Firewall - By Henning Mankell & Ebba Segerberg Page 0,9

he would probably rather be doing something else. There had been times when he had seriously considered quitting, the worst one of which was set off by his daughter being attacked at school. The offenders maintained that it was for no other reason than that she was the daughter of a policeman. That had been enough to push him over the edge. But Wallander had eventually been able to talk him out of it. Martinsson's greatest strengths were that he was both stubborn and sharp. His stubbornness was sometimes overtaken by a certain impatience and then his sharp wits were not enough. Occasionally he turned in sloppy background work.

Martinsson leaned against the door frame. "I tried to ring you," he said, "but your mobile was turned off."

"I was in church," Wallander said. "I forgot to turn it on again."

"At Stefan's funeral?"

Wallander told Martinsson what he had told Höglund, that it was as grim as he could have imagined.

Martinsson gestured to the file on his table.

"I've read it," Wallander said. "And I still can't fathom what drove these girls to take a hammer and a knife and assault someone – anyone – like that."

"It says it right there," Martinsson said. "They needed the money."

"But why such violence? How is he, anyway?"

"Lundberg?"

"Who else?"

"He's still unconscious and on the critical list. They promised to call if there was any change. It doesn't look so good, though."

"Do you understand any of this?"

Martinsson sat down. "No," he said, "I certainly don't. And I'm not sure I want to."

"But we have to. If we're going to do our jobs, that is."

Martinsson looked at Wallander. "You know I've often thought about quitting. Last time you managed to talk me out of it. Next time it won't be as easy."

Wallander was worried. He didn't want to lose Martinsson as a colleague, any more than he wanted to see Höglund turn up in his office with her resignation. "Maybe we should go and talk to this Hökberg girl," he said.

"There's one more thing."

Wallander sat back in his chair. Martinsson had some papers in his hand.

"I want you to look at this. It happened last night. I was on duty and saw no reason to get you out of bed."

"Tell me."

Martinsson scratched his forehead. "A night patrolman called in at around 1 a.m., saying that there was a man lying dead in front of one of the cash machines outside a department store in the town."

"Which one?"

"The one next to the Inland Revenue."

Wallander nodded in recognition.

"We drove down to check it out. According to the doctor the man hadn't been dead long, a couple of hours at the outside. We'll have the autopsy report in a few days, of course."

"What had happened?"

"That's the question. He had an ugly wound on his head, but whether somebody hit him or whether he injured himself when falling to the ground, we couldn't tell."

"Had he been mugged?"

"His wallet was still there, with money in it."

Wallander thought for a moment. "No-one saw anything?"

"No."

"Who was he?"

Martinsson looked in his papers. "Name of Tynnes Falk. 47 years old and living nearby. He was renting the top-floor flat at 10 Apelbergsgatan."

Wallander raised his hand. "10 Apelbergsgatan?"

"That's right."

Wallander nodded slowly. A couple of years ago, soon after his divorce from Mona, he had met a woman during a night of dancing at the Hotel Saltsjöbaden. Wallander had been very drunk. He had gone home with her and woken up the next morning in a strange bed next to a woman he hardly recognised, whose name he couldn't remember. He had thrown his clothes on and left and never saw her again. For some reason, he was sure she had lived at 10 Apelbergsgatan.

"Do you recognise the address?" Martinsson said.

"I just didn't hear you."

Martinsson looked at him with surprise. "Was I mumbling?"

"Please go on."

"He was single, divorced actually. His ex-wife still lives here, but their children are all over the place. A boy of 19 is studying in Stockholm. The girl is 17 and works as a nanny at an embassy in Paris. The ex-wife has been notified."

"Where did he work?"

"He seems to have worked for himself. Some kind of computer consultant."

"And he wasn't robbed?"

"No, but he had just rung up his account balance at the cash machine before he died. He still had the slip in his hand when we found him."

"And he hadn't taken out any money?"

"The records say not."

"Strange. The most reasonable thing would be to assume that someone was waiting for him to withdraw money and