One Step Behind

by Henning Mankell

"I know, but you have a certain experience in these matters. I promise I won't hold you to it."

  Nyberg rubbed his hand over his unshaven chin. His eyes were bloodshot.

  "Maybe 24 hours," he said. "I doubt it's less than that."

  They let his words sink in. That means Wednesday night or early Thursday, Wallander thought. Nyberg yawned and left the kitchen.

  "You should go home now," Wallander said to Höglund. "We have to be ready to organise the investigation at 8 a.m."

  The clock on the wall read 5.15 a.m. She put on her coat and left. Wallander stayed in the kitchen. A pile of bills lay on the window sill. He leafed through them. We have to start somewhere, he thought. Next he went in to Nyberg and asked for a pair of rubber gloves. He returned to the kitchen and looked slowly around. He went through the cupboards and drawers methodically and noted that Svedberg kept his kitchen as neat as his office at work.

  He left the kitchen and went into the study. Where was the telescope? He sat down in the desk chair and looked around. Nyberg came by and said they were ready to take Svedberg's body away. Did he want to see it again? Wallander shook his head. The image of Svedberg with half his head blown off was forever fixed in his mind. It was an image that didn't spare a single gruesome detail.

  He let his gaze continue to wander around the room. The answerphone was on the desk, as well as a pencil holder, some old tin soldiers, and a pocket calendar. Wallander picked up the latter and leafed through it month by month. On 11 January, at 9.30 a.m., Svedberg had had a dentist's appointment. 7 March was Ylva Brink's birthday. On 18 April Svedberg had written the name "Adamsson". The name was also jotted down on 5 and 12 May. In June and July there were no notes at all.

  Svedberg had taken his holiday. Afterwards he complained that he was completely overworked. Wallander kept turning the pages, more slowly now, but there were no more notes. The last days of Svedberg's life were a complete blank. 18 October was Sture Björklund's birthday, and the name Adamsson appeared again on 14 December. That was all. Wallander put the pocket calendar back in its place, and leaned back in the chair, which was very comfortable. He felt tired and thirsty. He closed his eyes, wondering who Adamsson was.

  Then he leaned forward and picked up the business cards that were tucked into a corner of the brown desk pad. There was a card from Boman's Second Hand Book Shop in Gothenburg, and the Audi specialist in Malmö. Svedberg had been a loyal customer and had always driven an Audi, the same way that Wallander always traded in his Peugeot for another Peugeot. Wallander put the desk pad back and looked through a packet of letters and postcards. Most of the letters were more than ten years old, and almost all of them were from Svedberg's mother.

  He put them back and looked at a couple of the postcards. To his surprise he found one that he had sent from Skagen. The beaches here are amazing, it said. Wallander sat looking at the card for a while.

  That had been three years ago. He had taken an extended medical leave, doubting that he would ever return to active duty. He had spent part of that time wandering along Skagen's wintery and abandoned beaches. He didn't remember writing the postcard. His memories from that period in his life were few.

  Eventually he had returned to Ystad and started working again. He remembered Svedberg on his first day back at work. Björk had just welcomed Wallander, and the conference room grew quiet. None of them had expected him to return. The person who finally broke the silence was Svedberg. Wallander could still remember exactly what he said.

  "Thank God you finally came back, because I really don't think we could've made it another day without you."

  Wallander held on to the memory and tried to see Svedberg clearly. He was the quiet type, but someone who could often ease an uncomfortable situation. He was a good policeman, not outstanding in any way, but good. Stubborn and conscientious. He didn't have a lot of imagination and he wasn't a particularly accomplished writer. His reports were often poorly written, and they irritated the prosecutors. But he had been an important part of the team.

  Wallander got up and went into Svedberg's bedroom. There was no sign of the telescope. He sat down on the bed and picked up a book off the bedside table. It was called A History of the Sioux Indians and was written in English. Svedberg didn't speak very good English, but perhaps he was better at reading it.

  Wallander flipped through the book absentmindedly and found himself staring at a remarkable picture of Sitting Bull. Then he got up and went into the bathroom. He opened a mirrored cabinet and found nothing that surprised him. His own bathroom cabinet was exactly the same.

  Now only the living room remained. He would have preferred to skip it, but knew he couldn't. He went into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. It was close to 6 a.m. and he was very tired.

  Finally he went out into the living room. Nyberg had put on knee-guards and was crawling around the black leather sofa that stood against a wall. The chair was still overturned and no one had moved the shotgun. The only thing that had been moved was Svedberg's body.

  Wallander looked around the room and tried to imagine the events that had taken place. What had happened right before the fatal moment, before the gun went off? But he couldn't see anything. The feeling that he was ignoring something important came over him again. He stood completely still and tried to coax the thought to the surface, but he got nothing.

  Nyberg came up to him and they looked at each other.

  "Do you understand this?" Wallander asked.

  "No," Nyberg answered. "It's strangely like a painting."

  Wallander looked closely at him. "What do you mean 'a painting'?"

  Nyberg blew his nose and carefully refolded his handkerchief.

  "Everything is such a mess," he said. "Chairs have been overturned, drawers pulled out, papers and china thrown all over the place. It's almost as if it's too messy."

