Free Firewall by Henning Mankell

alerted the rest of the force in case they had to operate nationally. Hansson said he would call if there were significant developments.
Wallander put on a CD of Verdi's La Traviata. He lay on the sofa and closed his eyes. He thought about Persson and about her mother, the girl's violent outburst and her puzzlingly indifferent gaze. Then the phone rang. Wallander sat up and turned the music down.
"Kurt?"
He recognised the voice immediately. It was Sten Widén, one of Wallander's few close friends and probably the oldest.
"It's been a while."
"It's always been a while when we talk to each other. How are you doing? When I tried to reach you at the station someone said you were sick."
"I have a sore throat. It's nothing."
"It would be nice to see you."
"Now is not the best time. Have you seen the news?"
"I never watch the news or read a paper. Apart from the racing sections."
"Someone managed to escape from custody. I have to find her. Then we can meet."
"I wanted to say goodbye."
Wallander felt something go tight in his stomach. Was Sten sick? Had his alcohol abuse finally got to his liver?
"Why? Why do you need to say goodbye?"
"I'm selling my place and taking off."
The last few years Widén had talked about leaving. The stud he had inherited from his father had stopped being profitable many years ago. Wallander had listened, on countless occasions, to his dreams of starting a new life but he had never taken Widén's ideas seriously, just as he never took his own dreams seriously. That had apparently been a mistake. When Sten was drunk, as he often was, he tended to exaggerate. But now he seemed sober and full of energy. The normal slowness of his speech was gone.
"Is this for real?"
"Yes. I'm going."
"Where to?"
"I haven't decided yet."
Wallander was no longer tensing up his stomach, but he felt envy instead. Sten Widén's dreams had turned out to have more life in them than his own.
"I'll come as soon as I can. Maybe in a few days."
"I'll be here."
Wallander sat deep in thought for a long time. He couldn't hide from his envy. His dreams of leaving behind his work as a police officer felt extremely remote. What Widén was doing now, Wallander could never do.
He drank his tea and then carried the cup into the kitchen. The thermometer outside the window read one degree above freezing. It was cold for the beginning of October.
He walked back to the sofa. The music was still playing softly. He reached for the remote control. The power went out.
At first he thought a fuse had blown, but after feeling his way over to the window he saw that even the street lamps had gone out. He went back to the sofa and waited.
A large part of Skåne lay in darkness.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Olle Andersson was asleep when the phone rang.
He tried the bedside lamp, but it wouldn't go on. That told him what the call was about. He turned on the strong flashlight he always kept beside his bed and lifted the receiver. As he had guessed, the call was from the Sydkraft main office, staffed round the clock. It was Rune Ågren. Andersson had already known that Ågren was the one on duty that night, October 8. He was from Malmö and had worked for various utility companies for more than 30 years. He was due to retire next year. He got straight to the point.
"Twenty-five per cent of Skåne is without power."
Andersson was surprised. There had been gusting winds these past few days, but there had been nothing close to a storm.
"The devil only knows what happened," Ågren said. "But it's the Ystad power substation that's been affected. You'd better get dressed and go down there to take a look."
Andersson knew it was urgent. In the complicated network that conveyed electricity to cities and houses across the countryside, the Ystad power substation was one of the central points of connection. If anything happened to it, most of Skåne would be affected one way or another. Someone was always responsible for making sure that didn't happen. This week Andersson was on call for