One Step Behind

by Henning Mankell

  "I want to explain the whole situation to you," he began. "We think Åke Larstam is the person who killed a police officer by the name of Svedberg a few weeks ago, the same man who was buried yesterday."

  Albinsson went whiter still. "That's just not possible."

  "There's more," Wallander said. "We're also convinced he killed three young people in Hagestad's nature reserve, as well as a young woman on an island in the Östergöt-land archipelago, and finally a couple of newly-weds out in Nybrostrand. What I'm telling you is that this person has killed eight people in a relatively short space of time, making him one of the worst mass murderers that Sweden has ever had."

  Albinsson simply shook his head. "There has to be some mistake. It can't be Åke."

  "I wouldn't be talking with you now if I wasn't utterly certain. You must take my word for it, and make sure you answer my questions as thoroughly as you can. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  Thurnberg walked in and sat across the table from Albinsson without a word.

  "This is chief prosecutor Thurnberg," Wallander said. "The fact that he's here means you're not being charged with anything."

  Albinsson didn't seem to understand. "I'm not charged with anything?"

  "That's what I said. Now try to concentrate on my questions."

  Albinsson nodded. The realisation of where he was and why seemed slowly to be sinking in.

  "Åke Larstam lives at number 18, Harmonigatan," Wallander said. "We know he isn't there now, and we suspect he's fled. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

  "I don't really know him outside work."

  "Does he have a summer house? Any close friends?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "You must know something."

  "There's some information about him in the employee records. But all that's kept at the depot."

  Wallander swore under his breath. He should have thought of that himself. "Then we'll get it," he said. "Now."

  He called in some patrol officers and sent them off with Albinsson. When he returned to his seat, Thurnberg was making notes on a pad.

  "How did you enter the flat in the first place?" he said.

  "I broke in," Wallander said. "Nyberg was present but the responsibility was wholly mine."

  "I hope you're right about Larstam. Otherwise this is going to look very bad."

  "I envy you that you should have time to think about such things right now."

  "You have to understand my position," Thurnberg said. "Sometimes people make mistakes."

  Wallander controlled his temper with some difficulty.

  "I don't want another murder on my hands," he said. "That's the bottom line. And Åke Larstam is the man we've been looking for."

  "No one wants any more murders," Thurnberg said. "But we also don't want any more police errors."

  Wallander was about to ask Thurnberg what he meant by this when Martinsson came in.

  "Nyberg called," he said. "The lights in the window haven't changed."

  "What about the neighbours?" Wallander asked.

  "Where do you want me to start?" Martinsson asked. "With Larstam and the police records? Or with the neighbours?"

  "You should do both at the same time. But if we can find anything on Larstam in our files, it would be useful."

  Martinsson left and silence filled the room. Somewhere a dog barked and Wallander wondered absently if it was Kall. It was just before 3 a.m. Wallander left to get some coffee. The door to Höglund's office was closed. She was in there with Sundelius. For a moment he wondered if he should go in, but he decided against it.

  Wallander returned to the conference room and saw that Thurnberg had left. He glanced at his pad to see what Thurnberg had written. Dashes, ashes, lashes. A random series of rhyming words. Wallander shook his head.

  Five minutes went by, then Albinsson came in. He was less pale now. He held a yellow folder in his hands.

  "These are confidential records," he said. "I should really consult the postmaster before handing them over."

  "If you do that I'll get the chief prosecutor back in here," Wallander said, "and have you arrested for obstruction of justice and aiding a criminal."

  Albinsson seemed to take this seriously. Wallander stretched out his hand and took the file. The records confirmed what Albinsson had already told him. From the beginning of March to the middle of June Larstam had worked on the Skårby route. In July he had delivered post in Nybrostrand.

  There was little personal information. Åke Larstam had been born on 10 November 1952, in Eskilstuna. His full name was Åke Leonard Larstam. He had graduated from high school in 1970, had done his compulsory military training in Skövde the following year, then had enrolled at the prestigious Chalmers School of Engineering in Gothenburg in 1972. He had graduated from Chalmers in 1979 and taken a job in Stockholm with Strand Consulting. He'd worked there until 1985, when he'd given notice and started to retrain for the postal service. That year he had moved first to Höör and then to Ystad. He was unmarried and had no children. The space allotted to "emergency contact" was blank.

  "Doesn't this man even have any relatives?"

  "Apparently not," Albinsson said.

  "But he must have socialised with someone."

  "He was very private, as I said."

  Wallander put down the file. All of the facts would be verified, but for now Wallander had to concentrate on finding where Larstam was.

  "No one is completely without personal relationships," Wallander said. "Who did he talk to? Who did he have coffee with? Did he have any strong opinions? There has to be something more you can say about him."

  "We talked about him sometimes," Albinsson said. "He was so hard to get to know. But since he was always so friendly and helpful, everyone left him alone. You can grow fond of people you know nothing about."

  Wallander thought about what Albinsson had just said. Then he chose a different tack.

  "Some of these jobs were long-term, some just a matter of days. Did you ever know him to turn down an assignment?"

  "No."

  "So he didn't seem to have another job?"

