"Was he a local?" Martinsson asked.

Wallander nodded.

"We ought to be able to trace them in that case," Martinsson said. "We can eliminate oil tankers and freighters. What does that leave?"

"Fishing boats," Wallander said. "How many fishing boats are working off the south coast of Skåne?"

"A great many," Martinsson said. "Mind you, it's February and quite a few will be laid up in harbour. Tracking them down will be a lot of work, but I think it can be done."

"We can decide on that tomorrow," Wallander said. "Things may have changed altogether by then."

He told them what he'd heard from Björk. Martinsson reacted more or less as he'd done himself, but Svedberg simply shrugged.

"We're not going to get any further today," Wallander said, wrapping up the meeting. "I have to write a report on what's happened so far. You'd better do the same. Then we can see what we make of the people from serious crime and narcotics tomorrow. Not to mention Mr Törn from the foreign ministry."

Wallander was early to the airport. He had coffee with the immigration control officers, and listened to the usual complaints about working hours and wages. At 5.15 p.m. he took a seat on a bench outside the passenger lounge and stared half-heartedly at the ads on a television suspended from the ceiling. The Stockholm flight was announced, and Wallander realised that the man from the foreign ministry might be expecting to be met by a police officer in uniform. If I stand with my hands behind my back and sway backwards and forwards, he thought, perhaps that will do.

He studied the passengers streaming past: none of them seemed to be looking about for someone. When the stragglers had gone by and the stream eventually dried up altogether, he realised he had missed his man. What do foreign ministry officials look like? he wondered. Like ordinary people, or like diplomats? But then, what does a diplomat look like?

"Kurt Wallander?" said a voice behind him.

He spun round and clapped eyes on a youngish woman.

"Yes," he said, "I'm Kurt Wallander."

The woman removed her glove and held out her hand. "Birgitta Törn," she said. "Foreign ministry. Perhaps you were expecting a man?"

"I was, actually," he said.

"There are still not all that many female career diplomats,"

Birgitta Törn said, "but that doesn't prevent a large proportion of the Swedish foreign ministry from being in the hands of women."

"Well," Wallander said. "Welcome to Skåne."

As they waited at the baggage carousel, he watched her discreetly. She was not especially striking, but there was something about her eyes that caught his attention. When he picked up her case and turned to look at her, he could see what it was. She wore contact lenses. Mona had worn them during the last few years of their marriage.

They went out to the car. Wallander asked about the weather in Stockholm, and if she'd had a pleasant flight. She answered him, but he sensed that she was holding him at arm's length.

"I'm booked into a hotel called the Century," she told him as they drove to Ystad. "I'd like to go through all the investigation reports so far. I take it you've been advised that all the material should be placed at my disposal?"

"No," Wallander said. "Nobody's said anything about that, but since none of it is secret, you can have it. There's a folder on the back seat."

"Good thinking," she said.

"When all's said and done, I have only one question," Wallander said. "Why are you here?"

"The unstable situation in the East means that the foreign ministry is monitoring all abnormal incidents. In addition to this, we can help with the formal inquiries that may have to be made in countries that are not members of Interpol."

She talks like a politician, thought Wallander. There's no room for doubt in what she says.

"Abnormal incidents," he said. "That's one way of putting it. If you like I can show you the life-raft at the police station."

"No, thank you," Törn said. "I don't want to interfere in police work, but it would be useful if we could arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning. I'd appreciate a briefing on where things stand."

"The best time would be 8 a.m.," said Wallander. "Maybe you don't know that we're being sent some extra men by the police commissioner? I assume they'll be here tomorrow.

"I had been informed," Törn answered.

The Century Hotel was in a street off the main square. Wallander parked outside and reached for the folder of reports. Then he took her suitcase out of the boot.

"Have you been to Ystad before?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Then perhaps I could suggest that the Ystad police should invite you to dinner."

There was a faint trace of a smile as she answered.

"That's very kind of you," she said, "but I have a lot of work to do."

Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed. Perhaps a police officer in a small provincial town wasn't good enough company.

"The Continental Hotel would be the best place for a meal," he said. "Turn right from the square. Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow morning?"

"I'll find my own way," she said. "Thank you all the same. And thank you for collecting me."

Wallander drove home. It was 6.30 p.m. He felt thoroughly dissatisfied with every aspect of his life. It wasn't just the emptiness of coming home to a flat with nobody to welcome him. There was also the feeling that it was getting more and more difficult to cope with his working environment.

And now his body had started playing up. He used to be secure in his work as a detective, but not any more. His insecurity had developed when he was struggling to solve the brutal double murder in Lenarp the year before. He and Rydberg had often discussed how Sweden, a country that was changing rapidly, becoming unfamiliar and uncertain, needed a new kind of police officer. He felt more inadequate as the days passed. It wasn't a kind of insecurity that any of the courses offered by the Swedish police board could help to cure.

He took a beer from the fridge, switched on the television and slumped down on the sofa. The screen was occupied by one of the endless stream of chat shows that seemed to be served up every day.

His mind wandered back to the job at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. Maybe that was the opportunity for change that he so needed? Maybe one should only be a police officer for a limited number of years, and then devote one's life to something entirely different?

He made no move to go to bed until nearly midnight.

He'd just turned off the light when the phone rang. Oh no, not tonight as well, he thought. Not another murder. He picked up the receiver, and immediately recognised the voice of the man who'd called earlier in the afternoon.

"Could be I know something about that life-raft," the man said.

"We're interested in any information that might be of assistance to us."

"I can only tell you what I know if I have a guarantee that the police will never tell anybody that I phoned."

"You can be as anonymous as you like."

"That's not enough. I must have a guarantee that nothing will be said about this call."

Wallander thought for a moment, then gave the man his word. He still seemed hesitant. He's scared of something, Wallander thought.

"You have my word as a police officer."

"I don't put much faith in that."

"You should," Wallander said. "There's not a credit institution in the world that can come up with anything negative about me."

There was a pause, and Wallander could hear the man's breathing.

"Do you know where Industry Road is?" the man asked suddenly.

Wallander did know. It was on an industrial estate on the eastern edge of the town.

"Drive there now," the man said. "It's one-way, but that doesn't matter, there's no traffic at this time of night. Switch off your engine and turn off your lights."