Firewall

by Henning Mankell

  "I'm going to take off now. But we have a meeting at 8 a.m."

  Nyberg muttered something unintelligible. Wallander took that to mean he would be there. Then he returned to the car where Martinsson was making notes.

  "We're going," he said. "You'll have to take me home."

  They returned to Ystad in silence. When Wallander got back to his flat he ran a bath. While the bath was filling up he swallowed the last of his painkillers and added them to the list on the kitchen table. He wondered, helplessly, when he would next be able to stop at the chemist's.

  His body thawed out in the warm water. He dozed off for a while, his mind a blank, but then the images returned. Sonja Hökberg and Eva Persson. Slowly he rehearsed the events. He proceeded steadily so as not to forget anything. Nothing made any sense. Why had Lundberg been killed? What had motivated Hökberg and made Persson go along with it? He was sure it wasn't a random impulse. They needed the money for something very particular, or else it was all about something entirely different.

  There had only been about 30 kronor in the handbag that they had found at the substation. The money from the robbery had been confiscated by the police.

  She ran away, he thought. Suddenly she sees a chance to get away. It's 10 a.m. Nothing could have been planned in advance. She leaves the police station and disappears for 13 hours until her body is found 8 kilometres from Ystad.

  How did she get there? he thought. She could have hitchhiked. But she could also have called someone to come and pick her up. And then what? Does she ask to be driven to a spot where she commits suicide? Or is she murdered? And who has access to the keys that open the door, but not the ones for the gates?

  Wallander got out of the bath. There are two central questions, he thought. If she had decided to commit suicide, why pick the substation, and how did she get the keys? And if she was murdered, then why? And by whom?

  Wallander crawled into bed and pulled up the sheets. It was 4.30 a.m. His head was spinning and he was too tired to think. He had to sleep. Before turning out the light he set his alarm clock. He then pushed the clock as far away from his bed as possible, so he would be forced to get out of bed to turn it off.

  When he woke up he felt as if he had only been sleeping for a couple of minutes. He tried to swallow. His throat was still sore, but it seemed better than the day before. He felt his forehead. The fever was gone, but he was congested. He walked to the bathroom and blew his nose, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. His whole body ached with fatigue. While he was waiting for the water for his coffee, he looked out of the window. It was still windy, but the rain clouds were gone. It was 5°C. He wondered, vaguely, when he would ever have time to do anything about his car.

  They met in one of the conference rooms at the station a little after 8 a.m. Wallander looked at Martinsson and Hansson's tired faces and wondered what his own face must be like. Holgersson, however, who also could not have slept many hours, seemed undimmed. She called the meeting to order.

  "We need to be perfectly clear about the fact that last night's power cut was one of the most serious ever to have hit Skåne. That displays the extent of our vulnerability. What happened should have been impossible, but happened anyway. Now the authorities, power companies and law enforcement will have to discuss how security can be stepped up. This is just by way of introduction."

  She nodded to Wallander to carry on. He gave a brief summary of the events.

  "In other words, we don't know what happened," he said finally. "We don't know if it was an accident, suicide or murder, although we can reasonably rule out an accident. Either she was alone or she had someone with her who had broken through the outside gates. After that they apparently had access to keys. The whole thing is bizarre to say the least."

  He looked round at the others gathered around the table. Martinsson reported that several police cars had on different occasions driven along the road to the power substation while they were looking for Hökberg.

  "Then we know this much," Wallander said. "Someone drove her there. Were there any car tracks found?"

  He directed that question to Nyberg who sat at the other end of the table with bloodshot eyes and wild hair. Wallander knew how much he was looking forward to his retirement.

  "Apart from our own cars and that of Andersson, we found tracks belonging to two other vehicles. But there was a hell of a rainstorm last night and the impressions weren't too clear."

  "But two other cars had been there?"

  "Andersson seemed to think one of them could have belonged to his colleague, Moberg. We're still checking that."

  "That leaves one set of tracks unaccounted for?"

  "Yes."

  Ann-Britt Höglund, who hadn't said anything up to this point, now raised her hand.

  "Could it really be anything other than murder?" she said. "Like all of you, I don't see Hökberg committing suicide. And even if she had decided to end her life, I can't imagine she would have chosen to burn herself to death."

