Why didn't someone sound the alarm? he thought. But he didn't know whether there were refugees living in all the huts. The heat of the fire hit him in the face as he pounded on the door of the hut that had so far only been licked by the flames.
The hut where the fire had started was now completely engulfed. Wallander tried to approach the door, but was driven back. He ran around one side. There was only one window. He banged on the glass and tried to look inside, but the smoke was so thick that he found himself staring straight into a white haze. He looked around for something to break the glass with but found nothing. He tore off his jacket, wrapped it around his arm, and smashed his fist through the windowpane. He held his breath to keep from inhaling the smoke and groped for the latch. Twice he had to leap back to catch his breath before he managed to open the window."Get out!" he shouted into the fire. "Get out! Get out!"
Inside the hut were two bunk beds. He hauled himself up onto the window ledge and felt the splinters of glass cutting into his thigh. The upper bunks were empty. But someone was lying on one of the lower bunks.
Wallander yelled again but got no response. Then he heaved himself through the window, banging his head on the edge of a table as he fell to the floor. He was almost suffocating from the smoke as he fumbled his way towards the bed. At first he thought he was touching a lifeless body. Then he realised that what he had taken for a person was only a rolled-up mattress. At the same moment his jacket caught fire and he threw himself headfirst out of the window. He could hear sirens far off, and as he stumbled away from the fire he saw crowds of half-dressed people milling around outside the huts. Two more of the low buildings were now in flames. Wallander threw open doors and saw that people were living in these huts. But those who had been asleep inside had fled. His head was pounding and his thigh hurt, and he felt sick from the smoke he had inhaled. At that moment the first fire engine arrived, followed closely by an ambulance. He saw that the fire captain on duty was Peter Edler. He was in his mid 30s and Wallander remembered that his hobby was flying kites. Wallander had heard only favourable things about him. He was a man who was never unsure of himself. As Wallander staggered over to Edler, he realised that he had burns on one arm.
"The huts that are burning are empty," he said. "I don't know about the other ones."
"You look terrible," said Edler. "I think we can handle this."
The firemen were already hosing down the huts. Wallander heard Edler order a tractor to drag away those that were already burning in order to isolate the fire.
The first police car came to a skidding stop, its blue light flashing and its siren wailing. Wallander saw that it was Peters and Norén. He hobbled over to their car."What's happening?" asked Norén.
"It'll be OK," said Wallander. "Start cordoning off the area and ask Edler if he needs any help."
Peters stared at him. "You look awful. How did you happen to be here?"
"I was just driving by," replied Wallander. "Now get moving."
For the next hour a peculiar mixture of chaos and efficient fire-fighting prevailed. The dazed director of the refugee camp was wandering around aimlessly, and Wallander had to exert real pressure to get him to try to find out how many refugees should be at the camp and then
do a count. To his great surprise, it turned out that the Immigration Service's records were hopelessly confused. And the director couldn't help either. In the meantime a tractor dragged away the smouldering huts, and before long the fire-fighters had the blaze under control. The ambulance had taken only a few of the refugees to the hospital, most of them suffering from shock, although there was a little Lebanese boy who had fallen and hit his head on a rock.
Edler pulled Wallander aside. "Go and get yourself patched up."
Wallander nodded. His arm was stinging and burning, and he could feel that one leg was sticky with blood.
"I hate to think about what might have happened if you hadn't raised the alarm the moment the fire broke out," said Edler.
"Why the hell do they put the huts so close together?" asked Wallander.
Edler shook his head. "The boss here is starting to get tired. You're right of course - the buildings are too damn close."
Wallander went over to Norén, who had just finished 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 hut 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'd better go now."
At the casualty ward, Wallander found that he had suffered more damage than he had supposed. On one forearm he had a large burn, his groin and one thigh had been cut by the glass, and above his right eye he had a big lump and several nasty abrasions. He had also bitten his tongue without being aware of it.
