“Sorry to hear about the burglary,” she said. “Did they really take all your records?”

“They left me a few 78s. I thought I might listen to them tonight. If I can get hold of a wind-up gramophone.”

“It’s awful.”

“That’s the way it goes. What do you want?”

“There’s a man out here who insists on talking to you.”

“What about?”

“About some missing person or other.”

Wallander looked at the stack of case notes on his desk.

“Can’t Svedberg look after him?”

“Svedberg’s out hunting.”

“He’s what?”

“I don’t quite know what to call it. He’s out looking for a young bull that broke out of a field at Marsvinsholm. It’s running around on the E14- freeway, playing havoc with the traffic.”

“Surely the traffic cops can deal with that? Why should one of our men have to get involved?”

“It was Bjork who sent Svedberg.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Shall I send him in to you, then? The man who wants to report a missing person?”

Wallander nodded into the phone.

“All right,” he said.

The knock on his door a few minutes later was so discreet, Wallander was not sure at first whether he’d heard anything at all. When he shouted “Come in,” however, the door opened right away.

Wallander had always been convinced the first impression a person makes is crucial.

The man who entered Wallander’s office was not at all conspicuous. Wallander guessed he was about thirty-five with a dark brown suit, close-cropped blond hair, and glasses.

Wallander immediately noticed something else as well.

The man was obviously worried. Wallander was clearly not the only one with a sleepless night behind him.

He got to his feet and offered his hand.

“Kurt Wallander. Detective Inspector Wallander.”

“My name is Robert Akerblom,” said the man. “My wife has disappeared.”