Faceless Killers - Wallander 01

by Henning Mankell

  Wallander turned off his engine but left the headlights on and walked out into the field.

  "Dad!" he yelled. "What the hell are you doing?"

  His father didn't answer but kept going. Wallander followed him. He tripped and fell and got wet up to his waist

  "Dad!" he shouted again. "Stop! Where are you going?"

  No answer. His father seemed to pick up speed. Soon they would be down by the main highway. Wallander ran and stumbled to catch up with him, grabbing him by the arm. But his father pulled away and kept going.

  Wallander got angry. "Police," he yelled. "If you don't stop, we'll fire a warning shot."

  His father stopped and turned around. Wallander saw him blinking in the glare of the headlights.

  "What did I tell you?" the old man screamed. "You want to kill me!"

  Then he flung his suitcase at Wallander. The lid flew open and revealed the contents: dirty underwear, tubes of paint, and brushes. Wallander felt a huge sadness well up inside him. His father had tramped out into the night with the bewildered notion that he was on his way to Italy.

  "Calm down, Dad," he said. "I just thought I'd drive you down to the railway station. Then you won't have to walk."

  His father gave him a sceptical look. "I don't believe you," he said.

  "Of course I'd drive my own father to the station if he's going on a journey."

  Wallander picked up the suitcase, closed the lid, and started for the car. He put the bag in the boot and stood waiting. His father looked like a wild beast caught in the headlights. An animal chased to exhaustion, waiting for the fetal shot.

  He started to walk towards the car. Wallander couldn't decide whether what he saw was an expression of dignity or humiliation. He opened the rear door and his father crawled in. Wallander had taken a blanket from the boot, and now he wrapped it around his father's shoulders.

  He gave a start when a man stepped out of the shadows. An old man, dressed in dirty overalls.

  "I'm the one who telephoned," said the man. "How's it going?"

  "Everything's fine," replied Wallander. "And thanks for the call."

  "It was pure chance that I saw him." "I understand. Thanks again."

  He got behind the wheel. When he turned his head he could see that his father was so cold he was shaking beneath the blanket.

  "Now I'll drive you to the station, Dad," he said. "It won't take long."

  He drove straight to the emergency entrance of the hospital. He was lucky enough to run into the young doctor he had met at Maria Lövgren's deathbed. He explained what had happened.

  "We'll admit him overnight for observation," said the doctor. "He may be suffering from exposure. Tomorrow the social worker will try to find a place for him."

  "Thank you," said Wallander. ‘I’ll stay with him a while."

  His father had been dried off and was lying on a stretcher.

  "Sleeping car to Italy," he said. "I'm finally on my way."

  Wallander sat on a chair next to the stretcher.

  "That's right," he said. "Now you'll get to Italy."

  It was past 2 a.m. when he left the hospital. He drove the short distance to the station. Everyone except Hansson had gone home. Hansson was watching the taped discussion programme with the chief of the national police.

  "Anything going on?" asked Wallander.

  "Not a thing," said Hansson. "A few tip-offs, of course. But nothing earthshaking. I took the liberty of sending people home to get a few hours' sleep."

  "That's good. Funny mat nobody has called about the car."

  "I was just thinking that. Maybe he just drove out on the E65 a littie way and then took off on one of the back roads.

  I've looked at the maps. There's a whole maze of little roads in that area. Plus a big nature reserve, where no-one goes in the winter. The patrols that check the camps are running a fine-tooth comb over those roads tonight." Wallander nodded.

  "We'll send in a helicopter when it gets light," he said. "The car might be hidden somewhere in that nature reserve." He poured a cup of coffee.

  "Svedberg told me about your father," said Hansson. "How did it go?"

  "It went all right. The old boy is going senile. He's at the hospital. But it was OK."

  "Go home and sleep for a few hours. You look exhausted."

  "I've got some things to write up."

  Hansson turned off the video.

  "I'll stretch out on the sofa for a while," he said.

  Wallander went into his office and sat down at the typewriter. His eyes stung with fatigue. And yet the weariness brought with it an unexpected clarity. A double murder is committed, he thought. And the manhunt triggers another murder. Which we have to solve fast, so as to prevent more murders. All this has happened in less than a week.

  He wrote his memo to Björk, deciding to make sure that it was delivered to him by hand at the airport. He yawned. It was 3.45 a.m. He was too tired to think about his father. He was only afraid that the social worker at the hospital wouldn't be able to come up with a good solution.

  The note with his sister's name on it was still sticking to the telephone. In a few hours, when it was morning, he would have to call her.

  He yawned again and sniffed his armpits. He stank. Just then Hansson appeared in the half-open door. Wallander saw at once that something had happened.

  "We've got something," said Hansson. "What?"

  "A guy from Malmö just called and said his car has been stolen." "A Citroen?" Hansson nodded.

  "How come he discovers it at four o'clock in the morning?"

  "He said he was leaving to go to a trade fair in Goteborg."

  "Did he report this to our colleagues in Malmö?"

  Hansson nodded. Wallander grabbed the phone.

  "Then let's get moving," he said.

