“Not recently.”
“How many years are we talking about?”
“Maybe four.”
“But she could have been there?”
“Young girls are popular with some men. The real creeps.”
“What creeps?”
“The ones with a single fantasy. To go to bed with their own daughters.”
What she said was true, of course, but her indifference angered him. She was part of this market that sucked in innocent children and wrecked their lives.
“If you can’t tell me whether she was ever at any of Liljegren’s parties, who could?”
“Somebody else.”
“Give me a straight answer. Who? I want a name and address.”
“It was always completely anonymous,” said Elisabeth Carlén patiently. “That was one of the rules for these parties. You recognised a face now and then. But nobody exchanged cards.”
“Where did the girls come from?”
“All over. Denmark, Stockholm, Belgium, Russia.”
“They came and then they disappeared?”
“That’s about it.”
“But you live here in Helsingborg?”
“I was the only one who did.”
Wallander looked at Sjösten, as if wanting confirmation that the conversation hadn’t completely got off the track before continuing.
“The picture is of a girl called Louise Fredman,” he said. “Does the name mean anything to you?”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“Wasn’t that his name? The one who was murdered? Fredman?”
Wallander nodded. She looked at the photograph again. For a moment she seemed moved by the connection.
“Is this his daughter?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head again.
“I’ve never seen her before.”
Wallander knew she was telling the truth, if only because she had nothing to gain by lying. He retrieved the photograph and turned it over again, as if to spare Louise Fredman from further participation.
“Were you ever at the house of a man named Gustaf Wetterstedt?” he asked. “In Ystad?”
“What would I be doing there?”
“The same thing you normally do to make your living. Was he your client?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Completely sure?”
“Yes.”
“Were you ever at the house of an art dealer named Arne Carlman?”
“No.”
Wallander had an idea. Maybe names weren’t used in those cases either.
“I’m going to show you some other photographs,” he said, getting to his feet. He took Sjösten outside.
“What do you think?” Wallander asked.
Sjösten shrugged. “She’s not lying.”
“We need photos of Wetterstedt and Carlman,” Wallander said. “Fredman too. They’re in the investigative material.”
“Birgersson has the folders,” said Sjösten. “I’ll get them.”
Wallander went back into the room and asked whether she’d like coffee.
“I’d rather have a gin and tonic,” she said.
“The bar isn’t open yet,” Wallander answered.
She laughed. His reply appealed to her. Wallander went out into the hall. Elisabeth Carlén was very beautiful. Her body was clearly visible through her dress. Sjösten came of out Birgersson’s office with a plastic folder. They went back into the room. Elisabeth Carlén was sitting there smoking. Wallander put a picture of Wetterstedt in front of her.
“I recognise him,” she said. “From TV. Wasn’t he the one who ran around with whores in Stockholm?”
“He may have still been at it later on.”
“Not with me,” she replied calmly.
“And you’ve never been to his house?”
“Never.”
“Do you know anyone else who’s been there?”
“No.”
Wallander replaced the picture with one of Carlman. He was standing next to an abstract painting, smiling broadly at the camera.
“This one I’ve seen,” she said firmly.
“At Liljegren’s?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
Elisabeth Carlén thought for a moment. Wallander surreptitiously studied her body. Sjösten took a notebook out of his pocket.
“About a year ago,” she said.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
Wallander nodded. Another connection, he thought. Now all we have to do is find the right box to put Fredman in.
He showed her Björn Fredman. Fredman was playing guitar. It was a prison photograph, and must have been old. Fredman had long hair and was wearing bell-bottoms; the colours were faded.
She shook her head again. She had never seen him.
Wallander let his hands drop with a smack on the desk.
“That’s all I wanted to know for now,” he said. “I’ll swap places with Sjösten.”
Wallander took up the position by the door. He also took over Sjösten’s notebook.
“How the hell can you live a life like yours?” Sjösten began, surprisingly. He asked the question with a big smile. He sounded quite friendly, but Elisabeth Carlén didn’t let down her façade for a moment.
“What business is that of yours?”
“None. Just curious, that’s all. How can you stand to look at yourself in the mirror every morning?”
“What do you think when you look in the mirror?”
“That at least I’m not making a living by lying on my back for anyone who happens to have enough cash. Do you take credit cards?”
“Go to hell.”
She made a move to get up and leave. Wallander was annoyed at the way he was needling her. She might still be useful.
“Please forgive me,” Sjösten said, still just as friendly. “Let’s forget about your private life. Hans Logård? Is that name familiar?”
She looked at him without replying. Then she turned and looked at Wallander.
“I asked you a question,” Sjösten said.
Wallander understood her glance. She wanted to give only him the answer. He signalled to Sjösten to follow him into the hall. There he explained that Sjösten had destroyed Elisabeth Carlén’s trust.
“Then we’ll arrest her,” said Sjösten. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let a whore give me trouble.”
