'Did you ask what Göran Alexandersson was doing in Ystad? Or Svarte?'
'He'd told them he was going on holiday for a week. He'd be staying at the King Charles Hotel. He arrived four days ago.'
'Right, let's go there,' Wallander said.
They spent over an hour going through Alexandersson's room but found nothing of interest. Only an empty suitcase, some clothes neatly hung in the cupboard and a spare pair of shoes.
'Not a single sheet of paper,' said Wallander thoughtfully. 'No book, nothing.'
Then he called the front desk and asked if Alexandersson had received or made any telephone calls or had had any visitors. The receptionist's reply was crystal clear: nobody had called room 211, nobody had been to visit.
'He's staying here in Ystad,' Wallander said, 'but he calls a taxi from Svarte. Question: How did he get there in the first place?'
'I'll call the taxi companies,' said Hansson.
They drove back to the police station. Wallander stood at his office window, absent-mindedly contemplating the water tower on the other side of the street. He found himself thinking about Mona and Linda. They were probably in some restaurant or other, having dinner. But what were they talking about? No doubt what Linda was going to do next. He tried to imagine their conversation, but all he could hear was the humming from the radiators. He sat down to write a preliminary report while Hansson was calling the Ystad taxi companies. Before starting, he went to the break room and helped himself to some biscuits that somebody had abandoned. It was nearly eight by the time Hansson knocked on his door and came in.
'He took a cab out to Svarte three times in the four days he'd been here in Ystad,' Hansson said. 'He was dropped off on the edge of the village each time. He went out early in the morning, and he ordered a taxi to take him back in the afternoon.'
Wallander was miles away but nodded in acknowledgement.
'That's not against the law,' he said. 'Perhaps he had a mistress there?'
Wallander stood up and walked over to the window. The wind was building up.
'Let's search for him in the computer records,' he said after a few moments' thought. 'I get the impression we'll draw a blank. But let's do it anyway. Then we'll have a good look at the post-mortem report.'
'I bet it was a heart attack,' said Hansson, rising to leave.
'No doubt you're right,' said Wallander.
Wallander drove home and opened a can of sausages. Göran Alexandersson was already fading out of his consciousness. After eating his simple meal, he fell asleep in front of the television.
The following day, Wallander's colleague Martinsson searched through all available criminal registers for the name Göran Alexandersson. There was nothing. Martinsson was the youngest member of the investigation team, and the one most willing to embrace new technology.
Wallander devoted the day to the stolen luxury cars being driven around Poland. In the evening he went to see his father in Löderup and played cards for a few hours. They ended up arguing over who owed whom and how much. As Wallander drove home, he wondered if he would grow to be like his father as he got older. Or had he already started ageing that way? Argumentative, complaining and miserable? He should ask somebody. Perhaps somebody other than Mona.
On the morning of 28 April, Wallander's phone rang. It was the medicolegal department in Lund.
'I'm calling in connection with a person by the name of Göran Alexandersson,' said the doctor at the other end of the line. He was called Jörne and Wallander knew him from his time in Malmö.
'What was it?' Wallander asked. 'Cerebral haemorrhage or a heart attack?'
'Neither,' said the doctor. 'Either he committed suicide or he was murdered.'
Wallander pricked up his ears.
'Murdered? What do you mean by that?'
'Exactly what I say,' said Jörne.
'But that's impossible. He can't have been murdered in the back seat of a taxi. Stenberg, the driver of the cab, isn't the type who goes around killing people. But surely he can't have committed suicide either?'
'I can't tell you how it happened,' said Jörne dismissively. 'But what I can tell you with absolute certainty is that he died from a poison that got into his system somehow, either something he'd eaten or something he'd drunk. That seems to me to suggest murder. But of course, it's your business to establish that.'
Wallander made no comment.
'I'll fax the papers over to you,' said Jörne. 'Are you still there?'
'Yes,' Wallander said. 'I'm still here.'
He thanked Jörne, replaced the receiver and thought about what he'd just been told. Then he asked Hansson over the intercom to come to his office right away. Wallander took one of his notepads and wrote two words.
Göran Alexandersson. Outside the police station, the wind was getting stronger. Some gusts were already gale strength.
