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  He realised then that he really didn’t want to do what had to be done. He would far rather have driven away and left the responsibility to the others. He walked out into the field alone. The others watched. He was afraid of what he would see, afraid that the knot he had in his stomach would burst.

  He reached her. Her arms had stiffened in the upstretched motion he had seen her make before she died, surrounded by the raging flames. Her hair and face, along with her clothes, were burned off. All that was left was a blackened body that still radiated terror and desolation. Wallander turned around and walked back across the charred ground. For a moment he was afraid he was going to faint.

  The forensic technicians started to work in the harsh glare of the floodlights, where moths swarmed. Hansson had opened Salomonsson’s kitchen window to drive out the smell. They pulled out the chairs and sat around the kitchen table. At Hoglund’s suggestion they made coffee on Salomonsson’s ancient stove.

  “All he has is ground coffee,” she said after searching through the drawers and cupboards. “Is that all right?”

  “That’s fine,” said Wallander. “Just as long as it’s strong.”

  Hanging on the wall beside the ancient cupboards with sliding doors was an old-fashioned clock. Wallander noticed that it had stopped. He had seen a clock like that once before, at Baiba’s flat in Riga, and it too had had a pair of immobile hands. As though they were trying to ward off events that had not yet happened by stopping time, he thought. Baiba’s husband was killed execution-style on a frozen night in Riga’s harbour. A lone girl appears as if shipwrecked in a sea of rape and takes her life by inflicting the worst pain imaginable.

  She had set herself on fire as though she were her own enemy, he thought. It wasn’t him, the policeman with the waving arms, she had wanted to escape. It was herself.

  He was jolted out of his reverie by the silence around the table. They were looking at him and waiting for him to take the initiative. Through the window he could see the technicians moving slowly about in the glare of the floodlights. A camera flash went off, then another.

  “Did somebody call for the hearse?” asked Hansson.

  For Wallander it was as if someone had struck him with a sledgehammer. The simple, matter-of-fact question from Hansson brought him back to painful reality.

  The images flickered inside his head. He imagined driving through the beautiful Swedish summertime, Barbara Hendricks’s voice strong and clear. Then a girl skitters away like a frightened animal in the field of tall rape. The catastrophe strikes. Something happens that shouldn’t. The hearse on its way to carry off the summer itself.

  “Prytz knows what to do,” said Martinsson, and Wallander recognised the ambulance driver whose name he’d forgotten earlier.

  He knew he had to say something.

  “What do we know?” he began tentatively, as if each word were offering resistance. “An elderly farmer, living alone, rises early and discovers a strange woman in his rape field. He tries calling to her, to get her to leave, since he doesn’t want his crop destroyed. She hides and then reappears, again and again. He calls us late in the afternoon. I drive out here, since the regular officers are all busy. To be honest, I have trouble taking him seriously. I decide to leave and contact social services, since he seems so confused. But the woman suddenly pops up in the field again. So I try to reach her, but she moves away. She lifts a plastic container over her head, drenches herself in petrol, and sets fire to herself with a cigarette lighter. The rest you know. She was alone, she had a container of petrol, and she took her own life.”

  He broke off abruptly, as if he no longer knew what to say. A moment later he went on.

  “We don’t know who she is,” he said. “We don’t know why she killed herself. I can give a fairly good description of her. But that’s all.”

  Ann-Britt Hoglund got some cracked coffee cups out of a cupboard. Martinsson went out into the yard to have a pee. When he returned, Wallander continued his cautious summary.

  “The most important thing is to find out who she was. We’ll search through all missing persons. Since I think she was dark-skinned, we can start by putting a little extra focus on checking on refugees and the refugee camps. Then we’ll have to wait for what the forensic technicians come up with.”

  “At any rate, we know there was no crime committed,” said Hansson. “So our job is to determine who she was.”

  “She must have come from somewhere,” said Hoglund. “Did she walk here? Did she ride a bike? Did she drive? Where did she get the petrol?”

  “And why here, of all places?” said Martinsson. “Why Salomonsson’s place? This farm is way off the beaten track.”

  The questions hung in the air. Noren came into the kitchen and said that some reporters had arrived who wanted to know what happened. Wallander, who knew that he had to get moving, stood up.

  “I’ll talk to them,” he said.

  “Tell them the truth,” said Hansson.

  “What else?” Wallander replied in surprise.

  He went out into the yard and recognised the two newspaper reporters. One was a young woman who worked for Ystad Recorder, the other an older man from Labour News.

  “It looks like a film shoot,” said the woman, pointing at the floodlights in the charred field.

  “It’s not,” said Wallander.

  He told them what had happened. A woman had died in a fire. There was no suspicion of criminal activity. Since they still didn’t know who she was, he didn’t want to say anything more at this time.

  “Can we take some pictures?” asked the man from Labour News.

  “You can take as many pictures as you like,” replied Wallander. “But you’ll have to take them from here. No-one is allowed to go into the field.”

