One Step Behind

"They read the article on the plane," she said, "and the national chief is not pleased."

"What about the minister?"

"She seemed more eager to hear your side of the story before giving an opinion."

"Should I say something?"

"No. Only if they bring it up."

They sat down with their coffee and Wallander received their condolences for Svedberg's death. After that, it was his turn to say something. As usual he had forgotten to bring the piece of paper he'd scribbled some notes on. But it didn't really matter. He knew what he wanted to tell them: that they had a lead. They had identified the killer. Things were picking up, there were new developments.

"This whole matter is very unfortunate," the national chief said when Wallander finished. "A policeman and some i

It was clear that he was extremely anxious.

"No society will ever be free of lunatics," the minister said. "Mass murders happen in democracies and dictatorships the world over."

"And lunatics don't act according to a predictable pattern," Wallander added. "They can't be easily categorised. They plan their deeds carefully, often appearing from nowhere, with no previous criminal record."

"Community policing," the national chief said. "That's where it has to start."

Wallander didn't quite understand the link between lunatics and community policing but he said nothing. The minister asked Thurnberg some questions, then it was over. As they were about to leave for lunch, the national chief noticed that some papers were missing from his briefcase.

"I have a temporary secretary right now," he said glumly. "I never know where anything is. I hardly have time to learn their names before they leave again."

As they toured the station, the minister of justice fell in beside Wallander.

"I heard someone's filed charges against you. Is there anything to it?"

"I'm not concerned about it," Wallander said. "The man was trespassing at the scene of a murder investigation. There was no assault involved."

"I didn't think so," she said encouragingly.

Once they had returned to the reception area, the national chief asked Wallander the same question.

"The timing is very unfortunate," he said.

"It's always unfortunate," Wallander said. "But I have to give you the same answer that I gave the minister. The allegations of an assault are unfounded."

"Then what was it?"

"A man who was trespassing on the scene of a police investigation."

"It's important for the police to maintain a good relationship with the public and the media."

"Once this case is completed, I'll issue a statement to the papers," Wallander said.

"I'd like to see that before it goes to press," the national chief said.

Wallander promised to oblige. He declined to accompany them to lunch, and stopped by Höglund's office instead. It was empty. He returned to his own office and sat down at his desk. The germ of an idea was dancing somewhere deep in his mind, but he couldn't quite catch it. Was it something the minister had said? The national chief? It was gone.

At 2 p.m., Saint Mary's Cathedral by the main square was full of people. Wallander was one of the pallbearers. The coffin was white and simply adorned with roses. They carried it into the church.

Wallander searched the crowd for a man's face, although he wasn't expecting Louis to be there. He didn't see him. But Bror Sundelius was there. Wallander greeted him. Sundelius asked him how the investigation was proceeding.

"We've had a breakthrough," Wallander replied. "That's all I can tell you."

"Just be sure you get him," Sundelius said.

Svedberg's murder had obviously shaken him. Wallander wondered if Sundelius knew what Svedberg had known. Did he feel the same fear? He must talk to him again as soon as possible.

Wallander sat in the front row of the cathedral with a sense of dread in his stomach. Dread at the idea of his own a

It was towards the end of the service, right before the processional, when Wallander finally seized the thought that had been skirting the edges of his consciousness. The national chief had said something while rifling through his papers, something about temporary employees who came and went and whose names one never learned before they were gone. At first he didn't know why this comment had stayed with him, but then he suddenly saw the co

It was past 5 p.m. when Wallander was able to return home and take off his tight uniform. He called the postal depot, but no one answered. Before trying to reach Albinsson, he showered and changed, found a pair of glasses and looked in the phone book. Kjell Albinsson lived in Rydsgård. He dialled the number and Albinsson's wife answered. Her husband was playing football for the post office team. She didn't know where the game was being played, but she promised she would have him return Wallander's call.

Wallander heated up tomato soup and ate some slices of crisp bread, then lay on his bed, exhausted despite his good night's sleep. The funeral had tired him out. He was woken by the phone at 7.30 p.m. It was Kjell Albinsson.

"How was the game?" Wallander asked.

"Not so good. We were playing a slaughterhouse team. They have some good players. But it was only a pre-season game. The regular season doesn't start for a while."

"It's a great way to stay in shape."

"Or get your bones broken."

Wallander decided to launch straight into his question. "There was one thing I forgot to ask you the other day. I take it you sometimes employ substitute postal workers."

"That's right. Both short-term and long-term."

"Who do you normally use?"

"We prefer to use people with experience, and we've been pretty lucky. With today's unemployment, we have many to choose from. There are two people who do most of our substituting. One is a woman called Lena Stivell. She had a permanent position, but chose to go to part-time and then to occasional work."

"Is the other one also a woman?"

"No, he's a man called Åke Larstam. He used to be an engineer, but he retrained."

"To become a postal worker?"

"It's not as strange as it sounds. The hours are good and you meet a lot of people."

"Is he working at the moment?"

"He subbed for someone about a week ago. I'm not sure what he's up right now."

"Is there anything else you can tell me about him?"

"He's a very private person, but conscientious. I think he's about 44 years old, and he lives here in Ystad – at number 18, Harmonigatan, if I'm not mistaken."

Wallander thought for a moment. "And these substitutes might be placed on any of your routes?"

"It's supposed to work that way. You never know when someone's going to come down with a cold."

"Which route was Larstam working on last time?"

"The district to the west of Ystad."

Wrong again, Wallander thought. Neither the nature reserve nor Nybrostrand lay to the west.

"Thanks, that's all I wanted to know," he said. "I appreciate you taking the time to call me back."