing, but I must admit to being a little shaken by the complaints that have come in these past few days. That is why I am here in person."

  "He rents more than one flat, did you say?"

  "I have a wonderful old building by Runnerströms Torg," Setterkvist said. "Falk had a small flat there, in the attic. He needed it for his work."

  That would explain the absence of computers, Wallander thought. There certainly isn't anything in this flat to suggest that he worked here.

  "I need to see that office," Wallander said.

  Setterkvist thought for a moment, then drew out the largest set of keys Wallander had ever seen. Setterkvist knew at once which keys he needed. He removed them from the key chain.

  "I'll write out a receipt," Wallander said.

  Setterkvist shook his head.

  "One has to be able to trust people," he said. "Or rather, one has to be able to rely on one's own judgement."

  Setterkvist marched off, while Wallander called the station and arranged for someone to come and help him seal the flat. Then he walked straight down to Runnerströms Torg. It was close to 7 p.m. The wind buffeted him. Wallander was cold. Martinsson had lent him a coat, but it was thin. He thought about the bullet. It still seemed unreal. He wondered what his reaction would be in a couple of days, when the realisation of how close to death he had been sank in.

  The house on Runnerströms Torg was a three-storey, turn-of-the-century building. Wallander walked to the other side of the street and stared up at the attic windows. No lights. Before he walked to the front door he looked about him. A man cycled past, then he was alone. Wallander let himself in. He heard music coming from one flat. He turned on the light in the hall. When he had climbed all the way to the attic floor there was only one door on the landing. It was a security door, no name or letter box. Wallander listened, but heard nothing. He unlocked the door. Pausing in the doorway, he listened again. For a split second he thought he heard someone breathing in the darkness and he almost jumped out before he realised it was his imagination. He turned on the light and let the door close behind him.

  It was a large room, almost empty. The only furniture was a desk and a chair. There was a large computer on the desk. Wallander approached it and saw that on the desk next to the computer there was something like a blueprint. He turned on the desk lamp. It took him a moment to see what it was. He was looking at a blueprint of the power substation where Hökberg had been killed.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Wallander held his breath. At first he thought he was mistaken. It had to be a blueprint of something else. Then all doubt disappeared. He knew he was right. Carefully, he laid the paper back on the desk, next to the computer with its large dark screen. He could see his face reflected in it. There was a phone on the desk. He thought he should call someone, either Martinsson or Höglund. And Nyberg. But he didn't lift the receiver. Instead he started slowly walking around the room. This is where Falk worked, he thought. Behind a reinforced steel door that would have been very hard for someone to open without a key. This is where he worked. A computer consultant. One evening his body is found next to an ATM. His body disappears from the morgue, and now I find a blueprint for the power substation next to his computer.

  For one breathtaking moment he thought he could see the connection. But the kaleidoscope of facts was too confusing. Wallander kept walking around. What is here, he thought, and what is missing? There is a computer, a chair, a desk, a lamp. There is a telephone and a blueprint, but no shelves, no binders, no books. Not one pen.

  He turned the lampshade so that the beam of light was directed at the wall. He turned it so that each wall in turn was illuminated. The light was strong, but he could detect no hidden places. He sat in the chair. The silence was overwhelming. If Martinsson had been here, Wallander would have asked him to turn on the computer. Martinsson would have loved that job. Wallander didn't dare touch it himself. Again he thought that he should call him, but hesitated. I have to understand how this hangs together, he thought. That's the most important thing right now. Many new connections have been revealed in a much shorter span of time than I would have thought. The problem is just that I can't see the pattern yet.

  He decided to call Nyberg. It didn't help that it was almost 8 p.m. and Nyberg had been working for the last few days with hardly any sleep. Someone else would probably have decided that the search of the flat could wait until the following day. But Wallander was plagued by a sense of urgency that was only growing stronger. Nyberg listened without saying anything. He made a note of the address, and once they ended the conversation, Wallander made his way to street level to wait for him.

  Nyberg arrived alone. Wallander helped him carry up his bags.

  "What am I looking for here?" Nyberg asked once they were in the attic flat.

  "Prints. Secret compartments."

  "Then I won't need anyone else for now. Can we wait on the photography and videotape?"

  "Do it in the morning."

  Nyberg took off his shoes. He found a pair of plastic shoes in one of his bags. Nyberg had always been frustrated with the protective shoe covers that were commercially available. He had finally designed his own and found someone to make them. Wallander assumed he had paid for them out of his own pocket.

  "Are you good at computers?" he said.

  "I know as little as the next man about how they actually work," Nyberg said. "But I can probably get it started for you."

  "Martinsson would never forgive me if I let anyone else deal with it," Wallander said.

  Then he showed Nyberg the paper on the table. Nyberg saw at once what it was. He looked questioningly at Wallander.

 

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