Wallander took out a pen and scribbled some notes on a paper napkin. He already had a long list of questions that needed answering. All the while, he was conducting a silent conversation with Rydberg. Am I on the right lines, have I overlooked anything? He tried to imagine Rydberg's answers and reactions. Sometimes he succeeded, but often all he could see was Rydberg's drawn, haggard face as he lay on his deathbed.

By 3.30 p.m. he was on his Way back to the station. He called Martinsson and Svedberg into his office, closed the door and instructed the switchboard to hold his calls.

"This isn't going to be easy," he began. "We can only hope the post-mortems and the forensic team's examination of the life-raft and the clothes come up with something. All the same, there are a few questions I'd like answered straight away."

Svedberg was leaning against the wall, notebook in hand. He was in his 40s and balding, born in Ystad, and rumour had it that he started feeling homesick the minute he left the town. He often gave the impression of being slow and lacking in interest, but he was thorough, and that was something Wallander appreciated. In many ways Martinsson was the opposite of Svedberg: he was coming up to 30, born in Trollhattan, and had set his sights early on a police career. He was also involved in Liberal Party politics, and according to what Wallander had heard, had a good chance of being elected to the local council in the autumn elections. As a police officer, Martinsson was impulsive and sometimes careless, but he often had good ideas and his ambition meant that he worked tirelessly when he thought he could see a solution to a problem.

"I want to know where this life-raft comes from," Wallander said. "When we know how long the two men have been dead, we'll have to try and work out which direction the boat came from, and how far it's drifted."