She sounded like she was spitting. "My mother's an idiot," she said. "She's completely ignorant. She can't help it, I guess. My father, on the other hand, is not an idiot. But he's ruthless."
"I'd like to hear more."
"Not now. When we eat."
It was clear that she wanted him to leave the kitchen, so Wallander went out to the front of the house and called Ystad. He got hold of Höglund.
"I was right," he said. "She's here, just like we thought."
"Like you thought," she corrected him. "To tell the truth, I don't think any of us were so sure."
"Well, everyone's right some of the time. I think we'll be back in Ystad some time tonight."
"Have you talked to her?"
"Not yet."
She told him some calls had come in from people who thought they recognised the picture of Louise. They were still in the process of checking them. She promised to get back to him when they were finished.
Wallander went back into the house. He kept returning to the same thought. He had to get her to tell him what she didn't even know she knew.
She set the table in the large glassed-in veranda that had been added on to the side of the house. She asked him what he wanted to drink and he opted for water. She drank wine. He worried that she would get drunk and become impossible to talk to, but she had only one glass. They ate in silence. Afterwards, she put on some coffee. She shook her head when Wallander started clearing the table. A sofa and some chairs stood in a corner of the veranda. A lone sailing boat drifted by with limp sails.
"It's very beautiful here," he said. "This is a part of Sweden I haven't seen before."
"They bought the house 30 years ago," she replied. "They claim I was conceived out here, which may be true since I was born in February. They bought the house from an old couple who'd lived here their whole lives. I don't know how my father heard about it but one day he came to see them with a suitcase full of 100-kronor notes. It looks very impressive, but it doesn't necessarily mean it's a large sum of money. Neither of them had ever seen so much money in their lives. It took a couple of months to convince them, but they finally accepted the offer. I don't know what the exact amount was but I'm sure he paid nothing close to what it was worth."
"Do you mean that he swindled them?"
"I mean that my father has always been a scoundrel."
"If he simply made a good deal perhaps he should be called an ambitious businessman."
"My father has been involved in deals all over the world. He smuggled diamonds and ivory in Africa. No one really knows what he does now, but lately a lot of Russians have come out to visit him in Skårby. You can't tell me they're up to anything legal."
"As far as I know he's never been in trouble with us," Wallander said.
"Yes, he's good," she said. "And persistent. You can accuse him of a lot of things but he's not lazy. Ruthless people don't tend to rest on their laurels."
Wallander set his coffee cup down. "Let's talk about you instead," he said. "That's why I'm here, and it's been a long trip. We'll be heading back soon."
"What makes you think I'll be coming with you?"
Wallander looked at her for a long time before answering. "Three of your closest friends have been murdered," he said. "You were supposed to have been there when it happened. Both of us know what conclusion to draw from that."
She curled up in her chair and Wallander saw that she was frightened.
"Since we don't know why it happened, we have to take every precaution," he said.
The importance of what he was saying finally seemed to sink in. "Am I in danger?"
"We can't rule that out. We have no motive, therefore we have to consider all possibilities."
"But why would anyone want to kill me?"
"Why would anyone want to kill your friends? Martin, Lena, Astrid?"
She shook her head. "I don't understand it," she said.
Wallander moved his chair closer to hers. "Nonetheless you're the one who's going to help us," he said. "We're going to catch whoever did this. And to get him, we have to know why he did it. You got away. You're the one who's going to tell us."
"But when it's completely incomprehensible?"
"You have to think back," Wallander said. "Who could have targeted you as a group? What united you? Why? There is an answer. It has to be there."
He quickly changed tack, knowing that she was starting to listen to him. He didn't want to lose this opportunity.
"You have to answer my questions," he said. "And you have to tell the truth. I'll know if you're lying. And I don't want that."
"Why would I lie?"
"When I found you, you had just tried to commit suicide," he said. "Why? Did you already know what had happened to your friends?"
She looked at him with surprise. "How could I have known that? I had the same questions as everybody else."
Wallander knew she was telling the truth. "Why did you want to kill yourself ?"
"I didn't want to live any more. Is there ever any other reason? My parents have ruined my life, just like they ruined Jörgen's. I just didn't want to live any more."
Wallander waited. Maybe she would keep talking. But she didn't say anything else.
For the next three hours he led her step by step through the events of the summer. He didn't leave anything untouched, however minor. He went through everything, sometimes more than once. There were no limits to how far back he could go. When had she first met Lena Norman? Which year, which month, what day? How had they met, how did they become friends? When she said she couldn't remember, or if she became unsure of herself, he slowed down and started again. An unclear memory could be overcome with patience. The whole time he was trying to get her to think about whether there had been anyone else there.
"A shadow in the corner," he said. "Was there a shadow in the corner? Anything you're forgetting?"
He asked about everything that might have seemed unexpected. As time went on she started to understand his methods, and then it was easier. Shortly after 5 p.m. they decided to stay the night and leave Bärnsö the following day. Wallander called Westin, who promised to come and get them when Wallander called. He didn't ask about Isa, but Wallander was sure he had known she was out there all along. They took a walk on the island, talking the whole time. Now and again Isa interrupted herself to point out places where she had played as a child. They walked out to the northernmost point. To his surprise she pointed to a shelf in the rock where she claimed to have lost her virginity one summer, but she didn't say with whom.
