Firewall

by Henning Mankell

  "I dreamed about going to sea when I was younger," Martinsson said.

  "Me too," Wallander said. "Doesn't everyone?"

  Then he dived right in. "We have to come up with an interpretation," he said. "We had begun to suspect that Landahl was the one who drove Hökberg to the power substation and then killed her there. And that that was why he later ran away from Snappehanegatan. Now he, too, is killed. The question is simply how does this change the picture?"

  "You remain convinced that it couldn't have been an accident?"

  "Is that what you think it was?"

  Martinsson shifted slightly.

  "As I see it, there are two conclusions that can be drawn," Wallander said. "The first is that Landahl did kill Hökberg for some reason that we still don't know, although we suspect it has to do with keeping something quiet. Next, Landahl takes off to Poland. Whether he is driven by panic or pursuing a deliberate plan, we don't know. But then he is killed, possibly as a kind of revenge. Perhaps because he in turn has become a liability for someone else."

  Wallander paused but Martinsson didn't say anything. Wallander continued.

  "The other possibility is that an unknown person killed first Hökberg and now Landahl."

  "How does that account for Landahl's quick getaway?"

  "When he found out what happened to Hökberg he was scared. He fled, but someone caught up with him."

  Martinsson nodded. It seemed to Wallander that they were thinking along the same tracks now.

  "Sabotage and death," Martinsson said. "Hökberg's body is used to cause a huge blackout in Skåne. Then Landahl's body is thrown down into the propeller shafts of the Poland ferry."

  "Do you remember what we talked about a little while ago?" Wallander said. "We put it this way: first the minks were released, then there was the blackout and now a murder on the ferry. What's next?"

  Martinsson shook his head despondently. "It doesn't make sense," he said. "I can understand releasing the minks, that a group of animal rights activists plan and execute that task. I can perhaps even see some logic to the blackout – someone wants to demonstrate the crucial weaknesses built into our society. But what would be the point of causing chaos in the engine room of a ferry?"

  "It's like a game of dominoes. If one piece falls, the rest will follow suit. The first piece to fall was Falk."

  "What about Lundberg? How do you fit his killing into your scheme of things?"

  "That's just the problem. I can't get it to fit and therefore I've started thinking something else."

  "That Lundberg's death is incidental to the rest of the events?"

  Martinsson could think quickly when he tried.

  "Do you mean that we should separate these two sequences of events? Even though Hökberg figures so prominently in both?"

  "That's just it," Wallander said. "What if her role in the sequence of events is much less important than we have thought?"

  At that moment Hansson came into the cafeteria. He cast a longing glance at their coffee. Right behind him was a grey-haired, pleasant-looking man with many stripes on his epaulettes. He turned out to be the captain. Wallander got to his feet and introduced himself. When Captain Sund spoke, it was clear he was not from Skåne.

  "Terrible things," he said.

  "No-one has seen anything," Hansson said. "Even though you would think someone would have noticed the victim on his way down to the engine room."

  "So there are no witnesses?"

  "I spoke to the two engineers who were on duty on the trip over from Poland. Neither one of them saw anything."

  "And the doors to the engine room aren't locked?" Wallander asked.

  "Our security measures don't allow it. But they are clearly marked with signs that say 'No entry'. Everyone who works in the area knows to keep an eye out for stray passengers. Sometimes, when people have had a bit too much to drink, they wander. But I never thought anything like this could happen."

  "I take it that all the passengers are gone by now," Wallander said. "Is there by any chance a car that hasn't been claimed?"

  Sund sent out a message on the radio in his hand. A crew member down on the car deck answered.

  "All vehicles have been claimed," Sund said. "The car hold is completely empty."

  "What about the cabins? Is there any unclaimed luggage?"

  Sund went off in search of an answer. Hansson sat down. Wallander noted that Hansson had been unusually careful in his questioning of the crew.

  When the ferry left Swinoujscie the captain had estimated that the trip to Ystad would take about seven hours. Wallander asked if any of the engineers could pinpoint a time when the body must have slipped into the axles. Could it have happened even before the ferry left Poland? Hansson had thought to ask this question and could report that yes, the body could indeed have been there at the very start of the trip.

