Before the Frost

41

The telephone woke her up. She checked the time: a quarter to six.

There were noises coming from the bathroom. Her father was already up but hadn’t heard the phone. Linda ran out into the kitchen and picked up.

“May I please speak to Inspector Wallander?” a woman’s voice said.

“And who is this?”

“May I please speak to him?”

The woman spoke in a cultured way. Hardly a cleaning lady at the station, Linda thought.

“He’s busy right now. Who may I say is calling?”

“Anita Tademan from Rannesholm Manor.”

“We’ve met, actually. I’m his daughter.”

Anita Tademan ignored her last comment.

“When will I be able to speak to him?”

“As soon as he gets out of the bathroom.”

“It’s very important.”

Linda wrote down the number and put some water on for coffee. The pot had just started to boil when Wallander came into the kitchen. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that it did not even strike him as strange to see her up so early.

“Anita Tademan just called,” Linda said. “She said it was important.”

Wallander looked at his watch.

“It must be, at this hour.”

She dialed the number for him and held out the phone.

While he was speaking with Mrs. Tademan, Linda looked through the cupboards and discovered there were no more coffee beans.

Wallander hung up. Linda had heard him agree to a time.

“What did she want?”

“For me to come and talk to her.”

“What about?”

“To tell me something she heard from a distant relative who lives in a house on the Rannesholm grounds. She didn’t want to elaborate on the phone and insisted I come up to the manor. I’m sure she thinks she’s too important to come down to the station like a regular person. But that’s when I put my foot down. Maybe you heard that part?”

“No — why?”

Wallander muttered something unintelligible and started to rifle through the cupboard.

“It’s all gone,” Linda said.

“Do I have to be the only one around here who takes responsibility for keeping coffee in the house?”

That immediately infuriated her.

“You don’t understand how incredibly relieved I’ll be to move out. I should never have come back here.”

He threw out his arms in apology.

“That might have been best. Parents and children shouldn’t live on top of each other. But we don’t have time to argue about it now.”

They drank tea and leafed through their respective parts of the morning paper. Neither one could concentrate on what he or she was reading.

“I want you to come along,” he said. “Get dressed.”

Linda showered and dressed as quickly as she could. But when she was ready, he had already left. He had jotted something down in the margin of the newspaper. She took that as a sign that he was in a hurry. He’s as impatient as I am, she thought.

She looked out of the window. The thermometer said it was twenty-two degrees Celsius — still summer. It was raining. She half-ran, half-walked to the station. It was as if she were hurrying to school, with the same anxiety about making it on time.

Wallander was talking on the phone when she came in. She sat down in the chair across from his desk. He put the phone down and stood up.

“Come with me.”

They walked into Lindman’s office. Höglund was leaning against the wall, a mug of coffee in her hand. For once she acknowledged Linda’s presence. Someone’s mentioned it to her, Linda thought. Hardly my dad. Maybe Lindman.

“Where is Martinsson?” Höglund asked.

“He just called,” Wallander said. “He has a sick child on his hands, so he’ll be in a little later. But he was going to make some calls from home and find out more about this Sylvi Rasmussen.”

“Who?” Höglund asked.

“Why are we all crowding around in here, anyway?” Wallander said. “Let’s go to the conference room. Does anybody know where Nyberg is?”

“He’s still working on the two fires.”

“What does he think he’s going to find there?”

The last comment came from Höglund. Linda sensed that she was one of those who looked forward to his retirement.

They discussed the case for three hours and ten minutes, until someone knocked on the door and said that an Anita Tademan had arrived to speak with Inspector Wallander. Linda wondered if the discussion had really come to its natural conclusion, but no one made any objections when Wallander stood up. He stopped by her chair on his way out.

“Anna,” he said. “Keep talking to her, keep listening to her.”

“I don’t know what we should talk about. She’s going to see through me, that I’m keeping an eye on her.”

“Just be yourself.”

“Shouldn’t you talk to her again?”

“Yes, but not just yet.”

Linda left the station. The rain had turned into a thin drizzle. A car honked its horn, so close to her that she jumped. It was Lindman. He pulled over and opened the door.

“Jump in. I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks.”

There was music on. Jazz.

“Do you like this music?” she asked.

“Yes. A lot, actually.”

“Jazz?”

“Lars Gullin. A sax player, one of Sweden’s best jazz musicians ever. He died much too young.”

“I’ve never heard of him, but I don’t like this kind of music.”

“In my car I play what I like.”

He seemed stung and Linda instantly regretted what she had said. Unfortunately one of the many things I’ve inherited from my father is this ability to make thoughtless, hurtful comments.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

His answer was curt.

“Sjöbo. To see a locksmith.”

“Is it going to take long?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Maybe I could come along. If you’ll have me.”

“If you can stand the music.”

“From now on I love jazz.”

The tension was broken. Lindman laughed and drove north. He drove fast. Linda had the urge to touch him, to run her fingers over his shoulder or his cheek. She felt more desire than she could remember feeling in a long time. She had a silly thought that they should check into a hotel in Sjöbo. Not that there probably even was one. She tried to shake off the thought, but it stayed with her. Rain splattered the windshield. The saxophone poured out some high, insistent, quick notes. Linda tried to pick out the melody line, without success.

“If you’re talking to a locksmith in Sjöbo, it must have something to do with the investigation. One of them. How many are there, exactly?”

“Medberg is one. Bolson is another, so are the burned animals, and the two church fires. Your dad wants them all treated under the rubric of one investigation, and the D.A. has agreed. At least for now.”

“And the locksmith?”

“His name is Håkan Holmberg. He’s not your average dime-store locksmith; he makes copies of very old keys. When he heard that the police were wondering how the arsonists broke into the churches, he remembered that he made two keys a few months ago that could very well have been old church keys. I’m on my way to see if he remembers anything else. His workshop is in the center of Sjöbo. Martinsson had heard of him before. He’s won prizes for his craftsmanship. He’s also studied philosophy and teaches in the summer.”

“In his workshop?”

“In another part of the farmstead. Martinsson has thought about doing it sometime. The students work in the smithy half the day and explore philosophical issues the rest of the time.”

“Not something for me,” Linda said.

“What about your dad?”

“Even less so.”

They arrived in Sjöbo and stopped outside a red brick house with a giant iron key hanging outside the door.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go in with you.”

“If I understood matters correctly, you’ve started working.”

They walked in. It was very hot. A man working at the forge nodded at them, then took out a piece of glowing iron and started hammering it.

“I need to finish this key,” he said. “You can’t interrupt this kind of work once you’ve started. It lets a kind of hesitation into the iron. That happens and the key will never sit well in its lock.”

They watched him with fascination. At last the key lay finished on the anvil. Holmberg wiped the sweat from his face and washed his hands. They followed him out into a courtyard with tables and chairs. A coffee pot and some cups had been put out. They shook hands. Linda felt foolishly flattered by Lindman’s introducing her as a “colleague.” Holmberg served the coffee and put on an old straw hat. He noticed Linda looking at it.

“One of the few crimes I’ve ever committed,” he said. “I take a trip overseas every year. A few years ago I was in Lombardy. One afternoon I was somewhere close to Mantua, where I had spent a few days in honor of the great Virgil, who was born there. I caught sight of a scarecrow out on a field. I don’t know what crop he was supposed to be protecting. I stopped and thought that for the first time in my life I wanted to commit a crime, become a dishonest blacksmith, in a word. So I snuck out onto the field and stole his hat. Sometimes in my dreams it isn’t a scarecrow at all but a living person. He must have realized I was a harmless coward who would never steal from anyone — that’s why he let me take the hat. Perhaps he was the remains of a Franciscan monk hoping to do one last good deed on this earth. In any case, it was an overwhelming, tumultuous experience for me, to commit this crime.”

Linda glanced at Lindman and wondered if he knew who Virgil was. And Mantua? Where was that? It had to be Italy, but she had no idea if it was a region or a city. Zeba would have known; she could sit for hours over her maps and books.

“Tell me about the keys,” Lindman said.

Holmberg rocked back in his chair and fished a pipe out of the breast pocket of his overalls.

“It happened by accident, in a way,” he said after lighting the pipe. “I don’t watch or read any kind of news in the summer, as a way to rest my mind. But one of my customers came by to pick up a key. It was the key of an old seaman’s chest that had once belonged to a British admiral’s ship in the eighteenth century. He told me about the fires and the police suspicion about copied keys. I recalled that I had made two keys a few months ago that looked like church keys. I’m not saying it was definitely the case, but I suspected it was.”

“Why?”

“Experience. Church keys often look a certain way. And there aren’t very many other doors these days that still use the locks and keys of the old masters. I decided to call the police.”

“Who ordered these keys?”

“He said his name was Lukas.”

“Lukas—?”

“Mr. Lukas. An extremely well-mannered sort. He was in a hurry and made a generous deposit.”

Lindman took a packet out of his pocket, which he unwrapped. Holmberg immediately recognized the contents.

“Those are the keys I made copies of.”

He stood up and walked into the smithy.

“This could be something,” Lindman said. “A strange old man. But his memory seems good.”

Holmberg returned with an old-fashioned ledger in his hand, turning the pages until he found the right one.

“It was the twelfth of June. Mr. Lukas left two keys. He wanted the copies made by the twenty-fifth at the latest. That didn’t leave me very long, since I had a lot to do, but he paid well and even I need money, in order to keep up the forge and take my holiday trips.”

“What address did he give you?”

“No address.”

“Telephone number?”

Holmberg turned the ledger around so that Lindman could see. He dialed the number on his cell phone, listened, then turned it off again.

“That was a florist in Bjärred,” he said. “I think we can safely assume that Mr. Lukas doesn’t have anything to do with them. What happened after that?”

Holmberg flipped forward a few pages.

“He came to fetch the keys on the twenty-fifth of June. That was all.”

“How did he pay?”

“Cash.”

“Did you write out a receipt for him?”

“No. I rely on my bookkeeping. I take great pains to pay my share of taxes, even though this kind of situation is ideal for tax evasion.”

“How would you describe him?”

“Tall, light hair, maybe losing a little of it in front. Courteous, polite. When he first came in he was dressed in a suit, same when he picked up the keys, though it was a different suit that time.”

“How did he get here?”

“I can’t see the road from the workshop, but I assume he drove a car.”

Linda saw Lindman gather himself for the next question, intuitively sensing what it must be.

“Can you describe the way he spoke?”

“He had an accent.”

“What kind of accent?”

“Something Scandinavian. Not Finnish, nor Icelandic. That would leave Danish or Norwegian.”

“Do you have anything else to say about him?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Did he say that these keys were for church doors?”

“He said they were keys for some kind of storage facility — in an old manor house, come to think of it.”

“Which manor?”

Holmberg knocked some ash out of his pipe and wrinkled his forehead.

“He told me the name, but I’ve forgotten.”

They waited. Holmberg shook his head.

“Could it have been Rannesholm?” Linda asked.

The question simply jumped out of her, like last time.

“Right,” Holmberg said. “That was it. Rannesholm. An old brewery at Rannesholm.”

Lindman got up, as if he was suddenly in a hurry. He finished the rest of his coffee.

“Thank you,” he said. “This has been valuable.”