  "Not that we knew about. He could get ready at a few hours' notice."

  "That means you always managed to get hold of him."

  "Yes."

  "He was always at home waiting for the phone to ring?"

  Albinsson was very serious when he answered. "It seemed like that."

  "You've described him as conscientious, helpful, careful and responsible. And introverted. Did he ever do anything that surprised you?"

  Albinsson thought for a while. "He sang to himself."

  "Sang?"

  "Yes. He hummed melodies under his breath."

  "What kinds of things?"

  "Mainly hymns, I think. He would do it as he was sorting the post, or as he was walking out to his car. I don't know how to describe it. He sang in a very low voice, probably because he didn't want it to bother anyone."

  "He sang hymns?"

  "Or religious songs."

  "Was he religious?"

  "How would I know that?"

  "Just answer the question."

  "There's a thing called freedom of religion in this country. Åke Larstam could be a Buddhist for all I know."

  "Buddhists don't go around shooting people," Wallander said sharply. "Did he have any other peculiar characteristics?"

  "He washed his hands a lot."

  "Anything else?"

  "The only time I saw him in a bad mood was when people around him were laughing. But that seemed to pass quickly enough."

  Wallander stared at Albinsson. "Can you elaborate on what you just said?"

  "Not really. It's just what I told you."

  "He didn't like people being happy?"

  "I wouldn't say that, but he seemed to withdraw more when other people were laughing. I suppose you could call that being happy. It seemed to irritate him."

  Wallander had a flashback to the crime s
cene at Nybrostrand. Nyberg had turned to him and said that the killer didn't seem to like happy people.

  "Did he ever show any violent tendencies?"

  "Never."

  "Any other tendencies?"

  "He had no tendencies. You hardly noticed him."

  Wallander sensed there was something else that Albinsson was trying to get at. He waited.

  "Maybe you could say that his strongest characteristic was the fact that he didn't seem to want to be noticed. He was the kind of person who never turns his back to a door."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "That he always wanted to know who was coming and going."

  Wallander thought he knew what Albinsson was saying. He looked at his watch. It was 3.41 a.m. He called Höglund.

  "Are you still with Sundelius?"

  "Yes."

  "I'd like to see you out in the hall for a moment."

  Wallander got up. "Can I go home now?" Albinsson asked. "I know my wife must be worried."

  "Please feel free to call her. But you can't go home just yet."

  Wallander went out into the hall and closed the door. Höglund was already waiting for him.

  "What did Sundelius say?"

  "He claims he doesn't know who Åke Larstam is. He keeps repeating that he and Svedberg never did anything but look at stars, and that once they went to a natural healer together. He's very upset. I don't think he's comfortable talking to a female police officer."

  Wallander nodded thoughtfully. "I think we can send him home for now," he said. "He probably didn't know Larstam. I think what we have is two separate nests of secrets. We have Larstam, who eavesdropped on his victims' most intimate affairs. And we have Svedberg, who kept a part of his life secret from Sundelius."

  "And what would that have been?"

  "Just think about it."

  "You mean there's a love triangle of sorts behind all this?"

  "Not behind. In the middle of."

  She nodded. "I'll send him home. When are Hansson and the others supposed to be relieved?"

  Wallander realised he had already made up his mind.

  "They can stay. We're going in. Åke Larstam isn't coming back tonight. He's holed up somewhere – the question is where. If we're going to find the answer, our best place to start is in his flat."

  Wallander returned to the conference room while Albinsson was talking on the phone to his wife. Wallander signalled for him to finish his call.

  "Have you been able to think of anything else?" he asked. "Where could Åke Larstam have gone?"

  "I don't know. But that makes me think of another way to describe him."

  "How?"

  "That he was always trying to hide."

  Wallander nodded. "I'll have someone take you home now," he said. "But give me a call if you think of anything else."

  They went back into Åke Larstam's flat at 4.15 a.m. Wallander gathered everyone outside the door to the soundproofed bedroom.

  "We're looking for two things," he said. "The first is where he could be hiding. Does he have a secret hiding place? How do we force him to show himself? The second is whether he is planning to kill again. That's the most important point. It would also be useful if anyone found a picture of him."

  He took Nyberg aside when he finished. "We need fingerprints," he said. "Thurnberg is nervous. We have to have something that places Larstam at the scene of the crime. This has to take precedence over anything else."

  "I'll see what I can do," Nyberg said.

  "Don't see what you can do, just do it," Wallander said.

  Wallander went into the soundproofed room and sat down on the bed. Hansson appeared in the doorway, but Wallander waved him away.

  Why build a soundproofed room? To keep sounds out, or to keep them in? Why, in a town like Ystad? Traffic is never that bad. His thoughts wandered. The bed was uncomfortable to sit on. He got up and looked under the sheets. There was no mattress, just the hard platform of the bedframe. He's a masochist, Wallander thought. Why? He stooped to peer under the bed. There was nothing there, not even a speck of dust. Wallander tried to summon forth the spirit of the man who lived here. Åke Larstam, 44 years of age. Born in Eskilstuna, a graduate of Chalmers. An engineer turned postal worker. You suddenly go out and kill eight people. Apart from Svedberg and the photographer, your victims were all dressed up. The photographer just happened to be in the way, and you killed Svedberg because he was on to you. His worst fears were confirmed. But the others were dressed up, and they were happy. Why did you kill them? Was it in here, in your soundproofed chamber, that you planned everything?

