Wallander could feel that the liquor had made him rebellious.
“That question can also be asked by an insignificant, provincial police detective,” he said. “Once I believed that being on the police force meant that you were involved in protecting the property and safety of ordinary people. I probably still believe it. But I’ve seen law and order being eroded away. I’ve seen young people who commit crimes being almost encouraged to continue. No one intervenes. No one cares about the victims of the increasing violence. It just keeps getting worse and worse.”
“Now you sound like my father,” she said. “He’s a retired judge. A true old reactionary civil servant.”
“Could be. Maybe I am conservative. But I mean what I say. I actually understand why people sometimes take matters into their own hands.”
“So you probably also understand how some misguided individuals can fatally shoot an innocent asylum seeker?”
“Yes and no. The insecurity in this country is enormous. People are afraid. Especially in farming communities like this one. You’ll soon find out that there’s a big hero right now at this end of the country. A man who is applauded in silence behind drawn curtains. The man who saw to it that there was a municipal vote that said no to accepting refugees.”
“So what happens if we put ourselves above the decisions of the parliament? We have a refugee policy in this country that must be followed.”
“Wrong. It’s precisely the lack of a refugee policy that creates chaos. Right now we’re living in a country where anyone with any motive at all can come in anywhere in this country at any time and in any manner. Control of the borders has been eliminated. The customs service is paralyzed. There are plenty of unguarded airstrips where the dope and the illegal immigrants are unloaded every night.”
He noticed that he was starting to get excited. The murder of the Somali was a crime with many layers.
“Rune Bergman, of course, must be locked up with the most severe possible punishment,” he went on. “But the Immigration Service and the government have to take their share of the blame.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Is it? People who belonged to the fascist secret police in Romania are starting to show up here in Sweden. They’re seeking asylum. Should they get it?”
“The principle has to apply equally.”
“Does it really? Always? Even when it’s wrong?”
She got up from the sofa and refilled their glasses.
Kurt Wallander was starting to feel depressed.
We’re too different, he thought.
After talking for ten minutes, a chasm opens.
The liquor made him aggressive. He looked at her and could feel himself getting aroused.
How long was it since the last time he and Mona had made love?
Almost a year ago. A whole year with no sex.
He groaned at the thought.
“Are you in pain?” she asked.
He nodded. It wasn’t true at all. But he yielded to his dark need for sympathy.
“Maybe it would be best if you went home,” she said.
That was the last thing he wanted to do. He didn’t feel that he even had a home since Mona moved out.
He finished his drink and held out his glass for a refill. Now he was so intoxicated that he was starting to shed his inhibitions.
“One more,” he said. “I’ve earned it.”
“Then you have to go,” she said.
Her voice had suddenly turned cool. But he didn’t let it bother him. When she brought his glass, he grabbed her and pulled her down in the chair.
“Sit here by me,” he said, laying his hand on her thigh.
She pulled herself free and slapped him. She hit him with the hand with the wedding ring, and he could feel it tear his cheek.
“Go home now,” she said.
He put his glass down on the table. “Or you’ll do what?” he asked. “Call the police?”
She didn’t answer. But he could see that she was furious.
He stumbled when he stood up.
Suddenly he realized what he had tried to do.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m exhausted.”
“We’ll forget all about this,” she replied. “But now you have to go home.”
“I don’t know what came over me,” he said, putting out his hand.
She took it.
“We’ll just forget it,” she said. “Good night.”
He tried to think of something more to say. Somewhere in his muddled consciousness the thought gnawed at him that he had done something that was both unforgivable and dangerous. Just as he had driven his car home from the meeting with Mona when he was drunk.
He left and heard the door close behind him.
I’ve got to stop drinking, he thought angrily. I can’t handle it.
Down on the street he sucked the cool air deep into his lungs.
How the hell can anyone act so stupid? he thought. Like some drunken kid who doesn’t know a thing about himself, women, or the world.
He went home to Mariagatan.
The next day he would have to resume the hunt for the Lenarp killers.
Chapter Thirteen
On Monday morning, January fifteenth, Kurt Wallander drove out to the shopping center on the road to Malmö and bought two bouquets of flowers. He recalled that eight days ago he had driven the same road, toward Lenarp and the crime scene, which was still demanding all his attention. He thought that the past week had been the most intense he had ever experienced in all his years as a cop. When he looked at his face in the rearview mirror, he thought that every scratch, every lump, every discoloration from purple to black was a reminder of the past week.
The temperature was several degrees below freezing. There was no wind. The white ferry from Poland was making its way into the harbor.
When Wallander arrived at the police station a little after eight, he gave one of the bouquets to Ebba. At first she refused to take it, but he could see that she was pleased with the attention. He took the other bouquet along with him to his office. He got a card from his desk drawer and pondered for a long time what to write to Anette Brolin. Too long a time. By the time he finally wrote a few lines, he had given up any attempt to find the perfect phrasing. Now he simply apologized for his rash behavior the night before. He blamed his actions on fatigue.
