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Henander had bought the property, Legshult 2:19, from Ludvig Hansson, who was listed as a widower and the sole owner. The purchase price had been 29,000 kronor, and this time the transaction was arranged by the Skurup Savings Bank.
    Wallander noted it all down. Another few years were now accounted for. He had gone back in time fifty-three years from 2002. He smiled to himself. When LudvigHansson had sold his farm to Gustav Valfrid Henander, Wallander was a little boy, still living in Limhamn. He had no memories from that time.
    He carried on searching. Martinson had finished his call and was now whistling to himself. Wallander thought it was something Barbra Streisand had sung. Maybe “Woman in Love.” Martinson was a good whistler. Wallander looked at some more documents, but there were none that went back further in time. Ludvig Hansson had left the property in 1949. The desk drawer contained no more answers to questions about what had happened before then.
    He searched the rest of the room without finding anything of interest. Not even in a corner cupboard or a secretary.
    Martinson came in, sat down in a chair and yawned. Wallander told him what he had found, but Martinson shook his head when he handed over the papers.
    “I don’t need to look. Ludvig Hansson. That name means nothing to me.”
    “We’ll carry on looking via the land register,” said Wallander. “Tomorrow. But at least we now have a sort of outline covering the last fifty years or so. Have you found anything?”
    “No. A few photo albums. But nothing that throws any light on that woman.”
    Wallander closed the file containing all the documents relevant to the property.
    “We must talk to the neighbors,” he said. “The closest ones, at least. Do you know if Karl Eriksson was especially friendly with any of them?”
    “If anybody, I suppose it would be the people in that pink house on the left just after you turn into the side road. There’s an old milking stool standing outside it.”
    Wallander knew which house and milking stool Martinson was referring to. He also had a vague memory of someone there once buying one of his father’s paintings. He couldn’t remember if it had been one with or without a great grouse.
    “There’s an old lady there called Elin,” said Martinson. “Elin Trulsson. She’s been to visit Karl a few times—but she’s also old. Maybe not quite as senile as he is, though.”
    Wallander stood up.
    “Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 11
    Linda surprised Wallander by having dinner ready when he came back home. Although it was an ordinary weekday he was tempted to open a bottle of wine—but if he did Linda would only start stirring up trouble, so he didn’t. Instead he told her about the return visit he and Martinson had made in Löderup.
    “Did you find anything?”
    “I now have an overall view of who owned the property over the past fifty years. But, of course, it’s too early to say whether that knowledge will prove to be useful to us.”
    “I spoke to Stefan. He hadn’t discovered any missing woman who might fit in the picture.”
    “I didn’t expect he would.”
    They ate in silence. It was only when they came to the coffee that they resumed talking.
    “You could have bought the house,” she said. “You could have lived there until the day you died without knowing that there was a cemetery in your garden; lived there for the rest of your life without knowing that every summer you walked around in your bare feet on grass that was growing over a grave.”
    “I keep thinking about that hand,” he said. “Something had caused it to come up to the surface. Obviously, if you have a tendency to believe in ghosts you might well think that the hand was sticking up on purpose in order to attract the attention of a visiting police officer.”
    Their conversation was interrupted by a call to Linda’s cell phone. She answered, listened, then hung up.
    “That was Stefan.