The same evening he had taken a trip across the sound, and on the way back from Copenhagen he wound up sitting next to a girl who was knitting. Her name was Mona.
Wallander walked through the city lost in thought. Wondered what Mona and her friend were doing right now. Then he thought about what had happened the week before. The demonstrations that had got out of hand. Or had he failed to judge the situation correctly? Wallander had been part of a hastily assembled reinforcement group told to stay in the background until needed. It was only when the chaos broke out that they had been called in. Which in turn only served to make the situation more turbulent.
The only person Wallander had actually tried to discuss politics with was his father. His father was sixty years old and had just decided to move out to Österlen. He was a volatile person whose moods Wallander found hard to predict. Not least since his father once became so upset he almost disowned his son. This had happened a few years ago when Wallander came home and told his father he was going to be a policeman. His father was sitting in his studio, which always smelled of oil paints and coffee. He had thrown a brush at Wallander and told him to go away and never come back. He had no intention of tolerating a policeman in the family. A violent quarrel had broken out. But Wallander had stood his ground, he was going to join the police, and all the projectile paintbrushes in the world couldn't change that. Suddenly the quarrelling stopped: his father retreated into acrimonious silence and returned to sit in front of his easel. Then he stubbornly started to outline the shape of a grouse, with the help of a model. He always chose the same motif, a wooded landscape, which he varied sometimes by adding a grouse.
Wallander frowned as he thought of his father. Strictly speaking they had never come to any reconciliation. But now they were on speaking terms again. Wallander had often wondered how his mother, who had died while he was training to be a policeman, could put up with her husband. Wallander's sister, Kristina, had been smart enough to leave home as soon as she was able and now lived in Stockholm.
The time was ten o'clock. Only a faint breeze fanned Malmö's streets. Wallander walked into a cafe next to the NK department store. He ordered a cup of coffee and a sandwich, skimmed through the newspapers Arbetet and Sydsvenskan. There were letters to the editor in both newspapers from people who either praised or criticised the actions of the police in connection with the protests. Wallander quickly flipped past them. He didn't have the energy to read about it. Soon he was hoping not to have to assume any more duties with the riot police. He was going to be a criminal investigator. He had been clear on that from the start and had never made any secret of it. In only a few months he would work in one of the departments that investigated violent incidents and even more serious crimes.
Suddenly someone was standing in front of him. Wallander was holding his coffee cup in his hand. He looked up. It was a girl with long hair, about seventeen. She was very pale and was staring at him with fury. Then she leaned forward so her hair fell over her face and pointed to the back of her neck.
'Here,' she said. 'This is where you hit me.'
Wallander put down his cup. He didn't understand anything.
She had straightened back up.
'I don't think I really understand what you mean,' Wallander said.
'You're a cop, aren't you?'
'Yes.'
'And you were there fighting during the demonstration?'
Wallander finally got it. She had recognised him even though he was not in uniform.
'I didn't hit anybody,' he answered.
'Does it really matter who was holding the baton? You were there. Therefore you were fighting against us.'
'You did not comply with the regulations regarding public demonstrations,' Wallander said and heard how inadequate the words sounded.
'I really hate the police,' she said. 'I was going to have a cup of coffee here, but now I'm going somewhere else.'
Then she was gone. The waitress behind the counter gave Wallander a stern look. As if he had cost her a guest.
Wallander paid and walked out. The sandwich was left half eaten. The incident with the girl had left him considerably shaken. As if he were wearing his uniform after all, not these dark blue pants, light shirt and green jacket.
I have to get away from the streets, he thought. Into an office, into case-review meetings, crime scenes. No more protests for me. Or I'll have to take sick leave.
He started to walk faster. Considered whether or not he should take the bus to Rosengård. But he decided he needed the exercise – and also to be invisible and not bump into anyone he knew.
But naturally he ran into his father outside the People's Park. He was weighed down by one of his paintings, wrapped in brown paper. Wallander, who had been walking with his head down, spotted him too late to make himself invisible. His father was wearing a strange cap and a heavy coat, underneath which he had on some kind of tracksuit and trainers without socks.
Wallander groaned to himself. He looks like a tramp, he thought. Why can't he at least dress properly?
His father put the painting down and took a deep breath.
'Why aren't you in uniform?' he asked, without a greeting. 'Aren't you a cop any more?'
'I'm off work today.'
'I thought policemen were always on duty. To save us from all evil.'
Wallander managed to control his anger.
'Why are you wearing a winter coat?' he asked instead. 'It's twenty degrees Celsius.'
'That's possible,' his father answered, 'but I keep myself healthy by sweating as much as I can. You should too.'
'You can't wear a winter coat in the summertime.'
'Then you'll just have to get sick.'
'But I'm never sick.'
'Not yet. It'll come.'
'Have you even seen what you look like?'
'I don't spend my time looking at myself in the mirror.'
'You can't wear a winter cap in June.'
'Just try to take it from me if you dare. Then I will report you for assault. I take it you were there and beat up those protesters?'
Not him too, Wallander thought. It's not possible. He's never been interested in politics, even when I have tried to discuss it with him sometimes.
But Wallander was mistaken.
'Every reasonable person must distance himself from that war,' his father declared firmly.
'Every person also has to do his job,' Wallander said with strained calm.
'You know what I told you. You never should have become a policeman. But you didn't listen. And now see what you are doing. Beating innocent little children over the head with a stick.'
'I haven't hit a single person in my entire life,' Wallander answered, suddenly full of rage. 'And anyway, we don't use sticks, we use batons. Where are you going with that painting?'
'I'm going to swap it for a humidifier.'
'Why do you need a humidifier?'
'I'm going to swap it for a new mattress. The one I have now is terrible. It makes my back hurt.'
Wallander knew his father was involved in unusual transactions that often involved many stages before the thing he needed finally ended up in his hands.
'Do you want me to help you?' Wallander asked.
'I don't need any police protection. You could, however, come over some night and play cards.'
'I will,' Wallander said, 'when I have time.'
Playing cards, he thought. It is the last lifeline there is between us.
His father lifted up the painting.
'Why do I never get any grandchildren?' he asked.