The woman had been to the police station on Friday, shortly before 1 p.m. She had asked for a map of Ystad and the receptionist had told her to try either the local tourist information office or the bookshop. The woman had thanked her politely, then asked to use the toilet. The receptionist showed her the way. The woman had locked the door and opened the window. Then she closed it again, but only after covering the catches with tape. The cleaner on Friday evening noticed nothing.

  Early on Monday, around 4 a.m., the shadow of a man ascended the wall of the station and disappeared through the toilet window. The corridors were deserted. Only the faint sound of a radio came from the control room. The man had a plan of the building obtained by breaking into a computer at an architectural firm. He knew exactly where to go.

  He gently opened the door to Wallander's office. A coat with a large yellow spot on the right lapel was hanging on the back of the door.

  The man walked over to the desk. He looked at the computer for a moment before flicking it on. What he was about to do would take around 20 minutes, but he wasn't worried that anyone would come in during that time. It was child's play to go into Wallander's files and examine what was there. When he had finished, he switched off the computer and then the light and opened the door. The corridor was empty. He left the same way he had come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sunday morning, October 12, Wallander woke at 9 a.m. Even though he had only slept six hours he felt fully rested. Before going into the station he decided to take a walk. The rain from the night before was gone. It was a fine and clear autumn day. It was almost 9°C.

  He walked through the front doors of the police station at 10.15 a.m. Before going to his office he walked past the control room and asked which of his colleagues had come in.

  "Martinsson is here. Hansson had to go and pick someone up. Höglund hasn't been in yet."

  "I'm here." Wallander heard her voice behind his back. "Did I miss anything?"

  "No," Wallander said. "But why don't you come with me."

  "I'll just take my coat off."

  Wallander told the officer on duty he needed a patrol car to be sent out around noon to pick up Robert Modin. He gave the directions.

  "Make sure it's an unmarked car," he added. "That's very important."

  A few minutes later Höglund came into his office. She looked a little less tired today. He thought about asking her how things were going at home. But then as usual he wondered if it was the right moment. Instead he told her about the potential eyewitness that Hansson had found and was bringing in as they spoke. He also told her about Robert Modin, who would perhaps be able to help them access the information in Falk's computer.

  "I remember him," she said, when Wallander had finished. "Do you think he'll find something important in that computer?"

  "I don't think anything. But we have to know what Falk was hatching. It seems to me that more and more people nowadays are really just electronic personalities."

  He went on to talk about the woman Hansson was bringing down to the station.

  "She will be the first person we have who has actually seen anything," Höglund said. She was leaning against the door frame. It was a newly acquired habit. She used to come right in and sit in his visitor's chair. "I did some thinking last night. I was watching TV, but I couldn't concentrate. The children had gone to bed."

  "Your husband?"

  "My ex-husband. He's in Yemen right now, I think. Anyway, I turned off the TV and sat in the kitchen with a glass of water. I tried to picture everything that had happened, as simply as possible, stripped of unnecessary details."

  "That's an impossible task," Wallander said. "I mean the part about the details. You can't know what's unnecessary at this point."

  "You're the one who's taught me to weigh facts against each other and discard what is less important."

  "What was your conclusion?"

  "Certain things seem firmly established, for example that there is a connection between Falk and Hökberg. The electrical relay gives us no choice in that department. But there's something about the timing of events that points to a possibility we haven't yet explored."

  "And what would that be?"

  "That Falk and Hökberg may not have had anything directly to do with each other."

  Wallander saw where she was going. It might be important. "You mean that they are only indirectly connected? By way of someone else?"

  "The reason Hökberg died may lie somewhere entirely removed from them both, since Falk was dead himself when Hökberg was burned to death. But the person who killed her could later have moved Falk's body."

  "That still doesn't tell us what we're looking for," Wallander said. "There's no common denominator."

  "Maybe we have to start again at the beginning," Höglund said thoughtfully. "With Lundberg, the taxi driver."

  "Do we have anything on him?"

  "His name doesn't appear in any register we have. I've spoken to a few of his colleagues and his widow and no-one had anything bad to say about him. He drove his taxi all day and spent his time off with his family. A normal, peaceful Swedish existence that came to an unexpectedly brutal end. What struck me last night while I was sitting in the kitchen was that his reputation seemed a bit too flawless. There isn't a smear anywhere. If you have nothing against it, I'd like to keep digging in his life for a bit."

  "That sounds good. Did he have any children?"

  "Two boys. One lives in Malmö, the other lives here in town. I was going to try to get hold of them today."

  "Go ahead. It's crucial to determine once and for all whether there was anything to Lundberg's murder other than a simple robbery."

  "Are we meeting today?"

  "I'll let you know if we do."

