"Berit Larstam," he said. "She's 47, an unemployed social worker. She lives in Fredriksberg, wherever that is."
"That's where the weapons were stolen," Wallander said. "Maybe Larstam was visiting his sister at the time."
Martinsson waved a small piece of paper at him, then dialled the number.
Wallander felt he was no longer needed for the moment. He looked for Ebba in reception, but couldn't see her, so he returned to the conference room.
"Axel Edengren, the father, has promised to come in," Hoglund said. "I think we can expect a pompous arse who doesn't think much of the police."
"What makes you say that?"
"He lectured me at length about how incompetent we were. I almost lost my temper."
"That's what you should have done."
Martinsson ended his conversation. "Ake Larstam visited her about once every three years. They weren't particularly close."
Wallander stared at him with surprise. "Is that all?"
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't you ask her anything else?"
"Of course I did, but she asked if she could return my call later. She was in the middle of something."
Wallander was starting to get irritable, and Martinsson was on the defensive. Tension filled the air. Wallander left and went to reception. Ebba was there.
"I think I will ask you to get it for me after all," he said, handing her the keys. "There should be a clean shirt in the cupboard. If not, you'll have to take the cleanest one you find from the hamper."
"I'll take care of it."
"Can anyone give you a ride?"
"I have my trusty old Volvo," she said. "You haven't forgotten about it, have you?"
Wallander smiled. He watched her as she walked out the front doors. He thought again about how hard these last few years had been on her. He returned to the conference room and apologised to Martinsson for his bad temper. They continued their work.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ebba still wasn't back with his shirt by the time Axel Edengren arrived at the station. Wallander started wondering what was taking so long. Was she having trouble finding a clean shirt? Wallander felt somewhat ill at ease as he walked out to reception to greet Axel Edengren. Not so much because of the large coffee stain on his chest as because of his recollection of the strange way in which the Edengrens had treated their daughter. Wallander wondered what kind of man he was about to meet, and for once the reality matched his expectations. Axel Edengren was a big, powerfully built man, with a spiky crew-cut and intense blue eyes. He was one of the largest men Wallander had ever seen, and there was something unappealing about his bulk. His handshake was dismissive. As Wallander showed him to his office, he felt as though he was being followed by a bull about to skewer him with his horns. Axel Edengren started speaking before they sat down.
"You were the one who found my daughter," he said. "What brought you to Barnso in the first place?" He used the polite form of the Swedish "you" in addressing Wallander.
"Please feel free to use the informal 'you' with me," Wallander said.
Edengren's reply was swift and unexpected. "I prefer to use the polite form of address with people I don't know, and whom I plan to meet only once. What were you doing in Barnso, Inspector?"
Wallander felt a spark of anger, but he didn't think he had the energy to wield his usual authority.
"I had reason to believe Isa had gone there. And it turned out I was right."
"I've heard about the sequence of events. I can't believe you allowed it to happen."
"I didn't let anything happen. If I had had even the slightest inkling of what was about to happen, I would have done everything in my power to prevent it. I assume that goes for you too, not only in the case of Isa, but with Jorgen."
Edengren flinched at the sound of his son's name. It was as if he had been knocked to his knees while running at top speed. Wallander took the opportunity to turn the conversation around.
"We're pressed for time, so let me simply express my condolences for what happened. I met Isa several times and thought she was a nice young woman."
Edengren was about to say something, but Wallander pressed on. "There's a berth at the marina here in Ystad that has been rented in Isa's name."
Edengren regarded Wallander with suspicion. "That's a lie."
"No, it's quite true."
"Isa doesn't have a boat."
"That's what I thought. Do you have a berth here?"
"No, my boats are in a marina in Ostergotland."
Wallander had no reason to doubt him. "We think someone else rented the berth in your daughter's name."
"Who would that be?"
"The person we believe killed your daughter."
Edengren stared at him. "Who is that?"
"His name is Ake Larstam."
There was no reaction. Edengren didn't recognise the name.
"Have you arrested him?"
"Not yet."
"Why not? You believe he killed my daughter, don't you?"
"We haven't managed to locate him. That's why we asked you to come down. We're hoping you can make our task easier."
"Who is he?"
"For security reasons I can't give you all the information right now. Let's just say he's been working as a postman for the past couple of years."
Edengren shook his head. "Is this some kind of joke? The postman killed my daughter?"
"Unfortunately it's no joke."
Edengren was about to ask him something else, but Wallander stopped him. The moment of low energy had passed.
"Did Isa have any contact with the sailing club that you know of? Did any of her friends have boats?"
Edengren's answer came as a surprise. "Not Isa, but Jorgen did. He had a sailing boat. In the summer he kept it in Gryt. He sailed all around Barnso. The rest of the year it was kept down here."
"But Isa never used the boat?"
"Only with her brother. They got along well together, at least most of the time."
For the first time Wallander sensed something like sorrow in his voice. There was nothing to read on the surface, but Wallander thought there was probably a volcano of feelings locked up inside his enormous body.