*
The squally wind continued blowing all over Skåne. Wallander sat in his office and contemplated the fact that he had no idea what had happened to the man who had died in the back seat of a taxi some days earlier. At 9.30 he went to one of the conference rooms and closed the door behind him. Hansson and Rydberg were already sitting at the table. Wallander was surprised to see Rydberg. He'd been off sick with back pains and given no indication that he was returning to work.
'How are you?' Wallander asked.
'I'm here,' said Rydberg evasively. 'What's all this nonsense about a man being murdered in the back seat of a taxi?'
'Let's start at the beginning,' Wallander said.
He looked around. Somebody was missing.
'Where's Martinsson?'
'He called in to say he had tonsillitis,' said Rydberg. 'Maybe Svedberg can stand in for him?'
'We'll see if we need him,' said Wallander, picking up his papers. The fax had arrived from Lund.
Then he looked at his colleagues.
'What started off looking like a straightforward case could turn out to be much more problematic than I'd thought. A man died in the back seat of a taxi. The medico-legal people in Lund have established that he was poisoned. What we don't know yet is how long before his death the poison got into his system. Lund promises to let us know that in a few days.'
'Murder or suicide?' Rydberg wondered.
'Murder,' said Wallander without hesitation. 'I find it hard to imagine a suicide taking poison and then calling for a taxi.'
'Could he have taken the poison by mistake?' Hansson asked.
'Hardly likely,' said Wallander. 'According to the doctors it's a very unusual mixture of poisons.'
'What do they mean by that?' Hansson asked.
'It's something that can only be made by a specialist – a doctor, a chemist or a biologist, for instance.'
Silence.
'So, we need to regard this as a murder case,' Wallander said. 'What do we know about this man, Göran Alexandersson?'
Hansson leafed through his notebook.
'He was a businessman,' he said. 'He owned two electronics shops in Stockholm. One in Västberga, the other in Nortull. He lived alone in an apartment in Åsögatan. He doesn't seem to have had any family. His divorced wife lives in France. His son died seven years ago. The employees I've spoken to all describe him in exactly the same way.'
'How?' asked Wallander.
'They say he was nice.'
'Nice?'
'That was the word they all used. Nice.'
Wallander nodded.
'Anything else?'
'He appears to have led a pretty humdrum existence. His secretary guessed that he probably collected stamps. Catalogues kept arriving at the office. He doesn't seem to have had any close friends. At least, none that his colleagues knew about.'
Nobody said anything.
'We'd better ask Stockholm to help us with his apartment,' Wallander said when the silence had started to feel oppressive. 'And we must get in touch with his ex-wife. I'll concentrate on trying to find out what he was doing down here in Skåne, in Ystad and Svarte. Who
did he meet? We can get together again this afternoon and see how far we've got.'
'One thing puzzles me,' said Rydberg. 'Can a person be murdered without knowing anything about it?'
Wallander nodded.
'That's an interesting idea,' he said. 'Somebody gives Göran Alexandersson some poison that doesn't have any effect until an hour later. I'll ask Jörne to answer that one.'
'If he can,' muttered Rydberg. 'I wouldn't count on it.'
The meeting was over. They went their different ways after dividing up the various tasks. Wallander stood at the window of his office, coffee cup in hand, and tried to make up his mind where to start.
Half an hour later he was in his car, on the way to Svarte. The wind was slowly dropping. The sun shone through the parting clouds. For the first time that year Wallander had the feeling that perhaps spring really was on the way at last. He stopped when he came to the edge of Svarte and got out of the car. Göran Alexandersson came here, he thought. He came in the morning and returned to Ystad in the afternoon. On the fourth occasion, he was poisoned and died in the back seat of a taxi.
Wallander started walking towards the village. Many of the houses on the beach side of the road were summer cottages and were boarded up for the winter.
He walked through the whole village and only saw two people. The desolation made him feel depressed. He turned round and walked quickly back to his car.
He had already started the engine when he noticed an elderly lady working on a flower bed in a garden next to where the car was parked. He switched off the ignition and got out. When he closed the door, the woman turned to look at him. Wallander walked over to her fence, raising his hand in greeting.
