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haven’t got that far yet,” said Martinsson. “But I was planning to stay late this evening.”
    “We’re trying to make an identification,” said Wallander. “We’re not searching for a fugitive.”
    “There’s no-one at home tonight anyway,” said Martinsson. “I don’t like going back to an empty house.”
    Wallander left Martinsson and looked in on Höglund’s room, which was empty. He went back down the hall to the operations centre, where the emergency alerts and phone calls were received. Höglund was sitting at a table with a senior officer, going through a pile of papers.
    “Any leads?” he asked.
    “We’ve got a couple of tip-offs we have to look into more closely,” she said. “One is a girl from Tomelilla Folk College who’s been missing for two days.”
    “Our girl was 163 centimetres tall,” said Wallander. “She had perfect teeth. She was between 15 and 17 years old.”
    “That young?” she asked in amazement.
    “Yep,” said Wallander. “That young.”
    “Then it’s not the girl from Tomelilla, anyway,” said Höglund, putting down the paper in her hand. “She’s 23 and tall.”
    She searched through the stack of papers for a moment.
    “Here’s another one,” she said. “A 16-year-old girl named Mari Lippmansson. She lives here in Ystad and works in a bakery. She’s been missing from her job for three days. It was the baker who called. He was furious. Her parents evidently don’t care about her at all.”
    “Take a look at her,” Wallander said encouragingly. But he knew she wasn’t the one.
    He got a cup of coffee and went to his room. The folder on the car thefts was still lying on the floor. He’d better turn the case over to Svedberg now. He hoped no serious crimes would be committed before he started his holiday.
    Later that afternoon they met in the conference room. Nyberg was back from the farm, where he had finished his search. It was a short meeting. Hansson had excused himself because he had to read an urgent memo from national headquarters.
    “Let’s be brief,” said Wallander. “Tomorrow we’ll go over all the cases that can’t wait.”
    He turned to Nyberg, sitting at the end of the table.
    “How’d it go with the dog?” he asked.
    “He didn’t find a thing,” Nyberg replied. “If there was ever anything to give him a scent, it was covered up by the odour of petrol.”
    Wallander thought for a moment.
    “You found five melted petrol containers,” he said. “That means that she must have come to Salomonsson’s field in some sort of vehicle. She couldn’t have carried all that petrol by herself. Unless she walked there several times. There’s one more possibility, of course. That she didn’t come alone. But that doesn’t seem reasonable, to say the least. Who would help a young girl commit suicide?”
    “We could try to trace the petrol containers,” said Nyberg dubiously. “But is it really necessary?”
    “As long as we don’t know who she was, we have to trace her by any leads we have,” Wallander replied. “She must have come from somewhere, somehow.”
    “Did anyone look in Salomonsson’s barn?” asked Höglund. “Maybe the petrol containers came from there.”
    Wallander nodded.
    “Someone had better drive out there and check,” he said.
    Höglund volunteered.
    “We’ll have to wait for Martinsson’s results,” Wallander said, winding up the meeting. “And the pathologists’ work in Malmö. They’re going to give us an exact age tomorrow.”
    “And the gold medallion?” asked Svedberg.
    “We’ll wait until we have some idea of what the letters on it might mean,” said Wallander.
    He suddenly realised something he had completely overlooked earlier. Behind the dead girl there were other people. Who would mourn her. Who would forever see her running like a living flare in their heads, in a totally different way from him. The fire would stay with them like scars. It would gradually fade away from him like