  There wasn't much to add. No-one had seen anything unusual, let alone noticed Landahl. There had been 200 or so passengers on board, most of them Polish truckers. There had been a delegation from the Swedish cement industry, returning from an investment conference.

  "We need to know if Landahl was travelling alone or with someone," Wallander said when Hansson finished. "That's important. Plus, we need a photograph of him. Then someone will have to take the boat there and back tomorrow and see if anyone recognises him."

  "I hope that someone isn't me," Hansson said. "I get seasick."

  "Find someone else," Wallander said. "What I need you to do right now is go up to Snappehanegatan and get that photograph. Check with the boy who works in the hardware shop that it's a decent likeness."

  "You mean Ryss?"

  "That's the one. He must have bumped into his successor at some point."

  "The ferry leaves at 6 a.m. tomorrow."

  "So you'll have to take care of all this by then," Wallander said patiently.

  Hansson set off. Wallander and Martinsson remained in the cafeteria for a while longer. Dr Bexell came in after a while and sat down with them. She looked far from well.

  "I've never seen anything like this," she said. "First a young woman's body burned by God knows how many millions of volts, and now this."

  "Can you confirm that the victim is a young man?" Wallander said.

  "Yes, it's a young man."

  "Can you give us a cause of death? A time?"

  "Of course not. You saw what kind of shape he was in. The boy was completely mangled. One of the rescue workers was as sick as a cat. And I don't blame him."

  "Is Nyberg still there?"

  "I think so."

  Dr Bexell left. Captain Sund still had not returned. Martinsson's mobile started to vibrate. It was Holgersson calling from Copenhagen. Martinsson stretched the phone out to Wallander, but he shook his head.

  "You talk to her."

  "What should I tell her?"

  "Tell her the facts. What else?"

  Wallander got up and started pacing up and down the empty cafeteria. Landahl's death had closed an avenue that had seemed promising. But what kept working its way to the forefront of his mind was the idea that his death might have been avoided, if it was that Landahl had fled not because he was the killer but because he was frightened of someone else, who was.

  Wallander chastised himself. He hadn't been thinking clearly enough. He had simply jumped to the easiest conclusion without keeping other theories in mind. And now Landahl was dead.

  Martinsson finished his conversation and put his phone away. Wallander returned.

  "I don't think she was 100 per cent sober, to tell you the truth," he said.

  "She's at a police conference," Wallander said. "But at least now she knows what our evening has been like."

  Captain Sund returned.

  "There is one bag that was left behind in one of the cabins," he said.

  Wallander and Martinsson got up as one from their chairs. They followed the captain through a myriad of corridors until they came to a cabin with a woman wearing the compan
y uniform posted outside. She was Polish and spoke poor Swedish.

  "According to our records this cabin was booked by a passenger called Jonasson."

  Wallander and Martinsson exchanged glances.

  "Is there anyone who can give us a description of him?"

  It turned out that the captain spoke excellent Polish. He translated the question for the woman who listened and then shook her head.

  "Did he share the cabin with anyone?"

  "No."

  Wallander went in. The cabin was narrow and window-less. Wallander shuddered at the thought of having to spend a stormy night in such quarters. On the bed that was attached to the wall there was a small suitcase with wheels. Martinsson handed him a pair of rubber gloves which he put on. He opened the case. It was empty. They searched the room for about ten minutes but without results.

  "Nyberg will have to take a look in here," Wallander said when they had given up. "And the taxi driver who took Landahl to the ferry might be able to identify the bag."

  Wallander went back out into the corridor. Martinsson made arrangements for the cabin to be kept out of bounds until further notice. Wallander looked at the doors to the cabins on either side. There were used sheets and towels outside each one. The numbers on the doors were 309 and 311.

  "Try to find out who was in the cabins on either side," Wallander said. "They may have heard something or even seen someone come or go."

  Martinsson wrote it down in his notebook, then started speaking in English to the Polish woman. Wallander had often been envious of Martinsson's proficiency in that language. Wallander spoke it badly. Linda had often teased him about his poor pronunciation, especially when they travelled together. Captain Sund escorted Wallander back to the upper deck.

  It was almost midnight.

  "Would it be in order for me to offer refreshments of a stronger nature after this ordeal?" Sund said.

  "Unfortunately not," Wallander said.

