His father put the painting down and took a deep breath.

'Why aren't you in uniform?' he asked, without a greeting. 'Aren't you a cop any more?'

'I'm off work today.'

'I thought policemen were always on duty. To save us from all evil.'

Wallander managed to control his anger.

'Why are you wearing a winter coat?' he asked instead. 'It's twenty degrees Celsius.'

'That's possible,' his father answered, 'but I keep myself healthy by sweating as much as I can. You should too.'

'You can't wear a winter coat in the summertime.'

'Then you'll just have to get sick.'

'But I'm never sick.'

'Not yet. It'll come.'

'Have you even seen what you look like?'

'I don't spend my time looking at myself in the mirror.'

'You can't wear a winter cap in June.'

'Just try to take it from me if you dare. Then I will report you for assault. I take it you were there and beat up those protesters?'

Not him too, Wallander thought. It's not possible. He's never been interested in politics, even when I have tried to discuss it with him sometimes.

But Wallander was mistaken.

'Every reasonable person must distance himself from that war,' his father declared firmly.

'Every person also has to do his job,' Wallander said with strained calm.

'You know what I told you. You never should have become a policeman. But you didn't listen. And now see what you are doing. Beating innocent little children over the head with a stick.'

'I haven't hit a single person in my entire life,' Wallander answered, suddenly full of rage. 'And anyway, we don't use sticks, we use batons. Where are you going with that painting?'

'I'm going to swap it for a humidifier.'

'Why do you need a humidifier?'

'I'm going to swap it for a new mattress. The one I have now is terrible. It makes my back hurt.'

Wallander knew his father was involved in unusual transactions that often involved many stages before the thing he needed finally ended up in his hands.