"I'm certain," he said. "I also know we will never ever get him if he leaves the country."

"What are you going to do?"

He shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "In fact, I haven't the slightest b.l.o.o.d.y idea. I'll have to think of something."

But as they approached Sturup 40 minutes later, he still had no idea what he was going to do. With tyres screeching, he pulled up at the gates to the right of the airport building. The better to see, he clambered on to the roof of the car. All around pa.s.sengers arriving for early flights paused to see what was going on. A catering truck inside the gates blocked his view. Wallander waved his arms and cursed in an attempt to attract the driver's attention and get him to move the truck. But the man behind the wheel had his head buried in a newspaper and was oblivious to the man on the roof of the car, ranting and raving. Then Wallander drew his pistol and shot straight up into the air. There was immediate panic among the watching crowd. People ran off in all directions, abandoning suitcases on the pavement. The driver of the truck had reacted to the shot and grasped that Wallander wanted him to move out of the way.

Harderberg's Grumman Gulfstream was still there. The pale yellow light from the spotlights was reflected by the body of the jet.

The two pilots, on their way to the aircraft, had heard the shot and stopped in their tracks. Wallander jumped off the car roof so that they would not be able to see him. He fell, hitting his left shoulder hard against the road. The pain made him even more furious. He knew Harderberg was somewhere inside the yellow airport building and he had no intention of letting him get away. He raced towards the entrance doors, stumbling over suitcases and trolleys, Hoglund a few paces behind him. He still had his pistol in his hand as he ran through the gla.s.s doors and headed for the airport police offices. As it was early on a Sunday morning there were not many people in the terminal. Only one queue had formed at a check-in desk, for a charter flight to Spain. As Wallander came charging up, covered in blood and mud, all h.e.l.l broke loose. Hoglund tried to rea.s.sure people, but her voice was drowned in the uproar. One of the police officers on duty had been out to buy a newspaper, and saw Wallander approaching. The pistol in his hand was the first thing he had seen. The officer dropped the paper and started feverishly keying in the door code, but Wallander grabbed him by the arm before he had finished.

"Inspector Wallander, Ystad police," he shouted. "There's a plane we have to stop. Dr Alfred Harderberg's Gulfstream. There's no b.l.o.o.d.y time to lose!"

"Don't shoot," gasped the terrified police officer.

"For heaven's sake, man!" Wallander said. "I'm a police officer myself. Didn't you hear what I said?"

"Don't shoot," the man said, again. Then he fainted.

Wallander stared in exasperation at the wretched man lying in front of him on the ground. Then he started belting on the door with his fists. Hoglund had caught up. "Let me try" she said.

Wallander looked round, as if expecting to see Harderberg at any moment. He ran over to the big windows overlooking the runways.

Harderberg was walking up the steps into the aeroplane. He ducked ever so slightly then disappeared inside. The door closed immediately.

"We're not going to make it!" Wallander yelled to Hoglund.

He raced out of the terminal again. She was at his side all the way. He noticed that a car belonging to the airport was on its way in through the gates. He made one final effort and managed to squeeze through the gap before the gates closed. He banged on the boot and shouted for the car to stop, but the driver was obviously frightened out of his wits and accelerated away. Hoglund was still outside the gates. She had not quite made it before they closed. Wallander flung out his arms in resignation. The Gulfstream was taxiing towards the runway. There were only 100 metres left before it would turn, accelerate and take off.

Right next to where Wallander was standing stood a tractor for towing baggage trailers. He had no choice. He climbed up, switched on the engine and steered towards the runway. He could see in his side mirror a long snake of trailers being towed along behind. He had not seen that they were connected to the tractor, but it was too late to stop now. The Gulfstream was just arriving at the runway and its engines were screaming. The baggage trailers had started tipping over as he cut across the gra.s.s between the ap.r.o.n and the runway.

Now he had reached the runway, where the black tyre marks made as the aircraft braked looked like wide cracks in the asphalt. He drove straight towards the Gulfstream, which was pointing its nose at him. When there were 200 metres still to go, he saw the plane begin to roll towards him. By then he knew he had managed it. Before the jet had got up enough speed to take off, the pilots would have to stop in order not to smash into the tractor.

Wallander applied the brakes, but something was wrong with the tractor. He pushed and pulled and slammed down his foot, but nothing happened. He was not moving fast, but the momentum was such that the nose wheel would be wrecked when the aircraft collided with the tractor. Wallander jumped off as the last trailers spilled loose, colliding with one another.

