“My wife has both a driver’s licence and a car,” replied his father. “She went to see one of her relatives while I came here. Did you see the game last night?”
“No. I was working.”
“It was great. I remember the way it was back in ’58, when the World Cup was held in Sweden.”
“But you were never interested in football, were you?”
“I’ve always liked football.”
Wallander stared at him in surprise.
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know. In 1958 Sweden had a defender named Sven Axbom. He was having big problems with one of Brazil’s wingers, as I recall. Have you forgotten about that?”
“How old was I in 1958? I was a baby.”
“You never were much for playing football. Maybe that’s why you became a policeman.”
“I bet that Russia would win,” said Wallander.
“That’s not hard to believe,” said his father. “I bet 2–0 myself. Gertrud, on the other hand, was cautious. She thought it would be 1–1.”
“Would you like some coffee?” asked Wallander.
“Yes, please.”
In the hall Wallander ran into Hansson.
“Will you see to it that I’m not disturbed for the next half hour?” he said.
Hansson gave him a worried look.
“I absolutely must speak with you.”
Hansson’s formal manner irritated Wallander.
“In half an hour,” he repeated. “Then we’ll talk as much as you like.”
He went back to his room and closed the door. His father took the plastic cup in both hands. Wallander sat down behind the desk.
“I never thought I’d see you in the station,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have to,” his father replied.
Wallander set his plastic cup on the desk. He should have known straight away that it must be something very important for his father to visit him here.
“What’s happened?” Wallander asked.
“Nothing, except that I’m sick,” replied his father simply.
Wallander felt a knot in his stomach.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I’m starting to lose my mind,” his father went on calmly. “It’s a disease with a name I can’t remember. It’s like getting senile. But it can make you angry at everything. And it can progress very fast.”
Wallander knew what his father meant. Svedberg’s mother was stricken with it. But he couldn’t remember the name either.
“How do you know?” he asked. “Have you been to the doctor? Why didn’t you say something before now?”
“I’ve even been to a specialist, in Lund,” said his father. “Gertrud drove me there.”
Wallander didn’t know what to say.
“Actually, I came here to ask you something,” his father said, looking at him.
The telephone rang. Wallander put the receiver on the desk.
“I’ve got time to wait,” said his father.
“I told them I didn’t want to be disturbed. So tell me what it is you want.”
“I’ve always dreamed of going to Italy,” his father said. “Before it’s too late, I’d like to take a trip there. And I thought you might come with me. Gertrud doesn’t have any interest in Italy. I don’t think she wants to go. I’ll pay for the whole thing. I’ve got the money.”
Wallander looked at his father. He seemed small and shrunken sitting there in the chair. At that moment he suddenly looked his age. Almost 80.
“Of course, let’s go to Italy,” said Wallander. “When did you have in mind?”
“It’s probably best that we don’t wait too long. Apparently it’s not too hot in September. But will you have time then?”
“I can take a week off any time. Or did you want longer than that?”
“A week would be fine.”
His father leaned forward, put down the coffee cup, and stood up.
“Well, I won’t bother you any longer,” he said. “I’ll wait for Gertrud outside.”
“You can wait here,” said Wallander.
His father waved his cane at him.
“You’ve got a lot to do,” he said. “I’ll wait outside.”
Wallander accompanied him out to reception, where his father sat down on a sofa.
“I don’t want you to wait with me,” said his father. “Gertrud will be here soon.”
Wallander nodded.
“We’ll go to Italy together,” he said. “And I’ll come out and see you as soon as I can.”
“The trip might be fun,” said his father. “You never know.”
Wallander left him and went over to the girl at the front desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was quite right of you to let my father wait in my office.”
He went back to his room, tears welling in his eyes. Even though his relationship with his father was strained, coloured by guilt, he felt a great sorrow. He stood by the window and looked out at the beautiful summer weather.
There was a time when we were so close that nothing could come between us, he thought. That was back when the silk knights, as we called them, used to come in their shiny American cars that we called land yachts and buy your paintings. Even then you talked about going to Italy. Another time, only a few years ago, you actually set off. I found you, dressed in pyjamas, with a suitcase in your hand in the middle of a field. And now we have to make that trip. I won’t allow anything to stop us.
Wallander returned to his desk and called his sister in Stockholm. The answer machine informed him that she wouldn’t be back until that evening.
It took him a long while to push aside his father’s visit and collect his thoughts. He couldn’t seem to accept that what his father had told him was true.
After talking to Hansson he made an extensive review of the investigation. Just before 11 a.m. he called Per Åkeson at home and gave him an update. Then he drove over to Mariagatan, took a shower, and changed his clothes. By midday he was back at the station. On the way to his room he stopped to see Ann-Britt Höglund. He told her about the paper he’d found behind the road workers’ hut.
“Did you get hold of the psychologists in Stockholm?” he asked.