"How long did Jorgen sail for?"
"He started in 1992. He had a little informal sailing club with regular meetings. They had parties and sent letters back and forth in bottles. Jorgen was often the secretary. I had to show him how to write up the minutes."
"Do you still have those records?"
"I remember putting all the minutes in a box after he died. They must still be there."
I need names, Wallander thought.
"Can you think of the names of any of his friends?"
"Some, but not all."
"But the names are probably recorded in the minutes."
"Probably."
"Then I'd like you to go and get them," Wallander said. "It could be important."
Wallander offered to send a police car to Skarby, but Edengren wanted to get them himself. He turned around in the doorway.
"I don't know how I'm going to stand it," he said. "I've lost both my children. What else is there?"
He didn't wait for an answer, and Wallander would not have been able to give him one. He got up and walked to the conference room. Ebba wasn't there, and no one had seen her. Wallander called his home number. The phone rang eight times but no one answered. Ebba must be on her way back.
Edengren returned after 40 minutes, and handed Wallander a big brown envelope.
"That's all I have. I think there are eleven sets of minutes in there. They seem not to have taken it so seriously."
Wallander leafed through the papers. They were typewritten and contained a number of mistakes. He found seven names altogether, but recognised none of them. Another dead end, he thought. I'm still looking for a pattern, but Ake Larstam doesn't follow one. He went to the conference room, showed the material to Martinsson and asked him to look over the names. Wallan
der was about to walk out the door when Martinsson gave a yell. Wallander turned and walked back. Martinsson pointed to the name "Stefan Berg".
"Wasn't one of the postmen called Berg?"
It had slipped Wallander's mind, but he now realised that Martinsson was right.
"I'll call him," Martinsson said.
Wallander returned to Edengren. He paused before walking into the room. Was there anything else he needed to ask? He didn't think so. He pushed open the door. Edengren was standing at the window and turned when he heard Wallander come in. To his surprise, Wallander saw that his eyes were red.
"You're free to go home now," he said. "We have no reason to keep you."
Edengren looked searchingly at him. "Will you get him? The bastard who killed Isa?"
"Yes, we'll get him."
"Why did he do it?"
"We don't know."
Edengren shook his hand and Wallander followed him out to reception. Still no sign of Ebba.
"We'll stay in Sweden until after the funeral," Edengren said. "Then I don't know. Maybe we'll leave Sweden, sell the house in Skarby and in Barnso too. The thought of going back there is too unbearable."
Edengren left without waiting for a response. Wallander stood for a long time after he had gone. When he returned to the conference room, Martinsson was getting off the phone.
"We were right," he said. "Stefan Berg is the postman's son. He's enrolled in a college in Kentucky right now."
"Where does that lead us?"
"Nowhere, really. Berg told me everything he could, I think. He said he often talked about himself and his family when he was at work. That means Ake Larstam would have had many opportunities to hear about Stefan and the sailing club."
Wallander sat down. "But where does it really lead us? Is there anything here that can point us in the right direction?"
"It doesn't seem like it."
Wallander suddenly erupted and swept the pile of papers in front of him onto the floor.
"We're not going to find him!" he yelled. "Where the hell is he? Who the hell is the ninth victim!"
The others in the room looked at him to see if he was done. Wallander threw his arms out in apology and left the room. He started walking up and down the hall. He checked to see if Ebba had come back, but she was still gone. She probably had trouble finding a clean shirt and went to buy me a new one, he thought.
It was 3.27 p.m., and there were only eight and a half hours left for Ake Larstam to do what he had promised to do.
Wallander went back to the conference room and waited until he caught Hoglund's eye. When she came over to talk to him, he told her to get Martinsson and join him in his office.
"Let's think this through together," Wallander said when they were assembled. "We still have two questions. We need to know where he is, and who he's planning to kill. Even if he's planning his deed for the stroke of midnight, we have less than nine hours to go."
He knew that Martinsson and Hoglund must have thought of this as well, but it seemed as if the full implications were only hitting them now.
"Where is he?" Wallander repeated. "What is he thinking? We found him in Svedberg's flat, which suggests he didn't think we would look for him there. But we did. Then there's his boat. But he may already assume it's too dangerous to use it. Then what will he do?"
"If his earlier crimes are anything to judge by," Martinsson said, "he'll choose a victim and a situation that poses little threat to himself. The way in which he's toying with us is different. He knows we're after him. He knows we've seen through his disguise."
"He's asking himself how we think," Hoglund said.
Wallander felt that they were all thinking along the same track now. "You're Larstam," he said. "What are you thinking?"
"He's intending to go through with number nine. He's fairly sure we don't know who that is."
"How can he be so sure of that?"
"Because if we knew, we would have surrounded that person with police protection. He's made sure of the fact that this hasn't been done."
"We could also come to a different conclusion," Martinsson said. "He could be concentrating on finding a secure hiding place. He may not be overly concerned about getting to number nine yet."
