Faceless Killers: A Mystery

by Henning Mankell

  Near the radio store at the corner of Stortorget a car was waiting. She got into the front seat. Wallander ducked into a stairwell as the car drove past. He got a quick glimpse of the man behind the wheel.

  He walked to his own car. There was no night bus to Ystad. He went into a phone booth and called Anette Brolin at home. When she answered he hung up at once.

  He got into his car and pushed in the cassette of Maria Callas and closed his eyes.

  He woke up with a start because he was cold. He had slept for almost two hours. Even though he wasn’t sober, he decided to drive home. He would take the back roads through Svedala and Svaneholm. That way he wouldn’t risk running into any police patrols.

  But he did anyway. He had completely forgotten that the night patrols from Ystad were watching the refugee camps. And he was the one who had given the order.

  Peters and Norén came upon an erratic driver between Svaneholm and Slimminge, after they had checked that everything was quiet at Hageholm. Normally both of them would have recognized Wallander’s car, but it never occurred to them that he might be out driving around at night. Besides, the license plate was so covered with mud that it was unreadable. Not until they had stopped the car and knocked on the windshield, and Kurt Wallander had rolled down the window did they recognize their acting chief.

  None of them said a word. Norén’s flashlight shone on Wallander’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Everything quiet?” asked Wallander.

  Norén and Peters looked at each other.

  “Yes,” said Peters. “Everything seems quiet.”

  “That’s good,” said Wallander, about to roll up the window.

  Then Norén stepped forward.

  “You’d better get out of the car,” he said. “Now, right away.”

  Wallander looked inquiringly at the face he could hardly recognize in the sharp glare from the flashlight.

  Then he obeyed and did as he was told.

  He got out of the car.

  The night was cold. He could feel that he was freezing.

  Something had come to an end.

  Chapter Nine

  The last thing Kurt Wallander felt like was a laughing policeman as he stepped into the Svea Hotel in Simrishamn at seven o’clock on Friday morning. An almost impenetrable mixture of snow and rain was falling over Skane, and water had seeped through his shoes on his way from the car to the hotel.

  He also had a headache.

  He asked the waitress for a couple of headache tablets. She came back with a glass of water fizzing with white powder.

  As he drank his coffee, he noticed that his hand was shaking.

  He figured it was just as much from fear as from relief.

  A few hours earlier, when Norén had ordered him to get out of his car on the two-lane road between Svaneholm and Slimminge, he had thought that it was all over. Now he wouldn’t be a cop anymore. The serious charge of driving under the influence would mean immediate suspension. And even if someday he were allowed to return to active duty on the police force, after having served a jail sentence, he would never be able to look his former colleagues in the eye.

  He quickly imagined the possibility that he might become head of security for some company. Or he might slip through the background check of some less choosy guard service. But his twenty-year career with the police would be over. And he was a cop to the core.

  He didn’t even consider trying to bribe Peters and Norén. He knew that was impossible. The only thing he could do was plead. Appeal to their team spirit, to their camaraderie, to their friendship, which didn’t really exist.

  But he didn’t have to do that.

  “Ride with Peters, and I’ll drive your car home,” Norén had said.

  Kurt Wallander recalled his feeling of relief, but also the unmistakable hint of contempt in Norén’s voice.

  Without a word he got into the back seat of the patrol car. Peters was silent and uncommunicative during the whole drive to Mariagatan in Ystad.

  Norén had followed close behind; he parked the car and handed the keys to Wallander.

  “Did anyone see you?” asked Norén.

  “Nobody but you.”

  “You were damn lucky.”

  Peters nodded. And then Wallander realized that nothing was going to happen. Norén and Peters were committing a serious breach of duty for his sake. He had no idea why.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” Norén replied.

  And then they had driven off.

  Wallander went into his apartment and polished off the last of an almost empty bottle of whiskey. Then he fell asleep for several hours, lying on top of his bed. Without thinking, without dreaming. At six fifteen he got into his car again, after giving himself a cursory shave.

  He knew, of course, that he was still intoxicated. But now there was no danger of running into Peters and Norén. They went off duty at six.

  He tried to concentrate on what was in store for him. He was going to meet Göran Boman, and together they would go in search of a missing link in the investigation of the double murder at Lenarp.

  Wallander pushed all other thoughts aside. He would let them come back when he had the energy to deal with them. When he no longer had a hangover, when he had managed to put everything in perspective.

  He was the only person in the hotel dining room. He gazed out at the gray sea, barely visible through the wet snowfall. A fishing boat was on its way out of the harbor, and he tried to make out the number painted in black on the hull.

  A beer, he thought. A good old pilsner is what I need right now.

  It was a strong temptation. He also thought that he ought to try to drop in at the state liquor store, so he would have something to drink in the evening.

  He realized that he wasn’t ready to sober up too quickly.

  A rotten policeman, that’s what I am, he thought.

  A dubious cop.

  The waitress refilled his coffee cup. He imagined himself going into the hotel and she would come with him. Behind drawn curtains he would forget that he existed, forget everything around him, and sink into a world that had nothing to do with reality.