“Working with keys is always meaningful,” Holmberg said and smiled. “Locking and opening is, in a sense, man’s very purpose on this earth. Key rings rattle throughout history. Each key, each lock has its tale. And now I have yet another to tell.”

He followed them out.

“Who was Virgil?” Linda asked.

“Dante’s guide,” he answered. “And a great poet.”

He lifted the old straw hat that was starting to come apart and went back inside. They got in the car.

“So often you meet fearful, angry, shaken people,” Lindman said. “But sometimes there are moments of light. Like this man. I’m filing him away in my archive of interesting people I’ll remember when I’m old.”

They left Sjöbo. Linda saw a sign for a hotel and giggled. He looked at her but didn’t ask anything. The cell phone rang. He answered, listened, hung up, and sped up.

“Your dad has finished talking to Anita Tademan,” he said. “Apparently something important has come to light.”

“Better not tell him that I was with you today,” she said. “He had something different in mind for me.”

“What?”

“Talking to Anna,” she said.

“Maybe you’ll have time for both.”

Lindman dropped her off in the center of town. When she made it to Anna’s apartment and was greeted by her at the door she immediately realized that something was wrong. Anna had tears in her eyes.

“Zeba is gone,” she said. “Her boy was screaming so loud that the neighbors were worried. He was home alone. And Zeba was gone.”

Linda held her breath. Fear overwhelmed her like a sudden pain. Now she knew she was close to a terrible truth that she should already have grasped.

She looked into Anna’s eyes and saw only her own fear.

42

The situation was at once both crystal clear and confusing. Linda knew Zeba would never have abandoned her son of her own free will, or forgotten about him. What had happened? It was something she felt she should know, something that was almost within her grasp and yet eluded her. The big picture. Her father always talked about looking for the way events came together. But she saw nothing.

Since Anna seemed even more confused than she did, Linda forced her to sit down in the kitchen and talk. Anna spoke in unconnected fragments, but it didn’t take Linda more than a few minutes to piece together what had happened.

Zeba’s neighbor, a woman who often watched the boy for her, had heard him crying through the thin walls. Since he cried for an unusually long time without Zeba seeming to intervene, she went over and rang the doorbell. When there was no answer, she let herself in with the key Zeba had given her and found the boy alone. He stopped crying when he saw her.

This neighbor, whose name was Aina Rosberg, had not seen anything strange in the apartment. It was messy as usual, but there were no signs of commotion. That was the phrase she had used: “no signs of commotion.” Aina Rosberg had called one of Zeba’s cousins, Titchka, who wasn’t home, and then Anna. That’s what Zeba had instructed her to do if anything ever happened: first call Titchka, then Anna.

“How long ago did this happen?” Linda asked.

“Two hours ago.”

“Has Aina Rosberg called again?”

“I called her back. But Zeba still hadn’t returned.”

Linda thought for a moment. Most of all she wanted to talk to her dad, but she also knew what he would say. Two hours was not a long time. There was probably a natural explanation for Zeba’s absence. But what could it possibly be?

“Let’s go over to her apartment,” Linda said. “I want to take a look at it.”

Anna made no objections. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Rosberg let them in.

“Where can she be?” she said. “This isn’t like her. Nobody would leave such a young child alone, least of all her. What would have happened if I hadn’t heard him cry?”

“I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” Linda said. “But it would be best if the boy could stay with you until then.”

“Of course he can,” Mrs. Rosberg said, and left to go back to her apartment.

When Linda walked into Zeba’s apartment, she picked up a strange smell. Her heart grew cold with fear; she knew something serious had happened. Zeba had not left of her own free will.

“Can you smell that?” she asked.

Anna shook her head.

“That sharp smell. Like vinegar.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

Linda sat in the kitchen, Anna in the living room. Linda could see her through the open door. Anna was nervously pinching herself on the arm. Linda tried to think clearly. She walked over to the window and looked out. She tried to imagine Zeba walking out onto the street. Which way had she gone? To the left or to the right? Had she been alone? Linda looked at the little smoke shop that was across the street. A tall, heavily built man was standing in the doorway, smoking. When a customer came by he walked in, then resumed his station at the doorway. Linda thought he was worth a try.

Anna still sat on the couch, lost in thought. Linda patted her on the arm.

“I’m sure she’ll turn up,” she said. “Probably nothing has happened. I’m going down to the smoke shop for a few minutes. I’ll be back soon.”

There was a sign welcoming customers to “Yassar’s Shop.” Linda bought some gum.

“Do you know Zeba?” she asked. “She lives across the street.”

“Zeba? Sure. I give her little one candy when they come in.”

“Have you seen her today?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“A few hours ago, around ten o’clock. I was putting up one of the flags that had come down outside. I don’t understand how a flag can fall down when there is no wind...”

“Was anyone with her?” Linda interrupted.

“She was with a man.”

Linda’s heart beat faster.

“Have you seen him before?”

Yassar looked worried. Instead of answering her question, he started asking his own.

“Why do you want to know? Who are you?”

“You must have seen me before. I’m a friend of Zeba’s.”

“Why are you asking all these questions?”

“I need to know.”

“Has anything happened?”

“No. Have you ever seen the man before?”

“No. He had a small gray car, he was tall, and later I thought about how strange it was that Zeba was leaning on him.”

“How do you mean ‘leaning on him’?”

“Just that. She was leaning, clinging. As if she needed support.”

“Can you describe the man?”

“He was tall. That’s about it. He had a hat on, a long coat.”

“A hat?”

“A gray hat. Or blue. A long gray coat. Or blue. Everything about him was either blue or gray.”

“Did you see the license plate?”

“No.”

“What about the make of the car?”

“I don’t know. Why are you asking all these questions? You come into my shop and make me as worried as if you were a cop.”

“I am a cop,” Linda said, and she left.

When she came back to the apartment, Anna was sitting where she had left her. Linda had the same feeling that there was something she should be seeing, realizing, seeing through, although she didn’t know what it was. She sat down next to Anna.

“You have to go back to your place, in case Zeba calls. I’m going down to the police station to talk to my dad. You can drop me off there.”

Anna grabbed Linda’s arm so roughly that Linda jumped. Then, just as abruptly, she let go. It was a strange reaction. Perhaps not the action itself, but the intensity of it.

When Linda walked into the reception area, someone called out to her that her dad was at the D.A.’s office, on the other side. She went over. The outer door was locked, but an assistant who recognized her let her in.

“Are you looking for your father? He’s in the small conference room.”

She pointed down a corridor. A red light was on outside one of the rooms. Linda sat down outside and waited.

After ten minutes Ann-Britt Höglund came out, saw her, and looked surprised. Then she turned back to the room.

“You have an important visitor,” she said and kept going.

Wallander came out with a very young attorney. He introduced Linda and the attorney left. Linda pulled him down in a chair and told him everything that had happened, not even trying to be systematic about the order in which things came out. Wallander was quiet for a long time after she finished. Then he asked a few questions, primarily about Yassar’s observations. He returned several times to the issue of Zeba “leaning” on the man.

“Is Zeba the touchy-feely kind?”

“No, I’d say the opposite, actually. It’s normally the man who is all over her. She’s tough and avoids showing any weakness, although she has several.”

“If she was being taken away against her will, why didn’t she cry out?”

Linda shook her head. Wallander answered his own question, as he stood up.

“Maybe she wasn’t able to.”

“And that she had to lean on the man? That she was drugged and would have fallen down if he hadn’t held her? That ‘leaning on him’ could be rephrased as ‘propped up by him’?”

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

He walked quickly to his office. Linda had trouble keeping up. On the way, Wallander knocked on Lindman’s door and pushed it open. It was empty. Martinsson walked by carrying a large teddy bear.

“What the hell is that?” Wallander asked irritably.

“It was made in Taiwan. There’s a large package of amphetamines inside.”

“Get someone else to take care of it.”

“I was about to hand it over to Svartman,” Martinsson said, not hiding the fact that he too was irritated.

“Try to round everyone up. I want a meeting in half an hour.”

Martinsson left.

Wallander sat down behind his desk, then leaned over toward Linda.

“You didn’t ask Yassar if he heard the man say anything.”

“I forgot.”

Wallander handed her the phone.

“Call him.”

“I don’t know what his number is.”

Wallander dialed information for her. Linda asked to be transferred. Yassar answered. He didn’t remember the man saying anything.

“I’m starting to worry,” Yassar said. “What has happened?”

“Nothing,” Linda said. “Thanks for your help.”

She put the phone down.

“He didn’t hear anything.”

Her dad rocked back and forth on his chair and looked at his hands. She heard voices come and go outside in the corridor.

“I don’t like it,” he said finally. “Her neighbor is right. No one leaves such a young child alone.”

“I keep having the feeling that I’m overlooking something,” Linda said. “Something I should see, something that’s staring me in the face. There’s a connection, the kind you’re always talking about. But I can’t think of it.”

He looked attentively at her.

“As if part of you already knows what’s happened? And why?”

She shook her head.

“It’s more as if I’ve kind of been waiting for this to happen. And as if Zeba isn’t the one who’s disappeared, but Anna. A second time.”

He looked at her for a long time.

“Can you explain what you mean?”

“No.”

“We’ll give Zeba a few more hours,” he said. “If she’s not back by then, we’ll have to do something. I want you to stay here.”

Linda followed him to the conference room. When everyone was gathered and the door was closed, Wallander started by telling everyone about Zeba’s disappearance. The tension in the room mounted.

“Too many people are disappearing,” Wallander said. “Disappearing, reappearing, disappearing again. By coincidence or because of factors as yet unknown, all this seems to involve my daughter, a fact that makes me like this even less.”

He tapped a pencil on the tabletop and continued:

“I talked to Mrs. Tademan. She is not a particularly pleasant woman. In fact, she’s about as good an example of an arrogant, conceited Scanian aristocrat I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. But she did the right thing in getting in touch with us. A distant cousin who lives on the Rannesholm grounds saw a band of people near the edge of the forest. There were at least twenty of them, and they came and went very quickly. They could have been a group of tourists, but their actions, especially the fact that they were anxious not to attract attention, means they could also have been something else.”

“Such as?” Höglund asked.

“We don’t know. But keep in mind that we found a hideout in the forest and a woman was murdered there.”

“That hut could hardly house twenty people or more.”

“I know. Nonetheless, this is important information. We have suspected that there were at least several people involved in the Frennestad Church fire and murder. Now there seem to be indications that there are even more.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Martinsson said. “Are we dealing with a kind of gang?”

“Or a sect,” Lindman said.

“Or both,” Wallander said. “That’s something we don’t know yet. This piece of information may turn out to lead us in the wrong direction, but we’re not drawing any conclusions. Not yet, not even provisional ones. Let’s put Mrs. Tademan’s information aside for the moment.”

Lindman reported on his meeting with Håkan Holmberg and his keys. He didn’t mention the fact that Linda had been with him.

“The man with an accent,” Wallander mused. “Our Norwegian or Norwegian-Danish link. He turns up again. I think we can safely accept Mr. Holmberg’s assurance that these were the keys to both the Hurup and Frennestad churches.”

“We know that already,” Nyberg said. “We’ve compared them.”

The room fell silent.

“A Norwegian orders copies of some church keys,” Wallander said. “An American woman is later strangled in the church. By whom and why? That’s what we need to find out.”