  Wallander knew what he meant, although he had not yet followed this thought to its conclusion.

  "You mean it looks arranged."

  "Of course it's only a thought at this point. I don't have anything to back it up with."

  "What exactly gave you this feeling?"

  Nyberg pointed to a little porcelain rooster that lay on the ground.

  "It seems plausible to assume that it came from that shelf over there," he said, and pointed it out to Wallander. "Where else could it have come from? But if it fell because someone was pulling out the drawers and going through them, why would it have landed all the way over here?"

  Wallander nodded.

  "There's probably a completely rational explanation," Nyberg said. "But if so, you'll have to tell me what it is."

  Wallander didn't say anything. He stayed in the living room for a few more minutes, then left the flat. When he came out on the street it was already morning. A police car stood parked outside the building, but there were no onlookers. Wallander assumed that the police officers had been instructed not to give out any information.

  He stood completely still and drew a couple of deep breaths. It was going to be a beautiful, late summer's day. Only now was he starting to sense the overwhelming nature of his sorrow, which stemmed as much from genuine affection as from the reminder of his own mortality. Death had come close this time. It was not like when his father had died. This frightened him.

  It was 6.25 a.m. on Friday, 9 August. Wallander walked slowly to his car. A cement mixer started up in the distance.

  Ten minutes later he walked through the doors of the police station.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They gathered in the conference room shortly after 8 a.m. and held an impromptu memorial service. Lisa Holgersson lit a candle at the place where Svedberg normally sat. All those at the station that morning were gathered in the room, filling it with a palpable sense of shock and sadness. Holgersson said only a few words, fighting to keep her composure. Everyone in the room prayed for her not to break down. It would make the situation unbearable. After she had spoken, they stood for a minute's silence. Uneasy image
s floated through Wallander's mind. He was already having trouble picturing Svedberg's face. He had experienced the same thing when his father died, and earlier with Rydberg.

  Although one can certainly remember the dead, it's as if they never existed, he thought.

  The impromptu service came to an end, people started to leave. Apart from the members of the investigative team, Holgersson was the only one to stay behind. They sat down at the table. The flame of the candle flickered when Martinsson closed one of the windows. Wallander looked questioningly at Holgersson, but she shook her head. It was his turn to speak.

  "We're all tired," he began. "We're upset and sad and confused. What we've always feared the most has finally occurred. Normally we try to solve crimes, even violent crimes, that do not affect people from our own world. This time it's happened in our midst, but we still have to try to approach it as if it were a regular case."

  He paused and looked around. No one spoke.

  "Let's go over the facts," Wallander said. "Then we can begin to plot our strategy. We know very little. Svedberg was shot sometime between Wednesday afternoon and Thursday evening. It happened in his flat, which shows no signs of forced entry. We can assume that the shotgun lying on the floor was the murder weapon. The flat looks like it was burgled, which may indicate that Svedberg was confronted by an armed assailant. We don't know if this was the case; it is simply a possibility. We cannot disregard other scenarios. We have to keep our search as broad as possible. We also cannot disregard the fact that Svedberg was a policeman. This may or may not be significant. We have no exact time of death yet, and a perplexing fact is that none of the neighbours heard any shots. We therefore have to wait for the autopsy report."

  He poured himself a glass of water and emptied it before continuing.

  "This is what we know. The only thing to add is that Svedberg did not turn up for work on Thursday. We all appreciate how unusual this is. He gave no reason for his absence, and the only rational assumption is that there was something preventing him from coming in. We know what that means."

  Nyberg interrupted him with a gesture.

  "I'm not a pathologist," he said, "but I doubt that Svedberg died as early as Wednesday."

  "Then we have to deal with the question of what could have prevented Svedberg from coming to work yesterday," Wallander said. "Why didn't he call in? When was he killed?"

  Wallander described his conversation with Ylva Brink. "Apart from telling me about the only other relative that Svedberg was in touch with, she said something that stuck in my mind. She said that in the last few weeks Svedberg complained about feeling overworked. But he had just returned from holiday. It doesn't make any sense, particularly if you know that he didn't tend to take strenuous trips on his holiday."

  "Did he ever leave Ystad?" Martinsson asked.

  "Not very often. He made a day-trip to Bornholm or occasionally took the ferry to Poland. Ylva Brink confirmed this. But he seems mostly to have spent time on his two hobbies, which were Native American history and amateur astronomy. Ylva Brink told me that he owned an expensive telescope, but we haven't found it yet."

  "I thought he went bird-watching," said Hansson, who had been silent until now.

  "Sometimes, but apparently not so often," Wallander said. "I think we should assume that Ylva Brink knew him quite well, and according to her it was stars and Indians that mattered."

  He looked around. "Why was he overworked? What does that mean? It may not be important at all, but I can't help thinking that it is."

  "I looked over what he was working on before our meeting," Höglund said. "Just before he went on holiday, he spoke to all the parents of the young people who are missing."

  "Which young people?" Holgersson asked, surprised. Wallander explained and Höglund continued.

  "The last two days before he went on holiday, he visited the Norman, Boge, and Hillström families, one after the other. But I can't find any notes from those visits even though I searched thoroughly."

