by Unknown
Forsfält pulled up outside a three-storey block of flats. He pointed to a row of windows on the ground floor with the curtains drawn. The building was old and poorly maintained. The glass on the main door was boarded up with a piece of wood. Wallander had a feeling that he was walking into a building that should no longer exist. Isn’t this building’s existence in defiance of the constitution? he thought sarcastically. There was a stench of urine in the stairwell.
Forsfält unlocked the door. Wallander wondered where he’d got the keys. They walked into the hall and turned on the light. Some junk mail lay on the floor. Wallander let Forsfält lead the way. They walked through the flat. It consisted of three rooms and a tiny, cramped kitchen that looked out on a warehouse. Apart from the bed, which appeared new, the flat seemed neglected. The furniture was strewn haphazardly around the rooms. Some dusty, cheap porcelain figures stood on a 1950s-style bookshelf in the living-room. In one corner was a stack of magazines and some dumbbells. To his great surprise Wallander noticed a CD of Turkish folk music on the sofa. The curtains were drawn.
Forsfält went around turning on all the lights. Wallander followed him, while Svedberg took a seat on a chair in the kitchen and called Hansson. Wallander pushed open the door to the pantry with his foot. Inside were several unopened boxes of Grant’s whisky. They had been shipped from the Scottish distillery to a wine merchant in Belgium. He wondered how they had ended up in Fredman’s flat.
Forsfält came into the kitchen with a couple of photographs of the owner. Wallander nodded. There was no doubt that it was him they’d found. He went back to the living-room and tried to decide what he really hoped to discover. Fredman’s flat was the exact opposite of Wetterstedt’s and Carlman’s houses. This is what Sweden is like, he thought. The differences between people are just as great now as they were when some lived in manor houses and others in hovels.
He noticed a desk piled with magazines about antiques. They must be related to Fredman’s activities as a fence. There was only one drawer in the desk. Inside was a stack of receipts, broken pens, a cigarette case, and a framed photograph. It was of Fredman and his family. He was smiling broadly at the camera. Next to him sat his wife, holding a newborn baby in her arms. Behind the mother stood a girl in her early teens. She was staring into the camera, a look of terror in her eyes. Next to her, directly behind the mother, stood a boy a few years younger. His face was pinched, as if he was resisting something. Wallander took the photo over to the window and pulled back the curtain. He stared at it for a long time. An unhappy family? A family that hadn’t yet encountered unhappiness? A newborn child who had no idea what awaited him? There was something in the picture that disturbed him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He took it into the bedroom, where Forsfält was looking under the bed.
“You said that he did time for battery,” said Wallander.
Forsfält got up and looked at the photo.
“He beat his wife senseless,” he said. “He beat her up when she was pregnant. He beat her when the child was a baby. But strangely enough, he never went to prison for it. Once he broke a cab driver’s nose. He beat a former partner half to death when he suspected him of cheating.”
They continued searching the flat. Svedberg had finished talking to Hansson. He shook his head when Wallander asked him if anything had happened. It took them two hours to search the place. Wallander’s flat was idyllic compared to Fredman’s. They found nothing but a travel bag with antique candlesticks in it. Wallander understood why Fredman’s language was peppered with swear words. The flat was just as empty and inarticulate as his vocabulary.
Finally they left the flat. The wind had picked up. Forsfält called the station and got word that Fredman’s family had been informed of his death.
“I’d like to talk to them,” said Wallander when they got into the car. “But it’s probably better to wait until tomorrow.”
He knew he wasn’t being honest. He hated disturbing a family whose relative had suffered a violent death. Above all, he couldn’t bear talking to children who had just lost a parent. Waiting until the next day would make no difference to them. But it gave Wallander breathing space.
They said goodbye outside the station. Forsfält would get hold of Hansson to clear up formalities between the two police districts. He made an appointment to meet with Wallander the next morning.
Wallander and Svedberg drove back towards Ystad. Wallander’s mind was swarming with ideas. They remained silent.
CHAPTER 22
Copenhagen’s skyline was just visible across the Sound in the hazy sunlight.
Wallander wondered whether he’d get to meet Baiba there or whether the killer they sought – about whom they seemed to know less, if that were possible – would force him to postpone his holiday.
He stood waiting outside the hovercraft terminal in Malmö. It was the morning of the last day of June. Wallander had decided the night before to take Höglund rather than Svedberg when he returned to Malmö to talk to Fredman’s family. She’d asked whether they could leave early enough for her to do an errand on the way. Svedberg hadn’t complained in the least at being left behind. His relief at not having to leave Ystad two days in a row was unmistakable. While Höglund took care of her errand in the terminal – Wallander hadn’t asked what it was – he’d walked along the pier. A hydrofoil, the Runner, he thought it said, was on its way out of the harbour. It was hot. He took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, yawning.
After they’d returned from Malmö the night before, he’d called a meeting with the investigative team, since they were all still there. He and Hansson had also held an impromptu press conference. Ekholm had attended the meeting. He was still working on a psychological profile of the killer. But they had agreed that Wallander should inform the press that they were looking for someone who wasn’t considered dangerous to the public, but who was certainly extremely dangerous to his victims.
