"I don't know," Wallander said. "But at least we have a survivor."
"Isa Edengren?"
Wallander didn't answer. He didn't need to. They all knew what he meant. The grave had been intended for her as well.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At 5 a.m. on Tuesday, 13 August, Wallander left Ystad, deciding to drive along the coast, through Kalmar. He was already at Sölvesborg when he realised he had forgotten his promise to visit Dr Göransson at the clinic that morning. He pulled over by the side of the road and called Martinsson. It was just past 7 a.m. Wallander told him about the doctor's appointment and asked Martinsson to call and give an excuse.
"Tell him an urgent matter called me out of town," Wallander said.
"Are you sick?" Martinsson asked.
"It's a routine check-up," Wallander told him. "That's all."
Afterwards, when he had pulled back out onto the road, it occurred to him that Martinsson must have wondered why he didn't call Dr Göransson himself. Wallander asked himself the same question. Why couldn't he tell people that he had in all likelihood developed diabetes? He was having trouble making sense of his own actions.
He was thirsty, and his body ached. When he passed a roadside cafe he stopped and had breakfast. On the way out he bought two bottles of mineral water. He made it to Kalmar by 9 a.m. The phone rang. It was Höglund, who was going to help him with directions once he reached Östergötland.
"I talked to a colleague in Valdemarsvik," she said. "I thought it would be best to make it sound like a personal favour."
"Good idea," Wallander said. "Police officers don't tend to like it when you trespass on their territory."
"Especially not you," she said with a laugh. She was right. He didn't like having police officers from other districts in Ystad.
"How do I get out to the island?" he asked.
"That depends on where you are right now. Are you far away?
"I've just passed Kalmar. Västervik is 100 kilometres away, and then it's about another hundred after that."
"Then it'll be tight."
"What do you mean?"
"My contact in Valdemarsvik suggested that you take the post boat, but it leaves Fyrudden between 11 a.m. and 11.30."
"Is there no other way?"
"Oh, I'm sure there is. But you'll have to organise that once you get to the dock."
"I may be able to do that. Can't someone call the post office and tell them I'm on my way? Where does the post get sorted? In Norrköping?"
"I'm looking at a map right now," she said. "I think it would have to be in Gryt, if there's even a post office there."
"Where's that?"
"Between Valdemarsvik and Fyrudden harbour. Don't you even have a map with you?"
"Unfortunately I left it on my desk."
"Let me call you back," she said. "But I really think the best thing would be for you to go out with the post boat. If my colleague is right, it's the easiest way for people to get out to the islands. Those that don't have their own boats, of course, or anyone who's willing to come and get them."
Wallander understood what she meant.
"Good thinking," he said. "You mean that Isa Edengren may have taken the post boat herself?"
"It was just an idea."
Wallander thought for a moment. "But do you really think she made it up there by 11 a.m. if she left the hospital at 6 a.m.?"
"She may have," Höglund replied. "If she had a car, and Isa Edengren does have her licence. And we mustn't forget that she could have left the hospital as early as 4 a.m."
She promised to call him back. Wallander increased his speed. The traffic was getting heavier and there were a number of cars with trailers on the road. They reminded him that it was still summer, and holiday time. For a moment he considered turning on his police light, but decided against it. Instead he continued to increase his speed.
Höglund called him back after 20 minutes.
"I was right," she said. "The post gets sorted in Gryt. I even talked to the captain of the post boat. He sounded very nice."
"What was his name?"
"I didn't catch it. But he'll wait for you until midday. Otherwise he can come and get you later in the afternoon but I think that will cost you more."
"I was planning to write this trip off to expenses," Wallander said. "But I'll get there before midday."
"There's a car park next to the wharf," she said. "And the post boat is just across from it."
"Do you have his phone number?"
Wallander pulled over to the side of the road and wrote down the number. As he sat there he was passed by a lorry he had finally managed to overtake a little earlier.
It was 11.40 a.m. when Wallander drove down the hill towards Fyrudden harbour. He found a car park and then walked out onto the pier. There was a soft wind. The harbour was full of boats. A man in his 50s was loading the last of his boxes into a large motorboat. Wallander hesitated, having imagined that the post boat would look different. He had even expected a flag bearing the post office logo. The man, who had just set down a crate of soda water, looked at Wallander.
"Are you the one going out to Bärnsö?"
"That's me."
The man stepped onto the dock and reached out his hand. "Lennart Westin."
"I'm sorry I'm a little late."
"Oh, there's no hurry."
"I don't know if the woman who called told you but I have to get back somehow, either later this afternoon or tonight."
"You aren't spending the night?"
The situation was starting to get confusing. Wallander didn't even know if Höglund had told him that he was a policeman.
"I should tell you I'm a detective with the Ystad homicide unit," Wallander said and got out his identification. "I'm working on a particularly difficult and unpleasant case at the moment."
This postman called Westin was a fast thinker.
"Is it that case involving the young people that I read about in the paper? Wasn't there a police officer killed, too?"
Wallander nodded.
