Faceless Killers - Wallander 01

by Henning Mankell

  "I didn't recognise it. And I know quite a bit about knots, because I spent my summers sailing when I was young."

  Wallander looked at Rydberg attentively. "What are you saying?" he asked.

  "What I'm saying is that this knot wasn't tied by someone who was a member of the Swedish Boy Scouts."

  "What the hell do you mean by that?"

  "The knot was made by a foreigner."

  Before Wallander could reply, Ebba came into the canteen to get some coffee.

  "Go home and get some rest if you can," she said. "By the way, reporters keep calling and saying that they want you to make a statement."

  "About what?" asked Wallander. "About the weather?"

  "They seem to have found out that the woman died."

  Wallander looked at Rydberg, who shook his head.

  "We're not making a statement tonight," he said. "We're waiting till tomorrow."

  Wallander got up and went over to the window. The wind was blowing hard, but the sky was still cloudless. It was going to be another cold night.

  "We can hardly avoid mentioning what happened," he said. "That she managed to say something before she died. And if we say that much, then we'll have to tell them what she said. And then all hell will break loose."

  "We could try to keep it internal," said Rydberg, getting up and putting on his hat. "For investigative reasons."

  Wallander looked at him in surprise.

  "And risk having it come out later that we withheld important information from the press? That we were shielding foreign criminals?"

  "It's going to affect so many innocent people," said Rydberg. "What do you think will happen at the refugee camp when it gets out that the police are looking for some foreigners?"

  Wallander knew that Rydberg was right. Suddenly he was full of doubt.

  "Let's sleep on it," he said. "We'll have a meeting, just you and me, tomorrow morning at eight. We'll decide then."

  Rydberg nodded and limped towards the door. There he stopped and turned to Wallander again.

  "There is one possibility we shouldn't overlook," he said. "That it really was refugees who did it."

  Wallander rinsed out his coffee cup and put it in the dish rack.

  Actually I hope it was, he thought. I really hope that the killers are at that refugee camp. Then maybe it'll put an end to this arbitrary, lax policy that allows anyone at all, for any reason at all, to cross the border into Sweden. But of course he couldn't say that to Rydberg. It was an opinion he intended to keep to himself.

  He fought his way through the strong wind out to his car. Even though he was tired, he had no desire to drive home. In the evenings the loneliness hit him. He turned on the ignition and changed the cassette. The overture to Fidelio filled the darkness inside the car.

  His wife's departure had come as a complete surprise. But deep inside he knew, even though he still had a hard time accepting it, that he should have sensed the danger long before it happened. That he was living in a marriage that was slowly breaking apart because of its own dreariness. They had married when they were very young, and far too late realised that they were growing apart. Of the three of them, maybe it was Linda who had reacted most openly to the emptiness surrounding them.

  On that night in October when Mona had said that she wanted a divorce, he realised that he had seen it coming; but the thought had been too painful for him and he had repeatedly pushed it aside, blaming it on the fact that he was working so hard. Too late, he saw that she had prepared her departure down to the smallest detail. One Friday evening she had talked about wanting a divorce, and by Sunday she had left him and moved into the flat in Malmö, which she had rented in advance. The feeling of being abandoned had filled him with both shame and anger. In an impotent rage he had slapped her face.

  Afterwards there was only silence. She had picked up some of her things during the daytime when he wasn't home. But she left most of her belongings behind, and he had been deeply hurt that she seemed prepared to trade her entire past for a life that did not include him, even as a memory.

  He had telephoned her. Late in the evenings they had spoken. Devastated by jealousy, he had asked whether she had left him for another man.

  "Another life," she had replied. "Another life, before it's too late."

  He had appealed to her. He had tried to give the impression that he was indifferent. He had begged her forgiveness for all the attention he had failed to give. But nothing he said changed her mind.

