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answering machine came on. Neither Linda nor her flatmates were at home. The message was repeated in English. Wallander said who he was and that it wasn't important. He put the phone down and stared at his coffee. It was cold. I can't keep living like this, he thought, irritatedly. I'm only 50 years old, but I feel ancient and weak.
He knew he should go for an evening walk and tried desperately to think of an excuse. Finally he put on his trainers and headed out.
It was 8.30 p.m. when he returned. The walk had cleared his mind and his spirits had lifted.
The phone rang and Wallander thought it must be Linda. But it was Martinsson.
"Lundberg has died. They just called from the hospital."
Wallander said nothing.
"That means Hökberg and Persson have committed murder."
"I know," Wallander said. "And we have one hell of a mess on our hands."
They agreed to meet at eight the next morning. There was nothing more to say.
Wallander stayed in front of the television and watched a news programme, his mind elsewhere. The dollar had gained more ground against the krona. The only story that managed to grab his attention was the story on the insurance company Trustor. It seemed bewilderingly simple these days to drain the resources of an entire corporation without anyone catching on until it was too late.
Linda didn't call. Wallander went to bed at 11 p.m. It took him a long time to fall asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE
Wallander woke up with a sore throat a little after 6 a.m. on Tuesday, October 7. He was sweating and he knew that he was coming down with flu. He stayed in bed for a while and debated whether or not he should remain at home, but the thought of Johan Lundberg's having died drove him up. He showered, made himself coffee and swallowed some pills to lower his fever. He tucked the bottle of pills into his pocket. Before leaving, he forced himself to eat a bowl of yoghurt. The street lamp outside the kitchen window was swaying in the gusty wind. It was overcast and only two degrees above freezing. Wallander rummaged on his shelves for a warm sweater. He wondered whether he should call Linda, but it was too early. When he reached the street he thought of the list of things he had to do, which he had left on the kitchen table. There was something he had been planning to buy today, but he couldn't remember what it was, and he didn't have the energy to go back and get it.
He took the usual route to the station. Each time he drove this way he felt guilty. He should be walking to work, to keep his blood sugar at a healthy level. Even today, he wasn't so weak from the flu that he couldn't have walked.
He parked and was on his way through reception as the clock was striking seven. As he sat down at his desk he remembered what he meant to buy. Soap. He wrote it down. Then he turned his concentration to the case.
Some of the unpleasant feelings from the day before returned. He recalled Hökberg's lack of emotion. He tried to persuade himself that she had in fact manifested some inkling of human feeling, and that he had just not been able to pick up on it. But to no avail. His experience in these matters told him that he had not been wrong. He got up and went to get a cup of coffee from the canteen. He stopped at Martinsson's office since he, too, was an early riser. The door was open. Wallander couldn't imagine how Martinsson could work with an open door. For Wallander a closed door was a must if he was going to focus on something.
"I thought you'd be here," Martinsson said, when he saw Wallander in the doorway.
"I don't feel so good today," Wallander said.
"A cold?"
"I always get a sore throat in October."
Martinsson, who was forever worrying about getting ill, pulled his chair back a few inches.
"You could have stayed at home," he said. "This wretched Lundberg case is solved already."
"Only partially," Wallander said. "We don't have a motive yet. I don't believe the line that they needed extra money for nothing in particular. Have you found the