“The barracks that are burning are empty,” he said. “I don’t know about the other ones.”
“You look like shit,” said Edler. “I think we can handle the other barracks.”
The firefighters were already hosing down the closest barracks. Wallander heard Edler order a tractor to tow away the barracks that were already on fire in order to isolate the hot spots.
The first police car came to a skidding stop, its blue light flashing and siren wailing. Wallander saw that it was Peters and Norén. He hobbled over to their car.
“How’s it going?” asked Norén.
“It’ll be okay,” said Wallander. “Start cordoning off the area and ask Edler if he needs any help.”
Peters stared at him. “You sure look like shit. How’d you happen to be here?”
“I was out driving around,” replied Wallander. “Now get moving.”
For the next hour a peculiar mixture of chaos and efficient firefighting prevailed. The dazed director of the refugee camp was wandering around aimlessly, and Wallander had to take him to task to find out how many refugees were at the camp and then do a count. To his great surprise, it turned out that the Immigration Service’s record of the refugees in residence at Ystad was completely and hopelessly confused. And he got no help from the dazed director either. In the meantime a tractor towed away the smoldering barracks, and the firefighters soon had the blaze under control. The medics had to take only a few of the refugees to the hospital. Most of them were suffering from shock. But there was a little Lebanese boy who had fallen and hit his head on a rock.
Edler pulled Wallander aside. “Go get yourself patched up.”
Wallander nodded. His arm was stinging and burning, and he could feel that one leg was sticky with blood.
“I don’t dare think about what might have happened if you hadn’t called in the alarm the instant the fire broke out,” said Edler.
“Why the hell do they put the barracks so close together?” asked Wallander.
Edler shook his head. “The old boss here is starting to get tired. Of course you’re right; the buildings are too damn close to each other.”
Wallander went over to Norén, who had just finished the job of cordoning off the area.
“I want that director in my office first thing tomorrow morning,” he said.
Norén nodded.
“Did you see anything?” he asked.
“I heard a crash. Then the barracks exploded. But no cars. No people. If it was set, then it was done with a delayed-action detonator.”
“Shall I drive you home or to the hospital?”
“I can drive myself. But I’m leaving now.”
At the hospital emergency room Wallander realized that he was more battered than he had thought. On one forearm he had a large burn, his groin area and one thigh had been lacerated by the glass, and above his right eye he had a big lump and several nasty abrasions. He had also evidently bitten his tongue without being aware of it.
It was almost four o’clock by the time Wallander could leave the hospital. His bandages were too tight, and he still felt sick from the smoke he had inhaled.
As he left the hospital, a camera flashed in his face. He recognized the photographer from the biggest morning newspaper in Skåne. He waved his hand to dismiss a reporter who popped up out of the shadows, wanting an interview. Then he drove home.
To his own great amazement he was actually feeling sleepy. He undressed and crawled under the covers. His body ached, and flames were dancing in his head. And yet he fell asleep at once.
At eight o’clock Wallander woke up because somebody was pounding a sledgehammer inside his head. When he opened his eyes, he became aware of the throbbing in his temples. He had once again dreamed of the unknown black woman who had visited him before in his dreams. But when he stretched out his hand for her, Sten Widen was suddenly standing there with the whiskey bottle in his hand, and the woman had turned her back on Wallander and gone off with Sten instead.
He lay completely still, taking stock of how he felt. His neck and arm were stinging. His head was pounding. For a moment he was tempted to turn to the wall and go back to sleep. Forget all about the murder investigation and the conflagration that had blazed in the night.
He didn’t get a chance to decide. His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.
I don’t feel like answering it, he thought.
Then he quickly slipped out of bed and stumbled out to the kitchen.
It was Mona on the phone.
“Kurt,” she said. “It’s Mona.”
He was filled with an overwhelming sense of joy.
Mona, he thought. Dear God! Mona! How I’ve missed you!
“I saw your picture in the paper,” she said. “How are you doing?”
He remembered the photographer outside the hospital during the night. The camera that had flashed.
“Fine,” he said. “Just a little sore.”
“Are you sure?”
Suddenly his joy was gone. Now the bad feelings came back, the sharp pain in his stomach.
“Do you really care how I am?”
“Why shouldn’t I care?”
“Why should you?”
He heard her breathing in his ear.
“I think you’re so brave,” she said. “I’m proud of you. In the paper it said that you risked your life to save people.”
“I didn’t save anybody! What kind of crap is that?”
“I just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt.”
“What would you have done if I was?”
“What would I have done?”
“If I was hurt. If I was dying. What would you have done then?”
“Why do you sound so angry?”
“I’m not angry. I’m just asking you. I want you to come back home. Back here. To me.”
“You know I can’t do that. I just wish we could talk to each other.”
“I never hear from you! So how are we supposed to talk to each other?”