He turned to Höglund.

“What do our Danish colleagues say about Frans Vigsten?”

“He’s a piano teacher. He was a rehearsal pianist at Det Kongelige Theater and apparently very much admired as such. Now he’s getting increasingly senile and has trouble taking care of himself. But no one has any information indicating that anyone else lives in the apartment, least of all Vigsten himself.”

“And Ulrik Larsen?”

“He stands by his confession — and still says he was trying to steal drugs.”

Wallander threw a hasty glance at Linda before continuing.

“Let’s stay in Denmark for a moment. What about this woman Sylvi Rasmussen? What do we have on her?”

Martinsson rifled through his papers.

“Her original name was something else. She came to Denmark as a refugee after the collapse of Eastern Europe. Drug addict, homeless, the same old story leading to prostitution. She was well-liked by clients and friends. No one has anything bad to say about her. There was nothing else unusual about her life, even the sheer predictable tragedy of it.”

Martinsson looked through the papers again before putting them down.

“No one knows who her final client was, but he must be the murderer.”

“She kept no written record?”

“No. There are the prints of twelve different people in her apartment. They’re being examined, and the Danes will let us know what they find.”

Linda noticed that her father was trying to pick up the pace of the meeting. He tried to interpret the information that was brought in, never receiving it passively, always looking for the underlying message.

Finally he opened the floor for general discussion. Linda was the only one who didn’t say anything. After half an hour they took a short break. Everyone left to stretch their legs or to get some coffee, except Linda, who was assigned to guard the window.

A gust of wind blew some of Martinsson’s papers onto the floor. Linda gathered them up and saw a picture of Sylvi Rasmussen. Linda studied her face, seeing fear in her eyes. She shivered when she thought of her life and fate.

She was about to put the papers back when a detail caught her eye. The pathologist’s report stated that Sylvi Rasmussen had had two or three abortions. Linda stared at the paper. She thought of the two Danish sailors who had been sitting in the corner, Zeba’s son playing on the floor, and Zeba, telling them about her abortion. She also thought about Anna’s unexpected reaction. Linda froze, holding her breath and Sylvi Rasmussen’s photograph.

Wallander came back into the room.

“I think I get it,” she said.

“Get what?”

“I have one question. That woman from Tulsa.”

“What about her?”

Linda shook her head and pointed to the door.

“Close it.”

“We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

“I can’t concentrate if everyone comes back in. But I think I’m onto something important.”

He saw she meant what she was saying and went to close the door.

43

Wallander put his head out the door and told someone that the rest of the meeting would be postponed a little while. Someone started to protest but he shut the door.

They sat down across from each other.

“What did you want to ask?”

“Did Harriet Bolson ever have an abortion? Did Birgitta Medberg? If I’m correct, the answer will be yes for Bolson, but no for Medberg.”

Wallander frowned, at first perplexed, then simply uncomprehending. He pulled his stack of papers over and started looking through them with growing impatience. He tossed the file to the side.

“Nothing about an abortion.”

“Are all the facts there?”

“Of course not. A full description of a person’s life, however uneventful or uninteresting, still fills a much larger folder than this. Harriet Bolson does not seem to have had a particularly exciting life, and certainly there’s nothing as dramatic as an abortion in the material we received from Clark Richardson.”

“And Medberg?”

“I don’t know, but that information should be easier to get. All we have to do is talk to her unpleasant daughter — although perhaps it’s not the kind of thing mothers tell their children? I don’t think Mona ever had an abortion. Do you know?”

“No.”

“Does that mean that you don’t know if she did or that she never had one?”

“Mom never had an abortion. I would know.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at. Why is this important?”

Linda tried to clear her head. She could be wrong but every instinct told her she was right.

“Can you find out about the abortions?”

“I’ll do it when you’ve told me why it’s important.”

Something inside of her burst. Tears started to run down her face and she banged her fists into the table. She hated crying in front of her dad. Not just in front of him, in front of everybody. The only person she had ever been able to cry in front of was her grandfather.

“I’ll ask them to do it,” Wallander said and stood up. “But I expect you to tell me what this is all about when I get back. People have been murdered, Linda. This isn’t an exercise at the police academy.”

Linda grabbed an ashtray from the table and threw it at him, hitting him right above the eyebrow. Blood ran down his face and dripped on Harriet Bolson’s file.

“I didn’t mean to do that.”

Wallander pressed a fistful of napkins against the gash.

“I just can’t stand it when you needle me,” she said.

He left the room. Linda picked up the ashtray from the floor, still trembling with agitation. She knew he was furious with her. Neither of them could stand to be humiliated. But she didn’t feel any regret.

He came back after fifteen minutes with a makeshift bandage over his wound and dried blood still smeared across his cheek. Linda expected him to yell at her, but he simply sat down in his chair.

“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked.

He ignored her question.

“Höglund called Vanya Jorner, Medberg’s daughter. She found the question deeply insulting and threatened to call the evening papers and complain, but Höglund did establish that she has no knowledge of any abortion.”

“That’s what I thought,” Linda said. “And what about the other one? The one from Tulsa?”

“Höglund is contacting the U.S.,” he said. “We’re not entirely in agreement about the time difference, but in order to speed things along she’s going to call them on the phone rather than send a fax.”

Wallander felt the bandage with his fingertips.

“Your turn,” he said.

Linda started speaking slowly to keep her voice from wobbling but also so she wouldn’t leave anything out.

“There are five women,” she said. “Three of them are dead, one of them has disappeared, and the last one disappeared and then returned. I’m starting to see a connection between them, apart from Medberg, who we’re assuming was killed because she found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. But what about the rest? Sylvi Rasmussen was murdered; she had also had two or three abortions. Let’s assume that information from Tulsa confirms that Bolson had an abortion. It’s also true for the person who’s just gone missing: Zeba. She told me only a few days ago that she had one. I think this may be the connection between these women.”

Linda paused and drank some water. Wallander tapped his fingers and stared at the wall.

“I still don’t get it,” he said.

“I’m not finished yet. Zeba didn’t just tell me about her abortion, she told Anna too. And Anna had the strangest reaction. She was upset by it in a way I couldn’t relate to, nor could Zeba. To say that Anna strongly disapproved of women who had abortions would be an understatement. She walked out on us. And when Anna later found out that Zeba was missing, she clung to my arm and cried. But it was as if she wasn’t so much afraid for Zeba as for herself.”

Linda stopped. Her dad was still fingering his bandage.

“What do you mean, she was afraid for herself?”

“I’m not sure I know.”

“Try.”

“I’m telling you all I know.”

Wallander gazed absently at the wall. Linda knew that staring at a blank surface was a sign of intense concentration on his part.

“I want you to tell the others,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll get nervous. I might be wrong. Maybe that woman from Tulsa never had an abortion.”

“You have an hour to prepare,” Wallander said and stood up. “I’ll tell the others.”

He walked out and closed the door. Linda had the feeling that she was imprisoned, not physically with a lock and key, but by the imposed time limit. She decided to write down what she was going to say in a notebook, and pulled a pad of paper toward her. When she flipped it open, she was confronted with a bad sketch of a seductively posed naked woman. To her surprise, she saw that it was Martinsson’s notepad. But why should that surprise me? she thought. All the men I know spend an enormous amount of mental energy undressing women in their minds.

She reached for an unused notepad beside the overhead projector and jotted down the five women’s names.

After forty-five minutes, the door opened. Everyone marched in like a delegation led by her father. He waved a piece of paper in front of her.

“Harriet Bolson had two abortions.”

Wallander sat down, as did everyone else.

“The question of course is why this matters to our investigation. That’s what we’re here to discuss. Linda is going to present us with her ideas. Over to you, Linda.”

Linda drew a deep breath and managed to present her theory without stumbling over her words even once. Wallander took over when she finished.

“I think it’s clear that Linda is onto something that may be very important. The terrain is still far from mapped, but there is enough substance here to merit our attention, more substance than we have managed to uncover thus far, in fact, in other facets of the investigation.”

The door opened and Lisa Holgersson slipped in. Wallander put his papers down and lifted his hands as if he were about to conduct an orchestra.

“I think we can glimpse the outline of something that we do not yet understand but is there nonetheless.”

He stood up and pulled over a large notepad set on an easel, with the words HIGHER WAGES DAMMIT scrawled across it. Chuckles broke out across the room. Even Holgersson laughed. Wallander turned to a clean sheet.

“As usual I ask that you hold your thoughts until I’m done,” he said. “Save the rotten tomatoes and catcalls.”

“Looks like your daughter’s already been taking potshots,” Martinsson said. “Blood is seeping through the bandage. You look like the old Döbeln at Jutas, to use a literary analogy.”

“Who’s that?” Lindman asked.

“A man who stood guard over a bridge in Finland,” Martinsson said. “Didn’t they teach you anything when you were in school?”

“We had to read that when I was a girl, but you’re getting them confused. The man standing guard had a different name. It’s a book by some Russian author,” Höglund said.

“No, Finnish,” Linda heard herself say. “Sibelius, isn’t it?”

“For the love of God,” Wallander said.

“I’ll call my brother Albin,” Martinsson said, standing up. “We have to get to the bottom of this.”

He left the room.

“I don’t think it was Sibelius,” Holgersson said after a moment. “He was a composer. But something similar.”

Martinsson returned after a few minutes of silence.

“Topelius,” he said. “Or possibly Runeberg. And Döbeln did have a large bandage, I was right about that.”

“He didn’t guard the bridge, though, did he?” Höglund muttered.

“I’m trying to create an overview here,” Wallander interrupted, and proceeded to touch on all the known facts of the case.

After the rather lengthy overview, he sat down.

“There’s one thing we’ve neglected to do: why haven’t we brought in the real-estate agent in Skurup, Ture Magnusson — the one who sold the house in Lestarp, to listen to the burning-swans tape? We need to take care of that as soon as possible.”

Martinsson got up again and left the room. Lindman opened a window.

“Have we talked to Norway about Torgeir Langaas?” Holgersson asked.

Wallander looked at Höglund.

“No word yet,” she said.

Wallander looked down at his watch in a way that indicated the meeting was drawing to a close.

“It’s too early to arrive at any definitive conclusions,” he said. “It’s too early, and yet we have to work with two assumptions. Either all this hangs together. Or, it doesn’t. And yet the first alternative is compelling. What do we have? Sacrifices, fires, and ritual murder, a Bible in which someone has changed the text. It’s easy for us to see this as the work of a madman, but maybe that isn’t the case. Maybe we’re dealing with a group of very deliberate, methodical people, with a twisted and ruthless agenda. We need to work quickly. There’s a gradual increase in tempo in these events, an acceleration. We have to find Zeba, and talk to Anna Westin again.”

He turned to Linda.

“I thought you could bring her in. We’re going to have a friendly but necessary conversation. We’re simply worried about Zeba, that’s all you have to say.”

“Who’s taking care of her son?”

Höglund asked Linda directly, without the superior air she normally adopted.

“Zeba’s neighbor.”

Wallander hit the table with the flat of his hand marking the end of the meeting.

“Torgeir Langaas,” he said as everyone stood. “Lean on our Norwegian colleagues. The rest of us will look for Zeba.”