When they returned to the house it was starting to get dark. She walked around turning on the kerosene lamps, while Wallander called Ystad and talked to Martinsson. Nothing much had happened. No one had identified Louise. Wallander told him he was staying the night, and that he would return with the girl the next day.
Isa and Wallander continued their conversation all evening, pausing only to have tea and sandwiches. Wallander walked out in the dark and relieved himself against a tree. The wind moaned in the treetops. Everything was quiet. He was beginning to understand their games – the way they dressed up, had parties, and travelled to different ages. When the conversation approached the party that had turned out to be their last, Wallander proceeded with painstaking care. Who could possibly have known about their plans? No one? He simply couldn't accept her answer. Someone must have known.
It was 1.30 a.m. when they stopped for the night. Wallander was so tired that he felt nauseated. She still hadn't come up with anything, but they were going to keep going in the long car trip to Ystad. He wasn't going to give up.
She showed him to a bedroom on the second floor. She was sleeping downstairs. She said good night and gave him a kerosene lamp. He made his bed and opened the window. It was very dark outside. He lay down in the bed and blew out the lamp. He heard her cleaning up in the kitchen, then the sound of the front door being locked. Then nothing.
Wallander fell asleep immediately.
> No one noticed the boat that crossed Vikfjärden late that evening with its lights turned off. And no one heard it as it glided into the natural harbour on the west side of Bärnsö Island.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Linda screamed.
She was somewhere close by. Her scream forced its way into his dreams. When he opened his eyes he had no idea where he was, but the faint scent from the kerosene lamp made him realise that it couldn't have been Linda who had screamed. His heart was pounding. It was quiet outside, just the whisper of the wind in the trees. He listened. Had it been a dream? He sat up and fumbled for the matches that he had placed beside the lamp on the table, lit it, and got dressed. He was putting his shoes on when he heard the sound. Something banging against the side of the house. Maybe the sound of a washing line hitting a drainpipe. But it was coming from downstairs. He got up, still with one shoe in his hand, and went over to the door. He opened it carefully and the sound came more clearly. The kitchen. The kitchen door must be open and banging in the wind. His fear came back with a vengeance. He hadn't been dreaming. The scream had been real.
Instead of putting his shoe on, he kicked off the other one, and walked downstairs with the lamp in his hand. He stopped halfway down and listened. The lamplight flickered over the walls. His hands were shaking. He realised that he had nothing to defend himself with. He tried to gather his thoughts. Nothing could happen out here. They were alone on the island. Maybe a bird had cried outside his window. And there was another possibility – that he wasn't the only one who had nightmares.
He went all the way downstairs and stopped outside her door, listened, then knocked. No answer. It's too quiet, he thought. He felt the handle. It was locked. Now he didn't hesitate. He banged the door and rattled the handle. Nothing. He went out to the kitchen. The back door was open and he closed it. He looked in the kitchen drawers and found a screwdriver, and used it to open her door. The bed was empty, the window open without being fastened. He tried to think what might have happened. He remembered seeing a big torch in the kitchen. He got it, and took a hammer as well. He opened the back door, and shone the light out into the darkness.
Once he was outside he realised that he was barefoot. A bird flew away from somewhere nearby. The sound of the wind was stronger. He called Isa's name, but there was no answer. He shone the light below her window. There were footprints on the ground, but they were so faint that he couldn't see where they led. He shone the light out into the darkness and called out again. Still no answer. His heart was pounding. He went back to the kitchen door and examined the lock. It had been forced, just as he'd thought. His fear grew stronger. He turned around and lifted his hammer, but there was no one there. He returned to the house. His phone was on the table next to his bed. He tried to imagine what had happened.
Someone breaks in through the kitchen door. Isa wakes because someone is trying to get into her room. Then she jumps out the window.
He couldn't think of any other explanation. He looked at his watch. It was 2.45 a.m. He dialled Martinsson's home number. He answered on the second ring. Wallander knew he had a phone by his bed.
"It's Kurt. I'm sorry to wake you."
"What's wrong?" Martinsson was still half-asleep.
"Get up," Wallander said. "Splash some cold water on your face. I'll call back in three minutes."
Martinsson started to protest, but Wallander hung up and looked at his watch. In exactly three minutes he called back, worrying about the battery to his phone running out.
"Listen carefully," he said. "I can't talk for long, my battery is going to run out. Do you have a pen and paper?"
Martinsson was wide awake now.
"I'm writing this down as we speak."
"Something's happened out here. I don't know what. Isa Edengren screamed, and I woke up. Now she's gone. The back door to the house has been forced. There's someone else on the island besides us. Whoever it is, he's come for her. I'm afraid she's in danger."
"What do you want me to do?"
"For now, just get the phone number of the coast guard in Fyrudden. Be prepared for my next call."
"What are you going to do?"
"Find her."
