“No, I’ll drive home.”
They went down the steps to the ground floor.
“Did you read about a girl who burned herself to death in a field near here?” Wallander asked just before they said goodbye.
“Yes. Terrible story.”
“She had hitchhiked from Helsingborg,” Wallander went on. “And she was scared. I’m just wondering whether she might have had something to do with Liljegren’s fun and games. Although it’s a long shot.”
“There were rumours about Liljegren trading in girls,” said Sjosten. “Among a thousand other rumours.”
Wallander looked at him intently. “Trading girls?”
“There were rumours that Sweden was being used as a transit country for poor girls from South America, on their way to brothels in southern Europe and the former Eastern bloc countries. We’ve found a couple of girls who have managed to escape but we’ve never caught the ones running the business. And we haven’t been able to build a proper case.”
Wallander stared at Sjosten.
“And you waited until now to tell me this?”
Sjosten shook his head, surprised.
“You never asked me about this before now.”
Wallander stood stock still. The girl had started running through his head again.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I’ll stay the night.”
They took the lift back up to Sjosten’s office.
CHAPTER 33
On that lovely summer evening Wallander and Sjosten took the ferry to Helsingor on the Danish side and had dinner at a restaurant Sjosten liked. He entertained Wallander while they ate with stories about the boat he was restoring, his numerous marriages and his yet more numerous children. They didn’t begin talking about the investigation until they were having coffee. Wallander listened gratefully to Sjosten, who was a charming storyteller. He was very tired. After the excellent dinner he was feeling drowsy, but his mind was rested. Sjosten had drunk a few shots of aquavit with beer, while Wallander stuck to mineral water.
When the coffee came they exchanged roles. Sjosten listened while Wallander talked. He went over everything that had happened. He talked to Sjosten in a way that forced him to clarify things for himself as well. For the first time he let the girl who had burned herself to death serve as the prelude to the murders. It had seemed improbable to him before that her death might be connected to them. Now he admitted that it had been careless to draw this conclusion. Sjosten was an attentive listener who pounced on him whenever he was vague.
Wallander would think of that evening in Helsingor later as the point when the investigation sloughed off its skin. The pattern he thought he had discovered as he’d sat on the bench on the pier was confirmed. Gaps were filled, holes sealed; questions found their answers, or at least were formulated more clearly and arranged in order. He marched back and forth through the landscape of the case and for the first time felt that he had an overview. But he also had a nagging, guilty feeling that he should have seen it all sooner, that he had been sidetracked, instead of realising that he must go in an entirely different direction. Although he avoided mentioning it to Sjosten, there was one question always on his mind. Could any of the murders have been prevented? Or at least the last one — if it was the last one — Liljegren’s? He couldn’t help but ask. And he knew that it would haunt him for a very long time; maybe he’d never get an answer that he could live with.
The problem was that they didn’t have a suspect, not even a group of people among whom they could cast their net. Nor were there any solid clues that led in a specific direction.
Earlier in the day, when Sjosten had mentioned in passing that it was suspected that Sweden, and especially Helsingborg, served as a transit point for girls destined for brothels, Wallander’s reaction had been immediate. Sjosten was amazed at Wallander’s sudden burst of energy. Without thinking, Wallander had sat down behind the desk, so Sjosten had to take the visitor’s chair in his own office. Wallander told him all he knew about Dolores Maria Santana, that she seemed to be running away when she hitchhiked from Helsingborg.
“A black car came once a week to Gustaf Wetterstedt’s house,” Wallander said. “By chance the housekeeper noticed it. She thought she might recognise the car in Liljegren’s garage. What conclusion can you draw from that?”
“None,” said Sjosten. “There are plenty of black Mercedes with tinted windows.”
“Put it together with the rumours about Liljegren. The rumours of the trade in girls. Is there anything that would prevent him from having parties somewhere else besides his house? Why couldn’t he also run a home delivery service?”
“No reason at all,” said Sjosten. “But there doesn’t seem to be any basis for believing it.”
“I want to know whether that car left Liljegren’s house on Thursdays,” said Wallander. “And came back on Fridays.”
“How can we find that out?”
“There are neighbours. Who drove the car? There seems to be such a vacuum around Liljegren. He had personal employees. He had an assistant. Where are all these people?”
“We’re working on that,” said Sjosten.
“Let’s set our priorities,” said Wallander. “The motorcycle is important. Liljegren’s assistant is too. And the car on Thursdays. Start there. Assign all your available people to look into these areas.”
Sjosten went to set this in train. He told Wallander when he came back that the surveillance of Elisabeth Carlen had begun.
“What’s she doing?”
“She’s in her flat,” Sjosten said. “Alone.”
Wallander called Ystad and talked to Akeson.
“I must talk with Louise Fredman now,” he said.
“You’ll have to come up with a strong case for doing so,” Akeson said, “or I can’t help you.”
“It might be crucial.”
“It has to be something concrete, Kurt.”
“There’s always a way round this bureaucratic crap.”
“What do you think she can tell you?”
“Whether she ever had the soles of her feet cut with a knife, for instance.”
“Good Lord. Why would that have happened to her?”