  Wallander thought about what she had said, then went out to the canteen and helped himself to coffee. He picked up a copy of the paper lying on a table. Once he got back to his office he started leafing through it, but stopped when something caught his eye. An ad for a dating agency, with the unoriginal name of "Computerdate". Wallander read the ad thoroughly. He switched on his computer and quickly sketched an application. He knew that if he didn't do it now he never would. No-one would have to know. He could be anonymous. He tried to write something as simple and direct as possible: Policeman, divorced, one child, seeking companionship. Not marriage, but love. He chose the name "Labrador" rather than "Old Dog". He printed it out and saved a copy on his hard drive. He put it in an envelope, wrote the address and stamped it. Then he put it in his pocket. He realised that he actually felt excited. Probably he would not get any replies, or if he did they would be ones he would immediately discard. But the excitement was there. He could not deny it.

  Then Hansson appeared in the doorway.

  "She's here," she said. "Alma Högström, our witness."

  Wallander got up and followed him to one of the small conference rooms. An Alsatian was lying on the floor next to the woman. It regarded them suspiciously. Wallander greeted her, sensing that she had dressed up for her visit to the station.

  "Your willingness to help the police in this matter is very much appreciated," he said. "Especially on a Sunday."

  He marvelled at the stilted phrases. How could he sound so dry and impersonal after all these years?

  "If the police need any information one may have, surely it is one's duty to try to be of assistance."

  She's worse than I am, he thought. It's like watching a bad film from the 1930s.

  Slowly they went through what she thought she had seen. Wallander let Hansson do the questioning while he wrote down her answers.

  She had observed a dark van at 11.30 p.m. She was sure of the time because she had just consulted her watch, she said.

  "It's an old habit. It's ingrained in me by now. I always had one client in the chair and a whole waiting room full of others. Time always went too fast."

  Hansson tried to get her to pinpoint the kind of van it had been. He had brought with him a folder he had assembled a few years ago. It had pictures of different models of cars, as well as a colour chart. Naturally there were all kinds of computer programs for this now, but Hansson, like Wallander, had trouble adjusting his work habits.

  They concluded it had possibly been a Mercedes. Either navy blue or black. She hadn't noticed the number plate, nor had she seen whether there was anyone in the van or not. But she had seen a shadowy figure behind the van.

  "Well, I wasn't the one who saw him," she explained. "It was Steadfast, my dog. He pricked up his ears and strained in that direction."

  "I know it may be hard to describe what you saw," Hansson said. "But I'd like you to try. Was it a man or a woman?"

  She thought for a long time before answering. "I think it was a man," she said finally.

  "What happened after that?"

  "I took my usual walk."

  Hansson spread a map on the table. She told him her route.

  "That means you passed by the cash machine on your way back. Was the van gone then?"

  "Yes."

  "What time would that have been?"

  "About 12.10 a.m."

  "And how do you know that?"

  "I came home at 12.25 a.m. It takes me 15 minutes to walk home from that spot."

  She showed him on the map where she lived. Wallander and Hansson agreed with her. It would take about that long.

  "But you didn't see anything in that area when you walked home?" Hansson said. "And your dog didn't react in any way?"

  "No."

  "Isn't that surprising?" Hansson said to Wallander.

  "The body must have been stored at a low temperature," Wallander said. "It wouldn't have had a smell. We can ask Nyberg, or one of the dog units."

  "I'm very glad I didn't see anything," Alma Högström said firmly. "It's terrible even to imagine it. People delivering dead bodies in the middle of the night."

  "Did you know that this man you normally saw during your evening walks was called Falk?" Wallander said.

  Her answer came as a surprise. "He was my patient once upon a time. He had good teeth. I only saw him a couple of times, but I have a good memory for faces and names."

  "He often took walks at night?" Hansson said.

  "I used to meet him several times a week. He was always alone. I said hello sometimes, but he didn't seem to want to be disturbed."

  Hansson looked over at Wallander who nodded.

  "We may be in touch if we need anything else," he said. "If you think of anything else in the meantime we would of course like to hear from you."

  Hansson followed her out. Wallander remained where he was. He thought about what she had told them. Nothing had emerged that helped them make more sense out of this case.

  Hansson came back and picked up his folders. "A black or navy blue Mercedes van," he said. "We should look into cars that have been stolen recently."

  Wallander nodded. "And talk to one of the dog units about the question of smell. At least we have a fixed time. That counts for a lot at this stage."

  Wallander returned to his office. It was 11.45 a.m. He called Martinsson and told him what had happened during the night. Martinsson listened without saying a word. It irritated Wallander but he managed to control himself. He told Martinsson that a patrol car was going to collect Modin. Wallander said he would see him in reception and give him the keys to the flat.

  "Maybe I'll learn something," Martinsson said when he saw him. "Watching a real master climb the firewalls."

  "I assure you the responsibility is still all mine," Wallander said. "But I don't want him left alone."

  Martinsson noticed Wallander's gentle irony, and immediately became defensive.

  "We can't all be like you," he said. "Some of us actually take police regulations seriously."

  "I know," Wallander said patiently. "And you're right of course. But I'm still not going to the prosecutor or Lisa for permission on this."

  Martinsson disappeared out through the front doors.

  Wallander felt hungry. He walked into town and had lunch at István's pizzeria. István was very busy. They never had a chance to talk about Fu Cheng and his fake credit card. On the way back to the station Wallander posted his letter to the dating agency. He remained convinced that he would not get a single reply.