"I thought I recognised them from the picture in the paper," Westin said. "At least one of them. I had the feeling I had given them a ride a year or so ago."
"With Isa?"
"Yes, that's right. They were with her. I think it was late autumn a couple of years ago. There was a storm coming in from the southwest. I wasn't sure we could pull up to the Bärnsö landing. It's a particularly exposed spot when the wind is blowing from that direction. But we made it. One of their bags fell in the water, and we managed to fish it out. That's why I remember. But you should never be too sure of your memory."
"I think you're probably right," Wallander said. "Have you seen Isa recently? Today or the day before?"
"No."
"Does she normally catch a ride out with you?"
"When her parents are out here, they collect her. Otherwise she gets a ride with me."
"So she's not here now?"
"If she is, she went out with someone else."
"Who would that have been?"
Westin shrugged. "There are always people around out here who would be willing to give her a ride. Isa knows whom to call. But I think she would have asked me first."
Westin glanced at his watch. Wallander hurried back to his car to get the little bag he had packed. Then he got on the boat. Westin pointed to the map beside the steering wheel.
"I could take you directly to Bärnsö but that would be out of my way," he said. "Are you in a hurry? If we go to Bärnsö on my regular route we'll be there in an hour. I have three other stops first."
"That's fine."
"When do you want me to pick you up?"
Wallander thought for a moment. Isa was most likely not on the island. He had drawn the wrong conclusion, which was a disappointment. But now that he was here he might as well search the house. He would probably need a couple of hours.
"You don't need to make up your mind right now," Westin said and gave him his card
. "You can reach me over the phone. I can either come by this afternoon or this evening. I live on an island that's not too far away."
He pointed it out on the map.
"I'll call you," Wallander said and put the card away.
Westin started both the engines and set off.
"How long have you been delivering the post?" Wallander asked. He had to shout to make himself heard above the engine noise.
"Too long," Westin shouted back. "More than 25 years now."
"What do you do in the winter?"
"Hydrocopter."
Wallander felt his exhaustion lifting. The speed, the experience of being out on the water, gave him a surprising sense of well-being. When had he last felt like this? Perhaps during those days with Linda on Gotland. He knew it must be hard work delivering the post in the archipelago. But right now all suggestion of storms and autumn darkness seemed far away. Westin looked over at him, as if he knew what he was thinking.
"Maybe that would be something for me," he said. "Being a policeman."
Normally Wallander rushed to defend his profession. But here with Westin, as they sped across the smooth surface of the water, the familiar topic coaxed a different response from him.
"Sometimes I have my doubts," he shouted. "But when you reach 50 you're kind of on your own. Most doors are closed."
"I turned 50 this spring," Westin said. "Everyone I know out here threw a big party."
"How many people out here do you know?"
"Everyone. It was a big party."
Westin turned the wheel and slowed the boat down. Right next to a big cliff there was a red boathouse and a pier built out over a row of old stone structures.
"Båtmansö Island," Westin said. "When I was a child there were nine families living out here – more than 30 people. Now there are people out here over the summer, but come winter there's only one. His name is Zetterquist and he's 93 years old, but he still makes it through the winter. He's been widowed three times. He's the kind of old man you don't meet any more. I think the national board of health must have outlawed them."
His last remark took Wallander by surprise and made him laugh.
"Was he a fisherman?"
"He's been a jack-of-all-trades. He worked on a tugboat once upon a time."
"You know everybody. And they all know you?"
"That's the way it goes. If this old chap didn't show up to meet my boat, I'd go up and see if he was sick, or if he'd had a fall. If you're a country postman, either at sea or on land, you end up knowing everybody's business. What they're doing, where they're going, when they're due back. Whether or not you actually want to."
Westin had brought the boat softly alongside the landing, and now he unloaded a couple of boxes. Quite a few people had gathered on the pier. Westin took the packet of post and walked up to a small red house.
Wallander stretched his legs on the pier, looking at a pile of old-fashioned stone sinkers. The air was cooler. Westin came back after a couple of minutes and they left. Their route took them through the varied landscape of the archipelago. After two more post stops, they approached Bärnsö. They came out on an open stretch of sea called Vikfjärden. Bärnsö lay strangely isolated, as if it had been thrown out of the community of islands.
"You must know the whole Edengren family," Wallander said, when Westin had pulled back the throttle and they were gliding towards the little dock.
"I suppose you could say that," Westin said. "Although I haven't had much contact with the parents. Honestly speaking, I think they're rather snobbish. But Isa and Jörgen have caught a ride with me many times."
"You know that Jörgen is dead," Wallander said carefully.
"I heard he was in a car accident," Westin said. "His father told me. I had to collect him once when there was something wrong with their boat."
"It's tragic when children die," Wallander said.
"I had always thought Isa was the one who would have an accident."
"Why is that?"
"She lives her life to the extreme. At least, if you believe what she says."
"She talks to you? Maybe as a postman you become something of a confidant."
"Hell, no," Westin said. "My son is Isa's age. They were together for a while a couple of summers ago. But it ended, like these things often do at that age."
