"Where is he?"
LundStrom pointed to a door in the background.
"What'll happen now?" Wallander asked.
"You can take him home. I'm afraid he'll be charged with causing an affray. Unless you can sort it out with the man he punched and the shop assistant. I'll have a word with the prosecutor and do what I can."
He handed Wallander a piece of paper with two names and addresses on it.
"I don't think the fellow in the shop will give you any difficulty," he said. "I know him. The other man, Sten Wickberg, could be a bit of a problem. He owns a firm of haulage contractors. Lives in Kivik. He seems to have made up his mind to come down on your poor father from a great height. You could try calling him. The number's there. And Simrishamn Taxis are owed 230 kronor. In all the confusion, he never got round to paying. The driver's name is Waldemar Kage. I've had a word with him. He knows he'll get his money."
Wallander took the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket. Then he motioned towards the door behind him.
"How is he?"
"I think he's simmered down. But he still insists he had every right to defend himself."
"Defend himself?" Wallander said. "But he was the one who started it all."
"Well, he feels he had a right to defend his place in the queue," LundStrom said.
"For Christ's sake!"
LundStrom stood up. "You can take him home now," he said. "By the way, what's this I hear about your car going up in flames?"
"There could have been something wrong with the electrics," Wallander said. "Anyway, it was an old banger."
"I'll disappear for a few minutes," LundStrom said. "The door locks itself when you close it."
"Thanks for your help," Wallander said.
"What help?" LundStrom said, putting on his cap and going out.
Wallander knocked and opened the door. His father was sitting on a bench in the bare room, cleaning his fingernails with a nail. When he saw who it was, he rose to his feet and was clearly annoyed.
"You took your time," he said. "How long did you intend making me wait here?"
"I came as quickly as I could," Wallander said. "Let's go home now."
"Not until I've paid for the taxi," his father said. "I want to do the right thing."
"We'll sort that out later."
They left the police station and drove home in silence. Wallander could see that his father had already forgotten what had happened. It wasn't until they reached the turning to Glimmingehus that Wallander turned to him.
"What happened to Anton and the Pole?" he asked.
"Do you remember them?" his father asked in surprise.
"There was a fight on that occasion as well," Wallander said with a sigh.
"I thought you would have forgotten about that," his father said. "I don't know what became of the Pole. It's getting on for 20 years since I last heard of him. He had gone over to something he thought would be more profitable. Pornographic magazines. I don't know how he got on. But Anton's dead. Drank himself to death. That must be nearly 25 years ago."
"What were you doing at the off-licence?" Wallander asked.
"What you normally do there," his father said. "I wanted to buy some brandy."
"I thought you didn't like brandy."
"My wife enjoys a glass in the evening."
"Gertrud drinks brandy?"
"Why shouldn't she? Don't start thinking you can tell her what to do and what not to do, like you've been trying to do to me."
Wallander could not believe his ears. "I've never tried to tell you what to do," he said angrily. "If anybody's been trying to tell somebody else what to do, it's been you telling me."
"If you'd listened to me you'd never have joined the police force," his father said. "And in view of what's happened these last few years, that would have been to your advantage, of course."
Wallander realised the best he could do was to change the subject. "It was a good job you weren't injured," he said.
"You have to preserve your dignity," his father said. "And your place in the queue. Otherwise they walk all over you."
"I am afraid you might be charged."
"I shall deny it."
"Deny what? Everybody knows it was you who started the fight. There's no way you can deny it."
"All I did was preserve my dignity," his father said. "Do they put you in prison for that nowadays?"
"You won't go to prison," Wallander said. "You might have to pay damages, though."
"I shall refuse," his father said.
"I'll pay them," Wallander said. "You punched another customer on the nose. That sort of thing gets punished."
"You have to preserve your dignity."
Wallander gave up. Shortly afterwards they turned into his father's drive.
"Don't mention this to Gertrud," his father said as he got out of the car. Wallander was surprised by his insistent tone.
"I won't say a word."
Gertrud and his father had married the year before. She had started to work for him when he had begun to show signs of senility. She introduced a new dimension into his solitary life - she had visited him three days a week - and there had been a big change in his father, who no longer seemed to be senile. She was 30 years his junior, but that apparently did not matter to either of them. Wallander was aghast at the thought of their marrying, but he had discovered that she was good-hearted and determined to go through with it. He did not know much about her, beyond the fact that she was local, had two grown-up children and had been divorced for years. They seemed to have found happiness together, and Wallander had often felt a degree of jealousy. His own life seemed to be so miserable and was getting worse all the time so that what he needed was a home help for himself.
Gertrud was preparing the evening meal when they went in. As always, she was delighted to welcome him. He apologised for not being able to join them for supper, blaming pressure of work. Instead, he went with his father to the studio, where they drank a cup of coffee which they made on the filthy hotplate.
"I saw one of your pictures on a wall in Helsingborg the other night," Wallander said.
"There've been quite a few over the years," his father said.
"How many have you made?"
"I could work it out if I wanted to," his father said. "But I don't."
"It must be thousands."
"I'd rather not think about it. It would be inviting the Reaper into the parlour."
The comment surprised Wallander. He had never heard him refer to his age, never mind his death. It struck him that he had no idea how frightened his father might be of dying. After all these years, I know nothing at all about my father, he thought. And he probably knows equally little about me.
His father was peering at him short-sightedly.
"So, you're fit again, are you?" he said. "You've started work again. The last time you were here, before you went to that guest house at Skagen, you said you were going to pack it in as a police officer. You've changed your mind, have you?"
"Something happened," Wallander said. He would rather not get involved in a discussion about his job. They always ended up quarrelling.
"I gather you're a pretty good police officer," his father said suddenly.
"Who told you that?" Wallander said.
"Gertrud. They've been writing about you in the newspapers. I don't read them, but she claims they say you're a good police officer."
"Newspapers say all kinds of things."
"I'm only repeating what she says."
"What do you say?"
"That I tried to put you off joining, and I still think you should be doing something else."