“I found a man named Roland Möller,” she said. “He was at his summer house outside Vaxholm. But Hansson must make a formal request as acting chief.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“He’s done it.”
“Good,” said Wallander. “Now, something else. Do criminals return to the scene of the crime?”
“It’s both a myth and a truth.”
“In what sense is it a myth?”
“In that it’s supposed to be something that always happens.”
“And what’s the reality?”
“That it actually does happen once in a while. The most classic example in our own legal history is probably from here in Skåne. The policeman who committed a series of murders in the early 1950s and was later on the team investigating what happened.”
“That’s not a good example,” Wallander objected. “He was forced to return. I’m talking about the ones who return of their own accord. Why?”
“To taunt the police. To gloat. Or to find out how much the police actually know.”
Wallander nodded thoughtfully.
“Why are you asking me this?”
“I had a peculiar experience,” said Wallander. “I got a feeling that I saw someone out by Carlman’s farm that I’d also seen outside the cordon near Wetterstedt’s villa.”
“Why couldn’t it be the same person?” she asked, surprised.
“No reason. But there was something odd about this person. I just can’t put my finger on what it was.”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“I know,” said Wallander. “But in the future I want someone to photograph everyone standing outside the cordon, as discreetly as possible
.”
“In the future?”
Wallander knew that he had said too much. He tapped on the desk three times with his index finger.
“Naturally I hope nothing else will happen,” he said. “But if it does.”
Wallander accompanied Höglund back to her office. Then he continued out of the station. His father was gone. He drove to a restaurant on the edge of town and ate a hamburger. On a thermometer he saw that it was 26°C.
The press conference on Midsummer Day at the Ystad station was memorable because Wallander lost his temper and left the room before it was over. Afterwards he refused to apologise. Most of his colleagues thought he did the right thing. But the next day Wallander got a phone call from the director of the national police board, telling him that it was highly unsuitable for the police to make abusive comments to journalists. The relationship was strained enough as it was, and no additional aggravation could be tolerated.
Towards the end of the press conference, a journalist from an evening paper had stood up and started to question Wallander about the fact that the offender had taken the scalps of his victims. Wallander tried hard to avoid going into the gory details. He had replied that some of the hair of both Wetterstedt and Carlman had been torn off. But the reporter persisted, demanding details even when Wallander said that he couldn’t give more information because of the forensic investigation. By then Wallander had developed a splitting headache. When the reporter accused him of hiding behind the requirements of the investigation, and said that it seemed like pure hypocrisy to withhold details when the police had called the press conference, Wallander had had enough. He banged his fist on the table and stood up.
“I will not let police policy be dictated by a journalist who doesn’t know when to stop!” he shouted.
The flashbulbs went off in an explosion as he left the room. Afterwards, when he had calmed down, he asked Hansson to excuse his behaviour.
“I hardly think that it will change the way the headlines will read tomorrow morning,” Hansson replied.
“I had to draw the line somewhere,” said Wallander.
“I’m on your side, of course,” said Hansson. “But I suspect there are others who won’t be.”
“They can suspend me,” said Wallander. “They can fire me. But they can’t ever make me apologise to that reporter.”
“That apology will probably be discreetly given by the national police board to the editor-in-chief of the newspaper,” said Hansson. “And we won’t ever hear about it.”
At 4 p.m. the investigative group shut themselves behind closed doors. Hansson had given strict instructions that they were not to be disturbed. At Wallander’s request a squad car had gone to pick up Åkeson.
He knew that the decisions they made this afternoon would be crucial. They would be forced to go in so many directions at once. All options had to be explored. But at the same time Wallander knew that they had to concentrate on the main lead.
Wallander borrowed a couple of aspirin from Höglund and thought again about what Lars Magnusson had said, about the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman. Was there something else he’d missed? He searched his weary mind without coming up with anything. They would concentrate their investigation on art sales and art thefts. They would have to dig deep into the rumours, some almost 30 years old, surrounding Wetterstedt, and they would have to move fast. Wallander knew they wouldn’t get help along the way. Lars Magnusson had talked about the collaborators who cleaned up the mess left by those wielding power. Wallander would have to find a way of throwing light on these activities, but it would be very difficult.
The investigative meeting was one of the longest Wallander had ever attended. They sat for almost nine hours before Hansson blew the final whistle. By then everyone was exhausted. Höglund’s bottle of aspirin was empty. Plastic coffee cups covered the table. Cartons of half-eaten pizza were piled in a corner of the room.
But this meeting was also one of the best Wallander had ever experienced. Concentration hadn’t flagged, everyone contributed their opinions, and logical plans for the investigation had developed as a result.
Svedberg went over the telephone conversations he had had with Wetterstedt’s two children and his third ex-wife, but no-one could see a possible motive. Hansson had also managed to talk with the 80-year-old who had been party secretary during Wetterstedt’s term as minister of justice. He had confirmed that Wetterstedt had often been the subject of rumours within the party. But no-one had been able to ignore his unflagging loyalty.