  Wallander and Martinsson looked at each other.

  "That can't be right," Wallander said. "All three of us had a thorough meeting with those families. We had never talked about pursuing them for further questioning, since there was no indication of a crime."

  "Well, it looks like he went and saw them anyway," Höglund said. "He's noted the exact times of his visits in his calendar."

  Wallander thought for a moment. "That would mean that Svedberg was pursuing this on his own without telling us about it."

  "That's not like him," Martinsson said.

  "No," Wallander agreed. "It's as strange as him staying home from work without notifying anyone."

  "We can easily verify this information," Höglund said.

  "Please do," Wallander said. "And find out what questions Svedberg was asking."

  "This whole situation is absurd," Martinsson said. "We've been trying to meet with Svedberg with regard to these young people since Wednesday and now he's gone and here we are still talking about them."

  "Have there been any new developments?" Holgersson asked.

  "Nothing apart from the fact that one of the mothers has become extremely anxious. Her daughter sent her another postcard."

  "Isn't that good news?"

  "According to her, the handwriting was faked."

  "Who would do that?" Hansson asked. "Who the hell forges postcards? Cheques I understand. But postcards?"

  "I think we should keep the two cases separate for now," Wallander said. "Let's work out how to tackle the investigation of Svedberg's killer or killers."

  "Nothing indicates that there was more than one," Nyberg said.

  "Can you be sure that there wasn't?"

  "No."

  Wallander let his palms fall flat onto the table. "We can't be sure about anything right now," he said. "We have to cast a wide net. In a couple of hours we're going to release the news of Svedberg's death, and then we'll really have to move."

  "This will take top priority, of course," Holgersson said. "Everything else can wait."

  "The press conference," Wallander said. "Let's take care of that right now."

  "A police officer has been murdered," Holgersson said. "We'll tell them exactly what happened. Do we have any leads?"

  "No." Wallander's answer was firm.

  "Then that's what we'll say."

  "How detailed should we get?"

  "He was shot at close range. We have the murder weapon. Is there any reason to withhold that information?"

  "Not really," Wallander said, and he looked around the table. No one had any objections.

  Holgersson got up. "I'd like you to be there," she said. "Maybe all of you should be there. After all, a colleague and friend has been killed."

  They decided to meet 15 minutes before the press conference.

  Holgersson left. The candle went out when the door closed. Höglund lit it again. They went through what they knew one more time and divided up the work at hand. They were returning to work mode. They were just about to stop when Martinsson raised one more issue.

  "We should probably decide now if the young people should be left aside for now or not."

  Wallander felt unsure. But he knew it was up to him.

  "We'll put it aside for now," he said. "At least for the next few days. Then we'll revisit it, unless of course Svedberg was asking some extraordinary questions."

  It was 9.15 a.m. Wallander got a cup of coffee and went into his office. He got out a pad of paper and wrote a single word at the top of the first page: Svedberg. Underneath it he drew a cross that he immediately scratched out. He didn't get any further. He had been meaning to write down all the thoughts that had come to him during the night. But he put down the pen and walked to the window. The August morning was sunny and warm. The thought that there was something not quite right about this case returned. Nyberg felt there was something arranged about the murder scene. If so, then why, and by whom?

  He looked for Sture Björklund's numbe
r in the phone book and dialled it. The phone rang several times.

  "Please accept my condolences," Wallander said, when the man answered.

  Sture Björklund's voice sounded strained and distant.

  "Likewise. You probably knew my cousin better than I did. Ylva called me at 6 a.m. this morning to tell me what had happened."

  "Unfortunately this will make headlines in the papers," Wallander said.

  "I know. As it happens it's the second murder case in our family."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, in 1847, or more precisely on 12 April 1847, a man who was Karl Evert's great-great-great-great-uncle was killed with an axe somewhere on the outskirts of Eslöv. The murderer was a soldier by the name of Brun, who had been given a dishonourable discharge from the army for a number of reasons. The murder was simply a matter of money. Our ancestor was a cattle man and fairly wealthy."

  "What happened?" Wallander asked, trying to hide his impatience.

  "The police, which I guess consisted of a sheriff and his assistant, made heroic efforts and arrested Brun on his way to Denmark a few days later. He was sentenced to death and executed. When Oscar I became king he took on the business of processing death sentences blocked by his predecessor, Charles XV. As many as 14 prisoners were executed as soon as he came to power. Brun was beheaded, somewhere in the vicinity of Malmö."

  "What a strange story."

  "I did some research into our ancestry a couple of years ago. Of course the case of Brun and the murder in Eslöv was already known."

  "If it's all right with you, I'd like to come out to see you as soon as possible."

  Sture Björklund immediately put up his guard.

  "What about?"

  "We're trying to clarify our picture of Karl Evert." It felt unnatural to use his first name.

  "I didn't know him very well, though, and I have to go to Copenhagen this afternoon."

  "This is urgent and it won't take much time."

  The man was quiet at the other end of the line. Wallander waited.

  "What time?"

  "Around 2 p.m.?"

  "I'll call Copenhagen and let them know I won't be in today."