Sidetracked

by Unknown

  He let them in and said hello to Linda’s friend, who introduced herself as Kajsa. Wallander was full of questions. How did they come to be ringing his doorbell so early on a Sunday morning? Were there really train connections this early? Linda explained that they had arrived the night before, but they had stayed at the house of a girl she had gone to school with, whose parents were away. They would be staying there for the whole week. They came over so early because after reading the papers in the past few days, Linda knew it would be hard to get hold of her father.

  Wallander made a breakfast of leftovers he dug out of his refrigerator. While they ate they told him they’d be spending the week rehearsing a play they had written. Then they were going to the island of Gotland to take part in a theatre seminar. Wallander listened, trying to disguise how disappointed he was that Linda had abandoned her dream to become a furniture upholsterer, settle down in Ystad, and open her own shop. He also yearned to talk to her about her grandfather. He knew how close she was to him.

  “There’s so much going on. I’d like to talk with you in peace and quiet, just you and me,” he said, when Kajsa was out of the room.

  “That’s the best thing about you,” she said. “You’re always so glad to see me.” She wrote down her phone number and promised to come over when he called.

  “I saw the papers,” she said. “Is it really as bad as they make out?”

  “It’s worse,” Wallander said. “I’ve got so much to do that I don’t know how I’m going to cope. It was pure luck that you caught me at home.”

  They sat and talked until Hansson called and said he was at Sturup Airport with the psychologist. They agreed to meet at the station at 9 a.m.

  “I have to go now,” he told Linda.

  “We do, too,” she said.

  “Does this play you’re putting on have a name?” Wallander wondered when they got out to the street.

  “It’s not a play,” replied Linda. “It’s a revue.”

  “I see,” said Wallander, trying to remember what the difference was. “And does it have a name?”

  “Not yet,” said Kajsa.

  “Can I see it?” Wallander asked tentatively.

  “When it’s ready,” said Linda. “Not before.”

  Wallander asked whether he could drive them somewhere.

  “I’m going to show her the town,” said Linda.

  “Where are you from?” he asked Kajsa.

  “Sandviken, up north,” she said. “I’ve never been to Skåne before.”

  “Then we’re even,” said Wallander. “I’ve never been to Sandviken.”

  He watched them disappear around the corner. The fine weather was holding. It would be even warmer today. He felt cheerful because of his daughter’s unexpected visit, even though he couldn’t adjust to the drastic way she had been experimenting with her looks the past few years. But when she’d stood in the doorway, he’d seen for the first time what many people had told him before. Linda looked like him. He had discovered his own face in hers.

  He arrived at the station, feeling renewed vigour after Linda’s unexpected visit. He strode down the hall, thinking that he clumped along like an overweight elephant, and threw off his jacket when he entered his room. He grabbed the telephone before he even sat down and asked the receptionist to get hold of Nyberg. Just as he’d fallen asleep the night before, an idea had come to him that he wanted to explore. It took five minutes before the girl at the front desk managed to locate Nyberg.

  “It’s Wallander,” he said. “Do you remember telling me about a can of some sort of spray that you found outside the cordon on the beach?”

  “Of course I remember,” snapped Nyberg.

  Wallander ignored the fact that Nyberg was obviously in a bad mood.

  “I thought we ought to check it for fingerprints,” he said. “And compare them to whatever you can find on that piece of paper I found near Carlman’s house.”

  “Will do,” said Nyberg. “But we would have done it anyway, even if you hadn’t asked us to.”

  “I know,” said Wallander. “But you know how it is.”

  “No, I don’t,” said Nyberg. “You’ll have the results as soon as I’ve got something.”

  Wallander slammed down the receiver, full of energy. He stood by the window and looked out at the old water tower while he went through what he wanted to get done that day. He knew from experience that something almost always came along to spoil the plan. If he managed to get half the things done he’d be pleased.

  At 9 a.m. he left his office, got some coffee, and went into one of the small meeting rooms, where Hansson was waiting with the psychologist from Stockholm. The man introduced himself as Mats Ekholm. He was around 60, with a firm handshake. Wallander had an immediately favourable impression of him. Like many police officers, Wallander had always felt sceptical about what psychologists could contribute in a criminal investigation. But from conversations with Ann-Britt Höglund he had begun to realise that this was wrong. He decided to give Ekholm a chance to show them what he could do.

  The investigation files were set out on the table.

  “I’ve read through them as best I could,” said Ekholm. “I suggest that we start by talking about what isn’t in the files.”

  “It’s all there,” said Hansson, surprised. “If there’s one thing the police are forced to learn, it’s how to write reports.”

  “I suppose you want to know what we think,” interrupted Wallander. “Isn’t that right?”

  Ekholm nodded.

  “There’s a fundamental rule that says that the police are always searching for something specific,” he answered. “If they don’t know what an offender looks like they include an approximation. Quite often the phantom image turns out to have similarities with the offender who is finally apprehended.”

  Wallander recognised his own reactions in Ekholm’s description. He always created an image of a criminal that he carried with him during an investigation.

