She suddenly felt uneasy.

Where had he come from? Why hadn’t she heard him? The courtyard was graveled. Had he crept up on her?

She took a step toward him and tried to sound normal.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said. “I’m a real estate agent, and I’m lost. I just wanted to ask my way.”

The man did not answer.

Maybe he’s not Swedish, she thought. Maybe he couldn’t understand what she was saying. There was something strange about his appearance that made her think he could be a foreigner.

She suddenly knew she had to get away. The motionless man and his cold eyes were scaring her.

“I won’t disturb you any longer,” she said. “Sorry to intrude.”

She started to walk away but stopped in mid-stride. The motionless man had suddenly come to life. He took something out of his jacket pocket. At first she couldn’t see what it was. Then she realized it was a pistol.

Slowly, he raised the gun and pointed it at her head.

Good God, she managed to think.

Good God, please help me. He’s going to kill me.

Good God, help me.

It was a quarter to four in the afternoon of April 24, 1992.

Chapter Two

When Detective Chief Inspector Kurt Wallander arrived at the police station in Ystad on Monday morning, April 27, The was furious. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such a bad mood. His anger had even left its traces on his face, a band-aid on one cheek where he cut himself shaving.

He muttered a reply to colleagues who said good morning. When he got to his office, he slammed the door behind him, took the phone off its hook, and sat staring out the window.

Kurt Wallander was forty-four years old. He was considered a proficient cop, persistent and occasionally astute. That morning, though, he felt only anger and an increasingly bad temper. Sunday had been one of those days he would have preferred to forget all about.