There had been differing opinions on whether it would be wise to take this action. But Wallander had insisted that they couldn’t ignore the possibility that someone might come forward out of sheer self-preservation. The press were delighted with this information, but Wallander felt uncomfortable, knowing that they were giving the public the best possible news, since the nation was about to close down for the summer holiday. Afterwards, when both the meeting and the press conference were over, he was exhausted.
He still hadn’t gone over the telex from Interpol with Martinsson. The girl had vanished from Santiago de los Treinta Caballeros in December. Her father, Pedro Santana, a farm worker, had reported her disappearance to the police on 14 January. Dolores María, who was then 16 years old, but who had turned 17 on 18 February – a fact that made Wallander particularly depressed – had been in Santiago looking for work as a housekeeper. Before then she had lived with her father in a little village 70 kilometres outside the city. She had been staying with a distant relative when she had disappeared. Judging by the scanty report, the Dominican police had not taken much interest in her case, though her father had hounded them to keep looking for her, managing to get a journalist involved, but eventually the police decided that she had probably left the country.
The trail ended there. Interpol’s comments were brief. Dolores María Santana hadn’t been seen in any of the countries belonging to the international police network. Until now.
“She disappears in a city called Santiago,” said Wallander. “About six months later she pops up in farmer Salomonsson’s rape field, where she burns herself to death. What does that mean?”
Martinsson shook his head dejectedly. Wallander was so tired he could hardly think, but he roused himself. Martinsson’s apathy made him furious.
“We know that she didn’t vanish from the face of the earth,” he said with determination. “We know that she had been in Helsingborg and got a lift from a man from Smedstorp. She seemed to be fleeing something. And we know she’s dead. We should send a message back to Interpol telli
ng them all this. And I want you to make a special request that the girl’s father be properly informed of her death. When this other nightmare is over, we’ll have to find out what terrified her in Helsingborg. I suggest you make contact with our colleagues there tomorrow. They might have some idea what happened.”
After this muted outburst, Wallander drove home. He stopped and ordered a hamburger. Newspaper placards were posted everywhere, proclaiming the latest news on the World Cup. He had a powerful urge to rip them down and scream that enough was enough. But instead he waited patiently in line, paid, picked up his hamburger, and went back to his car.
When he got home he sat down at the kitchen table, tore open the bag and ate. He drank a glass of water with the hamburger. Then he made some strong coffee and cleared the table, forcing himself to go over all the investigative material again. The feeling that they had been sidetracked was still with him. Wallander hadn’t laid the clues they were following. But he was the one who was leading the investigative group, and determining the course that they took. He tried to see where they should have paid more attention, whether the link between Wetterstedt and Carlman was already clearly visible, but unnoticed.
He went over all the evidence that they had gathered, sometimes solid, sometimes not. Next to him he had a notebook in which he listed all the unanswered questions. It troubled him that the results from many of the forensic tests still weren’t available. Although it was past midnight, he was sorely tempted to call up Nyberg and ask him whether the laboratory in Linköping had closed for the summer. But he refrained. He sat bent over his papers until his back hurt and the letters began blurring on the page.
He didn’t give up until after 2 a.m., when he’d concluded that they couldn’t do anything but continue on the path that they had chosen. There must be a connection between the murdered men. Perhaps the fact that Björn Fredman didn’t seem to fit with the others might point to the solution.
The pile of dirty laundry was still on the floor, reminding him of the chaos inside his own head. Once again he had forgotten to get an appointment for his car. Would they have to request reinforcements from the National Criminal Bureau? He decided to talk to Hansson about it first thing, after a few hours’ sleep.
But by the time he got up at 6 a.m., he’d changed his mind. He wanted to wait one more day. Instead he called Nyberg and complained about the laboratory. He had expected Nyberg to be angry, but to Wallander’s great surprise he had agreed that it was taking an unusually long time and promised to follow the matter up. They’d discussed Nyberg’s examination of the pit where they’d found Fredman. Traces of blood indicated that the killer had parked his car right next to it. Nyberg had also managed to get out to Sturup Airport and look at Fredman’s van. There was no doubt that it had been used to transport the body. But Nyberg didn’t think that the murder could have taken place in it.
“Fredman was big and strong,” he said. “I can’t see how he could have been killed inside the van. I think the murder happened somewhere else.”
“So we must find out who drove the van,” said Wallander, “and where the murder occurred.”
Wallander had arrived at the station just after 7 a.m. He’d called Ekholm at his hotel and found him in the breakfast room.
“I want you to concentrate on the eyes,” he said. “I don’t know why. But I’m convinced they’re important. Maybe crucial. Why would he do that to Fredman and not to the others? That’s what I want to know.”
“The whole thing has to be viewed in its entirety,” said Ekholm. “A psychopath almost always creates rituals, which he then follows as if they were written in a sacred book. The eyes have to fit into that framework.”
“Whatever,” Wallander said curtly. “But I want to know why only Fredman had his eyes put out. Framework or no framework.”
