Wallander thought a good start might be to talk about himself. So he said his name. That he had been on his way home to his wife and daughter to celebrate Christmas. He noticed that the man was listening now.

Wallander asked him if he could understand.

The man nodded. But he still said nothing.

Wallander looked at the time. By now Mona had surely called. Hemberg might already be on his way.

He decided to tell the man this.

The man listened. Wallander had the impression that he already expected to hear the approaching sirens.

Wallander paused. He tried to smile.

'What is your name?' he asked. 'Everyone has a name.'

'Oliver.'

His voice was unsteady. Despondent, Wallander thought. He is not waiting for someone to come. He is waiting for someone to explain to him what he has done.

'Do you live here in Sweden?'

Oliver nodded.

'Are you a Swedish citizen?'

Wallander immediately realised the superfluousness of this question.

'No.'

'Where do you come from?'

He did not answer. Wallander waited. He was sure that the answer would come. There was much that he wanted to know before Hemberg and the police cars arrived outside. But he could not hurry this up. The step towards the moment where this man raised his gun and shot him was not necessarily so great.

The ache in the back of his head had increased. But Wallander tried to think it away.

'Everyone comes from somewhere,' he said. 'And Africa is large. I read about Africa when I was at school. Geography was my best subject. I read about the deserts and rivers. And the drums, beating in the night.'

Oliver listened attentively. Wallander had the feeling that he was already now somewhat less on his guard.

'Gambia,' Wallander said. 'Swedes go there on holiday. Even some of my colleagues. Is that where you come from?'

'I come from South Africa.'

The answer came quickly and decidedly. Almost harshly.

Wallander was very poorly informed about what exactly was going on in South Africa. He did not know more than that the apartheid system and its racial laws were now more severe than ever before. But the resistance had also increased. He had read in newspapers about bombs exploding in Johannesburg and Cape Town.

He also knew that some South Africans had received asylum in Sweden. Not least those who had openly taken part in the black resistance and risked being sentenced to death by hanging if they remained.

He made a quick summary in his head. A young South African by the name of Oliver has killed Elma Hagman. That was what he knew. Neither more nor less.

No one would believe me, Wallander thought. This simply doesn't happen. Not in Sweden, and not on Christmas Eve.

'She started to scream,' Oliver said.

'She must have been frightened. A man who enters the store with a mask on is frightening,' Wallander said. 'Especially if he has a gun or an iron pipe in his hand.'

'She should not have screamed,' Oliver said.

'You should not have killed her,' Wallander answered. 'She would probably have given you the money anyway.'

Oliver pulled the gun out of his belt. It happened so fast that Wallander never had time to react. Again he saw the gun pointed at his head.

'She should not have screamed,' Oliver said, and now his voice was unsteady with distress and fear.

'I can kill you,' he added.

'Yes,' Wallander said. 'You can. But why would you do that?'

'She should not have screamed.'

Wallander now realised that he had been completely wrong. The South African was not in the least controlled and calm. He was at a breaking point. What exactly was on the point of breaking, Wallander did not know. But now he seriously started to fear what would happen when Hemberg arrived. It could become an all-out massacre.

I have to disarm him, Wallander thought. Nothing else is important. First I have to get him to tuck that gun back into his belt. This man is fully capable of starting to shoot wildly around him. Hemberg is probably on his way right now. And he doesn't sense anything. Even if he fears that something has happened, he isn't expecting this. As little as I did. It could be an all-out catastrophe.

'How long have you been here?' he asked.

'Three months.'

'Not longer?'

'I came from West Germany,' Oliver said. 'From Frankfurt. I could not stay there.'

'Why?'

Oliver did not answer. Wallander sensed that it was perhaps not the first time that Oliver had put a mask over his head and robbed a store in a remote location. He could be on the run from the West German authorities.

And in turn this would mean that he was in Sweden illegally.

'What was it that happened?' Wallander asked. 'Not in Frankfurt but in South Africa. Why did you have to leave?'

Oliver took a step closer to Wallander.

'What do you know about South Africa?'

'Not much. Only that the blacks are treated very badly.'

Wallander almost bit his tongue. Were you allowed to say 'blacks', or was that discrimination?

'My father was killed by the police. They beat him to death with a hammer and chopped off one of his hands. It is preserved in a jar of alcohol somewhere. Maybe in Sanderton. Maybe somewhere else in Johannesburg's white suburbs. As a souvenir. And the only thing he had done was join the ANC. The only thing he had done was speak to his co-workers. About resistance and freedom.'

Wallander did not doubt that Oliver was telling the truth. His voice was calm now, in the midst of all this uproar. There was no room for lies.

'The police started looking for me too,' Oliver continued. 'I hid.

Every night I slept in a new bed. At last I went to Namibia and from there to Europe. To Frankfurt. And then here. But I am still running.

In reality I don't exist.'

Oliver grew silent. Wallander listened for sounds of approaching cars.

'You need money,' he said. 'You found this shop. She started to scream and you killed her.'

'They killed my father with a hammer. And one of his hands is preserved in alcohol in a glass jar.'

He's confused, Wallander thought. Helpless and disorientated. He doesn't know what he's doing.

'I am a policeman,' Wallander said. 'But I have never hit anyone on the head with a hammer. As you hit me.'

'I did not know you were police.'

'Right now that is lucky for you. They have started looking for me. They know I am here. Together we have to try to resolve this situation.'

Oliver shook his head.

'If anyone tries to take me I will shoot.'

'That will make nothing better.'

'Nothing can get worse either.'

Suddenly Wallander saw how he should continue this strained conversation.

'What do you think your father would have said about what you have done?'

This travelled like a shiver through Oliver's body. Wallander realised that the youth had never thought about this before. Or else he had thought it too many times.

'I promise that you won't be beaten,' Wallander said. 'I guarantee it. But you have committed the gravest crime there is. You have killed a person. The only thing you can do now is give up.'

Oliver never had time to answer. The sound of approaching cars was suddenly very clear. They braked abruptly. Car doors opened and slammed shut again.

Hell, Wallander thought. I needed more time. He slowly stretched out his hand.

'Give me the gun,' he said. 'Nothing will happen. No one will hit you.'

There was a banging on the door. Wallander heard Hemberg's voice. Dazed, Oliver looked from Wallander to the door.

'The gun,' Wallander said. 'Give it to me.'

Hemberg called out and asked if Wallander was there.

'Wait!' Wallander called back. Then he repeated himself in English.

'Is everything all right?' Hemberg's voice was anxious.