Martinsson reported on his interview with Carlman’s widow. She was still very calm, leading Martinsson to think she must be on sedatives. Neither she nor any of the children was able to suggest a motive for the murder. Wallander outlined his talk with Sara Björklund, Wetterstedt’s “char-woman”. He also told them that the light bulb on the pole by the gate had been unscrewed. And finally, he told them about the bloody piece of paper he had found behind the road workers’ hut.
None of his colleagues knew that his father was constantly on his mind. After the meeting he asked Höglund whether she had noticed how distracted he had been. She told him she hadn’t noticed this, that he had seemed more dogged and focused than ever.
At 9 p.m. they took a break. Martinsson and Höglund called home, and Wallander finally got hold of his sister. She had wept when he told her about their father’s visit and his illness. Wallander tried to console her as best he could, but he fought back tears himself. At last they agreed that she should talk to Gertrud the next day and that she would visit as soon as possible. She asked whether he really believed that their father would be able to manage a trip to Italy. Wallander answered honestly – he didn’t know. But he reminded her that their father had dreamed of going to Italy since they were children.
During the break Wallander also tried to call Linda. After 15 rings he gave up. Annoyed, he decided he would have to give her the money to buy an answer machine.
When they returned to the meeting room Wallander started by discussing the connection between the two victims. That was what they had to seek, without ruling out other possibilities.
“Carlman’s widow was sure that her husband had never had anything to do with Wetterstedt,” said Martinsson. “Her children said the same thing. They searched through all his address books without finding Wetterstedt’s name.”
“Carlman wasn’t in Wetterstedt’s address book either,” said Höglund.
“So the link is invisible,” said Wallander. “Or, more precisely, elusive. Somewhere we must be able to find it. If we do, we may also catch sight of the killer. Or at least a motive. We have to dig deep and fast.”
“Before he strikes again,” said Hansson. “There is no knowing whether that will happen.”
“We also don’t know who to warn,” said Wallander. “The only thing we know about the killer or killers, is that they plan the murders.”
“Do we know that?” Åkeson interjected. “It seems to me you’re jumping to that conclusion prematurely.”
“Well there’s no indication that we’re dealing with someone who kills on impulse, who has a spontaneous desire to rip the hair off his victims,” replied Wallander, feeling his temper rise.
“It’s the conclusion that I’m having trouble with,” said Åkeson. “That’s not the same thing as discrediting the evidence.”
The mood in the room grew oppressive. No-one could miss the tension between the two men. Normally, Wallander wouldn’t hesitate to argue with Åkeson in public. But this evening he chose to back down, mainly because he was exhausted and knew he would have to keep the meeting going for hours yet.
“I agree,” was all he said. “We’ll scrub that conclusion and settle for saying that the murders appear planned.”
“A psychologist from Stockholm is coming down tomorrow,” said Hansson. “I’m going to pick him up at Sturup Airport. Let’s hope he can help us.”
Wallander nodded. Then he threw out a question that he hadn�
�t really prepared. But now seemed a suitable time.
“The murderer,” he said. “For the sake of argument let’s think of him for the time being as a man who acts alone. What do you see? What do you think?”
“Strong,” said Nyberg. “The axe blows were delivered with tremendous force.”
“I’m afraid he’s collecting trophies,” said Martinsson. “Only an insane person would do something like that.”
“Or someone who intends to throw us off the track with the scalps,” said Wallander.
“I have no idea,” said Höglund. “But it must be someone who’s profoundly disturbed.”
In the end the character of the killer was left. Wallander summed up in one last run-through, in which they planned the investigative work to be done and divided up the tasks. At around midnight Åkeson left, saying that he would help out by arranging for reinforcements for the investigative team whenever they thought it necessary. Although they were all exhausted, Wallander went over the work one more time.
“None of us is going to get a lot of sleep for the next few days,” he said in closing. “And I realise that this will throw many of your holiday plans into chaos. But we have to muster all our forces. We have no option.”
“We’ll need reinforcements,” said Hansson.
“Let’s decide about that on Monday,” said Wallander. “Let’s wait until then.”
They decided to meet again the following afternoon. Before then Wallander and Hansson would present the case to the psychologist from Stockholm.
Then they broke up and went their separate ways. Wallander stood by his car and looked up at the pale night sky. He tried to think about his father. But something else kept intruding. Fear that the killer would strike again.
CHAPTER 14
Early on Sunday morning, 26 June, the doorbell rang at Wallander’s flat on Mariagatan in central Ystad. He was wrenched out of a deep sleep and at first thought the telephone was ringing. When the doorbell rang again he got up quickly, found his dressing gown lying halfway under the bed, and went to the door. It was Linda with a friend Wallander hadn’t met. He hardly recognised Linda either, since she had cropped her long blonde hair and dyed it red. But he was relieved and happy to see her.
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