One Step Behind

by Henning Mankell

  "How was your holiday?" he asked.

  Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. Wallander went to say something but she stopped him with a gesture.

  "It wasn't so great," she said when she had regained her composure. "But I don't want to talk about it."

  She picked up her cup of coffee and got up quickly. Wallander watched her leave. He remained seated, thinking about her reaction.

  We don't know very much, he thought. They don't know much about me and I don't know much about them. We work together, maybe over the course of an entire career, and what do we learn about each other? Nothing.

  He looked down at his watch. He had plenty of time, but he decided to set off walking down to Kapellgatan, where the doctor's office was. He was filled with dread.

  The doctor was young. He was called Göransson and came from somewhere up north. Wallander told him about his symptoms: the fatigue, the thirst, the increased urination. He also mentioned his leg cramps.

  The doctor's diagnosis was swift, and surprised him.

  "It sounds like too much sugar," he said.

  "Sugar?"

  "Diabetes."

  For a split second Wallander was paralysed. The thought had never occurred to him.

  "You look like you weigh a little too much," the doctor said. "We'll find out if that's the case. But I want to start off by listening to your heart. Do you know if you have high blood pressure?"

  Wallander shook his head. Then he took off his shirt and lay down on the table.

  His pulse was normal, but his blood pressure was too high. 170 over 105. He got on the scale: 92 kilos. The doctor sent him for a urinalysis and a blood test. The nurse smiled at him. Wallander thought she looked like his sister Kristina. After she had finished, he went back in to see the doctor.

  "Normally you should have a blood-sugar level of between 2.5 and 6.4," Göransson said. "Yours is 15.3. That's much too high."

  Wallander started to feel sick.

  "This explains your fatigue," Göransson continued. "It explains your thirst and the leg cramps. It also explains why you need to urinate so often."

  "Is there medication for this?" Wallander asked.

  "First we'll try to control it by changing your diet," Göransson said. "We also have to reduce your blood pressure. Do you exercise frequently?"

  "No."

  "Then you'll have to start right away. Diet and exercise. If that doesn't help we'll have to go a step further. With this blood-sugar level you're wearing down your whole system."

  I'm diabetic, Wallander thought. At that moment it struck him as something shameful.

  Göransson seemed to sense his dismay. "This is something we can control," he said. "You won't die from it. At least not yet."

  They took more blood tests, and Wallander was given dietary guidelines, and was told to come back on Monday morning.

  He left the surgery at 11.30 a.m. He walked over to the cemetery and sat down on a bench. He still couldn't grasp what the doctor had told him. He found his glasses and started reading the meal plans.

  He got back to the police station at 12.30. There were some phone messages for him, but nothing that couldn't wait. He bumped into Hansson in the corridor.

  "Has Svedberg turned up?" Wallander asked.

  "Why, isn't he in?"

  Wallander didn't elaborate. Eva Hillström was supposed to come in shortly after 1 p.m. He knocked on Martinsson's half-open door, but the room was empty. The thin folder from their meeting that day was lying on the desk. Wallander took it and went into his office. He quickly leafed through the few papers there were and stared at the three postcards, but he was having trouble concentrating. He kept thinking about what the doctor had told him.

  Finally Ebba called him from the reception desk and told him that Eva Hillström had arrived. Wallander walked out to meet her. A group of older, jovial men were on their way out. Wallander guessed they were the retired marine officers who had come for a tour.

  Eva Hillström was tall and thin. Her expression was guarded. From the first time he met her, Wallander formed the impression that she was the kind of person who always expected the worst. He shook her hand and asked her to follow him to his office. On the way he asked her if she wanted a cup of coffee.

  "I don't drink coffee," she said. "My stomach can't take it."

  She sat down in the visitor's chair without taking her eyes off him.

  She thinks I have news for her, Wallander thought. And she expects the news to be bad.

  He sat down at his desk. "You spoke with my colleague yesterday," he said. "You brought by a postcard you received a couple of days earlier, signed by your daughter and sent from Vienna. But you claim it wasn't written by her. Is that correct?"

  "Yes." Her answer was forceful.

  "Martinsson said you couldn't explain why you felt this way."

  "That's right, I can't."

  Wallander took out the postcards and laid them in front of her.

  "You said that your daughter's handwriting and signature are easy to forge."

  "Try for yourself."

  "I've already done that. And I agree with you; her handwriting isn't very hard to copy."

  "Then why do you have to ask?"

  Wallander looked at her for a moment. She was just as tense as Martinsson had described.

  "I'm asking these questions in order to confirm certain statements," he said. "It's sometimes necessary."

  She nodded impatiently.

  "We have no real reason to believe that someone other than Astrid wrote these cards," Wallander said. "Can you think of anything else that makes you doubt their authenticity?"

  "No, but I know I'm right."

  "Right about what?"

  "That she didn't write this card, or any of the others."

  Suddenly, she stood up and started to scream at him. Wallander was completely unprepared for the violence of her reaction. She was leaning over his desk, and she grabbed his arms and shook him, screaming the whole time.

