channels, where the news was just about to start.
The anchorman reviewed the top stories. Another catastrophic famine. Chaos spreading in Romania. A huge cache of drugs confiscated in Odense. Wallander reached for the remote control and turned off the TV. He couldn't take any more news.
He thought about Mona. But his thoughts took an unexpected turn. He was no longer sure that he really wanted her back. How could he be sure anything would be better? He couldn't. He was just fooling himself.
Restless, he went out to the kitchen and drank a glass of juice. Then he sat down and wrote a detailed progress report on the investigation. When he had finished, he spread out all his notes on the table and looked at them as if they were pieces of a puzzle. He had a strong feeling that they might not be too far from finding a solution. Even though there were still a lot of loose ends, a number of details did fit together.
It wasn't possible to point to a particular person. There weren't even any actual suspects. But still he had the feeling that the police were close. This made him feel both gratified and uneasy. Too many times he had been in charge of a complicated criminal investigation that seemed promising at first but later petered out in a dead end, and in the worst instances they had had to drop the case altogether.Patience, he thought. Patience.
Once more he though of calling Anette Brolin. But he had no idea what he would say to her. And her husband might answer the phone.
He sat down and switched on the TV again. To his immense surprise he was confronted by his own face. He heard the droning voice of a woman reporter. The gist of it was that Wallander and the police in Ystad seemed to be showing no concern for the safety of the refugees in their various camps.
Wallander's face disappeared and was replaced by a woman being interviewed outside a large office block. When her name appeared on the screen, he realised that he should have recognised her. It was the head of the Immigration Service, whom he had talked to that very day.
- 'It cannot be ruled out that there may be an element of racism behind the lack of interest shown by the police,' she stated.
Bitterness welled up inside him. You're a bitch, he thought. And what you're saying is a bloody lie. And why didn't those damned reporters contact me? I could have shown them Rydberg's protection plan. Racists? What was she talking about? His anger was mixed with the shame of being unjustly accused.
Then the phone rang. He considered not answering it. But then he went out to the hall and picked up the receiver.
It was the same voice. A little hoarse, muffled. Wallander guessed that the man was holding a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
'We're waiting for results,' he said.'Go to hell!' roared Wallander.'By Saturday at the latest.'
'Were you the bastards who started the fire last night?' he shouted into the phone.'Saturday at the latest,' repeated the man, unmoved. Then the line went dead.
Wallander felt sick He couldn't rid himself of a sense of foreboding. It was like an ache in his body, slowly spreading.
Now you're scared, he thought. Now Kurt Wallander is scared. He went back to the kitchen and stood at the window, looking out into the street. There was no wind. The streetlight was hanging motionless.
Something was going to happen. He was sure of it. But what? And where?
CHAPTER 8
In the morning he got out his best suit. He stared despondently at a spot on a lapel.
Ebba, he thought. This is a good project for her. When she hears that I'm going to meet Mona, she'll put her heart into getting rid of this spot. Ebba is a woman who thinks that the level of divorces is a considerably greater threat to the future of our society than the increase in crime and violence.
He laid the suit on the back seat and drove off. A thick cloud cover hung over the town. Is this snow? he wondered. Snow that I really don't want. He drove slowly eastwards, through Sandskogen, past the abandoned golf course, and turned off towards Kaseberga.
For the first time in days he felt that he had had enough sleep. Nine hours straight. The swelling on his forehead had started to go down, and the burn on his arm didn't sting any longer.
Methodically he rehearsed the summary he had written the night before. The vital thing was to find Lovgren's mystery woman. And their son. Somewhere, in the circles surrounding these people, those responsible would be found. The murders had to be connected to the missing 27,000 kronor, maybe even to Lovgren's other assets.
Someone who knew about the money, and who had taken the time to feed the horse before making off. People who were familiar with Johannes Lovgren's routine.
The rental car from Goteborg didn't fit the puzzle. Maybe it had nothing at all to do with the case. He looked at his watch. 7.40 a.m. Thursday, 11 January.
Instead of driving straight to his father's house, he went a few kilometres past it and turned off on the little gravel road that wound through rolling sand dunes up towards Backakra, Dag Hammarskjold's old estate, which the statesman had bequeathed to the Swedish people. Wallander left his car in the car park and walked up the hill. From there he could see the sea stretching out along the strand below him.
There was a stone circle there. A stone circle of contemplation, erected some years earlier. It was an invitation to solitude and peace of mind. He sat down on a stone and looked out to sea.
He had never been particularly inclined to philosophical meditation, never felt a need to delve into himself. Life for him was a matter of juggling practical questions that needed resolution. Whatever lay ahead was inescapable, something he could not change, no matter how much he tried to give it meaning.
Having a few minutes of solitude was another thing altogether. Not having to think at all, just listen, observe, sit motionless, gave him great peace.
There was a boat on its way somewhere. A large sea bird glided soundlessly on the breeze. Everything was quiet. After 10 minutes he stood up and went back to the car.
His father was in his studio painting when Wallander walked in. This time it was going to be a canvas with a grouse. His father looked at him crossly. Wallander could see that the old man was filthy. And he smelled terrible. 'Why are you here?' his father said.
'We made a date yesterday.''Eight o'clock, you said.''Good grief, I'm only 11 minutes late.'
'How the hell can you be a policeman if you can't keep track of time?'
Wallander didn't answer. Instead he thought about his sister Kristina. Today he would have to make time to call her. Ask her whether she was aware of their father's rapid decline. He had always imagined that senility was a slow process. That wasn't the case at all, he realised now.
His father was searching for a colour with his brush on the palette. His hands were still steady. Then he confidently daubed a hint of pale red on the grouse's plumage.
Wallander sat down on the old toboggan to watch. The stench of his father's body was acrid. Wallander was reminded of a foul-smelling man lying on a bench in the Paris Metro, when he and Mona were on their honeymoon.
I have to say something, he thought. Even if my father is on his way back to his childhood, I still have to speak to him as if he's an adult.
His father went on painting with great concentration. How many times has he painted that same motif? Wallander wondered. A quick and incomplete reckoning in his head came up with the figure of 7,000. He'd painted 7,000 sunsets.
He got up and poured coffee from the kettle steaming on the kerosene stove.'How are you feeling?' he asked.
'When you're as old as I am, how you're feeling is how you're feeling,' his father replied brusquely.'Have you
