Wallander was surprised by the man’s forthright statement.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” he said. “Please sit down. I’m afraid the chair’s a bit old. The left armrest keeps dropping off. Don’t worry about it.”

The man sat down on the chair.

He suddenly started sobbing, heart-broken, desperate.

Wallander remained standing at his desk, at a loss. Then he decided to wait.

The man in the visitor’s chair calmed down after a couple of minutes. He dried his eyes and blew his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Something must have happened to Louise, though. She would never go away of her own accord.”

“Cup of coffee?” asked Wallander. “Maybe we can get a pastry or something as well.”

“No thank you,” said Robert Akerblom.

Wallander nodded and took a notebook out of one of the desk drawers. He used regular note pads he bought himself at the local bookstore, with his own money. He’d never managed to get around to coping with the flood of printed report forms the Central Police Authority used to overwhelm the force with. He’d occasionally thought of writing a letter to Swedish Policeman proposing that whoever drew up the forms should be presented with printed replies.

“You’d better start by giving me your personal details,” said Wallander.

“My name’s Robert Akerblom,” the man said. “I run Akerblom’s Real Estate with my wife.”

Wallander nodded as he wrote. He knew the offices were close to the Saga cinema.

“We have two children,” Robert Akerblom went on, “ages four and seven. Two girls. We live in a row house, 19 Akarvagen. I was born in this town. My wife comes from Ronneby.”

He broke off, took a photo out of his inside pocket, and put it on the desk in front of Wallander. It was a woman; she looked like any other woman. She was smiling at the photographer, and Wallander could see it was taken in a studio. He contemplated her face and decided it was somehow or other just right for Robert Akerblom’s wife.