"We have to cast a wide net. In a couple of hours we're going to release the news of Svedberg's death, and then we'll really have to move."
"This will take top priority, of course," Holgersson said. "Everything else can wait."
"The press conference," Wallander said. "Let's take care of that right now."
"A police officer has been murdered," Holgersson said. "We'll tell them exactly what happened. Do we have any leads?"
"No." Wallander's answer was firm.
"Then that's what we'll say."
"How detailed should we get?"
"He was shot at close range. We have the murder weapon. Is there any reason to withhold that information?"
"Not really," Wallander said, and he looked around the table. No one had any objections.
Holgersson got up. "I'd like you to be there," she said. "Maybe all of you should be there. After all, a colleague and friend has been killed."
They decided to meet 15 minutes before the press conference.
Holgersson left. The candle went out when the door closed. Höglund lit it again. They went through what they knew one more time and divided up the work at hand. They were returning to work mode. They were just about to stop when Martinsson raised one more issue.
"We should probably decide now if the young people should be left aside for now or not."
Wallander felt unsure. But he knew it was up to him.
"We'll put it aside for now," he said. "At least for the next few days. Then we'll revisit it, unless of course Svedberg was asking some extraordinary questions."
It was 9.15 a.m. Wallander got a cup of coffee and went into his office. He got out a pad of paper and wrote a single word at the top of the first page: Svedberg. Underneath it he drew a cross that he immediately scratched out. He didn't get any further. He had been meaning to write down all the thoughts that had come to him during the night. But he put down the pen and walked to the window. The August morning was sunny and warm. The thought that there was something not quite right about this case returned. Nyberg felt there was something arranged about the murder scene. If so, then why, and by whom?
He looked for Sture Björklund's number in the phone book and dialled it. The phone rang several times.
"Please accept my condolences," Wallander said, when the man answered.
Sture Björklund's voice sounded strained and distant.
"Likewise. You probably knew my cousin better than I did. Ylva called me at 6 a.m. this morning to tell me what had happened."
"Unfortunately this will make headlines in the papers," Wallander said.
"I know. As it happens it's the second murder case in our family."
"Really?"
"Yes, in 1847, or more precisely on 12 April 1847, a man who was Karl Evert's great-great-great-great-uncle was killed with an axe somewhere on the outskirts of Eslöv. The murderer was a soldier by the name of Brun, who had been given a dishonourable discharge from the army for a number of reasons. The murder was simply a matter of money. Our ancestor was a cattle man and fairly wealthy."
"What happened?" Wallander asked, trying to hide his impatience.
"The police, which I guess consisted of a sheriff and his assistant, made heroic efforts and arrested Brun on his way to Denmark a few days later. He was sentenced to death and executed. When Oscar I became king he took on the business of processing death sentences blocked by his predecessor, Charles XV. As many as 14 prisoners were executed as soon as he came to power. Brun was beheaded, somewhere in the vicinity of Malmö."
"What a strange story."
"I did some research into our ancestry a couple of years ago. Of course the case of Brun and the murder in Eslöv was already known."
"If it's all right with you, I'd like to come out to see you as soon as possible."
Sture Björklund immediately put up his guard.
"What about?"
"We're trying to clarify our picture of Karl Evert." It felt unnatural to use his first name.
"I didn't know him very well, though, and I have to go to Copenhagen this
"This will take top priority, of course," Holgersson said. "Everything else can wait."
"The press conference," Wallander said. "Let's take care of that right now."
"A police officer has been murdered," Holgersson said. "We'll tell them exactly what happened. Do we have any leads?"
"No." Wallander's answer was firm.
"Then that's what we'll say."
"How detailed should we get?"
"He was shot at close range. We have the murder weapon. Is there any reason to withhold that information?"
"Not really," Wallander said, and he looked around the table. No one had any objections.
Holgersson got up. "I'd like you to be there," she said. "Maybe all of you should be there. After all, a colleague and friend has been killed."
They decided to meet 15 minutes before the press conference.
Holgersson left. The candle went out when the door closed. Höglund lit it again. They went through what they knew one more time and divided up the work at hand. They were returning to work mode. They were just about to stop when Martinsson raised one more issue.
"We should probably decide now if the young people should be left aside for now or not."
Wallander felt unsure. But he knew it was up to him.
"We'll put it aside for now," he said. "At least for the next few days. Then we'll revisit it, unless of course Svedberg was asking some extraordinary questions."
It was 9.15 a.m. Wallander got a cup of coffee and went into his office. He got out a pad of paper and wrote a single word at the top of the first page: Svedberg. Underneath it he drew a cross that he immediately scratched out. He didn't get any further. He had been meaning to write down all the thoughts that had come to him during the night. But he put down the pen and walked to the window. The August morning was sunny and warm. The thought that there was something not quite right about this case returned. Nyberg felt there was something arranged about the murder scene. If so, then why, and by whom?
He looked for Sture Björklund's number in the phone book and dialled it. The phone rang several times.
"Please accept my condolences," Wallander said, when the man answered.
Sture Björklund's voice sounded strained and distant.
"Likewise. You probably knew my cousin better than I did. Ylva called me at 6 a.m. this morning to tell me what had happened."
"Unfortunately this will make headlines in the papers," Wallander said.
"I know. As it happens it's the second murder case in our family."
"Really?"
"Yes, in 1847, or more precisely on 12 April 1847, a man who was Karl Evert's great-great-great-great-uncle was killed with an axe somewhere on the outskirts of Eslöv. The murderer was a soldier by the name of Brun, who had been given a dishonourable discharge from the army for a number of reasons. The murder was simply a matter of money. Our ancestor was a cattle man and fairly wealthy."
"What happened?" Wallander asked, trying to hide his impatience.
"The police, which I guess consisted of a sheriff and his assistant, made heroic efforts and arrested Brun on his way to Denmark a few days later. He was sentenced to death and executed. When Oscar I became king he took on the business of processing death sentences blocked by his predecessor, Charles XV. As many as 14 prisoners were executed as soon as he came to power. Brun was beheaded, somewhere in the vicinity of Malmö."
"What a strange story."
"I did some research into our ancestry a couple of years ago. Of course the case of Brun and the murder in Eslöv was already known."
"If it's all right with you, I'd like to come out to see you as soon as possible."
Sture Björklund immediately put up his guard.
"What about?"
"We're trying to clarify our picture of Karl Evert." It felt unnatural to use his first name.
"I didn't know him very well, though, and I have to go to Copenhagen this
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