Faceless Killers - Wallander 01

by Henning Mankell

  Rydberg sat there thinking after Wallander fell silent.

  "Did I leave anything out?" asked Wallander.

  "I'm thinking about what she said before she died," said Rydberg. "Foreign. And I'm thinking about what I've got in this plastic bag."

  He stood up and dumped the contents of the bag onto the desk. A heap of pieces of rope. Each one artfully tied in a knot.

  "I've been with an old sail maker in a flat that smells worse than anything you can imagine," said Rydberg with a grimace. "It turns out that this man is almost 90, and practically senile. I wonder whether I shouldn't contact the social services. He was so confused he thought I was his son. Later one of the neighbours told me that his son has been dead for 30 years. But he certainly knows about knots. When I finally got out of there, it was four hours later. These pieces of rope were a present."

  "Did you find out what you wanted to know?"

  "The old man looked at the noose and said he thought the knot was ugly. Then it took me three hours to get him to tell me something about this ugly knot. In the meantime he managed to nod off for a while."

  Rydberg gathered up the bits of rope in his plastic bag as he went on. "When he woke up he started talking about his days at sea. And then he said that he'd seen that knot in Argentina. Argentine sailors used that knot for making leads for their dogs." Wallander nodded.

  "So you were right. The knot was foreign. The question now is how this all fits in with Herdin's story."

  They went out in the corridor, Rydberg went to his office, and Wallander went to see Martinsson and study the print-outs. It turned out that there were exhaustive statistics on overseas-born citizens who had either committed or been suspected of committing crimes in Sweden. Martinsson had also managed to run a check on attacks involving old people. At least four different individuals or gangs were known to have assaulted old, isolated people in Skåne during the past twelve months. But Martinsson had also found out that every one of them was in prison. He was still waiting for word on whether any of them had been granted leave on the day in question.

  They held the case meeting in Rydberg's office, since one of the office clerks had offered to sweep up the glass from Wallander's floor. Wallander's phone rang almost non-stop, but the clerk didn't pick it up.

  The meeting was long. Everyone agreed that Lars Herdin's testimony was a breakthrough. Now they had a direction to go in. At the same time they went over everything that had been gleaned from the interviews with the residents of Lunnarp, and the people who had telephoned the police or responded to the questionnaire they had sent out. A car that had driven through a village a few kilometres from Lunnarp at high speed late on Saturday night attracted special attention. A lorry driver who had set out on a journey to Goteborg at 3 a.m. had almost been hit going around a tight curve. When he heard about the double murder he called the police. He wasn't sure, but after going through pictures of various cars he decided it was probably a Nissan.

  "Don't forget rental cars," said Wallander. "People on the move want to be comfortable these days. Robbers rent cars as often as they steal them."

  It was already 6 p.m. by the time the meeting was over. Wallander realised that all his colleagues were now on the offensive. There was palpable optimism after Lars Herdin's visit.

  He went to his office and typed up his notes of the interview with Herdin. He had Hansson's notes of the earlier interview so he could compare them. He realised at once that Lars Herdin had not been evasive. The information was the same in both.

  Just after 7 p.m. he put the papers aside. He realised that the TV people hadn't called back. He asked the switchboard whether Ebba had left any message before she went home.

  The girl who answered was a temp. "There's nothing here," she said.

  He went to the canteen and switched on the TV, on a whim. The local news had just started: He leaned on a table and distractedly watched a report about how short of funds the city of Malmö was.

  He thought about Sten Widén. And Johannes Lövgren, who had sold meat to the Nazis during the war. He thought about himself, and about his stomach, which was far too big.

  He was just about to turn off the TV when the anchor-woman started talking about the murders in Lunnarp. In astonishment he heard that the police in Ystad were concentrating their search on as-yet-unidentified foreign citizens. The police were convinced that those responsible were foreigners. It could not be ruled out that they might be refugees seeking asylum.

  Finally the reporter talked about Wallander himself. Despite repeated efforts, it had been impossible to get any of the detectives in charge to comment on the information, which had been obtained from anonymous but reliable sources.

  The reporter was speaking in front of a shot of the Ystad police station. Then she moved straight on to the weather report. A storm was approaching from the west. The wind would increase, but there was no risk of snow. The temperature would continue to stay above freezing level.

  Wallander turned off the TV. He couldn't make up his mind whether he was upset or merely tired. Or maybe he was just hungry.

  Someone at the police station had leaked the information. Perhaps nowadays people got paid for passing on confidential information. Did the state-run television monopoly have slush funds too?

  Who? he wondered. It could have been anyone except me. And why? Was there some other explanation besides money? Racial hatred? Fear of refugees? As he walked back to his room, he could hear the phone ringing all the way down the corridor.

  It had been a long day. He would have liked to drive home and cook himself some dinner. With a sigh he sat down and pulled over the phone. I guess I'll have to get started, he thought. Start denying the information on the TV. And hope that nobody burns any wooden crosses in the days to come.

