But he couldn't put his finger on it.

He walked into the kitchen and sat down on the chair that Hemberg had used. The betting form lay in front of him. Wallander did not know very much about English football. Actually, he didn't know very much about football, period. If he felt like gambling, he bought a lottery ticket. Nothing else.

The betting form was made out for this coming Saturday, he could see. Hålén had even written out his name and address.

Wallander returned to the room and walked over to the window in order to look at it from another angle. His gaze stopped by the bed. Hålén had been dressed when he took his life. But the bed was unmade. Even though the rest of the apartment was characterised by a meticulous order. Why hadn't he made the bed? Wallander thought. He could hardly have slept with his clothes on, woken up and then shot himself without making his bed. And why leave a completed betting form on the kitchen table?

It did not make sense, but on the other hand it did not necessarily mean anything. Hålén could have very quickly decided to kill himself. Perhaps he had realised the senselessness of making his bed one last time.

Wallander sat down in the room's only armchair. It was old and worn. I'm imagining things, he thought again. The medical examiner will establish that it was a suicide, the forensic investigation will confirm that the weapon and bullet match up and that the shot was fired by Hålén's own hand.

Wallander decided to leave the apartment. It was time to freshen up and change his clothes before leaving to meet Mona. But something kept him there. He walked over to the chest and started pulling open the drawers. He immediately found the two sea logs. Artur Hålén had been a handsome man in his youth. Blond hair, a big wide smile. Wallander had trouble connecting this image with the same man who had lived out his days in Rosengård in peace and quiet. Least of all he felt that these were pictures of someone who would one day come to take his own life. But he knew how wrong his thinking was. People who ended up committing suicide could never be characterised from a given model.

He found the colourful beetle and took it over to the window. On the bottom of the jar he thought he could make out the stamped word 'Brazil'. A souvenir that Hålén had bought on some trip. Wallander continued to go through the drawers. Keys, coins from various countries, nothing that caught his attention. Halfway under the worn and torn drawer liner he found a brown envelope. Inside was an old photograph, a wedding picture. On the back was the name of the studio and a date: 15 May 1894. The studio was located in Härnösand. There was also the note: Manda and I the day we got married. His parents, Wallander thought. Four years later their son was born.

When he was done with the chest of drawers he walked over to the bookcase. To his surprise he found several books in German. They were well thumbed. There were also some books by Vilhelm Moberg, a Spanish cookbook and a few issues of a magazine for people interested in model aeroplanes. Wallander shook his head in bewilderment. Hålén was considerably more complex than he could have imagined. He walked away from the bookcase and checked under the bed. Nothing. He then went on to the cupboard. The clothes were neatly hung; three pairs of shoes, well polished. It is only the unmade bed, Wallander thought again. It doesn't fit.

He was about to shut the cupboard door when the doorbell rang. Wallander flinched. Waited. There was another ring. Wallander had the feeling that he was trespassing on forbidden territory. He kept waiting, but when it rang the third time he went over and opened the door.

Outside there was a man in a grey coat. He looked enquiringly at Wallander.

'Am I mistaken?' he asked. 'I am looking for Mr Hålén.'

Wallander tried to adopt a formal tone that would sound appropriate.

'May I ask who you are?' he said with unnecessary brusqueness.

The man frowned.

'And if I could ask the same of you?' he asked.

'I am from the police,' Wallander said. 'Detective Sergeant Kurt Wallander. Would you now be so kind as to answer my question: who are you and what do you want?'

'I sell encyclopedias,' the man said meekly. 'I was here last week and made a presentation of my books. Artur Hålén asked me to come back today. He has already sent in the contract and the first payment. I was to deliver the first volume and then the gift book that all new clients receive as a welcome bonus.'

He took two books out of his briefcase as if to assure Wallander that he was telling the truth.

Wallander had been listening with increasing amazement. The feeling that something didn't add up was strengthened. He stepped aside and nodded for the salesman to come in.

'Has anything happened?' the man asked.

Wallander ushered him into the kitchen without answering and indicated that he should sit down at the table.

Then Wallander realised that he was now going to deliver the news of a death. Something he had always dreaded. But he reminded himself that he was not talking to a relative, only to an encyclopedia salesman.

'Artur Hålén is dead,' he said.

The man on the other side of the table did not seem to understand this.

'But I spoke to him earlier today.'

'I thought you said you had spoken to him last week?'

'I called him this morning and asked if it would be all right for me to come by this evening.'

'What did he say?'

'That it would be fine. Why else would I have come? I am not an intrusive person. People have such bizarre preconceptions about doorto- door salesmen.'

It was likely that the man was lying.

'Let's take the whole thing from the top,' Wallander said.

'What is it that's happened?' the man interrupted.

'Artur Hålén is dead,' Wallander answered. 'And that is as much as I can say at this point.'

'But if the police are involved then something must have happened. Was he hit by a car?'

'For now that is as much as I can say,' Wallander repeated and wondered why he had to overdramatise the situation.

Then he asked the man to tell him the whole story.

'I am Emil Holmberg,' the man began. 'I am actually a school biology teacher. But I'm trying to sell encyclopedias to save up for a trip to Borneo.'

'Borneo?'

'I'm interested in tropical plants.'

Wallander nodded for him to continue.

'I walked around the neighbourhood here last week and knocked on people's doors. Artur Hålén showed some interest and asked me to come in. We sat here in the kitchen. I told him about the encyclopedia, what it cost, and showed him a copy of one of the volumes. After about half an hour he signed the contract. Then I called him today and he said that it would be all right for me to come by this evening.'

'Which day were you here last week?'

'Tuesday. Between around four and half past five.'

Wallander recalled that he had been on duty at that time. But he saw no reason to tell the man that he lived in the building. Especially since he had claimed to be a detective.

'Hålén was the only one who showed any interest,' Holmberg continued. 'A lady on one of the upper floors started to tell me off for disturbing people. These things happen, but not too often. Next door to here there was no one home, I remember.'

'You said that Hålén made his first payment?'

The man opened his briefcase where he kept the books and showed Wallander a receipt. It was dated the Friday from the week before.

Wallander thought it over.

'How long was he supposed to make payments for this encyclopedia?'

'For two years. Until all twenty instalments were paid for.'

This makes no sense, Wallander thought, no sense at all. A man who was planning to commit suicide doesn't agree to sign a two-year contract.