spoke with a lilting Norrland accent, told them that Goran Boman was indeed on duty.
'He's in an interview at present,' said the woman. 'But it probably won't last long.'
Wallander went out to use the toilet. He gave a start when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. The bruises and abrasions were bright red. He splashed his face with cold water. At that moment he heard Boman's voice in the corridor.
The reunion was a hearty one. Wallander was delighted to see Boman again. They got some coffee and took it to his office. Wallander noted that they had exactly the same kind of desk, but otherwise Boman's office was better furnished. It made his office more pleasant, in the same way that Anette Brolin had transformed the sterile office she had taken over.
Boman knew, of course, about the murders in Lunnarp, as well as the attack on the refugee camp and Wallander's rescue attempt that had been so exaggerated in the papers. They talked for a while about refugees. Boman had the same impression as Wallander, that people seeking asylum were dealt with in a chaotic and disorganised fashion. The Kristianstad police also had numerous examples of deportation orders that could be executed only with great difficulty. As recently as a few weeks before Christmas they had been advised that several Bulgarian citizens were to be expelled. According to the Immigration Service, they were living at a camp in Kristianstad. Only after several days' work did the police find out that the Bulgarians were living at a camp in Arjeplog, more than 1,000 kilometres to the north.
They switched to the reason for their visit. Wallander gave Boman a detailed run-down.
'And you want us to find her for you,' said Boman when he was done.'That wouldn't be a bad plan.'Naslund had been sitting in silence.
'I've got an idea,' he said. 'If Johannes Lovgren had a son by this woman, and we assume that he was born in this town, we should be able to look it up in the town's records. Lovgren must have been listed as the child's father, don't you think?'
Wallander nodded. 'Besides, we know approximately when the child was born. We can concentrate on a ten-year period, from about 1947 to 1957, if Herdin's story is correct. And I think it is.'
'How many children are born over a ten-year period in Kristianstad?' asked Boman. 'It would have taken an awfully long time to check before we had computers.'
'It's of course, possible that the record will state 'father unknown,' said Wallander. 'But then we just have to go through all of those cases with extra care.'
'Why don't you just put out a public appeal for the woman?' asked Boman. 'And ask her to contact you.'
'Because I'm quite sure that she wouldn't do that,' said Wallander. 'It's just a feeling I have. It may not be particularly professional. But I think I'd rather try this route instead.'
'We'll find her,' said Boman. 'We live in a society and an age when it's almost impossible to disappear. Unless you commit suicide in such an ingenious fashion that your body is completely obliterated. We had a case like that last summer. At least that's what I assume happened. A man who was sick of it all. He was reported missing by his wife. His boat was gone. We never found him. And I don't think we're ever going to, either. I think he put out to sea, scuttled the boat, and drowned himself. But if this woman and her son exist, we'll find them. I'll put an officer on it right away.'
Wallander's throat hurt. He had started to sweat. He would have liked most of all to stay sitting there, discussing the case with Boman. He had the feeling that Boman was a talented policeman. His opinion would be valuable. But Wallander was too tired. They tied up the loose ends and Boman accompanied them out to the car.
'We'll find her,' he repeated.
'Let's get together some evening,' said Wallander. 'In peace and quiet. And have some whisky.'
Boman nodded. 'Maybe on another pointless study day,' he said.
The sleet was still coming down. Wallander felt the dampness seeping into his shoes. He crawled again into the back seat and huddled up in the corner. Soon he fell asleep.
He didn't wake until Naslund pulled up in front of the police station in Ystad. He was feverish and miserable. It continued to sleet. He managed to beg a couple of aspirin from Ebba. He knew that he ought to go home to bed, but he couldn't resist getting an update on the day's developments. And he wanted to hear what Rydberg had come up with regarding protection for the refugees.
His desk was piled high with phone messages. Anette Brolin was among the many people who had called. And his father. But not Linda. Or Widen. He shuffled through the messages and then put them aside except for the ones from Anette Brolin and his father. Then he called Martinsson.
'Bingo,' said Martinsson. 'I think we've found it. A car that fits the description was rented last week by an Avis office in Goteborg. It hasn't been returned. There's just one thing that's strange.''What's that?''The car was rented by a woman.' 'What's strange about that?''I have a little trouble picturing a woman as the killer.'
'Now you're on the wrong track. We have to get hold of that car. And the driver. Even if it is a woman. Then we'll see if they were involved. Eliminating someone from an investigation is just as important as getting a positive lead. And give the registration number to the lorry driver in case he recognises it.'He hung up and went into Rydberg's office.'How's it going?' he asked.
'This is certainly not much fun,' replied Rydberg gloomily.'Who said police work was supposed to be fun,'
But Rydberg had made a thorough job of it, just as Wallander had known he would. The various camps were pinpointed, and Rydberg had written a brief memo about each one. For the time being he suggested that the night patrols should make rounds of the camps according to a schedule he had devised.
'Good,' said Wallander. 'Just make sure the patrols understand that it's a serious matter.'
He gave Rydberg a report of his visit to Kristianstad. Then he stood up.'I'm going home now,' he said.'You're looking a little bedraggled.'
'I'm coming down with a cold. But everything seems to be moving along by itself right now.'
He went straight home, made some tea, and crawled into bed. When he woke up several hours later, the teacup was still at his bedside untouched. He was feeling a little better. He threw out the cold tea and made coffee instead. Then he called his father.
Wallander realised he had heard nothing about the fire. 'Weren't we going to play cards?' he snapped.'I'm ill,' said Wallander.'But you're never ill.''I've got a cold.''I don't call that being ill.'
'Not everybody is as healthy as you are.' 'What does that mean?'
Wallander sighed. If he didn't come up with something, this conversation with his father was going to end badly.
'I'll come out and see you early tomorrow,' he said. 'Around eight o'clock. If you're up by then.''I never sleep past four.''No, but I do.'
He said goodbye and hung up the phone. In the same instant he regretted the arrangement. Starting off the day by driving out to visit his father was equivalent to accepting a whole day filled with feelings of depression and guilt.
He looked around his flat. There were layers of dust everywhere. Even though he frequently aired the place out, it still smelled musty. Lonely and musty.
He thought about the black woman, who visited to him, night after night. Where did she come from? Where had he seen her? Was she in a photograph in the newspaper, or had he seen her on TV?
He wondered why it was that in his dreams he had an erotic obsession that was so different from his experience with Mona. The thought excited him. Perhaps he should call Anette Brolin. But he couldn't bring himself to do that. Angrily he sat down on the floral-patterned sofa and switched on the TV. He found one of the Danish
