"There's no money for one," said Rydberg, putting away his comb in a desk drawer.
Wallander set his cup on the floor beside his chair.
"I woke up so damned early this morning," he said. "I drove out and talked to the Nyströms. The old man was waiting in a bush and took a shot at me with a shotgun."
Rydberg pointed at his cheek.
"Not from buckshot," said Wallander. "I hit the deck. He claimed he had a permit for the gun. Who the hell knows?"
"Did they have anything new to say?"
"Not one thing. Nothing out of the ordinary. No money, nothing. Provided they're not lying, of course."
"Why would they be lying?"
"No, why would they?"
Rydberg took a slurp of coffee and made a face. "Did you know that policemen are unusually susceptible to stomach cancer?" he asked.
"I didn't know that."
"If it's true, it's because of all the lousy coffee we drink." "But we solve our cases over our mugs of coffee." "Like now?"
Wallander shook his head. "What do we really have to go on? Nothing."
"You're too impatient, Kurt." Rydberg looked at him while he stroked his nose. "You'll have to excuse me if I seem like a schoolteacher," he went on. "But in this case I think we have to be patient."
They went over the progress of the investigation again. The technicians had taken fingerprints from the scene of the crime and were checking them against the national centralised records. Hansson was busy investigating the location of all known criminals with records of assault on old people, to find out whether they were in prison or had alibis. They would continue questioning the residents of Lunnarp, and perhaps the questionnaire they sent out would produce something. Both Rydberg and Wallander knew that the police in Ystad carried out their work precisely and methodically. Sooner or later something would turn up. A trace, a clue. It was just a matter of waiting. Of working methodically and waiting.
"The motive," Wallander persisted. "If the motive isn't money, or the rumour of money hidden away, then what is it? The noose? You must have thought the same thing I did. This crime has revenge or hate in it. Or both."
"Let's imagine a pair of suitably desperate robbers," said Rydberg. "Let's assume that they were convinced that Lövgren had money squirreled away. Let's assume that they were sufficiently indifferent to human life. Then torture isn't out of the question."
"Who would be that desperate?"
"You know as well as I do that there are plenty of drugs that create such a dependency that people are ready to do anything."
Wallander did know that. He had seen the accelerating violence first hand, and narcotics trafficking and drug dependency almost always lurked in the background. Even though Ystad's police district was seldom hit by this increasing violence, he harboured no illusions: it was steadily creeping up on them.
There were no protected zones any more. An insignificant little village like Lunnarp was confirmation of that fact. He sat up straight in the uncomfortable chair.
"What are we going to do?" he said.
"You're the boss," replied Rydberg.
"I want to hear what you think."
Rydberg got up and went over to the window. With one finger he felt the soil in a flowerpot. It was dry.
"If you want to know what I think, I'll tell you. But you should know that I'm by no means sure that I'm on the right track. I think that no matter what we decide to do, there's going to be a big fuss. But maybe it would be a good idea to keep quiet for a few days anyway. There are plenty of things to investigate."
"Like what?"
"Did the Lövgrens have any foreign acquaintances?" "I asked about that this morning. They may have known some Danes." "There, you see."
"It couldn't have been Danish campers, could it?"
"Why not? No matter what, we'll have to check it out. And there are more people than just the neighbours to question. If I understood you correctly yesterday, the Lövgrens had a big family."
Wallander realised that Rydberg was right. There were investigative reasons to keep quiet about the fact that the police were searching for a person or persons with foreign connections.
"What do we know about foreigners who have committed crimes in Sweden?" he asked. "Do the national police have special files on that?"
"There are files on everything" Rydberg replied. "Put someone in front of a computer and link up to the central criminal database, and maybe we'll find something."
Wallander stood up.
Rydberg looked at him quizzically. "Aren't you going to ask about the noose?" "I forgot."
"There's supposed to be an old sail maker in Limhamn who knows all about knots. I read about him in a newspaper some time last year. I thought I'd try to track him down. Not because I'm confident anything will come of it. But just in case."
"I want you to come to the meeting first," said Wallander. "Then you can drive over to Limhamn."
At 10 a.m. they were all gathered in Wallander's office.
The run through was very brief. Wallander told them what the woman had said before she died. For the time being, this piece of information was not to be disclosed. No-one seemed to have any objections.
Martinsson was put on the computer to search for foreign criminals. The officers who were going to continue with the questioning in Lunnarp went on their way. Wallander assigned Svedberg to concentrate on the young Polish family, who were presumably in the country illegally. He wanted to know why they were living in Lunnarp. Rydberg left for Limhamn to look for the sail maker.
When Wallander was alone in his office, he stood for a while looking at the map on the wall. Where had the killers come from? Which way did they go afterwards?
He sat down at his desk and asked Ebba to start putting through calls. For more than an hour he spoke with various reporters. But there was no word from the girl from the local radio station.
A while later Norén knocked on the door.
"I thought you were going to Lunnarp," Wallander said, surprised.
"I was," said Norén. "But I just thought of something."
