One Step Behind

She was there, curled up against the side of the rock, wearing only a nightgown. Her arms were wrapped around her legs and her head was leaning against one shoulder. It looked like she was sleeping, but he knew at once that she was dead. She had been shot in the head.

Wallander sank down on the ground. The blood rushed to his head. He felt like he was dying, and he didn't really mind. He had failed. He hadn't managed to keep her safe. Even the hiding place where she had played as a child hadn't protected her. He hadn't heard a shot. The gun must have had a silencer.

He got up and leaned against a tree. The phone slid out of his grasp. He leaned down, picked it up, and started staggering back towards the house as he called Martinsson.

"I'm too late," he said.

"Too late for what?"

"She's dead. Shot, just like the others."

Martinsson didn't seem to understand. Wallander had to repeat himself.

"My God," Martinsson said. "Who killed her?"

"A man in a boat," Wallander said. "Call the police in Norrköping. They'll have to do this. And talk to the coast guard."

Martinsson promised to do what he said.

"You might as well wake up the others," he said. "Lisa Holgersson, everyone. Once I get some help out here I'll call you again."

The conversation was over. Wallander sat on a chair in the kitchen, with the beam resting on a tapestry with the words "home sweet home". After a while he forced himself to get up, go into her room, and pull the blanket from her bed. Then he went out into the dark. Once he got back to the crevice he wrapped the blanket around her.

He sat down by the ferns that covered the opening. It was 3.20 a.m.

The wind picked up in the early, pale dawn. Wallander heard the coast guard arriving and went to the landing. The policemen approached him with suspicion. Wallander could understand their reaction. What was a police officer from Skåne doing out here on one of their islands? If he had been on holiday, it would have been different. He led them to the crevice, and turned away as they lifted the blanket. One of the officers demanded to see Wallander's police ID. Wallander lost his temper. He tore his wallet from his pocket and threw his ID card on the ground. Then he walked away. His fury left him almost immediately, replaced by a paralysing fatigue. He sat down on the front steps to the house with a bottle of water.

Harry Lundström came and found him. He'd seen Wallander lose his temper and had thought how tactless it had been to ask him for his police badge at that moment. It was clear, after all, that he was a fellow police officer. The call had come from the Ystad police, with very specific information. A detective by the name of Kurt Wallander was on Bärnsö Island. He had found a dead girl, and he needed assistance.

Harry Lundström was 57 years old. He had been born in Norrköping and was considered the best detective in the city by everyone but himself. When Wallander flew into a rage, Lundström had understood his reaction. He didn't know what events lay behind the murder, but he knew that it had to do with the dead police officer and the three young people. Beyond that it was very unclear. But Harry Lundström had a huge capacity for empathy. He could imagine what it might have felt like to find a girl dressed only in her nightgown, curled in a crevice, with a bullet hole in her head.

Lundström sat down next to Wallander on the steps.

"That was a thoughtless thing of them to do," he said. "Asking for your ID like that."

He stretched out his hand and introduced himself. Wallander immediately felt that he could trust him.

"Should I speak to you?"

Lundström nodded.

"Then let's go inside," Wallander said.

They sat in the living room. After he'd called Martinsson on Lundström's phone, and arranged for Isa's parents to be notified of her death, he took more than an hour to explain who the dead girl was, and the circumstances surrounding her murder. Lundström listened without taking notes. Now and again they were interrupted by officers with questions. Lundström provided simple and clear instructions. When Wallander had finished talking, Lundström asked about a few details. Wallander thought that they were exactly the questions he would have asked himself.

It was already 7 a.m. and through the windows they could see the coast guard's boat scraping against the dock.

"I'd better get back up there," Lundström said. "You can stay here, of course. You've seen more than enough."

The wind was very strong now, and Wallander shivered.

"It's an autumn wind," Lundström said. "The weather has started to turn."

"I've never been in this archipelago before," Wallander said. "It's very beautiful."

"I played handball when I was young," Lundström said. "I had a picture of the Ystad team on my bedroom wall, but I've almost never been to your parts."

As they walked along the path, they could hear dogs barking in the distance.

"I thought it would be best to comb the island," Lundström said, "in case the killer is still here somewhere."

"He arrived by boat," Wallander said. "He anchored on the west side."

"If we had more time, we'd arrange to put some of the nearby harbours under surveillance," Lundström said. "But it's too late now."

"Maybe someone saw something," Wallander said.

"We're on to it," Lundström said. "I've considered the possibility. Someone may have seen a boat anchoring here late last night."

Wallander remained at a distance while Lundström walked up to the crevice and had a brief discussion with his colleagues. He felt sick to his stomach. What he wanted most of all was to get off the island as soon as possible. His feeling of being somehow responsible for the crime was very strong. They should have left the island last night. He should have realised the danger of staying. The murderer seemed always to be in a position of knowing what they were doing. It had also been a mistake to let her sleep downstairs. He was aware that blaming himself was unreasonable, but he couldn't help it.

Lundström reappeared, and at the same time an officer with a dog came from the opposite direction. Lundström stopped him.

"Find anything?"

"There's no one on the island," the officer said. "She traced him to a bay on the west side, but the scent ended there."

Lundström looked at Wallander. "You were right," he said. "He came and left by boat."

They walked down to the main house again. Wallander thought about what Lundström had just said.

"The boat is important," he said. "Where did he get hold of it?"

"I was just thinking the same thing," Lundström said. "If we assume that the killer is not from around here, which I think we have to, then we have to find out where he got the boat from."

"He stole it," Wallander said.

Lundström stopped. "But how did he find his way here in the middle of the night?"

"He may have been out here before, and there are maps."

"Do you really think he's been out here before?"

"We can't rule that out."

Lundström started walking again.

"A stolen or borrowed boat," he said. "It must have happened near here. Either in Fyrudden, Snäckvarp or Gryt. If he didn't steal it from a private dock, that is."

"He can't have had a lot of time," Wallander said. "Isa ran away from the hospital yesterday morning."

"Criminals in a hurry are always the easiest to trace," Lundström said.

They reached the landing and Lundström talked to a police officer who was adjusting one of the ropes. They took shelter from the wind by the boathouse.

"There's no reason to keep you here," Lundström said. "I assume that you want to go home."

Wallander felt a need to describe his feelings. "It shouldn't have happened," he said "I feel responsible. We should have left here yesterday. And now she's dead."