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the knot that interests me."
Wallander gave him a searching look. "What knot?"
"The knot on the noose."
"What about it?"
"It's unusual. I've never seen a knot like it."
    "Have you ever seen a noose before?" interrupted Hansson, who was standing in the doorway, itching to leave.
    "Yes, I have," replied Rydberg. "We'll see what this knot can tell us."
    Wallander knew that Rydberg didn't want to say more. But if the knot interested him, it might be important.
    "I'm driving back out to see the neighbours tomorrow morning," said Wallander. "Has anyone tracked down the Lövgrens' children yet, by the way?"
"Martinsson is working on it," said Hansson.
    "I thought Martinsson was at the hospital," said Wallander, surprised.
"He traded with Svedberg."
"So where the hell is he now?"
    No-one knew where Martinsson was. Wallander called the switchboard and found out that he had left an hour earlier.
"Call him at home," said Wallander. Then he looked at his watch.
    "We'll meet again in the morning at ten o'clock," he said. "Thanks for coming, see you then."
    Everyone else had left by the time the switchboard connected him with Martinsson.
"Sorry," said Martinsson. "I forgot we had a meeting."
"How are you getting on with the children?"
"Damned if Rickard doesn't have chicken pox."
"I mean the Lövgrens' children. The two daughters."
    Martinsson sounded surprised when he answered. "Didn't you get my message?"
"I didn't get any message."
"I gave it to one of the girls at the switchboard."
"I'll take a look. But tell me first."
    "One daughter, who's 50, lives in Canada. Winnipeg, wherever that is. I completely forgot that it was the middle of the night over there when I called. She refused to believe what I was saying. It didn't sink in until her husband came to the phone. He's a policeman, by the way. A genuine
    Canadian Mountie. I'm going to call them back tomorrow. But she's flying over, of course. The other daughter was harder to reach, even though she lives in Sweden. She's 47, the manager of the buffet at the Ruby Hotel in Goteborg. Evidently she's away coaching a handball team in Skien, in Norway. But they promised that they'd get word to her. I gave the switchboard a list of the Lövgrens' other relatives. There are lots of them. Most of them live in Skåne. Some of them will probably call tomorrow when they see the story in the papers."
    "Good work," said Wallander. "Can you relieve me at the hospital tomorrow morning at six? If she doesn't die by then."
    "I'll be there," said Martinsson. "But is it such a good idea for you to take that shift?" "Why not?"
    "You're the one heading the investigation. You ought to get some sleep."
    "I can handle it for one night," replied Wallander and hung up.
    He sat completely still and stared into space. Are we going to get to the bottom of this? he thought. Or do they already have too much of a head start? He put on his overcoat, turned off the desk lamp, and left his office. The corridor leading to the reception area was deserted. He stuck his head in the glass cubicle where the operator on duty sat leafing through a magazine. He noticed that it was a form guide. Was everyone playing the horses these days?
    "Martinsson should have left some papers for me," he said.
    The operator, who was named Ebba and had been with the police department for more than 30 years, gave a friendly nod and pointed at the counter.
    "We have a girl here from the youth employment bureau," she said, smiling. "Sweet and nice but completely incompetent. Maybe she forgot to give them to you."
    Wallander nodded. "I'm leaving now," he said. "I'll probably be home in a couple of hours. If anything happens before then, call me at my father's place."
"You're thinking of poor Mrs Lövgren," said Ebba.
Wallander nodded.
"It's terrible."
    "Yes, it is," said Wallander. "Sometimes I wonder what's happening to this country"
    When he went out through the glass doors of the police station the wind hit him in the face. It was cold and