Sidetracked kw-5

by Henning Mankell

  Svedberg got up and opened a window. Martinsson yawned loudly.

  “I know we’re all tired,” said Wallander. “But we have to carry on. Try to grab some sleep when you get a chance.”

  There was a knock on the door. An officer handed over an atlas. They set it on the table and found the Dominican Republic and the city of Santiago.

  “We’ll have to deal with this girl later,” said Wallander. “We can’t worry about it now.”

  “I’ll send a reply,” said Martinsson. “And ask for more information about her disappearance.”

  “How did she end up here?” muttered Wallander.

  “The message from Interpol gives her age as 17,” said Martinsson. “And her height as about 160 centimetres.”

  “Send them a description of the medallion,” said Wallander. “If the father can identify it, the case is closed.”

  They left the conference room. Martinsson went home to talk to his family and cancel their holiday. Svedberg went down to the basement and took a shower. Hansson vanished down the hall to organise the press conference. Wallander followed Hoglund into her office.

  “Do you think we’ll catch him?” she asked gravely.

  “I don’t know,” said Wallander. “We have a lead that seems solid. This isn’t an offender who simply kills anyone who gets in his way. He’s after something. The scalps are his trophies.”

  She sat down in her chair as Wallander leaned against the doorframe.

  “Why do people take trophies?” she asked.

  “So they can brag about them.”

  “To themselves or to others?”

  “Both.”

  Suddenly he realised why she had asked about the trophies.

  “You think that he took these scalps so he could show them to somebody?”

  “It can’t be ruled out,” she said.

  “No,” said Wallander, “it can’t be ruled out. Nothing can.”

  He was just about to leave the room, but turned around.

  “Will you call Stockholm?” he asked.

  “It’s Midsummer Day,” she said. “I don’t think they’ll be on duty.”

  “You’ll have to call someone at home,” said Wallander. “Since we don’t know whether he’s going to strike again, we’ve got no time to lose.”

  Wallander went to his own office and sat down heavily in the visitor’s chair. One of its legs creaked precariously. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.

  He woke up with a start when someone entered the room. He glanced at his watch and saw that he’d been asleep for almost an hour. He still had a headache, but he wasn’t quite so tired.

  It was Nyberg. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was standing on end.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said apologetically.

  “I was just dozing,” said Wallander. “Have you got any news?”

  Nyberg shook his head.

  “All I can come up with is that the person who killed Carlman must have had his clothes drenched with blood. Subject to the forensic examination, I think we can assume that the blow came from directly overhead. That would mean that the person holding the axe was standing quite close.”

  “Are you sure it was an axe?”

  “No,” said Nyberg. “It could have been a heavy sabre. Or something else. But Carlman’s head was split like a log.”

  Wallander felt sick.

  “All right, then,” he said. “So the killer got his clothes covered with blood. Someone might have seen him. And that clears all of the guests.”

  “We looked along the hedge,” said Nyberg. “We searched all the way along the rape field and up towards that hill. The farmer who owns the fields around Carlman’s farmhouse came and asked whether he could harvest the rape. I said that he could.”

  “A wise decision,” said Wallander. “Isn’t it late already?”

  “I think so,” said Nyberg. “It’s Midsummer, after all.”

  “What about the hill?” asked Wallander.

  “The grass was trampled down. At one spot it looked as if some-one had been sitting there. We took samples of the grass and the soil.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think that old bicycle is of any interest to us,” said Nyberg.

  “The police dog lost the scent. Why?”

  “You’ll have to ask the officer about that,” said Nyberg. “But it could be that another smell is so strong that the dog loses the scent he was originally following. There are plenty of reasons why trails suddenly stop.”

  “Go home and get some sleep,” said Wallander. “You look exhausted.”

  “I am,” said Nyberg.

  After Nyberg left, Wallander went into the canteen and fixed himself a sandwich. A girl from the front desk came and gave him a pile of messages. He leafed through them and saw that reporters were calling. He knew he ought to go home and change his clothes, but instead he decided to do something entirely different. He knocked on the door of Hansson’s office and told him he was driving out to Carlman’s farm.

  “I said we’d talk to the press at one o’clock,” said Hansson.

  “I’ll be back by then,” replied Wallander. “But unless something crucial happens, I don’t want anyone to look for me. I need to think.”

  “And everybody needs to get some sleep,” said Hansson. “I never imagined we’d wind up in such a nightmare.”

  “It always happens when you least expect it,” said Wallander.

  He drove out towards Bjaresjo in the beautiful summer morning, the windows rolled down. He ought to visit his father today. And call Linda too. Tomorrow Baiba would be back in Riga after her trip to Tallinn. In less than two weeks his holiday should be starting.

  He parked the car by the cordon surrounding Carlman’s farm. Small groups of people had gathered on the road. Wallander nodded to the officer guarding the cordon. Then he walked around the garden and followed the dirt road up towards the hill. He stood at the spot where the dog had lost the scent and looked around.