The boat hit the edge of the pier. Wallander took his bag and got off.
"I'll give you a call this afternoon."
"I eat at 6 p.m.," Westin answered. "Before or after is fine."
Wallander watched the boat disappear around the point. He thought about how Westin had described Jörgen's death. His parents had changed the story. A toaster in the bath had become a car accident.
Wallander walked onto the green, lush island. Next to the dock was a boathouse and a small guest house. It reminded him of the gazebo in Skårby where he had found Isa. An old wooden rowing boat lay turned over on some trestles. Wallander caught a faint whiff of tar. Several large oak trees grew on the hillside leading up to the main house. It was a red two-storey house, old but in good condition. Wallander walked up to it, looking around and listening. There was a sailing boat in the distance, and the dying sound of an outboard motor. Wallander was sweating. He put the bag down, took his coat off and threw it over the railing of the front steps. The curtains were drawn in the windows. He went up the steps and knocked on the door. He waited. Then he banged on it with his fist. No one answered. He felt the handle. It was locked. For a moment he hesitated, then he walked around the back, feeling as though he was repeating his visit to Skårby. There was a garden with fruit trees behind the house – apples, plums and a lone cherry tree. Garden furniture was piled up under a plastic sheet.
A path led away from the house towards the thick woods. Wallander started walking down the path, and came to an old well and an earth cellar. The numbers 1897 were carved into the rock above the door, and the key was in the lock. Wallander opened the door. It was dark and cool inside, and there was a smell of potatoes. When his eyes became accustomed to the dark he saw that it was empty. He closed the door and continued along the path, catching glimpses of the sea on his left. From the position of the sun he knew he was walking northwards. After about a kilometre he came to a junction where a smaller path led off to the left. He kept walking straight ahead, and after a couple of hundred metres came to the end. Ahead of him were smooth boulders and cliffs. Beyond them, just the open sea. It was the tip of the island. A seagull squawked above him, rising and falling on the wind. He climbed out onto the rocks, sat down, and wiped the sweat from his forehead, wishing that he'd brought some water with him. Gone were all thoughts of Svedberg and the dead young people.
He got up after a while and walked back. At the junction he took the smaller path, which led to a small, natural harbour. Some rusty iron rings were bolted into the rock face. The water was like a mirror, reflecting the tall trees. He turned and walked back to the main house. He checked his phone, went behind one of the oak trees, and took a piss. Then he got out a bottle of water and sat down on the main steps. His mouth was completely dry. As he put the bottle down something caught his attention. He stared at his bag that lay at the foot of the stairs. He was sure he had put it on the higher step. He got off the stairs and went over his actions in his mind.
First I put the bag down, then I removed my jacket and hung it on the railing, he thought. Then I moved the bag to the second step.
It had been moved. He looked around at everything with a new attentiveness. The trees, the bushes, the main house. The curtains were still drawn. He thought of the landing and the guest house, the guest house that reminded him of the gazebo in Skårby. He walked down the hill to the boathouse. The door was latched. He opened it and looked in. It was empty, but he could tell from the size of the berth and the ropes that it housed a big boat. Fishing nets were hanging on the walls. He went out again and locked the door. Part of the guest house was built out over the water with a ladder hanging over the end
for swimming. He stood and stared at it for a moment. Then he walked up and felt the door. It was locked. He knocked lightly.
"Isa," he said. "I know you're in there."
He waited.
When she opened the door he didn't recognise her at first. She had tied her hair up in a knot. She was dressed in black, in some kind of overalls. Wallander thought her expression was full of animosity, but perhaps it was fear.
"How did you know I was here?" Her voice was hoarse.
"I didn't. Not until you told me."
"I haven't said anything. And I know you didn't see me."
"Policemen have the bad habit of noticing little things. Like someone lifting a bag, for instance. And not putting it back in the right place."
She stared back at him as if she couldn't understand what he had said. He saw that she was barefoot.
"I'm hungry," she said.
"So am I."
"There's food in the main house," she said and started walking. "Why did you come here?"
"We had to find you."
"Why?"
"Since you know what happened, I don't have to tell you."
She walked on in silence. Wallander looked at her. Her face was pale and drawn.
"How did you get out here?" he asked.
"I called Lage, who lives on Wettersö Island."
"Why didn't you get a ride with Westin?"
"I thought you might try to find out if I was here."
"And you didn't want to be found?"
She didn't answer this either. She unlocked the door and let them in, then walked around opening the curtains. She tugged at them in a careless way, as if she actually wanted to break everything around her. Wallander followed her into the kitchen. She opened the back door and connected a bottle of liquid gas to the stove. Wallander had already noticed that there was no electricity in the house. She turned around and looked at him.
"Cooking is one of the few things I can do."
She pointed out the refrigerator and a large freezer that were also hooked up to gas tanks. "They're full of food," she said disdainfully. "That's the way my parents want it. They pay someone to come out here and change the gas. They want food to be here in case they decide to come out for a couple of days. Which they never do."
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