“I’m actually quite shy by nature,” he wrote. Which was not exactly true.
But he thought it would give Anette Brolin the opportunity to turn the other cheek.
He was just about to go over to the prosecutor’s office when Björk came through the door. As usual, he had knocked so softly that Wallander hadn’t heard him.
“Somebody sent you flowers?” said Björk. “You deserve them, as a matter of fact. I’m impressed how quickly you solved the murder of the Negro.”
Wallander didn’t like the way Björk referred to the Somali as the Negro. There had been a dead man lying in the mud under the tarp, nothing more. But of course he had no intention of getting into a discussion about it.
Björk was wearing a flowered shirt that he had bought in Spain. He sat down on the rickety spindle-backed chair near the window.
“I thought we ought to go over the murders at Lenarp,” he said. “I’ve looked through the investigative material. There seem to be a lot of gaps. I’ve been thinking that Rydberg should take over the main responsibility for the investigation while you concentrate on getting Rune Bergman to talk. What do you think about that?”
Wallander countered with a question. “What does Rydberg say?”
“I haven’t talked to him yet.”
“I think we should do it the other way around. Rydberg has a bad leg, and there’s still a lot of footwork to be done in that investigation.”
What Wallander said was true enough. But it wasn’t concern for Rydberg’s rheumatism that made him suggest reversing the responsibilities.
He didn’t want to give up the hunt for th
e Lenarp killers.
Even though police work was a team effort, he thought of the murderers as belonging to him.
“There’s a third option,” said Björk. “We could let Svedberg and Hanson handle Rune Bergman.”
Wallander nodded. He agreed with Björk.
Björk got up out of the rickety chair.
“We need new furniture,” he said.
“We need more manpower,” replied Wallander.
After Björk had left, Wallander sat down at his typewriter and typed up a comprehensive report about the capture of Rune Bergman and Valfrid Ström. He made a special effort to compile a report that Anette Brolin would not object to. It took him over two hours. At ten fifteen he pulled the last page out of the typewriter, signed it, and took the report over to Rydberg.
Rydberg was sitting at his desk; he looked tired. When Wallander came into his office, he was just finishing a phone conversation.
“I hear that Björk wants to split us up,” he said. “I’m glad I got out of dealing with Bergman.”
Wallander put his report on the desk. “Read through it,” he said. “If you don’t have any objections, give it to Hanson.”
“Svedberg had a go at Bergman this morning,” said Rydberg. “But he still refuses to talk. Even though the cigarettes match. The same brand that was lying in the mud next to the car.”
“I wonder what’s going to turn up,” said Wallander. “What’s behind this whole thing? Neo-Nazis? Racists with connections all over Europe? Why would someone commit a crime like this anyway? Jump out into the road and shoot a complete stranger? Just because he happened to be black?”
“I don’t know,” said Rydberg. “But it’s something we’re going to have to learn to live with.”
They agreed to meet again in half an hour, after Rydberg had read the report. Then they would start on the Lenarp investigation in earnest.
Wallander went over to the prosecutor’s office. Anette Brolin was in district court. He left the bouquet of flowers with the young woman at the reception desk.
“Is it her birthday?” asked the receptionist.
“Sort of,” said Wallander.
When he got back to his office, his sister Kristina was sitting there waiting for him. She had already left the apartment by the time he woke up that morning.
She told him that she had talked to both a doctor and a social worker.
“Dad seems better,” she said. “They don’t think he’s slipping into chronic senility. Maybe it was just a temporary period of confusion. We agreed to try regular home care. I was thinking about asking you to drive us out there around noon today. If you can’t do it, maybe I could borrow your car.”
“Of course I can drive you. Who’s going to do the home care?”
“I’m supposed to meet with a woman who doesn’t live far from Dad.”
Wallander nodded. “I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t have handled this alone.”
They agreed that he would come over to the hospital right after twelve. After his sister left, Wallander straightened up his desk and placed the thick folder of investigative material pertaining to Johannes and Maria Lövgren in front of him. It was time to get started.
Björk had told him that for the time being, there would be four people on the investigative team. Since Naslund was at home with the flu, only three of them attended the meeting in Rydberg’s office. Martinson was silent and seemed to have a hangover. But Wallander remembered his decisive manner when he had taken care of the hysterical widow at Hageholm.
They began with a thorough review of all the investigative material.
Martinson was able to add information produced by his work with the central criminal records. Wallander felt a great sense of security in this methodical and careful scrutiny of numerous details. To an outside observer such work would probably seem unbearably tedious and dull. But that was not the case for the three police officers. The solution and the truth might be found under the most inconsequential combination of details.
They isolated the loose ends that had to be dealt with first.
