'How many Swedes do you think can afford to go to Egypt?'

His father pretended not to hear his objection.

'But I am not about to die,' he added instead. 'What I will do is move to Löderup.'

'How's the property deal coming along?'

'It's already done.'

Wallander stared at him with surprise.

'What do you mean by "done"?'

'I've already bought and paid for the house. Svindala 12:24 is the address.'

'But I haven't even seen it.'

'You're not the one who's going to live there. I am.'

'Have you even been out there?'

'I've seen a picture of it. That's enough. I make no unnecessary trips. It encroaches on my work.'

Wallander groaned inside. He was convinced his father had been duped. Taken advantage of, as he so often had been when he sold his paintings to the dubious characters in their large American cars who had been his clients all these years.

'This is news,' Wallander said. 'May I ask when you're planning to move?'

'The removal men are coming this Friday.'

'You're already moving this week?'

'You heard what I said. Next time we play cards we'll be in the middle of the Skåne mud.'

Wallander threw his arms out.

'When will you pack? Everything is a terrible mess.'

'I assumed that you wouldn't have any time. So I asked your sister to come down and help me.'

'So you're saying that if I hadn't come over tonight I would have found an empty house the next time I came for a visit?'

'Yes, you would have.'

Wallander held out his glass for more cognac, which his father parsimoniously only filled halfway.

'I don't even know where it is. Löderup? Is that on this or the far side of Ystad?'

'It's on this side of Simrishamn.'

'Can you answer my question?'

'I already have.'

His father stood up and put the bottle of cognac away. Then he pointed to the cards.

'One more hand?'

'I have no money left. But I'll try to drop by in the evenings and help you pack. How did you pay for this house?'

'I've already forgotten that.'

'You can't have done. Do you have that much money?'

'No. But money doesn't interest me.'

Wallander realised he was not going to get a clearer answer than this. It was already half past ten. He needed to get home and sleep. At the same time he had trouble leaving. This was where he had grown up. When he was born they had lived in Klagshamn but he had no real memories of it.

'Who is going to live here now?' he asked.

'I've heard it will be demolished.'

'You don't seem to care very much about that. How long have you lived here, anyway?'

'Nineteen years. More than enough.'

'I can't accuse you of being sentimental, at any rate. Do you realise that this is my childhood home?'

'A house is a house,' his father answered. 'Now I've had enough of the city. I want to get out into the countryside. I'll be left in peace there and paint and plan my travels to Egypt and Italy.'

Wallander walked all the way back to Rosengård. It was overcast. He realised he was anxious that his father was going to move and that his childhood home was going to be torn down.

I am sentimental, he thought. Perhaps that's why I like opera. The question is, can you be a good police officer if you have a tendency towards sentimentality?

The day after, Wallander called to enquire about train departures for their holiday. Mona had booked a room in a bed and breakfast that sounded cosy. Wallander spent the rest of the day patrolling downtown Malmö. The whole time he thought he saw the girl who had accosted him in the cafe. He longed for the day he could take off his uniform. Everywhere gazes were directed at him, expressing distaste or disdain, especially from people his own age. He was patrolling with an overweight and slow policeman by the name of Svanlund, who spent the whole time talking about the fact that he was going to retire in one year and move to his ancestral farm outside Hudiksvall. Wallander listened absently and mumbled something inconsequential from time to time. Apart from escorting some drunks away from a playground, nothing else happened other than Wallander's feet starting to hurt. It was the first time, even though he had patrolled so often during his working life thus far. He wondered if it was due to his increased desire to become a criminal investigator. When he came home he took out a washbowl and filled it with warm water. A feeling of well-being spread throughout his entire body when he put his feet into the water.

He closed his eyes and started to think about the tempting holiday. He and Mona would have undisturbed time to plan their future. And soon he hoped to be able to hang up his uniform at long last and move up to the floor where Hemberg was.

He nodded off in the chair. The window was open a crack. Someone appeared to be burning rubbish. He picked up a faint smell of smoke. Or perhaps dry twigs. There was a weak crackling sound.

He jerked and opened his eyes. Was there really someone burning rubbish in their garden? There were no free-standing houses with gardens in the neighbourhood.

Then he saw the smoke.

It was filtering in from the hallway. When he ran to the front door he knocked over the bowl of water. The stairwell was full of smoke, but he had no trouble determining the source of the fire.

Hålén's apartment was engulfed in flames.

Afterwards Wallander thought that for once he had really managed to act according to the rule book. He had run back into his apartment and called the fire brigade. Then he had returned to the stairwell, run up a floor, and banged on Linnea Almquist's door and made sure that she got out onto the street. She had at first protested but Wallander had insisted, grabbing her by the arm. When they made it out the front door Wallander discovered that he had a large cut on one knee. He had tripped over the bowl when he had gone back into the apartment and had hit his knee on a corner of the table. He only discovered now that it was bleeding.

Extinguishing the blaze had gone quickly since the fire had not really had a chance to establish itself before Wallander had smelled the smoke and alerted the fire brigade. When he approached the fire chief to find out if they had already determined the cause of the blaze, he had been turned away. Furious, he had gone to his apartment and retrieved his police badge. The fire chief 's name was Faråker and he was in his sixties, with a ruddy face and a sonorous voice.

'You could have told me you were police,' he said.

'I live in this building. I was the one who called in the alarm.'

Wallander told him what had happened with Hålén.

'Too many people are dying,' Faråker said firmly. Wallander was not completely sure how to take this unexpected comment.

'So this means that the apartment was empty,' Wallander said.

'It appears to have been started in the entrance hall,' Faråker said. 'I'll be damned if it wasn't arson.'

Wallander looked quizzically at him.

'How can you know that already?'

'You learn a thing or two as the years go by,' Faråker said at the same time that he handed out some instructions.

'You will do this too one day,' he continued and started stuffing an old pipe with tobacco.

'If this is arson, the crime division will have to be called in, won't it?' Wallander said.

'They're already on their way.'

Wallander joined some colleagues and helped them keep curious onlookers at bay.

'The second one today,' one of the officers said. His name was Wennström. 'This morning we had a pile of burning timber out near Limhamn.'

Wallander wondered briefly if his father had decided to burn the house since he was moving anyway. But he did not pursue this line of thought.