“May I ask what was your husband’s job?”
“He was an art dealer.”
Wallander stiffened. She misconstrued his intense gaze and repeated her answer.
“I heard you,” said Wallander. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Wallander went back outside. He thought about what the woman inside had said, connecting it with what Lars Magnusson had told him about the rumours about Wetterstedt. Stories of stolen art. And now an art dealer was dead, murdered by the hand that took Wetterstedt’s life. He was about to go back inside when Ann-Britt Hoglund came around the corner of the house. She was paler than usual and very tense. Wallander remembered his early years as a detective, when he took every violent crime to heart. From the start, Rydberg had taught him that a policeman could never permit himself to identify with a victim of violence. That lesson had taken Wallander a long time to learn.
“Another one?” she asked.
“Same offender,” said Wallander. “Or offenders.”
“This one scalped too?”
“Yes.”
He saw her flinch involuntarily.
“I think I’ve found something that ties these two men together,” Wallander went on, and explained. In the meantime Svedberg and Martinsson arrived. Wallander quickly repeated what he had told Hoglund.
“You’ll have to interview the guests,” said Wallander. “If I understood Noren correctly, there are at least a hundred. And they all have to show some identification before they leave.”
Wallander went back into the house. He pulled up a chair and sat down near the sofa where the family was gathered. Besides Carlman’s widow there were two boys in their 20s and a girl a couple of years older. All of them seemed oddly calm.
“I promise that I’ll only ask questions that we absolutely must have answers to tonight,” he said. “The rest can wait.”
Silence. None of them said a word.
“Do you know who the murderer is?” Wallander asked. “Was it one of the guests?”
“Who else could it be?” replied one of the sons. He had short-cropped blond hair. Wallander had an uneasy feeling that he could see a resemblance to the mutilated face he had just examined out in the arbour.
“Is there anyone in particular that comes to mind?” Wallander continued.
The boy shook his head.
“It doesn’t seem very likely that someone would have chosen to come here when a big party was going on,” said Mrs Carlman.
Someone cold-blooded enough wouldn’t have hesitated, thought Wallander. Or someone crazy enough. Someone who doesn’t care whether he gets caught or not.
“Your husband was an art dealer,” Wallander went on. “Can you describe for me what that involves?”
“My husband has 30 galleries around the country,” she said. “He also has galleries in the other Nordic countries. He sells paintings by mail order. He rents paintings to companies. He’s responsible for a large number of art auctions each year. And much more.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“A successful man is always disliked by those who have the same ambitions but lack the talent.”
“Did your husband ever say he felt threatened?”
“No.”
Wallander looked at the children sitting on the sofa. They shook their heads almost simultaneously.
“When did you see him last?” he continued.
“I danced with him at around 10.30 p.m.,” she said. “Then I saw him a few more times. It might have been around 11 p.m. when I saw him last.”
None of the children had seen him any later than that. Wallander knew that all the other questions could wait. He put his notebook back in his pocket and stood up. He wanted to offer some words of sympathy, but couldn’t think what to say, so he just nodded and left the house.
Sweden had won the football game 3–1. Ravelli had been brilliant; Cameroon was forgotten, and Martin Dahlin’s headed goal was a work of genius. Wallander picked up fragments of conversations going on around him, and pieced them together. Hoglund and two other police officers had guessed the right score. Wallander sensed that he had solidified his position as the biggest loser. He couldn’t decide whether this annoyed or pleased him.
They worked hard and efficiently. Wallander set up his temporary headquarters in a storeroom attached to the barn. Just after 4 a.m. Hoglund came in with a young woman who spoke a distinct Goteborg dialect.
“She was the last one to see him alive,” said Hoglund. “She was with Carlman in the arbour just before midnight.”
Wallander asked her to sit down. She told him her name was Madelaine Rhedin and she was an artist.
“What were you doing in the arbour?” asked Wallander.
“Arne wanted me to sign a contract.”
“What sort of contract?”
“To sell my paintings.”
“And you signed it?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I got up and left. I looked at my watch. It was 11.57 p.m.”
“Why did you look at your watch?”
“I usually do when something important happens.”
“The contract was important?”
“I was supposed to get 200,000 kronor on Monday. For a poor artist that’s a big deal.”
“Was there anyone nearby when you were sitting in the arbour?”
“Not that I saw.”
“And when you left?”
“The garden was deserted.”
“What did Carlman do when you left?”
“He stayed there.”
“How do you know? Did you turn around?”
“He told me he was going to enjoy the fresh air. I didn’t hear him get up.”
“Did he seem uneasy?”
“No, he was cheerful.”
“Think it over,” Wallander said. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember something else. Anything might be important. I want you to keep in touch.”
When she left the room, Akeson came in from the other direction. He was totally white. He sat down heavily on the chair Madelaine Rhedin had just vacated.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“You didn’t have to look at him,” said Wallander. “That’s not why I wanted you to come.”
