'You,' she said. 'What are you doing here?'

'I'm here on police business,' Wallander said. 'I thought you might be able to help me.'

She had stood up and was already looking like she was going to ask him to leave.

'I mean it,' Wallander said. 'It's nothing personal, not at all.'

She was still on her guard.

'What would I be able to help you with?'

'May I sit down?'

'Only if it won't take long.'

The same power language as Hemberg, Wallander thought. You're supposed to stand there and feel subordinate, while the person with power remains seated. But he sat down and wondered how he could once have been so in love with the woman on the other side of the desk. Now he could not remember her being anything other than stiff and dismissive.

'I'm fine,' she said. 'So there's no need for you to ask.'

'I'm fine too.'

'What do you want?'

Wallander sighed internally over her rude tone but told her what had happened.

'You work in the shipping industry,' he finished. 'You would know how I could find out what Hålén really did at sea. Which com panies he worked for, which ships.'

'I work with freight,' Helena said. 'We rent vessels or cargo space for Kockums and Volvo. That's all.'

'There must be someone who knows.'

'Can't the police find this out some other way?'

Wallander had anticipated this question and had thus prepared an answer.

'This case is being handled a little on the side,' he said, 'for reasons that I can't go into.'

He could see that she only partly believed him. But she seemed amused.

'I could ask some of my colleagues,' she said. 'We have an old sea captain. But what do I get in return? If I help you?'

'What would you like?' he asked in return, in as friendly a tone as he could muster.

She shook her head.

'Nothing.'

Wallander stood up.

'I have the same phone number as before,' he said.

'Mine is different,' Helena said. 'And you're not getting it.'

When Wallander was back out on the street he noticed that he was damp with sweat. The meeting with Helena had been more stressful than he had wanted to admit. He ended up standing still, wondering what to do next. If he had had more money he would have gone to Copenhagen. But he had to remember that he had taken a sick day. Someone could call him. He shouldn't stay away from home too long. And also he was finding it increasingly difficult to justify the fact that he was spending so much time on his dead neighbour. He went to a cafe across from the Denmark ferries and had the daily special. But before he ordered he checked to see how much money he had. He would have to go to the bank tomorrow. He still had a thousand kronor there. That would last him for the rest of the month. He ate stew and drank some water.

By one o'clock he was back out on the pavement. New storms were moving in from the south-west. He decided to go home. But when he saw a bus that was going to his father's suburb he took that instead. If nothing else he could spend a few hours helping his father pack.

There was indescribable chaos in the house. His father was reading an old newspaper, a torn straw hat on his head. He looked up at Wallander in surprise.

'Have you finished?' he asked.

'Finished with what?'

'Have you come to your senses and finished being a cop?'

'I'm off today,' Wallander said. 'And there's no use bringing up the subject again. We're never going to see eye to eye.'

'I've found a paper from 1949,' he said. 'There's a great deal of interest in it.'

'Do you really have time to read newspapers that are more than twenty years old?'

'I never had time to read it at the time,' his father said. 'Among other things, because I had a two-year-old son who did nothing but scream all day. That's why I'm reading it now.'

'I was planning to help you pack.'

His father pointed to a table stacked with china.

'That stuff needs to be packed in boxes,' he said. 'But it has to be done correctly. Nothing can break. If I find a broken plate you'll have to replace it.'

His father returned to his paper. Wallander hung up his coat and started to pack the china. Plates that he remembered from his childhood. He found a cup with a chip in it that he could remember particularly clearly. His father turned a page in the background.

'How does it feel?' Wallander asked.

'How does what feel?'

'To be moving.'

'Good. Change is nice.'

'And you still haven't seen the house?'

'No, but I'm sure it'll be fine.'

My father is either crazy or else he's becoming senile, Wallander thought. And there's nothing I can do about it.

'I thought Kristina was coming,' he said.

'She's out shopping.'

'I'd like to see her. How is she doing?'

'Fine. And she's met an excellent fellow.'

'Did she bring him?'

'No. But he sounds good in all respects. He'll probably see to it that I get grandchildren soon.'

'What's his name? What does he do? Do I have to drag all this out of you?'

'His name is Jens and he's a dialysis researcher.'

'What's that?'

'Kidneys. If you've heard of them. He's a researcher. And in addition he likes to hunt small game. Sounds like an excellent man.'

At that precise moment Wallander dropped a plate. It cracked in two. His father did not look up from the paper.

'That'll cost you,' he said.

Wallander had had enough. He took his coat and left without a word. I will never go out to Österlen, he thought. I will never set foot in his home again. I don't understand how I have put up with that man all these years. But now I've had enough.

Without realising it he had started to speak aloud. A cyclist, who was huddled up against the wind, stared at him.

Wallander went home. The door to Hålén's apartment was open. He walked in. A lone technician was gathering up the remains of some ashes.

'I thought you were done?' Wallander said, surprised.

'Sjunnesson is thorough,' the technician answered.

There was no continuation of the conversation. Wallander went back out onto the stairwell and unlocked his own door. At the same time Linnea Almquist walked into the building.

'How terrible,' she said. 'The poor man. And so alone.'

'Apparently he had a lady friend,' Wallander said.

'I find that hard to believe,' Linnea Almquist said. 'I would have noticed that.'

'I'm sure you would have,' Wallander said. 'But he may not have been in the habit of seeing her here.'

'One should not speak ill of the dead,' she said and started up the stairs.

Wallander wondered how it could be considered speaking ill of the dead to suggest that there may have been a woman in an otherwise lonely existence.

Once he was in his apartment, Wallander could no longer push aside thoughts of Mona. He should call her. Or would she call him of her own accord in the evening? In order to shake off his anxiety, Wallander started to gather up and throw out old newspapers. Then he started in on the bathroom. He did not have to do much before he realised that there was much more old, ingrained dirt than he could have imagined. He kept going at it for over three hours before he felt satisfied with the result. It was five o'clock. He put some potatoes on to boil and chopped some onions.

The phone rang. He thought at once it had to be Mona, and his heart started to beat faster.

But it was another woman's voice. She said her name, Maria, but it took a few seconds before he realised it was the girl from the newsagent.

'I hope I'm not disturbing you,' she said. 'I lost the piece of paper you gave me. And you're not in the phone book. I could have called directory assistance, I suppose. But I called the police instead.'

Wallander flinched.

'What did you say?'

'That I was looking for an officer by the name of Kurt Wallander. And that I had important information. At first they didn't want to give me your home phone number. But I didn't give in.'