  Two days before Christmas Eve the divorce papers had arrived in the post. When he opened the envelope and realised that it was all over, something had cracked inside him. As if in an attempt to flee, he had called in sick over the Christmas holidays and had set off on an aimless trip that had taken him to Denmark. In northern Sjaelland a sudden storm had left him snowbound, and he had spent Christmas in Gilleleje, in a freezing room at a pension near the beach. There he had written her long letters, which he had later torn to pieces and strewn out over the sea in a symbolic gesture, demonstrating that in spite of everything he had begun to accept what had happened.

  Two days before New Year's he had returned to Ystad and gone back to work. He spent New Year's Eve working on a serious case involving spousal abuse in Svarte, and he had a terrifying revelation that he could just as easily have physically abused Mona.

  The music from Fidelio broke off with a screech. The machine had swallowed the tape. The radio came on automatically, and he heard the commentary of an ice hockey game.

  He pulled out of the car park, intending to drive towards home. But he drove in the opposite direction instead, out along the coast road heading west to Trelleborg and Skanor. When he passed the old prison he accelerated. Driving had always distracted his thoughts ...

  He realised that he had driven almost all the way to Trelleborg. A big ferry was just entering the harbour, and on an impulse he decided to stay for a while. He knew that a number of former policemen from Ystad had become immigration officers at the ferry dock in Trelleborg. He thought some of them might be on duty tonight.

  He walked across the harbour area, which was bathed in pale yellow light. A large lorry came roaring towards him like a ghostly prehistoric beast.

  When he walked through the door with the sign "Authorised Personnel Only", he found he didn't know either of the officers. Wallander introduced himself. The older of the two had a grey beard and a scar across his forehead.

  "That's a nasty business you've got in Ystad," he said. "Did you catch them?"

  "Not yet," replied Wallander.

  The conversation was interrupted as the passengers from the ferry approached passport control. The majority of them were Swedes returning from celebrating the New Year's holiday in Berlin. There were also some East Germans exercising their newly-won freedom by taking a trip to Sweden.

  After 20 minutes there were only nine passengers left. All of them were trying in various ways to make it clear that they were seeking asylum in Sweden.

  "It's pretty quiet tonight," said the younger of the two officers. "Sometimes up to a hundred asylum seekers arrive on one ferry. You can imagine what it's like."

  Five belonged to the same Ethiopian family. Only one of them had a passport, and Wallander wondered how they had managed to make the long journey and cross all those borders with a single passport. Besides the Ethiopian family, two Lebanese and two Iranians were waiting at passport control.

  Wallander found it difficult to decide whether the nine refugees looked hopeful or whether they were simply scared.

  "What happens now?" he asked.

  "Malmö will come and pick them up," replied the older officer. "It's their turn tonight. We get word over the radio when there are a lot of people without passports on the ferries. Sometimes we have to call for extra manpower."

  "What happens in Malmö?" asked Wallander.

  "They're put on one of the ships anchored out in the Oil Harbour. They have to stay there until they're moved on. If they're allowed
to stay in Sweden, that is."

  "What do you think about these people here?"

  The policeman shrugged.

  "They'll probably get in," he answered. "Do you want some coffee? It'll be a while before the next ferry."

  Wallander shook his head. "Some other time. I have to get going."

  "Hope you catch them."

  "Right," said Wallander. "So do I."

  On the way back to Ystad he ran over a hare. When he saw it in the beam of his headlights he hit the brakes, but it struck the left front wheel with a soft thud. He didn't stop to check whether the hare was still alive.

  What's wrong with me? he thought.

  That night Wallander slept uneasily. Just after 5 a.m. he awoke with a start. His mouth was dry, and he had dreamt that somebody was trying to strangle him. When he realised that he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he got up and made some coffee.

  The thermometer outside the kitchen window showed - 6° C. The light that hung on a wire suspended across the street was swaying in the wind. He sat down at the kitchen table and thought about his conversation with Rydberg the night before. What he had feared had happened. Mrs Lövgren had revealed nothing before she died that could give them a lead. Her mention of something "foreign" was just too vague. They didn't have a single clue to go on.