  Wallander was reminded of an incident that occurred a few years earlier. A young woman from somewhere in Central America had burned to death by pouring petrol all over herself in the middle of a linseed field. It was one of his most horrific memories. He had been there, he had seen the girl set light to herself, and he had not been able to do anything about it.

  "Women take pills," Höglund was saying. "Women rarely shoot themselves. And I don't think they would throw themselves on a power line."

  "I think you're right," Wallander said. "But we have to wait for the pathologist's report. None of us who were out there last night was able to determine what happened."

  There were no other questions.

  "The keys," Wallander said. "We need to make sure none of the keys were stolen. That's the first thing we need to establish."

  Martinsson volunteered to check on the keys. They ended the meeting and Wallander went to his office, collecting a cup of coffee on his way there. The telephone was ringing. It was Irene from reception.

  "There's someone here to see you," she said.

  "Who is it?"

  "His name is Enander and he's a doctor."

  Wallander searched his mind without being able to come up with a face. "Send him to someone else."

  "I've tried that, but he insists on speaking to you. And he says it's urgent."

  Wallander sighed. "I'll be right out," he said and put the phone down.

  The man in reception was middle-aged, he had cropped hair and was dressed in a tracksuit. Wallander noted his firm handshake. He said his name was David Enander.

  "I'm very busy," Wallander said. "The power cut last night has created a good deal of chaos. I can only spare a few minutes. What is it you wanted to see me about?"

  "I'd like to clear up a misunderstanding."

  Wallander waited for him to continue, but he didn't. They walked to his office. The armrest came off the chair that Enander sat down in.

  "Don't worry about it," Wallander said. "It was broken already."

  Enander got right to the point. "I'm here about Tynnes Falk."

  "That case is closed as far as we're concerned. He died of natural causes."

  "That's the misunderstanding I wanted to raise with you," Enander said, stroking his cropped hair with one hand.

  Wallander saw he was anxious about something. "I'm listening."

  Enander took his time. He chose his words carefully. "I've been Falk's physician for many years. He became my patient in 1981, that is, 15-plus years ago. He came to me first because of a rash on his hands. I was working at that time in the skin clinic at the hospital, but I opened a private practice in 1986 and Falk followed me there. He was rarely sick, but I looked after his regular check-ups. He was a man who wanted to know the state of his health. He took great care of himself. He ate well, exercised and had very regular habits."

  Wallander wondered what Enander was driving at and was growing impatient.

  "I was away when he died," Enander said. "I
only found out last night."

  "How did you hear?"

  "His ex-wife called me."

  Wallander nodded for him to continue.

  "She said the cause of death was a massive coronary."

  "That's what we were told."

  "The thing is, that can't possibly be true."

  Wallander raised his eyebrows. "And why not?"

  "It's very simple. As little as ten days ago I did a complete physical check-up on Falk. His heart was in excellent condition. He had the stamina of a 20-year-old."

  Wallander thought this through. "So what is it you're saying? That the pathologist made a mistake?"

  "I'm aware that a heart attack can, in rare cases, strike down a perfectly healthy person. But I can't accept that this was what happened in Falk's case."

  "What else could he have died of?"

  "That I don't know. But I wanted it clear that whatever killed him it wasn't his heart."

  "I'll pass on what you've told me," Wallander said. "Was there anything else?"

  "Something must have happened," Enander said. "I don't know if I'm right about this, but I gather he had a head wound. I think he was probably attacked. Killed."

  "Nothing points to that conclusion. His wallet wasn't taken."

  "I'm neither a pathologist nor a forensic specialist, so I can't tell you what killed him," Enander said. "But it wasn't his heart. I'm sure of it."

  Wallander made a note of Enander's phone number and address. Then he got up. The conversation was over. He didn't have any more time.

  Wallander saw Enander back to reception, then returned to his office. He put the notes about Falk in a drawer and used the following hour to write up the events of the night before.

  As he typed, he thought about the fact that he had once thought of his computer with distaste. But then one day he realised that it actually made his work easier. His desk was no longer drowning in random notes jotted on odd pieces of paper. He still typed with two fingers and often made mistakes, but nowadays when he wrote up his reports he no longer had to use Tipp-Ex to remove all his mistakes. That in itself was a huge blessing.