"If the killer's out there it'll be dangerous. You need help."
"And where would that come from? Norköpping? How long would that take?"
"You can't search an entire island by yourself."
"It's not that big. I'm going to hang up now, I want to conserve the battery."
Wallander put his shoes on and slipped the phone into his pocket, tucked the hammer into his belt, and left the house. He walked down to the landing and shone the torch. No boat. The boathouse and guest house were empty. He was calling her name. He ran back up to the main house, and started down the path. The bushes and trees looked white in the strong light. There was no one in the earth cellar.
He continued, calling her constantly. When he came to the junction in the path, he hesitated. Which way should he go? He looked at the ground, but couldn't see any prints. He headed for the northern tip of the island. He was out of breath when he reached the end. The wind coming in off the open sea was icy. He let the beam from the torch play over the rocks. Two eyes gleamed in the light. It was a little animal, a mink perhaps, that scuttled away between the rocks. He walked to the very end of the rocks, shining his light in the crevices. Nothing. He turned around to start back.
Something made him stop. He listened. The waves hit the shore in a rhythmic motion, but there was another sound. At first he didn't know what it was. Then he realised that it was an engine. The sound came from the west.
The harbour, he thought, and started running. I should have taken the other path.
He stopped only when he was about to reach the shore. He stepped out and flashed his light over the water. There was nothing there, and the sound had disappeared. A boat has just left, he thought. His fear increased. What had happened to her? He walked back along the path, trying to decide how to continue his search. Did the coast guard have dogs? Even though the island was small, he wouldn't be finished until morning. He tried to think out how she would have reacted. She had fled her bedroom in panic. The person trying to break in had blocked her way up to his room. She jumped out the window and took off into the darkness. He doubted that she'd had a torch.
Wallander reached the junction again. Suddenly he knew. As they were walking around the island, she had mentioned a favourite hiding place she and Jörgen had when they were little. He thought back to where they had been standing when she had pointed to the rock face that was the highest point on the island. It had been closer to the house, and he remembered two juniper trees. He left the path. Fallen trees and thick shrubbery slowed his progress. There were large boulders strewn about, and he shone his light on them as he walked by. As he was nearing the beginning of the rock face, he caught sight of a deep crevice behind some ferns. He walked up to the rock wall, parted the ferns, and shone his torch inside.
She was there, curled up against the side of the rock, wearing only a nightgown. Her arms were wrapped around her legs and her head was leaning against one shoulder. It looked like she was sleeping, but he knew at once that she was dead. She had been shot in the head.
Wallander sank down on the ground. The blood rushed to his head. He felt like he was dying, and he didn't really mind. He had failed. He hadn't managed to keep her safe. Even the hiding place where she had played as a child hadn't protected her. He hadn't heard a shot. The gun must have had a silencer.
He got up and leaned against a tree. The phone slid out of his grasp. He leaned down, picked it up, and started staggering back towards the house as he called Martinsson.
"I'm too late," he said.
"Too late for what?"
"She's dead. Shot, just like the others."
Martinsson didn't seem to understand. Wallander had to repeat himself.
"My God," Martinsson said. "Who killed her?"
"A man in a boat," Wallander said. "Call the
police in Norrköping. They'll have to do this. And talk to the coast guard."
Martinsson promised to do what he said.
"You might as well wake up the others," he said. "Lisa Holgersson, everyone. Once I get some help out here I'll call you again."
The conversation was over. Wallander sat on a chair in the kitchen, with the beam resting on a tapestry with the words "home sweet home". After a while he forced himself to get up, go into her room, and pull the blanket from her bed. Then he went out into the dark. Once he got back to the crevice he wrapped the blanket around her.
He sat down by the ferns that covered the opening. It was 3.20 a.m.
The wind picked up in the early, pale dawn. Wallander heard the coast guard arriving and went to the landing. The policemen approached him with suspicion. Wallander could understand their reaction. What was a police officer from Skåne doing out here on one of their islands? If he had been on holiday, it would have been different. He led them to the crevice, and turned away as they lifted the blanket. One of the officers demanded to see Wallander's police ID. Wallander lost his temper. He tore his wallet from his pocket and threw his ID card on the ground. Then he walked away. His fury left him almost immediately, replaced by a paralysing fatigue. He sat down on the front steps to the house with a bottle of water.
Harry Lundström came and found him. He'd seen Wallander lose his temper and had thought how tactless it had been to ask him for his police badge at that moment. It was clear, after all, that he was a fellow police officer. The call had come from the Ystad police, with very specific information. A detective by the name of Kurt Wallander was on Bärnsö Island. He had found a dead girl, and he needed assistance.
Harry Lundström was 57 years old. He had been born in Norrköping and was considered the best detective in the city by everyone but himself. When Wallander flew into a rage, Lundström had understood his reaction. He didn't know what events lay behind the murder, but he knew that it had to do with the dead police officer and the three young people. Beyond that it was very unclear. But Harry Lundström had a huge capacity for empathy. He could imagine what it might have felt like to find a girl dressed only in her nightgown, curled in a crevice, with a bullet hole in her head.
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