Wallander stood up.

“I’ll drive out to Skurup now,” he said. “Let’s get together at half past four and sort out what we know. We’d better start looking for her car right away.”

He put a piece of paper on Bjork’s desk.

“Toyota Corolla,” said Bjork. “I’ll see to that.”

Wallander drove from Ystad to Skurup. He needed some time to think, and chose the coastal route.

A wind was picking up. Jagged clouds were racing across the sky. He could see a ferry from Poland on its way into the harbor.

When he got as far as Mossby Beach, he drove down to the deserted parking lot and stopped by the boarded-up hamburger stand. He stayed in the car, thinking about the previous year when a rubber dinghy had drifted into land just here, with two dead men in it. He thought about Baiba Liepa, the woman he’d met in Riga. Interesting that he hadn’t managed to forget her, despite his best efforts.

A year ago, and he was still thinking about her all the time.

A murdered woman was the last thing he needed right now.

What he needed was peace and quiet.

He thought about his father getting married. About the burglary and all the music he’d lost. It felt as if someone had robbed him of an important part of his life.

He thought about his daughter, Linda, at college in Stockholm. He had the feeling he was losing touch with her.

It was too much, all at once.

He got out of the car, zipped up his jacket and walked down to the beach. The air was chilly, and he felt cold.

He went over in his mind what Robert Akerblom had said, tried various theories yet again. Could there be a natural explanation, despite everything? Could she have committed suicide? He thought of her voice on the telephone. Her eagerness.

Shortly before one Wallander left the beach and continued his way towards Skurup.