  A call came through on Sund's radio. He excused himself. Wallander was glad to be left alone. His conscience kept gnawing at him. Would Landahl have had a chance if Wallander had made different assumptions from the beginning? He knew that he would just have to live with his conscience on this score.

  Martinsson joined him after 20 minutes.

  "There was a Norwegian called Larsen in room 309. He's probably on the road to Norway as we speak, but I have his home number. In 311, there was a couple who live in Ystad, a Mr and Mrs Tomander."

  "Talk to them first thing in the morning," Wallander said. "That may give us something."

  "I saw Nyberg on the way up, by the way. He was covered in oil up to his waist. But he promised to take a look at the cabin once he had put on clean clothes."

  "I don't know that we can do much else tonight," Wallander said.

  They walked together through the deserted ferry terminal where a few young men were sleeping curled up on benches. The ticket office was closed. They stopped when they reached Wallander's car.

  "We have to go through everything again tomorrow morning," Wallander said. "At 8 a.m."

  Martinsson studied his face. "You seem nervous."

  "That's because I am. I'm always nervous when I don't understand what's going on."

  "How is the internal investigation going?"

  "I haven't heard anything. No journalists have tried to call either, but that may be because I keep my phone unplugged most of the time."

  "It's too bad when these things happen," Martinsson said.

  Wallander sensed a double meaning in his words. He was on his guard immediately, and angry.

  "What does that mean exactly?"

  "Isn't it what we're always afraid of? That we're going to lose control and start lashing out at people?"

  "I slapped her. End of story. I did it to protect her mother."

  "I know," Martinsson said. "But still."

  He doesn't believe me, Wallander thought after he sat down behind the wheel. Maybe no-one does. The insight came as a shock. He had never before felt truly betrayed or at least abandoned by his closest colleagues. He sat there without turning on the engine. The feeling even overshadowed the image of the young man crushed in the propeller shaft.

  For the second time in a week he felt hurt and bitter. I'm leaving, he thought. I'll hand in my resignation first thing in the morning and then they can shove this whole investigation up their backsides.

  He was still upset when he got home. In his mind he continued a heated discussion with Martinsson. It was a long time before he fell asleep.

  They met at 8 a.m. the next day. Viktorsson joined them, and Nyberg, who had oil under his fingernails still. Wallander was in a better mood this morning. He was not going to resign, nor would he confront Martinsson. First he would wait for the results of the internal investigation. Then he would wait for the right moment to tell his colleagues what he thought of them and their lack of faith in him.

  They talked at length about the discovery of last night. Martinsson had already spoken to Mr and Mrs Tomander, but neither of them had seen or heard anything from the next-door cabin. The Norwegian, Larsen, had not yet reached home, but his wife assured Martinsson he would be back by mid-morning.

  Wallander set out his two theories regarding Landahl and no-one had any quarrel with them. The discussion proceeded calmly and methodically, but Wallander sensed that beneath the surface everyone was impatient to get on with their own jobs.

  When they finished, Wallander had decided to concentrate his energies on Falk. He was more than ever convinced that everything started with him. Lundberg's murder had to be put on one side for now and its exact connection with the rest of the events remained to be determined. The questions Wallander kept returning to were very simple. What dark forces had been set in motion when Falk had died during his late-night walk? Had he died from natural causes? Wallander spent the next few hours calling the coroner's office in Lund and talking again to the pathologist who had performed the autopsy on Falk. He called Enander again, Falk's doctor who had visited Wallander at the police station. As before, there was no consensus. But by lunchtime, when Wallander was suffering acute pangs of hunger, he was convinced that Falk had died a natural death. No crime had been committed, but this sudden death in front of a cash machine had set a certain course of events in motion.

  Wallander pulled over a sheet of paper and wrote the following words: Falk. Minks. Angola. He looked at what he had written, then added: 20. The words formed an impenetrable matrix. What was it that he was unable to perceive?

  To assuage his sense of irritation and impatience, he left the station and took a walk. He stopped at a pizzeria for his lunch. Then he returned to his office and stayed there until 5 p.m. He was on the verge of giving up. He couldn't see a motive or logic behind any of the events. He was about to get a cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was Martinsson.

  "I'm at Runnerströms Torg," he said. "We've done it at last."

  "What?"

  "Modin got through. He's in. And there are some strange happenings on the screen."