that the head of the Immigration Service was on the line.
Wallander was surprised to be speaking to a woman. He assumed that all senior government officials were still elderly gentlemen full of arrogant self-esteem.
The woman had a pleasant voice, but what she said annoyed him instantly.
'We are most displeased,' the woman said. 'The police have an obligation to guarantee the safety of our refugees.'Just like that damned director, thought Wallander.
'We do what we can,' he said, trying to conceal his irritation. It occurred to him that it might be a breach of conduct for an acting police chief in a small town to contradict what the high priestess of a government civil service agency had to say.'Obviously that is not sufficient.'
'Our job would have been much easier if we had received up-to-date information about how many refugees were at each of the various camps.''The service has complete data on the refugees.''That's not my impression at all.''The Minister of Immigration is very concerned.'
Wallander brought to mind a red-haired woman who was regularly interviewed on TV.
'She's welcome to contact us,' said Wallander, making a face at Naslund, who was leafing through some papers.
'It's clear that the police are not allocating enough resources to the protection of these refugees.'
'Or maybe there are just too many to cope with. And you have no idea where they are lodged.'
'What do you mean by that?' The polite voice was now cool.Wallander felt his anger growing.
'Last night's fire highlighted the shocking disarray at the camp. That's what I mean. In general, it's difficult to get any clear directives from the Immigration Service. You often ask the police to instigate deportations, but we have no idea where to find the deportees. Sometimes we waste several weeks searching for the people we are supposed to deport.'
What he said was true. He had heard of colleagues in Malmo being driven to despair at the inability of the Immigration Service to handle its job.
'That's simply not the case,' said the woman, 'and I'm not going to waste valuable time arguing with you.'The conversation was over.'Bitch,' said Wallander, slamming down the phone.'Who was that?' asked Naslund.
'The head of the Immigration Service,' replied Wallander, 'who's living in cloud-cuckoo-land. Feel like getting some coffee?'
Rydberg turned in transcripts of the interviews that he and Svedberg had held with Lovgren's two daughters. Wallander described his phone conversation.
'The Minister of Immigration will be calling soon, and she'll be concerned,' said Rydberg, with a wicked laugh.
'You can deal with her' said Wallander. 'I'll try to be back from Kristianstad by four.'
When Naslund reappeared with the two mugs of coffee, Wallander no longer wanted his. He had to get out of the building. His bandages were too tight, and his head ached. A drive would do him good.
'Tell me about it in the car,' he said, pushing the coffee away.Naslund looked doubtful.
'I don't really know where we should go. Herdin knew virtually nothing about the mystery woman, for all that he was well-informed about Lovgren's financial assets.''He must have known something.'
'I gave him a thorough grilling,' said Naslund. 'I actually think he was telling the truth. The only thing he knew for sure was that she existed.''How did he know that?'
'He happened to be in Kristianstad once, and saw Lovgren and her in the street.''When was that?'Naslund flipped through his notes.'Eleven years ago.'Wallander toyed with his coffee.
'It doesn't fit,' he said. 'He has to know a great deal more. How can he be so sure that there's a son? How does he know about the payments to the woman? Couldn't you force it out of him?'
'He claimed that somebody had written to him and told him.''Who?''He wouldn't say.'Wallander thought about this for a moment.'We'll go to Kristianstad anyway,' he said. 'Our colleagues up there will have to help us. Then I'm going to take on Herdin myself.'
They took a squad car. Wallander clambered into the back seat and left the driving to Naslund. When they had left town, Wallander noticed that Naslund was driving much too fast.
'This isn't an emergency,' he said. 'Slow down. I have to read these papers and think.'Naslund drove more slowly.
The landscape was grey and foggy. Wallander stared out at the dreary desolation. Although he felt at home in the Scanian spring and summer, he felt alienated by the barren silence of autumn and winter.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. His body ached and the burn on his arm stung. And he was having palpitations. Divorced men have heart attacks, he thought. We put on weight from eating too much and feel tormented about being abandoned. Or else we throw ourselves into new relationships, and in the end our hearts just give out.
The thought of Mona made him both furious and sad. He opened his eyes and looked out again at the landscape of Skane.
He read through the transcripts of the interviews with Lovgren's daughters. There was nothing there to give them a lead. No enemies, no simmering hostilities. And no money either. Johannes Lovgren had even kept his own daughters in the dark about his vast assets.
Wallander tried to imagine this man. How had he operated? What had driven him? What did he suppose would happen to the money after he was gone?
He was startled by his train of thought. Somewhere there should be a will. But if it wasn't in one of the safe- deposit boxes, then where was it? Did the murdered man have another safe-deposit box somewhere else?'How many banks are there in Ystad?' he asked Naslund.
Naslund knew everything about the town. 'Ten, I should say.'
'Tomorrow I want you to investigate the ones we haven't visited so far. Did Lovgren have more safe-deposit boxes? I also want to know how he got back and forth from Lunnarp. Taxi, bus, whatever.'Naslund nodded. 'He could have taken the school bus.''Someone would have seen him.'
They took the Tomelilla route, crossing the main road to Malmo and continuing north.
'What did the inside of Herdin's house look like?' Wallander asked.
'Old-fashioned. But clean, tidy. Strangely enough, he uses a microwave to do his cooking. He offered me homemade rolls. He has a big parrot in a cage. The farm is well cared for. The whole place looks neat. No broken- down fences.''What make of car does he drive?''A red Mercedes.''A Mercedes?''Yes, a Mercedes.''I thought he told us it was hard making ends meet.'
'Well, that Mercedes of his would have set him back 300,000 plus.'
Wallander thought for a moment. 'We need to know more about Lars Herdin. Even if he says he has no idea who killed them, he could easily know something without realising it himself.''What's that got to do with the Mercedes?'
'Nothing. I've just got a hunch that Herdin is more important to us than he thinks he is. And we might wonder how a farmer today can afford to buy a car for 300,000 kronor. Maybe he has a receipt that says he bought a tractor.'
They drove into Kristianstad and parked outside the police station just as sleet started to fall. Wallander registered the first vague prickles in his throat, warning him that a cold was coming on. Damn, he thought. I can't get sick now. I don't want to meet Mona with a fever and sniffles.
The Ystad police and the Kristianstad police had no special relationship with each other beyond co-operating whenever the occasion arose. But Wallander knew several of the officers rather well from various conferences at county level. He was hoping, above all, that Goran Boman would be on duty. He was the same age as Wallander, and they had met over a whisky at Tylosand. Together they had endured a tedious study day organised by the educational department of the national police. The purpose had been to inspire them to improve and make more effective the staff policies at their respective workplaces. In the evening they sat and shared half a bottle of whisky and soon discovered that they had a lot in common. In particular, both their fathers had been extremely reluctant at their decision to go into police work.
Wallander and Naslund stepped into the reception. The young woman at the switchboard, who oddly enough
