One Step Behind

by Henning Mankell

  Martinsson nodded tiredly and didn't manage to stifle his yawn.

  "I'm going home," he said. "Remind me why I ever became a policeman."

  Wallander didn't answer. He went into his office to get his coat and remained standing in the middle of the room. What should he do now? He was too tired to think, but he was also too tired to sleep. He sat down in his chair and looked at the picture of Louise that was lying on his desk. He was struck again by the feeling that there was something strange about her face, but he still couldn't put his finger on it. In an absentminded way he picked up the photo and slipped it into his coat pocket. He closed his eyes to let them rest from the light, and fell asleep almost immediately.

  He woke with a start without knowing where he was. It was just before 4 a.m. He had slept for almost an hour. His body ached, and he sat for a long time without a single thought in his head. Then he went to the men's room and splashed cold water on his face. Although he was still plagued by indecision, he knew he needed to sleep, if only for a few hours. He needed to bathe and change his clothes. Without having made a firm decision, he left the station and headed home.

  But once he was in his car, he turned in the direction of Nybrostrand. There would be nobody there at 4 a.m., only the officers assigned to guard the area. Being alone at the crime scene could make it easier to see new details. It didn't take him long to get there. As he expected, there were no longer any onlookers crowded around the police barricades. One squad car, with someone sleeping behind the wheel, was parked down on the beach. Another officer was outside it, smoking a cigarette. Wallander walked over and said hello. He saw that it was the same man who had been assigned to the nature reserve that night.

  "Everything looks pretty quiet," he said.

  "Actually the last of the gawkers didn't leave until just a little while ago. I always wonder what they expect to see."

  "They probably get a thrill from being in the presence of the unthinkable," Wallander said. "Knowing that they themselves are safe."

  He crossed the police line to the crime scene. A lone spotlight was illuminating the well-trodden grass. Wallander walked over to where the photographer had stood, then slowly turned around and walked down the dune to where the hole was.

  The guy with the striped towel knew everything, Wallander thought. He wasn't just well informed, he knew everything down to the last detail. It was as if he had been there when they made their plans.

  Was that a possibility? If the killer was Rolf Haag's assistant, that would explain his knowledge of this photo session. But how would such an assistant know about the party in the nature reserve? And Bärnsö Island? And what about Svedberg?

  Wallander dropped the thought for now, although he meant to take it up again. He walked back up the side of the dune, thinking about the motive for killing young people dressed up in costume. Svedberg was the exception, but this was easy enough to interpret. Svedberg had never been a target; he had simply come too close to the truth.

  It occurred to him that Rolf Haag could be dismissed: he had simply been in the way. That left six victims. Six young people in different kinds of costume, six very happy people. He thought about Nyberg's words: seems like this madman hates happy people. So far it made some sort of sense, but it wasn't enough.

  He walked up to the road where the getaway car must had been parked. Again, the killer had planned things down to the last detail. There were no houses nearby, no potential witnesses. He returned to the crime scene, where the officer on duty was still smoking.

  "I'm still thinking about the gawkers," he said, throwing the butt on the ground and grinding it into the sand, where many others were already strewn about. "I guess we would be there too if we hadn't joined the force."

  "Probably," Wallander said.

  "You see so many strange people. Some of them pretend not to be interested, but they hang around for hours. One of the last people to leave this evening was a woman. She was already here when I arrived."

  Wallander was only half-listening, but decided he may as well stay and chat while he was waiting for dawn.

  "At first I thought it was someone I knew," the policeman said. "But it wasn't. I just thought I had seen her somewhere before."

  It took a while for his words to sink in. Finally Wallander looked over at the policeman.

  "What was that last thing you said?"

  "I thought the woman hanging around here was someone I had seen before. But it wasn't."

  "You thought you had seen her somewhere before?"

  "I thought maybe she was someone I was related to."

  "Well, which was it? Someone you thought you knew, or someone you thought you had seen before?"

  "I don't know. There was something familiar about her, that's all."

  It was a long shot, perhaps just grasping at straws, but Wallander hauled out the photograph of Louise that he had tucked into his coat pocket. It was still dark, but the policeman took out his torch.

  "Yeah, that's her. How did you know?"

  Wallander held his breath. "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely. I knew I had seen her somewhere before."

  Wallander swore under his breath. A more attentive officer might have identified her on the spot and alerted the others. But he knew that was unfair. There were so many people coming and going. At least this policeman had noticed her.

  "Show me where she was standing."

  The policeman shone a torch over to a spot close to the beach.

  "How long was she here?"

  "Several hours."

  "Was she alone?"

  The policeman thought for a moment. "Yes." His tone was definite.

  "And she was one of the last to leave?"

  "Yes."

  "Which direction did she go?"

  "Towards the camping ground."

  "Do you think she was staying there?"

  "I didn't see exactly where she was headed, but she didn't look like a camper."

  "Well, what do campers look like, in your opinion? And how was she dressed?"

  "She was dressed in a blue suit of some kind, and in my experience campers tend to wear casual clothing."

