Faceless Killers: A Mystery

by Henning Mankell

  On the other hand she did have the presence of mind to press the button for the alarm camera.

  Wallander studied the signature on the exchange receipt. The name was again illegible. But the signature was the same. No address was given this time either.

  “Good,” said Wallander to Britta-Lena Bodén, who was standing in the bank manager’s office, shaking. “What did you say when you left to call me?”

  “That I had to go get a stamp.”

  “Do you think the two men suspected anything?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good,” Wallander repeated. “You did exactly the right thing.”

  “Do you think you’ll catch them now?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Wallander. “This time we’re going to get them.”

  The videotape from the bank’s camera showed two men who did not look particularly Mediterranean. One of them had short blond hair, the other was balding. In police jargon the first was at once dubbed Lucia and the other Baldy.

  Britta-Lena Bodén listened to samples of various languages and finally decided that the men had exchanged several words in Czech or Bulgarian. The fifty-dollar bill they had exchanged was immediately sent to the crime lab for examination.

  Björk called a meeting in his office.

  “After six months they turn up again,” said Wallander. “Why did they go back to the same small bank? First, because they live somewhere in the vicinity, of course. Second, because they once made a lucky catch after one of their bank visits. This time they weren’t so lucky. The man ahead of them in line was depositing money, not making a withdrawal. But it was an elderly man like Johannes Lövgren. Maybe they think that elderly men who look like farmers always make large cash withdrawals.”

  “Czechs?” asked Björk. “Or Bulgarians?”

  “That’s not absolutely positive,” said Wallander. “The girl might have been mistaken. But it fits with their appearance.”

  They watched the video four times and decided which pictures should be copied and enlarged.

  “Every Eastern European who lives in town or the surrounding area will have to be investigated,” said Björk. “It’s not going to be pleasant, and it will be regarded as unjustified discrimination. But we’ll have to say the hell with that. They’ve got to be around here somewhere. I’ll have a talk with the county police chiefs in Malmö and Kristianstad to find out what they think we should do on the county level.”

  “Show the video to all the patrol officers,” said Hanson. “They might turn up on the streets.”

  Wallander was reminded of the slaughterhouse.

  “After what they did in Lenarp, we have to consider them dangerous,” he said.

  “If they were the ones,” corrected Björk. “We don’t know that yet.”

  “That’s true,” said Wallander. “But even so.”

  “We’re going to move into high gear now,” said Björk. “Kurt is in charge and will divide up the work as he sees fit. Anything that doesn’t have to be done right away should be put aside. I’ll call the prosecutor; she’ll be glad to hear that something’s happening.”

  But nothing happened.

  In spite of a massive police effort and the small size of the town, the men had vanished.

  Tuesday and Wednesday passed without results. The two county police chiefs gave the go-ahead to implement special measures in their regions. The videotape was copied and distributed. Wallander had last-minute doubts about whether the pictures should be released to the press. He was afraid that the men would make themselves even scarcer if their description was issued. He asked for advice from Rydberg, who did not agree with him.

  “You have to drive foxes out into the open,” he said. “Wait a few days. But then release the pictures.”

  For a long time he sat staring at the copies that Wallander had brought along.

  “There’s no such thing as a murderer’s face,” he said. “You imagine something: a profile, a hairline, a set of the jaw. But it never matches up.”

  Tuesday, July twenty-fourth, was a windy day in Skane. Ragged clouds raced across the sky, and the wind was gusting up to gale force. After waking at dawn, Wallander lay in bed for a long time and listened to the wind. When he stepped on the scale in the bathroom, he saw that he had lost another two pounds. This cheered him up so much that when he pulled into the parking lot at the police station he did not have the sense of despondency he’d been feeling lately.

  This crime investigation is turning into a personal defeat, he had been thinking. I’m driving my colleagues hard, but in the end we’re stuck in a vacuum again.

  But those two men had to be somewhere, he thought angrily as he slammed the car door. Somewhere—but where?

  In the lobby he stopped to exchange a few words with Ebba. He noticed that there was an old-fashioned music box sitting next to the switchboard.

  “I haven’t seen one of those in ages,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

  “I bought it at a stall in the Sjöbo marketplace,” she replied. “Sometimes you can actually find something great in the midst of all the junk.”

  Wallander smiled and moved on. On the way to his office he dropped by to see Hanson and Martinson and asked them to come along with him.

  There was still no trace of Baldy or Lucia.

  “Two more days,” said Wallander. “If we don’t come up with something by Thursday, we’ll call a press conference and release the pictures.”

  “We should have done that right from the start,” said Hanson.

  Wallander said nothing.

  They went over the chart again. Martinson would continue to organize a search of various campgrounds where the two men might be hiding out.

  “Check the youth hostels,” said Wallander. “And all the rooms that are for rent in private homes in the summer.”