“I don’t know how you stand it,” said Akeson.
“Me neither,” said Wallander.
Suddenly Akeson was all business.
“Is it the same man who killed Wetterstedt?” he asked.
“Without a doubt.”
“In other words, he may strike again?”
Wallander nodded. Akeson grimaced.
“If there was ever a time to give priority to an investigation, this is it,” he said. “I assume you need more personnel, don’t you? I can pull some strings if necessary.”
“Not yet,” said Wallander. “A large number of policemen might aid the capture if we knew the killer’s name and what he looked like. But we’re not that far yet.”
He told him what Magnusson had said, and that Arne Carlman was an art dealer.
“There’s a connection,” he concluded “And that will make the work easier.”
Akeson was doubtful.
“I hope you won’t put all your eggs in one basket too early,” he said.
“I’m not closing any doors,” said Wallander. “But I have to explore every avenue I find.”
Akeson stayed for another hour before he drove back to Ystad. By 5 a.m. reporters had begun to show up at the farm. Furious, Wallander called the station and demanded that Hansson deal with them. He knew already that they wouldn’t be able to conceal the fact that Carlman had been scalped. Hansson held an improvised and exceedingly chaotic press conference on the road outside the farm. Meanwhile Martinsson, Svedberg and Hoglund herded out the guests, who all had to undergo a short interrogation. Wallander interviewed the sculptor who had discovered Carl
man’s body. He was extremely drunk.
“Why did you go out to the garden?” asked Wallander.
“To throw up.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you throw up?”
“Behind one of the apple trees.”
“Then what happened?”
“I thought I’d sit in the arbour to clear my head.”
“And then?”
“I found him.”
Wallander had been forced to stop there, because the sculptor started feeling sick again. He got up and went down to the arbour. The sky was clear, and the sun was already high. Midsummer Day would be warm and beautiful. When he reached the arbour he saw to his relief that Nyberg had covered Carlman’s head with an opaque plastic sheet. Nyberg was on his knees next to the hedge that separated the garden from the adjacent rape field.
“How’s it going?” asked Wallander encouragingly.
“There’s a slight trace of blood on the hedge here,” he said. “It couldn’t have sprayed this far from the arbour.”
“What does that mean?” asked Wallander.
“It’s your job to answer that,” replied Nyberg.
He pointed at the hedge.
“Right here it’s quite sparse,” he said. “It would have been possible for someone with a slight build to slip in and out of the garden this way. We’ll have to see what we find on the other side. But I suggest you get a dog out here. A.S.A.P.”
Wallander nodded.
The officer, named Eskilsson, arrived with his German shepherd shortly afterwards, as the last of the guests were leaving the garden. Wallander nodded to him. The dog was old and had been in service for a long time. His name was Shot.
The dog picked up a scent in the arbour at once and started towards the hedge. He wanted to push through the hedge exactly at the spot where Nyberg had found the blood. Eskilsson and Wallander found another spot where the hedge was thin and emerged onto the path that ran between Carlman’s property and the field. The dog found the scent again, following it alongside the field towards a dirt road that led away from the farm. At Wallander’s suggestion Eskilsson released the dog. Wallander felt a surge of excitement. The dog sniffed along the dirt road and came to the end of the field. Here he seemed to lose his bearings for a moment. Then he found the scent and kept following it towards a hill, where the trail seemed to end. Eskilsson searched in various directions, but the dog couldn’t find the scent again.
Wallander looked around. A single tree bent over by the wind stood on top of the hill. An old bicycle frame lay half-buried in the ground. Wallander stood next to the tree and looked at the farm in the distance. The view of the garden was excellent. With binoculars it would have been possible to see who was outside the house at any given time.
He shuddered at the thought that someone else, someone unknown to him, had stood on the same spot earlier that night. He went back to the garden. Hansson and Svedberg were sitting on the steps of the farmhouse. Their faces were grey with fatigue.
“Where’s Ann-Britt?” asked Wallander.
“She’s getting rid of the last guest,” said Svedberg.
“Martinsson? What’s he doing?”
“He’s on the phone.”
Wallander sat down next to the others on the steps. The sun was already starting to feel hot.
“We’ve got to keep at it a little longer,” he said. “When Ann-Britt is done, we’ll go back to Ystad. We have to summarise what we know and decide what to do next.”
No-one spoke. Hoglund emerged from the barn. She crouched in front of the others.
“To think that so many people can see so little,” she said wearily. “It’s beyond me.”
Eskilsson passed by with his dog. They heard Nyberg’s grumpy voice near the arbour.
Martinsson came striding around the corner of the house. He had a telephone in his hand.
“This may be irrelevant right now,” he said. “But we’ve received a message from Interpol. They have a positive identification of the girl who burned herself to death.”
