Sidetracked

by Henning Mankell

  “I don’t get many visitors,” said Sandin. “All my friends are gone. I have one colleague from the old homicide squad who’s still alive. But now he’s in a home outside Stockholm and can’t remember anything that happened after 1960. Old age really is shitty.”

  Sandin sounded just like Ebba. His own father almost never complained about his age. In an old coach house that had been converted into a showroom for the pottery there was a table with a thermos and cups set out. Out of courtesy, Wallander spent a few minutes admiring the ceramics on display. Sandin sat down at the table and served coffee.

  “You’re the first policeman I’ve met who’s interested in ceramics,” he said.

  Wallander sat down. “Actually, I’m not,” he admitted.

  “Policemen usually like to fish,” said Sandin. “In lonely, isolated mountain lakes. Or deep in the forests of Småland.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Wallander. “I never go fishing.”

  Sandin looked at him intently.

  “What do you do when you’re not working?”

  “I have a pretty hard time relaxing.”

  Sandin nodded in approval.

  “Being a policeman is a calling,” he said. “Just like being a doctor. We’re always on duty. Whether we’re in uniform or not.”

  Wallander said nothing, even though he disagreed. Once he might have believed that a policeman’s job was his calling. But not any more. At least he didn’t think so.

  “So,” Sandin prompted. “I read in the papers about what’s going on in Ystad. Tell me what they left out.”

  Wallander recounted the circumstances surrounding the two murders. Now and then Sandin would interrupt with a question, always pertinent.

  “So he may kill again,” he said when Wallander had finished.

  “We can’t ignore that possibility.”

  Sandin shoved his chair back from the table and stretched out his legs.

  “And you want me to tell you about Gustaf Wetterstedt,” he said. “I’ll be happy to. May I first ask you how you found out that a long time ago, I took a special interest in him?”

  “A journalist in Ystad told me. Lars Magnusson. Unfortunately, quite an alcoholic.”

  “I don’t recognise the name.”

  “Well, he’s the one who knew about you.”

  Sandin sat silently, stroking his lips with one finger. Wallander sensed that he was looking for the right place to begin.

  “The truth about Wetterstedt is straightforward,” said Sandin. “He was a crook. He may have appeared to be a competent minister of justice. But he was totally unsuitable for the role.”

  “Why?”

  “His activities were governed by attention to his career rather than the good of the country. That’s the worst testimonial you can give a government minister.”

  “And yet he was in line to be leader of the party?”

  Sandin shook his head vigorously.

  “That’s not true,” he said. “That was media speculation. Within the party it was obvious that he could never be their leader. It’s hard to see why he was even a member.”

  “But he was minister of justice for years. He couldn’t have been totally unsuitable.”

  “You’re too young to remember. But there was a change sometime in the 1950s. It was barely perceptible, but it happened. Sweden was sailing along on unbelievably fair winds. It seemed as though unlimited funds were available to obliterate poverty. At the same time a change occurred in political life. Politicians were turning into professionals. Career politicians. Before, idealism had been a dominant part of political life. Now this idealism began to be diluted. People like Wetterstedt began their ascent. Youth associations became the hatcheries for the politicians of the future.”

  “Let’s talk about the scandals,” said Wallander, afraid that Sandin would get lost in political reminiscences.

  “He used prostitutes,” said Sandin. “He wasn’t the only one, of course. But he had certain predilections that he subjected the girls to.”

  “I heard that one girl filed a complaint,” said Wallander.

  “Her name was Karin Bengtsson,” said Sandin. “She came from an unhappy background in Eksjö. She ran away to Stockholm and came to our notice for the first time in 1954. A few years later she wound up with the group from which Wetterstedt picked his girls. In January 1957 she filed a complaint against him. He had slashed her feet with a razor blade. I met her myself at the time. She could hardly walk. Wetterstedt knew he’d gone too far. The complaint was dropped, and Bengtsson was paid off. She received money to invest in a clothing boutique in Västerås. In 1959, money magically appeared in her bank account, enough to buy a house. In 1960, she started holidaying in Mallorca every year.”

  “Who came up with the money?”

  “Even then there were slush funds. The Swedish royal family had established a precedent by paying off women who had been intimate with the old king.”

  “Is Karin Bengtsson still alive?”

  “She died in 1984. She never married. I didn’t see her after she moved to Västerås. But she called once in a while, right until the last year of her life. She was usually drunk.”

  “Why did she call?”

  “As soon as I heard that there was a prostitute who wanted to file a complaint against Wetterstedt, I got in touch with her. I wanted to help her. Her life had been destroyed. Her self-esteem wasn’t very high.”

  “Why did you get involved?”

  “I was pretty radical in those days. Too many policemen accepted the corruption. I didn’t. No more than I do now.”

  “What happened later, when Karin Bengtsson was out of the picture?”

  “Wetterstedt carried on as before. He slashed lots of girls. But none of them filed a complaint. Two of them did disappear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sandin looked at Wallander in surprise.

