Sidetracked

by Henning Mankell

  He didn’t think that the way they had been working so far was to blame. The problem was with the conclusions he had made. He drove home and wrote down a summary at his kitchen table. Linda arrived back just before midnight. She had seen the papers.

  “Who is doing this? What is someone like this made of?” she asked.

  Wallander thought for a while before he replied.

  “He’s like you and me,” he said at last. “By and large, just like you and me.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Wallander woke with a start.

  His eyes flew open and he lay completely still. The light of the summer night was grey. Someone was moving around in the flat. He glanced quickly at the clock on the bedside table. It was 2.15 a.m. His terror was instantaneous. He knew it wasn’t Linda. Once she fell asleep, she didn’t get up again until morning. He held his breath and listened. The sound was very faint.

  The person moving around was barefoot.

  Wallander got out of bed noiselessly. He looked for something to defend himself with. He had locked his service revolver in his desk at the station. The only thing in the bedroom he could use was the broken arm of a chair. He picked it up and listened again. The sound seemed to be coming from the kitchen. He came out of the bedroom and looked towards the living-room. He passed the door to Linda’s room. It was closed. She was asleep. Now he was very scared. The sounds were coming from the kitchen. He stood in the doorway of the living-room and listened. Ekholm was right after all. He prepared himself to meet someone who was very strong. The chair arm wouldn’t be much help. He remembered that he had a replica of a pair of old-fashioned brass knuckles in one of the drawers in the bookshelf. They had been the prize in a police lottery. He decided that his fists were better protection than the chair arm. He could still hear sounds in the kitchen. He moved cautiously across the parquet floor and opened the drawer. The brass knuckles were underneath a copy of his tax return. He put them on his right hand. At the same instant he realised that the sounds in the kitchen had stopped. He spun round and raised his arms.

  Linda was in the doorway looking at him with a mixture of amazement and fear. He stared back at her.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “What’s that on your hand?”

  “I thought it was somebody breaking in,” he said, taking off the brass knuckles.

  She could see that he was shaken.

  “It was me. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “The door to your room was closed.”

  “I must have shut it behind me. I needed a drink of water.”

  “But you never wake up in the night.”

  “Those days are long gone. Sometimes I don’t sleep well. When I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  Wallander knew he ought to feel foolish. But his relief was too great. His reaction had confirmed something. He had taken Ekholm much more seriously than he thought. He sat down. Linda was still standing there staring at him.

  “I’ve often wondered how you can sleep as well as you do,” she said. “When I think of the things you have to look at, the things you’re forced to do.”

  “You get used to it,” said Wallander, knowing that wasn’t true at all.

  She sat down next to him.

  “I was looking through an evening paper while Kajsa was buying cigarettes,” she went on. “There was quite a bit about what happened in Helsingborg. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “The papers exaggerate.”

  “How do you exaggerate somebody getting their head stuffed into an oven?”

  Wallander tried to avoid her questions. He didn’t know whether it was for his sake or for hers.

  “That’s a matter for the doctor,” he said. “I examine the scene and try to work out what happened.”

  She shook her head, resigned.

  “You never could lie to me. To Mama, maybe, but never to me.”

  “I never lied to Mona, did I?”

  “You never told her how much you loved her. What you don’t say can be a false affirmation.”

  He looked at her in surprise. Her choice of words astonished him.

  “When I was little I used to sneak looks at all the papers you brought home at night. I invited my friends too, sometimes, when you were working on something we thought was exciting. We would sit in my room and read transcripts of witness testimonies.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “You weren’t supposed to. So who did you think was in the flat?”

  He decided to tell her at least part of the truth. He explained that sometimes, but very rarely, policemen in his position who had their pictures in the paper a lot or were on TV, might catch the attention of criminals who then became fixated on them. Perhaps “fascinated” was a better term. Normally there was nothing to worry about. But it was a good idea to acknowledge the phenomenon and to stay alert.

  She didn’t believe him for a second.

  “That wasn’t somebody standing there with brass knuckles on, showing how aware he was,” she said at last. “What I saw was my Dad who’s a policeman. And he was scared.”

  “Maybe I had a nightmare,” he said unconvincingly. “Tell me why you can’t sleep.”

  “I’m worried about what to do with my life,” she said.

  “You and Kajsa were very good in the revue.”

  “Not as good as we ought to be.”

  “You’ve got time to feel your way.”

  “But what if I want to do something else entirely?”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s what I think about when I wake up in the middle of the night. I open my eyes and think that I still don’t know.”

  “You can always wake me up,” he said. “As a policeman at least I’ve learned how to listen, even if you can get better answers from someone else.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder.

  “You’re a good listener. A lot better than Mama. But I have to find the answers for myself.”

  They talked for a long time. Not until it was light outside did they go back to bed. Something Linda said made Wallander feel good: he listened better than Mona did. In some future life he wouldn’t mind doing everything better than Mona. But not now, when there was Baiba.

