'My name's Wallander and I'm a police officer in Ystad. Did you happen to see a man of about fifty walking along the sand here by himself in recent days?'
The man's eyes were blue and bright. His white hair stuck out from under his cap.
'No,' he said, with a smile. 'Who would want to come walking here? I'm the only person who walks along this beach. Now, in May, when it gets a bit warmer, it will be a different story.'
'Are you absolutely sure?' Wallander asked.
'I walk the dog three times every day,' said the man. 'And I haven't seen any man wandering around here by himself. Until you appeared, that is.'
Wallander smiled.
'Don't let me disturb you any longer,' he said.
Wallander resumed walking. When he stopped and turned round, the man with the dog had disappeared.
Where the thought – or rather, the feeling – came from, he never managed to figure out. Nevertheless, from that moment on, he was quite certain. There had been something about the man's expression, a faint, almost imperceptible movement of his eyes, when Wallander asked him if he had seen a solitary man walking along the beach. He knows something, Wallander thought. But what?
Wallander looked around once more. The beach was deserted.
He stood there motionless for several minutes.
Then he went back to his car and drove home.
Wednesday, 29 April, was the first day of spring in Skane that year. Wallander woke up early, as usual. He was sweaty and knew he had had a nightmare but couldn't remember what it was about. Perhaps he had dreamed yet again about being chased by bulls? Or that Mona had left him? He took a shower, had a cup of coffee and leafed absentmindedly through the Ystad Chronicle.
He was in his office by six thirty. The sun was shining from a clear blue sky. Wallander hoped that Martinsson had recovered and could take over the register searches from Hansson. That usually produced better and faster results. If Martinsson was well again, Wallander could take Hansson with him to Svarte and start knocking on doors. But perhaps the most important thing just now was to try to create as accurate a picture as possible of Goran Alexandersson. Martinsson was much more thorough than Hansson when it came to contact with people who might be able to provide information. Wallander also made up his mind that they should make a serious effort to find out what had really happened when Alexandersson's son had been beaten to death.
When the clock struck seven, Wallander tried to get hold of Jorne, who had done the autopsy on Alexandersson, but in vain. He realised he was being impatient. The case of the dead man in the back seat of Stenberg's taxi was making him uneasy.
It was 7.58 when they assembled in the conference room. Rydberg reported that Martinsson still had a fever and a very sore throat. Wallander thought how typical it was that Martinsson should succumb to something like this when he was so obsessed by germs in general.
'OK, in that case it'll be you and me knocking on doors in Svarte today,' he said. 'You, Hansson, stay here and keep digging away. I'd like to know more about Alexandersson's son, Bengt, and how he died. Ask Rendel for help.'
'Do we know any more about that poison yet?' asked Rydberg.
'I tried to find out this morning,' Wallander said, 'but I haven't heard anything yet and I can't get a response from anybody.'
The meeting was very short. Wallander asked for an enlargement of the photograph on Alexandersson's driver's licence, plus several copies. Then he went to see Bjork, the chief of police. On the whole, he thought Bjork was good at his job and let everybody get on with their own work. Occasionally, however, the chief would suddenly become proactive and ask for a rundown on the latest situation in an investigation.
'How's it going with that gang exporting the luxury cars?' Bjork asked, dropping his hands onto his desk as a sign that he wanted a concise answer.
'Badly,' said Wallander, truthfully.
'Are any arrests imminent?'
'No, none,' Wallander told him. 'If I were to go to one of the prosecutors with the evidence I have available, they'd throw me out immediately.'
'We mustn't give up, though,' said Bjork.
'Of course not,' said Wallander. 'I'll keep working away. As soon as we've solved this case of the man who died in the back seat of a taxi.'
'Hansson told me about that,' said Bjork. 'It all sounds very strange.'
'It is strange,' said Wallander.
'Can that man really have been murdered?'
'The doctors tell us he was,' Wallander said. 'We'll be knocking on doors today out at Svarte. Somebody must have seen him.'
'Keep me informed,' said Bjork, standing up as a signal that the conversation was at an end.
They drove to Svarte in Wallander's car.
'Skane is beautiful,' said Rydberg, apropos of nothing.
'On a day like this, at least,' said Wallander. 'But let's face it, it can be pretty awful in the autumn. When the mud's higher than your doorstep. Or when it seeps in under your skin.'
'Who's thinking about autumn now?' said Rydberg. 'Why worry about the bad weather in advance? It'll come eventually, like it or not.'
Wallander didn't respond. He was too busy passing a tractor.
'Let's start with the houses along the beach to the west of the village,' he said. 'We can go in different directions and work our way towards the middle. Try to find out who lives in the empty houses as well.'
'What are you hoping to find?' Rydberg asked.
'The solution,' he replied, without beating around the bush.
'Somebody must have seen him out there on the beach. Somebody must have seen him meeting some other person.'
Wallander parked the car. He let Rydberg start with the house where Agnes Ehn lived. Meanwhile Wallander tried to contact Jorne from his mobile phone. No luck this time either. He drove a bit further west, then parked the car and started working his way east. The first house was an old, well-cared-for traditional Skane cottage. He opened the gate, went down the path and rang the doorbell. When there was no reply, he rang again, and was just about to leave when the door was opened by a woman in her thirties, dressed in stained overalls.
'I don't like being interrupted,' she said, glaring at Wallander.
'Sometimes it's necessary, I'm afraid,' he said, showing her his ID.
'What do you want?' she asked.
'You may find my question a little strange,' Wallander said, 'but I want to know if you've seen a man aged about fifty wearing a light blue overcoat walking along the beach in the last few days.'
She raised her eyebrows and looked at Wallander with a smile.
'I paint with the curtains drawn,' she said. 'I haven't seen anything at all.'
'You're an artist,' said Wallander. 'I thought you needed light.'
'I don't. But that's not a jailable offence, is it?'
'So you haven't seen anything at all?'
'No, nothing – that's what I just said, isn't it?'
'Is there anybody else here in the house who might have seen something?'
'I have a cat who likes to lie on a windowsill behind the curtains. You can ask him if you like.'
Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed.
'It's sometimes necessary for police officers to ask questions, you know. Don't think I'm doing this for fun. I won't disturb you any longer.'
The woman shut the door. He heard her turning several locks. He moved on to the next property. It was a relatively recently built two-storey house. There was a little fountain in the garden. When he rang the bell a dog started barking. He waited.
The dog stopped barking and the door opened. He was facing the old man he had met on the beach the