  “I mean they were never heard from again. We searched for them, tried to trace them. But they were gone.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “They were killed, of course. Dissolved in lime, dumped in the sea. How do I know?”

  Wallander couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Can this be true?” he said doubtfully. “It sounds incredible.”

  “What is the saying? Amazing but true?”

  “You think Wetterstedt committed murder?”

  Sandin shook his head.

  “I’m not saying that. Actually I’m convinced he didn’t. I don’t know exactly what happened, probably never will. But we can still draw conclusions, even if there’s no real evidence.”

  “I’m having a hard time accepting this is true,” said Wallander.

  “It’s absolutely true,” said Sandin firmly. “Wetterstedt had no conscience. But nothing could be proved.”

  “There were many rumours about him.”

  “And they were all justified. Wetterstedt used his position and his power to satisfy his perverted sexual desires. But he was also mixed up in secret deals that made him rich.”

  “Art deals?”

  “Art thefts, more likely. In my free time I tried to track down all the connections. I dreamed that one day I’d be able to slam such an airtight report down on the prosecutor’s desk that Wetterstedt would not only be forced to resign, but would end up with a long prison sentence. Unfortunately I never got that far.”

  “You must have a great deal of material from those days, don’t you?”

  “I burnt it all a few years ago. In my son’s kiln. At least ten kilos of paper.”

  Wallander swore under his breath. He hadn’t dreamed that Sandin would get rid of the material he had gathered so laboriously.

  “I still have a good memory,” said Sandin. “I could probably remember everything I burned.”

  “Arne Carlman,” said Wallander “Who was he?”

  “A man who raised peddling art to a higher level,” replied Sandin.

  “In t
he spring of 1969 he was in Långholmen prison,” said Wallander. “We got an anonymous tip-off that he had contacted Wetterstedt. And that they met after Carlman got out of jail.”

  “Carlman popped up now and then in reports. I think he wound up in Långholmen for something as simple as passing a bad cheque.”

  “Did you find links between him and Wetterstedt?”

  “There was evidence that they had met as early as the late 1950s. Apparently they had a mutual interest in betting on the horses. Their names came up in connection with a raid on Täby racetrack around 1962. Wetterstedt’s name was removed, since it wasn’t considered wise to tell the public that the minister of justice had been frequenting a racetrack.”

  “What kind of dealings did they have?”

  “Nothing we could pin down. They circled like planets in separate orbits which happened to cross now and then.”

  “I need to find that connection,” said Wallander. “I’m convinced we have to find it to identify their killer.”

  “You can usually find what you’re looking for if you look hard enough,” said Sandin.

  Wallander’s mobile phone rang. He felt an icy fear. But he was wrong again. It was Hansson.

  “I just wanted to know whether you’ll be back today. Otherwise I’ll set up a meeting for tomorrow.”

  “Has anything happened?”

  “Nothing crucial. Everyone’s up to their eyes in their own assignments.”

  “Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.,” said Wallander. “Not tonight.”

  “Svedberg went to the hospital to get his sunburn looked at,” said Hansson.

  “This happens every year,” said Wallander. He hung up.

  “You’re in the papers a lot,” said Sandin. “You seem to have gone your own way occasionally.”

  “Most of what they say isn’t true,” said Wallander.

  “I often ask myself what it’s like to be a policeman nowadays,” said Sandin.

  “So do I,” said Wallander.

  They got up and walked to Wallander’s car. It was a beautiful evening.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Wetterstedt?” asked Wallander.

  “There are probably quite a few,” said Sandin.

  Wallander stopped short.

  “Maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way,” he said. “Maybe we should separate the investigations. Not look for a common denominator, but for two separate solutions. And find the connection that way.”

  “The murders were committed by the same man,” said Sandin, “so the investigations have to be interlinked. Otherwise you might end up on the wrong track.”

  Wallander nodded.

  “Call me again sometime,” said Sandin. “I have all the time in the world. Growing old means loneliness. A long wait for the inevitable.”

  “Did you ever regret joining the police?” asked Wallander.

  “Never,” said Sandin. “Why would I?”

  “Just wondering,” said Wallander. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”

  “You’ll catch him,” said Sandin encouragingly. “Even if it takes a while.”

  Wallander nodded and got into the car. As he drove off he could see Sandin in the rear-view mirror, pulling dandelions from the lawn.

  It was 7.45 p.m. by the time Wallander got back to Ystad. He parked the car outside his building and was just about to walk through the main door when he remembered that he hadn’t any food in the house. And that he had forgotten to have the car inspected again. He swore out loud.

  He walked into town and ate dinner at the Chinese restaurant on the square. He was the only customer. After dinner he strolled down to the harbour and walked out on the pier. As he watched the boats rocking in their moorings he thought about the two conversations he had had that day.

  Dolores María Santana had stood at the motorway slip road from Helsingborg one evening, looking for a ride. She didn’t speak Swedish and she was frightened. All they knew about her was that she was born in the Dominican Republic.

  He stared at an old, well-kept wooden boat as he formulated his questions. Why and how did she come to Sweden? What was she running from? Why had she burned herself to death?

