“Martinson here. How can I help you?”

“It’s Wallander. You’d better get your ass over here.”

“Where? To your office? I thought you were off today?”

“I’m at home. Get out here.”

Martinson evidently realized it must be serious. He asked no more questions.

“OK,” he said. “I’m on my way ”

The rest of Sunday was spent doing a technical investigation of the apartment and writing a case report. Martinson, one of the younger cops Wallander worked with, was sometimes careless and impulsive. All the same, Wallander liked working with him, not least because he often proved to be surprisingly perceptive. When Martinson and the police technician had left, Wallander did a very provisional repair job on the door.

He spent most of the night lying awake, thinking about how he’d beat the shit out of the thieves if he ever laid hands on them. When he could no longer bear to torture himself thinking about the loss of all his discs, he lay there worrying about what to do with his father, feeling more and more resigned to it all.

At dawn he got up, brewed some coffee and looked for his home insurance documents. He sat at his kitchen table going through the papers, getting increasingly annoyed at the insurance company’s incomprehensible jargon. In the end he flung the papers to one side and went to shave. When he cut himself, he considered calling the station and telling them he was sick, then going back to bed with the cover over his head. But the thought of being in his apartment without even being able to listen to a CD was too much for him.

Now it was half past seven in the morning and he was sitting in his office with the door closed. With a groan, he forced himself to become a policeman again, and replaced the phone.

It rang immediately. It was Ebba, the receptionist.