One Step Behind

by Henning Mankell

  "I can't tell you anything," Wallander said. "We're issuing a statement to the press at 11 a.m."

  "You can't say anything or you won't?"

  "I really can't."

  The reporter, whose name was Wickberg, nodded.

  "That means someone's dead, and you can't say anything until the next of kin has been notified. Am I right?"

  "If that were the case I could have picked up the phone."

  Wickberg smiled in a firm but not unfriendly way.

  "That's not how it's done. You get hold of a police minister first, if one's available. So Svedberg's dead?"

  Wallander was too tired to get angry.

  "Whatever you want to guess or think is your business," he said. "We'll release information at 11 a.m. Before then I won't say another word."

  "Where are you going?"

  "I need to get some air."

  He walked along Lilla Norregatan and continued a few blocks, then looked back. Wickberg was not following him. Wallander turned right onto Sladdergatan, then left onto Stora Norregatan. He was thirsty and had to take a leak. There were no cars around. He walked up to a building and relieved himself. Then he kept going.

  Something's wrong, he thought. Something about this whole thing is completely odd. He couldn't think of what it was, but the feeling became stronger. There was a gnawing pain in his stomach. Why had Svedberg been shot? What was it about the terrible image of the man with his head blown off that didn't add up?

  Wallander arrived at the hospital, walked around to the emergency entrance, and rang the bell. He took the elevator to the maternity ward, a rush of images of him and Svedberg on their way to talk to Ylva Brink flitting through his mind. But this time there was no Svedberg. It was as if he had never existed.

  Suddenly he caught sight of Ylva Brink through the double glass doors. She met his gaze, and he saw that it took her a couple of seconds to remember who he was. She walked over to the doors and let him in. At that moment he saw that she realised something was wrong.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They sat down in the office. It was 3 a.m. Wallander told her the facts. Svedberg was dead. He had been killed with a shotgun. Who the killer was, why it had happened and when, remained unanswered. He avoided giving her too much detail of the crime scene.

  When he finished, one of the nurses on the night shift came in to ask Ylva Brink a question.

  "Can it wait?" Wallander said. "I've just notified her of a death in the family."

  The nurse was about to leave when Wallander asked if he could have a glass of water. He was so dry that his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  "We're all in shock," Wallander said after the nurse left. "It's completely incomprehensible."

  Ylva Brink didn't say anything. She was very pale but had not lost her composure. The nurse returned with the glass of water.

  "Let me know if I can do anything else," she said.

  "We're fine right now," Wallander answered.

  He emptied his glass, but it didn't quench his thirst.

  "I just can't get it into my head," she said. "I don't understand."

  "I can't either," Wallander said. "It'll be a while before that happens, if ever."

  He found a pencil in his coat pocket, but as usual he didn't have a notebook handy. There was a wastepaper basket next to the chair. He took out a piece of paper on which someone had doodled stick figures, smoothed it out, and took a magazine from the table to lean on.

  "I have to ask you some questions," he said. "Who were his next of kin? I must admit you're the only one I can think of."

  "His parents are gone and he had no siblings. Besides me there's only one cousin. I'm a cousin on his father's side and he has a cousin on his mother's side as well. His name is Sture Björklund."

  Wallander noted down the name.

  "Does he live here in Ystad?"

  "He lives on a farm outside of Hedeskoga."

  "So he's a farmer?"

  "He's a professor at Copenhagen University."

  Wallander was surprised. "I can't recall Svedberg ever mentioning him."

  "They hardly ever saw each other. If you're asking which relatives Svedberg had any contact with, then the answer is just me."

  "He'll still have to be notified," Wallander said. "As you can understand, this will be making a lot of headlines. A police officer who dies a violent death is big news."

  She looked at him carefully. "A violent death? What do you mean by that?"

  "That he was murdered."

  "Well, what else could it have been?"

  "That was going to be my next question for you," Wallander said. "Could it have been suicide?"

  "Isn't it always a possibility? Under the right circumstances?"

  "Yes."

  "Can't you tell by looking at the body if he's been murdered or if he's committed suicide?"

  "Yes, we'll probably be able to, but certain questions are a matter of routine."

  She thought for a while before answering.

  "I've considered it myself during a particularly difficult time. God only knows all that I've been through. But it's never occurred to me that Karl would do anything like that."

  "Because he had no reason to?"

  "He wasn't what I would call an unhappy person."

  "When did you last hear from him?"

  "He phoned me last Sunday."

  "How did he seem?"

  "He sounded perfectly normal."

  "Why did he call?"

  "We talk to each other once a week. If he didn't get in touch, I did, and vice versa. Sometimes he came over and had dinner, other times I went over to his place. As you may remember, my husband isn't home very often. He works on an oil tanker. Our children are grown up."

  "Svedberg could cook?"

  "Why wouldn't he be able to?"

  "I've never imagined him in a kitchen."

  "He cooked very well, particularly fish."

  Wallander went back a little. "So he called you last Sunday. That was 4 August. And everything seemed fine?"