  Wallander didn't feel any closer to the killer's thoughts. He walked out into the living room, and looked around at all the porcelain figures. Dogs, roosters, dolls in 19th-century dress, gnomes and trolls. It's like a doll's house, Wallander thought. A doll's house inhabited by a lunatic with bad taste. He wondered why Larstam kept all these kitsch souvenirs.

  Höglund came in from the kitchen and interrupted his train of thought. Wallander knew immediately that she had found something.

  "I think you'd better take a look at this," she said. Wallander followed her into the kitchen. One of the drawers had been pulled out and placed on the table. At the top of a pile of papers in the drawer was a piece of mathematical paper. Something was written on it in pencil. If that was Larstam's handwriting, he wrote in an unusually spiky style. Wallander put on his glasses and read what it said.

  There were only ten words, forming a macabre poem of sorts. Number 9. Wednesday 21. He giveth and He taketh away. The meaning was immediately clear to Wallander, as it must have been to Höglund.

  "He's already killed eight people," Wallander said. "This is about victim number nine."

  "It's the 21st today," she said. "And it's Wednesday."

  "We have to find him," Wallander said, "before he gets a chance to do this."

  "What about the last part? What does he mean by 'He giveth and He taketh away'?"

  "It means Larstam hates happy people. He wants what they have to be taken from them."

  Wallander told her what Albinsson had said.

  "How do you go about locating happy people?" she asked.

  "You go out and look for them."

  He felt the knot in his stomach return.

  "One thing is strange," she said. "This number nine sounds like a single person. But if you disregard Svedberg, he's always gone for a group of some sort in the past."

  "You're right to disregard Svedberg. He's not part of the pattern. It's a good point."

  It was 4.20 a.m. Wallander walked over to the window and looked out into the night. It was still dark. Åke Larstam was out there in that darkness. Wallander felt a sudden twinge of panic. We're not going to get him in time, he thought. We're going to be too late. He's already chosen his victim and we have no idea who it is. We're scurrying around like blind mice, not knowing where to turn. We know nothing.

  Wallander put on a pair of rubber gloves and starting going through the rest of the papers in the drawer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The sea. That would be his place of last resort, if it ever came to that. He imagined himself walking straight out, slowly sinking down to the place where eternal darkness and silence reigned. A place where no one would ever find a single trace of him.

  He took one of his cars and drove down to the sea, just west of Ystad. Mossbystrand was deserted this August evening. Few cars went by on the road to Trelleborg. He parked so that none of the lights from oncoming traffic would hit him, and so that he could make a quick getaway if he was being followed.

  There was one detail about the latest events that disturbed him. He had been lucky. If his bedroom door had been completely closed, as it usually was, he would never have heard them breaking into the flat that evening. He had woken up with a start, realised what was happening, and slipped out the back door. He had no idea if he had remembered to close it behind him. The only thing that he had grabbed, apart from
some clothes, was his gun.

  Although he had been shaken, he'd forced himself to drive calmly. He didn't want to risk having an accident.

  Now it was 4 a.m. and it would be a while before the sun came up. He thought about everything that had happened and wondered if he had made a mistake. But he couldn't find anything. He was not going to alter his plans.

  Everything had gone well. During Svedberg's funeral he had gone to the policeman's flat on Mariagatan. It was easy enough to pick the lock. He'd looked through the flat and quickly established that the man lived alone. Then he'd made his plans. It was easier than he expected; he found a set of spare keys to the flat in a kitchen drawer. He wouldn't have to pick the lock next time. For fun he lay down on the policeman's bed, but it was much too soft. He felt as though he was drowning.

  Afterwards he had gone home, showered, eaten and rested in the soundproofed room. Later he'd done something that he had been planning to do for a long time. He polished all his porcelain figurines. That had taken quite a while. When he was done, he'd eaten his supper and gone to bed. He had been sleeping for several hours when he'd heard the policemen at the door.

  He thought about the fact that the police were in his flat right now, pulling out drawers, dirtying the floor, moving his porcelain figurines around. It enraged him, and he could hardly control his desire to rush back and shoot them all. But self-preservation was more important than revenge, and he knew they would find nothing in the flat to help them in their search. He kept no photographs there, no private documents, nothing. They didn't know about the safe-deposit box he kept at the bank under an assumed name. That's where all the important documents were, such as his car registration and his financial information.

  They would probably be in his flat for many hours but sooner or later the policeman would return home, exhausted after his sleepless night. And he would be there waiting for him.

  He returned to the car. The most important thing was for him to catch up on the sleep he had missed. He could of course sleep in one of his cars, but there was a slight chance that he could be discovered. He also disliked the idea of curling up in the back seat. It was undignified. He wanted to stretch out in a real bed, one where he could remove the mattress to give him the firm support he liked.