to return to the two caravans welded together that constituted both his home and his office.
Wallander switched off the engine and got out of the car. A grubby-looking cat studied him from the bonnet of an ancient, rusty Peugeot. Niklasson emerged from behind a pile of tyres. He was wearing a dark-coloured overcoat and a filthy hat pulled down over his long hair. Wallander had never seen him in any other attire.
'Kurt Wallander!' Niklasson said with a grin. 'Long time no see. Here to arrest me?'
'Should I be?' Wallander said.
Niklasson laughed. 'Only you can say,' he said.
'You have a car I'd like to take a look at,' Wallander said. 'A dark blue Opel that used to be owned by Gustaf Torstensson, the solicitor.'
'Oh, that one. It's over here,' he said, starting in the direction he was pointing. 'What do you want to see that for?'
'Because a person in it died when the accident took place.'
'People drive like idiots,' Niklasson said. 'The only thing that surprises me is that more of them aren't killed. Here it is. I haven't started cutting it up yet. It's exactly as it was when they brought it here.'
Wallander nodded. 'I can manage on my own now,' he said.
'I've no doubt you can,' Niklasson said. 'Incidentally, I've always wondered what it feels like, killing somebody.'
Wallander was put out. 'It feels bloody awful,' he said. 'What did you think it would feel like?'
Niklasson shrugged. 'I just wondered.'
When he was on his own, Wallander walked round the car twice. He was surprised to see that there was hardly any superficial damage. After all, it had gone through a stone wall and then turned over at least twice. He squinted into the driving seat. The car keys were lying on the floor next to the accelerator. With some difficulty he managed to open the door, pick up the keys and fit them into the ignition. Sten had been quite right. Neither the keys nor the ignition were damaged. Thinking hard, he walked once more round the car. Then he climbed inside and tried to work out where Gustaf Torstensson had hit his head. He searched thoroughly, without finding a solution. Although there were stains here and there that he supposed must be dried blood, he could not see anywhere where the dead man could have hit the back of his head.
He crawled out of the car again, the keys still in his hand. Without really knowing why, he opened the boot. There were a few old newspapers and the remains of a broken kitchen chair. He remembered the chair leg he had found in the field. He took out one of the newspapers and checked the date. More than six months old. He shut the boot again.
Then it dawned on him what he had seen without it registering. He remembered clearly what it said in Martinsson's report. It had been quite clear on one matter. All the doors apart from the driver's door had been locked, including the boot.
He stood stock-still.
There's a broken chair locked in the boot. A leg from that chair is lying half buried in the mud. A man is dead in the car.
His first reaction was to get angry about the slipshod examination and the unimaginative conclusions reached. Then he remembered that Sten had not found the chair leg either, and hence had not noticed anything odd about the boot.
He walked slowly back to his car.
So Sten had been right. His father had not lost his life in a car accident. Even though he couldn't envisage what, he was certain that something had happened that night in the fog, on that deserted stretch of road. There must have been at least one other person there. But who?
Niklasson emerged from his caravan.
'Can I get you a coffee?' he said.
Wallander shook his head. 'Don't touch that car,' he said. 'We'll need to take another look at it.'
'You'd better be careful,' Niklasson said.
Wallander frowned. 'Why?'
'What's his name? The son? Sten Torstensson? He was here and had a look at the car. Now he's dead as well. That's all. I'll say no more.'
A thought struck Wallander. 'Has anybody else been here and examined the car?' he said.
Niklasson shook his head. 'Not a soul.'
Wallander drove back to Ystad. He felt tired. He could not work out the significance of what he had discovered. But the bottom line was not in doubt: Sten had been right. The accident was a cover for something entirely different.
It was 4.07 p.m. when Bjork closed the meeting-room door. Wallander immediately felt that the mood was halfhearted, uninterested. He could sense that none of his colleagues was going to have anything to report which would have a decisive, not to say a dramatic, effect on the investigation. This is one of those moments in the everyday life of a police officer that inevitably ends up on the cutting-room floor. Nevertheless, it's times like this when nothing's happening, when everybody's tired, maybe even hostile towards one another, that are the foundation on which the course of the investigation is built. We have to tell one another that we do not know anything in order to inspire us to move on.
At that point he made up his mind. Whether it was an attempt to find himself an excuse for returning to duty and asking for his job back he could never afterwards be sure. But that half-hearted atmosphere gave him the inspiration to perform again; it was a background against which he could show that he was still a police officer, despite everything, not a burned-out wreck who ought to have had the wit to fade away in silence.
His train of thought was broken by Bjork, who was looking at him expectantly. Wallander shook his head, a barely noticeable gesture. He had nothing to say as yet.
'What have we got to report?' Bjork said. 'Where do we stand?'
'I've been knocking on doors,' Svedberg said. 'All the surrounding buildings, every single flat. But nobody heard anything unusual, nobody saw anything. Oddly enough we haven't had one single tip-off from the general public. The whole investigation seems to be in limbo.'
Bjork turned to Martinsson.
'I've been through his flat in Regementsgatan,' he said. 'I don't think I've ever been so unsure of what I was looking for. What I can say for sure is that Sten Torstensson had a liking for fine cognac, and that he owned a collection of antiquarian books which I suspect must be very valuable. I've also been putting pressure on the technical boys in Linkoping about the bullets, but they say they'll be in touch tomorrow.'
Bjork sighed and turned to Hoglund.
'I've been trying to piece together his private life,' she said. 'His family, friends. But I haven't turned anything up that you could say takes us any further. He didn't exactly put himself about, and you could say he lived almost exclusively for his work as a solicitor. He used to do a fair bit of sailing in the summer, but he had given that up, for reasons I'm unsure about. He doesn't have many relatives. One or two aunts, a couple of cousins. He seems to have been a bit of a hermit, so far as I can understand.'
Wallander kept his eye on her while she was talking, without making it obvious. There was something thoughtful and straightforward about her, almost a lack of imagination. But he decided he would reserve judgment. He didn't know her as a person, he was just aware of her reputation as an unusually promising police officer.
The new age, he thought. Perhaps she is the new type of police officer, the type I have often wondered about, what would they look like?
'In other words, we're marking time,' Bjork said, in a clumsy attempt to sum up. 'We know young Torstensson has been shot, we know where and we know when. But not why, nor by whom. Unfortunately, we have to accept that this is going to be a difficult case. Time-consuming and demanding.'
Nobody had any quarrel with that assessment. Wallander could see through the window that it was raining again.
He recognised that his moment had come. 'As far as Sten Torstensson is concerned, I have nothing to add,' he said. 'There is not a lot we know. We have to approach it from another angle. We have to look at what happened to his father.'
Everyone round the table sat up and took notice.
'Gustaf Torstensson did not die in a road accident,' he said. 'He was murdered, just as his son was. We can
