Sidetracked kw-5

by Henning Mankell

  “No doubt it’ll start raining as soon as we catch the killer,” he said. “What does a weather god care about a simple policeman when there’s a serial killer on the loose?”

  Wallander muttered something in reply, but he did not discount the possibility that there might be some grim truth in Noren’s words.

  He went in to see Hansson, who seemed now to spend all his time at the station, weighed down by anxiety. His face was as grey as concrete. He was shaving with an ancient electric razor. His shirt was wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot.

  “You’ve got to try and get a few hours’ sleep once in a while,” said Wallander. “Your responsibility isn’t any greater than anyone else’s.”

  Hansson turned off the shaver and gloomily observed the result in a pocket mirror.

  “I took a sleeping pill yesterday,” he said. “But I still didn’t get any sleep. All I got was a headache.”

  Wallander looked at Hansson in silence. He felt sorry for him. Being chief had never been one of Hansson’s dreams.

  “I’m going back to Malmo,” he said. “I want to talk to the members of Fredman’s family again. Especially the ones who weren’t there yesterday.”

  Hansson gave him a quizzical look.

  “Are you going to interrogate a four-year-old boy? That’s not legally permitted.”

  “I was thinking of the daughter,” said Wallander. “She’s 17. And I don’t intend to ‘interrogate’ anyone.”

  Hansson nodded and got up slowly. He pointed to a book lying open on the desk.

  “I got this from Ekholm,” he said. “Behavioural science based on a number of case studies of serial killers. It’s unbelievable the things people will do if they’re sufficiently deranged.”

  “Is there anything about scalping?” asked Wallander.

  “That’s one of the milder forms of trophy collecting. If you only knew the things that have been found in people’s homes, it would make you sick.”

  “I feel sick enough already,” said Wallander. “I’ll leave the rest to my imagination.”

  “Ordinary human beings,” said Hansson in dismay. “Completely normal on the surface. Underneath, mentally ill beasts of prey. A man in France, the foreman of a coal depot, used to cut open the stomachs of his victims and stick his head inside to try and suffocate himself. That’s one example.”

  “That’ll do,” said Wallander, trying to discourage him.

  “Ekholm wanted me to give you the book when I’ve read it,” said Hansson.

  “I bet he did,” said Wallander. “But I really don’t have the time. Or the inclination.”

  Wallander made himself a sandwich in the canteen and took it with him. As he ate it in the car, he wondered whether he should call Linda. But he decided not to. It was still too early.

  He arrived in Malmo at around 8.30 a.m. The summer calm had already started to descend on the countryside. The traffic on the roads that intersected the motorway into Malmo was lighter than usual. He headed towards Rosengard and pulled up outside the block of flats he had visited the day before. He turned off the engine, wondering why he had come back so soon. They had decided to investigate Bjorn Fredman’s life. Besides, it was necessary that he meet the absent daughter. The little boy was less important.

  He found a dirty petrol receipt in the glove compartment and took out a pen. To his great irritation he saw that it had leaked ink around the breast pocket where he kept it. The spot was half the size of his hand. On the white shirt it looked as if he’d been shot through the heart. The shirt was almost new. Baiba had bought it for him at Christmas after she’d been through his wardrobe and cleaned out the old, worn-out clothes.

  His immediate impulse was to return to Ystad and go back to bed. He didn’t know how many shirts he’d had to throw away because he forgot to cap the pen properly before he put it in his pocket. Perhaps he should go and buy a new shirt. But he’d have to wait at least an hour until the shops opened, so he decided against it. He tossed the leaking pen out the window and then looked for another one in the messy glove compartment. He wrote down some key words on the back of the receipt. BF’s friends. Then and now. Unexpected events. He crumpled up the note and was just about to stuff it in his breast pocket when he stopped himself. He got out of the car and took off his jacket. The ink from his shirt pocket hadn’t reached the jacket lining. He went into the building and pushed open the lift door. The broken glass was still there. He got out on the fifth floor and rang the doorbell. There was no sound from inside the flat. Maybe they were still asleep. He waited more than a minute. Then he rang again. The door opened. It was the boy, Stefan. He seemed surprised to see Wallander. He smiled, but his eyes were wary.

  “I hope I haven’t come too early,” said Wallander. “I should have called first, of course. But I was in Malmo anyway. I thought I’d pop in.”

  It was a flimsy lie, but it was the best he could come up with. The boy let him into the hall. He was dressed in a cut-off T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He was barefoot.

  “I’m here by myself,” he said. “My mother went out with my little brother. They were going to Copenhagen.”

  “It’s a great day for a trip to Copenhagen,” said Wallander warmly.

  “Yes, she likes going there a lot. To get away from it all.”

  His words echoed disconsolately in the hall. Wallander thought the boy had sounded strangely unmoved last time when he mentioned the death of his father. They went into the living-room. Wallander laid his jacket on a chair and pointed at the ink spot.

  “This happens all the time,” he said.