  Martinsson came in with the list of people who had keys to the power substation. There were five altogether. Wallander glanced at the names.

  "Everyone can account for their keys," Martinsson said. "Not one of them has let them out of their possession. Apart from Moberg, no-one has been to the substation in the past few days. Should I look into what they were doing during the time that Hökberg was missing?"

  "Let's hold on that," Wallander said. "Until the forensic reports come back we can't do much except wait."

  "What should we do with Persson?"

  "She should be questioned again, more thoroughly."

  "Are you going to do that?"

  "No thanks. I thought we would leave that to Höglund. I'll put it to her."

  By noon, Wallander had brought her up to date on the Lundberg case. His throat was feeling better, but he still felt tired. He had tried, without success, to start his car and, in despair, he called a garage and asked them to collect it. He left the keys with Irene and walked into town to have lunch. At the next table, people were talking about the power cut. Afterwards he went to the chemist's and bought soap and painkillers. When he returned to the station his car was gone. He called the mechanic, but they hadn't had time to identify the problem. When he asked how much the repair was going to cost the answer was vague. He hung up and decided that enough was enough. He was going to get a new car.

  Then he let himself sink down into his thoughts. The more he thought about it the more he was convinced that Hökberg had not ended up at that substation by accident. And it was no coincidence that it was one of the most vulnerable points in Skåne's power distribution system.

  He reached for Martinsson's list. Five people, five sets of keys: Andersson, line repairman; Lars Moberg, line repairman; Hilding Olofsson, power manager; Artur Wahlund, safety manager; Stefan Molin, technical director.

  The names still told him as little as when he had first looked at them. He called Martinsson, who answered immediately.

  "These key people," he said. "You haven't by any chance looked them up in the police register, have you?"

  "Should I have?"

  "Not necessarily, but I know you're very thorough."

  "I can do it now, if you like."

  "Perhaps it's not a priority. There's nothing from the pathologist?"

  "I don't think they'll be able to give us anything until tomorrow at the earliest."

  "Then plug in the names. If you have time."

  In contrast to Wallander, Martinsson loved his computer. If anyone at the station was having a problem they always turned to him for help.

  Wallander turned back to the Lundberg murder case. At 3 p.m. he went for some coffee. He was starting to feel better; his throat was almost back to normal. Hansson told him that Höglund was talking to Persson. Everything is flowing nicely, he thought. For once we have time for everything we need to do.

  He had just sat down with his paperwork when Holgersson appeared at his door. She had one of the evening papers in her hand. Wallander could see from her face that something had happened.

  "Have you seen this?" she asked and handed him the newspaper.

  Wallander stared at the photograph. It was a picture of Eva Persson sprawled on the floor of the interrogation room. It looked as if she had fallen.

  He felt a knot form in his stomach as he read the caption: WELL-KNOWN POLICEMAN ASSAULTS TEENAGE GIRL. WE HAVE THE PICTURES.

  "Who took this picture?" Wallander said, in disbelief. "There were no journalists there, were there?"

  "There must have been."

  Wallander had a vague recollection of the door being slightly open to the corridor and there might have been a shadow of a person there.

  "It was before the press conference," Holgersson said. "Maybe one of the reporters came early and was hanging around the hallway."

  Wallander was paralysed. He had often been involved in scuffles and fist fights in his 30-year career, but that had always been during a difficult arrest. He had never jumped anyone in the middle of an interrogation, however irritated he had become.

  It had only happened once, and that once there had been a photographer present.

  "There's going to be trouble here," Holgersson said. "Why didn't you say anything?"

  "She was attacking her mother. I slapped her to keep her from hurting her mother."

  "That's not the story the picture tells."

  "That's how it was."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Wallander had no answer.

  "I hope you understand I'm forced to order an investigation into this."

  Wallander heard the disappointment in her voice. It angered him. She doesn't believe me, he thought.

  "Am I suspended?"

  "No, but I want to hear exactly what happened."

  "I've told you already."

  "Persson gave a different version to Ann-Britt. She said your assault came out of the blue."