The pilots had switched off the engines to avoid an inferno. Wallander was struck on the head by one of the trailers, and rose unsteadily to his feet. He could scarcely see through the blood trickling into his eyes. Strangely, he was still holding the pistol in his hand.

As the door of the aeroplane opened and the steps were lowered, he could hear an armada of sirens approaching.

Wallander waited.

Then Harderberg emerged from the plane and walked down the steps on to the runway. It seemed to Wallander that he looked different. He saw what it was. The smile had disappeared.

Hoglund jumped out of the first of the police cars to reach the aircraft steps. Wallander was busy wiping the blood out of his eyes with his torn shirt.

"Have you been hit?" she said.

Wallander shook his head. He had bitten his tongue, and found it hard to speak.

"You'd better phone Bjork," she said.

Wallander stared at her. "No," he said. "You can do that. And deal with Dr Harderberg."

Then he started to walk away. She hurried to catch up. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going home to bed," Wallander said. "I'm a bit on the tired side. And rather sad. Even if it turned out alright in the end."

Something in his voice discouraged her from saying more.

Wallander continued to walk away. For some reason, n.o.body tried to stop him.

CHAPTER 18 18.

On the morning of Thursday, December 23, Wallander went rather reluctandy to osterportstorg in Ystad and bought a Christmas tree. It was distinctly misty - there was not going to be a white Christmas in Skne in 1993. He spent a considerable time examining the trees, not at all sure what he really wanted, but in the end he picked one just about small enough to put on his table. He took it home and then spent ages searching in vain for a stand he distinctly remembered having: probably it disappeared when he and Mona had divided up their possessions after the divorce. He made a list of the things he needed to buy for Christmas. It was obvious that for the last few years he had been living in a state of increasing squalor. Every cupboard was bare. The list he made filled a whole page of A4. When he turned over to continue on the next page, he found there was something written there already. When he turned over to continue on the next page, he found there was something written there already. Sten Torstensson. Sten Torstensson.

He recalled that this was the very first note he had made in the case, that morning at the beginning of November, almost two months ago, when he had decided to go back to work. He remembered sitting at this table and being intrigued by the death notices in Ystad Allehanda. Ystad Allehanda. Now, everything had changed. That November morning seemed an age away. Now, everything had changed. That November morning seemed an age away.

Alfred Harderberg and his two shadows had been arrested. Once the Christmas holiday was over Wallander would get down to the investigation that seemed likely to keep on going for a very long time.

He wondered what would happen to Farnholm Castle.

He also thought he ought to phone Widen and find out how Sofia was faring, after all she had been through.

He stood up, went to the bathroom and examined himself in the mirror. His face looked thinner. But he had also aged. No-one could now avoid seeing that he was approaching 50. He opened his mouth wide and peered gloomily at his teeth. Despondent or annoyed, he couldn't make up his mind which, he decided he would have to make an appointment with the dentist in the new year. Then he returned to his list in the kitchen, crossed out the name Sten Torstensson, and noted that he would have to buy a new toothbrush.

It took him three hours, in the pouring rain, to buy all the things on his list. He had to resort to hole-in-the-wall machines twice to draw out more money, and he was outraged that everything was so expensive. He slunk home shordy before 1 p.m. with all his carrier bags, and sat down at the kitchen table to check his list. Needless to say, he had forgotten something: a stand for his Christmas tree.

The phone rang. He was supposed to be on holiday over Christmas, so he did not expect it to be from the police station. But when he picked up the receiver, it was Arin-Britt Hoglund's voice he heard.

"I know you're on holiday," she said. "I wouldn't have phoned if it wasn't important."

"When I joined the force many years ago, one of the first things I learned was that a police officer is never on holiday," he said. "What do they have to say about that at Police Training College nowadays?"

"Professor Persson did talk about it once," she said. "But to tell you the truth, I haven't a clue what he said."

"What do you want?"

"I'm ringing from Svedberg's office. Mrs Duner is in my room at the moment. She's very keen to talk to you." "What about?"

"She won't say. She won't talk to anybody but you." Wallander did not hesitate.

"Tell her I'll be there," he said. "She can wait in my office."

"Apart from that, there's nothing much happening here at the moment," Ann-Britt Hoglund said. "There's only Martinsson and me here. The traffic boys are getting ready for Christmas. The population of Skne is going to spend Christmas blowing into balloons."

"Good," he said. "There's too much of being drunk in charge. We have to stamp it out."