  The police in Malmö promised to speed up their interrogation of the man. The registration number of the stolen car, the model, year and colour were already being sent all over the country.

  "BBM 160," said Hansson. "A dove-blue turtle with a white roof. How many of those can there be in this country? A hundred?"

  "If the car isn't buried, we'll find it," said Wallander. "What time is sunrise?"

  "Around eight or nine o'clock," replied Hansson.

  "As soon as it gets light we need a helicopter over the reserve. You take care of that."

  Hansson nodded. He was just leaving the room when he stopped.

  "Damn it! There was one more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "The man who called and said that his car was stolen. He was a policeman." Wallander gave Hansson a puzzled look. "A policeman? What do you mean?" "I mean that he was a policeman. Like you and me."

  CHAPTER 11

  Wallander went into one of the holding cells in the station and lay down for a nap. After a great deal of effort, he managed to set the alarm function on his watch. He was going to allow himself to sleep for two hours. When the beeping sound on his wrist woke him up, he had a slight headache. The first thing he thought about was his father. He took a few aspirin out of the first aid kit he found in a cupboard and washed them down with a cup of lukewarm coffee. Then he hesitated, trying to decide whether he should take a shower first or call his sister in Stockholm.

  Finally he went down to the changing room and got into the shower. Slowly his headache evaporated. But he felt weighed down with weariness as he sank into the chair behind his desk. It was 7.15 a.m. His sister was always up early. She picked up the phone almost as soon as it started ringing. As gently as possible he told her what had happened.

  "Why didn't you call me before?" she asked indignantly. "You must have noticed what was going on."

  "I guess I noticed too late," he replied warily.

  They agreed that she would wait until after he had spoken to the social worker before she decided when to come to Skåne.

  "How are Mona and Linda?" she asked as the conversation was drawing to a close.

  It dawned on him that she d
idn't know about the separation.

  "Fine," he said. ‘I’ll call you later."

  He drove to the hospital. The temperature had fallen below freezing again. An icy wind was blowing through the town from the southwest.

  A nurse, who had just received a report from the night staff, told Wallander that his father had slept fitfully. But he had not suffered from his night-time promenade through the fields. Wallander decided to see the social worker first.

  Wallander distrusted social workers. All too often in his career he had encountered welfare people, called in when the police had caught juvenile offenders with misguided views on what action should be taken. Social workers were often too soft and yielding when they ought in his opinion to be making tough decisions. More than once he had raged at the welfare authorities because he felt that their pussy-footing encouraged young criminals to continue their activities.

  Maybe this one is different, he thought. After a short wait he was greeted by a woman in her 50s. Wallander described his father's sudden decline. How unexpected it was, how helpless he felt.

  "It might be temporary," said the social worker. "Sometimes elderly people suffer from periods of confusion. If it passes, it might be enough to see that he gets regular home care. If it turns out that he really is senile, then we'll have to come up with some other solution."

  They decided that his father should stay in over the weekend. Then she would discuss with the doctors what to do next. Wallander stood up. This woman seemed to know what she was talking about.

  "It's hard to be sure what to do," he said.

  She nodded. "Nothing is as troublesome as when we're forced to become parents to our own parents," she said.

  "I know. My mother finally became so difficult that I couldn't keep her at home."

  Wallander went to see his father, who was in a room with four beds. All were occupied. One man was in a cast, another was curled up as if he had severe stomach pains. Wallander's father was lying staring at the ceiling.

  "How are you, Dad?" he asked.

  It was a moment before his father answered. "Leave me alone."

  He spoke in a low voice. There was no hint of petulance. Wallander had the impression that his father's voice was full of sorrow. He sat on the edge of the bed for a while. Then he left.

  "I'll be back, Dad. And Kristina says hello."

  Wallander hurried out of the hospital, filled with a sense of helplessness. The icy wind whipped his face. He didn't feel like going back to the station, so he called Hansson on the scratchy car phone.

  "I'm driving over to Malmö," he said. "Have we got a helicopter in the air?"

  "It's been up for half an hour," replied Hansson. "Nothing yet. We have two dog patrols out too. If that damned car is anywhere in the reserve, we'll find it."

  Wallander drove to Malmö. The morning traffic was fierce and intense. He was frequently forced over towards the shoulder by drivers passing without enough room. I should have taken a squad car, he thought. But maybe that doesn't make any difference these days.

  Wallander arrived at the Malmö police station where the man who had had his car stolen was waiting for him. Before Wallander went in to see him, he talked to the officer who had taken the report of the theft.

  "Is it true that he's a policeman?" Wallander asked. "He was," the officer replied. "But he took early retirement." "Why was that?"

  The officer shrugged. "Problems with his nerves. I honestly don't know." "Do you know him?"

  "He mostly kept to himself. Even though we worked together for ten years, I can't say that I really knew him." "But surely someone does?"

  The police officer shrugged again. "I'll find out," he said. "But remember, anybody can have his car stolen."

