"For now. But you'll hear from me again."

Björklund followed him out. It was warm and there was almost no breeze.

"Do you have any idea who might have killed him?" Wallander asked when they reached his car.

"Wasn't there a break-in? Who knows what criminal is lurking just around the corner?"

They shook hands and Wallander got into the car. He had just started the engine when Björklund leaned down to the window.

"There's just one more thing," he said. "Louise changed her hair colour pretty often."

"How do you know?"

"The hairs left in the bathroom. One year it was red, then black, then blond. It was always different."

"But you think it was the same woman?"

"I actually think Kalle was very much in love with her."

Wallander nodded. Then he drove away. It was 3 p.m. One thing was certain, Wallander thought. Svedberg, our friend and colleague, may have been dead for just a couple of days, but we already know more about him than when he was alive.

At 3.10 p.m., Wallander parked his car in the town square and walked up to Lilla Norregatan. Without knowing why, he quickened his step. Something about this had suddenly become a matter of urgency.

Wallander went down into the basement. The steep stairs gave him the feeling that he was on his way to something far deeper than a normal basement; that he was journeying to the underworld. He arrived at a blue steel door, found the right key among the ones Nyberg had given him, and unlocked it. It was dark inside and the air smelt dank and musty. He took out the torch he had brought with him from the car and let the beam travel over the walls until he found the light switch. It was placed unusually low, as if for very small people. He walked into a narrow corridor with storage areas behind grilles on both sides. It occurred to him that Swedish basement storage lockers were not unlike rough prison cells, except that they didn't contain prisoners, but instead guarded old sofas, skis, and piles of suitcases. Svedberg's storage locker was all the way at the end of the corridor. The wire netting was reinforced with steel bars. A padlock hung around two of the bars. Svedberg must have reinforced this himself, Wallander thought. Is there something in there that he couldn't risk losing?

Wallander put on a pair of rubber gloves, opened the lock carefully, then turned on the light in the storage area and looked around. It was full of the things one would expect, and it took him only about an hour to go through everything there. He found nothing unusual. Finally, he straightened up and looked around again, looking for something that should have been there but wasn't, like the expensive telescope. He left the basement and locked it up.

He came back up into daylight. Since he was thirsty, he walked over to a cafe on the south side of the main square and drank some mineral water and a cup of coffee. He fought an inner battle over buying a Danish pastry. He knew he shouldn't but did it anyway.

Less than half an hour later he was back at the door of Svedberg's flat. It was deathly silent inside. Wallander held his breath before going in. The usual police tape was plastered across the door. He unpeeled the tape from the lock, got out the key, and let himself in. Immediately he heard the cement mixer from the street. He walked into the living room, cast an involuntary glance at the spot where Svedberg had lain, and walked over to the window. The rumble of the cement mixer seemed magnified among the buildings. Construction materials were being unloaded from a large truck. A thought suddenly came to Wallander. He left the flat and walked down to the street. An older man who had taken his shirt off was spraying water into the mixer. The man nodded at Wallander and seemed to know immediately that he was a police officer.

"It's terrible what happened," he yelled above the sound of the mixer.

"I need to speak to you," Wallander yelled back.

The man called out to a younger worker who was smoking in the shade. He came over and grabbed the hose. They went around the corner, where it was quieter.

"Do you know what has happened?" Wallander asked him.

"Some policeman by the name of Svedberg was shot."

"That's right. What I want you to tell me is how long you've been working here. It looks like you're just getting started."

"We started on Monday. We're rebuilding the entryway to the building."

"When did you start using the mixer?"

The man thought about it. "It must have been on Tuesday," he said. "At around 11 a.m."

"Has it been on since then?"

"Pretty much continuously from 7 a.m. until 5 p.m. Sometimes even a little longer."

"Has it been in the same spot the whole time?"

"Yes."

"So you've had a clear view of everyone coming and going from the building."

The man suddenly realised the importance of Wallander's question and became very serious.

"Of course you don't know the people who live here," Wallander said. "But you've probably seen a number of people more than once."

"I don't know what that policeman looked like, if that's what you're asking."

Wallander hadn't thought of this.

"I'll get someone to come down and show you a photograph," he said. "What's your name?"

"Nils Linnman, like the man who does those nature programmes."

Wallander was of course familiar with Nils Linnman, the Swedish television personality.

"Have you noticed anything unusual during the time you've been working here?" Wallander asked while he desperately searched for something to write on.

"How do you mean?"

"Someone who may have seemed very nervous, or as if they were in a hurry. Sometimes you notice things that just don't seem quite right."

Linnman thought it over and Wallander waited. He needed to pee again.

"No," Linnman said finally. "I can't think of anything. But Robban may have seen something."

"Robban?"

"The young guy who took over for me. But I doubt it. I think the only thing on his mind is his motorbike."

"We'd better ask him," Wallander said. "And if you think of anything later, please call me right away."

For once Wallander had a card with him, which Linnman tucked into the front pocket of his baggy overalls.

"I'll get Robban."

The ensuing conversation with Robban was very brief. His full name was Robert Tärnberg and he had heard only vague mention of someone being killed in the building. He had not noticed anything unusual. Wallander suspected he wouldn't even have noticed an elephant walking across the street, so he didn't bother giving him his card. He returned to the flat. At least he now had a satisfactory answer for why no one had heard the shots.

He went out into the kitchen and called the station. Höglund was the only one available. Wallander asked her to come down with a photo of Svedberg to show to the construction workers.

"We already have officers down there going door to door," she said.

"But they seem to have overlooked the workers."

Wallander walked out into the hall, then stopped and tried to rid himself of all extraneous thoughts. Many years ago, when Wallander had just moved to Ystad from Malmö, Rydberg had given him the following advice: slowly peel away all the extraneous layers. There are tracks and marks left at every crime scene, like shadows of the event itself. That's what you have to find.

Wallander opened the front door and immediately noticed at least one detail that wasn't right. In a basket under the hall mirror there was a stack of newspapers, all copies of the local paper, Ystad Allehanda, which Svedberg subscribed to. But there was no copy on the floor under the post slot, although at least one should have been there.

Maybe even two or three by now. Someone had moved them. He walked into the kitchen and saw that the Wednesday and Thursday editions lay on the counter. Friday's edition lay on the kitchen table.