  “It was easier before,” said Martinson. “People used to stay put in the summer. Now they run all over the place.”

  Hanson would continue to look into a number of smaller, less particular construction companies that were known to hire undocumented workers from various Eastern European countries.

  Wallander would go out to the strawberry fields. He couldn’t overlook the possibility that the two men might be hiding out at one of the big berry farms.

  But all their efforts turned up nothing.

  When they met again late that afternoon, the reports were negative.

  “I found an Algerian pipelayer,” said Hanson, “two Kurdish bricklayers, and a huge number of Polish manual laborers. I feel like writing a note to Björk. If we hadn’t had this damn double homicide, we could have cleaned up that crap. They’re making the same wages as kids with summer jobs. They don’t have any insurance. If there’s an accident, the contractors will say that the workers were living illegally at the sites.”

  Martinson didn’t have any good news either.

  “I found a bald Bulgarian,” he said. “With a little luck he could have been Baldy. But he’s a doctor at the clinic in Mariestad and would have no trouble producing an alibi.”

  The room was stuffy. Wallander got up and opened the window.

  All of a sudden he thought of Ebba’s music box. Even though he hadn’t heard its melody, the music box had been playing in his subconscious all day.

  “The marketplaces,” he said, turning around. “We should take a look at them. Which market is open next?”

  Both Hanson and Martinson knew the answer.

  The one in Kivik.

  “It opens today,” said Hanson. “And closes tomorrow.”

  “I’ll go out there tomorrow,” said Wallander.

  “It’s a big one,” said Hanson. “You should take somebody with you.”

  “I can go,” said Martinson.

  Hanson looked happy to get out of the trip. Wallander thought that there were probably harness races on Wednesday nights.

  They concluded their meeting, said goodbye to each other, and Hanson and Martinson left.
Wallander stayed at his desk and sorted through a stack of phone messages. He arranged them by priority for the following day and got ready to leave. Suddenly he caught sight of a note that had fallen under his desk. He bent down to pick it up and saw that the message was about a call from the director of a refugee camp.

  He tried the number. He let it ring ten times and was just about to hang up when someone answered.

  “This is Wallander at the Ystad police. I’m looking for someone named Modin.”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m returning your call.”

  “I think I have something important to tell you.”

  Kurt Wallander held his breath.

  “It’s about the two men you’re looking for. I came back from vacation today. The photographs the police sent were on my desk. I recognize those two men. They lived at this camp for a while.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Wallander. “Don’t leave your office before I get there.”

  The refugee camp was located outside of Skurup. The drive took him nineteen minutes. The camp was housed in an empty parsonage and was used only as a temporary shelter when all the permanent camps were full.

  Modin, the director, was a short man close to sixty. He was waiting in the courtyard when Wallander’s car skidded to a stop.

  “The camp is empty right now,” said Modin. “But we’re expecting a number of Romanians next week.”

  They went into his small office.

  “Start at the beginning,” Wallander said.

  “They lived here between December of last year and the middle of February,” said Modin, leafing through some papers. “Then they were transferred to Malmö. To Celsius Estate, to be exact.”

  Modin pointed to the photo of Baldy. “His name is Lothar Kraftczyk. He’s a Czech citizen seeking political asylum because he claims that he was persecuted for being a member of an ethnic minority in his own country.”

  “Are there minorities in Czechoslovakia?” wondered Wallander.

  “I think he regarded himself as a gypsy.”

  “Regarded himself?”

  Modin shrugged. “I don’t believe he is. Refugees who know they have insufficient reason for staying in Sweden learn quickly that one excellent way to improve their chances is to claim that they’re gypsies.”

  Modin picked up the photo of Lucia. “Andreas Haas. Also a Czech. I don’t really know what his reason was for seeking asylum. The paperwork went with them to Celsius Estate.”

  “And you’re positive that they’re the men in the photographs”

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

  “Go on,” said Wallander. “Tell me more.”

  “About what?”

  “What were they like? Did anything special happen while they were living here? Did they have plenty of money? Anything you can recall.”

  “I’ve been trying to remember,” said Modin. “They mostly kept to themselves. You should know that life in a refugee camp is probably the most stressful thing anyone can be subjected to. They played chess. Day in and day out.”

  “Did they have any money?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “What were they like?”

  “Very reserved. But not unfriendly.”

  “Anything else?”

  Wallander noticed that Modin hesitated.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “This is a small camp,” said Modin. “I don’t stay here at night, and neither does anyone else. On certain days it was also unstaffed. Except for a cook who prepared the meals. We usually keep a car here. The keys are locked in my office. But sometimes when I arrived in the morning, I had the feeling that someone had been using the car. Somebody had been in my office, taken the keys, and driven off in the car.”

  “And you suspected these two men?”

  Modin nodded. “I don’t know why. It was just a feeling I had.”

