"What about?"

"Naturally our first priority is Svedberg. But we can't shelve the case of the missing young people. Somehow we have to find the time to do both."

"How are we going to do that?"

"I don't know. But it's not the first time we've had so much work to do."

"I promised Mrs Hillström I would call her after speaking with you."

"Good. Try to calm her down. We're going to move on it."

"Are you coming by?"

"I'm on my way. I'm going to see Ylva Brink."

"Do you think we'll solve Svedberg's murder?"

Wallander sensed Martinsson's concern.

"Yes," he said. "Of course we will. But I have a feeling it'll be complicated."

He hung up. Some pigeons flew by the window and a thought suddenly came to Wallander.

Höglund had said that the murder weapon was not registered in Svedberg's name. The reasonable conclusion to make was that Svedberg had no weapons. But reality was rarely reasonable. Weren't there countless unregistered guns floating around Swedish society? It was a constant source of concern for the police. Couldn't a police officer in fact also possibly be in possession of an unregistered weapon? What would that mean? What if the murder weapon did belong to Svedberg? Wallander felt his sense of urgency return. He got up quickly and left the flat.

István Kecskeméti had come to Sweden exactly 40 years earlier, part of that stream of Hungarian immigrants who were forced to leave their country after the failed revolution. He had been 14 years old when he came to Sweden with his parents and his three younger siblings. His father was an engineer who at the end of the 1920s had visited the Separator factories outside of Stockholm. That's where he was hoping to find work. But they never got further than Trelleborg. On the way down the steep stairs of the ferry terminal, he suffered a stroke. His second encounter with Swedish soil was when his body smacked into the wet asphalt. He was buried in the graveyard in Trelleborg, the family stayed in Skåne, and now István was 54 years old. He had long been the owner and manager of one of the many pizzerias dotting the length of Ystad's Hamngatan.

Wallander had heard István's story a long time ago. Wallander ate there from time to time, and if there weren't many customers around, István would happily sit down and talk. It was 6.30 p.m. when Wallander walked in, with half an hour to spare before meeting Ylva Brink. There were no other customers, just as Wallander had expected. From the kitchen came the sound of a radio and of someone banging a meat cleaver. István was just finishing a phone call by the bar, and waved to Wallander as he sat down at a table in the corner. He came over with a serious expression.

"Is it true what I've heard? That a policeman is dead?"

"Unfortunately yes," Wallander answered. "Karl Evert Svedberg. Did you meet him?"

"I don't think he ever came in," István said. "Do you want a beer? It's on the house." Wallander shook his head.

"I'd like to have something that's quick," he said. "And appropriate for someone with high blood-sugar levels."

István looked at him with concern.

"Have you become diabetic?"

"No. But my sugar level is too high."

"Then you are a diabetic."

"Well, perhaps temporarily. I'm in a bit of a hurry right now."

"How about a small steak, sautéed in a little oil, and a green salad?"

"That sounds good."

István left and Wallander wondered why he reacted as if diabetes was something to be ashamed of. Maybe it wasn't so strange. He hated the fact that he was overweight. He wanted to pretend the problem wasn't there.

As usual he ate much too fast. He drank a cup of coffee while István was tending to a group of Polish tourists. Wallander was happy to avoid having to answer questions about Svedberg's murder. He paid his bill and left.

He got to the police station just after 7 p.m. Ylva Brink had not yet arrived. He went straight to Martinsson's office. Hansson was also there.

"How is it going?" he asked.

"There are almost no leads from the public, which is a little unusual."

"Anything from Lund?"

"Not yet," Hansson said. "We'll have to wait until Monday."

"We need to establish the time of death," Wallander said. "As soon as we get that, we'll have a starting point."

"I've checked the files," Martinsson said. "Neither the murder nor the burglary matches any previous case."

"We don't know it was a burglary," Wallander said.

"What else could it have been?"

"I don't know. I have to go and see Ylva Brink now. I'll see you two tomorrow at 9 a.m."

He went to his office and found a note on his desk from Lisa Holgersson, who wanted to speak to him as soon as possible. Wallander tried to call her but she had left. Wallander decided to call her at home later that evening.

A few minutes later Ylva Brink arrived. Wallander asked her if she wanted some coffee but she said no. He decided to use a tape recorder for this interview. Normally he found it distracting, as if a third party were eavesdropping on the person he was interviewing, but he wanted to have access to this conversation word for word. He asked Ylva Brink if she had any objections, but she didn't.

"It's not like it's an interrogation," he said. "It's just that I want to remember what we talk about. This machine is better at that than I am."

He pushed the record button and the tape started turning. It was 7.19 p.m.

"Friday, 9 August, 1996," Wallander stated. "Interview with Ylva Brink in connection with Inspector Karl Evert Svedberg's death by manslaughter or homicide."

"Well, what other possibilities are there?" she asked.

"Police language is full of these redundant expressions," Wallander said. He too had thought that it sounded stilted.

"It's been a few hours," he began. "You've had some time to think. You've probably been asking yourself why it happened. A murder often seems senseless to everyone except the murderer."

"I still can't quite believe it's true. I talked to my husband several hours ago – it's possible to place satellite calls to the boat. He thought I was crazy. But when I heard the words come out of my mouth, the reality hit me."

"I would have liked to be able to wait before pressing you to talk about it. But we can't wait. We have to catch the killer as soon as possible. He has a head start and it's getting bigger all the time."

She seemed to be steeling herself for his first real question.

"This woman Louise," Wallander said. "Apparently Karl Evert had been meeting her for years. Did you ever see her?"

"No."

"Did you ever hear him talk about her?"

"No."

"What was your first reaction when I told you about her?"

"I didn't think it was true."

"What do you think now?"

"That it's true, but still completely incomprehensible."

"You and Karl Evert must have talked at some point about why he had never married. What did he say?"

"That he was a confirmed bachelor and happy that way."

"Was there anything unusual about the way he said this?"

"How do you mean?"

"Did he seem nervous? Could you tell if he was lying?"

"He was completely convincing."

Wallander detected a note of hesitation in her voice.

"I have the feeling you might just have thought of something."

She didn't answer immediately. The tape recorder was whirring in the background.

"Occasionally I wondered if he was different…"

"You mean, if he was gay?"

"Yes."

"Why did that occur to you?"

"Isn't it a natural reaction?"

Wallander recalled that he himself had sometimes been conscious of this possibility.

"Yes, of course it is."

"It came up in conversation once. He was invited over for Christmas dinner, quite a few years ago. We were discussing whether or not a person that we both knew was homosexual. I remember very clearly how vehemently disgusted he was."