  "Why don't you do anything? Something must have happened!"

  Wallander freed himself from her grasp with some difficulty and stood up.

  "I think you'd better calm down," he said.

  But Eva Hillström kept screaming. Wallander wondered what people walking by his door were thinking. He went around his desk, grabbed her firmly by the shoulders, pushed her down in the chair and and held her there. Her outburst stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Wallander slowly loosened his grip and returned to his chair. Eva Hillström stared down at the floor. Wallander waited, thoroughly shaken. There was something about her reaction, something about her conviction, that was contagious.

  "What is it that you think has happened?" he asked after a little while.

  She shook her head. "I don't know."

  "There is nothing to indicate an accident or anything else."

  She looked at Wallander.

  "Astrid and her friends have gone on trips before," he said. "Although perhaps not for as long as this one. They had cars, money, passports. My colleagues have gone over this before. What's more, they're of an age when you're inclined to act on impulse without having made prior plans. I have a daughter myself who is a couple of years older than Astrid. I know how it is."

  "I just know," she said. "I know I tend to worry. But this time there's something that doesn't feel right."

  "The other parents don't seem quite as worried as you do. What about Martin Boge's and Lena Norman's parents?"

  "I don't understand them."

  "We take your concern seriously," he said. "That's our job. I promise to review this case one more time."

  His words seemed to reassure her momentarily, but then the anxiety returned. Her face was open and vulnerable. Wallander felt sorry for her.

  The conversation was over. She got up, and he followed her out to the reception area.

  "I'm sorry I lost control," she said.

  "It's natural to be worried," Wallander said.

  She
shook his hand quickly, then disappeared through the glass doors.

  Wallander went back to his room. Martinsson stuck his head out the door of his office and looked at him with curiosity.

  "What were you doing in there?"

  "She's genuinely frightened," Wallander said. "We have to acknowledge that; but I don't know what to do about it." Wallander looked thoughtfully at Martinsson. "I'd like to do a thorough review of this case tomorrow with everyone who has the time. We have to decide if we should declare them missing or not. Something about this whole thing worries me."

  Martinsson nodded. "Have you seen Svedberg?" he asked.

  "He still hasn't been in touch?"

  "No. Just the same old answerphone message."

  Wallander grimaced. "That's not like him."

  "I'll try him again."

  Wallander continued to his room. He closed the door and called Ebba. "No calls for the next half hour," he said. "Anything from Svedberg, by the way?"

  "Should there be?"

  "I was just wondering."

  Wallander put his legs up on the desk. He was tired and his mouth was dry. On an impulse, he grabbed his coat and left the room.

  "I'm going out," he told Ebba. "I'll be back in an hour or two."

  It was still warm and calm. Wallander went down to the central library on Surbrunnsvägen. With some effort he found his way to the medical section. Soon he found what he was looking for: a book about diabetes. He sat down at a table, put his glasses on, and started reading. After an hour and a half he thought he had a better idea of what diabetes entailed. He realised he only had himself to blame. The foods he ate, his lack of exercise, and his on-and-off dieting had all contributed to the disease. He put the book back on the shelf. A sense of failure and disgust came over him. He knew there was no way out. He had to do something about his lifestyle.

  It was already 4.20 p.m. when he returned to the police station. There was a note on his desk from Martinsson saying that he still hadn't managed to get in touch with Svedberg.

  Once more Wallander read through the summary of events regarding the disappearance of the three young people. He scrutinised the three postcards. The feeling that there was something he was overlooking returned. He still couldn't pin it down. What was there he wasn't seeing?

  He felt his anxiety increase and could almost see Eva Hillström in front of him. Suddenly the gravity of the situation struck him. It was very simple. She knew her daughter hadn't written that card. How she knew this was irrelevant. She was sure and that was enough. Wallander got up and stopped in front of the window. Something had happened to them. The question now was what.

  CHAPTER THREE

  That evening Wallander tried to start his new regime. All he had for dinner was some bouillon soup and a salad. He was concentrating so hard on making sure that only the right things found their way onto his plate that he forgot he had signed up for the laundry, and by the time he remembered it was too late.

  He tried to convince himself that what had happened could be viewed as something positive. An elevated blood-sugar level was not a death sentence; he had been given a warning. If he wanted to stay healthy, he would have to take some simple precautions. Nothing drastic, but he would have to make significant changes.

  When he was done eating, he still felt hungry, and ate another tomato. Then, still sitting at the kitchen table, he tried to make a meal plan for the coming days from his dietary guidelines. He also decided to walk to work from now on. On the weekends he would drive to the beach and take long walks. He remembered that he and Hansson once talked about playing badminton. Perhaps that could still be arranged.

  At 9 p.m. he got up from the kitchen table and went out onto the balcony. The wind was blowing softly from the south, but it was still warm. The dog days were here.

  Wallander watched some teenagers walking past on the street below. It was hard to concentrate on his meal plans and recommended weight chart. Thoughts of Eva Hillström and her anxiety kept returning to him. Her outburst had shaken him. The fear she felt at her daughter's disappearance was plain to see, and it was genuine.