  Wallander pondered this.

  “So at night no one was here,” he said. “Or on certain days either. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Friday, January fifth,” said Wallander. “That’s over six months ago. Can you remember whether there were any staff here that day?”

  Modin paged through his desk calendar.

  “I was at an emergency meeting in Malmö,” he said. “There was such a backlog of refugees that we had to find more temporary camps.”

  The stones were starting to burn under Kurt Wallander’s feet.

  The chart had come alive. Now it was speaking to him.

  “So nobody was here that day?”

  “Only the cook. But the kitchen is in the back. She might not have noticed if anyone had used the car.”

  “None of the refugees said anything?”

  “Refugees don’t get involved. They’re scared. Even of each other.”

  Wallander stood up.

  He was suddenly in a big hurry.

  “Call up your colleague at Celsius Estate and tell him I’m on my way,” he said. “But don’t mention anything about these two men. Just make sure that the director is available.”

  Modin stared at him.

  “Why are you looking for them?” he asked.

  “They may have committed a crime. A serious crime.”

  “The murders in Lenarp? Is that what you mean?”

  Wallander suddenly saw no reason not to answer. “Yes. I think they’re the ones.”

  He reached Celsius Estate in central Malmö at a few minutes past seven PM. He parked on a side street and went up to the main entrance, which was protected by a security guard. After several minutes a man came to get him. His name was Larson, a former seaman, and he was emanating the unmistakable odor of beer.

  “Haas and Kraftczyk,” said Wallander after they sat down in Larson’s office. “Two Czech asylum seekers.”

  The man who smelled like beer answered at once.

  “The chess players,” he said. “Yes, they live here.”

  Goddamn, thought Wallander. We’ve finally got them.

  “Are they here in the building?”

  “Yes,” said Larson. “I mean, no.”

  “No?”

  “They live here. But they’re not here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they’re not here.”

  “Where the hell are they then?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “But they do live here?”

  “They ran away.”

  “Ran away?”

  “It happens all the time—people run away from here.”

  “But aren’t they seeking asylum?”

  “They still run away.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “We report them, of course.”

  “And then what happens?”

  “Usually nothing.”

  “Nothing? People run away who are waiting to hear whether they can stay in this country or whether they’re going to be deported? And nobody cares?”

  “I guess the police are supposed to look for them.”

  “This is completely idiotic. When did they disappear?”

  “They left in May. They both probably suspected that their applications for asylum would be turned down.”

  “Where do you think they went?”

  Larson threw his hands wide. “If you only knew how many people live in this country without residency permits. More than you can imagine. They live together, falsify their papers, trade names with each other, work illegally. You can live all your life in Sweden without anyone asking about you. No one wants to believe it. But that’s the way it is.”

  Wallander was speechless.

  “This is crazy,” he said. “This is fucking crazy.”

  “I agree. But that’s the way things are.”

  Wallander groaned.

  “I need all the documents you have on these two men.”

  “I can’t give those out to just anybody.”

  Wallander exploded. “Thes
e two men have committed murder,” he shouted. “A double murder.”

  “I still can’t release the papers.”

  Wallander stood up.

  “Tomorrow you’re going to hand over those papers. Even if I have to get the chief of the National Police to come and get them himself.”

  “That’s just the way things are. I can’t change the regulations.”

  Wallander drove back to Ystad. At quarter to nine he rang Björk’s doorbell. Quickly he told him what had happened.

  “Tomorrow we put out an APB on them,” he said.

  Björk nodded. “I’ll call a press conference for two o’clock. In the morning I have a consultation with the police chiefs. But I’ll see to it that we get the papers from that camp.”

  Wallander went over to see Rydberg. He was sitting in the dark on his balcony.

  All of a sudden he saw that Rydberg was in pain.

  Rydberg, who seemed to read his thoughts, said bluntly, “I don’t think I’m going to make it through this. I might live past Christmas; I might not.”

  Wallander didn’t know what to say.

  “One has to endure,” said Rydberg. “But tell me why you’re here.”

  Wallander told him. He could dimly make out Rydberg’s face in the darkness.

  Then they sat in silence.

  The night was cool. But Rydberg didn’t seem to notice as he sat there in his old bathrobe with slippers on his feet.

  “Maybe they’ve skipped the country,” said Wallander. “Maybe we’ll never catch them.”

  “In that case, we’ll have to live with the fact that at least we know the truth,” said Rydberg. “Justice doesn’t only mean that the people who commit crimes are punished. It also means that we can never give up.”

  With great effort he stood up and got a bottle of cognac. With shaking hands he filled two glasses.

  “Some old police officers die worrying about ancient, unsolved puzzles,” he said. “I guess I’m one of them.”

  “Have you ever regretted becoming a cop?” asked Wallander.

  “Never. Not a single day.”