Wallander flipped through the folder she had given him. There were geometric figures everywhere, but also pictures of old gods and the mutilated bodies of tortured people. He put the material down with disgust.
"Do you think what happened in the nature reserve was a result of vengeance? That they had divulged the secret and had to be killed?"
"In this day and age I hardly think that can be ruled out."
Wallander knew she was right. Only a short time ago a number of members of a sect in Switzerland and France had committed mass suicide. In May, Martinsson had taken part in a conference in Stockholm devoted to the role of the police in stemming this increased activity. It was getting harder, since modern sects no longer circled around a single crazed individual. Now they were well-organised corporations that had their own lawyers and accountants. Members took out loans to pay fees they couldn't really afford. It wasn't even clear these days if the emotional blackmail that took place could be classified as criminal activity. Martinsson had told Wallander after he returned from the conference that new laws would have to be enacted if they were to have any hope in prosecuting these soul-sucking vampires who were profiting from the increased sense of helplessness in society.
"This is an important discovery," he said to Höglund. "We're going to need help with this. The national police have a special division devoted to working on new sects. We'll also need help from the United States on the Divine Movers. Above all, we have to get the other young people involved in this to talk, get them to divulge their carefully guarded secrets."
"They take their vows and then eat horse liver. Raw," she said, leafing through the folder.
"Who officiates at these ceremonies?"
"It must be Lena Norman."
Wallander shook his head, baffled. "And she's dead now. Do you think she would have broken her vows? Was there someone waiting to replace her?"
"I don't know. Maybe we'll find a name among these papers when we've had a chance to go through them properly."
Wallander stood up and looked out the window. The woman was still down on the lawn. He thought of the woman he had met at the roadside restaurant outside Västervik. He searched for her name for a while before it came to him: Erika. He had a sudden longing to see her again.
"We probably shouldn't get too distracted by all this," he said in an absentminded way. "We shouldn't rule out our other theories."
"Which are?"
He didn't need to spell it out for her. The only possible theory was a deranged killer acting alone. The theory you always worked with when you had no leads.
"I have difficulty seeing Svedberg getting tangled up in all this," he said. "Even though he's surprised us."
"Maybe he wasn't directly involved," Höglund said. "He may simply have known someone who was."
He thought again of Westin, the seafaring postman. Wallander was still desperately trying to catch hold of something he had said during that boat trip. But it remained out of reach.
"There's really only one thing we need to know," Wallander said, "as in all complicated cases. One thing, that would set everything else in motion."
"The identity of Svedberg's killer?"
He nodded. "Exactly. Then we would have an answer to everything, except perhaps the question of the motive. But we could piece that together as well."
Wallander returned to the chair and sat down. "Did you have time to talk to the Danes about Louise?"
"The photograph will be published tomorrow."
Wallander got up again. "We have to go through this flat thoroughly," he said. "From top to bottom. But I think I'll be of more use in Ystad. If we have time, we'll contact Interpol today and get the Americans involved. Martinsson will love taking charge of that."
"I think he dreams about being a federal agent in the United States," Höglund agreed. "Not just a policeman in Ystad."
"We all have our dreams," Wallander said, in an awkward and completely unnecessary attempt to come to Martinsson's defence. He gathered the papers from the desk while Höglund looked around the kitchen for some plastic bags to put them in. They talked for a while in the small hall before he left.
"I keep having this feeling that I'm overlooking something," Wallander said. "I think it has something to do with Westin."
"Westin?"
"He was the one who took me out to Bärnsö Island. He's the postman in the archipelago. He said something when we were standing in the wheelhouse. I just can't remember what it was."
"Why don't you call him? The two of you might be able to reconstruct the conversation. Maybe simply hearing his voice will bring whatever it was back to you."
"You may be right," Wallander said doubtfully. "I'll call."
Then he remembered another voice. "What happened with Lundberg? I mean the person who wasn't him, but who pretended to be. The one who called the hospital and asked about Isa."
"I passed that on to Martinsson. We exchanged a couple of tasks; I can't remember now what they were. I took on something he hadn't had time to do. He promised to talk to the nurse."
Wallander sensed a note of criticism in her voice. They all had so much to do. The tasks were piling up.
Wallander drove back to Ystad, thinking over the latest events. How did the revelations in Lena Norman's flat alter the picture? Were these parties much more sinister than he had thought? He recalled the time a few years earlier, when Linda had undergone what might be described as a religious crisis. It was right after the divorce. Linda was as lost as he was, and one night he had heard a soft mumbling from inside her bedroom that he thought must be prayer. When he found books in her room about Scientology, he'd become seriously concerned. He tried to reason with her without much success. Finally Mona sorted things out. He didn't know exactly what happened, but one day the soft mumbles behind her door stopped and she went back to her old interests.
He shivered at the thought of sects. Were the answers to this case lying somewhere in these plastic bags? He accelerated. He was in a hurry.
