He decided to call another press conference for that afternoon and to present an account of the status of the investigation. He would also report on the anonymous threat he had received during the night.
He took down a folder from a shelf behind his desk. There he kept information on the various refugee conduits in the vicinity. Besides the big refugee camp in Ystad, several smaller units 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. Besides, the threat might just as well be directed at a restaurant or a residence. For instance, how many pizzerias were there in the Ystad area? Fifteen? More?
There was one thing he was quite sure of. The threat in the night had to be taken seriously. In the past year there had been too many incidents confirming the fact that there were organized forces in Sweden that would not hesitate to resort to open violence against foreign citizens or refugees seeking asylum.
He looked at his watch. Quarter to eight. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of Rydberg’s house. After ten rings he hung up. Rydberg was on his way.
Martinson stuck his head in the door.
“Hi,” he said. “What time is the meeting today?”
“Ten o’clock,” said Wallander.
“How about this weather?”
“As long as we don’t get snow, I don’t care if it’s windy.”
While he waited for Rydberg, he looked for the piece of paper he had received from Sten Widen. After Lars Herdin’s visit he realized that perhaps it wasn’t so unusual that someone had given the horse some hay during the night. If the killers were among Johannes and Maria Lövgren’s acquaintances, or even members of their family, then they would naturally know about the horse. Maybe they also knew that Johannes Lövgren made a habit of going out to the stable at night.
Wallander had only a vague idea of what Sten Widen would be able to add. Maybe the real reason he had called him was to avoid losing touch with him again.
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 hoped to finish before Rydberg arrived. He dialed the number and waited.
“District attorney’s office,” a cheerful female voice said.
“This is Kurt Wallander. Is Åkeson there?”
“He’s on leave of absence this spring. Did you forget?”
He had forgotten. It had completely slipped his mind that District Attorney Per Åkeson 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 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 regarding?”
Wallander realized that he had not 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 DA’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 cooperate with the DA’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 detention hearing at ten fifteen. I’ll be back by eleven.”
“I might be a little late. We have a meeting of the investigative team at ten. It might run long.”
“Try to make it by eleven.”
She hung up, and he sat there holding the receiver.
Cooperation between the police and the district attorney’s office wasn’t always easy. But Wallander had established an unbureau-cratic relationship of trust with Per Åkeson. They often called each other up 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 out in the hall. He stuck his head out 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 okay,” said Rydberg. “Or snow. Or cold. But this damned leg can’t stand the wind. What do you want?”
Wallander told him about the anonymous threat he had received during the night.
“What do you think?” he asked when he was done. “Serious or not?”
“Serious. At least we have to act as if it is.”
“I’m thinking about a press conference this afternoon. We’ll present the status of the investigation and zero in on Lars Herdin’s story. Without mentioning his name, of course. Then I’ll tell about the threat. And say that all rumors about foreigners 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 did you intend to make that fit in with a robbery that was presumably committed by someone who knew Johannes 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 take care of 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 to snitching cops?”
“Probably way too much,” said Rydberg. “That’s why they don’t have money for any good programs.”
He got up from his chair.
“Don’t forget one thing,” he said as he stood with his hand on the door frame. “A cop who snitches can snitch again.”
“What do you mean?”
“He can insist that one of our leads does point toward foreigners. It’s true, after all.”
“It’s not even a lead,” said Wallander. “It’s the last confused word of a groggy old woman who was dying.”
Rydberg shrugged.
“Do as you like,” he said. “See you in a while.”
The meeting went as badly as an investigative meeting can go. Wallander had decided to start with the leak and its possible consequences. He would describe the anonymous phone call he had received and then entertain suggestions on what should be done before the deadline ran out. But when he angrily complained that someone among those present was apparently so disloyal that he spread confidential information and possibly also took money for it, he was met by equally angry protests. Several of the police officers thought that the rumor might well have been leaked from the hospital. Hadn’t both doctors and nurses been present when the old woman uttered her last words?
Wallander tried to refute their objections, but they kept protesting. By the time he finally managed to steer the discussion to the investigation itself, a sullen mood had settled over the room. Yesterday’s optimism had been replaced by a slack, unins
pired atmosphere. Wallander realized that he had gotten off on the wrong foot.