  He drank the coffee and picked up his briefcase. He still had a little time to read through the investigation reports.

  Filled with a sudden restlessness, he went out to the lobby and called the police station in Ystad. Ebba answered.

  “Did you have a nice evening?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t have been better,” he replied. “And thanks again for your help with my suit.”

  “Any time.”

  “I’m calling from the Svea Hotel in Simrishamn. If you need to get hold of me. Later I’m going to drive around with Boman from the Kristianstad police. But I’ll call in.”

  “Everything’s quiet. Nothing has happened at the refugee camps.”

  He hung up and went into the men’s room to wash his face. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror. With his fingertips he gingerly touched the bump on his forehead. It hurt. But the stinging in his arm was almost gone.

  Only when he stretched did he notice a twinge shoot through his thigh.

  When he returned to the dining room, he ordered breakfast. As he ate, he leafed through all his papers.

  Göran Boman was punctual. At the stroke of nine he entered the dining room.

  “What awful weather!” he said.

  “At least it’s better than a snowstorm,” said Wallander.

  While Boman drank his coffee they figured out what had to be done during the course of the day.

  “It seems we’re in luck,” said Boman. “It’s going to be possible to get hold of the woman in Gladsax and the two in Kristianstad without much trouble.”

  They started with the woman in Gladsax.

  “Her name is Anita Hessler,” said Boman. “Fifty-eight years old. She married a couple of years ago; her husband is a real estate agent.”

  “Is Hessler her maiden name?” wonder
ed Wallander.

  “Her name is Johanson now. Her husband is Klas Johanson. They live in a residential area not far outside the town. We’ve done a little snooping. As far as we know, she’s a housewife.”

  He checked his papers.

  “On March 9, 1951, she gave birth to a son at Kristianstad’s maternity ward. At four thirteen in the morning, to be exact. As far as we know, he’s her only child. But Klas Johanson has four children from a previous marriage. He’s also six years younger than she is.”

  “So her son is thirty-nine,” said Wallander.

  “He was christened Stefan,” said Boman. “He lives in Ahus and works as a tax-assessment supervisor in Kristianstad. His finances are in order. He has a row house, a wife, and two kids.”

  “Do tax-assessment supervisors usually commit murder?” asked Wallander.

  “Not very often,” replied Boman.

  They drove out to Gladsax. The wet snow had now changed to a steady rain. Just before entering the town, Göran Boman turned left.

  The two-story houses in the residential neighborhood were in sharp contrast to the low white buildings of the town itself. Wallander thought that it could just as well have been a well-to-do suburb outside any large city.

  The house was at the end of a row. A huge satellite dish stood on a slab of cement next to the house. The yard was well kept. They sat in the car for a few minutes and stared at the red-brick building. A white Nissan was parked in the driveway in front of the garage.

  “The husband probably isn’t home,” said Boman. “His office is in Simrishamn. He apparently specializes in selling property to well-heeled Germans.”

  “Is that legal?” asked Wallander, in surprise.

  Göran Boman shrugged.

  “They use dummy owners,” he said. “The Germans pay well and the deeds are placed in Swedish hands. There are people in Skåne who make a good living by assuming the illegal ownership of real estate.”

  All of a sudden they caught a glimpse of movement behind the curtains. It happened so fast that only the trained eyes of the police would have noticed.

  “Somebody’s home,” said Wallander. “Shall we go and say hello?”

  The woman who opened the door was astoundingly attractive. Her radiance was unmistakable, even though she was wearing a baggy jogging suit. The fleeting thought occurred to Wallander that she didn’t look Swedish.

  He also thought that their initial introductions might be just as important as all their questions put together.

  How would she react when they told her that they were cops?

  The only thing he noticed was that she raised one eyebrow slightly. Then she smiled, revealing even rows of white teeth. Wallander wondered whether Boman was right. Was she really fifty-eight years old? If he hadn’t known better, he would have guessed forty-five.

  “This is unexpected,” she said. “Come in.”

  They stepped into a tastefully furnished living room. The walls were covered with crowded bookshelves. A top-of-the-line Bang & Olufsen TV stood in the corner. Tiger-striped fish swam in an aquarium. Wallander had trouble connecting this living room with Johannes Lövgren. There was nothing to indicate a connection.

  “Can I offer you gentlemen anything?” asked the woman.

  They declined and sat down.

  “We’ve come to ask you some routine questions,” said Wallander. “My name is Kurt Wallander, and this is Göran Boman from the Kristianstad police.”

  “How exciting to have a visit from the police,” said the woman, still smiling. “Nothing unusual ever happens here in Gladsax.”

  “We just wanted to ask you whether you know a man named Johannes Lövgren,” said Wallander.

  She gave him a look of surprise.

  “Johannes Lövgren? No. Who’s he?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  “He was murdered along with his wife in a town called Lenarp a few days ago. Maybe you read about it in the newspapers.”

  Her surprise seemed quite genuine.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “I remember seeing something about it in the paper. But what does this have to do with me?”