  "Yes."

  "What did you talk about?"

  "This and that. I remember him telling me how tired he was. He said he was completely overworked."

  Wallander looked at her intently. "Did he really say that he was overworked?"

  "Yes."

  "But he had just taken his holiday."

  "I remember it very clearly."

  Wallander thought hard before asking his next question. "Do you know what he did on his holiday?"

  "I don't know if you know this, but he didn't like to leave Ystad. He usually stayed home. He might have taken a short trip to Poland."

  "But what did he do at home? Did he stay in the flat?"

  "He had various interests."

  "Such as?"

  She shook her head. "You must know as well as I do. He had two big passions: amateur astronomy and Native American history."

  "I knew about the Indians, and how he sometimes went to Falsterbo to do some bird-watching. But the astronomy is new to me."

  "He had a very expensive telescope."

  Wallander couldn't remember seeing one in the flat.

  "Where did he keep it?"

  "In his study."

  "So that's what he did on his holidays? Looked at stars and read about Indians?"

  "I think so. But this summer was a little unusual."

  "In what way?"

  "We usually see a lot of each other over the summer, more so than during the rest of the year. But this year he had no time. He turned down several invitations to dinner."

  "Did he say why?"

  She hesitated before answering. "It was as if he didn't have the time."

  Wallander sensed that he was nearing a crucial point.

  "He didn't say why?"

  "No."

  "That must have puzzled you."

  "Not really."

  "Did you notice a change in his behaviour? Did something seem to be bothering him?"
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  "He was just the same as always. The only thing was that he seemed to be pressed for time."

  "When did you first notice this?"

  She thought about it. "Shortly after Midsummer, right about the time he took his holiday."

  The nurse reappeared in the doorway. Ylva Brink got up.

  "I'll be right back," she said.

  Wallander looked for a washroom. He drank two more glasses of water and relieved himself. When he came back to the office Ylva was waiting for him.

  "I think I'll go now," he told her. "Other questions can wait."

  "I can call Sture, if you like. We have to make the funeral arrangements."

  "Try to call in the next couple of hours," Wallander said. "We'll be issuing a statement to the press at 11 a.m."

  "It still feels unreal," she said.

  Her eyes had filled with tears. Wallander had trouble keeping his own eyes from welling up. They sat quietly, both fighting back their tears. Wallander tried to concentrate on the clock hanging on the wall, counting the seconds as they ticked by.

  "I have one last question," he said after a while. "Svedberg was a bachelor. I never heard mention of a woman in his life."

  "I don't think there ever was one," she answered.

  "You don't think that something like that could have happened this summer?"

  "You mean that he met a woman?"

  "Yes."

  "And that was why he was overworked?"

  Wallander realised it seemed absurd. "These are questions I have to ask," he repeated. "Otherwise we won't get anywhere."

  She followed him to the glass doors.

  "You have to catch the person who did this," she said and gripped Wallander's arm tightly.

  "You have my word," Wallander said. "Svedberg was one of us. We won't stop until we've caught whoever killed him."

  They shook hands.

  "Do you know if he used to keep large sums of money in the flat?"

  She looked at him with disbelief. "Where would he have got large sums of money? He always complained about how little he earned."

  "He was right about that."

  "Do you know how much a midwife makes?"

  "No."

  "I'd better not tell you. You could say we wouldn't be comparing who makes more but who makes even less."

  When Wallander left the hospital he drew a deep breath. Birds were chirping. It was barely 4 a.m. There was only a faint trace of wind and it was still warm. He started walking slowly back to Lilla Norregatan. One question seemed more important than the others. Why had Svedberg felt overworked when he had just been on holiday? Could it have something to do with his murder?

  Wallander stopped in his tracks on the narrow footpath. In his mind he went back to the moment when he had stood in the doorway of the living room and first witnessed the devastation. Martinsson had been right behind him. He had seen a dead man and a shotgun. But almost at once he was struck by the feeling that something wasn't quite right. Could he make out what it was? He tried again without success.

  Patience, he thought. I'm tired. It's been a long night and it's not over yet.

  He started walking again, wondering when he would have time to sleep and think about his diet. Then he stopped again. A question suddenly came to him.

  What if I die as suddenly as Svedberg? Who will miss me? What will people say? That I was a good policeman? But who will miss me as a person? Ann-Britt? Maybe even Martinsson?

  A pigeon flew by close to his head. We don't know anything about each other, he thought. What did I really think of Svedberg? Do I actually miss him? Can you miss a person you didn't know?

  He started walking again, but he knew these questions would follow him.

  Going into Svedberg's flat again was like walking back into a nightmare. Gone was all feeling of summer, sun, and birdsong. Inside, beneath the harsh beams of the spotlights, there was only death.

  Lisa Holgersson had returned to the police station. Wallander beckoned Höglund and Martinsson to follow him into the kitchen. He stopped himself at the last moment from asking them if they had seen Svedberg. They sat down around the kitchen table, grey-faced. Wallander wondered what his own face looked like.

