Faceless Killers - Wallander 01

by Henning Mankell

  In the corridor, Rydberg read through what he had written.

  "Good," he said. "But don't think they'll do anything about it. Reporters in this country, especially on television, can do no wrong."

  He dropped the letter off to be typed and went into the canteen to get himself some coffee. He hadn't had time to think about eating yet. It was almost 1 p.m., and he decided to go through all his phone messages before he went out to eat.

  The night before, he had felt sick to his stomach when he took the anonymous phone call. Now he had cast off all sense of foreboding. If anything happened, the police were ready.

  He punched in the number for Sten Widén. But before the phone started to ring, he put the receiver down. Widén could wait. There would be time enough later to amuse themselves by measuring how long it took a horse to finish off a ration of hay.

  Instead he tried the number of the public prosecutor's office. The woman at the switchboard told him that Anette Brolin was in. He hung up and walked to the other wing of the building. Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door opened.

  She had her coat on. "I'm just on my way to lunch."

  "May I join you?"

  She seemed to think about it for a moment. Then she gave him a quick smile. "Why not?"

  Wallander suggested the Continental. They got a window table, and both ordered salted salmon.

  "I saw you on the news yesterday," said Anette Brolin. "How can they broadcast such inaccurate and biased reports?"

  Wallander, who had braced himself for criticism, relaxed.

  "Reporters regard the police as fair game," he said. "Whether we do too much or too little, we get criticised for it. And they don't understand that sometimes we have to hold back certain information for investigative reasons."

  He told her about the leak. How furious he had been when information from the case meeting had gone straight to a TV broadcast. He noticed that she was listening, and felt that he had discovered someone human behind the prosecutor's role and the expensive clothes.

  After lunch they ordered coffee.

  "Did your family move here too?" he asked.

  "My husband is still in Stockholm," she said. "And the children aren't going to change schools for a year."

  Wallander's disappointment was palpable. Somehow he had hoped that the wedding ring meant nothing.

  The waiter came with the bill, and he reached out to pay.

  "We'll split it," she said. They ordered more coffee.

  "Tell me about this town," she said. "I've looked through a number of criminal cases from the last few years. It's a lot different from Stockholm."

  "That's changing fast," he said. "Soon the entire Swedish countryside will be nothing but suburbs of the big cities. There were no narcotics here twenty years ago. Ten years ago drugs had come to towns like Ystad and Simrishamn, but we still had some control over what was happening. Today drugs are everywhere. When I drive by one of the beautiful old Scanian farms, I sometimes think: there might be a huge amphetamine factory hidden in there."

  "There are fewer violent crimes," she said. "And they're not quite as brutal."

  "It's coming," he said. "Unfortunately, I guess I'm supposed to say. But the differences between the big cities and the countryside have been almost erased. Organised crime is widespread in Malmö. The open borders and all the ferries coming in are like candy for the underworld."

  "Still, there's a sense of calm here," she said pensively. "Something that's been totally lost in Stockholm."

  They left the Continental. Wallander had parked his car in Stickgatan nearby.

  "Are you really allowed to park here?" she asked.

  "No," he replied. "But when I get a ticket I pay it. Although it might be an interesting experience to say to hell with it and get taken to court."

  They drove back to the police station.

  "I was thinking of asking you to dinner some evening," he said. "I could show you round the area."

  "I'd like that," she said.

  "How often do you go home?" he asked.

  "Every other week."

  "And your husband? The children?"

  "He comes down when he can. And the children when they feel like it."

  I love you, thought Wallander. I'm going to see Mona tonight and I'm going to tell her that I love another woman.

  They said goodbye in reception.

  "You'll get a briefing on Monday," said Wallander. "We're starting to get a few leads."

  "Any closer to an arrest?"

  "No. But the searches at the banks produced good results."

  She nodded.

  "Preferably before ten on Monday," she said. "The rest of the day I have detention hearings and negotiations in the district court."

  They settled on 9 a.m. Wallander watched her as she disappeared down the corridor. He felt strangely exhilarated when he got back to his office. Anette Brolin, he thought. In a world where everything is said to be possible, anything could happen.

  He devoted the rest of the day to reading the notes from various interviews that he had only skimmed before. The definitive autopsy report had also arrived. Once again he was shocked at the degree of violence the old couple had been subjected to. He read the reports of the interviews with the two daughters and the door-to-door canvassing in Lunnarp. All the information matched and added up.

  No-one had any idea that Johannes Lövgren was a significantly more complex person than he had appeared. The simple farmer had been hiding a split personality. Once during the war, in the autumn of 1943, he had been taken to court in a case of assault and battery. But he had been acquitted. Someone had dug up a copy of the report, and Wallander read through it carefully. But he could not see a reasonable motive for revenge. It seemed to have been an ordinary quarrel that led to blows at the community centre at Erikslund.

  Ebba brought in his suit.

  "You're an angel," he said.

  "Hope you have a wonderful time tonight," she said with a smile.

  Wallander felt a lump in his throat. She really meant what she said.