Norén sat on the edge of a chair, since he was wet. It had started to rain. The temperature had now risen to 1° C.
"This might not mean anything," said Norén. "It just crossed my mind."
"Most things mean something," said Wallander.
"You remember that horse?" asked Norén.
"Sure."
"You told me to give it some hay." "And water."
"Hay and water. But I never did." Wallander wrinkled his brow. "Why not?" "The horse already had hay. Water too." Wallander sat in silence for a moment, looking at Norén. "Go on," he said. "You're getting at something." Norén shrugged his shoulders.
"We had a horse when I was growing up," he said. "When the horse was in its stall and was given hay, it would eat all of it. I mean that someone must have given the horse some hay. Maybe just an hour or so before we got there."
Wallander reached for the phone.
"If you're thinking of calling Nyström, don't bother," said Norén.
Wallander let his hand drop.
"I talked to him before I came here. And he hadn't given the horse any hay."
"Dead men don't feed their horses," said Wallander. "Who did?" Norén stood up. "It seems weird," he said. "First they kill a man. Then they put a noose on somebody else. And then they go out to the stable and give the horse some hay. Who the hell would do anything that weird?"
"You're right," said Wallander. "Who would do that?"
"It might not mean anything," said Norén.
"Or maybe it does," replied Wallander. "It was good of you to tell me."
Norén said goodbye and left.
Wallander sat and thought about what he had just heard. His hunch had been correct. There was something about that horse.
His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone. Another reporter who wanted to talk with him. At 12.45 p«m. he left the police station. He had to visit a friend he hadn't seen
in many, many years.
CHAPTER 5
Kurt Wallander turned off the E65 where a sign pointed towards the ruins of Stjarnsund Castle. He got out of the car and unzipped to have a leak. Through the roar of the wind he could hear the sound of accelerating jet engines at Sturup airport. Before he got back in the car, he scraped the mud from his shoes. The change in the weather had been abrupt. The thermometer in his car showed -50 C. Ragged clouds were racing across the sky as he drove on.
Beyond the castle ruin the gravel road forked, and he kept to the left. He had never come this way before, but he was positive it was the right road. Despite the fact that almost ten years had passed since it had been described to him, he remembered the route in detail. He had a mind that seemed programmed for landscapes and roads.
After about a kilometre the surface deteriorated. He went slowly forwards, wondering how large lorries ever managed to negotiate it. The road sloped sharply downward, and a large farm with long wings of stables lay spread out before him. He drove into the yard and stopped. A flock of crows cawed overhead as he climbed out of the car.
The farm seemed oddly deserted. A stable door flapped in the wind. For a moment he wondered whether he had taken the wrong road after all.
What desolation, he thought. The Scanian winter with its screeching flocks of crows. The clay that sticks to the soles of your shoes.
A young, fair-haired girl emerged from one of the stables. How like Linda she looked, he thought. She had the same blond hair, the same thin body, the same ungainly movements as she walked. He watched her closely.
The girl started tugging at a ladder that led to the stable loft. When she caught sight of him she let go of the ladder and wiped her hands on her grey breeches.
"Hello," said Wallander. "I'm looking for Sten Widén. Is this the right place?"
"Are you a policeman?" asked the girl.
"Yes," Wallander replied, surprised. "How could you tell?"
"I could hear it in your voice," said the girl, once more pulling at the ladder, which seemed to be stuck.
"Is he at home?" asked Wallander.
"Help me with the ladder," the girl said.
He saw that one of the rungs had caught on the cladding of the stable wall. He grabbed hold of the ladder and twisted it until the rung came free.
"Thanks," said the girl. "Sten is probably in his office" She pointed to a red brick building a short distance from the stable.
"Do you work here?" asked Wallander.
"Yes," said the girl, climbing quickly up the ladder. "Now I'd move away if I were you!"
With surprisingly strong arms she began heaving bales of hay through the loft doors. Wallander walked over towards the office. Just as he was about to knock on the heavy door, a man came walking around the end of the building.
It was more than ten years since Wallander had seen Sten Widén, but he didn't seem to have changed. The same tousled hair, the same thin face, the same red eczema near his lower lip.
"Well, this is a surprise," said the man with a nervous laugh. "I thought it was the blacksmith. But it's you. How long has it been, anyway?"
"Nearly eleven years," said Wallander. "Summer of '79."
"The summer all our dreams fell apart," said Sten Wid6n. "Would you like some coffee?"
They went into the red brick building. Wallander noticed the smell of oil emanating from the walls. A rusty combine harvester stood inside in the darkness. Widén opened another door. A cat ran out as Wallander entered a room that seemed to be a combination of office and living quarters. An unmade bed stood along one wall. There was a TV and a video, and a microwave on a table. An old armchair was piled high with clothes. Most of the rest of the space was taken up by a large desk. Widén poured coffee from a thermos next to a fax machine in one of the wide window recesses.
Wallander was thinking about Widén's lost dream of becoming an opera singer. About how in the late 1970s the two of them had imagined a future for themselves that neither of them could achieve. Wallander was supposed to become an impresario, and Widén's tenor would resound from the opera stages of the world.
