She had straightened back up.

'I don't think I really understand what you mean,' Wallander said.

'You're a cop, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'And you were there fighting during the demonstration?'

Wallander finally got it. She had recognised him even though he was not in uniform.

'I didn't hit anybody,' he answered.

'Does it really matter who was holding the baton? You were there. Therefore you were fighting against us.'

'You did not comply with the regulations regarding public demonstrations,' Wallander said and heard how inadequate the words sounded.

'I really hate the police,' she said. 'I was going to have a cup of coffee here, but now I'm going somewhere else.'

Then she was gone. The waitress behind the counter gave Wallander a stern look. As if he had cost her a guest.

Wallander paid and walked out. The sandwich was left half eaten. The incident with the girl had left him considerably shaken. As if he were wearing his uniform after all, not these dark blue pants, light shirt and green jacket.

I have to get away from the streets, he thought. Into an office, into case-review meetings, crime scenes. No more protests for me. Or I'll have to take sick leave.

He started to walk faster. Considered whether or not he should take the bus to Rosengård. But he decided he needed the exercise – and also to be invisible and not bump into anyone he knew.

But naturally he ran into his father outside the People's Park. He was weighed down by one of his paintings, wrapped in brown paper. Wallander, who had been walking with his head down, spotted him too late to make himself invisible. His father was wearing a strange cap and a heavy coat, underneath which he had on some kind of tracksuit and trainers without socks.

Wallander groaned to himself. He looks like a tramp, he thought. Why can't he at least dress properly?