The first thing he did back at the station was to find Edmundsson and pay him the money he owed. Then he went to the conference room where Martinsson was briefing the three police officers from Malmö who were joining the investigation. Wallander had met one of them before, a detective in his 60s by the name of Rytter. He didn't recognise either of the other two, who were younger. Wallander said hello, but didn't stay. He asked Martinsson to try to catch him sometime later that evening. Then he went to his office and started going through the papers from Lena Norman's flat. He was about half finished when Martinsson appeared. It was a little after 11 p.m. Martinsson was pale and bleary-eyed. Wallander wondered how he looked himself.
"How's it going?" he asked.
"They're good," Martinsson said. "Especially the old guy, Rytter."
"They're going to make a real difference," Wallander said enthusiastically. "It will give us the break we need."
Martinsson pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his collar.
"I have a project for you," Wallander said. He told him in some detail about the materials that had turned up in Lena Norman's flat. Martinsson became more and more interested. The thought that he would be contacting colleagues in the U.S. was clearly invigorating.
"The most important thing is to get a clear picture of these people," Wallander said.
Martinsson looked at his watch. "I guess this isn't the best time of day to get in touch with the U.S., but I'll give it a shot."
Wallander got up and gathered the papers together, and they went to copy the material that Wallander hadn't had time to look through.
"Apart from drugs, sects are the thing I'm most afraid of for my children," Martinsson said. "I'm afraid of them getting pulled into some religious nightmare they won't be able to get out of, where I won't be able to reach them."
"There was a time when I had those exact worries about Linda," Wallander said. He didn't say anything more, and Martinsson didn't ask any questions.
The c
opier suddenly stopped working. Martinsson reloaded it with a new sheaf of blank paper. Wallander left Martinsson and returned to his office. A report on the charges once filed against Svedberg was lying on his desk. He read through it quickly to get a sense of what had happened. It was dated 19 September 1985. A man named Stig Stridh, the complainant, was assaulted by his brother, an alcoholic, who had come to ask him for money. He knocked out two of Stridh's teeth, stole a camera, and demolished a large part of his living room. Two police officers, one by the name of Andersson, showed up at the flat and took down details of the incident. Stridh was called down to the police station on 26 August for a meeting with Inspector Karl Evert Svedberg. Svedberg explained to him that there would not be an investigation into the case since there was no evidence. Stridh argued vehemently that a camera was missing and a large part of his living room was damaged, and that the two officers had seen his cuts and bruises. According to Stridh, at this point Svedberg's manner became threatening and he ordered him to drop the charges. Stridh left and later wrote a letter to Björk, in which he complained about the treatment he had received.
Two days later Svedberg showed up at Stridh's door and repeated his threats. After some deliberation with friends, Stridh had decided to file charges against Svedberg with the department of justice. Wallander read the report with a growing sense of disbelief. Svedberg's response to the report was brief and denied all charges. Svedberg's behaviour in the case simply couldn't be explained. But this was exactly the kind of thing they had to get to the bottom of.
It was past midnight when Wallander had finished reading the report. He hadn't managed to fit in the visit to Isa Edengren's parents. He couldn't find a Stig Stridh in the phone book. Both matters would have to wait until the morning. Now he had to get some sleep. He took his coat and left the station. There was a faint breeze outside, but it was still warm. He found his car keys and unlocked the door.
Suddenly he jerked around. He couldn't say what had frightened him. He listened hard and stared into the shadows at the edge of the car park. There was no one there, he told himself. He got into his car. I'm always afraid that he's out there, close by, he thought. Whoever he is, he keeps himself well informed, and I'm afraid he will kill again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
On Saturday, 17 August, Wallander woke to the sound of rain drumming against the bedroom window. The alarm clock read 6.30 a.m. Wallander listened to the sound of the rain. Soft morning light was streaming in through a gap in the curtains. He tried to recall when it had last rained. It had to have been before the night when he and Martinsson found Svedberg's body, and that was eight days ago. It's an unfathomable length of time, he thought. Neither long, nor short. He went out to the bathroom and had a pee, then drank some water at the kitchen counter and returned to bed. The fear from the night before was still with him, just as mysterious, just as strong.
He was showered and dressed by 7.15 a.m. For breakfast he had a cup of coffee and a tomato. The rain had stopped and the thermometer read 15°C. The clouds were already starting to clear. He decided to make his calls from the flat rather than the station. First he would call Westin, then the operator to try and get Stig Stridh's phone number. He had already found the piece of paper with Westin's numbers on it. He was counting on Westin having Saturdays off, but he probably wasn't the type to stay in bed, either. Wallander took his coffee with him into the living room and dialled the first of the three numbers on the scrap of paper. A woman answered after the third ring. Wallander introduced himself and apologised for calling so early.
"I'll get him," she said. "He's chopping wood."
Wallander thought he could hear the sound of wood splitting in the background. Then the sound stopped and he heard children's voices. Westin finally came to the phone, and they exchanged greetings.
"You're chopping wood," Wallander said.
"The cold weather always comes sooner than you think," Westin said. "How are things going? I've been trying to follow the case in the papers and on the news. Have you caught him yet?"
"Not yet. It takes time. But we'll get him."
