union representative.'
He regretted that last comment to Nyberg. He went out to the kitchen and put on some water for a cup of coffee. Then he called Lisa Holgersson, who promised to be there. Wallander took the coffee with him out onto the balcony, where the thermometer indicated that it would be another warm day. There was the sudden clatter from something being pushed through the post slot in the front door.
It was his car keys. And after a night like that, he thought. Sten is amazing. He was weighed down with fatigue. With self-disgust, he suddenly imagined little white icebergs of sugar floating around in his veins.
He left the flat just after 6.30 a.m., and bumped into the person who delivered the newspapers, an older man named Stefansson who had bicycle clips around his trouser legs.
'Sorry I'm late today,' he apologised. 'There was something wrong with the presses this morning.'
'Do you deliver papers at Lilla Norregatan as well?' Wallander asked.
Stefansson understood him at once. 'You mean to the policeman who was killed?'
'Yes.'
'A lady by the name of Selma works there. She's the oldest delivery person around. I think she started in 1947. What's that, nearly 50 years?'
'What's her last name?'
'Nylander.'
Stefansson handed Wallander the paper.
'There's something about you in there,' he said.
'Put it in my slot,' Wallander said. 'I won't have time to read it.'
Wallander knew he could make it on time if he walked, but he took the car anyway. The start of his new life would have to be pushed back another day.
He ran into Hoglund in the car park. 'The person who delivers papers to Svedberg's building is called Selma Nylander,' he told her. 'Have you talked to her?'
'No, it turns out she doesn't have a phone.'
Wallander thought about Sture Bjorklund's decision to throw out his telephone. Was it becoming a general trend? They went into the conference room. Wallander made himself a cup of coffee, and stood out in the corridor for a while trying to think how to organise the meeting. He was normally very well prepared, but this time couldn't think of anything except putting the photographs on the table and seeing what people had to say.
He closed the door behind him and sat in his usual spot. Svedberg's chair was still empty. Wallander took the pictures out of his coat pocket and told them briefly how he had found them. He omitted the fact that the thought had come to him while he lay in a drunken stupor in the back of a taxi. Since being stopped for driving under the influence by some of his colleagues six years ago, he never mentioned drinking alcohol.
The photographs lay in front of him. Hansson set up the projector.
'I'd like to point out that the girl to the far right in this picture is Astrid Hillstrom, one of the young people who has been missing since Midsummer.'
He put both pictures into the projector. There was silence around the table. Wallander took the opportunity to study the pictures more closely himself as he waited, but couldn't pick out any additional details. He had used the magnifying glass carefully during those early hours.
Martinsson finally broke the silence. 'You have to hand it to Svedberg,' he said. 'She's beautiful. Does anyone recognise her? Ystad isn't a big city.'
No one had seen her before, nor any of the young people. It was, however, clear to everyone in the room that the girl to the far right was Astrid Hillstrom. The picture of her on file resembled this one closely, except for the clothes.
'Is it a masquerade?' Chief Holgersson asked. 'What period is it meant to be?'
'The 17th century,' Hansson said confidently.
Wallander looked at him with surprise. 'How do you know that?'
'Maybe it's more like the 18th century,' he said, changing his mind.
'I think it's the 16th century,' Hoglund said. 'King Gustav I Vasa's time. They dressed in the same billowing sleeves and leggings.'
'Are you sure?' Wallander asked.
'Of course I'm not sure. I'm just telling you what I think.'
'Let's steer clear of educated guesses for a moment. The most important thing here is not how they're dressed up. It will eventually be important to figure out why they were dressed up, but even that can wait.'
He looked around at everyone before continuing. 'We have a picture of a woman in her 40s and a picture of a group of young people dressed up in some kind of costume. One of these young people is Astrid Hillstrom, who has been missing since Midsummer, although she's most probably travelling around Europe with two of her friends. This is what we know. I found these pictures hidden in the flat of our colleague Svedberg, who has been murdered. The way we need to begin our investigation is by determining what happened on Midsummer's Eve. That's where we start.'
It took them three hours to go through the available material. Most of the time was spent formulating new questions and deciding who would do what. After two hours they took a short break and everyone except Chief Holgersson had coffee. Then they kept going. The team was starting to come together. At 10.15 a.m. Wallander felt they couldn't get any further.
Holgersson had been quiet for a long time, as she often was during their investigative work. Wallander knew she had great respect for their abilities. But now she raised her hand slightly.
'What do you really think has happened to them?' she asked. 'If there's been any kind of an accident you would think it would have been discovered by now.'
'I don't know,' Wallander said. 'The very supposition that something has happened to them leads us to conclude that their signatures on the postcards were forged. Why?'
'To cover up a crime,' Nyberg suggested.
The room became quiet. Wallander looked at Nyberg and nodded slowly.
'And not just any crime,' he said. 'People who go missing either stay that way or turn up. There's only one possible explanation for these postcards having been forged, and that is that someone is trying to hide the fact that these three people - Boge, Norman and Hillstrom - are dead.'
'That tells us another thing,' Hoglund said. 'The person who sent these postcards knows what happened to them.'
'Not just that,' Wallander said. 'It's the person who killed them, a person who can forge their signatures and handwriting, and who knows where they live.'
It was as if Wallander needed time to get to his final conclusion. 'If our supposition is correct,' he said, 'then we have to assume that these three were the victims of a calculating and well-organised murderer.'
His words were followed by a long silence. Wallander already knew what he wanted to say next but wondered if anyone would jump in. Outside in the hall someone laughed loudly. Nyberg blew his nose. Hansson was staring off into space and Martinsson drummed his fingers on the table. Hoglund and Holgersson were looking at Wallander.
My two allies, he thought.
'We are forced into the realm of speculation at this point,' he said. 'One line of reasoning will be particularly unpleasant and unimaginable, but we cannot overlook the part that Svedberg may have played in these events. We know he kept a photograph of Astrid Hillstrom and her friends hidden in his flat. We know that he conducted his investigations into their disappearance in secret. We don't know what drove him to do these things, but the three of them are still missing and he has been killed. It may have been a burglary of some kind, it may have been the case that someone was looking for something, perhaps for this very picture. But we cannot definitively rule out the possibility that Svedberg himself may have been involved in some way.'
Hansson dropped his pen on the table. 'You can't mean that!' he said, visibly upset. 'One of our colleagues is brutally murdered, we're trying to find his killer, and you're suggesting that he was involved in an even greater crime.'
'We have to consider it as a possibility,' Wallander said.
'You're right,' Nyberg interrupted. 'However unappealing it is. Since the Belgian case I've had the feeling that anything is possible.'