  Wallander got up a little before 7 a.m. Linda was still asleep. He had a quick cup of coffee and left. The weather was beautiful, but the wind had started to blow. When he got to the station he ran into an agitated Martinsson, who told him that the whole holiday schedule had been thrown into chaos. Most holidays had been postponed indefinitely.

  “Now I probably won’t be able to get time off until September,” he said angrily. “Who the hell wants a holiday at that time of year?”

  “Me,” said Wallander. “I can go to Italy with my father.”

  It was already Wednesday, 6 July. He was supposed to meet Baiba at Kastrup Airport in three days. For the first time he faced up to the fact that their holiday would have to be cancelled, or at least postponed. He had avoided thinking about it during the last hectic weeks, but he couldn’t continue to do so. He would have to cancel flights and the hotel reservations. He dreaded Baiba’s reaction. He sat at his desk feeling his stomach begin to ache with the stress. There must be some alternative, he thought. Baiba can come here. Maybe we could still catch this damned killer soon. This man who kills people and then scalps them.

  He was terrified of her disappointment. Even though she had been married to a policeman, she probably imagined that everything was different in Sweden. But he couldn’t wait any longer to tell her that they wouldn’t be going to Skagen. He should pick up the phone and call Riga straight away. But he put off the unpleasant conversation. He wasn’t ready yet. He took his notebook and listed all the calls he’d have to make.

  Then he turned into a policeman again. He put the summary he had written the day before on the desk in front of him and read it through. The notes made sense. He picked up the phone and asked Ebba to get hold of Sjösten in Helsingborg. A few minutes later she called back
.

  “He seems to spend his mornings scraping barnacles off a boat,” she said. “But he was on his way in. He’ll call you in the next ten minutes.”

  When Sjösten called back, he told Wallander that they’d located some witnesses, a couple, who claimed to have seen a motorcycle on Aschebergsgatan on the evening Liljegren was murdered.

  “Check carefully,” said Wallander. “It could be very important.”

  “I thought I’d do it myself.”

  Wallander leaned forward over his desk, as if he had to brace himself before tackling the next question.

  “I’d like to ask you to do one more thing,” he said. “Something that should take the highest priority. I want you to find some of the women who worked at the parties that were held at Liljegren’s villa.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s important. We have to find out who was at those parties. You’ll understand when you go through the investigative material.”

  Wallander knew very well that his question wouldn’t be answered in the material they had assembled for the other three murders. But he needed to hunt alone for a while longer.

  “So you want me to pick out a whore,” said Sjösten.

  “I do. If there were any at those parties.”

  “It was rumoured that there were.”

  “I want you to get back in touch with me as soon as possible. Then I’ll come up to Helsingborg.”

  “If I find one, should I bring her in?”

  “I just want to talk to her, that’s all. Make it clear she has nothing to worry about. Someone who’s afraid and says what she thinks I want to hear won’t help at all.”

  “I’ll try,” said Sjösten. “Interesting assignment in the middle of summer.”

  They hung up. Wallander concentrated on his notes from the night before until Höglund called. They met in reception and walked down to the hospital so they could plan what they would say to Carlman’s daughter. Wallander didn’t even know the name of this young woman who had slapped his face.

  “Erika,” said Höglund. “Which doesn’t suit her.”

  “Why not?” asked Wallander, surprised.

  “I get the impression of a robust sort when I hear that name,” she said. “The manager of a hotel smörgåsbord or a crane operator.”

  “Is it OK that my name is Kurt?” he asked.

  She nodded cheerfully.

  “It’s nonsense that you can match a personality to a name of course,” she said. “But it amuses me. And you could hardly imagine a cat called Fido. Or a dog called Kitty.”

  “There probably are some,” said Wallander. “So what do we know about Erika Carlman?”

  They had the wind at their backs as they walked towards the hospital. Höglund told him that Erika Carlman was 27 years old. That for a while she had been a stewardess for a small British charter airline. That she had dabbled in many different things without ever sticking to them for long. She had travelled all over the world, no doubt supported by her father. A marriage with a Peruvian football player had been quickly dissolved.

  “A normal rich girl,” said Wallander. “One who had everything on a silver platter from the start.”

  “Her mother says she was hysterical as a teenager. That’s the word she used, hysterical. It would probably be more accurate to describe it as a neurotic predisposition.”

  “Has she attempted suicide before?”

  “Not that anyone knows of, and I didn’t think the mother was lying.”

  “She really wanted to die,” Wallander said.

  “That’s my impression too.”

  Wallander knew that he had to tell Ann-Britt that Erika had slapped him. It was very possible that she might mention the incident. And there wouldn’t be any explanation for his not having done so, other than masculine vanity, perhaps. As they reached the hospital, Wallander stopped and told her. He could see that she was surprised.

  “I don’t think it was more than a manifestation of the hysteria her mother spoke of,” he said.