  The reporters drove off in their cars. Wallander was about to return to the kitchen when he saw one of the technicians working out in the field waving to him. Wallander went over. It was Sven Nyberg, the surly but brilliant head of forensics. They stopped at the edge of the area covered by the floodlights. A slight breeze came wafting from the sea across the field. Wallander tried to avoid looking at the body, with its upstretched arms.

  “I think we’ve found something,” said Nyberg.

  In his hand he had a little plastic bag. He handed it to Wallander, who moved under one of the floodlights. In the bag was a gold necklace with a tiny pendant.

  “It has an inscription,” said Nyberg. “The letters ‘D.M.S.’ and it’s a picture of the Madonna.”

  “Why didn’t it melt?” asked Wallander.

  “A fire in a field doesn’t generate enough heat to melt jewellery,” Nyberg replied. He sounded tired.

  “This is exactly what we needed,” said Wallander.

  “We’ll be ready to take her away soon,” said Nyberg, nodding towards the black hearse waiting at the edge of the field.

  “How does it look?” Wallander asked cautiously.

  Nyberg shrugged.

  “The teeth should tell us something. The pathologists are excellent. They can find out how old she was. With DNA technology they can also tell you whether she was born in this country of Swedish parents or if she came from somewhere else.”

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” said Wallander.

  “No thanks,” said Nyberg. “I’ll be done here pretty soon. In the morning we’ll go over the entire field. Since there was no crime it can wait until then.”

  Wallander went back to the house. He laid the plastic bag containing the necklace on the kitchen table.

  “Now we have something to go on,” he said. “A pendant, a Madonna. Inscribed with the initials ‘D.M.S.’ I suggest you all go home now. I’ll stay here a while longer.”

  “We’ll meet at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” said Hansson, getting up.

  “I wonder who she was,” said Martinsson. “The Swedish summertime is too beautiful and too brief for something like this to happen.”

  They parted in the yard.
Hoglund lingered behind.

  “I’m thankful I didn’t have to see it,” she said. “I think I understand what you’re going through.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

  When the cars had gone he sat down on the steps of the house. The floodlights shone as if over a bleak stage on which a play was being performed, with him the only spectator.

  The wind had started to blow. They were still waiting for the warmth of summer. The night air was cold, and Wallander realised that he was freezing sitting there on the steps. How intensely he longed for the summer heat. He hoped it would come soon.

  After a while he got up and went inside the house and washed the coffee cups.

  CHAPTER 4

  Wallander gave a start. Someone was trying to tear off one of his feet. When he opened his eyes he saw that his foot was caught in the broken bed frame. He turned over onto his side to free it. Then he lay still. The dawn light filtered through the crookedly drawn shade. He looked at the clock on the beside table. It was 4.30 a.m. He had hardly slept, and he was very tired. He found himself back out in the field again. He could see the girl much more clearly now. It wasn’t me she was afraid of, he thought. She wasn’t hiding from me or Salomonsson. There was someone else.

  He got up and shuffled out to the kitchen. While he waited for the coffee to brew he went into his messy living-room and checked the answer machine. The red light was flashing. He pushed the replay button. First was his sister Kristina. “I need you to call me. Preferably in the next couple of days.” It must be something to do with their father. Although he had married his care worker and no longer lived alone, he was still moody and unpredictable.

  There was a scratchy, faint message from Skane Daily, asking if he was interested in a subscription. He was just on his way back to the kitchen when he heard the next message. “It’s Baiba. I’m going to Tallinn. I’ll be back on Saturday.”

  He was seized with jealousy. Why was she going to Tallinn? She had said nothing about it the last time they spoke. He poured a cup of coffee, and called her number in Riga, but there was no answer. He dialled again. His unease was growing. She could hardly have left for Tallinn at 5 a.m. Why wasn’t she home? Or if she was home, why didn’t she answer?

  He picked up his coffee cup, opened the balcony door facing Mariagatan, and sat down. Once again he saw the girl running through the rape. For an instant she looked like Baiba. He forced himself to accept that his jealousy was unwarranted. They had agreed not to encumber their new relationship with promises of fidelity. He remembered how they had sat up on Christmas Eve and talked about what they wanted from one another. Most of all, Wallander wanted them to get married. But when Baiba spoke of her need for freedom, he had agreed with her. Rather than lose her, he would accept her terms.

  The sky was clear blue and the air was already warm. He drank his coffee in slow sips and tried to keep from thinking of the girl. When he had finished he went into the bedroom and searched for a long time before finding a clean shirt. Next he gathered all the clothes strewn around the flat. He made a big pile in the middle of the livingroom floor. He would have to go to the launderette today.

  At 5.45 a.m. he left his flat and went down to the street. He got into his car and remembered that it was due for its M.O.T. by the end of June. He drove off down Regementsgatan and then out along Osterleden. On the spur of the moment, he turned onto the road heading out of town and stopped at the new cemetery at Kronoholmsvagen. He left the car and strolled along the rows of gravestones. Now and then he would catch sight of a name he vaguely recognised. When he saw a year of birth the same as his own he averted his eyes. Some young men in blue overalls were unloading a mower from a trailer. When he reached the memorial grove, he sat on one of the benches. He hadn’t been here since the windy autumn day four years ago when they had scattered Rydberg’s ashes. Bjork had been there, and Rydberg’s distant and anonymous relatives. Wallander had often meant to come back. A gravestone with Rydberg’s name on it would have been simpler, he thought. A focal point for my memories of him. In this grove, full of the spirits of the dead, I can find no trace of him.

