reaction. What can I do about it now?'
'I wonder whether it's possible to do anything,' Wallander said. 'That's a lesson I learnt last year. I think we're just going to have to put up with this sort of thing from now on.'
'You know, it'll be a great relief to retire,' Bjork said after a moment's thought. 'I sometimes get the feeling the world is leaving me behind.'
'We all feel like that,' Wallander said. 'I'll go and get that man from the foreign ministry. What's his name?'
'Torn.'
'First name?'
'Nobody mentioned one.'
Wallander found Martinsson and Svedberg waiting for him in his office. Svedberg was describing Bjork's outburst. Wallander decided to keep the meeting brief. He told them about the telephone call and his conclusion that more than one person had seen the life-raft.
'Was he a local?' Martinsson asked.
Wallander nodded.
'We ought to be able to trace them in that case,' Martinsson said. 'We can eliminate oil tankers and freighters. What does that leave?'
'Fishing boats,' Wallander said. 'How many fishing boats are working off the south coast of Skane?'
'A great many,' Martinsson said. 'Mind you, it's February and quite a few will be laid up in harbour. Tracking them down will be a lot of work, but I think it can be done.'
'We can decide on that tomorrow,' Wallander said. 'Things may have changed altogether by then.'
He told them what he'd heard from Bjork. Martinsson reacted more or less as he'd done himself, but Svedberg simply shrugged.
'We're not going to get any further today,' Wallander said, wrapping up the meeting. 'I have to write a report on what's happened so far. You'd better do the same. Then we can see what we make of the people from serious crime and narcotics tomorrow. Not to mention Mr Torn from the foreign ministry.'
Wallander was early to the airport. He had coffee with the immigration control officers, and listened to the usual complaints about working hours and wages. At 5.15 p.m. he took a seat on a bench outside the passenger lounge and stared half-heartedly at the ads on a television suspended from the ceiling. The Stockholm flight was announced, and Wallander realised that the man from the foreign ministry might be expecting to be met by a police officer in uniform. If I stand with my hands behind my back and sway backwards and forwards, he thought, perhaps that will do.
He studied the passengers streaming past: none of them seemed to be looking about for someone. When the stragglers had gone by and the stream eventually dried up altogether, he realised he had missed his man. What do foreign ministry officials look like? he wondered. Like ordinary people, or like diplomats? But then, what does a diplomat look like?
'Kurt Wallander?' said a voice behind him.
He spun round and clapped eyes on a youngish woman.
'Yes,' he said, 'I'm Kurt Wallander.'
The woman removed her glove and held out her hand. 'Birgitta Torn,' she said. 'Foreign ministry. Perhaps you were expecting a man?'
'I was, actually,' he said.
'There are still not all that many female career diplomats,'
Birgitta Torn said, 'but that doesn't prevent a large proportion of the Swedish foreign ministry from being in the hands of women.'
'Well,' Wallander said. 'Welcome to Skane.'
As they waited at the baggage carousel, he watched her discreetly. She was not especially striking, but there was something about her eyes that caught his attention. When he picked up her case and turned to look at her, he could see what it was. She wore contact lenses. Mona had worn them during the last few years of their marriage.
They went out to the car. Wallander asked about the weather in Stockholm, and if she'd had a pleasant flight. She answered him, but he sensed that she was holding him at arm's length.
'I'm booked into a hotel called the Century,' she told him as they drove to Ystad. 'I'd like to go through all the investigation reports so far. I take it you've been advised that all the material should be placed at my disposal?'
'No,' Wallander said. 'Nobody's said anything about that, but since none of it is secret, you can have it. There's a folder on the back seat.'
'Good thinking,' she said.
'When all's said and done, I have only one question,' Wallander said. 'Why are you here?'
'The unstable situation in the East means that the foreign ministry is monitoring all abnormal incidents. In addition to this, we can help with the formal inquiries that may have to be made in countries that are not members of Interpol.'
She talks like a politician, thought Wallander. There's no room for doubt in what she says.
'Abnormal incidents,' he said. 'That's one way of putting it. If you like I can show you the life-raft at the police station.'
'No, thank you,' Torn said. 'I don't want to interfere in police work, but it would be useful if we could arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning. I'd appreciate a briefing on where things stand.'
'The best time would be 8 a.m.,' said Wallander. 'Maybe you don't know that we're being sent some extra men by the police commissioner? I assume they'll be here tomorrow.
'I had been informed,' Torn answered.
The Century Hotel was in a street off the main square. Wallander parked outside and reached for the folder of reports. Then he took her suitcase out of the boot.
'Have you been to Ystad before?' he asked.
'I don't think so.'
'Then perhaps I could suggest that the Ystad police should invite you to dinner.'
There was a faint trace of a smile as she answered.
'That's very kind of you,' she said, 'but I have a lot of work to do.'
Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed. Perhaps a police officer in a small provincial town wasn't good enough company.
'The Continental Hotel would be the best place for a meal,' he said. 'Turn right from the square. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow morning?'
'I'll find my own way,' she said. 'Thank you all the same. And thank you for collecting me.'
Wallander drove home. It was 6.30 p.m. He felt thoroughly dissatisfied with every aspect of his life. It wasn't just the emptiness of coming home to a flat with nobody to welcome him. There was also the feeling that it was getting more and more difficult to cope with his working environment.
And now his body had started playing up. He used to be secure in his work as a detective, but not any more. His insecurity had developed when he was struggling to solve the brutal double murder in Lenarp the year before. He and Rydberg had often discussed how Sweden, a country that was changing rapidly, becoming unfamiliar and uncertain, needed a new kind of police officer. He felt more inadequate as the days passed. It wasn't a kind of insecurity that any of the courses offered by the Swedish police board could help to cure.
He took a beer from the fridge, switched on the television and slumped down on the sofa. The screen was occupied by one of the endless stream of chat shows that seemed to be served up every day.
His mind wandered back to the job at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. Maybe that was the opportunity for change that he so needed? Maybe one should only be a police officer for a limited number of years, and then devote one's life to something entirely different?
He made no move to go to bed until nearly midnight.
He'd just turned off the light when the phone rang. Oh no, not tonight as well, he thought. Not another murder. He picked up the receiver, and immediately recognised the voice of the man who'd called earlier in the afternoon.