The attempt to identify the car with which the truck driver had almost collided had yielded no results. To increase efficiency, an additional man was assigned to concentrate on the car.
The investigation of Lars Herdin’s past was ongoing. On the first check nothing remarkable had come to light. Lars Herdin had no record and no conspicuous debts.
“We’re going to run a vacuum over this guy,” said Wallander. “We have to know everything there is to know. I’m going to be meeting with the prosecutor in a few minutes. I’ll request authorization to go into the bank.”
Peters was the one who brought the biggest news of the day.
“Johannes Lövgren had two safe-deposit boxes,” he said. “One at the Union Bank and one at the Merchants’ Bank. I went through the keys on his key ring.”
“Good,” said Wallander. “We’ll go check them out later today.”
The charting of Lövgrens’ family, friends, and relatives would continue.
It was decided that Rydberg should take care of the daughter who lived in Canada, who would be arriving at the hovercraft terminal in Malmö just after three in the afternoon.
“Where’s the other daughter?” asked Wallander. “The handball player?”
“She’s already arrived,” said Svedberg. “She’s staying with relatives.”
“You go talk to her,” said Wallander. “Do we have any other tips that might produce something? Ask the daughters if either of them received a wall clock, by the way.”
Martinson had sifted through the tips. Everything that the police learned was fed into a computer. Then Martinson did a rough sort. The most ridiculous tips never got beyond the printouts.
“Hulda Yngveson phoned from Vallby and said that it was the disapproving hand of God that dealt the blow,” said Martinson.
“She always calls,” sighed Rydberg. “If a calf runs off, it’s because God is displeased.”
“I put her on the CF list,” said Martinson.
The sullen atmosphere was broken by a little amusement when Martinson explained that CF stood for “crazy fools.”
They hadn’t received any tips of immediate interest. But everything would be checked out in time.
Finally the question remained of Johannes Lövgren’s secret relationship in Kristianstad and the child they had together.
Wallander looked around the room. Thomas Naslund, a thirty-year veteran who seldom called attention to himself but who did solid, thorough work, was sitting in a corner, pulling on his lower lip as he listened.
“You can come with me,” said Wallander. “See if you can do a little footwork first. Call up Herdin and pump him for everything you can about this woman in Kristianstad. And the child too, of course.”
he press conference was set for four o’clock. By then Kurt Wallander and Thomas Naslund hoped to be back from Kristianstad. If they were late, Rydberg promised to preside.
“I’ll write the press release,” said Wallander. “If no one has anything more, we’ll adjourn.”
It was eleven twenty-five when he knocked on Per Akeson’s door in another part of the police building.
The woman who opened the door was very striking and very young. Wallander stared at her.
“Seen enough yet?” she said. “You’re half an hour late, by the way.”
“I told you the meeting might run over,” he countered.
When he entered her office, he hardly recognized it. Per Åkeson’s spartan, colorless space had been transformed into a room with colorful curtains and big flowerpots along the walls.
He followed her with his eyes as she sat down behind her desk. He thought she couldn’t be more than thirty years old. She was dressed in a rust-brown suit that he was sure was of good quality and no doubt quite expensive.
“Have a seat,” she said. “Maybe we ought to shake hands, by the way. I’ll be filling in for Akeson the entire time he’s away. So we’ll be working together for quite a while.”
He put out his hand and noticed at the same time that she was wearing a wedding ring. To his surprise he realized that he felt disappointed.
She had dark brown hair, cut short and framing her face. A bleached lock of hair curled down beside one ear.
“I’d like to say welcome to Ystad,” he said. “I have to admit that I totally forgot that Per was on leave.”
“I assume we’ll be using our first names. Mine is Anette.”
“Kurt. How do you like Ystad?”
She shook off the question with a curt reply. “I don’t really know yet. Stockholmers no doubt have a hard time getting used to the leisurely pace of Skåne.”
“Leisurely?”
“You’re half an hour late.”
Wallander could feel himself getting angry. Was she provoking him? Didn’t she understand that a meeting of an investigative team could run over? Did she view all Scanians as leisurely?