“You take Johannes Lövgren’s trip to Ystad,” Wallander said to Martinson. “We need to know how he got to town and how he got back home. Does he have other safe-deposit boxes that we don’t know about? What did he do during the hour between his appearances at the two banks? Did he go into a store and buy something? Who saw him?”
“I think Naslund has already started calling around to the banks,” said Martinson.
“Call him at home and find out,” said Wallander. “This can’t wait until he’s feeling better.”
Rydberg was going to pay a visit to Lars Herdin, while Wallander again drove over to Malmö to talk to the man named Erik Magnusson, the one Göran Boman thought might be Johannes Lövgren’s secret son.
“All the other details will have to wait,” said Wallander. “We’ll start with these and meet again at five o’clock.”
Before he left for the hospital, Wallander called Göran Boman in Kristianstad and talked to him about Erik Magnusson.
“He works for the county council,” said Boman. “Unfortunately, I don’t know exactly what he does. We’ve had an unusually rowdy weekend up here with a lot of fights and drunkenness. I haven’t had time for much besides hauling people in.”
“No problem. I’ll find him,” said Wallander. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning at the latest.”
At a few minutes past twelve he set off for the hospital. His sister was waiting in the lobby, and together they took the elevator up to the ward where their father had been moved after the first twenty-four hours of observation.
By the time they arrived, he had already been discharged and was sitting on a chair in the hall, waiting for them. He had his hat on his head, and the suitcase with the dirty underwear and tubes of paint stood by his side. Wallander didn’t recognize the suit he was wearing.
“I bought it for him,” his sister said. “It must be thirty years since he bought himself a new suit.”
“How are you feeling, Dad?” asked Wallander.
His father looked him in the eye. Wallander could see that he had recovered.
“It’ll be nice to get back home,” he said curtly and stood up.
Wallander picked up the suitcase as his father leaned on Kristina’s arm. She sat next to him in the back seat during the drive to Löderup.
Wallander, who was in a hurry to get to Malmö, promised to come back around six. His sister was going to stay the night, and she asked him to buy food for dinner.
His father immediately changed out of his suit and into his painting overalls. He was already at his easel, working on the unfinished painting.
“Do you think he’ll be able to get by with home care?” asked Wallander.
“We’ll have to wait and see,” replied his sister.
It was almost two in the afternoon when Wallander pulled up in front of the county council’s main building in Malmö. On the way he had stopped at the motel restaurant in Svedala for a quick lunch. He parked his car and went into the large lobby.
“I’m looking for Erik Magnusson,” he told the woman who shoved the glass window open.
“We have at least three Erik Magnussons working here,” she said. “Which one are you looking for?”
Wallander took out his police ID and showed it to her.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But he was born in the late fifties.”
The woman behind the glass knew at once who it was.
“Then it must be Erik Magnusson in central supply,” she said. “The two other Erik Magnussons are much older. What did he do?”
Wallander smiled at her undisguised curiosity.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just want to ask him some routine questions.”
She told him how to get to central supply. He thanked her and returned to his car.
The county council’s supply warehouse was located on the northern outskirts of Malmö, near the Oil Harbor. Wallander wand
ered around for a long time before he found the right place.
He went through a door marked Office. Through a big glass window he could see yellow forklift trucks driving back and forth between endless rows of shelves.
The office was empty. He went down a stairway and entered the enormous warehouse. A young man with hair down to his shoulders was piling up big plastic bags of toilet paper. Wallander went over to him.
“I’m looking for Erik Magnusson,” he said.
The young man pointed to a yellow forklift which had stopped next to a loading dock where a semi was being unloaded.
The man sitting in the cab of the yellow truck had blond hair.
Wallander thought it unlikely that Maria Lövgren would have thought about foreigners if this blond man was the one who put the noose around her neck.
Then he pushed the thought away with annoyance. He was getting ahead of himself again.
“Erik Magnusson!” he shouted over the engine noise from the forklift.
The man gave him an inquiring look before he turned off the engine and jumped down.
“Erik Magnusson?” asked Wallander.
“Yes?”
“I’m from the police. I’d like to have a word with you for a moment.”
Wallander scrutinized his face.
There was nothing unexpected about his reaction. He merely looked surprised. Quite naturally surprised.
“Why is that?” he asked.
Wallander looked around. “Is there someplace we can sit down?” he asked.
Erik Magnusson led the way to a corner with a coffee vending machine. There was a dirty wooden table and several rickety benches. Wallander fed two one-krona coins into the machine and got a cup of coffee. Erik Magnusson settled for a pinch of snuff.
“I’m from the police in Ystad,” he began. “I have a few questions for you regarding a brutal murder in a town called Lenarp. Maybe you read about it in the papers?”
“I think so. But what does that have to do with me?”
Wallander was beginning to wonder the same thing. The man named Erik Magnusson seemed completely unruffled by a visit from the police at his workplace.
“I have to ask you for the name of your father.”
Faceless Killers: A Mystery Page 22