Before he met Rydberg, he had to pay a return visit to the Nystroms. He couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't quite add up. Attacks like this one usually weren't random, but were preceded by rumours of money stashed away. And even though they could be brutal, they were hardly characterised by the methodical violence that he had witnessed at this murder scene.
People in the country get up early in the morning, he thought as he swung onto the narrow road that led to the Nystroms' house. Maybe they've had time to mull things over.
He stopped in front of the house and turned off the engine. At the same moment the light in the kitchen went out. They're scared, he thought. They probably think it's the killers coming back. He left the lights on as he got out of the car and walked across the gravel to the steps.
He sensed rather than saw the flash coming from a bush beside the house. The ear-splitting noise made him dive for the ground. A pebble slashed his cheek, and for an instant he thought he had been hit.
'Police!' he yelled. 'Don't shoot! Damn it, don't shoot!'
A torch shone on his face. The hand holding the torch was shaking, and the beam wobbled back and forth. Nystrom was standing in front of him, an ancient shotgun in his hand.'Is it you?' he asked.
Wallander got up and brushed off the gravel. 'What were you aiming at?''I shot straight up in the air,' said Nystrom.
'Do you have a permit for that gun?' Wallander asked. 'Otherwise there could be trouble.'
'I've been up all night, keeping watch,' said Nystrom. Wallander could hear how upset he was.
'I have to turn off my lights,' said Wallander. 'Then we'll talk, you and I.'
Two boxes of shotgun shells lay on the kitchen table. On the sofa lay a crowbar and a big sledgehammer. The black cat was in the window, and stared menacingly at Wallander as he came in. Hanna Nystrom stood at the stove stirring a pot of coffee.
'I had no idea that it was the police,' said Nystrom, sounding apologetic. 'And so early.'Wallander moved the sledgehammer and sat down.
'Mrs Lovgren died last night,' he said. 'I thought I'd come out and tell you myself.'
Every time Wallander was forced to notify someone of a death, he had the same unreal feeling. To tell strangers that a child or a relative had died, and to do it with dignity, was impossible. The deaths that the police informed people of were always unexpected, and often violent and gruesome. Somebody drives off to buy something at the shops and dies. A child on a bicycle is run over on the way home from the playground. Someone is abused or robbed, commits suicide or drowns. When the police are standing in the doorway, people refuse to accept the news.
The couple were silent. The woman stirred the coffee with a spoon. The man fidgeted with his shotgun, and Wallander discreetly moved out of the line of fire.'So, Maria is gone,' Nystrom said slowly.'The doctors did everything they could.'
'Maybe it was just as well,' said Hanna Nystrom, unexpectedly forceful. 'What did she have left to live for after he was dead?'
The man put the shotgun down on the kitchen table and stood up. Wallander noticed that he put his weight on one knee.
'I'll go out and give the horse some hay,' he said, putting on a tattered cap.'Do you mind if I come with you?' asked Wallander.'Why would I mind?' said the man, opening the door.
From her stall the mare whinnied as they entered the stable. With a practised hand Nystrom flung an arm load of hay into the stall.'I'll muck out later,' he said, stroking the horse's mane.'Why did they keep a horse?' Wallander wondered.
'To a retired dairy farmer an empty stable is like a morgue,' replied Nystrom. 'The horse was company.'
Wallander thought that he might just as well start asking his questions here in the stable.
'You stayed up to keep watch last night,' he said. 'You're scared, and I can understand that. You must have thought to yourself: 'Why were they the ones who were attacked?' You must have thought: 'Why them? Why not us?' '
'They didn't have any money,' said Nystrom. 'Or anything else that was especially valuable. Anyway, nothing was stolen, as I told one of the policemen here yesterday. The only thing that might have been stolen was a wall clock.''Might have been?'
'One of their daughters might have taken it. I can't remember everything.' 'No money,' said Wallander. 'And no enemies.' Something occurred to him.
'Do you keep any money in the house?' he asked. 'Could it be that whoever did this got the wrong house?'
'All that we have is in the bank,' replied Nystrom. 'And we don't have any enemies either.'They went back to the house and drank coffee. Wallander saw that Hanna Nystrdm was red-eyed, as if she had been careful to cry while they were out in the stable.
'Have you noticed anything unusual recently?' he asked the couple. 'Anyone visiting the Lovgrens you didn't recognise?'They looked at each other and then shook their heads.'When was the last time you talked to them?'
'We were over there for coffee the day before yesterday,' said Hanna. 'As always. We drank coffee together every day. For over 40 years.'
'Did they seem frightened of anything?' asked Wallander. 'Worried?'
'Johannes had a cold,' Hanna replied. 'But otherwise everything was normal.'
It seemed hopeless. Wallander didn't know what else to ask them. Each reply he got was like a door slamming shut.
'Did they have any acquaintances who were foreigners?' he asked.The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. 'Foreigners?''Anyone who wasn't Swedish,' Wallander ventured.
'One Midsummer a few years ago some Danes camped on their field.'
Wallander looked at the clock. At 8 a.m. he was supposed to meet Rydberg, and he didn't want to be late.
'Try and think,' he said. 'Anything you can come up with may help.'Nystrom walked out to the car with him.
'I have a permit for the shotgun,' he said. 'And I didn't aim at you. I just wanted to scare you.'
'You did a good job,' replied Wallander. 'But I think you ought to get some sleep tonight. Whoever did this isn't coming back.'
'Would you be able to sleep?' asked Nystrom. 'Would you be able to sleep if your neighbours had been slaughtered like dumb animals?'
Since Wallander couldn't think of a good answer, he said nothing.
'Thanks for the coffee,' he said, got in his car, and drove away.
This is all going to hell, he thought. Not one clue, nothing. Only Rydberg's strange knot, and the word 'foreign'. Two old people with no money under the bed, no antique furniture, are murdered in such a way that there seems to be something more than robbery behind it. A murder of hate or revenge.
There must be something out of the ordinary about them, he thought. If only the horse could talk! He had an uneasy feeling about that horse. It was just a vague hunch. But he was too experienced a policeman to ignore his unease.
Just before 8 a.m. he braked to a halt outside the police station in Ystad. The wind was down to light gusts. Still, it felt a few degrees warmer today. Just so long as we don't get snow, he thought.
He nodded to Ebba at the switchboard. 'Did Rydberg show up yet?'
'He's in his office,' replied Ebba. 'They're calling already. TV, radio and the newspapers. And the county