  The phone was ringing as he reached his office. It was Nyberg. Wallander went back into the corridor. Nyberg's office was on the floor below. When Wallander got there, he saw lying, in plastic bags, on Nyberg's desk, the hammer and the knife that had been used in Lundberg's murder.

  "As of today I've been a policeman for 40 years," Nyberg said grumpily when he came in. "I started on a Monday but of course my meaningless anniversary has to fall on a Sunday."

  "If you're so sick of your job, you should just quit," Wallander said.

  He was surprised that he lost his temper. He had never done such a thing with Nyberg. In fact, he always tried to be as tactful as possible around his irascible colleague. But Nyberg didn't seem to take offence. He looked at Wallander, curious.

  "Well, well," he said. "I thought I was the only one around here with a temper."

  "Forget it. I didn't mean it," Wallander mumbled.

  That made Nyberg angry. "Of course you meant it. That's the whole point. I don't know why people have to be so afraid of showing a little temperament. And anyway, you're right. I'm just bitching."

  "Maybe that's what we're all reduced to in the end," Wallander said.

  Nyberg pulled the plastic bag with the knife impatiently towards him.

  "The results of the fingerprinting have come back," he said. "There are two different sets on this knife."

  Wallander leaned in attentively.

  "Persson and Hökberg?"

  "Exactly."

  "So Persson may not be lying in this particular case?"

  "It seems it's at least a possibility."

  "That Hökberg is responsible for the murder, you mean?"

  "I'm not implying anything. That's not my job. I'm just telling you the facts. It's a legitimate possibility, that's all."

  "What about the hammer?"

  "Only Hökberg's prints. No-one else's."

  Wallander nodded. "That's good to know."

  "We know more than that," Nyberg said, leafing through the papers strewn across his desk. "Sometimes the pathologists exceed even their own expectations. They have determined that the blows were inflicted in stages. First he was hit with the hammer, then with the knife."

  "Definitely not the other way around?"

  "No. And not at the same time."

  "How on earth can they know that?"

  "I can only tell you the approximate answer to that, and it's hard to explain."

  "Does this mean Hökberg switched weapons in the course of her attack?"

  "I believe so. Persson had the knife in her bag, but she gave it to Hökberg when asked."

  "Like an operation," Wallander said with a shudder. "The surgeon asking for tools."

  They thought about this for a moment. Nyberg broke the silence.

  "There was one more thing. I've been thinking about that bag out at the power substation. It was lying in the wrong place."

  Wallander waited for him to continue. Nyberg was an excellent and thorough forensic technician, but he could also sometimes demonstrate unexpected investigative skills.

  "I went out there," he said, "and I took the bag with me. I tried throwing it to the spot by the fence where it was found, but I couldn't throw it that far."

  "How so?"

  "You remember what the place looks like. There are towers, poles, high-voltage lines and barbed wire everywhere. The bag always got stuck on something."

  "That means someone must have carried it over there?"

  "Maybe. But the question then is why?"

  "Do you have an idea?"

  "The obvious explanation would be that the bag was put there deliberately because someone wanted it to be found – but maybe they didn't want it to be found right away."

  "Someone wanted the body to be identified, but not immediately?"

  "Yes, that's what I was thinking. But then I discovered something else. The place where the bag was found is in the direct beam of one of the spotlights."

  Wallander sensed where Nyberg was going, but said nothing.

  "I'm simply wondering now if the bag was there because someone had been rifling through it, looking for something."

  "And maybe found something?"

  "That's what I think, but it's your job to work these things out."

  Wallander got up. "Good work," he said. "You may have hit on something."

  Wallander went back up the stairs and stopped at Höglund's office. She was bent over a stack of papers.

  "I want you to contact Hökberg's mother," he said. "Find out what the girl usually had in her bag."

  He told her about Nyberg's idea. He didn't bother to wait while she made the call. He felt restless and started back to his office. He wondered how many miles he had covered walking to and fro in these corridors all these years. He heard the phone in his office and hurried over. It was Martinsson.

  "I think it's time for you to come down here," he said.

  "Why?"

  "Robert Modin is a proficient young man."

  "What's happened?"

  "Exactly what we were hoping for. We're in. The computer has opened its doors."

  Wallander hung up. It's finally happened, he thought. It's taken some time, but we finally did it.

  He took his coat and left the station.

  It was 1.45 p.m. on Sunday, October 12.

  PART 2

  The Firewall

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Carter woke up at dawn because the air-conditioning unit suddenly stopped. He lay listening to the darkness, frozen between the sheets. There was the steady drone of cicadas and a dog barked in the distance. The power had gone out again. That happened every other night in Luanda. Savimbi's bandits were always looking for ways to cut the power to the city. In a few minutes the room would be stifling hot, but he didn't know if he had the energy to go down to the room past the kitchen and start up the generator. He didn't know what was worse: the insufferable heat or the throbbing of the generator.

 

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