Linda and her dad went to get a cup of coffee without exchanging a single word with each other. When they were done, they went to his office. Martinsson knocked on the door half an hour later, coming in before Wallander answered. He stopped when he saw Linda.

“Sorry,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Ture Magnusson is here to listen to the tape.”

Wallander jumped out of his chair, grabbing Linda by the arm and pulling her along. Ture Magnusson seemed nervous. Martinsson went to get the tape. Wallander received a call from Nyberg and immediately launched into an argument with him, so Linda was left to take care of Magnusson.

“Have you found the Norwegian?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“I’m not sure I can recognize his voice.”

“We’ll just hope for the best.”

Wallander hung up. At the same time, Martinsson came back with a worried look on his face.

“The tape must still be here,” he said. “It’s not in the archive.”

“Didn’t anyone put it back?” Wallander asked with irritation.

“Not me,” Martinsson said.

He looked through the shelf behind the tape recorder. Wallander stuck his head into the call center.

“Can we get a little help here?” he shouted. “We’re missing a tape!”

Höglund joined them, but no one could find the tape. Linda watched her father get increasingly red in the face. But in the end it was Martinsson who exploded.

“How in the hell are we supposed to do our work when archived tape can go missing like this?”

He picked up a booklet of instructions for the tape recorder and threw it against the wall. They kept looking for the tape. Linda finally had the feeling that the whole police district was looking for the tape, but it didn’t turn up. She looked at her dad. He seemed tired, despondent. But she knew it would pass.

“We owe you an apology,” Wallander said to Magnusson, “for bringing you down here. The tape appears to be misplaced. There’s nothing for you to do.”

“I have a suggestion,” Linda said.

She had been debating with herself whether or not to suggest this.

“I think I can imitate his voice,” she said. “He’s a man, I know, but I’d like a shot at it.”

Höglund gave her a disapproving look.

“What makes you think you could possibly imitate his voice?”

Linda could have given her a long answer, about how she had discovered a talent for imitation at parties. How her friends had been impressed, and she had assumed it was a one-off success, but how she soon realized she simply had a knack for it. There were voices she couldn’t imitate at all, but most of the time she was right on.

“Let me try,” she said. “It’s not as if we have anything to lose.”

Lindman had come back into the room. He nodded encouragingly.

“I guess since we’re all here anyway,” her father said hesitantly.

He waved to Ture Magnusson.

“Turn around. Don’t look, just listen. If you have even the slightest doubt, then tell us.”

Linda quickly decided on a plan. She was not going to do the voice right away, but work up to it. It would be a test for everyone in the room, not just Magnusson.

“Who remembers what his exact words were?” Lindman asked.

Martinsson had the best memory. He repeated the text. Linda made her voice as deep as possible, and found the right accent.

Magnusson shook his head.

“I’m not sure. I almost think I recognize it, but it’s not quite right.”

“I’d like to do it again,” Linda said. “It didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.”

No one objected. Again Linda only approximated the right intonation and phrasing. Again, Magnusson shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I really couldn’t say for sure.”

“One last time,” Linda said.

This was the time that counted. She took a deep breath and repeated the text, this time getting as close as possible to the original.

“Yes,” Magnusson said. “That’s what he sounded like. That’s his voice.”

“But that was on the third try,” Höglund said. “What’s that worth?”

Linda couldn’t quite hide her satisfaction. Her dad saw it at once.

“Why did he only recognize it on the third attempt?” he asked.

“Because the first two times I didn’t sound like him,” she said. “It was only the third time that I did the voice exactly.”

“I didn’t hear a difference,” Höglund said suspiciously.

“When you imitate someone’s voice all the ingredients have to be right,” Linda said.

“That’s quite something,” Wallander said. “Are you serious about this?”

“Yes.”

Wallander looked straight at Ture Magnusson.

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we thank you for taking the trouble of coming in.”

Linda was the only one who shook Magnusson’s hand. She followed him out.

“Great job,” she said. “Thank you for coming in.”

“How could you do that so well?” he asked. “It was almost as if I could see him in front of me.”

“Anna,” Wallander said. “We need to talk to her now.”

Linda rang the doorbell to Anna’s apartment, but no one answered the door. Anna wasn’t home. Linda shivered as she stood outside in the stairwell. She was starting to understand why Anna had decided to disappear again.

44

It had been Langaas’s task to pick up Anna by the boarded-up pizzeria in Sandskogen. At first Westin had been planning to get her himself to make sure she was completely willing. But finally he decided that she was so dependent on him she wasn’t likely to put up any resistance. Since she had no idea what had happened to Harriet Bolson — he had given Langaas strict instructions not to say anything — she had no reason to try to get away. The only thing he feared was her intuition. He had tried to gauge it and had concluded that it was almost as strong as his own. Anna is my daughter, he thought. She is careful, attentive, constantly receptive to the messages of her subconscious.

Langaas had been briefed on how to handle the situation, even though it was unlikely that Anna had been frightened by Zeba’s disappearance. There was a chance that she would talk to Linda, the girl Westin judged to be her closest confidante, even though he had warned and thereafter forbidden her to have intimate conversations with anyone except himself. It could lead her astray, he had told her, now that she had finally found the right path. He was the one who had been gone for so long, but it was she who was the prodigal son, or daughter. She was the one who was finally coming home, not him. What was happening now was necessary. Her father was the one who was going to hold people responsible for turning their backs on the Lord and for building cathedrals where they worshipped at the altar of their own egos rather than humbling themselves before their true Maker. He had seen the bewitched look in her eye and known that with enough time he would have been able to erase all doubt from her mind. The problem was that he didn’t have this time. It was a mistake, he acknowledged to himself. He should have contacted her long before he showed himself to her in Malmö. But he had had all the others to work on, the members of his army who were one day to open the gates and take their place in his plan. Harriet Bolson’s death had been their biggest challenge to date. He had told Langaas to watch their reactions over the next few days, in case anyone seemed about to break down or even so much as sway in their conviction. But no one had showed any such signs. To the contrary, Langaas reported a growing sense of impatience among them to undergo the ultimate sacrifice that lay ahead.

Before Langaas went to pick up Anna, Westin had made sure he understood that he was to use force if she did not want to come willingly. That was why he had chosen such a remote area for the meeting. He had watched Langaas’s reactions carefully when he mentioned the use of force. Langaas had shown a momentary hesitation; a glimpse of anxiety flickered in his eyes. Westin had made his voice as mild as possible while he leaned forward and placed his hand on Langaas’s shoulder. What was it that worried him? Had Westin ever played favorites among his disciples? Had he not plucked Torgeir from the gutters of Cleveland? Why shouldn’t his daughter be treated like everyone else? God created a world where everyone was equal, a world that people had turned their backs on and destroyed. Was that not the world they were trying to recover?

If all went well and she showed herself worthy, Anna would one day be his successor. God’s New Kingdom on Earth could not be left without a ruler, as in the past. There had to be a leader, and God himself had told him that it was to be a position that would go from father to child.

Sometimes he thought Anna was not the one. In that case, he would have to have more children and select his successor from among them.

Westin wasn’t sure how Langaas found these houses that stood empty and unattended, but it was a matter of trust between them. Right now the house Langaas had selected was a villa in Sandhammaren that was conveniently isolated from its neighbors and belonged to a retired sea captain who was in the hospital with a broken leg. This house had the additional advantage of a small room in the basement. The sea captain’s house had thick concrete walls, and the room in the basement was well constructed, with a small window in the sturdy door. When Langaas first showed it to him, they agreed that it seemed as if the sea captain had a private jail cell in his home. Langaas had suggested it was perhaps meant as a bomb shelter in the event of a war. But why the thick glass window in the door?

He stopped and listened. In the beginning, when the drugs had worn off, Zeba had screamed, hit the walls, and attacked the bucket that they had put in for her to use as a toilet. Then, when she was quiet, he had peeked in through the window. She had been curled up on the bed. They had put a sandwich and a cup of water on a table, but she hadn’t touched it. He hadn’t expected her to.

When he looked at her through the window a second time, she was lying on the bed with her back to him, sleeping. He watched her for a long time until he was sure that she was breathing. Then he went back upstairs and sat down on the verandah, waiting for Langaas to arrive with Anna. There was still one problem to be solved, the question of what was to be done about Henrietta. So far, both Anna and Langaas had been able to convince her that all was well, but Henrietta was moody and unreliable. Once upon a time he had loved her, although that time lay wrapped in a haze of unreality. If possible, he would try to spare her life.

He looked out at the sea. People were walking on the beach. One of them had a dog, one was carrying a small child on his shoulders. I am doing this for your sakes, he thought. It is for you that I have gathered the martyrs, for your freedom, to fill the emptiness you may not even realize you carry within yourselves.

The walkers on the beach vanished beyond his sight. He looked at the water. The waves were almost imperceptible. A faint wind blew from the southeast. He went out into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Langaas and Anna wouldn’t arrive for another thirty minutes. He returned to the verandah and watched a ship slowly making its way west on the horizon.

True Christian martyrs were so rare now that people hardly even thought they existed. Some priests had died for the sake of their fellow men in concentration camps during World War II, and there had been other holy men and women. But in general, the act of martyrdom had slipped from Christian culture. Now it was the Muslims who called on the faithful to make the ultimate sacrifice. He had studied their preparations on video, how they documented their intentions to die the death of a martyr. In short, he had learned his craft at the hands of those he hated most, his biggest enemy, the people he had no intention of making room for in the New Kingdom. Ironically, the dramatic events that were about to take place would in all probability be attributed to the work of Muslims. A welcome benefit of this would be to provoke greater hatred of that faith, but it was unfortunate that it would take the world a while to fully understand that the Christian martyrs had returned. This would be no mere isolated phenomenon, no Maranatha, but a wave of true evangelical power that would continue until the New Kingdom of the Lord was fully realized on Earth.

He studied his hands. Sometimes when he contemplated what lay before him they would start to shake. But now they were steady. For a short while they will see me as a madman, he thought. But when the martyrs march forth in row upon row, people will understand that I am the apostle they have been waiting for. I could not have managed this without the help of Jim Jones. He taught me how to overcome my fear of death, of urging others to die for the greater good. He taught me that freedom and redemption only come through bloodshed, through death; that there is no other way and that someone must lead the herd.

Someone must lead the way. Jesus had done so, but God had forsaken him because he had not gone far enough. Jesus had a weakness, he thought. He did not have the strength I possess. We will complete what he lacked the strength to do.

Westin scanned the horizon again. The ship he had been watching was gone, and the soft breeze had died down. Soon they would be here. For the rest of the day and night, he would concentrate on her. It had been a big step for her to lie about her relationship to Vigsten, the man in Copenhagen who was Langaas’s unwitting host. Anna had never taken a piano lesson in her life, but she had managed to convince the policeman she talked to. Westin again felt irritation at the fact that he had underestimated the time needed to work on her. But it was too late. Everything could not go according to his plan, and the important thing was that the larger events not be altered.

The front door opened. He strained to hear them. During the past long and difficult years, he had trained all of his senses. It was as if he had sharpened the blades of his hearing, sight, and smell. Sometimes he thought of them like finely crafted knives hanging from his belt. He listened to their footsteps. Langaas’s feet were heavy, Anna’s lighter. She was moving at her own speed, which indicated that he had not had to use force.

