"Do police officers have dreams?" Wallander said, in surprise.

She turned to him. "Everybody has dreams," she said. "Even police officers. Don't you?"

Wallander didn't know what to say, but her question was a good one, of course. Where have my dreams gone to? he thought. When you're young, you have dreams that either fade away or develop into a driving force that spurs you on. What have I got left of all my ambitions?

"I became a police officer because I decided not to become a vicar," she said. "I believed in G.o.d for a long time. My parents are Pentecostalists. But one day I woke up and found it had all gone. I agonised for ages over what to do, but then something happened that made my mind up for me, and I resolved to become a police officer" "Tell me," he said. "I need to know why people still want to become police officers."

"Some other time," she said. "Not now."

They were approaching Ystad. She told him how to get to where she lived, to the west of the town, in one of the newly built brick houses with a view over the sea.

"I don't even know if you have a family," Wallander said, as they turned into a road that was still only half finished.

"I have two children," she said. "My husband's a service mechanic. He installs and repairs pumps all over the world, and is hardly ever at home. But he's earned enough for us to buy the house."

"Sounds like an exciting job."

"I'll invite you round one evening when he's at home. He can tell you himself what it's like."

He drew up outside her house.

"I think everybody's pleased you've come back," she said as a parting shot.

Wallander felt immediately that it wasn't true, that it was more of an attempt to cheer him up, but he muttered his appreciation.

Then he drove straight home to Mariagatan, flung his wet jacket over the back of a chair, and lay on the bed, still in his dirty shoes. He dozed off and dreamed that he was asleep among the sand dunes at Skagen.

When he woke up an hour later, he did not know where he was at first. Then he took his shoes off and went to the kitchen to make coffee. He could see through the window how the street light beyond was swaying in the gusting wind.

Winter is almost upon us, he thought. Snow and storms and chaos. And I am a police officer again. Life tosses us all hither and thither. Is there anything we can truly decide for ourselves?

He sat for a long time staring into his coffee cup. It was cold by the time he got up to fetch a notepad and pencil from a kitchen drawer.

Now I really must become a police officer again, he told himself. I get paid for thinking constructive thoughts, investigating and sorting out cases, not for worrying about my own petty problems.

It was gone midnight by the time he put down his pen and stretched his back. Then he pored over the summary he had written in his notepad. All about his feet the floor was littered with crumpled-up sheets of paper.

I can't see any pattern, he admitted. There are no obvious connections between the accident that wasn't an accident and the fact that a few weeks later Sten Torstensson was shot dead in his office. It doesn't even necessarily follow that Sten's death was a direct result of what happened to his father. It could be the other way round.

He remembered something Rydberg had said in the last year of his life, when he was stuck in the middle of an apparently insoluble investigation into a string of arson cases. "Sometimes the effect can come before the cause," he had said. "As a police officer you have always to be prepared to think back to front."

He lay on the living-room sofa.

An old man is found dead in his car in a field on a morning in October, he thought. He was on his way home from a meeting with a client. After a routine investigation, the case is written off as a car accident. But the dead man's son starts to question the accident theory. For two crucial reasons: first, that his father would never have been driving fast in the fog; second, that for some time he had been worried or upset, but had kept whatever it was to himself.

Wallander sat bolt upright. His instinct told him he had hit upon a pattern, or rather, a non-pattern, a pattern falsified so that the true facts would not come to light.

He continued his train of thought. Sten had not been able to prove that his father's death had not been a straightforward accident. He had not seen the chair leg in the field, nor had he thought about the broken chair itself in the boot of his father's car. Precisely because he had not been able to find any proof, he had turned to Wallander. He had gone to the trouble of tracking him down, of coming to see him.

At the same time he had laid a false trail. A postcard from Finland. Five days later he was shot. No-one could doubt that it was murder.

Wallander had lost the thread. What he thought he had sensed - a pattern created to cover up another one - had drifted off into no man's land.

He was tired. He wasn't going to get any further tonight. He knew, too, from experience that if his suspicions had any basis they would come back.