  "If she turns up again, let me know immediately," Wallander said. "Tell the others. Do you have this picture in the car?"

  "I'll wake up my partner. He'll know."

  "Don't bother."

  Wallander gave him the photograph he had been holding. Then he left. It was almost 5 a.m., and he was already feeling less tired. His sense of excitement was mounting. The woman called Louise was not their lone swimmer. But she might just know who he was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  He woke up when the phone rang, sat up in bed with a jerk, then staggered out into the kitchen. It was Lennart Westin.

  "Were you sleeping?" Westin asked apologetically.

  "Not at all," Wallander answered. "But I was in the shower. Can I call you back in a couple of minutes?"

  "No problem. I'm at home."

  There was a pen on the table, but no piece of paper in sight, not even the newspaper. Wallander wrote the number down on the table. Then he hung up and put his head in his hands. He had a pounding headache and he was more tired now than before he had gone to bed. He rinsed his face with cold water, looked around for some aspirin, and put water on for coffee. But there was no more coffee. That was the last straw. Almost 15 minutes went by before he called Lennart Westin back. The kitchen clock read 8.09 a.m. Westin answered.

  "I think you must have been asleep after all," he said. "But you did say to call if I thought of anything that might be important."

  "We work around the clock," Wallander said. "It's hard to get enough sleep. But I'm glad you called."

  "It's two things, really. One is about that policeman who came by earlier, the one who was shot. When I woke up this morning, I remembered something he had said as we were going out to the islands."

  Wallander stopped him and went to the living room to get a notebook.

  "He
asked me if I had ferried any women to Bärnsö Island recently."

  "And had you?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact."

  "Who?"

  "A woman called Linnea Vederfeldt, who lives in Gusum."

  "Why was she going out to Bärnsö?"

  "Isa's mother had ordered new curtains for the house. She and Vederfeldt knew each other from childhood. She was going out there to measure everything."

  "Did you tell Svedberg this?"

  "I didn't think it was any of his business, so I avoided going into details."

  "How did he react?"

  "Well, that's just it. He insisted that I tell him more about her. Finally I told him she was a childhood friend of Isa's mother and then he completely lost interest."

  "Did he ask anything else?"

  "Not that I can think of. But he became agitated when he realised that I had taken a woman out to Bärnsö. I remember it so clearly now that I don't know how I ever forgot it."

  "What do you mean by agitated?"

  "I'm not so good at describing these things, I guess. But I would say 'afraid' even."

  Wallander nodded. Svedberg had been afraid it was Louise.

  "What about the other thing? You said there were two."

  "I must have slept really well. This morning I also thought of what it was I said to you as we were approaching that first landing. I said that you end up knowing everything about people, whether or not you want to. Do you remember that?"

  "Yes."

  "That's all. I hope it helps."

  "Yes, it does. I'm glad you called."

  "You should come out here sometime in the autumn," Westin added. "When it's quiet."

  "Do I take that to mean you're inviting me?" Wallander asked.

  "Take it any way you like," Westin laughed. "But you can normally take me at my word."

  After they had finished the conversation, Wallander walked slowly into the living room. He remembered the conversation now, about delivering post in the islands. Suddenly he caught hold of the thought he had been trying to grasp for so long. They were looking for a killer who planned everything about his terrible crimes down to the last detail. This approach depended on his being able to get access to very specific information about his victims' lives without their knowing. Like being able to read other people's post. Wallander stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Who would have unlimited access to other people's letters? Lennart Westin had suggested a possibility: a postman. Someone who opened letters on the way, read them, sealed them again, and made sure they got to the intended address. No one would ever know they had been opened.

  Something told Wallander it couldn't be this simple. This wasn't the way things worked. It was too far-fetched. Nonetheless, it answered one of the most difficult questions in the investigation: how the killer managed to gather all his information.

  All trace of sleepiness was gone now. He realised he had hit on a possible explanation. There were weaknesses, of course, not least the consideration that the victims did not live along a single postal route. But perhaps it wasn't actually a postman. Could it be someone who sorted the post before it was carried out?

  He quickly showered, put his clothes on, and left. It was 9.15 a.m. when he walked through the main doors of the police station. He felt the need to discuss his latest ideas with someone, and he knew exactly who that person was. He found her in her office.

  "I hope I don't look like you do," said Höglund as he walked through her door, "if you'll excuse me for being so blunt. Did you sleep at all last night?"

  "A couple of hours."

  "My husband's leaving for Dubai in four days. Do you think we'll have closed the door on this hell by then?"

  "No."

  "Then I don't know what I'm going to do," she said and let her arms fall by her sides.

  "You'll just work when you can, it's as simple as that."

  "It's not simple at all," she replied. "But men rarely understand that."

  Wallander didn't want to be pulled into a conversation about the problems of finding childcare, so he quickly changed the topic to the latest events. He told her about the policeman who had seen Louise out at Nybrostrand. He also told her about his conversation with Lone Kjaer.

  "So Louise exists. I was beginning to think she was a ghost."

