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murder, if that was really what had come up to the surface in Löderup, was not something that could be allocated anything more than strictly limited resources.
    He had expected that answer, but was angry even so.
    “We’ll keep you informed,” he said. “We’ll just say for the moment what we know, and that we think perhaps we ought to make a thorough investigation. We’re not asking for much in the way of resources. At least, not until we receive more detailed reports from the Center for Forensic Medicine in Lund. And Nyberg’s report. After all, that’s the least we can do—find out who it is who’s been lying there buried for years. If we still want to call ourselves police officers.”
    Lisa Holgersson gave a start and glared sternly at him.
    “What did you mean by that last sentence?”
    “It’s the results of what we do that show we’re police officers. Not all those statistics we’re forced to spend time working out.”
    “Statistics?”
    “You know as well as I do that our ability to clear up crime is much too limited. Because we’re obliged to spend so much time messing around with unimportant paperwork.”
    Wallander could feel that he was on the verge of bursting into a fit of rage. But he managed to control himself sufficiently for Lisa Holgersson not to notice just how furious he actually was.
    Martinson saw through him, of course.
    Wallander stood up hastily.
    “We’ll go and take a look out there,” he said, trying hard to maintain a friendly tone. “Who knows what we might find?”
    He left the room and strode rapidly along the corridor. Martinson half ran behind him.
    “I thought you were going to burst,” said Martinson. “Not a good idea on a Monday in October as winter is approaching.”
    “You talk too much,” said Wallander. “Fetch your jacket—we’re going for a drive out into the sticks.”

CHAPTER 10
    When they arrived at the house in Löderup, nearly all the spotlights were switched off. The hole in which they had discovered the body was covered by a tarpaulin. A single police car was parked by the cordoned-off area; Nyberg and the other forensic officers had left. Wallander still had the house keys in his pocket. He handed them over to Martinson.
    “I’m not out viewing houses now,” he said. “These are your keys, so it’s up to you to open up.”
    “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” asked Martinson.
    He didn’t wait for an answer. They entered the house and switched on the lights.
    “Deeds,” said Wallander. “Documents that tell the storyof the house. Let’s devote some time to looking for those. Then we can wait until the forensic boys and the medical crowd have had their say.”
    “I asked Stefan to conduct a search through old reports on missing persons,” said Martinson. “Linda was going to help him.”
    Stefan Lindman had joined the Ystad police at about the same time as Linda. Wallander soon realized that Linda and Stefan were involved in some kind of relationship. When he tried to talk to her about it, he had got mainly evasive responses. Wallander liked Stefan Lindman. He was a good police officer. But he found it hard to reconcile himself to the thought that he had a daughter who no longer regarded him as the most important man in her life.
    They began their search at opposite ends of the house—Martinson in the bedroom and Wallander in what seemed to be a combination of drawing room and study.
    Once he was alone, Wallander stood absolutely still for a moment and allowed his gaze and his thoughts to wander around the room. Had there once been a woman here who for some reason or other had been murdered and then buried in the garden? Why had nobody missed her if this had been where she lived? What had happened in this house, and when? Twenty years ago? Fifty years ago? Perhaps a hundred years ago?
    Wallander started searching methodically. First withhis eyes. People always leave a lot of traces behind them. And he knew that