He went to the kitchen, washed the dishes and cleared up the crumpled papers lying all over the floor. I have to start all over again, he told himself. But where is the start? Sten or Gustaf Torstensson?

He went to bed, but could not sleep despite being so tired. He wondered vaguely about what had happened to make Ann-Britt Hoglund decide to become a police officer.

The last time he looked at the clock it was 2.30 a.m.

He woke up shortly after 6.00, still feeling tired; but he got up, with a sense that he had slept in. It was almost 7.30 by the time he walked through the police-station door and was pleased to see that Ebba was in her usual chair in reception. When she saw him she came to greet him. He could see that she was moved, and a lump came into his throat.

"I couldn't believe it!" she said. "Are you really back?"

"Afraid so," Wallander said.

"I think I'm going to cry," she said.

"Don't do that," Wallander said. "We can have a chat later."

He got away as quickly as he could and hurried down the corridor. When he got to his office he noticed that it had been thoroughly cleaned. There was also a note on his desk asking him to phone his father. Judging by the obscure handwriting, it was Svedberg who had taken the message the previous evening. He reached for the telephone, then changed his mind. He took out the summary he had prepared and read through it. The feeling he had had of being able to detect an obscure but nevertheless definite pattern linking the various incidents would not resurrect itself. He pushed the papers to one side. It's too soon, he decided. I come back after 18 months in the cold, and I've got less patience than ever. Annoyed, he reached for his notepad and found an empty page.

It was clear that he would have to start again from the beginning. Apparently n.o.body could say with any certainty where the beginning was, so they would have to approach the investigation with no preconceived ideas. He spent half an hour sketching out what needed to be done, but all the time he was nagged by the idea that it was really Martinsson who ought to be leading the investigation. He himself had returned to duty, but he did not want to take on the whole responsibility right away.

The telephone rang. He hesitated before answering.

"I hear we've had some great news." It was Per keson. "I have to say I'm delighted." keson was the public prosecutor with whom Wallander had, over the years, established the best working relationship. They had often had heated discussions about the best way of interpreting case data, and Wallander had many times been angry because keson had refused to accept one of his submissions as sufficient grounds for an arrest. But they had more or less always seen eye to eye. And they shared a particular impatience at cases being carelessly handled.

"I have to admit it all seems a bit strange," Wallander said.

"Rumour had it that you were about to retire on health grounds," keson said. "Somebody ought to tell Bjork to put a stop to all these rumours that keep flying around."

"It wasn't just a rumour," Wallander said. "I had made my mind up to chuck it in."

"Might one ask why you changed your mind?"

"Something happened," Wallander said evasively. He could tell that keson was waiting for him to continue, but he did not oblige.

"Anyway, I'm pleased you've come back," keson said, after an appropriately long silence. "I'm also certain that I'm expressing the sentiments of my colleagues in saying that."

Wallander began to feel uncomfortable about all the goodwill that was flowing in his direction, but which he found hard to believe. We go through life with one foot in a rose garden and the other in quicksand, he thought.

"I a.s.sume you'll be taking over the Torstensson case," keson said. "Maybe we ought to get together later today and work out where we stand."

"I don't know about 'taking over'," Wallander said. "I'll be involved, I asked to be. But I suppose that one of the others will be leading the investigation."

"Hmm, none of my business," keson said. "I'm just pleased you're back. Have you had time to get into the details of the case?"

"Not really"

"Judging by what I've heard so far, there doesn't seem to have been any significant development."

"Bjork thinks it's going to be a long haul." "What do you think?"

Wallander hesitated before replying. "Nothing at all as yet."

"Insecurity seems to be on the increase," keson said. "Threats, often in the form of anonymous letters, are more common. Public buildings which used to keep open house are now barricading themselves like fortresses. No question, you'll have to go through his clients with a fine-tooth comb. You might find a clue there. Someone among them might have a grudge."

"We've already started on that," Wallander said.

They agreed to meet in keson's office that afternoon.