  “Two murders have been committed,” Ekholm continued. “The modus operandi is the same, even though there are some interesting differences. Wetterstedt was killed from behind. The murderer struck him in the back, not in the head. He chose the more difficult alternative. Or could it be that he wanted to avoid smashing Wetterstedt’s head? We don’t know. After the blow he cut off his scalp and took the time to hide the body. If we look at Carlman’s death, we can easily identify the similarities and differences. Carlman was also struck down with an axe. He too had a piece of his scalp torn off. But he was killed from directly in front. He must have seen his attacker. The offender chose a time when there were many people nearby, so the risk of discovery was high. He made no attempt to hide the body, realising that it would be virtually impossible. The first question we have to ask is: which are more important? The similarities or the differences?”

  “He’s a murderer,” said Wallander. “He selected two people. He made plans. He must have visited the beach outside Wetterstedt’s house several times. He even took the time to unscrew a bulb to obscure the area between the garden gate and the sea.”

  “Do we know whether Wetterstedt was in the habit of taking an evening walk on the beach?” Ekholm interjected.

  “No,” said Wallander. “But of course we ought to find out.”

  “Keep going,” said Ekholm.

  “On the surface the pattern looks completely different when it comes to Carlman,” said Wallander. “Surrounded by people at a Midsummer party. But maybe the killer didn’t see it that way. Maybe he thought he could make use of the fact that no-one sees anything at all at a party. Nothing is as difficult as obtaining a detailed impression of events from a large group of people.”

  “To answer that question we have to examine what alternatives he may have had,” said Ekholm. “Carlman was a businessman who moved around a lot. Always surrounded by people. Maybe the party was the right choice after all.”

  “The similarity or the difference,” said Wallander. “W
hich one is crucial?”

  Ekholm threw out his hands.

  “It’s too early to say, of course. What we can be sure of is that he plans his crimes carefully and that he’s extremely cold-blooded.”

  “He takes scalps,” said Wallander. “He collects trophies. What does that mean?”

  “He’s exercising power,” said Ekholm. “The trophies are the proof of his actions. For him it’s no more peculiar than a hunter putting up a pair of horns on his wall.”

  “But the decision to scalp,” Wallander went on. “Where does that come from?”

  “It’s not that strange,” said Ekholm. “I don’t want to seem cynical. But what part of a human being is more suitable to be taken as a trophy? A human body rots. A piece of skin with hair on it is easy to preserve.”

  “I guess I still can’t stop thinking of American Indians,” said Wallander.

  “Naturally it can’t be excluded that your killer has a fixation on an American Indian warrior,” said Ekholm. “People who find themselves in a psychic borderland often choose to hide behind another person’s identity. Or transform themselves into a mythological figure.”

  “Borderland?” said Wallander. “What does that involve?”

  “Your killer has already committed two murders. We can’t rule out that he intends to commit more, since we don’t know his motive. This indicates he has probably passed a psychological boundary, that he has freed himself from our normal inhibitions. A person can commit murder or manslaughter without premeditation. A killer who repeats his actions is following completely different psychological laws. He finds himself in a twilight zone where all the boundaries that exist for him are of his own making. On the surface he can live a completely normal life. He can go to a job every morning. He can have a family and devote his evenings to playing golf or tending his garden. He can sit on his sofa with his children around him and watch the news reports on the murders he himself has committed. He can deplore the crimes, and wonder why such people are on the loose. He has two different identities that he controls utterly. He pulls his own strings. He is both marionette and puppet master.”

  Wallander thought about what Ekholm had said.

  “Who is he?” he finally asked. “What does he look like? How old is he? I can’t hunt someone who looks entirely normal on the surface. I must search for a specific person.”

  “I can’t answer that yet,” said Ekholm. “I need time to get into the material before I can create a profile of the killer.”

  “I hope you’re not considering today a day of rest,” said Wallander wearily. “We’ll need that profile as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll try to get something together by tomorrow,” said Ekholm. “But you and your colleagues have to realise that the difficulties and the margins of error are daunting.”

  “I realise that,” said Wallander. “We still need all the help you can give us.”

  When the meeting was over Wallander drove down to the harbour and walked out onto the pier, where he had sat a few days earlier trying to write his speech for Björk. He sat and watched a fishing boat on its way out to sea. He unbuttoned his shirt and closed his eyes, facing the sun. Somewhere close by he heard children laughing. He tried to empty his mind and enjoy the heat. But after a few minutes he stood up and left.

  Your killer has already committed two murders. We can’t rule out that he intends to commit more, since we don’t know his motive.

  Ekholm’s words might have been his own. He would not relax until they had caught Wetterstedt and Carlman’s killer. Wallander knew his strength was his determination. And sometimes he had moments of insight. But his weakness was also clear. He couldn’t keep his job from becoming a personal matter. Your killer, Ekholm had said. There was no better description of his weakness. The man who killed Wetterstedt and Carlman was actually his own responsibility. Whether he liked it or not.