Wallander looked at him quizzically.
“The girl in Salomonsson’s field?”
“Yes.”
Wallander got up.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know. But there’s a message waiting for you at the station.”
They left Bjaresjo at once and headed back to Ystad.
CHAPTER 12
Dolores Maria Santana.
It was 5.45 a.m. on Midsummer morning. Martinsson read out the message from Interpol identifying the girl.
“Where’s she from?” asked Hoglund.
“The message is from the Dominican Republic,” replied Martinsson. “It came via Madrid.”
Puzzled, he looked around the room.
Hoglund knew the answer.
“The Dominican Republic is one half of the island where Haiti is,” she said. “In the West Indies. Isn’t it called Hispaniola?”
“How the hell did she wind up here, in a rape field?” asked Wallander. “Who is she? What else did Interpol say?”
“I haven’t had time to go through the message in detail,” said Martinsson. “But it seems that her father has been looking for her, and she was reported missing in late November last year. The report was originally filed in a city called Santiago.”
“Isn’t that in Chile?” Wallander interrupted, surprised.
“This city is called Santiago de los Treinta Caballeros,” said Martinsson. “Don’t we have an atlas somewhere?”
“I’ll get one,” said Svedberg and left the room.
A few minutes later he returned, shaking his head.
“It must have been Bjork’s,” he said. “I couldn’t find it.”
“Call our bookseller and wake him up,” said Wallander. “I want an atlas here now.”
“Are you aware that it’s not even six in the morning and it’s Midsummer Day?” Svedberg asked.
“It can’t be helped. Call him. And send a car over to get it.”
Wallander took a 100-krona note out of his wallet and gave it to Svedberg. A few minutes later Svedberg had roused the bookseller and the car was on its way.
They got coffee and went into the conference room. Hansson told them that they wouldn’t be disturbed by anyone except Nyberg. Wallander took a look around the table. He met the gazes of the group of weary faces and wondered how he looked himself.
“We’ll have to come back to the girl later,” he began. “Right now we need to concentrate on what happened last night. And we might as well assume from the start that the same person who killed Gustaf Wetterstedt has struck again. The modus operandi is the same, even though Carlman was struck in the head and Wetterstedt had his spine severed. But both of them were scalped.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Svedberg. “The man who did this must be a complete animal.”
Wallander held up his hand.
“Hold on a minute,” he said. “There’s something else we know too. Arne Carlman was an art dealer. And now I’m going to tell you something I learnt yesterday.”
Wallander told them about his conversation with Lars Magnusson, and the rumours about Wetterstedt.
“So we have a conceivable link,” he concluded. “Art: stolen art and fenced art. And somewhere, when we find the point that connects the two men, we’ll find the offender.”
No-one spoke. Everyone seemed to be considering what Wallander had said.
“We know where to concentrate our investigation,” Wallander continued. “Finding the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman. But we have another problem.”
He looked around the table and could see that they understood.
“The killer could strike again,” said Wallander. “We don’t know why he killed either man. So we don’t know whether he’s after other people too. And we don’t know who they might be. The only thing we can hope for is that the people threatened are aware of it.”
“You’re right, of course,” replied Wallander. “We’re dealing with many unknowns.”
“Maybe this is just the beginning,” Hansson said grimly. “Do you think we’ve got a serial killer on our hands?”
“It could be that bad,” said Wallander firmly. “That’s why I also think we should get some help from outside, from the criminal psychiatric division in Stockholm. Since this man’s modus operandi is so remarkable, perhaps they can do a psychiatric profile of him.”
“Has this offender killed before?” asked Svedberg. “Or is this the first time?”
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “But he’s cautious. I get a feeling that he plans what he does very carefully. When he strikes he does it without hesitation. There could be at least two reasons for this. First, he doesn’t want to get caught. Second, he doesn’t want to be interrupted before he finishes what he set out to do.”
A shudder of revulsion passed through the group.
“This is where we have to start,” he said. “Where is the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman? Where do their paths cross? That’s what we have to clarify. And we have to do it as quickly as possible.”
“We should also realise that we won’t be working in peace,” said Hansson. “Reporters will be swarming around us. They know that Carlman was scalped. They have the story they’ve been longing for. For some strange reason Swedes love to read about crime when they’re on holiday.”
“That might not be such a bad thing,” said Wallander. “At least it might send a warning to anyone who might be on the hit list.”
“We ought to stress that we want clues from the public,” said Hoglund. “If we assume that you’re right, that the murderer has a list he’s working through, and that other people could realise that they’re on it, then there may be a chance that some of them have an idea of who the killer is.”
“You’re right,” said Wallander, turning to Hansson. “Call a press conference as soon as possible. We’ll tell the press everything we know. That we’re looking for a single killer. And that we need all the clues we can get.”
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