  “It never happens to me,” said the boy, smiling. “I can make some coffee if you want.”

  “No thanks.”

  They sat down at opposite ends of the table. A blanket and pillow on the sofa indicated that someone had slept there. Wallander glimpsed the neck of an empty wine bottle under a chair. The boy noticed at once that he had seen it. His attention didn’t flag for an instant. Wallander hastily asked himself whether he had the right to question a minor about his father’s death without a relative present. But he didn’t want to pass up this opportunity. And the boy was incredibly mature for 14. Wallander felt as though he was talking to someone his own age. Even Linda, who was several years older, seemed childish in comparison.

  “What are you going to do this summer?” asked Wallander. “We’ve got fine weather.”

  The boy smiled. “I’ve got plenty to do,” he replied.

  Wallander waited for more, but he didn’t continue.

  “What class are you going to be in this autumn?”

  “Eighth.”

  “Is school going well?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your favourite subject?”

  “None of them. But maths is the easiest. We’ve started a club to study numerology.”

  “I’m not sure I know what that is.”

  “The Holy Trinity. The seven lean years. Trying to predict your future by combining the numbers in your life.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “It is.”

  Wallander could feel himself becoming fascinated by the boy sitting across from him. His strong body contrasted sharply with his childish face, but there was obviously nothing wrong with his mind.

  Wallander took the crumpled gas receipt out of his jacket. His house keys dropped out of the pocket. He put them back and sat down again.

  “I have a few questions,” he said. “But this is not an interrogation, by any means. If you want to wait until your mother comes home, just say so.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll answer if I can.”

  “Your sister,” said Wallander. “When is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The boy looked at him. The question didn’t seem to bother him. He had answered without hesitation. Wallander began to wonder if he had been mistaken the day before.

  “I assume that you’re in contact with her? That you know where she
is?”

  “She just took off. It’s not the first time. She’ll come home when she feels like it.”

  “I hope you understand that I think that sounds a little unusual.”

  “Not for us.”

  Wallander was convinced that the boy knew where his sister was. But he wouldn’t be able to force an answer out of him. Nor could he disregard the possibility that the girl was so upset that she really had run away.

  “Isn’t it true that she’s in Copenhagen?” he asked cautiously. “And that your mother went there today to see her?”

  “She went over to buy some shoes.”

  Wallander nodded. “Well, let’s talk about something else,” he went on. “You’ve had time to think now. Do you have any idea who might have killed your father?”

  “No.”

  “Do you agree with your mother, that a lot of people might have wanted to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why’s that?”

  For the first time it seemed as though the boy’s polite exterior was about to crack. He replied with unexpected vehemence.

  “My father was an evil man,” he said. “He lost the right to live a long time ago.”

  Wallander was shaken. How could a young person be so full of hatred?

  “That’s not something you ought to say,” he replied. “That a person has lost his right to live. No matter what he did.”

  The boy was unmoved.

  “What did he do that was so bad?” Wallander asked. “Lots of people are thieves. Lots of them sell stolen goods. They don’t have to be monsters because of that.”

  “He scared us.”

  “How’d he do that?”

  “We were all afraid of him.”

  “Even you?”

  “Yes. But not for the past year.”

  “Why not?”

  “The fear went away.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She was scared.”

  “Your brother?”

  “He’d run and hide when he thought Dad was coming home.”

  “Your sister?”

  “She was more afraid than any of us.”

  Wallander heard an almost imperceptible shift in the boy’s voice. There had been an instant of hesitation, he was sure of it.

  “Why?” he asked cautiously.

  “She was the most sensitive.”

  Wallander quickly decided to take a chance.

  “Did your Dad touch her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do. But he never touched her.”

  There it is, thought Wallander, and tried to avoid revealing his reaction. He may have abused his own daughter. Maybe the younger brother too. Maybe even Stefan. Wallander didn’t want to go any further. The question of where the sister was and what may have been done to her was something he didn’t want to deal with alone. The thought of abuse upset him.

  “Did your Dad have any good friends?” he asked.

  “He hung around with a lot of people. But whether any of them were real friends, I don’t know.”

  “Who do you think that I should talk to?”

  The boy smiled involuntarily but then regained his composure at once.

  “Peter Hjelm,” he replied.

  Wallander wrote down the name.

  “Why did you smile?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know Peter Hjelm?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He’s in the phone book under ‘Handyman’. He lives on Kungsgatan.”

  “How did they know each other?”

  “They used to drink together. I know that. What else they did, I can’t say.”

  Wallander looked around the room. “Did your Dad have any of his things here in the flat?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Not a thing.”

  Wallander stuffed the paper into his trouser pocket. He had no more questions.

  “What’s it like to be a policeman?” the boy asked.

  Wallander could tell that he was really interested. His eyes gleamed.

  “It’s a little of this, a little of that,” said Wallander, unsure of what he thought about his profession at that moment.

  “What’s it like to catch a murderer?”

