hunting."
"He's what?"
"I don't quite know what to call it. He's out looking for a young bull that broke out of a field at Marsvinsholm. It's cantering around on the E14, playing havoc with the traffic."
"Surely the traffic people can deal with that? Why should one of our men have to get involved?"
"It was Bjork who sent Svedberg."
"Oh, my God!"
"Shall I send him in, then? The man who wants to report a missing person?"
"All right," Wallander said.
The knock on his door a few minutes later was so discreet, Wallander wasn't sure at first whether he'd heard anything at all. When he shouted "Come in", however, the door opened right away.
Wallander had always been convinced the first impression a person makes is crucial. The man who entered Wallander's office was in no way remarkable. Wallander guessed he was about 35, he was wearing a dark brown suit, he had close-cropped blond hair, and glasses.
Wallander noticed something else as well. The man was obviously worried. Wallander was not the only one with a sleepless night behind him. He got to his feet and offered his hand. "Kurt Wallander. Inspector Wallander."
"My name is Robert Akerblom," the man said. "My wife has disappeared."
Wallander was surprised by the man's forthright statement. "Please sit down. I'm afraid the chair's a bit old. The left armrest keeps dropping off. Don't worry about it," he said. "Let's start from the beginning."
The man sat down on the chair. Then he started sobbing, heart-broken, desperate.
Wallander remained standing behind his desk, at a loss.
The man in the visitor's chair calmed down after a couple of minutes. He dried his eyes and blew his nose. "I'm sorry," he said. "Something must have happened to Louise, though. She would never go away of her own accord."
"Can I get you a cup of tea?" Wallander said. "Maybe we can get a pastry or something as well."
"No, thank you," Akerblom said.
Wallander nodded and took a notebook out of one of the desk drawers. He used regular note pads he bought himself at the local book shop. He'd never managed to cope with the flood of printed report forms the Central Police Authority used to overwhelm the force with. He'd sometimes thought of writing to Swedish Policeman proposing that whoever invented the forms should be presented with pre-printed responses.
"You'd better start by giving me your personal details," Wallander said.
"My name is Robert Akerblom," the man said. "I run Akerblom's Estate Agency with my wife."
Wallander nodded as he wrote. He knew the offices, close to the Saga cinema.
"We have two children, four and seven. Two girls. We live in a terrace house, 19 Akarvagen. I was born in this town. My wife comes from Ronneby."
He broke off, took a photograph out of his inside pocket, and put it on the desk in front of Wallander. It was of a woman; she looked like any other woman. She was smiling at the photographer, and Wallander could see it was taken in a studio. He contemplated her face and decided it was somehow or other just right for Robert Akerblom's wife.
"That photograph was taken only three months ago," Akerblom said. "That's exactly what she looks like."
"And she's disappeared, has she?"
"Last Friday she was at the Savings Bank in Skurup, clinching a house sale. Then she was going to look at a house somebody was putting on the market. I spent the afternoon with our accountant, at his office. I stopped in at the office in Ystad on my way home. She'd left a message on the answering machine saying she'd be home by 5.00. She said it was 3.15 when she called. That's the last we know."
Wallander frowned. Mrs Akerblom had been gone two-and-a-half days, with two small children waiting for her at home. He felt instinctively that this was no routine disappearance. Most people who went missing came back sooner or later, and a natural explanation would emerge. It was common enough for people to go away for a few days, even a week, and forget to tell anybody. On the other hand, he
"He's what?"
"I don't quite know what to call it. He's out looking for a young bull that broke out of a field at Marsvinsholm. It's cantering around on the E14, playing havoc with the traffic."
"Surely the traffic people can deal with that? Why should one of our men have to get involved?"
"It was Bjork who sent Svedberg."
"Oh, my God!"
"Shall I send him in, then? The man who wants to report a missing person?"
"All right," Wallander said.
The knock on his door a few minutes later was so discreet, Wallander wasn't sure at first whether he'd heard anything at all. When he shouted "Come in", however, the door opened right away.
Wallander had always been convinced the first impression a person makes is crucial. The man who entered Wallander's office was in no way remarkable. Wallander guessed he was about 35, he was wearing a dark brown suit, he had close-cropped blond hair, and glasses.
Wallander noticed something else as well. The man was obviously worried. Wallander was not the only one with a sleepless night behind him. He got to his feet and offered his hand. "Kurt Wallander. Inspector Wallander."
"My name is Robert Akerblom," the man said. "My wife has disappeared."
Wallander was surprised by the man's forthright statement. "Please sit down. I'm afraid the chair's a bit old. The left armrest keeps dropping off. Don't worry about it," he said. "Let's start from the beginning."
The man sat down on the chair. Then he started sobbing, heart-broken, desperate.
Wallander remained standing behind his desk, at a loss.
The man in the visitor's chair calmed down after a couple of minutes. He dried his eyes and blew his nose. "I'm sorry," he said. "Something must have happened to Louise, though. She would never go away of her own accord."
"Can I get you a cup of tea?" Wallander said. "Maybe we can get a pastry or something as well."
"No, thank you," Akerblom said.
Wallander nodded and took a notebook out of one of the desk drawers. He used regular note pads he bought himself at the local book shop. He'd never managed to cope with the flood of printed report forms the Central Police Authority used to overwhelm the force with. He'd sometimes thought of writing to Swedish Policeman proposing that whoever invented the forms should be presented with pre-printed responses.
"You'd better start by giving me your personal details," Wallander said.
"My name is Robert Akerblom," the man said. "I run Akerblom's Estate Agency with my wife."
Wallander nodded as he wrote. He knew the offices, close to the Saga cinema.
"We have two children, four and seven. Two girls. We live in a terrace house, 19 Akarvagen. I was born in this town. My wife comes from Ronneby."
He broke off, took a photograph out of his inside pocket, and put it on the desk in front of Wallander. It was of a woman; she looked like any other woman. She was smiling at the photographer, and Wallander could see it was taken in a studio. He contemplated her face and decided it was somehow or other just right for Robert Akerblom's wife.
"That photograph was taken only three months ago," Akerblom said. "That's exactly what she looks like."
"And she's disappeared, has she?"
"Last Friday she was at the Savings Bank in Skurup, clinching a house sale. Then she was going to look at a house somebody was putting on the market. I spent the afternoon with our accountant, at his office. I stopped in at the office in Ystad on my way home. She'd left a message on the answering machine saying she'd be home by 5.00. She said it was 3.15 when she called. That's the last we know."
Wallander frowned. Mrs Akerblom had been gone two-and-a-half days, with two small children waiting for her at home. He felt instinctively that this was no routine disappearance. Most people who went missing came back sooner or later, and a natural explanation would emerge. It was common enough for people to go away for a few days, even a week, and forget to tell anybody. On the other hand, he
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