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recognised the two newspaper reporters. One was a young woman who worked for Ystad Recorder , the other an older man from Labour News .
    “It looks like a film shoot,” said the woman, pointing at the floodlights in the charred field.
    “It’s not,” said Wallander.
    He told them what had happened. A woman had died in a fire. There was no suspicion of criminal activity. Since they still didn’t know who she was, he didn’t want to say anything more at this time.
    “Can we take some pictures?” asked the man from Labour News .
    “You can take as many pictures as you like,” replied Wallander. “But you’ll have to take them from here. No-one is allowed to go into the field.”
    The reporters drove off in their cars. Wallander was about to return to the kitchen when he saw one of the technicians working out in the field waving to him. Wallander went over. It was Sven Nyberg, the surly but brilliant head of forensics. They stopped at the edge of the area covered by the floodlights. A slight breeze came wafting from the sea across the field. Wallander tried to avoid looking at the body, with its upstretched arms.
    “I think we’ve found something,” said Nyberg.
    In his hand he had a little plastic bag. He handed it to Wallander, who moved under one of the floodlights. In the bag was a gold necklace with a tiny pendant.
    “It has an inscription,” said Nyberg. “The letters ‘D.M.S.’ and it’s a picture of the Madonna.”
    “Why didn’t it melt?” asked Wallander.
    “A fire in a field doesn’t generate enough heat to melt jewellery,” Nyberg replied. He sounded tired.
    “This is exactly what we needed,” said Wallander.
    “We’ll be ready to take her away soon,” said Nyberg, nodding towards the black hearse waiting at the edge of the field.
    “How does it look?” Wallander asked cautiously.
    Nyberg shrugged.
    “The teeth should tell us something. The pathologists are excellent. They can find out how old she was. With DNA technology they can also tell you whether she was born in this country of Swedish parents or if she came from somewhere else.”
    “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” said Wallander.
    “No thanks,” said Nyberg. “I’ll be done here pretty soon. In the morning we’ll go over the entire field. Since there was no crime it can wait until then.”
    Wallander went back to the house. He laid the plastic bag containing the necklace on the kitchen table.
    “Now we have something to go on,” he said. “A pendant, a Madonna. Inscribed with the initials ‘D.M.S.’ I suggest you all go home now. I’ll stay here a while longer.”
    “We’ll meet at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” said Hansson, getting up.
    “I wonder who she was,” said Martinsson. “The Swedish summertime is too beautiful and too brief for something like this to happen.”
    They parted in the yard. Höglund lingered behind.
    “I’m thankful I didn’t have to see it,” she said. “I think I understand what you’re going through.”
    “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
    When the cars had gone he sat down on the steps of the house. The floodlights shone as if over a bleak stage on which a play was being performed, with him the only spectator.
    The wind had started to blow. They were still waiting for the warmth of summer. The night air was cold, and Wallander realised that he was freezing sitting there on the steps. How intensely he longed for the summer heat. He hoped it would come soon.
    After a while he got up and went inside the house and washed the coffee cups.

CHAPTER 4
    Wallander gave a start. Someone was trying to tear off one of his feet. When he opened his eyes he saw that his foot was caught in the broken bed frame. He turned over onto his side to free it. Then he lay still. The dawn light filtered through the crookedly drawn shade. He looked at the clock on the beside table. It was 4.30 a.m. He had hardly slept, and he was very tired. He found himself back out in the field again.