  Wallander went into the room and said hello to the man, whose name was Rune Bergman. He was 53 and had been retired for four years. He was thin, with nervous, flitting eyes. Along one side of his nose he had a scar from what looked like a knife wound.

  Wallander immediately sensed that the man sitting in front of him was on guard. He couldn't say why. But the feeling was palpable, and it grew stronger as the conversation progressed.

  "Tell me what happened," he said. "At four o'clock in the morning you discovered your car was missing."

  "I was going to drive to Goteborg. I like to get started before dawn when I'm going on a long drive. When I went outside, the car was gone."

  "From the garage or from a parking place?"

  "From the street outside my house. I have a garage. But there's so much junk in it that there's no room for the car."

  "Where do you live?"

  "In a suburb near Jagersro."

  "Do you think any of your neighbours saw anything?" "I asked them. But no-one heard or saw anything."

  "When did you last see your car?"

  "I was inside all day. But the car was there the night before."

  "Locked?"

  "Of course it was locked."

  "Did it have a lock on the steering wheel?"

  "Unfortunately, no. It was broken."

  His answers came easily. But Wallander couldn't rid himself of the feeling that the man was on guard.

  "What kind of trade show were you going to?" he asked.

  The man sitting across from him looked surprised. "What does that have to do with this?"

  "Nothing. I just wondered."

  "An air show, if you must know."

  "An air show?"

  "I'm interested in old planes. I build model planes myself."

  "Is it true that you took early retirement?"

  "What the hell does that have to do with my stolen car?"

  "Nothing."

  "Why don't you start looking for my car instead of poking around in my personal life?"

  "We're already onto it. As you know, we think that the person who stole your car may have committed a murder. Or maybe I should say an execution."

  The man looked him straight in the eye. The nervous flitting had stopped.

  "That's what I heard," he said.

  Wallander had no more questions. "I thought we'd go over to your place. So I can see where the car was parked." "I can't invite you in for coffee. The place is a mess." "Are you married?" "I'm divorced."

  They went out to Wallander's car. The neighbourhood was an old one, situated just beyond the trotting track at

  Jagersro. They stopped outside a yellow brick house with a small front lawn.

  "This is where the car was, right where you're parked," said the man. "Right here."

  Wallander backed up a few metres and they got out. Wallander noticed that the car must have been parked between two streetlights.

  "Are there a lot of cars parked on this street at night?" he asked.

  "Usually one in front of every house. A lot of people who live here have two cars. Their garages only hold one."

  Wallander pointed at the streetlights. "Do they work?" he asked.

  "Yes. I always notice if any of them are broken." Wallander looked around, thinking. He had no further questions.

  "I assume that we'll be talking to you again," he said.

  "I want my car back," replied the man.

  Wallander realised that he did have one more question.

  "Do you have a licence to carry a gun?" he asked. "Do you own any guns?"

  The man stiffened. At that moment a crazy idea flashed through Wallander's mind. The car theft was pure fiction. The man standing beside him was one of the two men who had shot the Somali the day before.

  "What the hell do you mean?" said the man. "A gun licence? Don't tell me you're so fucking stupid that you think I had anything to do with that?"

  "You were a policeman, so you should know that we have to ask these questions," said Wallander. "Do you have any guns in your house?"

  "I have guns and a licence."

  "What kind of guns?"

  "I like to shoot once in a while. I have a Mauser for hunting moose." "Anything else?"

  "A shotgun.
A Lanber Baron. It's a Spanish gun. For shooting rabbits."

  "I'll send someone over to pick them up." "Why is that?"

  "Because the man who was killed yesterday was shot at close range with a shotgun."

  The man gave him a disdainful look. "You're crazy," he said. "You're out of your fucking mind."

  Wallander left. He drove straight back to the Malmö police station. He called Ystad. The car hadn't been found. Then he asked to speak to the officer in charge of the department for homicide and violent crimes in Malmö. Wallander had met him once before and found him to be overbearing and self-important. It had been on the same occasion that he met Goran Boman.

  Wallander explained the case he was working on.

  "I want his weapons checked," he said. "I want his house searched. I want to know whether he has any connections with racist organisations."

  The police officer gave him a long look. "Do you have any reason whatsoever to believe that he made up the story about a stolen car? That he might be involved in the murder?"

  "He owns guns. And we have to investigate everything."

  "There are hundreds of thousands of shotguns in this country. And what makes you think I can get authorisation to search his house when the case is about a stolen car?"

  "This case has top priority," said Wallander, starting to get annoyed. "I'll call the county police chief. The national police chief, if necessary."

  "I'll do what I can," said the officer. "But no-one likes it when you dig around in the private life of a colleague. And what do you think would happen if this got out to the press?"

  "I don't give a shit," said Wallander. "I've got three murders on my hands. And somebody who's promised me a fourth. Which I intend to prevent."

  On his way to Ystad, Wallander stopped at Hageholm. The technicians were just wrapping up their investigation. At the scene he went over Rydberg's theory about how the murder occurred, and he decided he was right. The car had probably been parked at the spot Rydberg had pinpointed. He realised that he hadn't asked the policeman whether he smoked. Or whether he ate apples.