Westin was silent on the other end. He probably saw right through Wallander's optimism, which was as hollow as it was necessary. Pessimistic policemen rarely solved complicated crimes.
"Do you remember any of our conversation when we were heading out to Bärnsö?" Wallander asked.
"Which part?" Westin answered. "We talked all the way there, if I recall. Between stops."
"One of our conversations was a little longer – I think it was the very first part of the trip."
Suddenly Wallander remembered. Westin had slowed the boat down and they were coasting in towards the first or perhaps the second island. It had a name that reminded him of Bärnsö.
"It was one of the first stops," Wallander said. "What were the names of those islands?"
"You must be thinking of Harö or Båtmansö Island."
"Båtmansö. That was it. An old man lived there."
"Zetterquist."
It was starting to come back to him now. "We were on our way in towards the dock," he said. "You were telling me about Zetterquist, who spends the winters out there all alone. Do you remember what you said?"
Westin laughed, but in a jovial way. "I'm sure I could have said any number of things."
"I know this seems strange, but it's actually quite important," Wallander said.
Westin seemed to sense that Wallander was serious. "I think you asked me what it was like to deliver the post," he said.
"Then I'll ask you that same question. What's it like being a postman in the islands?"
"It gives you a sense of freedom, but it's also hard work. And no one knows how long I'll keep my job. I wouldn't put it past them to cut my route entirely and stop servicing the archipelago. Zetterquist once told me he might even have to put in an advance order to have his body collected, just to make sure he wasn't left lying out there indefinitely when his time came."
"You didn't say that. I would have remembered it. I'll ask you again. What's it like to be a postman in the islands?"
Westin hesitated this time. "I don't recall saying much else."
But Wallander knew there had been something else. Something mundane, about what delivering post to people who lived out there was like.
"We were on our way in towards the landing," Wallander said. "That much I remember. The boat had slowed down a lot and you were telling me about Zetterquist."
"Maybe I said something about how you end up looking out for people. If they don't come down to meet you, you go up and make sure they're all right."
Almost, Wallander thought. We're almost there now. But you said something more, Lennart Westin. I know you did.
"I can't think of anything else. I really can't," Westin said.
"We're not giving up just yet. Try again."
But Westin couldn't come up with anything else and Wallander wasn't able to coax it out of him.
"Keep at it," Wallander said. "Call me if it comes back to you."
"I'm not normally the curious type, but why is this so important?"
"I don't know," Wallander said simply. "But when I do, I'll tell you, I promise."
Wallander felt despondent after the call. Not only had he been unable to get Westin to remember what he'd said, it was probably irrelevant anyway. His thoughts of giving up, and letting Holgersson put someone else in charge returned more strongly. But then he thought of Thurnberg and felt an even stronger urge to prove him wrong. He called the operator and asked for a number for Stig Stridh. It was unlisted but not private. He dialled the number and counted nine rings before someone answered. The voice was old and drawling.
"Stridh."
"This is Inspector Kurt Wallander from the Ystad police."
Stridh sounded like he was spitting when he replied. "It wasn't me who shot Svedberg, but maybe I should have."
His attitude angered Wallander. Stridh should show more respect, even if Svedberg had acted i
nappropriately towards him in the past. He had trouble holding back his irritation.
"You filed charges against Svedberg ten years ago. They were dismissed."
"I still can't understand how they could do that," Stridh said. "Svedberg should have lost his job."
"I'm not calling to discuss the decision," Wallander said curtly. "I want to talk to you about what happened."
"What's there to talk about? My brother was drunk."
"What's his name?"
"Nisse."
"Does he live in Ystad?"
"He died in 1991. Cirrhosis of the liver, what a surprise."
Wallander was momentarily at a loss. He had assumed the call to Stig Stridh was the first step towards eventually meeting the brother who played the leading role in the whole strange episode.
"You have my condolences," Wallander said.
"The hell I do. But whatever. I'm not particularly sorry. I get left in peace now and I have the place to myself. At least more often."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nisse has a widow, or whatever one should call her."
"Is she his widow?"
"That's what she says, but he never married her."
"Do they have children?"
"She did, but not with him. That was just as well. One of hers is doing time."
"What for?"
"Robbed a bank."
"What's his name?"
"It's a she. Stella."
"Your brother's stepdaughter robbed a bank?"
"Is that so strange?"
"It's unusual for a woman to commit that kind of crime. Where did it take place?"
"In Sundsvall. She fired a number of shots at the ceiling."
A vague recollection of this event was coming back to Wallander. He looked for something to write with. Wallander turned back to the matter at hand. Stridh's answers came slowly and with great unwillingness. It took what seemed like an eternity, but Wallander finally had a clearer picture of the events. Stig Stridh had been married, had two grown sons who now lived in Malmö and Laholm. His brother, Nils, called Nisse, who was three years younger, became an alcoholic early on. He began a career in the military but was discharged on account of his heavy drinking. At first Stig tried to be patient with his brother, but the relationship deteriorated, not least because he always came asking for money. Tensions had reached breaking point eleven years earlier. This was the point Wallander wanted to reach.
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