  He spent the time until 5 p.m. filling in a football lottery form, making an appointment to have his car serviced, and thinking through the important interviews he had the following day. He also wrote a reminder to himself that he had to prepare a memo for Björk for his return.

  Just after 5 p.m., Thomas Näslund stuck his head round the door.

  "Are you still here?" he said. "I thought you'd gone home." "Why would I have done that?" "That's what Ebba said."

  Ebba keeps watch over me, he thought with a smile. Tomorrow I'll bring her some flowers before I leave for Simrishamn.

  Näslund came into the room.

  "Do you have time right now?" he asked.

  "Not much."

  "I'll make it quick. It's about Klas Mansön."

  Wallander had to think for a moment before he remembered who that was.

  "The one who robbed that shop?"

  "That's the one. We have witnesses who can identify him, even though he had a stocking over his head. A tattoo on his wrist. There's no doubt that he's the one. But this new prosecutor doesn't agree with us."

  Wallander raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

  "She thinks the investigation was sloppy."

  "Was it?"

  Näslund looked at him in amazement. "It was no sloppier than any other investigation. It's a cut-and-dried case." "So what did she say?"

  "If we can't come up with more convincing proof she's considering opposing the detention order. It's bullshit that a Stockholm bitch like that can come here and pretend she's somebody!"

  Wallander could feel himself getting angry, but he was careful not to betray his feelings.

  "Per wouldn't have given us a problem," Näslund went on. "It's bloody obvious that this bastard is the one who robbed the shop."

  "Have you got the report?" asked Wallander.

  "I asked Svedberg to read it through."

  "Leave it here fo
r me so I can look at it tomorrow."

  Näslund stood up.

  "Somebody ought to tell that bitch," he said.

  Wallander nodded and smiled. "We can't have a prosecutor coming down from Stockholm and interfering with the way we do things."

  "I thought you'd say that," said Näslund and left.

  An excellent excuse to have dinner, thought Wallander. He put on his jacket, hung his clean suit over his arm, and turned off the light.

  After a quick shower he made it to Malmö just before 7 p.m. He found, a park near Stortorget and went down the steps to Kock's Tavern. He would knock back a couple of drinks before meeting Mona at the restaurant.

  Even though the price was outrageous, he ordered a large whisky. He would have preferred a malt, but an ordinary blend would have to do.

  At the first gulp he spilled some on himself. Now he'd have a new spot on his lapel. Almost in the same place as the old one. I'm going home, he thought, full of self-reproach. I'll go home and go to bed. I can't even hold a glass without spilling it all over myself. At the same time he knew this feeling was pure vanity. Vanity and nervousness at seeing

  Mona. It might be their most important meeting since the occasion on which he had proposed to her. Now he was trying to prevent a divorce that was already set in motion.

  But what did he really want? He wiped off his lapel with a paper napkin, drained the glass, and ordered another. He would have to go in 10 minutes. By then he would have to make up his mind. What was he going to say to Mona? And what would her answer be?

  His drink came and he tossed it back. The liquor burned in his temples, and he could feel himself starting to sweat. Deep inside he hoped that Mona would say the words he was waiting to hear.

  She had been the one who wanted the divorce, so she was also the one who should take the initiative and put a stop to it.

  He paid his bill and left. He walked slowly so as not to arrive too early.

  He decided two things while he waited for the light to turn green on the corner of Vallgatan. He was going to have a serious talk with Mona about Linda. And he would ask her advice about his father. Mona knew the old man well. Even though they hadn't really got along, she understood his changeable moods.

  I should have called Kristina, he thought as he crossed the street. I probably forgot about it on purpose. He walked across the canal bridge and was passed by a carload of youths. A boy, obviously drunk, was leaning right out of the open window and bellowing something.

  Wallander remembered how he used to walk across this bridge more than 20 years before. In these neighbourhoods the city still looked the same. He had walked the beat here as a young policeman, usually with an older partner, and they would go into the railway station to check up on things. Occasionally they had to throw out someone who was drunk and didn't have a ticket, but there was seldom any violence.

  That world doesn't exist any more, he thought. It's gone, and we'll never get it back. He went into the station. It had changed a lot, but the stone floor was the same. And the sound of the screeching carriage wheels and braking engines.

  Suddenly he caught sight of his daughter. At first he thought he must be imagining it. It could just as easily have been the girl tossing hay at Sten Widén's farm. But then he was sure. It was Linda. She was standing with a coal-black man, trying to get a ticket from the automatic machine. He was almost a foot and a half taller than she was. He had frizzy black hair and was dressed in purple overalls.

  As if he were on surveillance, Wallander swiftly drew back behind a pillar. The man said something and Linda laughed. He realised it had been years since he had seen his daughter laugh.

  What he saw saddened him. He sensed that he couldn't reach her. She was beyond his grasp, even though she was so close.

  My family, he thought. I'm in a railway station spying on my daughter. And her mother, my wife, has probably already arrived at the restaurant so that we can meet and have dinner and maybe manage to talk without starting to shout and scream at each other.