“Arrest her for what?” asked Wallander. “Wait here, I’ll go in and get the answer. Calm down, damn it!”
Sjösten shrugged. Wallander went back in and sat down behind the desk.
“Logård used to hang out with Liljegren,” she said.
“Do you know where he lives?”
“In the country somewhere.”
“Do you know where?”
“Only that he doesn’t live in town.”
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“But he was at the parties?”
“Yes.”
“As guest or host?”
“As the host. And as a guest.”
“Do you know how I can get hold of him?”
“No.”
Wallander still believed she was telling the truth. Probably they wouldn’t be able to track down Logård through her.
“How did they get along?”
“Logård always had plenty of money. Whatever he did for Liljegren, he was well paid.”
She stubbed out her cigarette. Wallander felt as if he had been granted a private audience with her.
“I’m going,” she said, getting to her feet.
“Let me see you out,” said Wallander.
Sjösten came sauntering down the hall. She looked straight through him as they passed. Wallander waited on the steps until he saw someone follow her, then went back up to the office.
“Why were you needling her?” he asked.
“
She stands for something I despise,” Sjösten said.
“We need her. We can despise her later.”
They got coffee and sat down to go over what they knew. Sjösten brought in Birgersson to help out.
“The problem is Fredman,” said Wallander. “He doesn’t fit. Otherwise we now have a number of links that seem to hang together, fragile points of contact.”
“Or maybe it just looks that way,” Sjösten said thoughtfully.
Wallander could tell that Sjösten was worried about something. He waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
Sjösten kept staring out of the window.
“Why couldn’t this be possible?” he said. “That he was killed by the same man, but for a completely different reason.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Birgersson.
“Nothing makes sense in this case.”
“So you mean that we should be looking for two different motives,” said Wallander.
“That’s about it. But I could be wrong. It was just an idea, that’s all.”
Wallander nodded. “We shouldn’t disregard that possibility”
“It’s a sidetrack,” said Birgersson. “A blind alley, a dead end. It doesn’t seem likely at all.”
“We can’t rule it out,” Wallander said. “We can’t rule out anything. But right now we have to find Logård. That’s the priority.”
“Liljegren’s villa is a very strange place,” said Sjösten. “There wasn’t one piece of paper there. No address book. Nothing. And no-one has had the opportunity to go in and clean up.”
“Which means we haven’t searched hard enough,” Wallander replied. “Without Logård we’re not going to get anywhere.”
Sjösten and Wallander had a quick lunch at a restaurant next to the station, and drove to Liljegren’s villa. The cordons were still up. An officer opened the gates and let them in. Sunlight filtered through the trees. Suddenly the case seemed surreal. Monsters belonged in the cold and dark. Not in a summer like this one. He recalled Rydberg’s joke. It’s best to be hunting insane killers in the autumn. In the summer give me a good old-fashioned bomber. He laughed at the thought. Sjösten gave him a funny look, but he didn’t explain.
Inside the huge villa the forensic technicians had finished their work. Wallander took a look in the kitchen. The oven door was closed. He thought of Sjösten’s idea about Björn Fredman. A killer with two motives? Did such birds exist? He called Ystad, and Ebba got hold of Ekholm for him. It was almost five minutes before he came to the phone. Wallander watched Sjösten wandering through the rooms on the ground floor, drawing back the curtains from the windows. The sunlight was very bright.
Wallander asked Ekholm his question. It was actually intended for Ekholm’s programme. Had there been serial killers who combined very different motives? Did criminal psychology have a collective view on this? As always, Ekholm found Wallander’s question interesting. Wallander wondered whether Ekholm really was so charmed by everything he told him. It was beginning to remind him of the satirical songs about the absurd incompetence of the Swedish security police. Recently they relied more and more on various specialists. And no-one could really explain why.
Wallander didn’t want to be unfair to Ekholm. During his time in Ystad he had proved to be a good listener. In that sense he had learned something basic about police work. The police had to be able to listen, as well as question. They had to listen for hidden meanings and motives, for the invisible impressions left by offenders. Just like in this house. Something is always left behind after a crime is committed. An experienced detective should be able to listen his way to what it was. Wallander hung up and went to join Sjösten, who was sitting at a desk. Wallander didn’t say a thing. Neither did Sjösten. The villa invited silence. Liljegren’s spirit, if he had one, hovered restlessly around them.
Wallander went upstairs and wandered through room after room. There were no papers anywhere. Liljegren had lived in a house in which emptiness was the most noticeable characteristic. Wallander thought back to what Liljegren had been famous or infamous for. The shell company scams, the looting of company finances. He had made his way in the world by hiding his money. Did he do the same thing in his private life? He had houses all over the world. The villa was one of his many hide-outs. Wallander stopped by a door up to the attic. When he was a child he had built a hide-out for himself in the attic. He opened the door. The stairs were narrow and steep. He turned the light switch. The main room with its exposed beams was almost empty. There were just some skis and a few pieces of furniture. Wallander smelled the same odour as in the rest of the house. The forensic technicians had been here too. He looked around. No secret doors. It was hot underneath the roof.