He heard her sigh. That made him furious. Or maybe scared.
“Of course we can meet,” she said. “But not at my place. Or at yours.”
Suddenly he made up his mind. What he had said was not entirely true. But it wasn’t really a lie either.
“There are a lot of things we need to talk about,” he told her. “Practical matters. I can drive over to Malmö if you like.”
There was a pause before she answered.
“Not tonight,” she said. “But I can do it tomorrow.”
“Where? Shall we have dinner? The only places I know are the Savoy and the Central.”
“The Savoy is expensive.”
“Then how about the Central? What time?”
“Eight o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
The conversation was over. He looked at his pummeled face in the hall mirror.
Was he looking forward to the meeting? Or was he feeling uneasy?
He couldn’t make up his mind. All his thoughts were confused. Instead of picturing his meeting with Mona, he saw himself with Anette Brolin at the Savoy. And even though she was still the acting district attorney in Ystad, she was suddenly transformed into a black woman.
Wallander got dressed, skipped his morning coffee, and went out to his car. There was no wind at all. It had turned warmer again. The remnants of a damp fog were drifting in over the town from the sea.
He was greeted with friendly nods and pats on the back when he entered the police station. Ebba gave him a hug and a jar of pear preserves. He felt both embarrassed and a little proud of himself.
If only Björk had been here, he thought.
In Ystad instead of in Spain.
This was the kind of thing he dreamed of. Heroes on the police force...
By nine thirty everything had returned to normal. By then he had already managed to give the director of the refugee camp a fierce lecture about the sloppy supervision of the refugees who occupied
the barracks. The director, who was short and plump and radiated a large measure of apathetic laziness, had vigorously defended himself by insisting that he had followed the rules and regulations of the Immigration Service to the letter.
“It’s the responsibility of the police to guarantee our safety,” he said, trying to twist the entire discussion around 180 degrees.
“How are we supposed to guarantee anything at all when you have no idea how many people are living in those damned barracks or who they are?”
The director was red-faced with fury when he left Kurt Wallander’s office.
“I’m going to file a complaint,” he said. “It’s the responsibility of the police to guarantee the safety of the refugees.”
“Complain to the king,” replied Wallander. “Complain to the prime minister. Complain to the European Court. Complain to whoever the hell you like. But from now on you’re going to have precise lists of how many people there are at your camp, what their names are, and which barracks they live in.”
Right before the meeting with the investigative team was due to start, Peter Edler called.
“How are you doing?” he asked. “The hero of the day.”
“Kiss my ass,” replied Wallander. “Have you found anything?”
“It wasn’t hard,” replied Edler. “A handy little detonator that ignited some rags soaked in gasoline.”
“Are you sure?”
“You’re damn right I’m sure! You’ll have the report in a few hours.”
“We’ll have to try and run the arson investigation parallel with the double homicide. But if anything else happens, I’m going to need reinforcements from Simrishamn or Malmö.”
“Are there any police in Simrishamn? I thought the station there was closed down.”
“It was the volunteer firefighters who were disbanded. In fact, I’ve heard rumors that we’re going to have some new positions opening up down here.”
Wallander started the investigative meeting by reporting what Peter Edler had told him. A brief discussion followed concerning possible reasons for the attack. Everyone agreed that it was most likely a rather well-organized boyish prank. But no one denied the seriousness of what had occurred.
“It’s important for us to get them,” said Hanson. “Just as important as catching the killers at Lenarp.”
“Maybe it was the same people who threw the turnips at the old man,” said Svedberg.
Wallander noticed an unmistakable hint of contempt in his voice.
“Talk to him. Maybe he can give you a description.”
“I don’t speak Arabic,” said Svedberg.
“We have interpreters, for God’s sake! I want to know what he has to say no later than this afternoon.” Wallander could feel that he was angry.
The meeting was extremely brief. This was one of those days when the police officers were in the midst of an intense investigative phase. Conclusions and results were sparse.
“We’ll skip the afternoon meeting,” Wallander decided. “Provided nothing out of the ordinary happens. Martinson will go out to the camp. Svedberg, maybe you could take over whatever Martinson was doing that can’t wait.”
“I’m searching for the car that the truck driver saw,” said Martinson. “I’ll give you my paperwork.”
When the meeting was over, Naslund and Rydberg stayed behind in Wallander’s office.
“We’re starting to go into overtime,” said Wallander. “When is Björk coming back from Spain?”
Nobody knew.
“Does he have any idea about what’s happened?” Rydberg wondered.
“Does he care?” Wallander countered.
He called Ebba and got an immediate reply. She even knew which airline he would be coming in on.
“Saturday night,” he told the others. “But since I’m the acting chief, I’m going to authorize all the overtime we need.”
Rydberg changed the subject to his visit to the farm where the murder was committed.