Wallander forced himself to return to the investigation plan he had started to sketch out, but his concentration wandered. He put his pen down in irritation and went to fetch a cup of coffee. He hurried back to his office, not wanting to meet anybody. It was 8.15 by now. He drank his coffee and wondered how long it would be before he lost his fear of being with people. At 8.30 he gathered his papers together and went to the conference room. On the way there it struck him that unusually little had been achieved during the five or six days that had pa.s.sed since Sten Torstensson had been found murdered. All murder investigations are different, but there always used to be a mood of intense urgency among the officers involved. Something had changed while he had been away. What?

They were all present by 8.40, and Bjork tapped the table as a sign that work was about to commence. He turned at once to Wallander.

"Kurt," he said, "you've just come into this case and can view it with fresh eyes. What do you think we should do now?"

"I hardly think I'm the one to decide that," Wallander said. "I haven't had time to get into it properly."

"On the other hand, you're the only one who's so far come up with anything useful," Martinsson said. "If I know you, you'll have sat up last night and sketched out an investigation plan. Am I right?"

Wallander nodded. He realised that in fact he had no objection to taking over the case.

"I have tried to write a summary," he began. "But first let me tell you about something that happened just over a week ago, when I was in Denmark. I ought to have mentioned it yesterday, but it was all a bit hectic for me, to say the least."

Wallander told his astonished colleagues about Sten Torstensson's trip to Skagen. He tried hard to leave out no detail. When he finished, there was silence. Bjork eventually spoke, making no attempt to conceal the fact that he was cross.

"Very odd," he said. "I don't know why it is that you always seem to find yourself in situations that are out of normal procedures."

"I did refer him to you," Wallander objected, and could feel his anger rising.

"It's nothing for us to get excited about now," Bjork said impa.s.sively. "But it is a bit strange, you must agree. What is of course clear is that we have to reopen the investigation into Gustaf Torstensson's accident."

"It seems to me both natural and necessary that we advance on two fronts," Wallander said. "The a.s.sumption being that two people have been murdered, not one. It's a father and a son, moreover. We have to think two thoughts at the same time. There may be a solution to be found in their private lives, but it might also be something to do with their work, two lawyers working for the same firm of solicitors. The fact that Sten came to see me to talk about his father being on edge might suggest that the key concerns Gustaf Torstensson. But that is not a foregone conclusion - for one thing, there's the postcard Sten sent to Mrs Duner from Finland when at the time he was in Denmark."

"That tells us something else as well," Hoglund said.

Wallander nodded. "That Sten also thought that he was under threat. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," Hoglund said. "Why else would he have laid a false trail?"

Martinsson put his hand up, indicating he wanted to say something. "It would be simplest if we split into two groups," he said. "One to concentrate on the father, and the other on the son. Then let's see if we come up with anything that points in the same direction."

"I agree with that," Wallander said. "At the same time I can't help thinking there's something odd about all this. Something we ought to have discovered already."

"All murder cases are odd, surely," Svedberg said.

"Yes, but there's something more," Wallander said. "And I can't put my finger on it."

Bjork indicated it was time to conclude the meeting.

"As I've already started delving into what happened to Gustaf Torstensson, I might as well go on," Wallander said. "If n.o.body has any objections."

"The rest of us can devote ourselves to Sten Torstensson, then," Martinsson said. "Can I a.s.sume that you'll want to work on your own to start with, as usual?"

"Not necessarily. But if I understand it rightly, the Sten case is much more complicated. His father didn't have so many clients. His life seems to be more transparent."

"Let's do that then," Bjork said, shutting his diary with a thud. "We'll meet every day at 4.00, as usual, to see how far we've got. Oh, and I need help with a press conference later today."

"Not me," Wallander said. "I haven't got the strength."

"I thought Ann-Britt might do it," Bjork said. "It won't do any harm for people to know she's here with us now."

"That's fine by me," she said, to the others' surprise. "I need to learn about such things."

After the meeting Wallander asked Martinsson to stay behind. When the others had left, he closed the door.

"We need to have a few words," Wallander said. "I feel as though I'm barging in and taking over, when what I was really supposed to be doing was confirming my resignation."

