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voice and wondered if the man sitting opposite him had the slightest idea of what police work in the field entailed, what horrific experiences it could involve.
    “About twenty years ago you were apprehended by some of your colleagues for driving under the influence. They hushed it up, and nothing came of it. But you must understand that I wonder if you do in fact have an alcohol problem that you have been keeping under wraps, and which has now led to a most unfortunate consequence.”
    Wallander remembered that occasion all too well. He had been in Malmö and had dinner with Mona. It was after their divorce, at a time when he still imagined he would be able to persuade her to come back to him. They had ended up arguing, and he had seen her being picked up outside the restaurant by a man he didn’t recognize. He was so jealous and upset that he took leave of his senses and drove home, instead of getting a hotel room or sleeping in the car. His colleagues brought him back to his apartment and parked his car there, and he heard nothing more about it. One of the officers who had arrested him that night was now dead; the other had retired. But evidently rumors were still buzzing around the station. That surprised him.
    “I’m not denying that. But as you said yourself, it was twenty years ago. And I assure you, I don’t have an alcohol problem. If I choose to eat out one night in the middle of the week, I can’t see why that should be anybody’s business but my own.”
    “I will have to take the necessary steps. Since you are due some vacation time and are not involved in a serious investigation at the moment, I suggest you take a week off. There will have to be an internal investigation, of course. That’s all I can say at the moment.”
    Wallander stood up. Mattson remained seated.
    “Is there anything you’d like to add?” he asked.
    “No,” said Wallander. “I’ll do what you suggest. I’ll take time off and go home.”
    “It would be best if you left your gun here.”
    “I’m not an idiot,” said Wallander. “Irrespective of what you think.”
    Wallander went back to his office and fetched his jacket. Then he left the police station via the garage and drove home. It occurred to him that he might still have alcohol in his blood after yesterday’s gallivanting, but since things couldn’t get any worse than they were, he kept on going. A strong northeasterly wind had blown up. Wallander shuddered as he walked from the car to his front door. Jussi was leaping around inside his kennel, but Wallander didn’t have the strength even to think about taking him for a walk. He undressed, lay down, and went to sleep. By the time he woke up it was twelve o’clock. He lay there motionless, his eyes open, and listened to the wind battering the house walls.
    The feeling that something wasn’t as it should be had started nagging at him again. A shadow had descended over his existence. How had he not even missed the gun when he woke up? It was as if somebody else had been acting in his stead, and then had switched off his memory so that he wouldn’t know what had happened.
    He got up, dressed, and tried to eat, although he still felt sick. He was very tempted to pour himself a glass of wine, but he resisted. He was doing the dishes when Linda called.
    “I’m on my way,” she said. “I’m just checking that you’re at home.”
    She hung up before he had chance to say a single word. She arrived twenty minutes later, carrying her sleeping baby. Linda sat down opposite her father on the brown leather sofa he had bought the year they moved to Ystad. The baby was asleep on a chair next to her. Kurt wanted to talk about her but Linda shook her head. Later, but not now; first things first.
    “I heard what happened,” she said. “But even so, I feel as if I don’t know anything about it.”
    “Did Martinsson call?”
    “Yes, right after he spoke to you. He was very unhappy about it all.”
    “Not as unhappy as I