They walked out onto the verandah. Westin stood up and embraced Anna. She was anxious, but not so much so that he was unable to comfort her. He asked her to sit while he followed Langaas to the door. They spoke in low tones. The report Langaas gave him was reassuring. The equipment was stored safely, the others were waiting in two separate houses. No one showed any signs of anything except impatience.

“They’re hungry now,” Langaas said.

“The hour is approaching. Two days and two hours until we come out of hiding and make the first strike.”

“She was completely calm when I picked her up. I felt her pulse and it was normal.”

His rage appeared as if from nowhere.

“Only I have the right to feel a person’s pulse! Not you, never you.”

Langaas turned pale.

“I shouldn’t have done it.”

“No. But there is something you can do for me to make up for it.”

“What is it?”

“Anna’s friend. The one who has been too curious, too interested. I am going to talk to Anna now. If it turns out that this friend suspects anything, she should disappear.”

Langaas nodded.

Westin signaled for him to leave, then quietly returned to the verandah. Anna was sitting in a chair against the wall. She always keeps her back to the wall, he thought. He kept watching her. She appeared relaxed, but somewhere inside he had doubts. Suddenly she turned her head in his direction. He drew back behind the door. Had she seen him? It worried him that she was able to unnerve him in this way. There is one sacrifice I do not want to make, he thought. A sacrifice I fear. But I must be prepared even for this. Not even my daughter can expect to go free. No one can expect to do that, except me.

He walked out to join her. When he sat down, the unexpected suddenly happened. It was the fault of the sea captain, and he cursed him silently. The walls were simply not thick enough. A scream came up through the floor. Anna froze. The scream modulated into something like the roar of a desperate animal chewing its way through the cement.

Zeba’s voice, Zeba’s scream. Anna stared at him, the man who was her father and so much more. She bit her lower lip so hard it started to bleed.

It would be a long and difficult night. He wasn’t sure if Anna had abandoned him or if Zeba’s scream had only thrown her off track for a moment.

45

Linda stared at Anna’s door, thinking she should kick it open. But why — what was it she thought she would find in there? Not Zeba, who was the only one she cared about right now. Standing outside the door, she broke into a cold sweat as she felt she understood the gist of what was happening, without being able to translate her insight into words. She shoved her hands into her pockets. She had returned all of Anna’s keys, except the ones to the car. But what good will they do me, she thought. Where would I go? Is her car even there? She walked down to the parking lot and saw that it was. Linda tried to think clearly, but fear blocked her thoughts. First she had been worried about Anna. Now it was Zeba who had disappeared. Then she grasped something that had been confusing her. It was about Anna. At first she had been afraid that something had happened to her, but now she was afraid of what she could do.

I’m imagining things, she thought. What is it I think Anna could do? She started walking in the direction of Zeba’s house, then turned around and hurried back to Anna’s car. Normally she would at least write a note, but there was no time for that. She drove to Zeba’s house at high speed. The neighbor was out with Zeba’s son, but her daughter was home and she gave her the key to Zeba’s apartment. Linda let herself in and picked up the strange smell again. Why is no one testing this? she thought.

She walked into the middle of the living room, breathing quietly as if hoping to trick the walls into thinking no one was there. Zeba never locks her door. Someone opens the door and walks right in. Her boy is here but he can’t talk. Zeba is drugged and carried away. Her boy starts to cry, and eventually the neighbor comes over to check on him.

Linda looked around, but she could see no trace of what had happened. All I see is an empty apartment, and I can’t interpret emptiness. She stubbed her toe on the way out. As she was walking to the car, Yassar came out of his store.

“Did you find her?”

“No. Have you thought of anything else?”

Yassar sighed.

“Nothing. My memory is not so good, but I’m sure she was clinging to his arm.”

Linda felt a need to defend Zeba.

“She wasn’t clinging to him, she was drugged.”

Yassar looked worried.

“You may be right,” he said. “But do things like that really happen in a town like Ystad?”

Linda only heard a part of what Yassar had to say. She was already on her way to see Henrietta. She had just started the engine when her cell phone rang. It was from the police station, but not her dad’s regular office number. She hesitated, then answered. It was Lindman. She was happy to hear his voice.

“Where are you?”

“In a car.”

“Your father asked me to call. He wants to know where you are. And where is Anna Westin?”

“I haven’t found her.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? I went over to her place and she wasn’t there. Now I’m trying to figure out where she could be. When I’ve found her I’ll bring her back to the station.”

Why don’t I tell him the truth? she wondered. Is it something I learned because I had two parents who never told me what was going on, who always chose to skirt their way around the truth?

It was as if he saw through her.

“Is everything all right with you?”

“Apart from the fact that I haven’t found Anna — yes.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No.”

“That didn’t sound completely convincing. Just remember you aren’t a police officer yet.”

“How can I forget when you’re always bringing it up?”

She finished the conversation, turned the phone off, and threw it onto the passenger seat. She had only turned one corner when she stopped short and switched the phone back on again. Then she drove straight to Henrietta’s house. The wind had picked up and the air was chilly when she got out of the car and walked to the house. She looked toward the place where she had been caught in the animal trap. In the distance, on one of the small dirt roads between the fields, a man was burning trash next to his car. The thin spiral of smoke was torn apart by the gusts of wind.

Fall was just around the corner, the first frost not too far off. She walked into the garden and rang the doorbell. The dog started to bark. She drew a deep breath and shook out her body as if she were about to crouch down into the starting blocks. Henrietta opened the door. She smiled. Linda was immediately suspicious; it seemed as if Henrietta had been expecting her. Linda also noted that she had put on makeup, as if she wanted to make a good impression on someone, or to conceal the fact that she was pale.

“This is unexpected,” Henrietta said and stepped aside.

Not true, Linda thought.

“You’re always welcome. Please come in.”

The dog sniffed her, then returned to his basket. Linda heard a sigh. She looked around, but no one was there. Sighs seemed to emanate from the thick stone walls themselves. Henrietta put out a coffee pot and two mugs.

“What’s that sound?” Linda asked.

“I’m playing one of my oldest compositions,” Henrietta said. “It’s from 1987, a concert for four sighing voices and percussion. Listen!”

Linda heard a single voice sigh, a woman.

“That’s Anna. I managed to convince her to participate. She has a melodious sigh, full of sadness and vulnerability. There is always a somewhat hesitant quality to her speaking voice, but never to her sigh.”

Henrietta walked over to the tape recorder and turned it off. They sat down. The dog had started snoring, and it was as if this sound drew Linda back to reality.

“Do you know where Anna is?”

Henrietta looked down at her nails, then at Linda, who sensed a moment of doubt in her eyes. She knows, and she’s prepared to deny it.

“My mistake, then. Each time I think you’re here to see me, what you’re really after is to find out where my daughter is.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“No.”

“When did you last talk to her?”

“She called yesterday.”

“From where?”

“From her apartment.”

“She doesn’t have a cell phone?”

“No, she doesn’t, as you must know. She resists joining the ranks of those who are always available.”

“So she was home last night?’

“Are you interrogating me, Linda?”

“I want to know where Anna is, what she’s up to.”

“I don’t know where she is — what about in Lund? She’s in medical school, you know.”

No she isn’t, Linda thought. Maybe Henrietta didn’t know that Anna had taken a break from her studies. That will be my trump card. But not now — later.

She chose another route.

“Do you know Zeba?”

“Little Zeba? Yes, of course.”

“She’s disappeared, just like Anna.”

Not a twitch or a quiver betrayed that Henrietta knew anything. Linda felt as if she had been floored by a punch she never saw coming. That had happened during her time at the police academy. She had been in a boxing ring and suddenly found herself facedown on the floor without knowing how she got there.

“And maybe she’ll reappear, just like Anna did.”

Linda more sensed than saw her opportunity and she rushed in with her fists held high.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Why didn’t you say you knew where she was?”

It hit the mark. Beads of sweat broke out on Henrietta’s forehead.

“Are you saying that I lied to you? If that is the case, I want you to leave right now. I will not be called a liar in my own home. You are poisoning me. I cannot work, the music is dying.”

“I am saying you lied, and I won’t leave until you answer my questions. I have to know where Zeba is because I think she’s in danger. Anna is mixed up in this somehow, maybe you are too. One thing is for sure: you know a lot more than you’re telling me.”

“Go away! I don’t know anything!” Henrietta yelled. The dog got up and started to bark.

Henrietta walked over to a window, absently opening it, then closing it, then pushing it slightly ajar. Linda didn’t know how to continue, but knew she couldn’t let go. Henrietta seemed to have calmed down. She turned around.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper, but I don’t like being accused of lying. I don’t know where Zeba is, and I have no idea why you seem to think Anna is involved.”

Her indignation seemed genuine, or else she was a better actress than Linda imagined. She was still speaking with a raised voice, and she had not sat down again, still standing by the window.

“That night I got caught in the trap,” Linda said. “Who were you talking to?”

“Were you spying on me?”

“Call it what you like. Why else would I have been here? I wanted to know why you didn’t tell me the truth when I came to ask you about Anna.”

“The man who was here had come to talk to me about a composition we are planning together.”

“No,” Linda said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “It was someone else.”

“Are you accusing me of lying again?”

“I know you are.”

“I always tell the truth,” Henrietta said. “But I prefer not to reveal any part of my private life.”

“You lied, Henrietta. I know who was here.”

“You know who was here?”

Henrietta’s voice was high and shrill again.

“Either it was a man by the name of Torgeir Langaas, or it was Anna’s father.”

Henrietta flinched.

“Torgeir Langaas,” she almost screamed. “I don’t know anyone called Torgeir Langaas. And Anna’s father has been gone for years. He’s dead. Anna is in Lund and I have no idea where Zeba might be.”

She went out into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. She moved some cassette tapes out of the way and sat down on a chair next to Linda, who had to turn her body to look at her. Henrietta smiled. When she spoke again her voice was soft, almost careful.

“I didn’t mean to get so carried away.”

Linda looked at her, and somewhere inside her head a warning light came on. There was something she should be seeing, but she couldn’t think of what it was. She realized that the conversation had been a failure. The only thing she had achieved was to put Henrietta even more on her guard. An experienced officer should have been in charge of this questioning, she thought. Now it would be even harder for her father, or whoever it would fall to, to get Henrietta to reveal whatever it was she was hiding.

“Is there anything else you think I’ve been lying about?”

“I don’t think I believe almost anything you say, but I can’t force you to stop lying. I just want you to know that I’m asking these questions because I’m worried about Zeba.”

“What could possibly have happened to her?”

Linda drew a deep breath.

“I think someone, perhaps more than one person, is killing women who have had abortions. Zeba has had an abortion. So had the woman who was found dead in that church. You’ve heard about that?”

Henrietta sat absolutely still, which Linda took as a yes.

“What has Anna got to do with all this?”

“I don’t know, but it scares me.”

“What scares you?”

“The thought that someone might try to kill Zeba. And that Anna is somehow involved.”

Something in Henrietta’s face changed. Linda couldn’t say exactly what it was, but it flickered there for a moment. She decided she wasn’t going to get any further and bent down to pick up her jacket from the floor. There was a mirror next to the table. She threw a quick glance at it as she bent over, and she saw Henrietta’s face. She was looking past Linda.

Linda grabbed her jacket and sat up. She realized what Henrietta had been looking at: the open window.