Wallander had been a policeman back then. And he still was.
When Widén realised that his voice wasn't good enough, he had taken over his father's run-down racing stables. Their earlier friendship had not been able to withstand the shared disappointment. At one time they had seen each other every day, but now eleven years had passed since their last meeting. Even though they lived no more than 50 kilometres apart.
"You've put on weight," said Wid£n, moving a stack of newspapers from a wooden chair.
"And you haven't" said Wallander, conscious of his own irritation.
"Racehorse trainers seldom get fat," said Wid6n, laughing nervously again. "Skinny legs, skinny wallets. Except for the big time trainers, of course. Khan or Strasser. They can afford it."
"So how's it going?" asked Wallander, sitting down on the chair.
"So so," said Widén. "I get by. I've always got one horse in training that does well. I get in a few new colts and manage to keep the place going. But actually - " He broke off.
Then he stretched, opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of whisky.
"Want some?" he asked.
Wallander shook his head. "It wouldn't look good if a policeman got caught for being drunk in charge," he replied. "Though it happens once in a while."
"Well, skal, anyway," said Widén, drinking from the bottle.
He extracted a cigarette from a crumpled pack and rummaged through the papers and form guides before he found a lighter.
"How's Mona doing?" he asked. "And Linda? And your dad? And your sister, what's her name, Kerstin?"
"Kristina."
"That's it. Kristina. I've never had a particularly good memory, you know that." "You never forgot the music." "I didn't?"
He drank from the bottle again, and Wallander could see that something was troubling him. Maybe he shouldn't have dropped by. Maybe Sten didn't want to be reminded of what once had been.
"Mona and I have split up," Wallander said, "and Linda's got her own place. Dad is the same as ever. He keeps painting that picture of his. But I think he's becoming a little senile. I don't really know what to do with him."
"Did you know that I got married?" said Widén.
Wallander wondered whether he'd heard a word he'd said. "I didn't know that."
"I took over these damned stables, after all. When Dad finally realised that he was too old to take care of the horses, he started doing some serious drinking. Before, he always had control over how much he put away. I realised that I couldn't handle him and his drinking mates. So I married one of the girls who worked here, mainly because she was so good with Dad. She treated him like an old horse. Didn't try to change his habits, but set limits for him. Took the hose and rinsed him off when he got too filthy. But when Dad died, it seemed to me as if she started to smell like him. So I got a divorce."
He took a swig from the bottle, and Wallander could see that he was beginning to get drunk.
"Every day I think about selling this place," he said. "I own the farm itself. I could probably get a million for the whole thing. After the mortgage is paid off, I might have 400,000 kronor left over. Then I'll buy a camper and hit the road."
"Where to?"
"That's just it. I don't know. There's nowhere I want to go"
Wallander felt uncomfortable listening to this. Even though Widén was outwardly no different, on the inside he had gone through some big changes. It was the voice of a ghost talking to him, cracked and despairing. Ten years ago Sten Widén had been happy and high-spirited, the first to invite you to a party. Now his love of life seemed gone.
The girl who had asked if Wallander was a policeman rode past the window.
"Who's she?" he asked. "She could tell I was police."
"Her name is Louise," said Widén. "She could probably smell it. She's been in and out of institutions since she was 12
. I'm her guardian. She's good with the horses. But she hates policemen. She claims that she was raped by one once."
He took another swig and gestured towards the unmade bed.
"She sleeps with me sometimes," he said. "That's how it feels at any rate. That she's taking me to bed, not the other way around. I suppose that's against the law, right?"
"Why should it be? She isn't a minor, is she?"
"She's 19. But are guardians allowed to sleep with their wards?"
Wallander thought he caught a hint of aggression in Widén's voice. He was sorry he had come. Even though he did have a reason for the visit that was connected with the investigation, he now wasn't sure whether it had been more than an excuse. Had he come to see Widén to talk about Mona? To seek out some sort of consolation? He no longer knew.
"I came here to ask you about horses," he said. "Maybe you saw in the paper that there was a double murder in Lunnarp?"
"I don't read newspapers," said Widén. "I read form guides and starting price lists. That's all. I don't give a damn about what's happening in the world."
"An old couple have been killed," Wallander continued. "And they had a horse."
"Was it killed too?"
"No. But I think the killers gave it some hay before they left. And that's what I wanted to talk to you about. How fast does a horse eat an arm load of hay?"
Widén emptied the bottle and lit another cigarette.
"Are you kidding?" he asked. "You came all the way out here to ask me how long it takes a horse to eat an arm load of hay?"
"As it happens, I was thinking about asking you to come with me and take a look at the horse," said Wallander, making a quick decision. He could feel himself starting to get angry.
"I don't have time," said Widén. "The blacksmith is coming today. I've got 16 horses that need vitamin jabs." "Tomorrow, then?"
Widén gave him a glazed look. "Is there money involved?" "You'll be paid."
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