by Unknown
Svedberg went in Wallander’s car. It was going to be another beautiful day. They spoke very little during the trip. Svedberg discovered that he must have left his keys somewhere. It reminded Wallander that his own keys had never shown up. He told Svedberg to come home with him. They reached Mariagatan just before 7 a.m. Linda was asleep. After they had each taken a shower and Wallander had given Svedberg a clean shirt, they sat in the living-room and had coffee.
Neither of them noticed that the door to the cupboard next to Linda’s room, which had been closed when they arrived, was ajar.
Hoover had arrived at the flat at 6.50 a.m. He was on his way into the policeman’s bedroom with the axe in his hand when he heard a key turn in the lock. He hid in the cupboard. He heard two voices. When he could tell that they were in the living-room, he opened the door a crack. Hoover assumed that the other man was a policeman too. He gripped the axe the whole time, listening to them talking softly. At first Hoover didn’t understand what they were talking about. The name Hans Logård was mentioned repeatedly. The policeman whom he had come to kill was clearly trying to explain something to the other man. He listened carefully and finally understood that it was holy providence, the power of Geronimo, that had started working again. Hans Logård had been Åke Liljegren’s right-hand man. He had smuggled girls in from the Dominican Republic, and maybe from other parts of the Caribbean too. He was also the one who probably brought girls to Wetterstedt and maybe even Carlman. He also heard the policeman predict that Logård was on the death list that must exist in Stefan Fredman’s mind.
Then the conversation stopped. A few moments later Wallander and Svedberg left the flat. Hoover emerged from the cupboard and stood utterly still. Then he left, as soundlessly as he had come. He had gone to the empty shop where Linda and Kajsa had held their rehearsals. He knew they wouldn’t be using it again, so he had left Louise there while he went to the flat on Mariagatan to kill Perkins and his daughter. But as he’d stood in the cupboard, the axe ready in his hand, and heard the conversation he started to have doubts. There was one more person he had to kill. A man he had overlooked. Hans Logård. When the policeman described him, Hoover understood that he must have been the one who had brutally raped and abused his sister. That was before she had been drugged and taken to both Gustaf Wetterstedt and Arne Carlman – events that had forced her into the darkness. All of it was written down in the book he had taken from her. The book that contained the words that controlled him. He had assumed that Hans Logård was someone who didn’t live in Sweden. A foreign visitor, an evil man. Now he knew that he had made a mistake.
It was easy to get into the empty shop. Earlier he had seen Kajsa hide the key. Since he was moving around in broad daylight, he hadn’t painted his face. He didn’t want to frighten Louise, either. When he came back she was sitting on a chair, staring blankly into space. He had already decided to move her. And he knew where. Before he went to Mariagatan he went on the moped to see that the situation was as he’d thought. The house he’d selected was empty. But they weren’t going to move there until evening. He sat down on the floor at her side and tried to work out how to find Logård before the police did. He turned inward and asked Geronimo for advice. But his heart was strangely still this morning. The drums were so faint that he couldn’t hear their message.
At 8 a.m. they gathered in the conference room. Åkeson was here, as was a sergeant from Malmö. Birgersson was hooked up via speaker phone from Helsingborg. Wallander looked around the table and said they’d start by bringing everyone up to date. The sergeant from Malmö was looking for a hiding place they assumed Stefan Fredman had access to. They still hadn’t found it. But one of the neighbours in the building told them that he had seen Stefan Fredman on a moped several times. The building where the family lived was under surveillance. Birgersson told them that Sjösten was doing well, although his ear would be permanently damaged.
“Plastic surgeons can work wonders,” Wallander shouted encouragingly. “Say hello to him from all of us.”
Birgersson went on to say that they weren’t Logård’s fingerprints on the comic book, the paper bag, Liljegren’s stove or Fredman’s left eyelid. This confirmation was crucial. The Malmö police were getting Stefan Fredman’s prints from objects taken from his room in the Rosengård flat. Nobody doubted that they would match, now that Logård’s didn’t.