  He got dressed, searching for a long time before finding the heavy sweater he wanted. He went outside, feeling

  the wind tearing and biting at him, drove out of Österleden and turned onto the main road towards Malmö. Before he met Rydberg, he had to pay a return visit to the Nyströms. He couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't quite add up. Attacks like this one usually weren't random, but were preceded by rumours of money stashed away. And even though they could be brutal, they were hardly characterised by the methodical violence that he had witnessed at this murder scene.

  People in the country get up early in the morning, he thought as he swung onto the narrow road that led to the Nyströms' house. Maybe they've had time to mull things over.

  He stopped in front of the house and turned off the engine. At the same moment the light in the kitchen went out. They're scared, he thought. They probably think it's the killers coming back. He left the lights on as he got out of the car and walked across the gravel to the steps.

  He sensed rather than saw the flash coming from a bush beside the house. The ear-splitting noise made him dive for the ground. A pebble slashed his cheek, and for an instant he thought he had been hit.

  "Police!" he yelled. "Don't shoot! Damn it, don't shoot!"

  A torch shone on his face. The hand holding the torch was shaking, and the beam wobbled back and forth. Nyström was standing in front of him, an ancient shotgun in his hand.

  "Is it you?" he asked.

  Wallander got up and brushed off the gravel. "What were you aiming at?"

  "I shot straight up in the air," said Nyström.

  "Do you have a permit for that gun?" Wallander asked. "Otherwise there could be trouble."

  "I've been up all night, keeping watch," said Nyström. Wallander could hear how upset he was.

  "I have to turn off my lights," said Wallander. "Then we'll talk, you and I."

  Two boxes of shotgun shells lay on the kitchen table. On the sofa lay a crowbar and a big sledgehammer. The black cat was in the window, and stared menacingly at Wallander as he came in. Hanna Nyström stood at the stove stirring a pot of coffee.

  "I had no idea that it was the police," said Nyström, sounding apologetic. "And so early."

  Wallander moved the sledgehammer and sat down.

  "Mrs Lövgren died last night," he said. "I thought I'd come out and tell you myself."

  Every time Wallander was forced to notify someone of a death, he had the same unreal feeling. To tell strangers that a child or a relative had died, and to do it with dignity, was impossible. The deaths that the police informed people of were always unexpected, and often violent and gruesome. Somebody drives off to buy something at the shops and dies. A child on a bicycle is run over on the way home from the playground. Someone is abused or robbed, commits suicide or drowns. When the police are standing in the doorway, people refuse to accept the news.

  The couple were silent. The woman stirred the coffee with a spoon. The man fidgeted with his shotgun, and Wallander discreetly moved out of the line of fire.

  "So, Maria is gone," Nyström said slowly.

  "The doctors did everything they could."

  "Maybe it was just as well," said Hanna Nyström, unexpectedly forceful. "What did she have left to live for after he was dead?"

  The man put the shotgun down on the kitchen table and stood up. Wallander noticed that he put his weight on one knee.

  "I'll go out and give the horse some hay," he said, putting on a tattered cap.

  "Do you mind if I come with you?" asked Wallander.

  "Why would I mind?" said the man, opening the door.

  From her stall the mare whinnied as they entered the stable. With a practised hand Nyström flung an arm load of hay into the stall.

  "I'll muck out later," he said, stroking the horse's mane.

  "Why did they keep a horse?" Wallander wondered.

  "To a retired dairy farmer an empty stable is like a morgue," replied Nyström. "The horse was company."

  Wallander thought that he might just as well start asking his questions here in the stable.