  He walked farther out along the pier.

  There was a party going on board a yacht. Someone raised a glass and said “Skål d” to Wallander. He nodded back and raised an invisible glass.

  At the end of the pier he sat down on a bollard and went over his conversation with Sandin. Everything was one big tangle. He couldn’t see any openings, anything that might lead to a breakthrough.

  At the same time he still felt a sense of dread. He couldn’t get away from the possibility that it might happen again. He tossed a fistful of gravel into the water and got up. The party on the yacht was in full swing. He walked back through town. The heap of dirty clothes still lay in the middle of his floor. He wrote himself a note and put it on the kitchen table. M.O.T., damn it! Then he switched on the TV and lay down on the sofa.

  A little later he phoned Baiba. Her voice was clear and close by.

  “You sound tired,” she said. “Have you got a lot to do?”

  “It’s not so bad,” he lied. “But I miss you.”

  He heard her laugh.

  “We’ll see each other soon,” she said.

  “What were you really doing in Tallinn?”

  She laughed again.

  “Meeting another man. What did you think?”

  “Just that.”

  “You need some sleep,” she said. “I can hear that all the way from Riga. I hear Sweden’s doing well in the World Cup.”

  “Are you interested in sports?” asked Wallander, surprised.

  “Sometimes. Especially when Latvia is playing.”

  “People here are completely nuts about it.”

  “But not you?”

  “I promise to improve. When Sweden plays Brazil I’ll try to stay up and watch.”

  He heard her laugh again. He wanted to say something more, but he couldn’t think of anything. After he hung up he went back to the TV. For a while he tried to watch a movie. Then he turned it off and went to bed. Before he fell asleep he thought about his father. This autumn they would take a trip to Italy.

  CHAPTER 19

  The fluorescent hands of the clock twisted like snakes and showed 7.10 p.m. on Tuesday 28 June. A few hours later Sweden would play Brazil. This was part of his plan. Everybody would be focused on their TV sets. No-one would think about what was happening outside in the summer night.

  The basement floor was cool under his bare feet. He had been sitting in front of his mirrors since early morning. He had completed his great transformation several hours earlier, changing the pattern on his right cheek. He had painted the circular decoration with blue-black paint. Until now he had used blood-red paint. His face was even more frightening.

  He put down the last brush and thought about the task awaiting him. It would be the greatest sacrifice for his sister yet, even though he had been forced to alter his plans. For a brief moment the evil forces surrounding him had got the upper hand. He had spent an entire night in the shadows below his sister’s window planning his strategy. He’d sat between the two scalps and waited for the power from the earth to enter him. With his torch he had read from the holy book she had given him, and he realised that nothing prevented him from changing the order that he had prepared.

  The last victim was to have been their evil father. But since the man who was supposed to meet his fate this evening had left the country suddenly, the sequence would have to be changed.

  He had listened to Geronimo’s heart beating in his chest. The beats were like signals from the past. His heart drummed a message: the most important thing was not to waver from his sacred task. The earth under his feet was already crying out for the third retribution.

  He would wait until the third man returned from abroad. Their father would have to take his place.

  As he’d sat in front o
f the mirrors, undergoing the great transformation, he’d looked forward to meeting his father with special anticipation. This mission required careful preparation. He’d begun by readying his tools. It had taken him more than two hours to attach a blade to the toy axe he had been given by his father as a birthday present. He was seven at the time. Even then he knew that one day he would use it against the man who had given it to him. Now the moment had finally arrived. He had reinforced the badly decorated plastic shaft with special tape used by ice hockey players.

  You don’t know what it’s called. It’s not for chopping wood. It’s a tomahawk.

  He felt violent contempt when he remembered how his father had given the toy to him so long ago. It was a plastic replica manufactured in an Asian country. Now, with a proper blade, he had transformed it into a real axe.

  He waited until 8.30, going over the plan once more. He checked his hands, noting that they weren’t shaking. Everything was under control. The arrangements he had made over the past two days would ensure that things would go well.

  He packed up his weapons, a glass bottle wrapped in a handkerchief, and a rope in his backpack. Then he pulled on his helmet, turned out the light, and left the room. When he came out onto the street he looked up at the sky. It was cloudy. It could rain. He started up the moped he had stolen the day before and rode to the centre of Malmö. At the train station he entered a phone booth. He had selected one in advance that was out of the way. On one side of the window he had pasted up a fake poster for a concert at a youth club. There was no-one around. He pulled off his helmet and stood with his face pressed against the poster. Then he stuck in his phone card and dialled the number. With his left hand he held a rag over his mouth. It was just before 9 p.m. He waited as the phone rang. He was totally calm. His father answered. Hoover could hear his irritation. That meant he had started drinking and didn’t want to be disturbed.

  He spoke into the rag, holding the receiver away from his mouth.

  “This is Peter,” he said. “I’ve got something that should interest you.”

  “What is it?” His father was still annoyed. But he believed it was Peter calling.

  “Stamps. Worth almost half a million.”

  His father hesitated.