Firewall

by Henning Mankell

  There were many gaps. Landahl may not have been the driver and he may not have been Hökberg's killer, but he was definitely under suspicion. They needed to speak to him in a hurry.

  The computer was an even bigger mystery. If Landahl had not erased what was on it, then someone else did. And how could they account for the hidden diskette?

  After a few minutes he came up with a third alternative. Landahl did erase everything on his computer, but someone else also came in later to make sure he had done so.

  Wallander turned to a fresh page on his notepad and wrote a list of names:

  Lundberg, Hökberg and Persson.

  Tynnes Falk.

  Jonas Landahl.

  There was a connection between all of these people. But there was still no satisfactory motive for any of the crimes. We are still looking for common ground, Wallander thought. We haven't found it yet.

  He was interrupted in his thoughts by Martinsson.

  "Modin has started his day already," he said. "He insisted on being picked up at 6 a.m. He's a strange bird. He brought his own food with him today. Some funny-looking herbal teas and even funnier rusks. Made from organic ingredients in Bornholm. He also brought a Walkman with him, claiming he works best when he listens to music. I looked at his tapes. Here are the names." He took a slip of paper out of his pocket. "Handel's Messiah, Verdi's Requiem. What does that tell you?"

  "That Modin has good taste in music."

  Wallander told Martinsson about the phone calls with Nyberg and Höglund and the fact that they could now be fairly sure that Hökberg had been driven in Landahl's car.

  "It may not have been her last car journey, though," Martinsson said.

  "I think for now we'll assume it was. We'll also assume that that's why Landahl decided to get away."

  "So we put out an alert for him?"

  "Yes. Can you arrange it with the prosecutor?"

  Martinsson made a face. "Can't Hansson take care of it?"

  "He's not in yet."

  "Where the hell is he?"

  "Someone said he went up to Växjö."

  "Why?"

  "That's where Persson's alcoholic father is supposed to be."

  "And is that really a priority? Speaking to her father?"

  Wallander shrugged. "I can't be the only authority on what to prioritise."

  Martinsson got up. "I'll talk to Viktorsson, and I'll also see what I can dig up on Landahl. As long as the computers are up."

  Wallander detained him for a moment. "What do we know about these groups?" he asked. "These – what do you call them – eco-terrorists?"

  "Hansson compares them to motorcycle gangs, since they break into labs and sabotage animal experiments."

  "Is that fair?"

  "When was Hansson fair?"

  "I thought most of these groups espoused non-violence? Isn't it called civil disobedience? Has that gone out of style?"

  "As far as I know, most of the time they're non-violent."

  "And Falk was involved in this."

  "Don't forget that he may not have been murdered."

  "But Hökberg was, and so was Lundberg."

  "Doesn't that just tell us that we don't have a clue about what's going on?"

  "How about Modin – do you think he's going to get anywhere?"

  "It's hard to say. I hope so."

  "And he still claims the number 20 is important?"

  "Yes. He's sure of that now. I only understand about half of what he says, but even that much is persuasive."

  Wallander looked at his calendar. "It's October 14 today. That means we have a week left."

  "If the 20 refers to a date. We don't know that."

  Wallander thought of something else. "Have Sydkraft come up with anything else? They must have finished their internal investigation by now. How could the break-in occur? Why was the gate broken and not the inner door?"

  "Hansson is in charge of that. He said that Sydkraft have taken the whole thing very seriously and he expects to see a number of heads roll."

  "I wonder if we have taken it seriously enough ourselves," Wallander said thoughtfully. "And how did Falk manage to get a hold of the blueprint? And why?"

  "Everything is so complicated," Martinsson said. "Naturally we can't dismiss the idea of sabotage. The step from releasing minks to cutting power is perhaps not so great. Not if someone is a fanatic."

  Wallander felt his anxiety tighten its grip.

  "This thing with the number 20 worries me," he said. "What if it really does stand for October 20? What will happen then?"

  "It worries me too," Martinsson said. "But I don't have any answers for you."

  Martinsson left the room and Wallander devoted the next two hours to catching up on paperwork and trying to make a dent in the piles that had built up on his desk. The whole time he was searching for a clue he might have overlooked. But he didn't think of anything new.