  Sometimes parents don't know their children, he thought. But sometimes a parent knows her child better than anyone else, and something tells me that this is the case with Eva Hillström and her daughter.

  He went back into the flat and left the door to the balcony open. He had the feeling that he was overlooking something that would indicate how they should proceed; something that would lead them to a well-founded, investigative hypothesis, and to determine whether Eva Hillström's concerns were justified.

  He went out into the kitchen and made some coffee, wiping the table clean while he waited for the water to boil. The phone rang. It was Linda. She was calling from the restaurant where she worked, which surprised him since he thought it was open only during the day.

  "The owner changed the hours," she said in answer to his question, "and I make more money working in the evenings. I have to make a living."

  He could hear voices and the rattle of pots and pans in the background. He had no idea what Linda's plans for her future were. For a time she wanted to become a furniture upholsterer, then she changed her mind and started exploring the world of theatre. Then that plan also came to an end.

  She seemed to read his thoughts. "I'm not going to be a waitress all my life," she said. "But I'm saving some money right now and next winter I'm going to travel."

  "Where to?"

  "I don't know yet."

  It wasn't the right time to discuss this in detail, so he mentioned that Gertrud had moved and that her grandfather's house was on the market.

  "I wish we had kept it," she said. "I wish I had the money to buy it."

  Wallander understood. Linda had been close to her grandfather. There were even times when seeing them together had made him jealous.

  "I have to go now," she said. "I just wanted to hear how you were."

  "Everything is fine," Wallander replied. "I went to the doctor today. He didn't find anything wrong with me."

  "Didn't he even tell you to lose weight?"

  "Apart from that, he said that everything was fine."

  "That doctor was too nice. Are you still as tired as you were on holiday?"

  She sees right through me, Wallander thought helplessly. And why don't I tell her the truth, that I'm becoming a diabetic, that I may already be one? Why am I behaving as if it were something shameful?

  "I'm not tired," he said. "That week on Gotland was an exception."

  "If you say so," she said. "I've got to go now. If you want to reach me here in the evenings you'll have to call a new number."

  He quickly memorised it. Then the conversation was over.

  Wallander took his coffee with him into the living room and turned on the TV. He turned the sound down, then jotted down the phone number she had given him on the corner of a newspaper. He wrote sloppily. No one else would have been able to read the number. It was at that moment that he realised what was bothering him. He pushed his coffee cup away and looked at his watch. It was 9.15 p.m. He wondered briefly if he should call Martinsson, and wait until the following day before making up his mind. He went into the kitchen, got out the phone book, and sat down at the kitchen table.

  There were four families called Norman in Ystad, but Wallander remembered seeing the address among Martinsson's papers. Lena Norman and her mother lived on Käringgatan, north of the hospital. Her father was called Bertil Norman and had the title "CEO" next to his name. Wallander knew that he owned a company that supplied heating systems for pre-fabricated houses.

  He dialled the number and a woman answered. Wallander introduced himself, trying to sound as friendly as possible. He didn't want to worry her. He knew how unnerving it was to be called by the police, especially after hours.

  "Am I speaking to Lena Norman's mother?"

  "This is Lillemor Norman."

  Wallander recognised the name.

  "This conversation could
really have waited until tomorrow," he said. "But there is something I need to know and unfortunately policemen work all hours of the day and night."

  She did not seem particularly concerned. "How can I help you? Or would you like to speak with my husband? I can get him for you. He's just helping Lena's brother with his maths homework."

  Her answer surprised him. He hadn't realised that schools still had anything called homework.

  "That won't be necessary," he said. "What I want is a sample of Lena's handwriting. Do you have any letters from her?"

  "Well, apart from the postcards, we haven't received anything. I thought the police knew that."

  "I mean an old letter."

  "Why do you need it?"

  "It's just routine procedure. We need to compare some handwriting samples, that's all. It's not particularly important."

  "Do policemen really bother calling people at night about such unimportant matters?"

  Eva Hillström is afraid, Wallander thought. Lillemor Norman, on the other hand, is suspicious.

  "Do you think you can help me?"

  "I have a number of letters from Lena."

  "One is enough. About half a page."

  "I'll find one. Will someone be by to pick it up?"

  "I'll come myself. Expect me in about 20 minutes."

  Wallander went back to the phone book. In Simrishamn he found only one entry for the name "Boge", an accountant. Wallander dialled the number and waited impatiently. He was just about to hang up when someone answered.

  "Klas Boge."

  The voice that answered sounded young. Wallander assumed it was Martin Boge's brother. He told him who he was.

  "Are your parents home?"

  "No, I'm alone. They're at a golf dinner."

  Wallander wasn't sure he should continue. But the boy seemed reasonably mature.

  "Has your brother Martin ever written a letter to you? Anything you might have saved?"

  "Not this summer."

  "Earlier, perhaps?"

  The boy thought for a moment. "I have a letter he wrote to me from the United States last year."

  "Was it handwritten?"

  "Yes."

  Wallander calculated how long it would take him to drive to Simrishamn. Perhaps he should wait until the next morning.