They talked about Logård. The hunt had to continue. They had to assume he was dangerous, since he had shot at Wallander and Sjösten.
“Stefan Fredman is only 14, but he is dangerous,” Wallander said. “He may be crazy, but he’s not stupid. He’s very strong and he reacts fast. We have to be careful.”
“This is all so damned disgusting!” Hansson exploded. “I still can’t believe it’s true.”
“Nor can any of us,” Åkeson said. “But what Kurt says is absolutely right. And we need to act accordingly.”
“Fredman got his sister Louise out of the hospital,” Wallander went on. “We’re looking for the nurse who will be able to identify him. Let’s assume it’ll be a positive identification. We still don’t know whether he intends to hurt Louise. It’s crucial that we find them. He has a moped and must ride with her on the back. They can’t get very far. Besides, the girl is sick.”
“A nutcase on a moped with a mentally ill girl on the back,” Svedberg said. “It’s so macabre.”
“He can also drive a car,” Ludwigsson pointed out. “He used his father’s van. So he may have stolen one by now.”
Wallander turned to the detective from Malmö.
“Stolen cars,” he said. “Within the past few days. Above all in Rosengård. And near the hospital.”
The detective went to a phone.
“Stefan Fredman carries out his actions after careful planning,” continued Wallander. “Naturally we have no way of knowing whether the abduction of his sister was also planned. Now we have to try and get into his mind to guess what he plans to do next. Where are they headed? It’s a shame Ekholm isn’t here when we need him most.”
“He’ll be here in about an hour,” Hansson said, glancing at the clock. “Someone’s picking him up at the airport.”
“How is his daughter?” asked Höglund.
Wallander was ashamed that he’d forgotten the reason for Ekholm’s absence.
“She’s OK,” said Svedberg. “A broken foot, that’s all. She was very lucky.”
“This autumn we’re going to have a big traffic safety campaign in schools,” said Hansson. “Too many children are being killed.”
The detective returned to the table.
“I presume you’ve also looked for Stefan in his father’s flat,” Wallander said.
“We’ve already searched there and everywhere else his father usually hung out. And we’ve picked up Peter Hjelm and asked him to try and think of other hideouts Fredman may have had access to that his son might know about. Forsfält is taking care of it.”
The meeting dragged on, but Wallander knew that they were really just waiting for something to happen. Stefan Fredman was somewhere with his sister. Logård was out there too. A large contingent of police officers were looking for them. They went in and out of the conference room, getting coffee, sending out for sandwiches, dozing in their chairs, drinking more coffee. The German police found Sara Pettersson in Hamburg. She’d been able to identify Stefan Fredman at once. Ekholm arrived from the airport, still shaken and pale.
Around 11 a.m. they got the confirmation they were waiting for. Stefan Fredman’s fingerprints had been identified on his father’s eyelid, on the comic book, the bloody scrap of paper and Liljegren’s stove. The only sound in the conference room was the faint hiss of the speaker phone linked to Birgersson. There was no turning back. All the false leads, especially those they had thought up themselves, had been erased. All that was left was the realisation of the appalling truth: they were searching for a 14-year-old boy who had committed four cold-blooded, premeditated and atrocious murders.
Finally Wallander broke the silence and turned to Ekholm.
“What’s he doing? What’s he thinking?”
“I know this is very risky,” Ekholm said. “But I don’t think he intends to hurt his sister. There’s a pattern, call it logic if you will, to his behaviour. Revenge for his little brother and his sister is the goal. If he diverges from that goal, then everything he so laboriously built up will collapse.”
“Why did he take her from the hospital?” Wallander asked.
“Maybe he was afraid that you would influence her somehow.”
“How?” asked Wallander in surprise.
“Picture a confused boy who has taken on the role of a lone warrior. Suppose men have done his sister irreparable harm. That’s what drives him. Assuming this theory is correct, that means he’ll want to keep all men away from her. He’s the only exception. And you can’t rule out the fact that he may have suspected you were on his trail. Certainly he knows that you’re in charge of the investigation.”