Wallander didn’t feel like telling him.
“Can’t her mother give me permission?” he said. “Fredman’s widow?”
“That’s what I was wondering,” said Akeson. “That’s the way we’ll have to proceed.”
“I’ll drive to Malmo tomorrow,” Wallander said. “Do I need any kind of papers from you?”
“Not if she gives you her permission,” said Akeson. “But you mustn’t put pressure on her.”
“Do I do that?” Wallander asked, surprised. “I didn’t realise.”
“I’m just telling you the rules. That’s all.”
Sjosten had suggested they take a ferry across to Denmark and have dinner, so they could talk, and Wallander had agreed. It was still too early to call Baiba. Maybe not too early for her, but certainly too early for him. It occurred to him that Sjosten, with all his marriages behind him, might be able to give him some advice on how to present his dilemma to Baiba. They took the ferry across the Sound, with Wallander wishing the journey was longer. They had dinner, which Sjosten insisted on paying for. Then they strolled back through Helsingor towards the terminal. Sjosten stopped at a doorway.
“In here lives a man who appreciates Swedes,” he said, smiling.
Wallander read on a brass plate that a doctor had his practice here.
“He writes prescriptions for diet drugs that are banned in Sweden,” said Sjosten. “Every day there’s a long line of overweight Swedes outside.”
They were on their way up the stairs to the terminal when Sjosten’s mobile phone rang. He kept walking as he listened.
“That was Larsson, one of my colleagues. He’s found what may be a real gold mine,” Sjosten said, putting away his phone. “A neighbour of Liljegren’s who saw a number of things.”
“What did he see?
”
“Black cars, motorcycles. We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
“We’ll talk to him tonight,” Wallander said. “It’ll only be 10 p.m. by the time we get back to Helsingborg.”
Sjosten nodded without replying. Then he called the station and asked Larsson to meet them at the terminal. The young police officer waiting for them reminded Wallander of Martinsson. They got into his car and drove to Tagaborg. Wallander noticed a banner from the local football team hanging from his rear-view mirror. Larsson filled them in.
“His name is Lennart Heineman, and he’s a retired diplomat,” he said, in a Skane accent so broad that Wallander had to strain to understand him. “He’s almost 80, but quite sharp. His wife seems to be away. Heineman’s garden is just across from the main entrance to Liljegren’s grounds. He’s observed a number of things.”
“Does he know we’re coming?” asked Sjosten.
“I called,” said Larsson. “He said it was fine. He says he rarely goes to bed before 3 a.m. He told me he was writing a critical study of the Swedish foreign office’s administration.”
Wallander remembered with distaste an officious woman from the foreign office who had visited them in Ystad some years earlier, in connection with the investigation that led him to Latvia to meet Baiba. He tried to think of her name. Something to do with roses. He pushed the thought aside as they pulled up outside Heineman’s house. A police car was parked outside Liljegren’s villa across the street. A tall man with short white hair came walking towards them. He had a firm handshake, and Wallander trusted him instantly. The handsome villa he ushered them into was from the same period as Liljegren’s, but this house had an air of vitality about it, a reflection of the energetic old man who lived there. He asked them to have a seat and offered them a drink. They all declined. Wallander sensed that he was used to receiving people he hadn’t met before.
“Terrible things going on,” said Heineman.
Sjosten gave Wallander an almost imperceptible nod to lead the interview.
“That’s why we couldn’t postpone this conversation until tomorrow,” Wallander replied.
“Why postpone it?” said Heineman. “I’ve never understood why Swedes go to bed so early. The continental habit of taking a siesta is much healthier. If I’d gone to bed early I’d have been dead long ago.”
Wallander pondered Heineman’s strong criticism of Swedish bed-time hours for a moment.
“We’re interested in any observations you may have made of the traffic in and out of Liljegren’s villa,” he said. “But there are some things that are of particular interest to us. Let’s begin by asking about Liljegren’s black Mercedes.”
“He must have had at least two,” said Heineman.
Wallander was surprised at the answer. He hadn’t imagined more than one car, even though Liljegren’s big garage could have held two or three.
“What makes you think he had more than one?”
“I don’t just think so,” said Heineman, “I know. Sometimes two cars left the house at the same time. Or returned at the same time. When Liljegren was away the cars remained here. From my upper floor I can see part of his grounds. There were two cars over there.”
One is missing, Wallander thought. Where is it now?
Sjosten took out a notebook.
“Can you recall whether one or perhaps both cars regularly left Liljegren’s villa late in the afternoon or evening on Thursdays?” Wallander said. “And returned during the night or in the next morning?”
“I’m not much for remembering dates,” said Heineman. “But it’s true that one of the cars used to leave the villa in the evening. And return the next morning.”
“It’s crucial that we ascertain that it was on Thursdays,” Wallander said.
“My wife and I have never observed the idiotic Swedish tradition of eating pea soup on Thursdays,” Heineman said. Wallander waited while Heineman tried to remember. Larsson sat looking at the ceiling, and Sjosten tapped his notebook lightly on one knee.