  He realised that he was having a hard time seeing. His eyes were misted over with tears. He hadn't had tears in his eyes for a long time. It was as distant a memory as the last time he had seen Linda laugh.

  The black man and Linda were walking towards the platform. He wanted to rush after her, pull her to him. Then they were gone from his field of vision, and he continued his surveillance. He slunk along in the shadows of the platform where the icy wind from the sound blew. He watched them walk hand in hand, laughing. The last thing he saw was the blue doors hissing shut and the train leaving towards Landskrona or Lund.

  He tried to focus on the fact that she had looked happy. Just as carefree as when she was a young girl. But all he seemed to feel was his own misery. Pathetic Inspector Wallander and his pitiful family life.

  Now he was late. By now Mona would have turned on her heel and left. She was always punctual and hated having to wait. Especially for him.

  He started along the platform at a run. A bright-red engine screeched alongside him like an angry beast. He was in such a hurry that he stumbled on the stairs leading to the restaurant. The shaven-headed doorman gave him a sour look.

  "Where do you think you re going?" he asked.

  Wallander was paralysed by the question. Its implication was immediately clear to him. The doorman thought he was drunk. He wasn't going to let him in.

  "I'm going to have dinner with my wife," he said.

  "No, I don't think you are," said the doorman. "I think you'd better go on home."

  Wallander felt his blood boil.

  "I'm a police officer!" he shouted. "And I'm not drunk, if that's what you think. Now let me in before I really get angry."

  "Piss off!" said the doorman. "Before I call the police." For a moment he felt like punching the doorman in the nose. Then he regained composure and calmed down.

  He took his identity card out of his inside pocket.

  "I really am a police officer" he said. "And I'm not drunk. I stumbled. And my wife is here waiting for me."

  The doorman gave the card a sceptical scrutiny. Then his face lit up.

  "Hey, I recognise you," he said. "You were on TV the other night."

  Finally, some benefit from the TV, he thought.

  "I'm with you," said the doorman. "All the way."

  "With me about what?"

  "Keeping those damned niggers oh a short leash. What kind of shit are we letting into this country, going around killing old people? I'm with you, we should kick 'em all out. Chase 'em out with a stick."

  Wallander could see that there was no point to getting into a discussion with the man. Instead, he attempted a smile.

  "Well, I guess I'll go and have dinner, I'm starving," he said.

  The doorman held open the door for him.

  "You understand we have got to be careful?"

  "No problem," replied Wallander and went into the warmth of the restaurant.

  He hung up his coat and looked around. Mona was sitting at a window table with a view over the canal. He wondered whether she had been watching him arrive. He sucked in his stomach as best he could, ran his hand over his hair, and walked over to her.

  Everything went wrong right from the start. He saw that she noticed the spot on his lapel, and this made him furious. And he didn't know if he entirely succeeded in hiding his fury.

  "Hello," he said, sitting down across from her.

  "Late as usual," she said. "And you've really put on weight!"

  She had to start off with an insult. Not even a friendly word, no affection.

  "But you look just the same. You've got a lovely tan." "We spent a week in Madeira."

  Madeira. First Paris, then Madeira. Their honeymoon. The hotel perched way out on the cliffs, the little fish restaurant down by the beach. And now she had been there again. With someone else.

  "I see," he said. "I thought Madeira was our island."

  "Don't be childish!"

  "I mean it!"
>
  "Then you are being childish."

  "Of course I'm childish! What's wrong with that?"

  The conversation was spinning out of control. When a friendly waitress came to their table it was like being rescued from a deep hole in the ice.

  The wine arrived and the mood improved. Wallander sat looking at the woman who had been his wife and thought that she was extremely beautiful. He tried to avoid thoughts that gave him a sharp stab of jealousy.

  He did his best to give the impression of being very calm, which he definitely was not. They said skal and raised their glasses.

  "Come back," he begged. "Let's start again."

  "No," she said. "You have to understand that it's finished. All over."

  "I went to the station while I was waiting for you," he said. "I saw Linda there." "Linda?"

  "You seem surprised."

  "I thought she was in Stockholm."

  "What would she be doing in Stockholm?" "She was supposed to visit a college to see if it might be the right place for her." "I'm not blind. It was her." "Did you talk to her?"

  Wallander shook his head. "She was just getting onto a train. I didn't have time." "Which train?"

  "Lund or Landskrona. She was with an African." "That's good, at least." "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean that Herman is the best thing that's happened to Linda in a long time." "Herman?"

  "Herman Mboya. He's from Kenya." "He was wearing purple overalls!" "He does have an amusing way of dressing sometimes."

  "What's he doing in Sweden?"

  "He's in medical school. He'll be a doctor soon."

  Wallander listened in amazement. Was she pulling his

  leg? "A doctor?"

  "Yes! A doctor! A physician, or whatever you call it. He's warm, thoughtful, and has a good sense of humour." "Do they live together?" "He has a student flat in Lund." "I asked you if they were living together!" "I think Linda has finally decided." "Decided what?" "To move in with him."