'You've been a great help. If you remember anything else, please let me know.'
Wallander got up and went into the lobby. He stopped for a moment and looked around. The young woman was right. From the counters it was impossible to see whether anyone was waiting on the street outside.
The farmer was gone, and new customers had arrived. Someone speaking a foreign language was changing money at one of the counters.
Wallander went outside. The Merchants' Bank was in Hamngatan close by.
A much friendlier bank officer accompanied him down to the vault. When Wallander opened the steel drawer, he was disappointed at once. The box was empty. No-one but Johannes Lovgren had access to this safe-deposit box either. He had rented it in 1962.
'When was he here last?' asked Wallander. The answer gave him a start.
'On the 4th of January,' the official replied after studying the register of visitors. 'At 1.15 p.m., to be precise. He stayed for 20 minutes.'
But when Wallander asked all the employees, no-one remembered whether Lovgren had anything with him when he left the bank. No-one remembered him having a briefcase. That young woman from the Union Bank, he thought. Every bank ought to have someone like her.
Wallander struggled down windblown back streets to Fridolf's Cafe, where he had a cup of coffee and ate a cinnamon bun.
I would like to know what Lovgren did between midday and 1.15, he thought. What did he do between his first and second bank visits? And how did he get to Ystad? How did he get back? He didn't own a car.
He took out his notebook and brushed some crumbs off the table. After half an hour he had drawn up a summary of the questions that had to be answered as soon as possible.
On the way back to the car he went into a menswear shop and bought a pair of socks. He was shocked at the price but paid without protesting. Mona had always bought his clothes. He tried to remember the last time he had bought a pair of socks.
When he got back to his car, he found a parking ticket stuck under his windscreen wiper. If I don't pay it, they'll eventually start legal proceedings against me, he thought. Then acting public prosecutor Brolin will be forced to stand up in court and take me to task.
He tossed the ticket into the glove compartment, thinking again how good-looking she was. Good-looking and charming. Then he remembered the bun he'd just eaten.
It was 3 p.m. before Naslund rang. By then Wallander had decided to postpone the trip to Kristianstad.
'I'm soaked,' Naslund said. 'I've been tramping around in the mud after Herdin all over Fyledalen.'
'Give him a thorough going over,' said Wallander. 'Put a little pressure on him. We want to know everything he knows.''Should I bring him in?' asked Naslund.
'Go home with him. Maybe he'll talk more freely at home at his own kitchen table.'
The press conference started at 4 p.m. Wallander looked for Rydberg, but nobody knew where he was.
The room was full. Wallander saw that the reporter from the local radio was there, and he made up his mind to find out what she really knew about Linda.
He could feel his stomach churning. I'm repressing things, he thought. Along with everything else I don't have time for. I'm searching for the slayers of the dead and can't even manage to pay attention to the living. For a dizzying instant his entire consciousness was filled with only one urge. To take off. Flee. Disappear. Start a new life.
He stepped onto the little dais and welcomed his audience to the press conference.
After just under an hour it was over. Wallander thought that he probably came off pretty well by denying all rumours that the police were searching for foreign citizens in connection with the murders. He hadn't been asked any questions that gave him trouble. When he stepped down, he felt satisfied.
The young woman from the local radio waited while he was interviewed for television. As always when a TV camera was pointed at his face, he got nervous and stumbled over his words. But the reporter was satisfied and didn't ask for another take.
'You'll have to get yourself some better informants,' said Wallander when it was all over.'I might have to at that,' replied the reporter and laughed.
When the TV crew had left, Wallander suggested that the young woman from the local radio station accompany him to his office.
He was less nervous with a radio microphone than in front of the camera. When she was finished, she turned off the tape recorder. Wallander was just about to bring up Linda when Rydberg knocked on the door and came in.'We've almost finished,' said Wallander.'We have finished' said the young woman, getting up.
Crestfallen, Wallander watched her go. He hadn't managed to get in one word about Linda.
'More trouble,' said Rydberg. 'They just called from the refugee processing unit here in Ystad. A car drove into the courtyard and someone threw a bag of rotten turnips at an old man from Lebanon, hitting him in the head.''Damn,' said Wallander. 'What happened?'
'He's at the hospital getting bandaged up. But the director is nervous.''Did they get the registration number?'
'It all happened too quickly.'Wallander thought for a moment.
'Let's not do anything conspicuous just now,' he said. 'In the morning there will be strong denials about the foreigners in all the papers. It'll be on TV tonight. Then we just have to hope that things calm down. We could ask the night patrols to check the camp.''I'll tell them ' said Rydberg.
'Come back afterwards and we'll do an update,' said Wallander.
It was 8.30 p.m. when Wallander and Rydberg finished.
'What do you think?' asked Wallander as they gathered up their papers.
Rydberg scratched his forehead. 'It's obvious that this Herdin lead is a good one. As long as we can get hold of that mystery woman and the child, the son. There's a lot to indicate that the solution might be close at hand. So close that we can't see it. But at the same time...' Rydberg broke off.'At the same time?'
'I don't know,' Rydberg went on. 'There's something funny about all this. Especially that noose. I don't know what it is.'
He shrugged and stood up. 'We'll have to go on tomorrow,' he said.
'Do you remember seeing a brown briefcase at Lovgren's house?' Wallander asked. Rydberg shook his head.
'Not that I can recall,' he said. 'But a whole pile of old junk fell out of the wardrobes. I wonder why old people turn into such hoarders?'
'Send someone out there tomorrow morning to look for an old brown briefcase,' said Wallander. 'With a cracked handle.'
Rydberg left. Wallander could see that his leg was bothering him a lot. He should find out whether Ebba had reached Sten Widen. But he didn't bother. Instead he looked up Anette Brolin's home address in a department directory. To his surprise he discovered that she was almost his neighbour.
I could ask her to dinner, he thought. Then he remembered that she wore a wedding ring.
He drove home through the storm and took a bath. Then he lay on his bed and flicked through a biography of Giuseppe Verdi.
He woke up with a start a few hours later because he was cold. His watch showed almost midnight. He felt dejected. Now he'd have another sleepless night. Driven by despondency, he got dressed. He might as well spend a few night-time hours in his office.
Outside, he noticed that the wind had died down. It was getting cold again. Snow, he thought. It'll be here soon.
He turned into Osterleden. A lone taxi was heading in the opposite direction. He drove slowly through the