  "You stayed up to keep watch last night," he said. "You're scared, and I can understand that. You must have thought to yourself: 'Why were they the ones who were attacked?' You must have thought: 'Why them? Why not us?' "

  "They didn't have any money," said Nyström. "Or anything else that was especially valuable. Anyway, nothing was stolen, as I told one of the policemen here yesterday. The only thing that might have been stolen was a wall clock."

  "Might have been?"

  "One of their daughters might have taken it. I can't remember everything." "No money," said Wallander. "And no enemies." Something occurred to him.

  "Do you keep any money in the house?" he asked. "Could it be that whoever did this got the wrong house?"

  "All that we have is in the bank," replied Nyström. "And we don't have any enemies either."

  They went back to the house and drank coffee. Wallander saw that Hanna Nystrdm was red-eyed, as if she had been careful to cry while they were out in the stable.

  "Have you noticed anything unusual recently?" he asked the couple. "Anyone visiting the Lövgrens you didn't recognise?"

  They looked at each other and then shook their heads.

  "When was the last time you talked to them?"

  "We were over there for coffee the day before yesterday," said Hanna. "As always. We drank coffee together every day. For over 40 years."

  "Did they seem frightened of anything?" asked Wallander. "Worried?"

  "Johannes had a cold," Hanna replied. "But otherwise everything was normal."

  It seemed hopeless. Wallander didn't know what else to ask them. Each reply he got was like a door slamming shut.

  "Did they have any acquaintances who were foreigners?" he asked.

  The man raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Foreigners?"

  "Anyone who wasn't Swedish," Wallander ventured.

  "One Midsummer a few years ago some Danes camped on their field."

  Wallander looked at the clock. At 8 a.m. he was supposed to meet Rydberg, and he didn't want to be late.

  "Try and think," he said. "Anything you can come up with may help."

  Nyström walked out to the car with him.

  "I have a permit for the shotgun," he said. "And I didn't aim at you. I just wanted to scare you."

  "You did a good job," replied Wallander. "But I think you ought to get some sleep tonight. Whoever did this isn't coming back."

  "Would you be able to sleep?" asked Nyström. "Would you be able to sleep if your neighbours had been slaughtered like dumb animals?"

  Since Wallander couldn't
think of a good answer, he said nothing.

  "Thanks for the coffee," he said, got in his car, and drove away.

  This is all going to hell, he thought. Not one clue, nothing. Only Rydberg's strange knot, and the word "foreign". Two old people with no money under the bed, no antique furniture, are murdered in such a way that there seems to be something more than robbery behind it. A murder of hate or revenge.

  There must be something out of the ordinary about them, he thought. If only the horse could talk! He had an uneasy feeling about that horse. It was just a vague hunch. But he was too experienced a policeman to ignore his unease.

  Just before 8 a.m. he braked to a halt outside the police station in Ystad. The wind was down to light gusts. Still, it felt a few degrees warmer today. Just so long as we don't get snow, he thought.

  He nodded to Ebba at the switchboard. "Did Rydberg show up yet?"

  "He's in his office," replied Ebba. "They're calling already. TV, radio and the newspapers. And the county police commissioner.

  "Stall them a while," said Wallander. "I have to talk with Rydberg first."

  He hung up his jacket in his office before he went in to see Rydberg, whose office was a few doors down the corridor. He knocked and heard a grunt in reply.

  Rydberg was standing looking out the window when Wallander entered. It was obvious that he hadn't had enough sleep.

  "Good morning" said Wallander. "Shall I bring in some coffee?"

  "Sure. But no sugar. I've cut it out."

  Wallander went out to get two coffees in plastic mugs and then went back to Rydberg's office. Outside the door he stopped. What's my plan, anyway? he thought. Should we keep her last words from the press for "investigative reasons"? Or should we release them?

  I don't have a plan, he thought, annoyed, and pushed open the door with his foot. Rydberg was sitting behind his desk combing his sparse hair. Wallander sank into a visitor's chair with worn-out springs.

  "You ought to get a new chair," he said.