"We're all a bit surprised, certainly," Martinsson said. "You must accept that. You're not the only one who's a bit unsure of what's going on."

"I don't want to stand on anybody's toes."

Martinsson burst out laughing. Then blew his nose. "The Swedish police force is full of officers suffering from sore toes and heels," he said. "The more bureaucratic the force becomes, the more people get obsessed about their careers. All the regulations and the paperwork -it gets worse every day - result in misunderstandings and a lack of clarity, so it's no wonder people stand on each other's toes and kick their heels. Sometimes I think I understand why Bjork is worried about the way things are going. What's happening to ordinary straightforward police work?"

"The police force has always reflected society at large," Wallander said. "But I know what you mean. Rydberg used to say the same thing. What's Hoglund going to say?"

"She's good," Martinsson said. "Hanson and Svedberg are both frightened of her precisely because she's so good. Hanson especially is worried that he might get left behind. That's why he spends most of his time on courses nowadays, picking up extra qualifications."

"The new-age police officer," Wallander said, getting to his feet. "That's what she is." He paused in the doorway. "You said something yesterday that rang a bell. Something about Sten Torstensson. I'm not sure what, but I have the feeling it was more important than it sounded."

"I was reading aloud from my notes," Martinsson said. "You can have a copy."

"I dare say I'm imagining things," Wallander said.

When he got back to his office and had had closed the door, he knew that he had experienced something he had almost forgotten existed. It was as if he had rediscovered his drive. Not everything, it seemed, had been lost during the time he had been away. closed the door, he knew that he had experienced something he had almost forgotten existed. It was as if he had rediscovered his drive. Not everything, it seemed, had been lost during the time he had been away.

He sat at his desk, feeling that he could now examine himself at arm's length: the man staggering around in the West Indies, the miserable trip to Thailand, all those days and nights when everything seemed to have ground to a halt apart from his automatic bodily functions. He was looking at himself, but he realised that that person was somebody he no longer knew. He had been somebody else.

He shuddered to contemplate the catastrophic consequences that some of his actions could have had. He thought hard about his daughter Linda. It was only when Martinsson knocked on the door and delivered a photocopy of his notes from the previous day that Wallander succeeded in banishing all the memories. Everybody had within himself a secret room, it seemed to him, where memories and recollections were all jumbled up together. Now he had bolted the door, and attached a strong padlock. Then he went to the toilet and flushed away the antidepressants he had been carrying around in a tube in his pocket.

He returned to his office and started work. It was 10 a.m. He read carefully through Martinsson's notes without identifying what it was that had caught his attention. It's too soon, he thought. Rydberg would have advised patience. Now I have to remember to advise myself.

He wondered briefly where to begin. Then he looked up Gustaf Torstensson's home address in the file for the car accident. Timmermansgatan 12. That was in one of Ystad's oldest and most affluent residential districts, beyond the army barracks, near Sandskogen. He telephoned the solicitors' and spoke to Sonia Lundin, who told him that the house keys were in the office. He left the station and noted that the rain clouds had dispersed, the sky was clear. He had the feeling he was breathing in the first of the cold winter air that was slowly advancing. As he drew up outside the solicitors' offices, Lundin came out and handed him the keys.

He took two wrong turnings before he reached the correct address. The big, brown-painted wooden house was a long way back in a large garden. He swung open the creaking gate and started along the gravel drive. It was quiet, and the town seemed a long way away. A world inside a world, he thought. The Torstensson firm of solicitors must have been a very profitable business. He doubted if there were many more expensive houses in Ystad than this one. The garden was well tended but strangely lifeless. A few deciduous trees, some neatly clipped bushes, some dull flower beds. Perhaps an elderly lawyer needed to surround himself with straight lines, a traditional garden with no surprises or improvisations. Someone had told him that as a solicitor Torstensson had the reputation of dragging out court proceedings to an unprecedented level of boredom. One spiteful opponent claimed that Torstensson could get a client off by driving the prosecutor to distraction with his plodding, colourless presentation of the case for the defence. He should ask Per keson what he thought of Gustaf Torstensson. They must have dealt with each other many times over the years.