“I’ve been snooping around,” he said. “I’ve turned the whole place upside down. I’ve even dug around in the hay bales out in the stable. But there was no brown briefcase.”
Wallander knew this had to be true. Rydberg never gave up until he was one hundred percent sure.
“So now we know this much,” he said. “One brown briefcase containing twenty-seven thousand kronor is missing.”
“People have been killed for much less,” said Rydberg.
They sat in silence for a moment, pondering Rydberg’s words.
“I can’t understand why it should be so hard to locate that car,” said Wallander, touching the tender lump on his forehead. “I gave the description of the car at the press conference and asked the driver to contact us.”
“Patience,” said Rydberg.
“What came out of the conversations with the daughters? If there are any reports, I can read them in the car on the way to Kristianstad. By the way, do either of you think that the attack last night had anything to do with the threat I received?”
Both Rydberg and Naslund shook their heads.
“I don’t either,” said Wallander. “That means that we need to be prepared for something to happen on Friday or Saturday. I thought that you, Rydberg, could think through this matter and come up with some suggestions for action by this afternoon.”
Rydberg made a face.
“I’m not good at things like that.”
“You’re a good cop. You’ll do just fine.”
Rydberg gave him a skeptical look.
Then he stood up to go. He stopped at the door.
“The daughter that I talked to, the one from Canada, had her husband with her. The one who’s the Mountie. He wondered why we don’t carry side arms.”
“In a few years we probably will,” said Wallander.
He was just about to start talking to Naslund about his conversation with Lars Herdin when the phone rang. Ebba told him that the head of the Immigration Service was on the line.
Wallander was surprised when he realized that he was speaking to a woman. In his mind, high government officials were still elderly gentlemen with an air of guarded dignity and arrogant self-esteem.
The woman had a pleasant voice. But what she said annoyed him instantly. It occurred to him that it might be a breach of conduct for an acting police chief in a small town to contradict what the high priest of a government civil service agency had to say.
“We are most displeased,” said the woman. “The police have to guarantee the safety of our refugees.”
She sounds just like that damned director, thought Wallander.
“We do what we can,” he said, trying not to reveal that he was angry.
“Clearly that is not sufficient.”
“It would have been considerably easier if we had received updated information about how many refugees were assigned to the various camps.”
“The service has complete data on the refugees.”
“That’s not my impression at all.”
“The Minister of Immigration is quite concerned.”
Wallander visualized a red-haired woman who was regularly interviewed on TV.
“She’s welcome to contact us,” said Wallander, making a face at Naslund, who was leafing through some papers.
“It’s clear that the police are not allocating enough resources to protecting the refugees.”
“Or maybe there are just too many coming in. And you have no idea where they’re living.”
“What do you mean by that?”
The polite voice was suddenly cool.
Wallander felt his anger grow.
“Last night’s fire revealed an enormous disarray at the camp. That’s what I mean. In general, it’s difficult to get any clear directives from the Immigration Service. You often tell the police to instigate deportations. But we have no idea where to find the deportees. Sometimes we have to search for several weeks before we find the people we are supposed to expel.”
Wha
t he said was true. He had heard about his colleagues in Malmö who were driven to despair by the inability of the Immigration Service to handle its job.
“That’s a lie,” said the woman. “I’m not going to waste my valuable time arguing with you.”
The conversation was over.
“Bitch,” said Wallander, slamming down the phone.
“Who was that?” asked Naslund.
“A director general,” replied Wallander, “who doesn’t know a thing about reality. Feel like getting some coffee?”
Rydberg turned in transcripts of the interviews that he and Svedberg had held with Lövgren’s two daughters. Wallander quickly recounted his phone conversation.
“The Minister of Immigration will be calling soon, and she’ll be concerned,” said Rydberg, laughing wickedly.
“You can talk to her,” said Wallander. “I’ll try to be back from Kristianstad by four.”
When Naslund came back with the two mugs of coffee, Wallander no longer wanted any. He felt a need to get out of the building. His bandages were too tight, and his head ached. A drive might do him good.
“You can tell me about it in the car,” he said, pushing the coffee away.
Näslund looked doubtful.
“I don’t really know where we should go. Lars Herdin knew virtually nothing about this mystery woman’s identity, even though he was well informed about Lövgren’s financial assets.”
“He must have known something.”
“I interrogated him up and down,” said Naslund. “I actually think he was telling the truth. The only thing he knew for sure was that she existed.”
“How did he know that?”
“By coincidence he was once in Kristianstad and saw Lövgren and the woman on the street.”
“When was that?”
Naslund flipped through his notes.
“Eleven years ago.”
Wallander sipped his coffee.
“It doesn’t fit,” he said. “He has to know more, much more. How can he be so sure that there’s a child? How does he know about the payments? Didn’t you try to squeeze it out of him?”
“He claimed that somebody had written to him and told him about the situation.”
Faceless Killers: A Mystery Page 11