They sat down in the office. It was 3 a.m. Wallander told her the facts. Svedberg was dead. He had been killed with a shotgun. Who the killer was, why it had happened and when, remained unanswered. He avoided giving her too much detail of the crime scene.

When he finished, one of the nurses on the night shift came in to ask Ylva Brink a question.

"Can it wait?" Wallander said. "I've just notified her of a death in the family."

The nurse was about to leave when Wallander asked if he could have a glass of water. He was so dry that his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

"We're all in shock," Wallander said after the nurse left. "It's completely incomprehensible."

Ylva Brink didn't say anything. She was very pale but had not lost her composure. The nurse returned with the glass of water.

"Let me know if I can do anything else," she said.

"We're fine right now," Wallander answered.

He emptied his glass, but it didn't quench his thirst.

"I just can't get it into my head," she said. "I don't understand."

"I can't either," Wallander said. "It'll be a while before that happens, if ever."

He found a pencil in his coat pocket, but as usual he didn't have a notebook handy. There was a wastepaper basket next to the chair. He took out a piece of paper on which someone had doodled stick figures, smoothed it out, and took a magazine from the table to lean on.

"I have to ask you some questions," he said. "Who were his next of kin? I must admit you're the only one I can think of."

"His parents are gone and he had no siblings. Besides me there's only one cousin. I'm a cousin on his father's side and he has a cousin on his mother's side as well. His name is Sture Björklund."

Wallander noted down the name.

"Does he live here in Ystad?"

"He lives on a farm outside of Hedeskoga."

"So he's a farmer?"

"He's a professor at Copenhagen University."

Wallander was surprised. "I can't recall Svedberg ever mentioning him."

"They hardly ever saw each other. If you're asking which relatives Svedberg had any contact with, then the answer is just me."

"He'll still have to be notified," Wallander said. "As you can understand, this will be making a lot of headlines. A police officer who dies a violent death is big news."

She looked at him carefully. "A violent death? What do you mean by that?"

"That he was murdered."

"Well, what else could it have been?"

"That was going to be my next question for you," Wallander said. "Could it have been suicide?"

"Isn't it always a possibility? Under the right circumstances?"

"Yes."

"Can't you tell by looking at the body if he's been murdered or if he's committed suicide?"

"Yes, we'll probably be able to, but certain questions are a matter of routine."

She thought for a while before answering.

"I've considered it myself during a particularly difficult time. God only knows all that I've been through. But it's never occurred to me that Karl would do anything like that."

"Because he had no reason to?"

"He wasn't what I would call an unhappy person."

"When did you last hear from him?"

"He phoned me last Sunday."

"How did he seem?"

"He sounded perfectly normal."

"Why did he call?"

"We talk to each other once a week. If he didn't get in touch, I did, and vice versa. Sometimes he came over and had dinner, other times I went over to his place. As you may remember, my husband isn't home very often. He works on an oil tanker. Our children are grown up."

"Svedberg could cook?"

"Why wouldn't he be able to?"

"I've never imagined him in a kitchen."

"He cooked very well, particularly fish."

Wallander went back a little. "So he called you last Sunday. That was 4 August. And everything seemed fine?"

"Yes."

"What did you talk about?"

"This and that. I remember him telling me how tired he was. He said he was completely overworked."

Wallander looked at her intently. "Did he really say that he was overworked?"

"Yes."

"But he had just taken his holiday."

"I remember it very clearly."

Wallander thought hard before asking his next question. "Do you know what he did on his holiday?"

"I don't know if you know this, but he didn't like to leave Ystad. He usually stayed home. He might have taken a short trip to Poland."

"But what did he do at home? Did he stay in the flat?"

"He had various interests."

"Such as?"

She shook her head. "You must know as well as I do. He had two big passions: amateur astronomy and Native American history."

"I knew about the Indians, and how he sometimes went to Falsterbo to do some bird-watching. But the astronomy is new to me."

"He had a very expensive telescope."

Wallander couldn't remember seeing one in the flat.

"Where did he keep it?"

"In his study."

"So that's what he did on his holidays? Looked at stars and read about Indians?"

"I think so. But this summer was a little unusual."

"In what way?"

"We usually see a lot of each other over the summer, more so than during the rest of the year. But this year he had no time. He turned down several invitations to dinner."

"Did he say why?"

She hesitated before answering. "It was as if he didn't have the time."

Wallander sensed that he was nearing a crucial point.

"He didn't say why?"

"No."

"That must have puzzled you."

"Not really."

"Did you notice a change in his behaviour? Did something seem to be bothering him?"

"He was just the same as always. The only thing was that he seemed to be pressed for time."

"When did you first notice this?"

She thought about it. "Shortly after Midsummer, right about the time he took his holiday."

The nurse reappeared in the doorway. Ylva Brink got up.

"I'll be right back," she said.

Wallander looked for a washroom. He drank two more glasses of water and relieved himself. When he came back to the office Ylva was waiting for him.

"I think I'll go now," he told her. "Other questions can wait."

"I can call Sture, if you like. We have to make the funeral arrangements."

"Try to call in the next couple of hours," Wallander said. "We'll be issuing a statement to the press at 11 a.m."

"It still feels unreal," she said.

Her eyes had filled with tears. Wallander had trouble keeping his own eyes from welling up. They sat quietly, both fighting back their tears. Wallander tried to concentrate on the clock hanging on the wall, counting the seconds as they ticked by.

"I have one last question," he said after a while. "Svedberg was a bachelor. I never heard mention of a woman in his life."

"I don't think there ever was one," she answered.

"You don't think that something like that could have happened this summer?"

"You mean that he met a woman?"

"Yes."

"And that was why he was overworked?"

Wallander realised it seemed absurd. "These are questions I have to ask," he repeated. "Otherwise we won't get anywhere."

She followed him to the glass doors.

"You have to catch the person who did this," she said and gripped Wallander's arm tightly.

"You have my word," Wallander said. "Svedberg was one of us. We won't stop until we've caught whoever killed him."

They shook hands.

"Do you know if he used to keep large sums of money in the flat?"

She looked at him with disbelief. "Where would he have got large sums of money? He always complained about how little he earned."

"He was right about that."

"Do you know how much a midwife makes?"

"No."

"I'd better not tell you. You could say we wouldn't be comparing who makes more but who makes even less."