Wallander called Nyberg's mobile phone. He answered right away. Wallander started by telling him about the cement mixer. Nyberg sounded doubtful.

"Sound travels inwards," he said. "People on the street would be unable to hear shots from inside if the cement mixer had been on, but inside the building it would be a different story. Sound travels differently in buildings. I read about it somewhere."

"Maybe we should do some test shots," Wallander said. "With and without the cement mixer on and without telling the neighbours about it beforehand."

Nyberg agreed.

"But what I'm really calling about is the paper," Wallander said. "Ystad Allehanda!'

"I put it on the kitchen table," Nyberg said. "But someone else is responsible for the ones lying on the counter."

"We should test them for prints," Wallander said. "We don't know who might have put them there."

Nyberg was silent for a moment. "You're right," he said. "How the hell could I have missed it?"

"I won't touch them," Wallander told him.

"How long are you going to be there?"

"Two or three hours at least."

"I'll come down."

Wallander pulled out one of the kitchen drawers and found a couple of pens and a pad of paper where he remembered seeing them before. He wrote down Nils Linnman's and Robert Tärnberg's names and noted that someone should talk to the newspaper delivery person. Then he returned to the hall. Traces and shadows, Rydberg had told him. He held his breath while he let his gaze travel over the room. The leather coat Svedberg wore both winter and summer hung by the door. Wallander searched the pockets and found his wallet.

Nyberg has been sloppy, he thought.

He returned with it to the kitchen and emptied the contents onto the table. There was 847 kronor, a cash card, a card for petrol, and some personal identification cards. Detective Inspector Svedberg, he read. He compared the police ID and the driver's licence. The photo on the driver's licence was the older. Svedberg stared glumly into the lens. It looked like it had been taken in the summertime; the top of Svedberg's head was sunburned.

Louise should have told you to wear a hat, Wallander thought. Louise. Only two people claimed she existed. Svedberg and his cousin, the monster maker. But he had never seen her, only strands of her hair. Wallander made a face. It didn't make sense.

He picked up the phone and called Ylva Brink at the hospital. He was told she would be in that evening. Wallander looked up her home phone number and got her machine.

He went back to the contents of the wallet. The photo on the police ID was recent. Svedberg's face was a little fuller but just as glum. Wallander looked through the rest of the contents and found some stamps. That was all. He got out a plastic bag and dumped everything into it. Then he went out into the hall for the third time. Peel everything away, find the traces, Rydberg had said.

Wallander went into the bathroom and relieved himself. He thought about what Sture Björklund had said about the different coloured hairs. The only thing that Wallander knew about the woman in Svedberg's life was that she dyed her hair. He went out into the living room and stood beside the overturned chair. Then he changed his mind. You're proceeding too quickly, Rydberg would have told him. Traces of a crime need to be coaxed out, not rushed.

He returned to the kitchen and called Ylva Brink again. This time she answered.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said. "I know you work all night."

"I can't sleep anyway," she said.

"A lot of questions have come up and I need to ask you some of them right away."

Wallander told her about his talk with Sture Björklund and Björklund's claim that Svedberg had a woman called Louise.

"He never told me any of this," she said when Wallander had finished.

He sensed that the information disturbed her.

"Who never told you? Kalle or Sture?"

"Neither one."

"Let's start with Sture. What kind of relationship do you two have? Are you surprised that he never told you about this?"

"I just can't believe it."

"But why would he lie?"

"I don't know."

Wallander realised that the conversation needed to be continued in person. He looked at the time. It was 5.40 p.m. He needed another hour in the flat.

"It's probably best if we meet," he suggested. "I'm free after 7 p.m. tonight."

"How about at the station? That's close to the hospital, and I could come by on my way to work."

Wallander hung up and returned to the living room. He approached the broken and overturned chair, looked around the room, trying to imagine the actions that had taken place. Svedberg had been shot straight on. Nyberg had mentioned the possibility that the buckshot had entered slightly from below, suggesting that the killer held the shotgun at hip or chest level. The bloodstain on the wall confirmed this upward trajectory. Svedberg must have then fallen to the left, most probably taking the chair down with him, at which point one of its arms broke. But had he been about to sit down, or get up?

Wallander realised the importance of this at once. If Svedberg had been sitting in the chair he must have known his killer. If a burglar had surprised him, he would hardly have sat down or remained sitting.

Wallander went over to the spot where the shotgun had been found. He turned around and looked at the room from his new vantage point. This may not have been the point from which the shot was fired, but it would have been close. He kept still and tried to coax the shadows from their hiding places. The feeling that something about the case was very strange grew stronger. Had Svedberg come in from the hall and surprised a burglar? If this was the case, he would have been in the way. This would also have been true if Svedberg had entered from the bedroom. It was reasonable to assume that a burglar would not have had the shotgun at the ready. Svedberg would no doubt have tried to attack him. He may have been afraid of the dark, but he was certainly not afraid to take action when necessary.

The cement mixer was suddenly turned off. Wallander listened. The sound of traffic was not very loud.

There is another alternative, he thought. The person who entered the flat was someone Svedberg knew. He knew him so well that it would not have worried him to see the shotgun. Then something happened, Svedberg was killed, and the unknown assailant turned the flat inside out looking for something.

Perhaps he simply tried to make it look like a burglary. Wallander thought about the telescope again. It was missing, but who could say if anything else was gone? Maybe Ylva Brink would know the answer.

Wallander went up to the window and looked down at the street. Nils Linnman was locking up a work shed. Robert Tärnberg must already have gone. He had heard the roar of a motorbike being started up a couple of minutes ago.

The doorbell rang. Wallander jumped. He opened the door, and Ann-Britt Höglund came in.

"The construction workers have gone home," Wallander said. "You're too late."

"I showed them Svedberg's picture," she said. "No one saw him, or at least they don't remember it."

They sat down in the kitchen and Wallander told her about his meeting with Sture Björklund. She listened attentively.

"If he's right then that changes our picture of Svedberg quite dramatically," she said when Wallander had finished.

"Why did he keep her a secret for so long?" Wallander asked.

"Maybe she was married."

"An illicit affair? Do you think they met only at Björklund's house? That doesn't seem feasible. They only had access to it a couple of times a year. She can't have come to this flat without anyone ever seeing her."

"Whatever the case, we have to find her," Höglund answered.