She started putting on her jacket and stood up, turning around. There was no one outside, but Linda knew someone had been there. She froze. Henrietta’s loud voice, the window that was opened for no reason, her repetitions of the names Linda had given her, and her vehement objections to the accusations. Linda finished putting on her jacket. She didn’t dare turn around and look Henrietta in the eye, since she was afraid her realization was spelled out on her face.

Linda quickly made her way to the front door and bent down to pet the dog. Henrietta followed her out.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of help to you.”

“You could have,” Linda said. “But you chose not to.”

Linda opened the door and walked out. When she reached the end of the path, she turned and looked around. I don’t see anyone, she thought, but someone can see me. Someone watched me in the house and — more to the point — heard what we said. Henrietta repeated my questions and the person outside now knows what I know and what I believe and fear.

She hurried over to the car. She was scared, but she also berated herself for making a mistake. The point at which she was petting the dog and getting ready to leave was the point at which she should have started her questions in earnest. But she had chosen to leave.

Linda kept checking the rearview mirror as she drove away.

46

As Linda walked into the police station, she tripped and split her lip on the hard floor. For a moment she was dizzy, and then she managed to get up and wave away the receptionist, who was on her way over to help her. When she saw blood on her hand she walked to the restroom, wiped off her face with cold water, and waited for the bleeding to stop. When she stepped back out into the reception area she saw Lindman, who was on his way in through the front doors. He looked at her with an amused expression.

“You make quite a pair,” he said. “Your father claims he walked into a door. What about you? That pesky door been making trouble for you as well? Maybe we should call you Black Eye and Fat Lip, to save ourselves the trouble of the two of you having the same name.”

Linda laughed, which caused the wound to reopen and bleed. She went back into the restroom and got more tissues. Together they walked down the corridor.

“It wasn’t a door. I threw an ashtray at him.”

They stopped outside Wallander’s office.

“Did you find Anna?’

“No, she seems to have disappeared again.”

Lindman knocked on the door.

“You’d better go in and tell him.”

Wallander had his feet on the desk and was chewing on a pencil. He raised his eyebrows at her.

“I thought you were bringing Anna.”

“I thought so too, but I can’t find her.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? She’s not at home.”

Wallander didn’t manage to conceal his impatience. Linda prepared for the onslaught, but then he noticed her swollen lip.

“What happened to you?”

“I tripped.”

He shook his head, then started to laugh. Although Linda appreciated this turn in his mood, she found his laugh hard to take. It sounded like the neigh of a horse and was far too high-pitched. If they were ever out together and he started to laugh, people would actually turn around to see who could possibly be responsible for those sounds.

Wallander threw his pencil down and took his feet off the desk.

“Have you called her place in Lund? Her friends? She has to be somewhere.”

“Nowhere that we can reach her, I think.”

“You’ve called her cell phone, at least?”

“She doesn’t have one.”

He was immediately interested in this piece of information.

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t want one.”

“Is there any other reason?”

Linda knew that there was a thought process behind these questions, not simply idle curiosity.

“Everyone has a cell phone these days, especially you young folk. But not Anna Westin. How do you explain that?”

“I can’t. According to Henrietta, she doesn’t want to be reachable at all times.”

Wallander thought about this.

“Are you sure she’s told you everything? Could she have a phone that she hasn’t told you about?”

“How could I know that?”

“Exactly.”

Wallander pulled his phone over and dialed Höglund’s extension. She came into the office shortly thereafter, looking both tired and scruffy. Linda saw that her hair was messy and her blouse slightly soiled. She was reminded of Vanya Jorner, Medberg’s daughter. The only difference between them that she could see was that Höglund was not as fat.

Linda heard her father ask Höglund to see if any cell phone was registered under Anna’s name. Linda was irritated that she hadn’t thought of it herself.

Before leaving the room, Höglund gave Linda a smile that was more like a forced grimace.

“She doesn’t like me.”

“If my memory doesn’t fail me, you don’t care much for her either. It all evens itself out in the end. Even in a small police station like this, people don’t always get along.”

He stood up.

“Coffee?”

They walked out to the lunchroom, where Wallander was immediately pulled into an evidently exasperating exchange with Nyberg. Linda didn’t understand what they were arguing about. Martinsson came in waving a piece of paper.

“Ulrik Larsen,” he said. “The one who tried to mug you in Copenhagen.”

“Not mug me,” Linda said sharply. “The one who threatened me and told me to stop asking questions about a man named Torgeir Langaas.”

“That’s exactly what I was going to talk to you about,” Martinsson said. “Ulrik Larsen has withdrawn his story. The only problem is, he doesn’t have a new version. He continues to deny that he threatened you, and he maintains he doesn’t know anyone by the name of Langaas. Our Danish colleagues are convinced he’s lying, but they can’t get him to tell the truth.”

“Is that it?”

“Not completely. But I want Kurre to hear the rest.”

“Don’t call him that,” Linda warned. “He hates the nickname ‘Kurre.’ ”

“Tell me about it,” Martinsson said. “He likes it about as much as I like being called ‘Marta.’”

“Who calls you that?”

“My wife. When she’s in a bad mood.”

Wallander and Nyberg finished discussing whatever it was that they disagreed about, and Martinsson recounted the information about Ulrik Larsen.

“There’s one more thing,” he added, “which is the most significant. Our Danish colleagues have naturally run a background check on Larsen, and it turns out that he has no previous criminal record. In fact, it turns out that in all other respects he’s a model citizen: thirty-seven years old, married, three children, and with an occupation that doesn’t normally lead its practitioners to criminal activity.”

“What is it?” Wallander asked.

“He’s a minister.”

Everyone stared at Martinsson.

“What do you mean, he’s a minister?” Lindman asked. “I thought he was a drug addict.”

Martinsson looked through his papers.

“Apparently he played the role of a drug addict, but he’s a minister in the Danish State church, with a parish in Gentofte. There have been all kinds of headlines over there about the fact that a minister of the church has been accused of assault and robbery.”

The room fell quiet.

“It turns up again, then,” Wallander said softly. “Religion, the church. This Larsen is important. Someone has to go over and assist our colleagues in their investigation. I want to know how he fits in.”

“If he fits in,” Lindman said.

“He does,” Wallander said. “We just need to know how. Ask Höglund to do it.”

Martinsson’s telephone rang. He listened and then finished his cup of coffee.

“The Norwegians are stirring,” he said. “We’ve received some information about Torgeir Langaas.”

“Let’s see it.”

Martinsson went to get the faxes. There was a fuzzy version of a photograph.

“This was taken more than twenty years ago,” Martinsson said. “He’s tall. Over one hundred and ninety centimeters.”

They studied the snapshot. Have I seen this man before? Linda wondered. But she wasn’t sure.

“What do they say?” Wallander asked.

Linda noticed that he was getting more and more impatient. Just like me, she thought. The anxiety and impatience go hand in hand.

“They found our man Langaas as soon as they started to look. It would have come through sooner if the officer in charge hadn’t misdirected our urgent query. In other words, the Oslo office is plagued by the same problems we are. Here tapes from the archives go missing, there requests from other stations. But it all got sorted out in the end, and Torgeir Langaas is involved in an old missing-persons case, as it turns out.”

“In what way?” Wallander asked.

“You won’t believe me when I tell you.”

“Try me.”

“Torgeir Langaas disappeared from Norway nineteen years ago.”

They looked at each other. Linda felt as if the room itself was holding its breath. She saw her dad sit up in his chair as if readying himself to charge.

“Another disappearance,” he said. “Somehow all of this is about disappearances.”

“And reappearance,” Lindman said.

“Or a resurrection,” Wallander said.

Martinsson kept reading, slowly, picking his way through the text as if there were land mines hidden between the words: “Torgeir Langaas was the heir of a shipping magnate. His disappearance was unexpected and sudden. No crime was suspected, since he left a letter to his mother, Maigrim Langaas, in which he assured her he was not depressed and had no intentions of committing suicide. He left because he — and I quote — ‘couldn’t stand it any longer.’ ”

“What was it he couldn’t stand?”

It was Wallander who interrupted him again. To Linda it seemed as if his impatience and worry came out of his nostrils like invisible smoke.

“It’s not clear from this report, but he left, with quite a stockpile of cash. Several bank accounts. His parents thought he would tire of his rebellion after a while. His parents didn’t go to the police until two years had passed. The reason they gave, it says here in the report from January 12, 1984, was that he had stopped writing letters, that they hadn’t had any signs of life from him for four months, and that he had emptied all his bank accounts. Since then no one has heard from him.”

Martinsson let the page fall to the table.

“There’s more, but those are the main points.”

Wallander raised his hand.

“Does it say where the last letter was mailed from? And when the bank accounts were emptied?”

Martinsson looked through the papers for these answers, but without success. Wallander picked up the phone.

“What’s the number?”

He dialed the number that Martinsson read out. The Norwegian officer’s name was Hovard Midstuen. Once they were connected, Wallander asked his two questions, gave him his phone number, and hung up.

“He said it would only take a few minutes,” Wallander said. “We’ll wait.”

Midstuen called back after nineteen minutes. During that time no one had said a word. When the phone rang, Wallander pounced on the receiver, then scrawled a few notes as he listened. He thanked his Norwegian colleague and slammed the phone down triumphantly.

“This might be starting to hang together.”

He read from his notes: the last letter Langaas had sent was posted from Cleveland, Ohio. It was also from there that the accounts were emptied and closed.

Not everyone made the connection, but Linda saw what he was getting at.

“The woman who was found dead in Frennestad Church came from Tulsa,” he said. “But she was born in Cleveland, Ohio.”

Everyone was quiet.

“I still don’t understand what’s happening,” he said. “But there’s one thing I know, and that’s that Linda’s friend Zeba is in danger. It may also be that Linda’s other friend Anna Westin is also in danger.”

He paused.

“It may also be that Anna Westin is part of this. That’s why we need to concentrate on these two and nothing else for the moment.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon and Linda was scared. All she could think about was Zeba and Anna. A fleeting thought passed through her mind: she would start her real work as a police officer in three days. But how would she feel about that if something happened to either of her friends? She didn’t know the answer to that question.

47

When Anna recognized the scream as Zeba’s, Westin knew that God was testing him in the same way he had tested Abraham. He perceived all of her reactions even though she had merely flinched and then carefully composed her features to hide her emotions. A moment of doubt, a series of questions — was that some animal or, in fact, a human scream? Could it be Zeba? She was searching for an answer that would satisfy her, and at the same time she was waiting to hear the scream again. What Westin didn’t understand was why she didn’t simply ask him about it. In a way it was just as well that Zeba had made her presence known. Now there was no turning back. He would soon see if Anna was worthy of being called his daughter. What would he do if it turned out she did not possess the strength he expected of her? It had taken him many years to travel down the road his inner voices had told him to follow. He had to be prepared to sacrifice even that which was most precious to him, and it would be up to God whether Westin too would be granted a stay at the last minute.

I won’t talk to her, he thought. I must preach to her, as I preach to my disciples. She broke in during a pause. He let her speak, because he knew he could best interpret a person’s state of mind at such a moment of vulnerability.

“Once upon a time you were my father. You lived a simple life.”

“I had to follow my calling.”

“You abandoned me, your daughter.”