He went back down and started a more systematic search. He pulled back the clothes in Liljegren’s large wardrobes. Nothing. Wallander sat on the edge of the bed and tried to think. Liljegren couldn’t have kept everything in his head. There had to be an address book somewhere. Something else was missing too. At first he couldn’t figure out what it was. Who was Åke Liljegren, “the Auditor”? Liljegren was a travelling man, but there were no suitcases in the house. Not even a briefcase. Wallander went downstairs to see Sjösten.
“Liljegren must have had another house,” he said. “Or at least an office.”
“He has houses all over the world,” Sjösten said distractedly.
“I mean here in Helsingborg. This place is too empty”
“We would have known about it.”
Wallander nodded without saying any more. He was still sure his hunch was right. He continued his search. But now he was more persistent. He went down to the basement. In one room there was an exercise machine and some barbells. There was a wardrobe down there, too, which contained some exercise clothes and rain gear. Wallander thoughtfully regarded the clothes. Then he went back upstairs to Sjösten.
“Did Liljegren have a boat?”
“I’m sure he did. But not here. I would have known about it.”
Wallander nodded mutely. He was just about to leave Sjösten when an idea struck him.
“Maybe it was registered under another name. Why not in Hans Logård’s name?”
“Why do you think Liljegren had a boat?”
“There are clothes in the basement that look like they’re for sailing.”
Sjösten followed Wallander to the basement. They stood in front of the open wardrobe.
“You may be right.” Sjösten said.
“It’s worth looking into,” said Wallander. “This house is too empty to be normal.”
They left the basement. Wallander opened the balcony doors and stepped into the sunshine. He thought of Baiba again and felt a knot in his stomach. Why didn’t he call her? Did he still think it would be possible for him to meet her? He wasn’t happy about asking Martinsson to lie for him, but now it was his only way out. He went back inside, into the shadows, with a feeling of utter self-loathing. Sjösten was on the phone. Wallander wondered when the killer would strike next. Sjösten hung up and dialled another number. Wallander went into the kitchen and drank some water, trying to avoid looking at the stove. As he came back, Sjösten slammed the phone down.
“You were right,” he said. “There’s a boat in Logård’s name down at the yacht club. The same one I belong to.”
“Let’s go,” said Wallander, feeling the tension rise.
A dock watchman showed them where Logård’s boat was berthed. Wallander could see that it was a beautiful, well-maintained boat. The hull was fibreglass, but it had a teak deck.
“A Komfortina,” said Sjösten. “Very nice. They handle well, too.”
He hopped on board like a sailor. The entrance to the cabin was locked.
“Do you know Hans Logård?” Wallander asked the watchman. He had a weatherbeaten face and wore a T-shirt advertising canned Norwegian fish-balls.
“He’s not talkative, but we say hello to each oth
er when he comes down here.”
“When was he here last?”
“Last week, I think. But it’s high summer, you know, our busiest time, so I might be mistaken.”
Sjösten had managed to pick the cabin lock. From inside he opened the two half-doors. Wallander clambered clumsily aboard, as though walking on newly polished ice. He crept down into the cockpit and then into the cabin. Sjösten had had the foresight to bring along a torch. They searched the cabin without finding anything.
“I don’t get it,” Wallander said when they were back on the dock. “Liljegren must have been running his affairs from somewhere.”
“We’re checking his mobile phones,” said Sjösten. “Maybe that will produce something.”
They headed back. The man with the T-shirt followed them.
“I expect that you’ll want to take a look at his other boat too,” he said as they stepped off the long dock. Wallander and Sjösten reacted as one.
“Logård has another boat?” Wallander asked.
The man pointed towards the furthest pier.
“The white one, all the way at the end. A Storö class. It’s called the Rosmarin.”
“Of course we want to look at it,” Wallander said.
They ended up in front of a long, powerful, sleek launch.
“These cost money,” said Sjösten. “Lots and lots of money.”
They went aboard. The cabin door was locked. The man on the dock was watching them.
“He knows I’m a policeman,” Sjösten said.
“We don’t have time to wait,” said Wallander. “Break the lock. But do it the cheapest way.”
Sjösten managed it without breaking off more than a piece of the doorframe. They entered the cabin. Wallander saw at once that they had hit the jackpot. Along one wall was a whole shelf of folders and plastic binders.
“Find an address for Hans Logård,” said Wallander. “We can go through the rest later.”
In a few minutes they had found a membership card to a golf club outside Ängelholm with Logård’s name and address on it.
“Bjuv,” Sjösten said. “That’s not far from here.”
As they were leaving the boat, Wallander opened a cupboard. To his surprise there was women’s clothing inside.
“Maybe they had parties on board, too,” Sjösten said.
“I’m not so sure.” Wallander said pensively.
Sidetracked Page 37