"You sometimes sound like Bjork," she said, laughing.

"I hope not," he said, horrified.

"Can you tell me any kind of crime for which the figures are improving?" she said.

He thought for a moment. "The theft of black-and-white televisions," he said. "But that's about all."

He hung up, wondering what Mrs Duner would have to say. He really could not imagine what it might be.

It was 1.15 when Wallander arrived at the police station. The Christmas tree was glittering away in reception, and he remembered that he hadn't yet bought the usual bunch of flowers for Ebba. On his way to his office he called in at the canteen and wished everybody a merry Christmas. He knocked on Ann-Britt Hoglund's door, but there was no reply.

Mrs Duner was sitting on his visitor's chair, waiting for him. The left arm looked as if it would fall off the chair at any moment. She stood up when he came in, they shook hands and he hung up his jacket before sitting down. Wallander thought she looked tired.

"You wanted to speak to me," he said, trying to sound friendly.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she said. "It's easy to forget that the police have so much to do."

"I have time for you," Wallander said. "What is it you want?"

She took a parcel out of the plastic carrier bag at the side of her chair, and handed it to him over his desk.

"It's a present," she said. "You can open it now, or wait until tomorrow."

"Why on earth would you want to give me a Christmas present?" Wallander asked in surprise.

"Because I now know what happened to my gentlemen," she said. "It's thanks to you that the perpetrators were caught."

Wallander shook his head and stretched out his arms in protest. "That's not true," he said. "It was teamwork, with lots of people involved. You shouldn't just thank me."

Her reply surprised him. "This is no time for false modesty," she said. "Everybody knows that you're the one we have to thank."

Wallander did not know what to say, and began to open the parcel. It contained one of the icons he had found in Gustaf Torstensson's bas.e.m.e.nt.

"I can't possibly accept this," he said. "Unless I'm much mistaken, it's from Mr Torstensson's collection."

"Not any more it isn't," Mrs Duner replied. "He left them all to me in his will. And I'm only too happy to pa.s.s one of them on to you."

"It must be very valuable," Wallander said. "I'm a police officer, and I can't accept such gifts. At the very least I'd have to talk to my boss first."

She surprised him yet again. "I've already done that. He said it was OK."

"You've spoken to Bjork already?" Wallander said, astonished. "I thought I'd better," she said.

Wallander looked at the icon. It reminded him of Riga, of Latvia. And most especially of Baiba Liepa.

"It's not as valuable as you might think," she said. "But it's beautiful."

"Yes. It's very beautiful. But I don't deserve it." "That's not the only reason I'm here," Mrs Duner said. Wallander looked at her, waiting for what was coming next. "I have a question for you," she said. "Is there no limit to human wickedness?"

"I'm hardly the right person to answer a question like that," Wallander said.

"But who can, if the police can't?"

Wallander carefully laid the icon on his desk.

"I take it you're wondering how anybody can kill another human being to get a body part to sell for profit," he said. "I don't know what to say. It's as incomprehensible to me as it is to you."

"What's the world coming to?" she said. "Alfred Harderberg was a man we could all look up to. How can anybody donate money to charity with one hand and kill people with the other?"

"We just have to fight it as best we can," Wallander said.

"How can we fight something we can't understand?"

"I really don't know," Wallander said. "But we have to do our best."

The brief conversation died out. Martinsson's cheerful laughter echoed down the corridor.

She rose to her feet. "I won't disturb you any longer," she said.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you a better answer," he said, opening the door.

"At least you were honest," she said.

It occurred to Wallander that he had something to give her. He went to his desk and took the postcard with a picture of a Finnish landscape from one of the drawers.

"I promised to give you this back" he said. "We don't need it any longer."

"I'd forgotten all about it," she said, putting it into her handbag.

He escorted her out of the police station.

"May I wish you a merry Christmas," she said.

"Thank you," Wallander said. "And the same to you. I'll take good care of the icon."

He went back to his office. Her visit had made him uneasy. He had been reminded of the melancholy he had had to live with for so long. But he thrust it to one side, took his jacket and left the building. He was on holiday. Not just from his job, but from any thought that might depress him.

I may not deserve the icon, he thought, but I do deserve a few days off.

He drove home through the fog and parked.

Then he cleaned his flat. Before going to bed he improvised something to stand the Christmas tree in, and decorated it. He had hung the icon up in his bedroom. He studied it before putting the light out.

He wondered if it would be able to protect him.