  Nothing, thought Wallander and glanced at Boman, who seemed to share his opinion. What did this woman have to do with Johannes Lövgren?

  “In 1951 you gave birth to a son in Kristianstad,” said Boman. “On all the documents in various records you listed the father as unknown. Is it possible that a man by the name of Johannes Lövgren might be this unknown father?”

  She gazed at them for a long time before she answered.

  “I don’t understand why you’re asking these questions,” she said. “And I understand even less what this has to do with that murdered farmer. But if it’s any help, I can tell you that Stefan’s father was named Rune Stierna. He was married to someone else. I knew what I was getting into, and I chose to thank him for the child by keeping his identity secret. He died twelve years ago. And Stefan got along well with his father during his whole childhood.”

  “I know that these questions must seem strange,” said Wallander. “But sometimes we have to ask odd questions.”

  They asked a few more questions and took some notes. Then it was over.

  “I hope you will forgive us for disturbing you,” said Wallander as he got to his feet.

  “Do you think I’m telling the truth?” she asked all of a sudden.

  “Yes,” said Wallander. “We think you’re telling the truth. But if you’re not, we’ll find out. Sooner or later.”

  She burst out laughing. “I’m telling the truth,” she said. “I’m not a very good liar. But feel free to come back if you have more strange questions.”

  They left the house and went back to the car.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Boman.

  “She’s not the one,” said Wallander.

  “Do we need to talk to the son in Åhus?”

  “I think we can skip him. For the time being, at any rate.”

  They got into Wallander’s car and drove straight back toward Kristianstad.

  When they reached the hills around Brösarp the rain stopped and the clouds began to dissipate.

  Outside the police station in Kristianstad they switched cars and continued on in one of the police vehicles.

  “Margareta Velander,” said Boman. “Forty-nine years old, owns a beauty shop called ‘The Wave’ on Krokarpsgatan. Three children, divorced, remarried, divorced again. Lives in a row house out toward Blekinge. Gave birth to a son in December 1958. The son’s name is Nils. Evidently quite an entrepreneur. Used to go around the marketplaces selling imported knickknacks. Also listed as the owner of a company dealing in women’s specialty underwear. Lives in Sölvesborg, of all places. Who the hell would buy women’s specialty underwear sold by a mail-order company from a town like that?”

  “Plenty of people,” said Wallander.

  “Once did time for assault and battery,” Boman continued. “I haven’t seen the report. But he got one year. That means the assault must have been pretty bad.”

  “I want to see that report,” said Wallander. “Where did it happen?”

  “He was sentenced by the Kalmar district court. They’re looking for the paperwork on the case.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “In 1981, I think.”

  Wallander sat and thought while Boman drove through the town.

  “So she was only seventeen when the boy was born. And if we’re picturing Johannes Lövgren as the father, there was a big age difference.”

  “I’ve thought of that. But that could mean a lot of things.”

  The beauty shop was in an ordinary apartment building on the outskirts of Kristianstad. It was located on the basement level.

  “Maybe I should get a haircut more often,” said Boman. “Who cuts your hair, by the way?”

  Wallander was just about to say that his wife Mona took care of that.

  “It varies,�
� he replied evasively.

  There were three chairs in the beauty shop. All of them were occupied as they came in.

  Two women were sitting under hair dryers while a third woman was having her hair washed.

  The woman who was washing the customer’s hair looked up at them in surprise.

  “I only work by appointment,” she said. “I’m booked up today. And tomorrow too. If you want to make an appointment for your wives.”

  “Margareta Velander?” asked Göran Boman.

  He showed her his ID.

  “We’d like to talk to you,” he said.

  Wallander could see that she was scared.

  “I can’t leave right now,” she said.

  “We’d be happy to wait,” said Boman.

  “You can wait in the back room,” said Margareta Velander. “I won’t be long.”

  It was a very small room. A table covered with oilcloth and a couple of chairs took up practically all the space. A shelf held a number of tabloids between some coffee cups and a grimy coffee maker. Wallander studied a black-and-white photograph pinned up on the wall. It was blurry and faded, showing a young man in a sailor’s uniform. Wallander could read the word “Halland” on band around the cap.

  “‘Halland,’” he said. “Was that a cruiser or a destroyer?”

  “A destroyer. Scrapped long ago.”

  Margareta Velander came into the room. She was drying her hands on a towel.

  “I’ve got a few minutes now,” she said. “What’s it about?”

  “We wonder whether you know a man named Johannes Lövgren,” began Wallander.

  “Is that so,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”

  They both declined, and Wallander was annoyed that she had turned her back to him when he asked the question.

  “Johannes Lövgren,” he repeated. “A farmer from a little town outside of Ystad. Did you know him?”

  “The man who was murdered?” she asked, looking him straight in the eye.

  “Yes,” he said. “The man who was murdered. That’s the one.”

  “No,” she replied, pouring coffee into a plastic cup. “Why should I know him?”

  The police officers exchanged glances. There was something about her voice that indicated she was feeling pressured.