  CHAPTER 6

  Overnight a storm moved in across Skåne. Kurt Wallander was sitting in his untidy flat as the winter wind tore at the roof tiles, drinking whisky and listening to a German recording of Aida, when everything went dark and silent. He went over to the window and looked out into the darkness. The wind was howling, and somewhere an advertising sign was banging against a wall.

  The luminous hands on his wristwatch showed 2.50 a.m. Oddly enough, he no longer felt tired. It had been after midnight by the time he got away from the station. The last caller had been a man who refused to give his name. He had proposed that the police join forces with the domestic nationalist movements and chase the foreigners out of the country once and for all. For a moment Wallander had tried to listen to what the man was saying. Then he had slammed down the receiver, called the switchboard, and had all incoming calls held. He'd turned off the lights in his office, walked down the silent corridor, and driven straight home. By the time he unlocked his front door, he had decided to find out who had leaked the information. It wasn't really his business at all. If conflicts arose within the police force, it was the duty of the chief of police to intervene. In a few days Björk would be back from his winter holiday. Then he could deal with it. The truth would have to come out.

  But as Wallander drank his first glass of whisky, it had occurred to him that Björk would do nothing. Even though each individual police officer was bound by an oath of silence, it could hardly be considered a criminal offence if an officer called up a contact at Swedish Television and told him what was discussed at a case meeting. Nor would it be easy to prove any irregularities if Swedish Television had paid its secret informant. Wallander wondered briefly how -Swedish Television entered such an expense in their books. And in any case Björk wouldn't be disposed to question internal loyalty in the middle of a murder investigation.

  By the second glass of whisky he was back to worrying who could have been the source of the leak. Apart from himself, he felt he could safely eliminate Rydberg. But then why was he so sure of Rydberg? Could he see more deeply into him than into any of the others?

  The storm had obviously knocked out the power. He sat alone in the dark, thinking. His thoughts
about the murdered couple, about Lars Herdin, about the strange knot on the noose were mixed with thoughts of Sten Widén and Mona, of Linda and his ageing father. Somewhere in the dark a vast meaninglessness was beckoning. A sneering face that laughed scornfully at every attempt he made to manage his life.

  He woke up when the power came back on. He had slept for over an hour. The record was still spinning on the record player. He emptied his glass and went to lie down on his bed.

  I've got to talk to Mona, he thought. I've got to talk to her after all that's happened. And I've got to talk to my daughter. I have to visit my father and see what I can do for him. On top of all that I really ought to catch the murderers ...

  He had dozed off again. He thought he was in his office when the telephone rang. Drowsily he snatched the phone. Who could be calling him at this hour? As he answered, he prayed that it was Mona.

  At first he thought that the man on the line sounded like Sten Widén.

  "Now you've got three days to make good," said the man.

  "Who is this?" said Wallander.

  "It doesn't matter who I am," replied the man. "I'm one of the Ten Thousand Redeemers."

  "I refuse to talk to anyone if I don't know who it is," said Wallander, wide awake now.

  "Don't hang up," said the man. "You now have three days to make up for shielding foreign criminals. Three days, no more."

  "I don't understand what you're talking about," said Wallander, feeling uneasy at the unknown voice.

  "Three days to catch the killers and put them on display," said the man. "Or else we'll take over."

  "Take over what? And who's 'we'?"

  "Three days. No more. Then something's going to burn."

  The connection was broken off.

  Wallander went into the kitchen, turned on the light and sat down at the table. He wrote down the conversation in an old notebook that Mona used to use for her shopping lists. At the top of the pad it said "bread". He couldn't read what she had written below that.

  It wasn't the first time in his years as a policeman that Wallander had received an anonymous threat. Several years earlier, a man who considered himself unjustly convicted of assault and battery had harassed him with insinuating letters and night-time phone calls. It was Mona who finally got fed up and demanded that he do something about it.

  Wallander had sent Svedberg to the man with a warning that he was risking a long jail sentence. Another time his tyres had been slashed.

  But this man's message was different. "Something's going to burn," he had said. That meant anything from refugee camps to restaurants to houses owned by foreigners.

  Three days - 72 hours. That meant Friday, or Saturday the 13th at the latest.

  He went and lay down on the bed again and tried to sleep. The wind tore and ripped at the walls of the house. How could he sleep when he kept waiting for the man to call again?

  At 6.30 a.m. he was back at the station. He exchanged a few words with the duty officer and learned that the stormy night had been peaceful at least. An articulated lorry had tipped over outside Ystad, and some scaffolding had blown down in Skarby. That was all.

  He got himself some coffee and went to his office. With an old electric shaver that he kept in a desk drawer he got rid of the stubble on his cheeks. Then he went out for the morning papers. The more he looked through them, the more irritated he became. Despite the fact that he had been on the telephone talking to a number of reporters until late the night before, they had printed only vague and incomplete denials that the police were concentrating their investigation on foreign citizens. It was as though the papers had only reluctantly accepted the truth.

  He decided to call another press conference for that afternoon and to present an account of the status of the investigation. He would also disclose the anonymous threat he had received during the night.