'I hope I'm not disturbing you,' he said.
'Nobody disturbs anybody here,' said the woman, giving him an inquisitive look.
'My name's Kurt Wallander and I'm a police officer from Ystad,' he said.
'I recognise you,' she said. 'Have I seen you on TV? Some current affairs debate, maybe?'
'I don't think so,' Wallander said. 'But my picture has been in the papers now and again, I'm afraid.'
'My name's Agnes Ehn,' said the woman, reaching out her hand.
'Do you live here year-round?' Wallander asked.
'No, just the summer half of the year. I usually move out here at the beginning of April and stay till October. I spend the winter in Halmstad. I'm a retired schoolteacher. My husband died a few years ago.'
'It's pretty here,' said Wallander. 'Pretty, and quiet. Everybody knows everybody else.'
'I don't know about that,' she said. 'Sometimes you don't even know your next-door neighbour.'
'Did you happen to see a man by himself who came here to Svarte by taxi several times this last week? And was then picked up by a taxi again in the afternoon?'
Her reply surprised him.
'He used the telephone in my house to call for the taxi,' she said. 'Three days in a row, in fact. Assuming it's the same man.'
'Did he say his name?'
'He was very polite.'
'Did he introduce himself?'
'You can be polite without saying what your name is.'
'And he asked to use your phone?'
'Yes.'
'Did he say anything else?'
'Has something happened to him?'
Wallander thought he might as well tell her the truth.
'He's dead.'
'That's awful. What happened?'
'We don't know. All we know at the moment is that he's dead. Do you know what he did here in Svarte? Did he say who he'd come to see? Where did he go? Was there anybody with him? Anything at all you can remember is important.'
She surprised him again with her precise reply.
'He walked down to the beach,' she said. 'There's a path leading to the beach on the other side of the house. He took that. Then he walked along the sands in a westerly direction. He didn't come back until the afternoon.'
'He walked along the beach? Was he alone?'
'I can't tell you that. The beach curves away. He might have met somebody further away, where I can't see.'
'Did he have anything with him? A briefcase or a package, for instance?'
She shook her head.
'Did he seem worried at all?'
'Not as far as I could tell.'
'But he borrowed your telephone?'
'Yes.'
'Did you notice anything worth mentioning?'
'He seemed to be a very nice, friendly man. He insisted on paying for all the telephone calls.'
Wallander nodded.
'You've been a big help,' he said, giving her his business card. 'If you remember anything else, please call me at the number on the card.'
'It's a tragedy,' she said. 'Such a pleasant man.'
Wallander went round to the other side of the house and walked down the path to the beach. He went as far as the water's edge. The beach was deserted. When he turned back he saw that Agnes Ehn was watching him.
He must have met somebody, Wallander thought. There's no other plausible explanation. The only question is, who?
He drove back to the police station. Rydberg stopped him in the corridor and told him he had managed to track Alexandersson's exwife to a house on the Riviera.
'But nobody answered the telephone,' he said. 'I'll try again later.'
'Good,' said Wallander. 'Let me know when you get hold of her.'
'Martinsson came in,' said Rydberg. 'It was almost impossible to understand a word he said. I told him to go home again.'
'You did the right thing,' Wallander said.
He went to his office, closed the door behind him and pulled over the notepad on which he had written Göran Alexandersson's name. Who? he wondered. Who did you meet on the beach? I must find out.
By one o'clock Wallander felt hungry. He put on his jacket and was about to leave when Hansson knocked on his door. It was obvious he had something important to say.
'I've got something that might be important,' Hansson said.
'What?'
'As you'll recall, Alexandersson had a son who died seven years ago. It looks very much like he was murdered. But as far as I can see, nobody's ever been charged with it.'
Wallander looked long and hard at Hansson.
'Good,' he said eventually. 'Now we've got something to go on. Even if I can't put my finger on what it is.'
The hunger he'd been feeling just moments ago had disappeared.
Shortly after two in the afternoon on 28 April, Rydberg knocked on Wallander's half-open door.
'I've made contact with Alexandersson's ex-wife,' he said as he came into the room. He made a face as he sat down on the visitor's chair.