  He had chosen the hill with care. From here he could see everything going on in the garden. He also must have been able to hear the music coming from inside the barn. Late in the evening the crowd in the garden thinned out. The guests had all said that everyone went indoors. At about 11.30 p.m. Carlman came walking towards the arbour with Madelaine Rhedin. Then what did you do?

  Wallander didn’t try to answer the question. Instead he turned around and looked down the other side of the hill. At the bottom there were tractor tracks. He followed the grassy slope until he reached the road. In one direction the tractor tracks led into a wood, and in the other down towards a road to the motorway to Malmo and Ystad. Wallander followed the tracks towards the woods. He walked under a clump of tall beech trees. The sunshine shimmered through the foliage. He could smell the earth. The tractor tracks stopped at a site where some newly felled trees were stacked.

  Wallander searched in vain for a path. He tried to picture the roads. Anyone wanting to reach the motorway from the woods would have to pass two houses and several fields. The motorway was about two kilometres away. He retraced his steps and continued in the opposite direction. After almost a kilometre he came to the place where the road reached the E65.

  By the side of the road was a road workers’ hut, which was locked. He stood there and looked around. Then he went around to the back, finding a folded tarpaulin and a couple of iron pipes. Something was lying on the ground. He bent down and saw that it was a piece torn from a brown paper bag. It had some dark spots on it. Carefully he placed the piece of paper back on the ground. He looked underneath the hut, which was raised on four concrete blocks, and saw the rest of the paper bag. He reached in and pulled it out. There were no spots on the bag itself. He stood motionless, thinking. Then he put down the bag and called the station. He got hold of Martinsson, who had just got back.

  “I need Eskilsson and his dog,” said Wallander.

  “Where are you? D
id something happen?”

  “I’m out by Carlman’s farm,” replied Wallander. “I just want to make sure of one thing.”

  After a short while Eskilsson arrived with his dog. Wallander explained what he wanted.

  “Go over to the hill where the dog lost the scent,” he said. “Then come back here.”

  Eskilsson left. After about ten minutes he returned. Wallander saw that the dog had stopped searching. But just as he reached the hut he reacted. Eskilsson gave Wallander a questioning look.

  “Let him go,” said Wallander.

  The dog went straight for the piece of paper and halted. But when Eskilsson tried to get him to continue his search he quickly gave up. The scent had disappeared again.

  “Is it blood?” asked Eskilsson, pointing at the piece of torn paper.

  “I think so,” said Wallander “At any rate, we’ve found something associated with the man who was up on the hill.”

  Eskilsson left with his dog. Wallander was just about to call Nyberg when he found that he had a plastic bag in one pocket. Carefully he deposited the piece of paper in it.

  It couldn’t have taken you more than a few minutes to get here from Carlman’s farm. Presumably there was a bicycle here. You changed clothes since you had blood all over them. But you also wiped an object. Maybe a knife or an axe. Then you took off, either towards Malmo or Ystad. You probably crossed the motorway and chose one of the many small roads that criss-cross this area. I can follow you this far right now. But no further.

  Wallander walked back to Carlman’s farm. He asked the officer guarding the cordon whether the family was still there.

  “I haven’t seen anybody,” he said. “But no-one has left the house.”

  Wallander nodded and walked to his car. There was a crowd of onlookers standing outside the cordon. Wallander glanced at them hastily and wondered what kind of people would give up a summer morning for the opportunity to smell blood.

  He didn’t realise until he drove off that he had seen something important. He slowed down and tried to remember what it was.

  It had something to do with the people who were standing outside the cordon. What was it he had thought? Something about people sacrificing a summer morning?

  He braked and made a U-turn in the middle of the road. When he got back to Carlman’s house the onlookers were still there outside the cordon. Wallander looked around without finding any explanation for his reaction. He asked the officer whether anyone had just left.

  “Maybe. People come and go all the time.”

  “Nobody special that you recall?”

  The officer thought for a moment. “No.”

  Wallander went back to his car.

  It was 9.10 a.m. on the morning of Midsummer Day.

  CHAPTER 13

  When Wallander got back to the station, the girl in reception told him he had a visitor waiting in his office. Wallander lost his temper and shouted at the girl, a summer intern, that no-one, no matter who it was, was to be allowed into his office. He stormed down the hall and threw open the door, coming face to face with his father, sitting in the visitor’s chair.

  “The way you tear open doors,” said his father. “Somebody might think you were in a rage.”

  “All they told me was that someone was waiting in my office,” said Wallander, astonished. “Not that it was you.”

  Wallander’s father had never visited him at work. When he was a young officer, his father had even refused to let him into the house in uniform. But now here he was, wearing his best suit.

  “I’m surprised,” said Wallander. “Who drove you here?”

  “My wife has both a driver’s licence and a car,” replied his father. “She went to see one of her relatives while I came here. Did you see the game last night?”

  “No. I was working.”

  “It was great. I remember the way it was back in ’58, when the World Cup was held in Sweden.”