"That may be what he wants us to think," Hoglund said.
"So we have to think differently," Wallander said. "We have to take yet another step into the unknown."
"He must have chosen the most unlikely place for us to look for him."
"In that case he should be here, in the basement of the station," Martinsson said.
Wallander nodded. "Or some symbolic equivalent to the station. What could that be?"
None of them had a suggestion.
"Does he assume we know what he looks like as a man by now?"
"He can't take any chances."
Wallander suddenly thought of something. He turned to Martinsson. "Did you ask his sister for a photograph?"
"I did, but she said the only one she had was of Larstam as a 14-year-old, and that it wasn't a very good one."
"No help there then."
"Where is Ake Larstam at this exact moment?"
No one had an answer, because there was nothing to go on. Just this strenuous speculation. Wallander felt a hint of panic. Time was ticking inexorably by.
"What about the person he's after?" Wallander said. "He's killed six young people so far, as well as an older photographer and a middle-aged policeman. I think we should discount the last two. That leaves us with six young people, killed on two separate occasions in two groups."
"Three," Hoglund objected. "He killed Isa Edengren on a separate occasion, alone on an island in the middle of nowhere."
"That tells us that he finishes what he starts," Wallander said. "He follows through, whatever it takes. Is there anything unfinished in his present situation? Or is he embarking on a new project?"
Before anyone could answer this last question, there was a knock on the door. It was Ebba. She held a shirt on a hanger in her hand.
"I'm sorry it took so long," she said. "I took the opportunity to run some other errands, and then I had a lot of trouble with the lock on your front door."
Wallander frowned. There was nothing wrong with his lock as far as he knew. Ebba must have tried the wrong key. He took the shirt and thanked her for her efforts. Then he excused himself to go and change.
"Even when you're on your way to your own execution, it feels good to be wearing a clean shirt," he said when he came back. He stuffed the stained shirt in his desk drawer. "Where were we?"
"There's no unfinished business that we can think of," Martinsson said. "No one except for Isa was also due to attend the Midsummer celebration. And only two people get married at a time."
"We have to start again," Wallander said. "The worst possible case. We have nothing to go on."
The room became silent. There seemed to be nothing else to say. Of two impossible alternatives, we have to choose the one that seems less impossible, he thought.
"We're never going to figure out where he's hiding," he said finally. "Our only choice is to focus on his potential victim. This is what we have to concentrate on from now on, before he has a chance to do his deed. Are you with me?"
Wallander knew this was still an impossible task.
"Do you think it will do any good?" Hoglund asked.
"We can't give up," Wallander replied.
They started again. It was past 4 p.m. Wallander's stomach ached from hunger and anxiety. He was so tired it was starting to feel like his natural state. He sensed the same desperate fatigue in the other two.
"In broad strokes," Wallander prompted, "what do we have? Happy people. Joyful people. What else?"
"Young people," Martinsson said.
"People in costume," Hoglund added.
"I don't think he repeats himself," Wallander said. "But we can't be sure of that. The question then is where we can find out about happy, young people in costume who are gathering for
some reason today, other than for a wedding or a midnight picnic in a nature reserve."
"Perhaps someone's having a masquerade?" Martinsson suggested.
"The newspaper," Wallander said suddenly. "What's going on in Ystad tonight?"
He had hardly finished the sentence before Martinsson had rushed out of the room.
"Should we return to the conference room?" Hoglund asked.
"Not just yet. We'll go back soon enough. But I'd like to have something to bring to the table, even if it's just a red herring."
Martinsson stormed back into the office with the Ystad Allehanda in his hand. They laid it on the table and leaned over it. There was a fashion show in Skurup that immediately drew Wallander's attention.
"Models are dressed up," he said. "And we can assume they're generally feeling good about themselves."
"That's not until next Wednesday," Hoglund said. "You misread it."
They kept flipping the pages, then all three of them saw it at the same time. That evening there was going to be an event at the Continental Hotel for the "Friends of Ystad" Society. Members were asked to attend in 17th-century dress. Wallander was doubtful from the start. Something told him it wasn't right, but Martinsson and Hoglund didn't share his doubts.
"This must have been planned in advance," Martinsson said. "He's had a long time to make his preparations."
"The members of this type of society are rarely very young," Wallander said.
"The ages are often quite mixed," Hoglund said. "That's my impression, anyway."
Wallander couldn't shake off his doubts, but they didn't have anything to lose. The dinner was scheduled for 7.30 p.m. They had a couple of hours to go. Just in case, they finished looking through the paper to see if there were any other events to consider, but found nothing.
"It's up to you," Martinsson said. "Do we focus on this or not?"
"It's not my decision," Wallander said. "It's ours. And I agree with you: what do we have to lose?"
They returned to the conference room. Wallander wanted both Thurnberg and Holgersson to be present, so someone was sent to get them. While they were waiting, Martinsson was trying to find out who was responsible for arranging the party that evening.
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