  "We still don't know if that really is her name, but she exists. I'm sure of it. And she's very interested in our investigation."

  "Is she our killer?"

  "I suppose we can't rule her out completely, but she could also be someone who has found herself in Svedberg's situation."

  "Following in someone else's tracks?"

  "Yes, something like that. I want everyone alerted to the fact that she may return to the crime scene."

  Wallander now turned the conversation to Westin's phone call. Häglund listened attentively, but he could tell that she was sceptical.

  "It's worth looking into," she said when he finished. "But I see a number of potential problems with your idea. For one, do people even write letters any more?"

  "It's not perfect, but I see it more as an answer to part of the problem. An idea that may complete the picture, rather than give us the entire solution."

  "We've come across a couple of postmen in the course of this investigation already, haven't we?"

  "There have been two," Wallander said. "Westin, and the postman that Isa's neighbour, Erik Lundberg, mentioned had come by the day that Isa was taken to the hospital."

  "Maybe we should find out if his voice matches the one that made the phone call to the hospital."

  It took a moment for Wallander to follow her. "You mean the person who said he was Lundberg?"

  "Yes. The postman knew she was in the hospital since Lundberg told him. He also knew that Lundberg knew."

  Wallander's head was starting to spin. Was there something to all this? His fatigue was returning and he wasn't sure he could trust his own ability to reason any more.

  "Then there's this matter with Svedberg," he said. He told her about the charges that had been filed. "I don't understand why he wouldn't investigate the alleged attack by Nils Stridh on his brother. He even resorted to threatening Stig Stridh, to protect Nils Stridh at all costs. Why? He was lucky the whole thing was dropped by the authorities. He could have been severely reprimanded."

  "It doesn't sound like Svedberg at all."

  "That's what makes me suspicious. He must have felt pressured to act in that way."

  "By Nils Stridh?"

  "Who else could it have been?"

  They thought for a moment. "It sounds like blackmail to me," she said finally. "But what could Stridh have known about Svedberg?"

  "That remains to be seen. But I think Bror Sundelius knows more than he's telling."

  "We should put a little pressure on him."

  "We will," Wallander answered. "As soon as we have some time to spare."

  They had a meeting at 10 a.m. Martinsson, Hansson and the three officers from Malmö were there. Nyberg was still at the crime scene and Holgersson had barricaded herself in her office. She was dealing with the press. Thurnberg was keeping his distance, although Wallander caught sight of him in the hall. The meeting took a light-hearted turn when someone started passing around the complaint that had been filed by the jogger, Nils Hagroth, about Wallander's assault on him at the nature reserve. Wallander was the only one who failed to find it funny, not because he was bothered by the report itself, but because he didn't want his team to become distracted.

  They had a lot to do. Wallander and Höglund would drive out to Köpingebro to talk with Malin Skander's parents, while Martinsson and Hansson would handle Torbjörn Werner's relatives. Wallander nodded off the moment he got into Höglund's car, and she let him sleep.

  He woke up when she stopped the car, at a farm just outside Köpingebro. Although it was a beautiful day, an unnatural quiet reigned in the house and garden. All the doors and windows were shut. As they walked up to the main hou
se, a man wearing a dark suit came walking towards them. He was well into middle age, tall and strongly built. His eyes were red. He introduced himself as Lars Skander, father of the bride.

  "You'll have to talk to me," he said. "My wife isn't up to it."

  "We offer you our condolences," Wallander said. "We're also sorry we couldn't leave you in peace, but it's imperative that we get answers to a few questions."

  "Of course, if it can't wait." Lars Skander didn't try to hide either his bitterness or his sorrow. "You have to get this maniac."

  The look he gave them was pleading. "How can someone do this? How can someone murder two people about to have their wedding pictures taken?"

  Wallander was afraid that the man was going to break down, but Höglund took charge of the situation.

  "We're only going to ask you a few essential questions," she said. "Only as much as we need in order to catch whoever did it."

  "Can we sit outside?" Lars Skander asked. "It's so oppressive inside."

  They walked in silence to the garden at the back of the house. A table and four chairs stood under an old cherry tree.

  "Can you think who might have done this?" Wallander asked after they had gone through the most straightforward details about the murdered couple. "Did they have any enemies?"

  Lars Skander stared back at him, uncomprehending. "Why would Malin and Torbjörn have had enemies? They were friends with everyone. You couldn't find more peace-loving people."

  "It's an important question. I need you to think very carefully before answering."

  "I have thought about it. I can't think of a single person."

  Wallander moved on. Information, he thought. What we need to know is how the killer got the information he needed.

  "When did they choose the day for their wedding?"

  "I can't recall exactly. Sometime in May, I think. First week of June at the latest."

  "When did they decide upon Nybrostrand as the place where their wedding pictures would be taken?"

  "That I don't know. Torbjörn and Malin planned everything carefully in advance, and Torbjörn and Rolf Haag went way back, so I'm sure the plans for the photography were made early."

  "Two months ago, then?"