  Later that afternoon they had a meeting. Martinsson had talked to Viktorsson, and Landahl was now officially wanted by the police. The alert had gone out internationally as well. The Polish authorities had responded very quickly and confirmed that Jonas Landahl had entered the country on the day that his neighbour saw him leave Snappehanegatan in a taxi. They had no confirmation as yet of any departure, but something told Wallander that Poland was not where he was.

  Nyberg had gone over the car again and sent a number of plastic bags with fibre and hair samples for further analysis. They would not be able to confirm the fact that Hökberg had been in the car until the results came back. The question of the car sparked a heated discussion between Martinsson and Höglund. If Hökberg and Landahl had been going out it would have been natural for her to have been in the car, but that wouldn't prove if it was the car that had taken her to the power substation on the last day of her life or not.

  Wallander waited while they argued back and forth. Neither one was right. Both were tired. Finally the discussion died down of its own accord. Hansson talked about his trip to Växjö, which had been as meaningless as Wallander had suspected. He had also taken a wrong turning on the highway, delaying him even further. By the time he located Persson's father he turned out to be incapably drunk and hadn't been able to give Hansson any interesting information. He had burst into tears each time he said his daughter's name and talked despondently of her future. Hansson had got away as soon as he decently could.

  There was no information as yet on the Mercedes van that they were still looking for. Wallander had received a fax from the American Express office in Hong Kong confirming that there was no-one by the name of Fu Cheng at the address indicated on the card. Modin was still wrestling with Falk's computer. After a long and, in Wallander's opinion, unnecessary discussion they decided to wait yet another day before bringing in the computer experts of the National Police.

  By 6 p.m. they were exhausted. Wallander looked around at the pale and tired faces at the table. The only thing he could do now was let everyone go home. They would meet again at 8 a.m. the following day. Wallander kept working after the meeting was over but at 8.30 p.m. even he went home. He ate the leftovers of his spaghetti dinner and lay down on his bed to read a book. It was an account of Napoleon's military campaigns and it was incredibly boring. He soon fell asleep with the book open beside him.

  The phone rang. At first he didn't know where he was or what time it was. He answered. It was someone from the station.

  "One of the ferries approaching Ystad has just contacted us," said the policeman on night duty.

  "What's happened?"

  "One of the axles for the propellers started malfunctioning and when they located the problem they called us immediately."

  "Yes?"

  "There was a dead body in the engine room."

  Wallander caught his breath. "Where's the ferry?"

  "It's half an hour from land."

  "I'm going right down."

  "Should I notify anyone else?"

  Wallander thought for a mome
nt.

  "Call Martinsson and Hansson. And Nyberg. We'll meet at the terminal."

  "Anything else?"

  "Call Chief Holgersson."

  "She's at a police conference in Copenhagen."

  "I don't care. Call her."

  "What should I tell her?"

  "That a suspected murderer is on his way back from Poland. But that unfortunately he's coming back dead."

  That ended the conversation. Wallander knew that he need to spend no more time worrying about where Jonas Landahl was. Twenty minutes later he met his colleagues by the ferry terminal and waited for the large ship to dock.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  As Wallander was climbing down the steep companion-way into the engine room he had a strong sense of descending into an inferno. The ferry was docked and the noise from below had died down to an even hum, but he still felt as though there were a hell down there waiting for him. Two white-faced engineers and an equally pale first mate had greeted them and escorted them to the engine room. They had managed to communicate that the body waiting for their inspection in the oily water below had been massacred beyond the point of recognition. Someone, perhaps Martinsson, said that the pathologist was on her way. A fire engine with a rescue crew was on the dockside.

  Despite his misgivings, Wallander wanted to be the first to go down. Martinsson was glad to let him. Hansson was still not there. Wallander asked Martinsson to take charge of recording the events surrounding the discovery of the body and asked him to send Hansson below as soon as he arrived.

  Then Wallander set off, closely followed by Nyberg. The technician who had discovered the body accompanied them. Once they had reached the lowest deck, he directed them to the stern. Wallander was astonished by the sheer bulk, the space. Finally the technician stopped at another companionway and pointed into the abyss. Wallander started down. While they were still on the ladder, Nyberg stepped on his hand. Wallander cursed from the pain and almost lost his grip. He managed to catch himself. Then they had made it all the way down and there, under one of the two large oily propeller shafts, was the body.