  He went back to his car, deciding to follow the plan he had made that morning. He drove out to Wetterstedt’s villa. The cordons on the beach were gone. Lindgren and an older man, who he assumed was Lindgren’s father, were busy sanding the boat. He didn’t feel like saying hello.

  He still had Wetterstedt’s keys, and he unlocked the front door. The silence was deafening. He sat down in one of the leather chairs in the living-room. He could just hear sounds from the beach. He looked around the room. What did it tell him? Had the killer ever been inside the house? He was having a hard time gathering his thoughts. He got up and went over to the big window facing the garden, the beach and the sea. Wetterstedt had stood here many times. He could see that the parquet floor was worn at this spot. He looked out of the window. Someone had shut off the water to the fountain in the garden. He let his gaze wander as he went over the thoughts he’d had earlier.

  On the hill outside Carlman’s house my killer stood and observed the party. He may have been there many times. From there he could see without being seen. Where is the hill from which you would have the same view of Wetterstedt? From what point could you see him without being seen?

  He walked around the house, stopping at each window. From the kitchen he looked for a long time at a pair of trees growing just out-side Wetterstedt’s property. But they were young birches that wouldn’t have held a person’s weight.

  Not until he came to the study and looked out of the window did he realise that he had found the answer. From the projecting garage roof it was possible to see straight into the room. He left the house and went around the garage. A younger, fit man could jump up, grab hold of the eaves and pull himself up. Wallander went and got a ladder he had seen on the other side of the house. He leaned it against the garage roof and climbed up. The roof was the old-fashioned tar-paper type. Since he wasn’t sure how much weight it would hold, he crawled on all fours over to a spot where he could look straight into Wetterstedt’s study. He searched until he found the point farthest away from the window that still had a good view inside. On his hands and knees he inspected the tar-paper. Almost at once he discovered some cuts in it criss-crossing each other. He ran his fingertips across the tar-paper. Someone had slashed it with a knife. He looked around. It was impossible to be seen either from the beach or from the road above Wetterstedt’s house.

  Wallander climbed down and put the ladder back. Carefully he inspected the ground next to the garage, but all he found were some tattered pages from a magazine that had blown onto the property. He went back into the house. The silence was oppressive. He went upstairs. Through the window in Wetterstedt’s bedroom he could see Lindgren and his father turning their boat right side up. He could see that it took two people to turn it over.

  And yet he now knew that the killer had been alone, both here and when he killed Carlman. Though there were few clues, his intuition told him that it had been one person sitting on Wetterstedt’s roof and on the hill above Carlman’s.

  I’m dealing with a lone killer, he thought. A lone man who leaves his borderland and hacks people to death so he can then take their scalps as trophies.

  He left Wetterstedt’s house, emerging into the sunshine again with relief. He drove over to a café and ate lunch at the counter. A young woman at a table nearby nodded to him and said hello. He replied, unable to remember who she was. Not until he left did he recall that she was Britta-Lena Bodén, the bank teller whose excellent memory had been so important during an investigation.

  By midday he was back at the station. Ann-Britt Höglund met him in the foyer.

  “I saw you from my window,” she said.

  Wallander knew at once that something had happened. He waited, tense, for her to continue.

  “There is a point of contact,” she said. “In the late 1960s Carlman did some time in prison. At Långholmen. Wetterstedt was minister of justice at the time.”

  “That isn’t enough,” said Wallander.

  “I’m not finished. Carlman wrote a letter to Wetterstedt. And when he got out of prison they met.”

  Wallander stood motionl
ess.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Come to my office and I’ll tell you.”

  Wallander knew what this meant. If there was a connection, they had broken through the hard, outermost shell of the investigation.

  CHAPTER 15

  It had started with a telephone call.

  Ann-Britt Höglund had been on her way down the hall to talk to Martinsson when she was paged. She returned to her office and took the call. It was a man who spoke so softly that at first she thought he was sick or injured. But she understood that he wanted to talk to Wallander. No-one else would do, least of all a woman. She explained that Wallander had gone out and no-one could say when he was coming back. But the man was extremely persistent, although she didn’t understand how a man who spoke so softly could seem so strong-willed. She considered transferring the call to Martinsson and having him pretend to be Wallander. But something told her that he might know Wallander’s voice.

  He said that he had important information. She asked him whether it had to do with Wetterstedt’s death. Maybe, he replied. Then she asked whether it was about Carlman. Maybe, he said once again. She knew that somehow she had to keep him talking. He had refused to give his name or phone number.

  He finally resolved the impasse. He had been silent for so long that Höglund thought he had hung up, but then he asked for the station fax number. Give the fax to Wallander, the man had said. Not to anyone else.

  An hour later the fax had arrived. She handed it to Wallander. To his astonishment he saw that it was sent from Skoglund’s Hardware in Stockholm.

  “I looked up the number and called them,” she said. “I also thought it was strange that a hardware shop would be open on Sunday. From a message on their answer machine I got hold of the owner via his mobile phone. He had no idea either how someone could have sent a fax from his office. He was on his way to play golf but promised to look into the matter. Half an hour later he called and reported that someone had broken into his office.”