“It was probably acid,” said Ekholm.
Wallander had forgotten to ask Nyberg about that.
“Can we assume that’s the case?” he asked.
“It seems so. Someone poured acid in Fredman’s eyes.”
Wallander grimaced.
“We’ll talk this afternoon,” he said and hung up.
Soon afterwards he had left Ystad with Höglund. It was a relief to get out of the station. Reporters were calling all the time. And now the public had started calling too. The hunt for the killer had become a national concern. Wallander knew that this was inevitable, and also useful. But it was an enormous task to record and check on all the information that was flooding in.
Höglund emerged from the terminal and caught up with him on the pier.
“I wonder what kind of summer it’ll be this year,” he said.
“My grandmother in Älmhult predicts the weather,” said Höglund. “She says it’s going to be long, hot and dry.”
“Is she usually right?”
“Almost always.”
“I think it’ll be the opposite. Rainy and cold and crappy.”
“Can you predict the weather too?”
“No.”
They walked back to the car. Wallander wondered what she’d been doing in the terminal. But he didn’t ask.
They pulled up in front of the Malmö police station at 9.30 a.m. Forsfält was waiting on the footpath. He got into the back seat and gave Wallander directions, talking to Höglund about the weather at the same time. When they stopped outside the block of flats in Rosengård he told them what had happened the day before.
“The ex-wife took the news of Fredman’s death calmly. One of my colleagues smelt alcohol on her breath. The place was a mess. The younger boy is only four. He probably won’t comprehend that his father, whom he almost never saw, is dead. But the older son understood. The daughter wasn’t home.”
“What’s her name?” asked Wallander.
“The daughter?”
“The wife. The ex-wife.”
“Anette Fredman.”
“Does she have a job?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How does she make a living?”
“No idea. But I doubt that Fredman was very generous to his family.”
They got out of the car and went inside, taking the lift up to the fifth floor. Someone had smashed a bottle on the floor of the lift. Wallander glanced at Höglund and shook his head. Forsfält rang the doorbell. After a while the door opened. The woman standing before them was very thin and pale, and dressed all in black. She looked with terror at the two unfamiliar faces. As they hung up their coats in the hall, Wallander saw someone peer quickly through the doorway to the flat and then disappear. He guessed it was the older son or the daughter.
Forsfält introduced them, speaking gently and calmly. There was nothing hurried in his demeanour. Wallander could see he might be able to learn from Forsfält as he once had from Rydberg.
They went into the living-room. It looked as though she had cleaned up. The living-room had a sofa and chairs that looked almost unused. There was a stereo, a video, and a Bang & Olufsen TV, a Danish brand Wallander had had his eye on but couldn’t afford. She had set out cups and saucers. Wallander listened. There was a four-year-old boy in the family. Children that age weren’t quiet. They sat down.
“Let me say how sorry I am for the inconvenience,” he said, trying to be as friendly as Forsfält.
“Thank you,” she replied in a low, fragile voice, that sounded as if it might break at any moment.
“Unfortunately I have to ask you some questions,” continued Wallander. “I wish they could wait.”
She nodded but said nothing. At that moment the door into the living-room opened. A well-built boy of about 14 entered. He had an open, friendly face, but his eyes were wary.
“This is my son,” she said. “His name is Stefan.”
The boy was very polite, Wallander noticed. He came and shook hands with each of them. Then he sat down next to his mother on the sofa.
“I’d like him to hear this too,” she said.
“That’s fine,” said Wa
llander. “I’m sorry about what happened to your father.”
“We didn’t see each other very much,” replied the boy. “But thank you.”
Wallander was impressed. He seemed mature for his age, perhaps because he’d had to fill the void left by his father.
“You have another son, don’t you?” Wallander went on.
“He’s with a friend of mine, playing with her son,” said Anette Fredman. “I thought it would be better. His name is Jens.”
Wallander nodded to Höglund, who was taking notes.
“And a daughter too?”
“Her name is Louise.”
“But she’s not here?”
“She’s away for a few days, resting.”
It was the boy who’d answered. He took over from his mother, as if he wanted to spare her a heavy burden. His answer had been calm and polite. But something wasn’t quite right. It had come a little too quickly. Or was it that the boy had hesitated before replying? Wallander was immediately on the alert.
“I understand that this must be trying for her,” he continued cautiously.
“She’s very sensitive,” replied her brother.
Something doesn’t add up here, Wallander thought again. He knew he shouldn’t press this now. It would be better to come back to the girl later. He glanced at Höglund, but she didn’t seem to have noticed.
“I won’t have to repeat the questions you’ve already answered,” said Wallander, pouring himself a cup of coffee, to show that everything was normal. The boy had his eyes fixed on him. There was a wariness in his eyes that reminded Wallander of a bird, as though he’d been forced to take on responsibility too soon. The thought depressed him. Nothing troubled Wallander more than seeing children and young people damaged.
“I know that you hadn’t seen Mr Fredman in several weeks,” he went on. “Was that true of Louise too?”
This time it was the mother who answered.