  “This might cause a problem,” Ann-Britt said. “She may be in bad shape. She must know that she nearly died. We don’t even know if she regrets the fact that she didn’t manage to kill herself. If you walk into the room, her fragile ego might collapse. Or it might make her aggressive, scared, unreceptive.”

  Wallander knew she was right. “You should speak to her alone. I’ll wait in the cafeteria.”

  “First we’ll have to go over what we actually want to learn from her.”

  Wallander pointed to a bench by the taxi rank. They sat down.

  “We always hope that the answers will be more interesting than the questions,” he said. “What did her suicide attempt have to do with her father’s death? How you get to that question is up to you. You’ll have to draw your own map. Her answers will prompt more questions.”

  “Let’s assume that she says she was so crushed by grief that she didn’t want to go on living.”

  “Then we’ll know that much.”

  “But what else do we actually know?”

  “That’s where you have to ask other questions, which we can’t predict. Was it a normal loving relationship between father and daughter? Or was it something else?”

  “And if she denies it was something else?”

  “Then you have to start by not believing her. Without telling her so.”

  “In other words,” said Höglund slowly, “a denial would mean that I should be interested in the reasons she might have for not telling the truth?”

  “More or less.” Wallander answered. “But there’s a third possibility, of course. That she tried to commit suicide because she knew something about her father’s death that she couldn’t deal with in any other way except by taking the information with her to the grave.”

  “Could she have seen the killer?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And doesn’t want him to be caught?”

  “Also conceivable.”

  “Why not?”

  “Once again, there are at least two possibilities. She wants to protect him. Or she wants to protect her father’s memory.”

  Höglund sighed hopelessly. “I don’t know if I can handle this.”

  “Of course you can. I’ll be in the cafeteria. Or out here. Take as long as you need.”

  Wallander accompanied her to the front desk. A few weeks earlier he had been here and found out that Salomonsson had died. How could he have imagined then what havoc was in store for him? Höglund disappeared down the hall. Wallander went towards the cafeteria, but changed his mind and went back outside to the bench. Once again he went over his thoughts from the night before. He was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing in his jacket pocket. It was Hansson, and he sounded harried.

  “Two investigators from the National Criminal Bureau are arriving at Sturup this afternoon. Ludwigsson and Hamrén. Do you know them?”

  “Only by name. They’re supposed to be good. Hamrén was involved in solving that case with the laser man, wasn’t he?”

  “Could you possibly pick them up?”

  “I don’t think that I can,” said Wallander. “I have to go back to Helsingborg.”

  “Birgersson didn’t mention that. I spoke to him a little while ago.”

  “They probably have the same communication problems that we do,” Wallander said patiently. “I think it would be a nice gesture if you went to pick them up yourself.”

  “What do you mean by gesture?”

  “Of respect. When I went to Riga I was picked up in a limousine. An old Russian one, but even so. It’s important for people to feel that they’re being welcomed and taken care of.”

  “All right,” said Hansson. “I’ll do it. Where are you now?”

  “At the hospital.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Carlman’s daughter. Did you forget about her?”

  “To tell you the truth, I did.”

  “We should be glad we don’t all forget the same
things,” Wallander said. He didn’t know whether Hansson had recognised that he was being ironic. He put the phone down on the bench and watched a sparrow perched on the edge of a rubbish bin. Ann-Britt had been gone for almost half an hour. He closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun, rehearsing what he would say to Baiba. A man with his leg in a cast sat down with a thud next to him. After five minutes a taxi arrived. The man with the cast left. Wallander paced back and forth in front of the hospital entrance. Then he sat down again.

  After more than an hour Ann-Britt came out and sat down next to him. He couldn’t tell from the expression on her face how it had gone.

  “I think we missed one reason why a person would want to commit suicide,” she said. “Being tired of life.”

  “Was that her answer?”

  “I didn’t even have to ask. She was sitting in a white room, in a hospital gown, her hair uncombed, pale, out of it. Still immersed in a mixture of her own crisis and heavy medication. ‘Why go on living?’ That was her greeting. To be honest, I think she’ll try to kill herself again. Out of sheer loathing.”

  Wallander had overlooked the most common motive for committing suicide. Simply not wanting to go on living.

  “But did you talk about her father?”

  “She despised him, but I’m quite sure that she wasn’t abused by him.”

  “Did she say so?”

  “Some things don’t have to be actually said.”

  “What about the murder?”

  “She was strangely uninterested in it. She wondered why I had come. I told her the truth. We’re searching for the killer. She said there were probably plenty of people who wanted her father dead. Because of his ruthlessness in business. Because of the way he was.”

  “She didn’t say anything about him having another woman?”

  “No.”

  Wallander watched the sparrow despondently.

  “Well, at least we know that much,” he said. “We know that we don’t know anything else.”

  When they were halfway back to the station, Wallander’s phone rang. He turned away from the wind to answer it. It was Svedberg.