“Can you get so brown in Italy in September?” she asked in surprise.
“You can,” Wallander answered, “if you stay in the sun.”
They walked down the hall. Wallander realised he should have brought Ebba a little something. He was annoyed at his thoughtlessness.
“Everything’s calm here,” Martinsson said. “No serious cases. Almost nothing going on.”
“Maybe we can hope for a calm autumn,” Wallander said dubiously.
Martinsson went to get coffee. Wallander opened the door to his office. Everything was just as he’d left it. The desk top was empty. He hung up his jacket and opened the window a crack. In the in-tray was a stack of memos from the national police board. He picked up the top one, glanced at it and put it back. It was about the investigation into car smuggling from southern Sweden to the former Eastern bloc countries that he’d been working on for almost a year now. If nothing significant had happened while he’d been away, he’d have to go back to that investigation. He’d probably still be working on that case when he retired in 15 years.
At 8.30 a.m. all the officers gathered in the conference room to go over the work for the coming week. Wallander walked around the table, shaking hands with everyone. They all admired his tan. Then he sat down in his usual place. The mood was normal for a Monday morning in the autumn: grey and weary, everyone a little preoccupied. He wondered how many Monday mornings he had spent in this room. As Lisa Holgersson, their new chief, was in Stockholm, Hansson led the meeting. Martinsson was right. Not much had happened.
“I’ll have to go back to my smugglers,” Wallander said, with no attempt to conceal his reluctance.
“Unless you want to take on a burglary,” Hansson said encouragingly. “At a florist’s shop.”
Wallander looked at him in surprise.
“A break-in at a florist’s? What did they steal, tulip bulbs?”
“Nothing, as far as we can tell,” Svedberg said, scratching his balding head.
At that moment the door opened and Ann-Britt Hoglund hurried in. Since her husband seemed always to be overseas in a far-off country that no-one had heard of, she was mostly alone with their two children. Her mornings were chaotic, and she was frequently late to the meetings. She had been with the Ystad police for about a year now and was their youngest detective. At first, some of the older ones, among them Svedberg and Hansson, had done nothing to disguise their discomfort at having a female colleague. But Wallander, who quickly saw that she had real aptitude for police work, had come to her defence. Now no-one commented when she was late, at least not when he was there. She sat down and nodded cheerfully to Wallander.
“We’re talking about the florist’s,” Hansson said. “We thought Kurt might be able to take a look at it.”
“The break-in happened last Thursday night,” she said. “The assistant discovered it when she came in on Friday morning. The burglar came in through a back window.”
“And nothing was stolen?” asked Wallander.
“Not a thing.”
Wallander frowned.
“What do you mean, not a thing?”
Hoglund shrugged.
“Not a thing means not a thing.”
“There were traces of blood on the floor,” Svedberg said. “And the owner is away.”
“Sounds very strange,” Wallander said. “Is it really worth spending time on?”
“Strange, yes,” Hoglund answered. “Whether it’s worth spending time on, I can’t say.”
Wallander thought fleetingly that at least he’d avoid getting back to the hopeless smuggling investigation. He’d give himself a day to get used to not being in Rome.
“I could take a look,” he said.
“I’ve got all the information on it,” said Hoglund.
The meeting was over. Wallander went and got his jacket, and he and Hoglund drove to the centre of town in his car. It was still raining.
“How was your trip?” she asked.
“I saw the Sistine Chapel,” Wallander replied, as he stared out at the rain. “And I got to see my father in a good mood for a whole week.”
“Sounds like a nice trip.”
“So how are things here?” Wallander asked.
“Nothing changes in a week,” she replied. “It’s been quiet.”
“And our new chief?”
“She’s been in Stockholm discussing the proposed cutbacks. I think she’ll be fine. At least as good as Bjork.”
Wallander shot her a quick look.
“I never thought you liked him.”
“He did the best he could. What more can you expect?”
“Nothing,” Wallander said. “Absolutely nothing.”
They stopped at Vastra Vallgatan, at the corner of Pottmakargrand. The shop was called Cymbia. Its sign was swinging in the blustery wind. They stayed in the car. Hoglund gave Wallander some papers in a plastic folder. He looked at them as he listened.
“The owner is Gosta Runfeldt. His assistant arrived just before 9 a.m. on Friday. She found a broken window at the back of the shop. There were shards of glass both outside on the ground and inside. There was blood on the floor inside. Nothing seems to have been stolen. They never keep cash in the shop at night. She called the police immediately. I got here just after 10 a.m. It was just as she had described it. A broken window. Blood on the floor. Nothing stolen.”
Wallander thought for a moment.
“Not a single flower?” he asked.
“That’s what the assistant claimed.”
“Could anyone really remember the exact number of flowers they have in each vase?”
He handed back the papers.
“We can always ask her,” Hoglund said. “The shop’s open.”
An old-fashioned bell jingled as Wallander opened the door. The scents inside the shop reminded him of the gardens in Rome. There were no customers. A woman came out from the back room. She nodded when she saw them.
“I’ve brought along my colleague,” Hoglund said.
Wallander shook hands and introduced himself.
“I’ve read about you in the newspapers,” said the woman.
“Nothing derogatory, I hope.” Wallander smiled.
“Oh no,” the woman replied. “Only good things.”
Wallander had seen in the file that the woman who worked in the shop was named Vanja Andersson and that she was 53 years old.
Wallander moved slowly around the shop. From old, ingrained habit he watched carefully where he stepped. The humid fragrance of flowers continued to fill his mind with memories. He went behind the counter and stopped at the back door, the top half of which was glass. The putty was new. This was where the burglar had entered. Wallander looked at the floor, which was covered with plastic mats.
“I presume the blood was found here,” he said.
“No,” said Hoglund. “The traces of blood were in the storeroom at the back.”
Wallander raised his eyebrows in surprise. Then he followed her into the back among the flowers. Hoglund stood in the middle of the room.
“Here,” she said. “Right here.”
“But none by the window?”
“No. Now do you understand why I think it’s a little strange? Why is there blood in here, but not by the window? If we assume that whoever broke the window cut himself, that is.”
“Who else would it be?” asked Wallander.
“That’s just it. Who else would it be?”
Wallander went through the shop again, trying to picture what had happened. Someone had smashed the window and let himself into the shop. There was blood in the middle of the back room. Nothing had been stolen.
Every crime follows some kind of plan or reason, except those that are simply acts of insanity. He knew this from years of experience. But who would be so mad as to break into a florist’s shop and not steal anything? It just didn’t make sense.
“I presume it was drops of blood,” he said.
To his surprise, Hoglund shook her head.
“It was a little puddle,” she said. “Not drops.”
Wallander said nothing. He had nothing to say. Then he turned to the shop assistant, who was standing in the background, waiting.