"I'd like to ask you round for dinner," Ebba said. "You must tell me how you are."

Wallander nodded, but he said nothing.

He went back to his office and opened the window. The wind was getting stronger still, and he felt very cold. He closed the window and sat at his desk. The file from Farnholm Castle was lying open, but he pushed it aside. He thought about Baiba Liepa in Riga.

Twenty minutes later he was still there, thinking, when Svedberg knocked on the door and came in.

"Now I know all there is to know about Swedish hotels," he said. "Martinsson will be here in a minute."

When Martinsson had closed the door behind him, Svedberg sat at one corner of the desk and started reading from a pad in which he had made his notes.

"The Linden Hotel was owned and run by a man called Bertil Forsdahl," he began. "I got that information from the County Offices. It was a little family hotel that was no longer viable. And Forsdahl is getting on a bit, he's 70. I've got his number here. He lives in Helsingborg."

Wallander dialled the number as Svedberg read out the digits. The telephone rang for a considerable time before it was answered. It was a woman.

"I'm trying to reach Bertil Forsdahl," Wallander said. "He's gone out," the woman said. "He'll be back late this evening. Who shall I tell him called?"

Wallander thought for a moment before replying.

"My name's Kurt Wallander," he said. "I'm calling from the police station in Ystad. I have some questions to ask your husband about the hotel he used to run a year or so ago. No cause for concern, it's just some routine questions."

"My husband's an honest man," the woman said.

"I've no doubt about that," Wallander said. "This is just a routine inquiry. When exactly do you expect him back?"

"He's on a senior citizens' excursion to Ven," the woman said. "They're due to have dinner in Landskrona, but he's bound to be home by ten. He never goes to bed before midnight. That's a habit he got into when he ran the hotel."

"Tell him I'll get back to him," Wallander said. "And there's absolutely nothing to be worried about."

"I'm not worried," the woman said. "My husband's an honest man."

Wallander hung up. "I'll drive out and visit him tonight," Wallander said.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" Martinsson asked.

"I'm sure it can," Wallander said. "But I've nothing else on tonight."

An hour later they met to a.s.sess the situation. Bjork had left a message to say he could not be there as he had been summoned to an urgent meeting with the District Police Chief. Hoglund suddenly put in an appearance. Her husband had come home and was looking after the sick child.

Everybody agreed they should concentrate on the threatening letters. Wallander could not escape the nagging thought that there was something odd about the dead solicitors, something he ought to have cottoned on to. He remembered that Hoglund had had the same feeling the previous day.

After the meeting they b.u.mped into each other in the corridor.

"If you're going to Helsingborg tonight, I'll go with you " she said. "If I may."

"It's not necessary," he said.

"But I'd like to, even so."

He nodded. They agreed to meet at the police station at 9.00.

Wallander drove to his father's house at Loderup shortly before 7 p.m. He stopped on the way to buy some buns to eat with the coffee. When he got there his father was in his studio, painting the same old picture: an autumn landscape, with or without a grouse in the foreground.

My father's what people call a "kitsch" artist, Wallander thought. I sometimes feel like a kitschy police officer.

His father's wife, who used to be his home help, was visiting her parents. Wallander expected his father to be cross when he heard that his son could only stay an hour, but to his surprise, he simply nodded. They played cards for a short while and Wallander told him in detail why he returned to work. His father did not seem interested in his reasons. It was an evening when, just for once, they did not quarrel. As Wallander drove back to Ystad, he racked his brains to remember when that had last happened.

At 8.55 they were in Wallander's car, heading for the Malmo road. It was still windy, and Wallander could feel a draught from the ill-fitting rubber strip round the windscreen. He could smell the faint aroma of Hoglund's discreet perfume. When they emerged on to the E65 he speeded up.

"Do you know your way around Helsingborg?" she said. "No."

"We could call our colleagues in Helsingborg and ask."

"Best to keep them out of it for the time being," Wallander said.

"Why?"

"When police officers intrude into others' territory there are always problems," Wallander said. "No point in making things difficult for ourselves unnecessarily."

They drove on in silence. Wallander thought reluctantly about the conversation he would have to have with Bjork. When they came to the road for Sturup airport, Wallander turned off. A few kilometres further on he turned off again, towards Lund.

"Tell me why you became a police officer," Wallander said.

"Not yet," she said. "Another time."