  “Cold and grey and miserable,” he replied, thinking with distaste of all the TV shows the boy must have seen.

  “What are you going to do when you catch the person who killed my Dad?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wallander. “That depends.”

  “He must be dangerous. Since he’s already killed several other people.”

  Wallander found the boy’s curiosity annoying.

  “We’ll catch him,” he said firmly, to put an end to the conversation. “Sooner or later we’ll catch him.”

  He got up from the chair and asked where the bathroom was. The boy pointed to a door in the hall leading to the bedroom. Wallander closed the door behind him. He looked at his face in the mirror. What he needed most was some sunshine. After he’d had a pee he opened the medicine cabinet. There were a few bottles of pills in it. One of them had Louise Fredman’s name on it. He saw that she was born on November 9th. He memorised the name of the medicine and the doctor who had prescribed it. Saroten. He had never heard of this drug before. He would have to look it up when he got back to Ystad.

  In the living-room the boy was sitting in the same position. Wallander wondered whether he was normal after all. His precociousness and self-control made a strange impression. But then Stefan turned towards him and smiled, and for a moment the wariness in his eyes seemed to vanish. Wallander pushed away the thought, and picked up his jacket.

  “I’ll be calling you again,” he said. “Don’t forget to tell your mother that I was here. It would be good if you told her what we talked about.”

  “Can I come and visit you some time?” asked the boy.

  Wallander was surprised by the question. It was like having a ball tossed at you and not being able to catch it.

  “You mean you want to come to the station in Ystad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course,” said Wallander. “But call ahead of time. I’m often out. And sometimes it’s not convenient.”

  Wallander went out to the landing and pressed the lift button. They nodded to each other. The boy closed the door. Wallander rode down and walked out into the sunshine.

  It had turned into the hottest day yet. He stood for a moment, enjoying the heat, deciding what to do next, then drove down to the Malmo police station. Forsfalt was in. Wallander told him about his talk with the boy. He gave Forsfalt the name of the doctor, Gunnar Bergdahl, and asked him to get hold of him as soon as possible. Then he told him about his suspicions that Fredman might have abused his daughter and possibly the two boys as well. Forsfalt couldn’t recall that allegations of that nature had ever been directed at Fredman, but he promised to look into the matter.

  Wallander moved on to Peter Hjelm. Forsfalt told him that he was a man who resembled Bjorn Fredman in many ways. He’d been in and out of prison. Once he was arrested with Fredman for taking part in a joint fencing operation. Forsfalt was of the opinion that Hjelm was the one who supplied the stolen goods, and Fredman then resold them. Wallander wondered whether Forsfalt would mind if he talked to Hjelm alone.

  “I’m happy to get out of it,” said Forsfalt.

  Wallander looked up Hjelm’s address in Forsfalt’s phone book. He also gave Forsfalt his mobile number. They decided to have lunch together. Forsfalt hoped that by then he would have copied all the material the Malmo police had on Bjorn Fredman.

  Wallander left his car outside the station and walked towards Kungsgatan. He went into a clothing shop and bought a shirt, which he put on. Reluctantly he threw away the ruined one Baiba had given him. He went back out into the sunshine. For a few minutes he sat on a bench. Then he
walked over to the building where Hjelm lived. The door had an entry code, but Wallander was lucky. After a few minutes an elderly man came out with his dog. Wallander gave him a friendly nod and stepped in the main door. He saw that Hjelm lived on the fourth floor. Just as he was about to open the lift door, his phone rang. It was Forsfalt.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “I’m standing outside the lift in Hjelm’s building.”

  “I was hoping you hadn’t got there yet.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “I got hold of the doctor. We know each other. I’d totally forgotten about it.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Something he probably shouldn’t have. I promised I wouldn’t mention his name. So you can’t either.”

  “I promise.”

  “He thought that the person we’re talking about — I won’t mention the name since we’re on mobile phones — was admitted to a psychiatric clinic.”

  Wallander held his breath.

  “That explains why she left,” he said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Forsfalt. “She’s been there for three years.”

  Wallander stood there in silence. Someone pressed the button for the lift and it rumbled upwards.

  “We’ll talk later,” Forsfalt said. “Good luck with Hjelm.”

  He hung up. Wallander thought for a long time about what he had just heard. Then he started up the stairs to the fourth floor.

  CHAPTER 25

  Wallander knew that he’d heard the music coming from Hjelm’s flat before. He listened with one ear pressed against the door, and remembered that Linda had played it, and that the band was called the Grateful Dead. He rang the doorbell and took a step back. The music was very loud. He rang again, and then banged hard on the door. Finally the music was turned down. He heard footsteps and then the door was opened wide, and Wallander took a step back so as not to be hit in the face. The man who opened it was completely naked. Wallander also saw that he was under the influence of something. His large body was swaying imperceptibly. Wallander introduced himself and showed his badge. The man didn’t bother looking at it. He kept staring at Wallander.