pigeons and the trees until the feeling drifted away. Then he went back to his desk and continued doggedly reading through the reports piled high in front of him.
Wallander spent Christmas with Linda’s family. He observed his granddaughter, who still hadn’t been given a name, with admiration and restrained joy. Linda insisted that the girl looked like him, especially her eyes, but Wallander couldn’t see any similarities, no matter how hard he tried.
‘The girl should have a name,’ he said as they sat drinking wine on Christmas Eve.
‘All in good time,’ said Linda.
‘We think the name will announce itself one of these days,’ said Hans.
‘Why am I named Linda?’ she asked out of the blue. ‘Where does that come from?’
‘You can blame me,’ said Wallander. ‘Mona wanted to name you something different; I can’t remember what. But as far as I was concerned, you were Linda from the very beginning. Your granddad thought you should be called Venus.’
‘Venus?’
‘As you know, he wasn’t always all there. Don’t you like your name?’
‘I’ve got a good name,’ she said. ‘And you don’t need to worry. If we get married, I’m not going to change my surname. I’ll never be Linda von Enke.’
‘Perhaps I should become a Wallander,’ said Hans. ‘But I don’t think my parents would like that.’
Over the next few days, Wallander spent his time organising all the paperwork that had accumulated during the past year. It was a routine he had instigated years ago - before ringing out the old year, make room for all the junk that would build up during the one to come.
The evening the verdicts in the arms theft trial were made public, Wallander decided to stay at home and watch a film. He had invested in a satellite dish and now had access to lots of film channels. He took his service pistol home with him, intending to clean it. He was behind in his shooting practice and knew he would need to submit to a test by the beginning of February at the latest. His desk wasn’t cleared, but he had no pressing business. I’d better make the most of the opportunity, he thought. I can watch a film tonight; tomorrow might be too late.
But after he got home and took Jussi out for a walk, he started to feel restless. He sometimes felt abandoned in his house out in the wilds, surrounded by empty fields. Like a wrecked ship, he sometimes thought. I’ve run aground in the middle of all these brown muddy fields. This restlessness usually passed quickly, but tonight it persisted. He sat in the kitchen, spread out an old newspaper and cleaned his gun. By the time he’d finished it was still only eight o’clock. He had no idea what inspired him, but he made up his mind, changed his clothes and drove back into Ystad. The town was always more or less deserted, especially on weekday evenings. No more than two or three restaurants or bars would be open. Wallander parked his car and went to a restaurant in the square. It was almost empty. He sat at a corner table, then ordered an appetiser and a bottle of wine. While he was waiting for the food, he gulped down a few glasses. He told himself he was swilling the alcohol in order to put his mind at rest. By the time the food arrived, he was already drunk.
‘The place is dead,’ said Wallander. ‘Where is everybody?’
The waiter shrugged.
‘Not here, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your meal.’
Wallander only picked at the food. He dug out his mobile phone and scrolled through the numbers in his address book. He wanted to talk to someone. But who? He put the phone down since he didn’t want anyone to know that he was drunk. The wine bottle was empty, and he had already had more than enough. But even so, he ordered a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac when the waiter came to tell him the place was about to close. He stumbled when he got to his feet. The waiter gave him a tired look.
‘Taxi,’ said Wallander.
The waiter called from the telephone attached to the wall next to the bar. Wallander could feel himself swaying from side to side. The waiter replaced the receiver, and nodded.
The wind was icy cold when Wallander came out into the street. He sat in the back seat of the taxi and was almost asleep by the time it turned into his driveway. He left his clothes in a pile on the floor, and passed out the moment he lay down.
*
Half an hour after Wallander fell asleep, a man hurried into the police station. He was agitated, and asked to speak to the night duty officer. It happened to be Martinsson.
The man explained that he was a waiter. Then he put a plastic bag on the table in front of Martinsson. In it was a gun, similar to the one Martinsson had.
The waiter even knew the name of the customer, since Wallander was well known in town.
Martinsson filled out a criminal offence form, then sat there for a long time staring at the revolver.
How on earth could Wallander have forgotten his service weapon? And why had he taken it to the restaurant?
Martinsson checked the clock: just after midnight. He really should have called Wallander, but he didn’t.
That conversation could wait until tomorrow. He wasn’t looking forward to it.
3
When Wallander arrived at the police station the following day, there was a message waiting for him at the front desk, from Martinsson. Wallander swore under his breath. He was hung-over and felt awful. If Martinsson wanted to speak to him the moment he arrived, it could mean only that something had happened that required Wallander’s immediate presence. If only it could have waited for a couple of days, he thought. Or at least a few hours. Right now all he wanted to do was to close the door to his office, unplug his phone, and try to get some sleep with his feet on his desk. He took off his jacket, emptied an open bottle of mineral water, then went to see Martinsson, who now had the office that used to be Wallander’s.
He knocked on the door and went in. The moment he saw Martinsson’s face he realised it was serious. Wallander could always read his mood, which was important since Martinsson swung constantly between energetic exhilaration and glum dejection.
Wallander sat down in the guest chair.
‘What happened? You only write me notes like that if something important has come up.’
Martinsson stared at him in surprise.
‘You mean you have no idea what I want to talk to you about?’
‘No. Should I?’
Martinsson didn’t reply. He merely continued looking at Wallander, who began to feel even worse than he had before.
‘I’m not going to sit here guessing,’ he said in the end. ‘What is it you want?’
‘You still have no idea why I want to talk to you?’
‘No.’
‘That makes things harder.’
Martinsson opened a drawer, took out Wallander’s service pistol and put it on the desk in front of him.
‘I take it you know what I’m talking about now?’
Wallander stared at the revolver. A shudder ran down his spine, and almost succeeded in banishing his hangover. He recalled having cleaned his gun the previous evening - but then what happened? He groped around in his memory. The gun had migrated from his kitchen table to Martinsson’s desk. But how it had got there, what had happened in between, he had no idea. He had no explanations, no excuses.
‘You went to a restaurant last night,’ said Martinsson. ‘Why did you take your gun with you?’
Wallander shook his head incredulously. He still couldn’t remember. Had he put it in his jacket pocket when he drove into Ystad? No matter how unlikely that seemed, apparently he must have.
‘I don’t know,’ Wallander admitted. ‘My mind’s a blank. Tell me.’
‘A waiter came here around midnight,’ said Martinsson. ‘He was agitated because he had found the gun on the bench you had been sitting on.’
Vague fragments of memory were racing around in Wallander’s mind. Maybe he had taken the gun out of his jacket when he’d used his mobile phone? But how could he possibly have forgotten it?