  From a shelf behind his desk, he took down a folder in which he kept records on the various refugee centres in the region. Besides the big refugee camp in Ystad, several smaller ones were scattered throughout the district.

  But what was there to prove that the threat actually had to do with a refugee camp in Ystad's police district? Nothing. The threat might equally be directed at a restaurant or a house. For instance, how many pizzerias were there in the Ystad area? Twelve? More?

  There was one thing he was quite sure of. The threat had to be taken seriously. In the past year there had been too many incidents that confirmed that these were well-organised factions that would not hesitate to resort to open violence against foreigners living in Sweden or refugees seeking asylum.

  He looked at his watch. It was 7.45 a.m. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of Rydberg's house. After ten rings he hung up. Rydberg was on his way.

  Martinsson stuck his head around the door.

  "Hello," he said. "What time is the meeting today?"

  "Ten o'clock," said Wallander.

  "Awful weather, isn't it?"

  "As long as we don't get snow. I can live with the wind."

  While he waited for Rydberg, he looked for the note Sten Widén had given him. After Herdin's visit he realised that perhaps it wasn't so unusual for someone to have given the horse hay during the night. If the killers were among Johannes and Maria Lövgren's acquaintances, or even members of their family, they would naturally know about the horse. Maybe they also knew that Johannes Lövgren made a habit of going out to the stable in the night.

  Wallander had only a vague idea of what Widénwould be able to add. Maybe the real reason he had called him was to avoid losing touch with him. No-one answered, even though he let the phone ring for over a minute. He hung up and decided to try again a little later.

  He also had another phone call he wanted to make before Rydberg arrived. He dialled the number and waited.

  "Public prosecutor's office," a cheerful female voice answered.

  "This is Kurt Wallander. Is Akeson there?"

  "He's on leave of absence^ Did you forget?"

  He had forgotten. It had completely slipped his mind that public prosecutor Per Akeson was taking some university courses. And they had had dinner together as recently as the end of November.

  "I can connect you with his deputy, if you'd like," said the receptionist.

  "Do that," said Wallander.

  To his surprise a woman answered. "Anette Brolin."

  "I'd like to talk with the prosecutor," said Wallander.

  "Speaking," said the woman. "What is this about"

  Wallander realised that he hadn't introduced himself. He gave her his name and went on, "It's about this double murder. I think it's time we presented a report to the public prosecutor's office. I had forgotten that Per was on leave."

  "If you hadn't called this morning, I would have called you," said the woman.

  Wallander thought he detected a reproachful tone in her voice. Bitch, he thought. Are you going to teach me how the police are supposed to co-operate with the prosecutor's office?

  "We actually don't have much to tell you," he said, noticing that his voice sounded a little hostile. "Is an arrest imminent?" "No. I was thinking more of a short briefing." "All right," said the woman. "Shall we say eleven o'clock

  at my office? I've got a warrant application hearing at quarter past ten. I'll be back by eleven."

  "I might be a little late. We have a case meeting at ten. It might run on."

  "Try to make it by eleven."

  She hung up, and he sat there holding the receiver.

  Co-operation between the police and the prosecutor's office wasn't always easy. But Wallander had established an informal and confidential relationship with Per Akeson. They often called each other to ask advice. They seldom disagreed on when detention or release was justified.

  "Damn," he said out loud. "Anette Brolin, who the hell is she?"

  Just then he heard the unmistakable sound of Rydberg limping by in the corridor. He stuck his head out of the door and asked him to come in. Rydberg was
dressed in an outmoded fur jacket and beret. When he sat down he grimaced.

  "Bothering you again?" asked Wallander, pointing at his leg.

  "Rain is OK," said Rydberg. "Or snow. Or cold. But this damned leg can't stand the wind. What do you want?"

  Wallander told him about the call he had received during the night.

  "What do you think?" he asked when he'd finished. "Serious or not?"

  "Serious. At least we have to proceed as if it is."

  "I'm thinking about a press conference this afternoon. We'll present the status of the investigation and concentrate on Lars Herdin's story. Without mentioning his name, of course. Then I'll speak about the threat. And say that all rumours about foreigners being involved are groundless."

  "But that's actually not true," Rydberg mused. "What do you mean?"

  "The woman said what she said. And the knot may be Argentine."

  "How do you intend to make that fit in with a robbery that was presumably committed by someone who knew Lövgren very well?"

  "I don't know yet. I think it's too soon to draw conclusions. Don't you?"

  "Provisional conclusions," said Wallander. "All police work deals with drawing conclusions, which you later discard or keep building on."

  Rydberg shifted his sore leg.

  "What are you thinking of doing about the leak?" he asked. "I'm thinking of giving them hell at the meeting," said Wallander. "Then Björk can deal with it when he gets back." "What do you think he'll do?" "Nothing." "Exactly."

  Wallander threw his arms wide.

  "We might as well admit it right now. Whoever leaked it to the TV people isn't going to get his nose twisted off. By the way, how much do you think Swedish Television pays policemen for leaks?"