“It’s possible,” said Heineman all of a sudden. “Perhaps I can piece together an answer. I recall definitely that my wife’s sister was here on one occasion last year when the car left on one of its regular trips. Why I’m so certain of this I don’t know. But I’m positive. She lives in Bonn and doesn’t visit very often.”
“Why do you think it was a Thursday?” asked Wallander. “Did you write it down on the calendar?”
“I’ve never had much use for calendars,” Heineman said with distaste. “In all my years at the foreign office I never wrote down a single meeting. But during 40 years of service I never missed one either, unlike people who did nothing but write notes on their calendars.”
“Why Thursday?” Wallander repeated.
“I don’t know whether it was a Thursday,” said Heineman. “But it was my wife’s sister’s name day. I know that for sure. Her name is Frida.”
“What month?” asked Wallander.
“February or March.”
Wallander patted his jacket pocket. His pocket calendar didn’t have the previous year in it. Sjosten shook his head. Larsson couldn’t help.
“Might there be an old calendar somewhere in the house?” asked Wallander.
“It’s possible that one of the grandchildren’s Christmas calendars is still in the attic,” Heineman said. “My wife has the bad habit of saving a lot of old junk. I’m the opposite. Also a trait I picked up at the ministry. On the first day of each month I threw out everything that didn’t need to be saved from the previous one. My rule was, better to throw out too much than too little. I never missed a thing I had discarded.”
Wallander turned to Larsson. “Call and find out what day is the name day for Frida,” he said. “And what day of the week it was in 1993.”
“Who would know that?” Larsson asked.
“Damn it,” said Sjosten. “Call the station. You have five minutes to get the answer.”
“There’s a telephone in the hall,” said Heineman.
Larsson left the room.
“I must say that I appreciate it when clear orders are given,” Heineman said contentedly. “That ability seems to have been lost.”
To fill in time, Sjosten asked where Heineman had been stationed abroad. It turned out that he had been posted to many places.
“It got better towards the end,” he said. “But when I started my career, the people who were sent overseas to represent this country were often of a deplorably low calibre.”
When Larsson reappeared, almost ten minutes had passed. He was holding a piece of paper.
“Frida has her name day on February 17th,” he said. “In 1993 it fell on a Thursday.”
Police work was just a matter of refusing to give up until a crucial detail was confirmed in writing, Wallander thought.
He decided to ask Heineman the other questions he had for him later, but for appearances’ sake he raised a few more queries: whether Heineman had observed that anything could have indicated a “possible traffic in girls” as Wallander chose to describe it.
“There were parties,” Heineman said stiffly. “From our top floor, seeing into some of the rooms was unavoidable. Of course there were women involved.”
“Did you ever meet Ake Liljegren?”
“Yes,” replied Heineman, “I met him once in Madrid. It was during one of my last years as an active member of the foreign office. He had requested introductions to some large Spanish construction companies. We knew quite well who Liljegren was, of course. His shell company scam was in full swing. We treated him as politely as we could, but he was not a pleasant man to deal with.”
“Why not?”
Heineman paused for a moment. “To put it bluntly, he was disagreeable. He treated everyone around him with undisguised contempt.”
Wallander brought the interview to an end.
“My colleagues will be contacting you again,” he said, getting to his feet.
Heineman followed them to the gate. T
he police car opposite was still there. The house was dark. After saying goodbye to Heineman, Wallander went across the street. One of the officers in the car got out and saluted. Wallander raised his hand in response to the exaggerated deference.
“Anything going on?” he asked.
“All’s calm here. A few curiosity-seekers is about it.”
Larsson dropped them off at the station. Wallander started by calling Hansson, who told him that Ludwigsson and Hamren from the National Criminal Bureau had arrived. He had put them up at the Hotel Sekelgarden.
“They seem to be good men,” said Hansson. “Not at all as arrogant as I feared.”
“Why would they have been arrogant?”
“Stockholmers,” said Hansson. “You know how they are. Don’t you remember that prosecutor who filled in for Per? What was her name? Bodin?”
“Brolin,” said Wallander. “But I don’t remember her.”
In fact Wallander remembered quite well. Embarrassment crept over him when he recalled totally losing control when drunk and making a pass at her. It was one of the things he was most ashamed of. And it didn’t help that she had later spent the night with him in Copenhagen.
“They’re going to start working the airport tomorrow,” said Hansson.
Wallander told him what had happened at Heineman’s house.
“So we’ve got a break,” said Hansson. “So you think that Liljegren sent a prostitute to Wetterstedt in Ystad once a week?”
“I do.”
“Could it have been going on with Carlman too?”
“Maybe not in the same way. But I should think that Carlman’s and Liljegren’s circles have overlapped. We still don’t know where.”
“And Fredman?”
“He’s the exception. He doesn’t fit in anywhere. Least of all in Liljegren’s circles. Unless he was one of his enforcers. I’m going to go back to Malmo tomorrow to talk to his family. I especially want to meet his daughter.”
“Akeson told me about your conversation. You’ll have to tread carefully. We don’t want it to end as badly as your meeting with Erika Carlman, do we?”
“Of course not.”
“I’ll get hold of Hoglund and Svedberg tonight,” Hansson said. “You’ve finally found a real lead.”
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