The next morning, he was at the station by 7.15 a.m. Apart from a few minor road accidents, the night had been surprisingly quiet The snowstorm had faded away before it had really got going. He went over to the canteen, greeted a few colleagues on traffic duty who were dozing over their coffee, then took a plastic cup for himself. The moment he'd woken, he'd decided to devote his day to writing up reports from the paperwork piling up on his desk – above all on the assault case involving a gang of Poles. Needless to say, everybody accused everybody else. There were no reliable witnesses to provide an objective version of what had happened, but even so a report had to be written, although he had no illusions about someone being found guilty of breaking someone's jaw.

At 10.30 a.m. he disposed of the last of the reports, and went for another cup of coffee. On the way back to his office, he heard his telephone ringing. It was Martinsson.

"Remember that life-raft?" he asked.

Wallander had to think for a moment before the penny dropped.

"The man who rang knew what he was talking about. A rubber life-raft with two bodies in it has washed up on the beach at Mossby Strand. It was discovered by a woman walking her dog; she called the station, as hysterical as they come."

"When did she phone?"

"Just now," Martinsson said.

Two minutes later Wallander was on his way along the coast road. Peters and Nor6n were ahead of him in a patrol car, sirens blaring. Wallander shuddered as he saw the freezing breakers slamming onto the beach. He could see an ambulance in his rear-view mirror, and Martinsson in a second police car.

Mossby Strand was deserted. As he clambered out of his car, the icy wind met him head-on. The beach shop was boarded up, and the shutters were creaking and groaning in the wind. High up on the path that sloped down to the beach was a woman waving her arms about agitatedly, the dog beside her tugging at its lead. Wallander strode out, fearful as usual about what was in store for him – he would never be able to reconcile himself to the sight of dead bodies. Dead people were just like the living. Always different.

"Over there" screeched the woman hysterically. Wallander looked in the direction she was pointing. A red life-raft was bobbing up and down at the water's edge, where it had become stuck among some rocks by the bathing jetty.

"Wait here," Wallander told the woman.

He scrambled down the slope and ran over the sand, then walked out along the jetty and looked down into the rubber boat. There were two men, lying with their arms wrapped round each other, their faces ashen. He tried to capture what he saw in a mental photograph. His many years as a police officer had taught him that the first impression was always important. A dead body was generally the end of a long and complicated chain of events, and sometimes it was possible to get an idea of that chain right from the start.

Martinsson waded out into the water to pull the life-raft ashore, wearing gumboots. Wallander squatted down to examine the bodies. He could see Peters trying to calm the woman. It struck him how fortunate they were that the boat hadn't come ashore in the summer, when there would have been hundreds of children playing and swimming on the beach. What he was looking at was not a pretty sight, and there was the unmistakable stench of rotting flesh despite the fierce wind.

He took a pair of rubber gloves from his jacket and searched the men's pockets carefully. He found nothing at all. When he opened the jacket of one of the men he could see a liver-coloured stain on the chest of the white shirt. He looked at Martinsson.

"This is no accident," he said. "It's murder. This man has been shot straight through the heart."

He stood up and moved to one side so that Norén could photograph the life-raft.

"What do you reckon?" he asked Martinsson. Martinsson shook his head. "I don't know."

Wallander walked slowly round the boat without taking his eyes off the two dead men. Both were fair-haired, probably in their early 30s. Judging by their hands and clothes, they were not manual labourers. Who were they? Why was there nothing in their pockets? He continued walking round and round the boat, occasionally exchanging a few words with Martinsson. After half an hour he decided that there was nothing more for him to discover. By then the forensic team had begun their methodical examination. A plastic tent had been put up over the rubber boat. Norén had finished taking photographs, everybody was bitterly cold and couldn't wait to get away. Wallander wondered what Rydberg would have said. What would Rydberg have seen that he'd missed? He sat in his car with the engine running to keep warm. The sea was grey and his head felt empty. Who were these men?

It was several hours before Wallander was able to give the ambulance men the nod, and they moved forward with their stretchers. By then, Wallander was so cold that he couldn't stop shivering. They had no choice but to break a few bones to release the men from their embrace. When the bodies had been removed, Wallander gave the boat another thorough investigation, but found nothing, not even a paddle. He gazed out to sea, as if the solution was to be found somewhere on the horizon.

"You'd better have a talk with the woman who discovered the life-raft," he said to Martinsson.

"I've done that already," Martinsson said, surprised.

"A serious talk," Wallander said. "You can't talk seriously in this wind. Take her down to the station. Norén must make sure this boat arrives there in the same state it's in now. Tell him that." Then he returned to his car.

This is when I could have done with Rydberg, he said to himself. What is it that I can't see? What would he have been thinking now?

When he got back to the station in Ystad, he went straight to see Björk, the chief of police, and reported briefly on what he'd seen out at Mossby Strand. Björk listened anxiously. He often seemed to Wallander to consider himself to have been attacked personally whenever a violent crime was committed in his district. At the same time, Wallander respected his boss. He never interfered in the investigations being carried out by his officers, and he was generous with his encouragement when a case seemed to be running out of steam. Sometimes he could be a bit temperamental, but Wallander was used to that.

"I want you to take charge," Björk said when Wallander had finished. "Martinsson and Hansson can give you some help. I think we can assign several men to this case."

"Hansson's busy with that rapist we arrested the other night," Wallander pointed out. "Wouldn't it be better to use Svedberg?"

Björk agreed. Wallander got his way, as usual.

As he left Björk's office, Wallander realised he was hungry. He was prone to put on weight, so he did without lunch, but the dead men in the boat worried him. He drove into town and parked as usual in Stickgatan, then made his way down the narrow, winding streets to Fridolf's Cafe. He ordered some sandwiches and drank a glass of milk, going over what had happened in his mind. The previous evening, shortly before 6 p.m., a man had made an anonymous call to the police and warned them of what was to happen. Now they knew he'd been telling the truth. A red rubber life-raft is washed ashore, containing two dead men. At least one of them has been murdered, shot through the heart. There is nothing at all in their pockets to indicate who they are. That was it.

Wallander took out a pen and scribbled some notes on a paper napkin. He already had a long list of questions that needed answering. All the while, he was conducting a silent conversation with Rydberg. Am I on the right lines, have I overlooked anything? He tried to imagine Rydberg's answers and reactions. Sometimes he succeeded, but often all he could see was Rydberg's drawn, haggard face as he lay on his deathbed.