Faceless Killers by Henning Mankell

refugee centres in the region. Besides the big refugee camp in Ystad, several smaller ones were scattered throughout the district.
    But what was there to prove that the threat actually had to do with a refugee camp in Ystad's police district? Nothing. The threat might equally be directed at a restaurant or a house. For instance, how many pizzerias were there in the Ystad area? Twelve? More?
    There was one thing he was quite sure of. The threat had to be taken seriously. In the past year there had been too many incidents that confirmed that these were well-organised factions that would not hesitate to resort to open violence against foreigners living in Sweden or refugees seeking asylum.
    He looked at his watch. It was 7.45 a.m. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of Rydberg's house. After ten rings he hung up. Rydberg was on his way.
Martinsson stuck his head around the door.
"Hello," he said. "What time is the meeting today?"
"Ten o'clock," said Wallander.
"Awful weather, isn't it?"
"As long as we don't get snow. I can live with the wind."
    While he waited for Rydberg, he looked for the note Sten Widén had given him. After Herdin's visit he realised that perhaps it wasn't so unusual for someone to have given the horse hay during the night. If the killers were among Johannes and Maria Lövgren's acquaintances, or even members of their family, they would naturally know about the horse. Maybe they also knew that Johannes Lövgren made a habit of going out to the stable in the night.
    Wallander had only a vague idea of what Widénwould be able to add. Maybe the real reason he had called him was to avoid losing touch with him. No-one answered, even though he let the phone ring for over a minute. He hung up and decided to try again a little later.
    He also had another phone call he wanted to make before Rydberg arrived. He dialled the number and waited.
    "Public prosecutor's office," a cheerful female voice answered.
"This is Kurt Wallander. Is Akeson there?"
"He's on leave of absence^ Did you forget?"
    He had forgotten. It had completely slipped his mind that public prosecutor Per Akeson was taking some university courses. And they had had dinner together as recently as the end of November.
    "I can connect you with his deputy, if you'd like," said the receptionist.
"Do that," said Wallander.
To his surprise a woman answered. "Anette Brolin."
"I'd like to talk with the prosecutor," said Wallander.
"Speaking," said the woman. "What is this about"
    Wallander realised that he hadn't introduced himself. He gave her his name and went on, "It's about this double murder. I think it's time we presented a report to the public prosecutor's office. I had forgotten that Per was on leave."
    "If you hadn't called this morning, I would have called you," said the woman.
    Wallander thought he detected a reproachful tone in her voice. Bitch, he thought. Are you going to teach me how the police are supposed to co-operate with the prosecutor's office?
    "We actually don't have much to tell you," he said, noticing that his voice sounded a little hostile. "Is an arrest imminent?" "No. I was thinking more of a short briefing." "All right," said the woman. "Shall we say eleven o'clock
    at my office? I've got a warrant application hearing at quarter past ten. I'll be back by eleven."
    "I might be a little late. We have a case meeting at ten. It might run on."
"Try to make it by eleven."
She hung up, and he sat there holding the receiver.
    Co-operation between the police and the prosecutor's office wasn't always easy. But Wallander had established an informal and confidential relationship with Per Akeson. They often called each other to ask advice. They seldom disagreed on when detention or release was justified.
    "Damn," he said out loud. "Anette Brolin, who the hell is she?"
    Just then he heard the unmistakable sound of Rydberg limping by in the corridor. He stuck his head out of the door and asked him to come in. Rydberg was dressed in an