  “But you were never interested in football, were you?”

  “I’ve always liked football.”

  Wallander stared at him in surprise.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot of things you don’t know. In 1958 Sweden had a defender named Sven Axbom. He was having big problems with one of Brazil’s wingers, as I recall. Have you forgotten about that?”

  “How old was I in 1958? I was a baby.”

  “You never were much for playing football. Maybe that’s why you became a policeman.”

  “I bet that Russia would win,” said Wallander.

  “That’s not hard to believe,” said his father. “I bet 2–0 myself. Gertrud, on the other hand, was cautious. She thought it would be 1–1.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” asked Wallander.

  “Yes, please.”

  In the hall Wallander ran into Hansson.

  “Will you see to it that I’m not disturbed for the next half hour?” he said.

  Hansson gave him a worried look.

  “I absolutely must speak with you.”

  Hansson’s formal manner irritated Wallander.

  “In half an hour,” he repeated. “Then we’ll talk as much as you like.”

  He went back to his room and closed the door. His father took the plastic cup in both hands. Wallander sat down behind the desk.

  “I never thought I’d see you in the station,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have to,” his father replied.

  Wallander set his plastic cup on the desk. He should have known straight away that it must be something very important for his father to visit him here.

  “What’s happened?” Wallander asked.

  “Nothing, except that I’m sick,” replied his father simply.

  Wallander felt a knot in his stomach.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I’m starting to lose my mind,” his father went on calmly. “It’s a disease with a name I can’t remember. It’s like getting senile. But it can make you angry at everything. And it can progress very fast.”

  Wallander knew what his father meant. Svedberg’s mother was stricken with it. But he couldn’t remember the name either.

  “How do you know?” he asked. “Have you been to the doctor? Why didn’t you say something before now?”

  “I’ve even been to a specialist, in Lund,” said his father. “Gertrud drove me there.”

  Wallander didn’t know what to say.

  “Actually, I came here to ask you something,” his father said, looking at him.

  The telephone rang. Wallander put the receiver on the desk.

  “I’ve got time to wait,” said his father.

  “I told them I didn’t want to be disturbed. So tell me what it is you want.”

  “I’ve always dreamed of going to Italy,” his father said. “Before it’s too late, I’d like to take a trip there. And I thought you might come with me. Gertrud doesn’t have any interest in Italy. I don’t think she wants to go. I’ll pay for the whole thing. I’ve got the money.”

  Wallander looked at his father. He seemed small and shrunken sitting there in the chair. At that moment he suddenly looked his age. Almost 80.

  “Of course, let’s go to Italy,” said Wallander. “When did you have in mind?”

  “It’s probably best that we don’t wait too long. Apparently it’s not too hot in September. But will you have time then?”

  “I can take a week off any time. Or did you want longer than that?”

  “A week would be fine.”

  His father leaned forward, put down the coffee cup, and stood up.

  “Well, I won’t bother you any longer,” he said. “I’ll wait for Gertrud outside.”

  “You can wait here,” said Wallander.

  His father waved his cane at him.

  “You’ve got a lot to do,” he said. “I’ll wait outside.”

  Wallander accompanied him out to reception, where his father sat down on a sofa.

>   “I don’t want you to wait with me,” said his father. “Gertrud will be here soon.”

  Wallander nodded.

  “We’ll go to Italy together,” he said. “And I’ll come out and see you as soon as I can.”

  “The trip might be fun,” said his father. “You never know.”

  Wallander left him and went over to the girl at the front desk.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was quite right of you to let my father wait in my office.”

  He went back to his room, tears welling in his eyes. Even though his relationship with his father was strained, coloured by guilt, he felt a great sorrow. He stood by the window and looked out at the beautiful summer weather.

  There was a time when we were so close that nothing could come between us, he thought. That was back when the silk knights, as we called them, used to come in their shiny American cars that we called land yachts and buy your paintings. Even then you talked about going to Italy. Another time, only a few years ago, you actually set off. I found you, dressed in pyjamas, with a suitcase in your hand in the middle of a field. And now we have to make that trip. I won’t allow anything to stop us.

  Wallander returned to his desk and called his sister in Stockholm. The answer machine informed him that she wouldn’t be back until that evening.

  It took him a long while to push aside his father’s visit and collect his thoughts. He couldn’t seem to accept that what his father had told him was true.

  After talking to Hansson he made an extensive review of the investigation. Just before 11 a.m. he called Per Akeson at home and gave him an update. Then he drove over to Mariagatan, took a shower, and changed his clothes. By midday he was back at the station. On the way to his room he stopped to see Ann-Britt Hoglund. He told her about the paper he’d found behind the road workers’ hut.

  “Did you get hold of the psychologists in Stockholm?” he asked.

  “I found a man named Roland Moller,” she said. “He was at his summer house outside Vaxholm. But Hansson must make a formal request as acting chief.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “He’s done it.”

  “Good,” said Wallander. “Now, something else. Do criminals return to the scene of the crime?”