  He realised that he had difficulty remembering what Rydberg looked like. He’s dying away inside me, he thought. Soon even my memories of him will be gone.

  He stood up, suddenly distressed. He kept seeing the burning girl. He drove straight to the station, went into his office, and closed the door, forcing himself to prepare a summary of the car theft investigation that he had to turn over to Svedberg. He moved folders onto the floor so that his desk would be completely clear.

  He lifted up his desk blotter to see whether there were any items there that he’d forgotten about. He found a scratch-off lottery ticket he had bought several months before. He rubbed it with a ruler until the numbers appeared, and saw that he had won 25 kronor. From the hall he could hear Martinsson’s voice, then Ann-Britt Hoglund’s. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, and closed his eyes. When he woke up he had a cramp in one of his calf muscles, but he’d slept for no more than ten minutes. The telephone rang. It was Per Akeson from the prosecutors’ office. They exchanged greetings, and some words about the weather. They had worked together for many years, and had slowly developed a rapport that had become like a friendship. They often disagreed about whether an arrest was justified or whether remanding an offender in custody was reasonable. But there was also a trust that went deep, although they almost never spent time together off duty.

  “I read in the paper about the girl who burned to death in a field by Marsvinsholm,” said Akeson. “Is that something for me?”

  “It was suicide,” replied Wallander. “Other than a farmer named Salomonsson, I was the only witness.”

  “What in heaven’s name were you doing there?”

  “Salomonsson called. Normally a squad car would have dealt with it. But they were busy.”

  “The girl can’t have been a pretty sight.”

  “It was worse than you could imagine. We have to find out who she was. The switchboard has already started taking calls from people worried about missing relatives.”

  “So you don’t suspect foul play?”

  Without understanding why, Wallander hesitated before answering.

  “No,” he said then. “I can’t think of a more blatant way to take your own life.”

  “You don’t sound entirely convinced.”

  “I had a bad night. It was as you say — a pretty horrible experience.”

  They fell silent. Wallander could tell that Akeson had something else he wanted to talk about.

  “There’s another reason why I’m calling,” he said finally. “But keep it between us.”

  “I usually know how to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Do you remember I told you a few years ago that I was thinking of doing something else? Before it’s too late, before I get too old.”

  “I remember you talked about refugees and the UN. Was it the Sudan?”

  “Uganda. And I’ve actually got an offer. Which I’ve decided to accept. In September I’m going to take a year’s sabbatical.”

  “What does your wife think about this?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. For moral support. I haven’t discussed it with her yet.”

  “Is she supposed to go with you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I suspect she’ll be a little surprised.”

  “Have you any idea how I should break it to her?”

  “Unfortunately not. But I think you’re doing the right thing. There has to be more to life than putting people in jail.”

  “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  They were just about to hang up when Wallander remembered that he had a question.

  “Does this mean that Anette Brolin is coming back as your replacement?”

  “She’s changed sides; she’s working as a criminal barrister in Stockholm now,” said Akeson. “Weren’t you a little in love with her?”

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bsp; “No,” Wallander said. “I was just curious.”

  He hung up. He felt a pang of jealousy. He would have liked to travel to Uganda himself, to have a complete change. Nothing could undo the horror of seeing a young person set herself alight. He envied Per Akeson, who wasn’t going to let his desire to escape stop at mere dreams.

  The joy he had felt yesterday was gone. He stood at the window and gazed out at the street. The grass by the old water tower was still green. Wallander thought about the year before, when he had been on sick leave for a long time after he had killed a man. Now he wondered whether he had ever really recovered from that depression. I ought to do something like Akeson, he thought. There must be a Uganda for me somewhere. For Baiba and me.

  He stood by the window for a long time, then went back to his desk and tried to reach his sister. Several times he got a busy signal. He spent the next half hour writing up a report of the events of the night before. Then he called the pathology department in Malmo but couldn’t find a doctor who could tell him anything about the burned corpse.

  Just before 9 a.m. he got a cup of coffee and went into one of the conference rooms. Hoglund was on the phone, and Martinsson was leafing through a catalogue of garden equipment. Svedberg was in his usual spot, scratching the back of his neck with a pencil. One of the windows was open. Wallander stopped just inside the door with a strong feeling of deja vu. Martinsson looked up from his catalogue and nodded, Svedberg muttered something unintelligible, while Hoglund patiently explained something to one of her children. Hansson came into the room. He had a coffee cup in one hand and a plastic bag with the necklace that had been found in the field in the other.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Hansson.

  Wallander felt himself bristle at the question.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?”

  “I didn’t get home until early this morning. I sleep as much as I need to.”

  “It’s those football matches,” said Hansson. “They’re on in the middle of the night.”