One Step Behind

Wallander poured himself a glass of mineral water. "We have to assume he could strike again at any moment, so we have no time to lose. We have to re-examine the facts of this investigation to see if we can find any trace of this man."

"The photograph," Martinsson said. "We can manipulate it on the computer and make it look more like a man."

"That's at the top of our list right now," Wallander said. "We'll have that done as soon as we leave this meeting. A face can be significantly altered with make-up and a wig, but it can't be completely changed."

There was a new surge of energy in the room. Wallander didn't want to keep them any longer, but Holgersson sensed he was about to bring the meeting to a close, and raised her hand.

"I want to remind you that Svedberg's funeral is tomorrow at 2 p.m. With the best interests of this investigation in mind, I'm cancelling the reception afterwards."

No one had any comments. Everyone seemed eager to leave.

Wallander went to his office to get his coat. There was something he wanted to follow up on even though it would most likely lead nowhere. He was just about to leave when Thurnberg appeared.

"Do we really have the resources to manipulate that photograph here?" he asked.

"Martinsson knows the most about that sort of thing," Wallander said. "If he has any doubts about his ability to do the job properly, he'll turn it over to the technicians, don't worry."

Thurnberg nodded. "I just wanted to make sure." But he clearly had something else to say. "I don't think you should blame yourself for letting him slip away in the bar. You couldn't have been expected to see through his disguise."

It seemed as if he really meant it. Was this his way of making amends? Wallander decided to accept him at face value.

"I appreciate your opinion," he said. "This investigation has been far from clear-cut."

"I'll get in touch if I think of anything that might be helpful," Thurnberg said.

Wallander left the station. He hesitated for a moment in the car park before deciding to walk. All he had to do was walk downtown, and he had to keep moving or else sleep would overtake him.

It took him ten minutes to reach the red building that was the central postal depot. Post was being unloaded from yellow postal vans. Wallander had never been down here before. He looked around for an entrance and found one. It was locked. He pressed a small buzzer and was let in.

The man who greeted him was the manager, a young man hardly more than 30 years old. His name was Kjell Albinsson, and he made a good impression. Albinsson escorted him to his office, where a fan placed on top of a filing cabinet was going at high speed. Wallander got out a pen and paper, wondering how he should go about phrasing his questions, such as "Do your postal workers ever open other people's post?" It was an impossible question to ask, an insult to the profession. Wallander thought of Westin, who would no doubt have been deeply offended. He decided instead to start from the begi

It was 10.43 a.m. on Monday, 19 August.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A map hung on the wall in Albinsson's room. Wallander started there, asking him about the rural postal routes. Albinsson wanted to know why the police were so interested in this information, and Wallander came close to telling him. Then he realised how preposterous it would sound if he said that the police suspected one of his staff of being a mass murderer, so he kept his explanations as vague as possible, making sure that Albinsson knew not to expect further clarification.

Albinsson described the various routes to him with great enthusiasm. Wallander took occasional notes.

"How many postmen work here?" Wallander asked after Albinsson had finished with the map and sat down at his desk.

"Eight."

"Do you have their names written down anywhere? Photographs would be helpful too."

"The Post Office is a proactive business these days," Albinsson said. "We have an information brochure that I think is just what you're looking for."

As Albinsson left the room, Wallander thought to himself that he had just had a stroke of luck. From the photographs of the postal workers he would immediately be able to determine if the man in Copenhagen worked here or not. Then he would have identified the killer in a single stroke.

Albinsson came back with the brochure, and Wallander looked around for his glasses, to no avail.

"Maybe mine will work," Albinsson suggested. "What's your prescription?"

"I don't know, around ten-point-five, I think."

Albinsson looked at him curiously. "That would mean you were blind," he said. "I take it you mean one-point-five. I'm a two, so go ahead and try them."

Wallander put on the glasses and found that they helped. He unfolded the brochure and looked closely at the pictures of the eight postal workers. There were four men and four women. Wallander studied the men's faces, but none of them bore any likeness to Louise. He hesitated for a moment at the face of a man called Lars-Goran Berg, but quickly realised that it couldn't be him. He looked briefly at the women, and recognised one who regularly delivered post to his father's house in Löderup.

"Can I keep this?" he asked.

"You can have more copies if you like."

"Just one will do."

"Have I answered all your questions?"

"Not quite. There's one more point I need to cover. All of the post is sorted here in this building, right? Do the postmen sort their own post?"

"Yes."

He gave the glasses back to Albinsson. "That's all. I won't keep you from your work any longer."

He stood up. "What is it you're trying to find out?" Albinsson asked.

"Just what I said. This is a routine check."

Albinsson shook his head. "I don't believe that. Why would the chief inspector on a pressing murder case drop by as a matter of routine? You're trying to solve the murder of one of your colleagues, as well as that of those youngsters in the Hagestad nature reserve, and the newly-weds. Your visit here has something to do with all that, doesn't it?"

"That wouldn't change the fact that this is still a routine check," Wallander said.

"I think you're looking for something in particular," Albinsson said.

"I've told you as much as I can."

Albinsson didn't ask any more questions. They parted at the front door, and Wallander walked out into the su

He walked back to the station, wondering whether to wear his uniform at Svedberg's funeral. He also wondered whether Höglund was regretting having promised to give a speech, let alone one she hadn't written herself.

When he walked into reception, Ebba said that Holgersson wanted to speak to him. Ebba seemed depressed.

"How are things with you these days?" he asked. "We never have time to talk any more."

"Things are as they are," she said.

It was the kind of thing his father used to say when he spoke of getting old.

"As soon as all this is over, we'll talk," he said.

She nodded. Wallander sensed that something was different about her, but he had no time to ask more. He went to Holgersson's office. Her door was wide open as usual.

"This is a significant breakthrough," she said as soon as he had sat down in the comfortable armchair across from her. "Thurnberg is impressed."

"Impressed by what?"

"You'll have to ask him that. But you're living up to your reputation."

Wallander was surprised. "Are things really so bad?"

"I'd say just the opposite."

Wallander made an impatient gesture with his hand. He didn't want to talk about his own performance, especially since he knew it was seriously flawed.