'So you asked for Detective Inspector Wallander?'

'I asked for Kurt Wallander. What does it matter?'

'It doesn't,' Wallander said and felt relieved. Gossip moved quickly at the station. It could have brought about complications and spawned an unnecessary funny story about Wallander walking around claiming to be a detective inspector. That was not how he envisioned starting his career as a criminal investigator.

'I asked if I was disturbing you,' she repeated.

'Not at all.'

'I was thinking,' she said. 'About Hålén and his betting forms. He never won, by the way.'

'How do you know?'

'I would entertain myself by checking to see how he had bet. Not just him. And he was very ill-informed when it came to English football.'

Exactly what Hemberg said, Wallander thought. There can be no more doubt in that regard.

'But then I was thinking about the phone calls,' she went on. 'And then I thought of the fact that a couple of times he also called someone other than that woman.'

Wallander increased his concentration.

'Who?'

'He called the cab company.'

'How do you know that?'

'I heard him place an order for a car. He gave his address as the building right next to the shop.'

Wallander thought about it.

'How often did he order a cab?'

'Three or four times. Always after first calling the other number.'

'You didn't happen to hear where he was going?'

'He didn't mention it.'

'Your memory isn't half bad,' Wallander said admiringly. 'But you don't remember when he made those calls?'

'It must have been on a Wednesday.'

'When did it happen last?'

The answer came quickly and confidently.

'Last week.'

'Are you sure of that?'

'Of course I'm sure. He called a cab last Wednesday, the twenty-eighth of May, for your information.'

'Good,' Wallander said. 'Very good.'

'Is that of any help?'

'I'm certain it is.'

'And you're still not planning to tell me what it is that has happened?'

'I couldn't,' Wallander said. 'Even if I wanted to.'

'Will you tell me later?'

Wallander promised. Then he hung up and thought about what she had told him. What did it mean? Hålén had a woman somewhere. After calling her, he ordered a taxi.

Wallander checked the potatoes. They were not yet soft. Then he reminded himself that he actually had a good friend who drove a cab in Malmö. They had been schoolmates since year one and had kept in touch over the years. His name was Lars Andersson and Wallander recalled that he had written his number on the inside of the telephone directory.

He found the number and dialled it. A woman answered, Andersson's wife Elin. Wallander had met her a few times.

'I'm looking for Lars,' he said.

'He's out driving,' she said. 'But he's on a day shift. He'll be back in about an hour.'

Wallander asked her to tell her husband he had called.

'How are the children?' she asked.

'I have no children,' Wallander said, amazed.

'Then I must have misunderstood,' she answered. 'I thought Lars said that you had two sons.'

'Unfortunately, no,' Wallander said. 'I'm not even married.'

'That never stopped anyone.'

Wallander returned to the potatoes and onions. Then he composed a meal using some of the leftovers that had accumulated in the fridge. Mona had still not called. It had started to rain again. He could hear accordion music from somewhere. He asked himself what the hell he was doing. His neighbour Hålén had committed suicide, after first swallowing some precious stones. Someone had tried to retrieve them and had subsequently set fire to the apartment in a rage. There were plenty of lunatics around, also greedy people. But it was no crime to commit suicide. Nor to be greedy per se.

It was half past six. Lars Andersson had not called. Wallander decided to wait until seven o'clock. Then he would try again.

The call from Andersson came at five minutes to seven.

'Business always picks up when it's raining. I heard that you had called?'

'I'm working on a case,' Wallander said. 'And I was thinking that you could perhaps help me. It's a matter of tracking down a driver who had a client last Wednesday. Around three o'clock. A pickup from an address here in Rosengård. A man by the name of Hålén.'

'What's happened?'

'Nothing that I can talk about right now,' Wallander said and felt his discomfort grow every time he avoided giving an answer.

'I can probably find out,' Andersson said. 'The Malmö call centre is very organised. Can you give me the details? And where should I call to? The police headquarters?'

'It's best if you call me. I'm leading this thing.'

'From home?'

'Right now I am.'

'I'll see what I can do.'

'How long do you think it will take?'

'With a little luck, not very long.'

'I'll be home,' Wallander said.

He gave Andersson all the details he had. When the call was over he had a cup of coffee. Still no call from Mona. Then he thought of his sister. Wondered what excuse his father would give for him having left the house so abruptly. If he even bothered to say that his son had been there. Kristina often took her father's side. Wallander suspected it had to do with cowardice, that she was afraid of their father and his unpredictable temper.

Then he watched the news. The auto industry was doing well. There was an economic boom in Sweden. After that they showed footage from a dog show. He turned down the volume. The rain continued. He thought he heard thunder somewhere in the distance. Or else it was a Metropolitan plane coming in for landing at Bulltofta.

It was ten minutes past nine when Andersson called back.

'It's as I expected,' he said. 'The Malmö taxi call centre is extremely well organised.'

Wallander had already pulled over a pen and paper.

'The drive went out to Arlöv,' he said. 'There is no record of another name. The driver's name was Norberg. But I can probably hunt him down and ask him if he remembers what the client looked like.'

'There's no chance that it could have been another trip?'

'No one else ordered a taxi to that address on Wednesday.'

'And the car went out to Arlöv?'

'More specifically, to Smedsgatan 9. That's right next to a sugar mill.

An old neighbourhood with rows of terraced houses.'

'No rented apartments then,' Wallander said. 'Only a family must live there. Or a single person, I suppose.'

'You would think so.'

Wallander made a note of it.

'You've done good,' he said.

'I may have even more for you,' Andersson replied. 'Even if you never asked me for it. There is also a record of a cab ride from Smedsgatan. Specifically, Thursday morning at four o'clock. The driver's name was Orre. But you won't be able to get hold of him right now. He's on holiday in Mallorca.'

Can taxi drivers afford to do that? Wallander thought. Is that because they make money under the table? But of course he mentioned nothing of these speculations to Andersson.

'It could be important.'

'Do you still not have a car?'

'Not yet.'

'Are you planning to go there?'

'Yes.'

'You can use a police car, of course, can't you?'

'Of course.'

'Because otherwise I could take you. I'm not doing anything in particular. It's a long time since we had a chat.'

Wallander decided to take him up on his offer and Lars Andersson promised to pick him up in half an hour. During that time Wallander called directory assistance and asked who was registered on telephone service at Smedsgatan 9. He received the answer that there was service there but that the number was private.

It was raining harder. Wallander put on his rubber boots and a raincoat. He stood at the kitchen window and saw Andersson slow down in front of his building. The car had no sign on the roof. It was his private car.