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Hell, he was bored. As he stretched and yawned for the seventeenth time that afternoon, it occurred to Officer Johan Svartman that he could have been sitting here all this time with his eyes closed for all the difference it made. In fact, he could have left a tailor's dummy in a police uniform in the car and taken the afternoon off and it would still have had exactly the same effect as him sitting here.
The road was completely empty. In the last four hours, the traffic had amounted to one tractor with a trailer full of hay – which had sprayed little bits of chaff all over Svartman's car – and three lots of tourists, two of whom had stopped at the juicery across the road before proceeding to the nearby lake and launching a couple of little sailing boats. A teenage boy had also cycled past some time later, making a rude gesture in Svartman's direction. During his career Svartman had known several police officers who would have leapt out of the car and had that boy pinned to the bonnet in three seconds flat for something like that, but frankly it seemed like so much trouble to do anything about it. Anyway, needless confrontation wasn't really in his nature.
Svartman sighed. A crow landed on the fencepost next to the car and gave him a sidelong look. Somewhere in the far distance a tractor could be heard rumbling across the fields. The crow flew away. Svartman looked longingly over at the juicery and thought about how nice a cold bottle of fresh apple juice would be right at that moment. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, thinking of summer and holidays; himself and Malin and the kids, carefree on the beaches of Bornholm. He sighed again.
Presently, Svartman's phone rang. As he had been about to doze off, the unexpected sound made him jump violently, and he swore as his head made contact with the door frame, leaving a tender lump on his temple.
"Yes?" he grumbled, clutching the phone to the uninjured side of his head.
"Johan, I need you to pick up a kilo of potatoes on your way home today. My mother's coming for dinner this evening." Malin's voice sliced through the silence.
"A kilo of potatoes, fine," sighed Svartman.
"What's wrong with you? You sound very put out."
"It's just been a really long day. I'm on traffic duty in the middle of nowhere."
"Again? For pity's sake, Johan! Can't someone else do it?"
"Not really. Grönqvist's on holiday and Elofsson and Nordström have that virus that's been going round the station. There's not many of us to go round just now."
"Well, just make sure you bring the potatoes. See you later, ok?"
"Ok. Hug the kids for me."
Svartman hung up and stared out the window. Potatoes. For his mother-in-law. Who no doubt would spend the better part of the evening unfavourably critiquing their newly-decorated home and badgering him about why he hadn't been promoted yet. Svartman rubbed his sore temple and frowned.
His radio crackled, the control checking up on him again.
"Can I come back in now?" he asked the dispatcher. "There is no traffic out here."
"You might as well come back to town then," the voice replied. "By the way, have you seen that trainee Pontus on your travels?"
"I haven't seen anyone apart from a boy on a bicycle."
"Never mind, then. But if you run into him tell him Wallander's been looking for him all day and he's none too happy."
"Yes, all right." Svartman signed off, started his engine and was soon rolling back towards Ystad. It was a beautiful day and he wished he'd spent it doing something more congenial and productive than monitoring non-existent traffic. It would have been more bearable if he'd at least had some company, but his usual traffic duty companion Kalle was on holiday. In Barbados. Svartman sighed again. He was sure that Kalle's thoughts right now were a million miles from the roads of Skåne.
On the road back into Ystad he passed a small grocer's shop, which reminded him that Malin needed potatoes. Pulling over to the kerb he parked up, got out and stretched; the long hours stuck in the car had given him cramp. He strolled towards the shop, wondering if he should get himself a snack while was at it. The door chimed as he pushed it open and a pleasant smell of fruit and confectionery filled his nostrils.
Then, before he had time to think about anything, he found himself lying face down on the tiles, an excruciating pain radiating through the back of his head. The door slammed behind him and he heard a key turning in the lock.
"What the hell..." he gasped. Glancing up, he was aware of a woman lying trussed up on the floor, a look of terror on her face. From somewhere else someone groaned. Svartman tried to push himself up but his arms, weak and wobbly as they were, gave way and he slumped back to the floor. Someone put a boot firmly in the middle of his back and pushed him down until the pain in his ribs forced a groan from him.
"You stay where you are, pig," said a thoroughly unfriendly voice.
A single thought floated to the surface of Svartman's mind: what had he just wandered into?
Another groan came from somewhere towards the back of the shop.
"Shut the hell up!" shouted Svartman's unseen assailant. For a moment there was silence, then Svartman was hauled to his feet. A canvas bag was thrust into his hands from behind.
"Empty the till!" Svartman was aware of a gun being waved around at the edge of his vision, so he began moving towards the till, one step at a time, no sudden movements. While he was wondering who this lunatic was and how he was going to get out of this situation a wave of dizziness swept over him. Time began to run in slow motion, and he seemed to watch himself as he stumbled and fell into the shelving unit on his right, which was piled high with tins and boxes. The thing came crashing down, spreading it contents liberally over the shop floor. For a moment or two everything went black.
Svartman opened his eyes. The dizziness had subsided as quickly as it had begun, but the pain in his head was intolerable. Gingerly he touched the spot on the back of his scalp where his assailant had hit him, presumably with some heavy blunt object or other, and let out a yelp as his fingers made contact with an open wound. Then he remembered that moments ago someone had been pointing a gun at him. He glanced around, noticing immediately that the shelves and their contents had toppled onto his attacker, knocking him out cold. Svartman pushed tins of pet food and packets of bird seed out of the way and tried to shift a shelf that had fallen across the man's chest. A deep groan emanated from the would-be robber; a large tin had hit him on the forehead and a thin trickle of blood dripped out from under his balaclava. Svartman couldn't help thinking that this was payback for the wound in his own head. Trying to stave off another attack of dizziness, he leaned over and pulled away the balaclava from the man's face. There was something vaguely familiar about the incapacitated miscreant, but Svartman couldn't quite pin down what it was. He kicked the man's gun to the other side of the room, then emptied his pockets, confiscating a knife, a wallet, some spare rounds of ammunition and a thick black notebook.