  The engineers had not exaggerated. Wallander thought that what he was looking at was no longer human. It was as if a freshly slaughtered animal carcass had been thrown in there. Nyberg groaned. Wallander thought he hissed something about his retirement. Wallander was surprised not to feel the slightest bit queasy. He had been forced to endure so many terrible sights during his career. Car accidents. The remains of people who had died at home and not been discovered for months. But this was among the worst he had experienced. There had been a photograph of Landahl in his bedroom. Now Wallander tried to gauge if this body belonged to the young person he had assumed it must be. But the face was almost completely gone. In its place was a bloody lump without any features.

  The boy in the photograph had been blond. The head in front of him, almost completely severed from the body, had only a few tufts of hair that were not matted with oil. They looked fair. That was enough for Wallander, although it didn't prove anything. He stepped aside so that Nyberg could take a closer look. Then Dr Bexell arrived, accompanied by two rescue workers.

  "How in the hell did he end up down here?" Nyberg said.

  Even though the engine was idling at low speed he had to shout to make himself heard. Wallander shook his head without answering. He felt an almost violent urge to get out of there, to escape this hell as quickly as possible. If only to be able to think clearly. He left Nyberg, the pathologist and the rescue workers and climbed the ladder. He made it all the way up to the deck, walked into the fresh air and took some deep breaths. Martinsson turned up from somewhere and asked him how it was.

  "Worse than you can imagine."

  "Was it Landahl?"

  They hadn't talked openly about this possibility until now, but clearly it had been in Martinsson's mind too.

  "It's impossible to be sure," Wallander said. "But I believe it's him."

  Then he tried to muster his organisational skills. Martinsson had found out that the ferry was not scheduled to leave again until the following morning. That would give them enough time to finish the forensic investigation and remove the body.

  "I've asked for a list of passengers," Martinsson said. "But there was no record of a Jonas Landahl, not for this trip."

  "But he was on board today," Wallander said firmly. "Whether or not he appears on the list. He may have used a different name. We'll need a printout of that list and the names of all the crew. Then we'll see if there isn't a name that looks familiar or is a version of Landahl."

  "You're ruling out the possibility that it was an accident?"

  "Oh yes," Wallander said. "It's about as much of an accident as what happened to Hökberg. And it's the same people."

  He asked if Hansson had arrived. Martinsson said he was taking statements from the engineers.

  The ferry seemed completely deserted. A small cleaning crew was working on the broad staircase that connected the different levels of the ship. Wallander directed Martinsson into the large cafeteria. There wasn't a single person to be seen, but there were noises coming from the kitchen. Through the portholes they saw the lights of Ystad.

  "See if you can get hold of some coffee," he said. "We need to talk."

  Martinsson walked into the galley. Wallander sat down. What did it mean that Landahl was dead? He was slowly coming up with two different theories that he wanted to discuss with Martinsson.

  A man in a uniform appeared at his side. "Why haven't you disembarked?" he said.

  Wallander looked at the man, who had a long beard and a ruddy complexion. There were several gold stripes on his epaulettes. This is a large ferry, he thought. Not everyone knows about what happened down in the engine room.

  "I'm a police officer," Wallander said. "Who are you?"

  "I'm third mate on this ship."

  "That's good," Wallander said. "Go and have a word with your captain or the first mate and they'll put you in the picture."

  The man hesitated, but then seemed to make up his mind that Wallander was telling the truth and was not a lingering passenger to be dealt with. He hurried away just as Martinsson came out of the galley with a tray.

  "They were eating," he said when he sat down. "They hadn't heard anything about what happened, though they had of course noticed that the ferry cut back on power for part of the trip."

  "The third mate came to toss me ashore," Wallander said. "He didn't know anything either."

  "Have we made a big mistake?"

  "In what way?"

  "Shouldn't we have detained everyone for a while? At least until we could have checked the names on the list and all the cars."

  Martinsson was right, but that kind of an operation would have required more manpower than they could possibly have mustered at short notice. Wallander also doubted that they would have had any results.

  "Maybe," he said. "But we should focus on the situation as it is."