“I don’t think Scanians are any lazier than anyone else,” he said. “All Stockholmers aren’t stuck-up, are they?”
“Pardon?”
“Forget it.”
She leaned back in her chair. He noticed that he was having a hard time looking her in the eye.
“Perhaps you could give me a rundown,” she said.
Wallander tried to make his report as concise as possible. He could tell that, without really intending it, he had wound up in a defensive position.
He avoided mentioning the leak in the police department.
She interjected a few brief questions, which he answered. He could see that despite her youth she did have professional experience.
“We have to go take a look at Lövgren’s bank balances,” he said. “He also has two safe-deposit boxes we want to open.”
She wrote up the documents he needed.
“Does a judge have to look at this?” asked Wallander as she shoved the documents over to him.
“We’ll do that later,” she said. “Then I’d appreciate receiving ongoing copies of all the investigative material.”
He nodded and got ready to leave.
“This article in the papers,” she inquired. “About foreigners who may have been involved?”
“A rumor,” replied Wallander. “You know how it is.”
“Do I?” she asked.
When he left her office he noticed that he was sweating.
What a babe, he thought. How the hell can someone like that become a prosecutor? Devote her life to catching small-time crooks and keeping the streets clean?
He stopped in the big reception area of the police station, unable to decide what to do next.
Eat, he decided. If I don’t get some food now, I never will. I can write the press release while I eat.
When he walked out of the police station he was almost blown over.
The storm had not died down.
He thought he ought to drive home and make himself a simple salad. Despite the fact that he had hardly eaten a thing all day, his stomach felt heavy and bloated. But then he allowed himself to be tempted to eat at the Lurhorn Blower down by the square instead. He wasn’t going to tackle his eating habits seriously today either.
At quarter to one he was back at the station. Since he had once again eaten too fast, he had an attack of diarrhea and ran to the toilet. When his stomach had settled somewhat, he turned in the press release to one of the office clerks and then headed for Näslund’s room.
“I can’t get hold of Herdin,” said Näslund. “He’s out on some kind of winter hike with a conservation group in Fyle Valley.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to drive out there and look for him,” said Wallander.
“I thought I might as well do that, then you can go check the safe-deposit boxes. If everything was so hush-hush with this woman and their kid, maybe there’s something locked up in there. We’ll save time that way, I mean.”
Wallander nodded. Näslund was right. He barged forward like an impat
ient locomotive.
“Okay, that’s what we’ll do,” he said. “If we don’t make it today we’ll go up to Kristianstad tomorrow morning.”
Before he got into his car to drive down to the bank, he tried once more to get hold of Sten Widen. There was no answer this time either.
He dropped off the slip with Ebba at the reception desk.
“See if you can get an answer,” he said. “Check whether this number is right. It’s supposed to be in the name of Sten Widen. Or a racehorse stable that might have a name I don’t know.”
“Hanson probably knows,” said Ebba.
“I said racehorses, not trotters.”
“He plays anything that moves,” said Ebba with a laugh.
“I’ll be at the Union Bank if there’s anything urgent,” said Wallander.
He parked the car across from the bookstore on the square. The powerful wind almost blew the parking stub out of his hand after he put the money in the automat. The town seemed abandoned. The strong winds were keeping people indoors.
He stopped at the radio store by the square. In an attempt to combat the sadness in the evenings, he was considering buying a VCR. He looked at the prices and tried to figure out whether he could afford the purchase this month. Or should he invest in a new stereo instead? After all, it was music he turned to when he lay tossing and turning and couldn’t sleep.
He tore himself away from the display window and turned down the pedestrian street by the Chinese restaurant. The Union Bank was right next door. When he walked in through the glass doors, he found only one customer inside the small bank lobby. A farmer with a hearing aid, complaining about the high interest rate in a high, shrill voice. To the left a door stood open to an office where a man sat studying a computer screen. He assumed that’s where he was supposed to go. When he stood in the doorway the man looked up quickly, as if Wallander were a possible bank robber.
He walked into the room and introduced himself.
“We’re not happy about this at all,” said the man behind the desk. “In all the years I’ve been at this bank we’ve never had any trouble with the police.”
Faceless Killers: A Mystery Page 9