Wallander remembered something.
“The pictures that Norén took,” he said. “Of the spectators outside the cordons? Where are they?”
Nyberg, who most of the time had sat quiet and meditative at the meeting table, went to get them. Wallander spread them out on the table. Someone got a magnifying glass. They gathered around the pictures. It was Höglund who found him.
“There he is,” she said, pointing.
He was almost hidden behind some other onlookers, but part of his moped was visible, along with his head.
“I’ll be damned,” Hamrén said.
“It should be possible to identify the moped,” Nyberg said. “If we blow up the details.”
“Do that,” Wallander said.
It was obvious now that there had been a good reason for the feeling gnawing at Wallander’s subconscious. Grimly he thought that at least he could close the case on his own anxiety.
Save for one thing. Baiba. It was midday. Svedberg was asleep in his chair, and Åkeson was on the phone to so many different people that no-one could keep track of them. Wallander gestured to Höglund to follow him out into the hall. They sat down in his office and closed the door. Without beating around the bush, he told her of the mess he’d made. In doing so he broke his cardinal rule: never to confide a personal problem to a colleague. He had stopped doing that when Rydberg died. Now he was doing it again. He was unsure whether he could develop the same trusting relationship with Ann-Britt Höglund that he had enjoyed with Rydberg, especially since she was a woman. She listened attentively.
“What the hell am I going to do?”
“Nothing,” she said. “You’re right. It’s already too late. But I could talk to her if you like. I assume she speaks English. Give me her number.”
Wallander wrote it down, but when she reached for his telephone he asked her to wait.
“A couple more hours,” he said.
“Miracles don’t happen very often,” she said.
At that moment Hansson burst through the door.
“They found his hideout. A basement in a condemned school building. It’s right near the flats where he lives.”
“Are they there?” Wallander asked, getting up from his chair.
“No. But they’ve been there.”
They went back to the meeting room. Another speaker phone was hooked up. Wallander heard Forsfält’s friendly voice. He described what they had found. Mirrors, brushes, make-up. A cassette player with a tape of drums on it. He played a few seconds of the tape. It echoed spookily in the meeting room. War paint, thought Wallander. How had he signed at the hospital? Geronimo. There were axes on a piece of cloth, and knives too. They could hear that Forsfält was upset.
“We didn’t find scalps,” he said. “We’re still looking.”
“Where the hell are they?” said Wallander.
“Either he has them with him, or else he’s left them as a sacrifice somewhere,” Ekholm said.
“Where? Does he have his own sacrificial grove?”
“Could be.”
The waiting continued. Wallander lay down on the floor of his office and managed to sleep for half an hour. When he woke up he felt more tired than before. His body ached all over. Now and then Höglund gave him a questioning look, but he shook his head and felt his self-loathing grow.
At 6 p.m. that evening, there was still no trace of Logård, Fredman or his sister. They had discussed at length whether to put out a nationwide alert for the Fredmans. Everyone was reluctant to do so. The risk that something would happen to Louise was too great. Åkeson agreed. They kept waiting.
Just after 6 p.m. Hoover took his sister to the house he had chosen. He parked the moped on the beach side. He quickly picked the lock on the gate to the garden. Wetterstedt’s villa was deserted. They walked up the path to the main door. Suddenly he stopped and held Louise back. There was a car in the garage. It hadn’t been there this morning. He carefully pushed Louise down to sit on a rock behind the garage wall. He took out an axe and listened. He walked forward and looked at the car. It belonged to a security company. One of the front windows was open. He peered inside. There were some papers lying on the seat. He picked them up and saw that there was a receipt among them, made out to Hans Logård. He put it back and stood still, holding his breath. The drums started to pound. He remembered the conversation he had heard that morning. Hans Logård was on the run too.