Another loud groan came from somewhere in the back of the shop. Svartman handcuffed the man to the adjacent set of shelves, which hadn't collapsed as it was bolted to the floor, then rose to his feet and made his wobbly way behind the counter.
The door to the stockroom had been left open. Svartman leaned on the doorframe, overcome with an unpleasant feeling of lightheadedness. Through the fog that was trying to descend across his vision he could discern somebody lying on the stockroom floor, hands and feet crudely tied with what looked like washing line.
"Svartman!" croaked the figure.
Svartman rubbed a hand across his eyes and his vision cleared enough for him to make out the figure's face, which was bruised and bleeding from a split lip, but still instantly recognisable.
"Pontus!" he gasped.
Going by his appearance, Pontus had been in the wars. One eye was blackened and swollen, and a virulent red bruise on his cheek showed where the young man had been struck across the face.
"What the hell did he do to you? And what the hell are you doing here? You know Wallander's been looking for you all day?" The barrage of questions poured out of Svartman as he knelt and began to untie the crude ligatures that bound his colleague's hands.
"I got a tip-off," Pontus muttered, sitting up and rubbing his wrists. "What did you do to him? I thought he was going to kill you."
"Oh, you know, the shelves fell on top of him. I've got him out there, handcuffed."
Pontus' eyebrows rose in disbelief.
"Where's the girl? The girl behind the counter?" Pontus pushed Svartman's hands away and began untying the rope round his ankles. Suddenly Svartman remembered the young woman tied up on the shop floor. Ignoring yet another wave of dizziness, he scrambled through the door to where she lay. Kneeling next to her he loosened the scarf that was gagging her and began untying the ropes that bound her limbs. She wriggled and sobbed and seemed to be nearly hysterical.
The radio attached to his belt crackled: a confused Control officer was wondering why Svartman wasn't back yet. Svartman snatched the radio and spoke into it.
"Quickly! Send a car and a couple of ambulances to..." He struggled to remember where he was and glanced up at Pontus, who had limped into the shop and was standing over the armed robber, who scowled up at him from his position on the floor.
"The general store in Sövestad," said Pontus.
"Yes, what he said," Svartman continued.
"Is everything all right up there?" crackled the radio.
"Not exactly. We've got a man down and an armed robber on the floor!" Svartman stopped. He was getting breathless and the bizarreness of the situation he had wandered into made him wonder whether he wasn't having some peculiar dream. Maybe in a minute he would wake up and find himself in bed with a softly snoring Malin, not untying the prisoner of a deranged gunman.
"An armed robber?" said control. "Understood. Some units are on their way right now."
Svartman sighed and wiped away the sweat that had sprung up on his forehead. With an apologetic smile he sank down on the floor next to the now unbound woman, who was rubbing her sore wrists and ankles and being comforted by Pontus, who looked like he was about to pass out himself.
Svartman rested his sore head on his hands and sat very still for a long time, listening to the soft cursing of the handcuffed gunman, and the slightly louder cursing of Pontus, whenever he made a movement that aggravated one of his injuries. The young woman seemed to have recovered a little and kept asking Pontus if he needed anything. Svartman smiled a little and closed his eyes.
The next thing he was aware of was a paramedic calling his name.
"Johan?" said a concerned female voice. "Johan? Can you hear me?"
"Not now, Malin," he mumbled, as his eyes flickered open and focussed on a tanned face framed by red-brown hair. He frowned. "You're not Malin!"
"Hold still, Johan," the paramedic told him. "You've got a nasty bump on your head. I think you're a bit concussed."
Svartman flinched as she cleaned his wound with an alcohol wipe and pressed a dressing onto it. She helped him onto his feet and the two of them inched towards the door. Outside, he saw Wallander talking into his phone whilst watching a pair of officers trying to subdue the robber, who was struggling and refusing to be put in the back of a police car.
All of a sudden the robber somehow managed to break free and make a run for it. Wallander gave an angry shout and started running and before anyone else could react so did Svartman. Before he was really aware of what he was doing, he set off after the burglar, rounded the corner of the shop and launched himself at the man.
"Oh no you don't!" he cried, rugby tackling the robber to the ground and sitting on him. Having caught him once it would have been unbearable to let him get away. Ignoring a fresh attack of dizziness he kept the man pinned to the ground until Wallander, puffing slightly, jogged round the corner towards them. His superior's eyebrows rose several centimetres as he processed the scene in front of him.
"Well done Svartman," he nodded.
Together they hauled the burglar to his feet and, with the help of two other officers who had joined them, dragged him back to the police car and put him in it. Once the car had driven safely away with its cargo they were able to relax. Svartman felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see the paramedic who had been tending his wound.
"Now will you let me take you to hospital?"
Suddenly aware of the pain in his head, Svartman nodded and followed her meekly into the ambulance.
It was quite a while before the Ystad police forgot about the incident in Sövestad. Pontus got a severe dressing down from Wallander for trying to apprehend an armed robber on his own, although Wallander had to concede that he was glad to have Nils Andersson, who was a well-known local ne'er-do-well, behind bars. Svartman got a night in hospital for his troubles, and once the doctors had decided he only had a mild concussion he was released with strict instructions not to rugby tackle anyone for a while. A grateful Wallander took him out for lunch the next day, bought him a drink, much to his pleasant surprise, and told him that he was being recommended for a commendation from the force.
In the end, the situation had ended quite well, he thought. Except of course for his mother-in-law, who never did get her potatoes.