“I had to. But I never left you in my heart. And I came back to you.”

She was tense, he could see that, but still her sudden loss of control surprised him. Her voice rose to a shriek.

“That screaming I heard was Zeba! She’s here somewhere below us. What is she doing here? She hasn’t done anything.”

“You know what she has done. It was you who told me.”

“I wish I’d never told you!”

“She who commits a sin and takes the life of another must bear the wrath of God. This is justice, and the word of the Lord.”

“Zeba didn’t kill anyone. She was only fifteen years old. How could she have cared for a child at that age?”

“She should never have allowed it to happen.”

Westin could not manage to calm her, and he felt a wave of impatience. This is Henrietta, he thought. She’s too much like her.

He decided to exert more force.

“Nothing is going to happen to Zeba,” he said.

“Then what is she doing in the basement?”

“She is waiting for you to make up your mind. To decide.”

This confused her, and Westin smiled inwardly. He had spent many years in Cleveland poring over books about the art of warfare. That work was paying off now. Suddenly she was the one on the defensive.

“I don’t understand what you mean. I’m scared.”

Anna started to sob, her body shook. He felt a lump in his throat, remembering how he had comforted her as a child when she cried. But he forced the feeling away and asked her to stop.

“What are you scared of?”

“Of you.”

“You know I love you. I love Zeba. I have come to join the earthly and the divine in transcendent love.”

“I don’t understand you when you talk like that!”

Before he had a chance to say anything else, there was a new cry for help from the basement and Anna flew from her chair.

“I’m coming!” she cried, but he grabbed her before she could leave the verandah. She struggled but he was too strong for her. When she continued to struggle, he hit her with an open hand. Once, then again, and finally a third time. She fell to the floor after the third blow, her nose bleeding. Langaas appeared at the French windows, and Westin motioned for him to go down into the basement. Langaas understood and left. Westin pulled Anna up onto a chair and felt her forehead with his fingertips. Her pulse was racing. His own was only somewhat accelerated. He sat down across from her and waited. Soon he would break her will. These were the last set of defenses. He had surrounded her and was attacking from all sides. He waited.

“I didn’t want to do that,” he said after a while. “I only do what is necessary. We are about to embark on a war against emptiness, soullessness. It is a war in which it is not always possible to be gentle, nor merciful. I am joined by people who are prepared to give their lives for this cause. I myself may have to give my life.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Nothing will happen to Zeba,” he repeated. “But nothing in this life comes to us for free. Everything has a price.”

Now she looked at him with a mixture of fear and anger. The bleeding from her nose had almost stopped. He explained what it was he wanted her to do. She stared at him with wide eyes. He shifted his chair closer to hers and placed his hand over hers. She flinched, but did not pull it away.

“I will give you one hour,” he said. “No door will be locked, no guards will watch over you. Think about what I have said, and come to your own decision. I know that if you let God into your heart and mind, you will do what is right. Do not forget that I love you very much.”

He stood up, traced a cross on her brow with his finger, and left without a sound.

Langaas was waiting in the hallway.

“She settled down when she saw me. I don’t think she’ll do it again.”

They walked through the garden to an outbuilding that had been used for storing fishing equipment. They stopped outside the door.

“Has everything been prepared?”

“Everything has been prepared,” Langaas said.

He pointed to four tents that had been erected next to the shed, then pulled open the flap to one of them. Westin looked in. There were the boxes, piled one on top of the other. He nodded. Langaas pulled the tent flap shut.

“The cars?”

“The ones that will drive the greatest distance are waiting up on the road. The others have been stationed in the positions we discussed.”

Erik Westin looked down at his watch. The many, often difficult years he had spent laying the groundwork had seemed endless. Now time was suddenly going too fast. From now on, everything had to work exactly as it should.

“It’s time to start the countdown,” he said.

He glanced at the sky. Whenever he had thought forward to this moment in the past, he had always imagined that the heavens would mirror its dramatic import, but in Sandhammaren on this day, September 7, 2001, there were no clouds and almost no breeze.

“What is the temperature?” he asked.

Langaas looked at his watch, which had a built-in thermometer, as well as a pedometer and a compass.

“Eight degrees,” he said.

They walked into the shed, which still smelled pungently of tar. Those who were waiting for him sat in a semicircle on low wooden benches. Westin had planned to perform the ceremony with the white masks, but now he decided to wait. He still didn’t know if the next sacrifice would be Zeba or the policeman’s daughter. They would do the ceremony then. Now they only had time for a shorter ritual; God would not accept anyone who arrived late for their appointed task. Not to be mindful of one’s time was like denying that even time was a gift of the Lord. Those who needed to travel to their destinations would have to leave shortly. They had calculated how much time was needed for each leg of their journey, and had followed the checklists in the carefully prepared manuals. In short, they had done everything in their power, but there was always the possibility that the dark forces would prevent them from achieving their goals.

When the cars with the three groups who had to travel had left, and the others had returned to their hideouts, Westin remained in the shed. He sat motionless in the dark with the necklace in his hand — the golden sandal that was now as important to him as the cross. Did he have any regrets? That would be blasphemy. He was only an instrument, but one equipped with a free will to comprehend and then dedicate himself to the path of the chosen. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of tar. He had spent a summer on the island of Öland as a child visiting a relative who was a fisherman. The memories of that summer, one of the happiest of his childhood, were nestled in the scent of tar. He remembered how he snuck out in the light summer night and ran down to the boat shed in order to draw the smell more deeply into his lungs.

Westin opened his eyes. He was past the point of no return. The time had come. He left the shed and took a circuitous route to the front of the house. He looked out at the verandah from the cover of a large tree. Anna was sitting in the same chair. He tried to interpret her decision from the way she was sitting, but he was too far away.

Suddenly there was a rustling sound behind him. He flinched. It was Langaas. Westin was furious.

“Why are you sneaking around?”

“I didn’t mean to.”

Westin struck him hard in the face, right below the eye. Langaas accepted the blow and lowered his head. Then Westin stroked his head lightly and they walked over to the house. He made his way soundlessly to the verandah until he was right behind her. She only noticed his presence when he bent over and she felt his breath on the nape of her neck. He sat down across from her, pulling her chair closer until their knees touched.

“Have you made your decision?”

“I will do as you ask.”

He had expected that she would say this, but it still came as a relief.

He walked over to a shoulder bag that lay next to the wall and pulled out a small, thin, and extremely sharp knife. He gently lowered it into her hands, as if it were a kitten.

“The moment when she reveals that she knows things she shouldn’t, I want you to stab her — not once, but three or four times. Strike her in the chest and force the blade up before you pull it out. Then call Langaas and stay out of sight until we get you. You have six hours to do this, no more. You know I trust you, and love you. Who could love you more than I do?”

She was about to say something, but stopped herself. He knew she had been thinking of Henrietta.

“God,” she said.

“I trust you, Anna,” he said. “God’s love and my love are one and the same. We are living in a time of rebirth. A new kingdom. Do you understand this?”

“Yes.”

He looked deep into her eyes. He was still not entirely sure about this, but he had to believe he was doing the right thing.

He followed her out.

“Anna is going home now, Torgeir.”

They got into a car that was parked in the front yard. Westin tied the kerchief over her eyes himself to make sure she didn’t see anything.

“Drive around a little,” he said in a low voice to Langaas. “Make her think it’s farther than it really is.”

The car came to a stop at five-thirty. Langaas took out Anna’s earplugs, then instructed her to keep her eyes closed and count to fifty after he had taken off her blindfold.

“The Lord is watching you, and he will not appreciate it if you peek.”

He helped her step out onto the sidewalk. Anna counted to fifty, then opened her eyes. At first she didn’t know where she was. Then she realized she was on Mariagatan, outside Linda’s apartment.

48

During the afternoon and evening of September 7, Linda once again watched her father try to gather all the threads together and come up with a plan for how they should proceed. Over the course of those hours she became aware that the praise he sometimes received from his colleagues and at times in the press — when they were not chastising him for his dismissive attitude toward them in press conferences — was justified. She realized not only that her father was knowledgeable and experienced but also that he possessed a remarkable ability to focus and inspire his colleagues.

During her time at the police academy, the father of a friend of hers had been an ice-hockey coach for a top team in the second-highest league. She and her friend had once been allowed into the locker room right before a game, during the intermission, and after it was over. This coach had the ability she had just witnessed in her father, an ability to motivate people. After two periods, the team was losing by four goals, but this coach didn’t let up. He egged them on, urging them not to let themselves be beaten, and in the last period the players had stormed back onto the ice and almost managed to turn the game around.

Will my dad manage to turn this game around? she wondered. Will he find Zeba before anything happens to her? Over the course of the day, during a meeting or press conference when she hovered near the back of the room, she kept rushing out to go to the bathroom. Her stomach had always been her weakest point; fear gave her diarrhea. Her dad, on the other hand, had an iron stomach and sometimes bragged about having the stomach lining of a hyena — apparently their stomach acid was the strongest in all the animal kingdom. His weakness was his head, and sometimes when he was under a great deal of stress he would suffer tension headaches that could last days and only be relieved by taking prescription-strength pills.

Linda was afraid, and she knew she wasn’t the only one. There was an unreal quality to the calm and concentration at the police station. She understood something that no one had mentioned at the academy: sometimes the most important task facing a police officer was keeping her own fear in check. If it got out of control, all this concentration and focus would crumble into chaos.

Shortly after four o’clock, Linda saw her father pacing up and down the corridors like a wild animal. The press conference was about to take place. Wallander kept sending in Martinsson to see how many journalists were assembled, and how many television cameras. From time to time he asked Martinsson about individuals by name, and from the tone of his voice it was clear he was hoping they were not present. She watched him walking anxiously to and fro. He was the animal nervously pacing backstage, waiting to be sent into the arena. When Holgersson came to announce that it was time, he lunged into the room. The only thing missing was a roar.

During the thirty-minute-long press conference, Wallander concentrated on Zeba. Photographs were passed around, a slide photograph was projected onto the wall. Where was she? Had anyone seen her? He skillfully sidestepped being pulled into lengthy explanations, keeping his remarks concise and ignoring questions he did not want to answer.

“There is still a dimension here that we do not understand,” he said in closing. “The church fires, the two dead women, and the burned animals. We cannot be entirely sure that there is a connection, but what we know is that this young woman may be in danger.”

What danger? Who posed this danger? Could he add anything? The room buzzed with dissatisfaction. Linda imagined him lifting an invisible shield and simply letting the questions bounce back unanswered. Chief Holgersson said nothing during the proceedings, except to moderate the question-and-answer session. Svartman mouthed answers to Wallander when there were details that escaped him.

Suddenly it was all over. Wallander stood up as if he couldn’t take it any longer, nodded, and left the room. He shook off the reporters that rushed after him. Afterward he left the station without saying another word.

“That’s what he always does,” Martinsson said. “He takes himself out for some air, as if he were his own dog. Walks around the water tower. Then he comes back.”

Twenty minutes later he came storming down the corridor. Pizzas were delivered to the conference room. Wallander told everyone to hurry up, shouted at a young woman from the office who had not provided them with the paper he had asked for, and then slammed the door. Lindman, who was sitting beside her, whispered:

“One day I think he’s going to lock the door and throw away the key. We’ll turn into pillars of salt. If we’re lucky, we’ll be excavated a thousand years from now.”