So he’d had the same idea about the empty house. He was somewhere inside. Geronimo had not failed him. He had helped him track the monster to his lair. He didn’t have to search any further. The cold darkness that had penetrated his sister’s soul would soon be gone. He went back to her and told her to stay there for a while, and keep as quiet as she could. He would be back very soon.
He went into the garage. There were some cans of paint, and he opened two of them carefully. With his fingertip he drew two lines across his forehead. One red line, then a black one. He picked up his axe and took off his shoes. Just as he was about to leave he had an idea. He held his breath again, which he had learned from Geronimo. Compressed air in the lungs made thoughts clearer. He knew that his idea was a good one. It would make everything easier. Tonight he would bury the last of the scalps outside the hospital window alongside the others. There would be two of them. And he would bury a heart. Then it would be all over. In the last hole he would bury his weapons. He gripped the axe handle and started walking towards the house and the man he was to kill.
At 6.30 p.m. Wallander suggested to Hansson that they could start sending people home. Everyone was exhausted. They might as well be waiting, and resting, in their own homes. They would remain on call through the night.
“So who should stay here?” asked Hansson.
“Ekholm and Höglund,” Wallander answered. “And one more. Whoever’s the least tired.”
Ludwigsson and Hamrén both stayed.
They all moved down to one end of the table instead of spreading out as usual.
“The hideout,” Wallander said. “What would be a secret and impregnable fortress? What would an insane boy who transforms himself into a lone warrior seek?”
“I think his plans must have fallen apart,” Ekholm said. “Otherwise they would have stayed in the basement room.”
“Smart animals dig extra exits,” Ludwigsson said thoughtfully.
“You mean that he might have a second hideout in reserve?”
“Maybe. In all likelihood it’s also in Malmö.”
The discussion petered out. Hamrén yawned. A phone rang down the hall and someone appeared in the doorway, saying that there was a call for Wallander. He got up, much too tired to ask who it was. It didn’t occur to him that it might be Baiba, not until he had picked up the phone in his own office. By then it was too late. But it wasn’t Baiba. It was a man who spoke with a broad Skåne accent.
“Who is this?” Wallander asked.
“Hans Logård.”
Wallander almost dropped
the receiver. “I need to meet with you. Now.”
Logård’s voice was strained, as if he was having a lot of trouble forming his words. Wallander wondered whether he was on drugs.
“Where are you?”
“First I want a guarantee that you’ll come. And that you’ll come alone.”
“You won’t get it. You nearly killed me and Sjösten.”
“God damn it! You have to come!”
The last words sounded almost like a shriek. Wallander grew cautious. “What do you want?”
“I can tell you where Stefan Fredman is. And his sister.”
“How can I be sure of that?”
“You can’t. But you should believe me.”
“I’ll come. You tell me what you know. And then we’ll bring you in.”
“All right.”
“Where are you?”
“Are you coming?”
“Yes.”
“Wetterstedt’s villa.”
A feeling that he should have thought of that possibility raced through Wallander’s mind.
“Do you have a gun?” he asked.
“The car is in the garage. The revolver is in the glove compartment. I’ll leave the door to the house open. You’ll see me when you come in the door. I’ll keep my hands in sight.”
“All right, I’m coming.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone.”
Wallander hung up, thinking feverishly. He had no intention of going alone. But he didn’t want Hansson to start organising a major strike force. Ann-Britt and Svedberg, he thought. But Svedberg was at home. He called him and told him to meet him outside the hospital in five minutes. With his service revolver. Did he have it? He did. Wallander told him briefly that they were going to arrest Logård. When Svedberg tried to ask questions, Wallander cut him off. Five minutes, he said, outside the hospital. Until then, don’t use the phone.
He unlocked a desk drawer and took out his revolver. He detested even holding it. He loaded it and tucked it in his jacket pocket, then went to the conference room and waved Höglund outside. He took her into his office and explained. They would meet in the car park right away. Wallander told her to bring her service revolver. They would take Wallander’s car. He told Hansson he was going home to shower. Hansson yawned and waved him goodbye. Svedberg was outside the hospital. He got into the back seat.