"Lars Borman," he said eventually. "Does that name mean anything to you?"
The response was a complete surprise. "Poor man," Forsdahl said.
"A very sad story," his wife said. "Why are the police interested in him now?"
"So you know who he is?" Wallander said. He saw that Hoglund had produced a notebook from her handbag.
"Such a nice man," Forsdahl said. "Calm, quiet. Always friendly, always polite. They don't make them like him any more."
"We'd very much like to get in touch with him," Wallander said.
Forsdahl exchanged looks with his wife. Wallander had the impression they were ill at ease.
"Lars Borman's dead," Forsdahl said. "I thought the police knew that."
Wallander thought for a while before answering. "We know next to nothing about Borman," he said. "All we do know is that last year he wrote two letters, and one of them was in one of your hotel's envelopes. We wanted to get in touch with him. Obviously that isn't possible now. But we'd like to know what happened. And who he was."
"A regular customer," Forsdahl said. "He stayed with us about every four months for many years. Usually two or three nights."
"What was his line of work? Where was he from?"
"He worked at the County Offices," Mrs Forsdahl said. "Something to do with finance."
"An accountant," Forsdahl said. "A very conscientious and honest civil servant at the Malmohus County Offices."
"He lived in Klagshamn," his wife added. "He had a wife and children. It was a terrible tragedy."
"What happened?" Wallander said.
"He committed suicide," Forsdahl said. Wallander could see it pained him to revive the memory. "If there was one person we'd never have expected to take his own life it was Lars Borman. Evidently he had some kind of secret we never imagined."
"What happened?" Wallander asked again.
"He'd been in Helsingborg," Forsdahl said. "It was a few days before we closed down. He did whatever he had to do during the day and spent the evenings in his room. He would read a lot. That last morning he paid his bill and checked out. He promised to keep in touch even though the hotel was closing. Then he drove away. A few weeks later we heard that he'd hanged himself in a clearing outside Klagshamn, a few kilometres from his house. There was no explanation, no letter to his wife and children. It came as a shock to us all."
Wallander nodded slowly. He had grown up in Klagshamn, and wondered which clearing it was Borman had hanged himself in. Perhaps it was somewhere he had played as a child?
"How old was he?"
"He'd passed 50, but he can't have been much more," Mrs Forsdahl said.
"So he lived in Klagshamn," Wallander said, "and worked as an accountant at the County Offices. It strikes me as being a bit odd, staying in a hotel. It's not that far between Malmo and Helsingborg."
"He didn't like driving," Forsdahl said. "Besides, I think he enjoyed it here. He could shut himself away in his room in the evening and read his books. We used to leave him in peace, and he appreciated that."
"You have his address in your ledgers, of course," Wallander said.
"We heard his wife had sold the house and moved," Mrs Forsdahl said. "She couldn't cope with staying there after what had happened. And his children are grown up."
"Do you know where she moved to?"
"To Spain. Marbella, I think it's called."
Wallander looked at Hoglund, who was making copious notes.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question now?" Forsdahl said. "Why are the police interested in Borman so long after his death?"
"It's pure routine," Wallander said. "I'm afraid I can't tell you more than that. Except that there's no question of his being suspected of any crime."
"He was an honest man," Forsdahl insisted. "He thought people ought to lead a simple life and always do the right thing. We talked quite a lot over the years. He would always get angry when we touched on the dishonesty that seems to be common nowadays in society."
"Was there really no explanation as to why he had committed suicide?" Wallander asked.
Both Forsdahl and his wife shook their heads.
"OK," Wallander said. "Just one more thing. We'd like to take a look at the record books for the final year, if you don't mind."
"They're in the basement," Forsdahl said, getting to his feet.
"Martinsson might ring," Hoglund said. "I'd better fetch the car phone."
Wallander gave her the keys and Mrs Forsdahl went with her. He heard her slamming the car door without the neighbour's dog starting to bark. When she returned they all went down into the basement. In a room that was surprisingly big for a basement was a long row of ledgers on a shelf running the whole length of one wall. There was also the old hotel sign, and a board with 17 room keys hanging on it. A museum, Wallander thought, how touching. This is where they hide their memories of a long working life. Memories of a little hotel that got to the point where it was viable no more.
Forsdahl took down the last of their ledgers and put it on a table. He looked up August, then the 26th, and pointed to one of the columns. Wallander and Hoglund leaned forward to examine it. Wallander recognised the handwriting. He also thought the letter had been written by the same pen as Borman used when he signed the register. He was born on October 12, 1939, and described himself as a County Offices accountant. Hoglund noted his address in Klagshamn: Mejramsvagen 23. Wallander did not recognise the street name. It was probably one of the housing estates that had sprung up after he had left. He turned back to the records for June, and found Borman's name there again, on the day that the first of the letters had been posted.
"Do you understand any of this?" Hoglund said, quietly.
"Not a lot," Wallander said.
The mobile phone rang, and Wallander nodded to indicate she should answer it. She sat down on a stool and started writing down what Martinsson had to say. Wallander closed the ledger and watched Forsdahl return it to its place. When the call was finished they went back upstairs, and on the way Wallander asked what Martinsson had said.
"It was the Audi," she said. "We can talk about it later."
Wallander and Hoglund prepared to leave.
"I am sorry for it being so late," Wallander said. "Sometimes the police can't wait."
"I hope we've been of some help," Forsdahl said. "Even though it's painful to be reminded of poor old Lars Borman."
"I understand how you feel," Wallander said. "If you should remember anything else, please phone the Ystad police."
"What else is there to remember?" asked Forsdahl, in surprise.
"I don't know what it might be," Wallander said, shaking hands.
They left the house and got into the car. Wallander switched on the inside light. Hoglund had taken out her notebook.
"I was right," she said, looking at Wallander. "It was the white Audi. The number didn't fit the car. The registration plate had been stolen. It should have been on a Nissan that hasn't even been sold yet. It's registered with a showroom in Malmo."
"And the other cars?"
"All in order."
Wallander started the engine. It was 11.30, and there was no sign of the wind dropping. They drove out of town. There was not much traffic on the motorway. And there were no cars behind them.
"Are you tired?" Wallander said.
"No," she replied.
"In that case let's stop for a while," he said. He drove into a 24-hour petrol station with a cafe attached just south of Helsingborg. "We can have a little late-night conference, just you and me, and see if we can work out how far we got this evening. We can also see what other cars stop. The only one we don't need to bother about is a white Audi."
"Why so?"
"If they do come back they'll be using a different car," Wallander said. "Whoever they are, they know what they're doing. They won't appear twice in the same car."