It was almost 4 a.m. by the time Wallander could leave the hospital. His bandages were too tight, and he still felt sick from the smoke.
As he left the hospital, a camera flashed in his face. He recognised the photographer from the biggest morning newspaper in Skåne. He waved his hand to dismiss a reporter who appeared 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 bed covers. His body ached, and flames were dancing in his head. And yet he fell asleep at once.
At 8 a.m. Wallander woke because somebody was pounding a sledgehammer inside his head. He had once again dreamed of the mysterious black woman. But when he stretched out his hand for her, Sten Widénwas suddenly there with the whisky bottle, and the woman had turned her back on Wallander and gone off with Sten.
He lay 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. To forget all about the investigation and the night's blaze.
He didn't get a chance to decide. He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. I don't feel like answering it, he thought.It was Mona."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. "Are you all right?"
He remembered the photographer outside the hospital and the flash of a camera. "Fine," he said. "A little sore." "No worse than that?"
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. The papers say that you risked your life to save people.""I didn't save anybody! What kind of rubbish is that?""I just wanted to be 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 home. Back here. To me."
"You know I can't do that. But I wish we could talk to each other."
"You never call! 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."
He made up his mind swiftly. What he 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 could 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 pummelled face in the hall mirror. Was he looking
forward to the meeting? Or did he feel uneasy? He wasn't sure. He felt confused. Instead of picturing his meeting with Mona, he saw himself with Anette Brolin at the Savoy. And although she was still the acting public prosecutor in Ystad, she was transformed into a black woman.
Wallander dressed, skipped his morning coffee, and went out to his car. It had turned warmer again. The remnants of a damp fog were drifting from the sea over the town. There was no wind at all.
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 jam. He felt embarrassed, but also a little proud.
Björk should have been here, he thought. In Ystad instead of in Spain. This was the kind of thing Björk dreamed of. Heroes on the force.
By 9.30 a.m. everything was back to normal. By then he had already managed to give the director of the refugee camp a tough lecture on the sloppy supervision of the refugees. The director, who was short and plump and who radiated apathy and laziness, nevertheless defended himself vigorously, insisting that he had followed the rules and regulations of the Immigration Service to the letter.
"It's the police's job to ensure that the camp is safe," he said, trying to turn Wallander's lecture on its head.
"How are we supposed to guarantee anything at all when you have no idea how many people are living in those damned huts or who they are?"The director was red-faced with fury when he left."I'm going to file a complaint," he said.
"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 accurate lists of how many people there are at your camp, what their names are, and which huts they live in."Just before the case meeting was due to start, Edler called."How do you feel?" he asked. "The hero of the day.""Piss off," replied Wallander. "Have you found anything?"
"It wasn't hard," replied Edler. "A handy little detonator that ignited some rags soaked in petrol.""Are you sure?"
"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 murders. But if anything else happens, I'm going to need reinforcements from Simrishamn or Malmö."
"Are there any police left in Simrishamn? I thought the station there was closed down." "It was the volunteer fire-fighters who were disbanded.
In fact, I've heard rumours that we're going to have some new positions opening up down here."
Wallander started the meeting by reporting what Edler had told him. A brief discussion followed concerning possible motives for the attack. All were agreed that it was most likely a rather well-organised youthful prank, but no-one denied the seriousness of what had happened.
"It's important for us to catch those responsible," said Hansson. "Just as important as catching the killers at Lunnarp."
"Maybe it was the same people who threw the turnips at the old man," said Svedberg.Wallander noticed the 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 by this afternoon."
The meeting was brief. This was one of those days when the police officers were busy trying to establish facts. Conclusions and results were sparse.
"We'll skip the afternoon meeting," Wallander decided, "provided nothing out of the ordinary happens. Martinsson will go out to the camp. Svedberg, maybe you could take over whatever Martinsson was doing that can't wait."
"I'm searching for the car that the lorry driver saw," said Martinsson. "I'll give you my paperwork."