  "How is it going?" he asked.

  "Can it be anything other than a burglary?" Höglund asked.

  "It could be a lot of other things," Wallander answered. "Revenge, a lunatic, two lunatics, three lunatics. We don't know, and as long as we don't know we have to work with what we can see."

  "And one other thing," Martinsson said slowly.

  Wallander nodded, sensing what Martinsson was about to say.

  "The fact that Svedberg was a policeman," Martinsson said.

  "Have you found any clues?" Wallander asked. "How is Nyberg's work going? What's in the medical report?"

  They both rifled through the notes they had made. Höglund finished first.

  "Both barrels of the shotgun were fired," she read. "The pathologist and Nyberg are sure that the shots came in quick succession. The shots were fired directly at Svedberg's head at close range."

  Her voice shook. She took a deep breath and continued. "It isn't possible to determine whether or not Svedberg was sitting in the chair when the shots were fired, nor what the exact distance was. From the arrangement of the furniture and the size of the room it cannot have been more than four metres, but it could have been much closer."

  Martinsson got up and mumbled something, then disappeared into the bathroom. They waited. He returned after a few minutes.

  "I should have quit two years ago," he said.

  "We're needed now more than ever," Wallander said sharply, but he understood Martinsson only too well.

  "Svedberg was fully dressed," Höglund continued. "That means he wasn't forced out of bed, but we still have no time frame."

  Wallander looked at Martinsson.

  "I've been over this point again and again," he said. "But none of the neighbours heard anything."

  "What about noise from the street?" Wallander asked.

  "I don't think it would cover the sound of a shotgun going off. Twice."

  "So we have no way of pinpointing the time of the crime. We know that Svedberg was dressed, which may allow us to eliminate the very late hours of the night. I've always been under the impression that Svedberg went to bed early."

  Martinsson agreed.

  "How did the killer enter the flat? Do we know that?"

  "The door shows no signs of a forced entry."

  "But remember how easy it was for us to get in," Wallander said.

  "Why did he leave his weapon behind? Was it panic?"

  They had no answers to Martinsson's question. Wallander looked at his colleagues, who were tired and depressed.

  "I'll tell you what I think," he said. "For what it's worth. As soon as I came into the flat I had the feeling that something was odd. What it was I don't know. There's been a murder that suggests a burglary. But if it isn't a burglary, then what? Revenge? Or is it possible to imagine that someone came here not to steal anything but rather to find something?"

  He got up, picked up a glass from the kitchen counter, and poured himself some more water.

  "I've talked to Ylva Brink at the hospital," he said. "Svedberg had almost no family. He had two cousins, one of whom is Ylva. They seem to have been in close contact. She mentioned one thing that I found odd. When she talked with Svedberg last Sunday he complained of being overworked. But he had just returned from holiday. It doesn't make any sense."

  Höglund and Martinsson waited for him to continue.

  "I don't know if it means anything," Wallander said. "But we need to know why."

  "Was it something to do with Svedberg's investigation?" Höglund asked.

  "The young people who went missing?" Martinsson said.

  "There must have been something else as well," Wallander said, "since that wasn't a formal investigation. Anyway, he went on holiday just a few days after the parents first notified us."r />
  No one could come up with an answer.

  "One of you will have to find out what he was working on," Wallander said.

  "Do you think he had a secret of some kind?" Martinsson asked carefully.

  "Doesn't everybody have one?"

  "So is that what we're looking for? Svedberg's secret?"

  "We're looking for the person who killed him. That's all."

  They decided to meet again at the station at 8 a.m. Martinsson immediately returned to the flat next door to continue his interviews with the neighbours. Höglund lingered. Wallander looked at her tired and ravaged face.

  "Were you awake when I called?"

  He regretted the question as soon as it came out. He had no business asking whether or not she had been up. But she didn't seem to mind.

  "Yes," she said. "I was wide awake."

  "You came down here so quickly that I assume your husband must be at home with the children."

  "When you called, we were in the middle of an argument. Just a stupid little argument, the kind you have when you don't have the energy for the big ones any more."

  They sat quietly. Now and then they heard Nyberg's voice.

  "I just don't understand it," she said. "Who would want to hurt Svedberg?"

  "Who was closest to him?" Wallander said.

  She looked surprised. "I thought it was you."

  "No, I didn't know him that well."

  "But he looked up to you."

  "I have trouble imagining that."

  "You didn't see it, but I did. Maybe the others noticed it as well. He always took your side, even when you were wrong."

  "That still doesn't answer our question," Wallander said, and asked it again. "Who was closest to him?"

  "No one was close to him."

  "Well, we have to get close to him now. Now that he's dead."

  Nyberg came into the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand. Wallander knew that he always had a thermos ready in case he was called out in the middle of the night.

  "How's it going?" Wallander asked.

  "It looks like a burglary," Nyberg said. "What we don't know is why the killer left his gun."

  "We don't have a time of death," Wallander said.

  "That's up to the pathologist."

  "I still want to hear your opinion."

  "I don't like to make guesses."