There was not much traffic. The wind seemed to be getting worse all the time. They pa.s.sed the roundabout outside Staffanstorp and saw the lights from Lund. It was 9.25.

"That's odd," she said suddenly.

Wallander noticed straight away there was something different about her voice. He glanced at her face, which was lit up by the glow from the dashboard. He could see she was staring intently into the mirror on her side. He looked in his rear-view mirror. There were headlights some way behind.

"What's odd?" he asked.

"I've never experienced this before," she said.

"What?"

"Being chased," she said. "Or, at least, being followed." Wallander could see that she was serious. He looked again at the lights in his mirror.

"How can you be so sure the car is following us?" he said. "That's easy. It's been behind us ever since we set off." Wallander looked at her doubtfully.

"I'm positive," she said. "That car has been following us ever since we left Ystad."

CHAPTER 7 7.

Fear was like a beast of prey.

Afterwards, Wallander remembered it as being like a claw clamped round his neck - an image that seemed even to him childish and inadequate, but it was the comparison he eventually used even so. Who would he describe the fear to? His daughter Linda, and perhaps also Baiba, in one of the letters he sent regularly to Riga. But hardly to anyone else. He never discussed with Hoglund what he had felt in that car; she never asked, and he was never sure whether she had noticed he was frightened. Nevertheless, he had been so terrified that he was shaking, and was convinced he would lose control of the car and plunge into the ditch at high speed, perhaps even hurtle to his death. He remembered with crystal clarity that he wished he had been alone in the car. That would have made everything much simpler for him. A large part of his fear, the weight of the giant beast, was the worry that something might happen to her, the woman in the pa.s.senger seat. Superficially, he had played the role of the experienced police officer who was unmoved by a minor matter like discovering that he was being followed from Staffanstorp to Lund, but he had been scared out of his wits until they reached the outskirts of the city. Shortly after crossing the boundary, when she had announced that the car was still following them, he had pulled in to one of the big petrol stations that had 24-hour service. They had seen the car drive past, a dark blue Mercedes, but had been unable to catch the registration number or make out how many people were inside. Wallander had stopped by one of the pumps.

"I think you're wrong," he said.

She shook her head. "The car was following us," she said. "I can't swear that it was waiting for us outside the police station, but I noticed it early on. It was there when we pa.s.sed the roundabout on the E65. It was just a car then, any old car. But when we'd turned off a couple of times and it still hadn't overtaken us, it started to be something else."

Wallander got out and unscrewed the petrol cap. She stood by his side, watching him. He was thinking as hard as he could.

"Who would want to follow us?" he asked as he replaced the pipe.

She remained standing by the car while he went to pay. She couldn't possibly be right, he thought. His fear had started to wear off.

They continued through the town. The streets were deserted, and the traffic lights seemed very reluctant to change. Once they had left Lund behind them and Wallander increased speed along the motorway heading north, they started to check the traffic behind them once again. But the Mercedes had gone, and it didn't reappear. When they took the exit for Helsingborg south, Wallander slowed down. A dirty lorry overtook them, then a dark red Volvo. Wallander pulled up at the side of the road, released his safety belt and got out. He walked round to the back of the car and crouched down, as if he were inspecting one of the back wheels. He knew she would keep an eye on every car that pa.s.sed. He counted four cars overtaking them, and a bus which had a fault in one of its cylinders, to judge by the sound of its engine. He got back into the car and turned to her.

"No Mercedes?"

"A white Audi," she said. "Two men in front, maybe another in the back."

"Why pick on that one?"

"They were the only ones who didn't look at us. They also picked up speed."

Wallander pointed to the car phone. "Phone Martinsson," he said. "I take it you made a note of the registration number. Not just the Audi, the others as well. Give them to him. Tell him it's urgent."

He gave her Martinsson's home number and drove on, keeping his eye open for a telephone box where he hoped he might find a phone book with a map of the area. He heard her speaking to one of Martinsson's children, probably his little daughter. After a short pause Martinsson came on the line and she gave him the registration numbers. Then she handed the phone to Wallander.

"He wants to speak to you," she said.

Wallander braked and pulled in to the side before taking the phone. "What's going on?" Martinsson asked. "Can't these cars wait until tomorrow?"

"If Ann-Britt calls you and says it's urgent, then it's urgent," he said. "What have they done, these cars?"

"It would take too long now. I'll tell you tomorrow. When you've got the information you can phone us here in the car."

He brought the call to an end, so as to give Martinsson no chance to ask any more questions. He saw that Hoglund had been offended.