When the meeting was over, Näslund and Rydberg stayed behind in Wallander's office.
"We're starting to go into overtime," said Wallander. "When is Björk due back?"Neither man knew.
"Does he have any idea about what's happened?" Rydberg wondered.
"Does he care?" Wallander countered.
He called Ebba and got an answer at once. 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 authorise all the overtime we need."Rydberg raised his visit to the Lövgren farm.
"I've been snooping about," he said. "In fact 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 that that was that. Rydberg never gave up until he was 100 per cent sure.
"So now we know this much," he said. "One brown briefcase containing 27,000 kronor is missing.""People have been killed for much less," said Rydberg.They sat in silence for a moment, pondering these 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 out its description at the press conference and asked the driver to contact us.""Patience," said Rydberg.
"What came out of the interviews 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 Näslund 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 this matter through 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 policeman. You'll do just fine."
Rydberg gave him a sceptical look. Then he stood up to go. He paused at the door.
"The daughter that I talked to, the one from Canada, had her husband with her. The Mountie. He wondered why we don't carry guns.""In a few years we probably will," said Wallander.
He was just about to brief Näslund on 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 to be speaking to a woman. He assumed that all senior government officials were still elderly gentlemen full of arrogant self-esteem.
The woman had a pleasant voice, but what she said annoyed him instantly.
"We are most displeased," the woman said. "The police have an obligation to guarantee the safety of our refugees."Just like that damned director, thought Wallander.
"We do what we can," he said, trying to conceal his irritation. 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 priestess of a government civil service agency had to say."Obviously that is not sufficient."
"Our job would have been much easier if we had received up-to-date information about how many refugees were at each of the various camps.""The service has complete data on the refugees.""That's not my impression at all.""The Minister of Immigration is very concerned."
Wallander brought to mind a red-haired woman who was regularly interviewed on TV.
"She's welcome to contact us," said Wallander, making a face at Näslund, who was leafing through some papers.
"It's clear that the police are not allocating enough resources to the protection of these refugees."
"Or maybe there are just too many to cope with. And you have no idea where they are lodged."
"What do you mean by that?" The polite voice was now cool.Wallander felt his anger growing.
"Last night's fire highlighted the shocking 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 ask the police to instigate deportations, but we have no idea where to find the deportees. Sometimes we waste several weeks searching for the people we are supposed to deport."
What he said was true. He had heard of colleagues in Malmö being driven to despair at the inability of the Immigration Service to handle its job.
"That's simply not the case," said the woman, "and I'm not going to wa
ste valuable time arguing with you."The conversation was over."Bitch," said Wallander, slamming down the phone."Who was that?" asked Näslund.
"The head of the Immigration Service," replied Wallander, "who's living in cloud-cuckoo-land. Feel like getting some coffee?"
Rydberg turned in transcripts of the interviews that he and Svedberg had held with Lövgren's two daughters. Wallander described his phone conversation.
"The Minister of Immigration will be calling soon, and she'll be concerned," said Rydberg, with a wicked laugh.
"You can deal with her" said Wallander. "I'll try to be back from Kristianstad by four."
When Näslund reappeared with the two mugs of coffee, Wallander no longer wanted his. He had to get out of the building. His bandages were too tight, and his head ached. A drive would do him good.
"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. Herdin knew virtually nothing about the mystery woman, for all that he was well-informed about Lövgren's financial assets.""He must have known something."
"I gave him a thorough grilling," said Näslund. "I actually think he was telling the truth. The only thing he knew for sure was that she existed.""How did he know that?"
"He happened to be in Kristianstad once, and saw Lövgren and her in the street.""When was that?"Näslund flipped through his notes."Eleven years ago."Wallander toyed with his coffee.
"It doesn't fit," he said. "He has to know a great deal more. How can he be so sure that there's a son? How does he know about the payments to the woman? Couldn't you force it out of him?"
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