water tower on the other side of the street. He found himself thinking about Mona and Linda. They were probably in some restaurant or other, having dinner. But what were they talking about? No doubt what Linda was going to do next. He tried to imagine their conversation, but all he could hear was the humming from the radiators. He sat down to write a preliminary report while Hansson was calling the Ystad taxi companies. Before starting, he went to the break room and helped himself to some biscuits that somebody had abandoned. It was nearly eight by the time Hansson knocked on his door and came in.
'He took a cab out to Svarte three times in the four days he'd been here in Ystad,' Hansson said. 'He was dropped off on the edge of the village each time. He went out early in the morning, and he ordered a taxi to take him back in the afternoon.'
Wallander was miles away but nodded in acknowledgement.
'That's not against the law,' he said. 'Perhaps he had a mistress there?'
Wallander stood up and walked over to the window. The wind was building up.
'Let's search for him in the computer records,' he said after a few moments' thought. 'I get the impression we'll draw a blank. But let's do it anyway. Then we'll have a good look at the post-mortem report.'
'I bet it was a heart attack,' said Hansson, rising to leave.
'No doubt you're right,' said Wallander.
Wallander drove home and opened a can of sausages. Goran Alexandersson was already fading out of his consciousness. After eating his simple meal, he fell asleep in front of the television.
The following day, Wallander's colleague Martinsson searched through all available criminal registers for the name Goran Alexandersson. There was nothing. Martinsson was the youngest member of the investigation team, and the one most willing to embrace new technology.
Wallander devoted the day to the stolen luxury cars being driven around Poland. In the evening he went to see his father in Loderup and played cards for a few hours. They ended up arguing over who owed whom and how much. As Wallander drove home, he wondered if he would grow to be like his father as he got older. Or had he already started ageing that way? Argumentative, complaining and miserable? He should ask somebody. Perhaps somebody other than Mona.
On the morning of 28 April, Wallander's phone rang. It was the medicolegal department in Lund.
'I'm calling in connection with a person by the name of Goran Alexandersson,' said the doctor at the other end of the line. He was called Jorne and Wallander knew him from his time in Malmo.
'What was it?' Wallander asked. 'Cerebral haemorrhage or a heart attack?'
'Neither,' said the doctor. 'Either he committed suicide or he was murdered.'
Wallander pricked up his ears.
'Murdered? What do you mean by that?'
'Exactly what I say,' said Jorne.
'But that's impossible. He can't have been murdered in the back seat of a taxi. Stenberg, the driver of the cab, isn't the type who goes around killing people. But surely he can't have committed suicide either?'
'I can't tell you how it happened,' said Jorne dismissively. 'But what I can tell you with absolute certainty is that he died from a poison that got into his system somehow, either something he'd eaten or something he'd drunk. That seems to me to suggest murder. But of course, it's your business to establish that.'
Wallander made no comment.
'I'll fax the papers over to you,' said Jorne. 'Are you still there?'
'Yes,' Wallander said. 'I'm still here.'
He thanked Jorne, replaced the receiver and thought about what he'd just been told. Then he asked Hansson over the intercom to come to his office right away. Wallander took one of his notepads and wrote two words.
Goran Alexandersson. Outside the police station, the wind was getting stronger. Some gusts were already gale strength.
The squally wind continued blowing all over Skane. Wallander sat in his office and contemplated the fact that he had no idea what had happened to the man who had died in the back seat of a taxi some days earlier. At 9.30 he went to one of the conference rooms and closed the door behind him. Hansson and Rydberg were already sitting at the table. Wallander was surprised to see Rydberg. He'd been off sick with back pains and given no indication that he was returning to work.
'How are you?' Wallander asked.
'I'm here,' said Rydberg evasively. 'What's all this nonsense about a man being murdered in the back seat of a taxi?'
'Let's start at the beginning,' Wallander said.
He looked around. Somebody was missing.
'Where's Martinsson?'
'He called in to say he had tonsillitis,' said Rydberg. 'Maybe Svedberg can stand in for him?'
'We'll see if we need him,' said Wallander, picking up his papers. The fax had arrived from Lund.
Then he looked at his colleagues.
'What started off looking like a straightforward case could turn out to be much more problematic than I'd thought. A man died in the back seat of a taxi. The medico-legal people in Lund have established that he was poisoned. What we don't know yet is how long before his death the poison got into his system. Lund promises to let us know that in a few days.'
'Murder or suicide?' Rydberg wondered.
'Murder,' said Wallander without hesitation. 'I find it hard to imagine a suicide taking poison and then calling for a taxi.'
'Could he have taken the poison by mistake?' Hansson asked.
'Hardly likely,' said Wallander. 'According to the doctors it's a very unusual mixture of poisons.'
'What do they mean by that?' Hansson asked.
'It's something that can only be made by a specialist – a doctor, a chemist or a biologist, for instance.'
Silence.
'So, we need to regard this as a murder case,' Wallander said. 'What do we know about this man, Goran Alexandersson?'
Hansson leafed through his notebook.
'He was a businessman,' he said. 'He owned two electronics shops in Stockholm. One in Vastberga, the other in Nortull. He lived alone in an apartment in Asogatan. He doesn't seem to have had any family. His divorced wife lives in France. His son died seven years ago. The employees I've spoken to all describe him in exactly the same way.'
'How?' asked Wallander.
'They say he was nice.'
'Nice?'
'That was the word they all used. Nice.'
Wallander nodded.
'Anything else?'
'He appears to have led a pretty humdrum existence. His secretary guessed that he probably collected stamps. Catalogues kept arriving at the office. He doesn't seem to have had any close friends. At least, none that his colleagues knew about.'
Nobody said anything.
'We'd better ask Stockholm to help us with his apartment,' Wallander said when the silence had started to feel oppressive. 'And we must get in touch with his ex-wife. I'll concentrate on trying to find out what he was doing down here in Skane, in Ystad and Svarte. Who did he meet? We can get together again this afternoon and see how far we've got.'
'One thing puzzles me,' said Rydberg. 'Can a person be murdered without knowing anything about it?'