"Why can't he trust me? Why does he have to check with you?"

Her voice had become shrill. Wallander wondered if she could not control her disappointment, or did not want to.

"It's nothing to worry about," he said. "It takes time to get used to changes. You are the most shattering thing that's happened to the police station in Ystad for years. You're surrounded by a pack of old dogs who haven't the slightest desire to learn new tricks."

"Does that include you?"

"Of course it does " Wallander said.

Wallander failed to find a phone box before they had reached the ferry terminal. There was no sign of the white Audi. Wallander parked outside the railway station, and found a dirty map on the wall inside showing Gjutargatan on the eastern edge of the town. He memorised the route, and returned to the car.

"Who could it be that's following us?" she said as they turned left and pa.s.sed the white theatre building.

"I don't know," Wallander said. "There's too much about Gustaf and Sten Torstensson that's odd. I get the feeling we're always shooting off in the wrong direction."

"I have the feeling we're standing still," she said.

"Or that we're going round in circles," Wallander said. "And we don't see that we're treading in our own footsteps."

Still no sign of the Audi. They drove into a housing estate. There was no-one about. Wallander parked at number 12, and they got out of the car. The wind threatened to blow the doors off their hinges. The house was a red-brick bungalow with garage incorporated, and a modest garden. Wallander thought he could see the outline of a boat under a tarpaulin.

The door opened before he had chance to ring the bell. An elderly, white-haired man in a tracksuit eyed them up and down with an inquisitive smile.

Wallander produced his ID.

"My name's Wallander," he said. "I'm a detective inspector, and this is Ann-Britt Hoglund, a colleague. We're from the Ystad police."

The man took Wallander's ID and scrutinised it - he was obviously short-sighted. His wife appeared in the hall, and bade them welcome. Wallander had the impression he was standing on the threshold of a contented couple's home. They invited them into their living room, where coffee and cakes were prepared. Wallander was about to sit down when he noticed a picture on one of the walls. He could not believe his eyes at first - it was one of his father's paintings, one without a grouse. He saw that Hoglund had noticed what he was looking at, and she gave him a questioning look. He shook his head, and sat down. This was the second time in his life he had gone into a strange house and discovered one of his father's paintings. Four years ago he had found one in a flat in Kristianstad, but there had been a grouse in the foreground of that one.

"I apologise for calling on you so late," Wallander said, "but I'm afraid we have some questions that simply can't wait."

"I hope you've time for a cup of coffee," said the lady of the house.

They said that of course they had. It occurred to Wallander that Hoglund had been keen to accompany him so that she could find out how he conducted an interview of this nature, and he felt insecure. There's been a lot of water under this bridge, he thought. It's not a case of me teaching her, but of me relearning how to do it, trying to remember all that I had written off as the end of an era in my life, until a couple of days ago.

His mind went back to those limitless beaches at Skagen. His private territory. Just for a moment, he wished he were back there. But that was history. More water under the bridge.

"Until a year ago you ran a hotel, the Linden Hotel," he began.

"For 40 years," Bertil Forsdahl said, and Wallander could hear he was proud of what he had achieved.

"That's a long time" he said.

"I bought it in 1952," Forsdahl said. "It was called the Pelican Hotel in those days, a bit on the scruffy side and with not a good reputation. I bought it off a man called Markusson. He was an alcoholic, and just wasn't bothered. The last year of his tenancy the rooms were used mainly by his drunken cronies. I have to admit I got the hotel cheaply. Markusson died the following year. His wake was a drunken orgy in Elsinore. We renamed the hotel. In those days there was a linden tree outside. It was next to the old theatre - that's been demolished now, of course, like everything else. The actors used to stay with us sometimes. Inga Tidblad was our overnight guest on one occasion. She wanted an early-morning cup of tea."

"I expect you've kept the ledger with her name in it," Wallander said.

"I've kept all of them," Forsdahl said. "I've got 40 years of history tucked away downstairs."

"We sometimes sit down after dinner," Forsdahl's wife said, "and we leaf through them all, remembering the good old days. You see the names and you remember the people."

Wallander exchanged glances with Hoglund. They already had the answer to one of their key questions.

A dog started barking in the street outside.

"Next door's guard dog," Forsdahl explained apologetically. "He keeps an eye on the whole street."

Wallander took a sip of the coffee, and noticed that it said Linden Hotel on the cup.