Firewall Read Free

been aware of.
He returned to the car. I should avoid deserted beaches in the autumn, he thought. They make me depressed. He had taken refuge once in a remote part of northern Jylland. He had been on sick leave due to depression and thought he would never go back to his work as a police officer in Ystad again. It was many years ago, but he could recall in terrifying detail how he had felt then. He never wanted to experience it again. That bleak and blustery landscape had seemed to awaken his deepest anxieties.
He got back into the car and drove on to Malmö. He wondered what the coming winter was going to be like, if there would be much snow or if it would simply rain. He also wondered what he was going to do during the week of leave he was due in November. He had discussed with Linda taking a charter flight to somewhere warmer. It would be his treat. But she was still in Stockholm, studying something – he didn't know what – and said she really couldn't get away. He had tried to think of someone else he could go with, but he had practically no friends. There was Sten Widén, who raised horses on a stud farm outside Ystad, but Wallander was not sure he would be such a good travel companion. Widén drank like a fish, and Wallander was struggling to keep his own once considerable alcohol consumption to a minimum. He could ask Gertrud, his father's widow. But what would they talk about for a whole week? There was no-one else.
He would stay at home and use the money towards a new car. The Peugeot was getting old. It had started to sound pretty odd.
He was in the suburb of Rosengård soon after 10 a.m. The funeral was at 11.00. The church was a modern building. Nearby some boys were bouncing a football off a concrete wall. There were seven of them, three black. Another three also looked as though they might have immigrant parents. The last one had freckles and unruly blond hair. The boys were kicking the ball around with enthusiasm and a great deal of laughter. For a second Wallander felt an overwhelming urge to join them, but he stayed where he was. A man walked out of the church and lit a cigarette. Wallander got out of the car and approached him.
"Is this where Stefan Fredman's funeral is going to be held?" he said.
The man nodded. "Are you a relative?"
"No."
"I didn't think there would be very many people here," the man said. "I take it you know what he did."
"Yes, I know."
The man looked down at his cigarette. "Someone like him is better off dead."
Wallander felt himself get angry. "Stefan wasn't even 18 years old. Someone that young is never better off dead." He realised he was shouting.
The smoker looked at him with curiosity. Wallander shook his head angrily and turned away. At that moment the hearse drove up. The brown coffin was unloaded. There was only a single wreath on it. He should have brought flowers himself.
Wallander walked over to the boys who were still playing football. "Any of you know of a flower shop around here?" he said.
One of the boys pointed into the distance.
Wallander took out his wallet and held up a hundred-kronor note. "Run over and buy me some flowers," he said. "Roses. And hurry back. I'll give you ten kronor for your trouble."
The boy looked at him wide-eyed, but took the money.
"I'm a police officer," Wallander said. "A dangerous police officer. If you make off with the money I'll find you."
The boy shook his head. "Then why aren't you wearing a uniform?" he asked in broken Swedish. "You don't look like a policeman. Not a dangerous one, anyway."
Wallander got out his police badge and showed it to him. The boy studied it for a while, then nodded and set off. The others resumed their game.
There's a good chance he won't be back, Wallander thought gloomily. It's been a long time since civilians had any respect for the police.
But the boy returned with the roses as promised. Wallander gave him 20 kronor, the ten he'd promised him and ten for actually coming back. He knew he was being overly