Ann-Britt Höglund had just returned from a quick investigative turn in Copenhagen.

“I met this Ulrik Larsen,” she said and pushed a photograph over to Linda. She recognized him immediately. He was the one who had warned her not to look for Torgeir Langaas and knocked her down.

“He’s evidently changed his mind,” Höglund continued. “Now there’s no more talk about drugs. He denies having threatened Linda, but he gives no alternate explanation. He is an allegedly controversial minister. His sermons have become increasingly fire-and-brimstone as of late.”

Linda saw her father’s arm shoot out and interrupt.

“This is important. How do you mean ‘fire-and-brimstone,’ and specify ‘as of late.’”

Höglund flipped through her notebook.

“I was led to believe that ‘as of late’ means this last year. The fire-and-brimstone is shorthand for the fact that he has started preaching about Judgment Day, the crisis of Christianity, ungodliness, and the punishment that will be meted out to all sinners. He has been admonished both by his own congregation and by the bishop, but he refuses to change the tenor of his sermons.”

“I take it you asked the most important question?”

Linda wasn’t sure what he meant, and when Höglund answered, Linda felt stupid.

“His views on abortion? I was actually able to ask him myself.”

“The answer?”

“There was none. He refused to speak with me. But in some of his sermons he has allegedly stated that abortion is a crime that deserves the severest punishment.”

Höglund sat down. Nyberg opened the door at that moment.

“The theologist is here.”

Linda looked around the room and saw that only her father knew what Nyberg was talking about.

“Show him in,” Wallander said.

Nyberg left and Wallander explained whom they were waiting for.

“Nyberg and I have been trying to make sense of that Bible that was left or deliberately placed in the hut where Medberg was murdered. Someone has gone in and changed the text, notably in the Book of Revelation, Romans, and parts of the Old Testament. But what kind of changes? Is there a logic there? We talked to the state crime people, but they had no experts to send. That’s why we contacted the Department of Theology at Lund University and established contact with Professor Hanke, who has come here today.”

Professor Hanke, to everyone’s surprise, turned out to be a young woman with long blond hair and a pretty face, dressed in black leather pants and a low-cut top. Linda saw that it threw her father. Hanke walked around the room shaking hands and then sat down in the chair that was pulled up next to Lisa Holgersson.

“My name is Sofia Hanke,” she said. “I’m a professor at the university and wrote my dissertation on the Christian paradigm shift in Sweden after World War II.”

She opened her portfolio and took out the Bible that had been found in the hut.

“This has been fascinating,” she said. “But I know that you don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll try to make it brief. The first thing I want to say is that I believe this is the work of one person, not because of the handwriting, but because there is a kind of logic to what is written here.”

She looked in a notebook and continued, “I’ve chosen an example to illustrate what I mean, from Romans chapter seven. By the way, how many of you know the Bible? Perhaps it’s not part of the current curriculum at the police academy?”

Everyone who met her gaze shook his or her head, except Nyberg, who surprised everyone by saying, “I read from the Bible every night. Foolproof way to induce sleep.”

Everyone laughed, including Sofia Hanke.

“I can relate to that experience,” she said. “I ask mainly because I’m curious. In any case, Romans chapter seven discusses the human tendency to sin. It says, among other things, ‘Yes, the good that I wish to do, I do not; but the evil that I do not wish to do, I do.’ Between these lines our writer has rearranged good and evil. The new version reads: ‘Yes, the evil that I wish to do, I do; but the good that I do not wish to do, I do not do.’ St. Paul’s message is turned upside down. One of the grounding assumptions of Christianity is the idea that humans want to do what is right, but always find reasons to do evil instead. But the changed version says that humans do not even want to do what is right. This sort of thing happens again and again in the changes. The writer turns texts upside down, seemingly to find new meanings. It would be easy to assume that this is the work of a deranged soul, but I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with. There is a strained logic to these changes. I think the writer is hunting for a significance he or she believes is concealed in the Bible, something that is not immediately apparent in the words themselves. He or she is looking between the words.”

“Logic,” Wallander said. “What kind of logic is there in something this absurd?”

“Not everything is absurd; some of it is straightforward. There are also other texts in the margin. Like this quote: ‘All the wisdom life has taught me can be summed up in the words ‘he who loves God, is blessed.’”

Linda saw that her father was getting impatient.

“Why would someone do this? Why do we find a Bible in a secret hut where a woman has been the victim of a bestial murder?”

“It could be a case of religious fanaticism,” Hanke said. Wallander leaned forward.

“Tell me more.”

“I normally refer to something I call Preacher Lena’s tradition. A long time ago, a milkmaid in Östergötland had mystical visions and started preaching. After a while she was taken to an insane asylum, but these people have always been around: religious fanatics who either choose to live as lone preachers or who try to gather a flock of devotees. Most of these people are honest to the extent that they act out of a genuine belief in their divine inspiration. Of course there have always been con artists, but they are in the minority. Most of these people preach their beliefs and start their sects from a genuine desire to do good. If they commit crimes or evil deeds, they often try to legitimize these acts in the eyes of their God, by interpretation of Bible verses, for example.”

The discussion with Sofia Hanke continued, but Linda could already tell that her father was thinking about other things. These scribbles between the lines of the Bible found in the Rannesholm hut hadn’t yielded any clues. Or had they? She tried to read his thoughts, something she had been practicing since early childhood. But there was a big difference between being alone with him at home and being in a conference room full of people at the police station, like now.

Nyberg escorted Sofia Hanke out, and Holgersson opened a window. The pizza cartons were starting to empty. Nyberg returned. People walked around, talked on the phone, went to get cups of coffee. Only Linda and her father stayed at the table. He looked at her absently and then retreated into his own thoughts.

When they started their long meeting, Linda was quiet and no one asked her any questions. She sat there like an invited guest. Her father looked at her a few times. If Birgitta Medberg had been a person who mapped old, overgrown paths, then her father was a person who was looking for passable roads to travel. He seemed to have an endless patience, even though he had a clock inside him ticking quickly and loudly. That’s what he had told her once when he was in Stockholm and met with Linda and a few of her student friends and told them about his work. During times of enormous pressure, like when he knew a person’s life was in danger, he had a feeling that there was a clock ticking away on the right side of his chest, parallel to his heart. Outwardly, however, he was patient, and he only displayed any signs of irritation if anyone started to leave the subject: where was Zeba?

The meeting went on, but from time to time someone made or received a call, or left and returned with some document or a photograph that was immediately worked into the investigation.

Chief Holgersson closed the door at a quarter past eight after a short break. Now no one was allowed to disturb them. Wallander took off his coat, rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue shirt, and walked up to the large pad of paper propped up on the easel. On a blank sheet of paper he wrote Zeba’s name and drew a circle around it.

“Let’s forget about Medberg for the moment,” he said. “I know it may be a fatal mistake, but right now there is no logical connection between her and Harriet Bolson. It may be the same perpetrator or perpetrators, we don’t know. But my point is that the motive seems different. If we leave Medberg, we see that it is much easier to find a connection between Bolson and Zeba. Abortion. Let us assume that we are dealing with a number of people — we don’t know how many — who with some religious motivation judge and punish women who have had abortions. I use the word assume here since we don’t know. We only know that people have been murdered, animals killed, and churches burned to the ground. Everything that has happened gives us the impression of systematic and thorough planning.”

Wallander looked at the others, then went back to his place at the table and sat down.

“Let us assume everything is part of a ceremony,” he said. “Fire is an important symbol in many similar cases. The burning of the animals may have been a sacrifice of some kind. Harriet Bolson was executed in front of the altar in a way that could be interpreted as ritual sacrifice. We found a necklace with a sandal pendant around her neck.”

Lindman lifted his hand and interrupted him.

“I’ve been wondering about that note with her name on it. If it was left there for us, then why?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Doesn’t it suggest that we are in fact dealing with a lunatic who challenges us, who wants us to try to catch him?”

“It could be. But that’s not the important thing right now. I think these people are planning to do with Zeba what they did to Harriet Bolson.”

The room grew quiet.

“This is where we are,” he said finally. “We have no suspect, no sure-fire motive, no definite directions. In my opinion, we’re at a stalemate.”

No one disagreed.

“We have to keep working,” he said. “Sooner or later we’ll find our way. We have to.”

The meeting was over. People left in different directions. Linda felt in the way but had no thoughts of leaving the station. In three days, on Monday the tenth, she would at last be able to pick up her uniform and start working in earnest. But the only thing that meant anything right now was Zeba. Linda went to the bathroom. On her way back, her cell phone rang. It was Anna.

“Where are you?”

“At the station.”

“Is Zeba back yet? I called her apartment but there’s no answer.”

Linda was immediately on her guard.

“She’s still missing.”

“I’m so worried about her.”

“Me too.”

She must really be worried, Linda thought. She can’t lie that well.

“I need to talk,” Anna said.

“Not now,” said Linda. “I can’t get away right now.”

“Not even for a few minutes? If I come up to the station?”

“You aren’t allowed in.”

“But can’t you come out? Only a few minutes?”

“Are you sure this can’t wait?”

“Of course it can.”

Linda heard that Anna was disappointed. She changed her mind.

“A few minutes, then.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Linda walked down the corridor to her father’s office. Everyone seemed to have vanished. She wrote on a note that she left on the desk: I’ve gone out for some air and to talk to Anna. Back soon. Linda.

She put on her jacket and left. The corridor was empty. The only person she passed on the way out was the cleaning woman with her cart. The police officers manning the incoming calls were busy and did not look up. No one saw her walk past the reception area.

The cleaning woman, Lija, who was from Latvia, normally started at the far end of the corridor, where the criminal investigators had their offices. Since several rooms there were occupied, she started with Inspector Wallander’s office. There were always loose pieces of paper under his chair that he hadn’t managed to throw into the wastebasket. She swept up everything that was under the chair, dusted here and there, and then left the room.

49

Linda waited outside the station. She was cold and pulled the jacket tightly across her body. She walked down to the poorly lit parking lot and spotted her dad’s car. She felt her pocket and confirmed that she still had the spare keys. She checked her watch. More than ten minutes had gone by. Why wasn’t Anna here?

Linda waited at the entrance to the police station. No one was around. In other parts of the building there were shadows behind the lit-up windows. She walked back over to the parking lot. Suddenly something made her feel ill at ease and she stopped short, looking around, listening. The wind rustled through the trees as if to catch her attention. She turned around quickly, adopting a defensive posture as she did so. It was Anna.

“Why did you sneak up on me like that?”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Where did you come from?”

Anna pointed vaguely in the direction of the entrance to the lot.

“I didn’t hear your car,” Linda said.

“I walked.”

Linda was more than ever on her guard. Anna was tense, her face troubled.

“What’s so important?”

“I just want to know about Zeba.”

“But we talked about that on the phone.”

Linda made a gesture up toward the glowing windows of the station.

“Do you know how many people are working in there right now?” she continued. “People with only one thing on their mind: finding Zeba. You can think what you like, but I’m part of that team and I don’t have time to stand here talking to you.”

“I’m sorry, I should go.”

This doesn’t add up, Linda thought. Her whole inner alarm system was ringing. Anna was acting confused. Her sneaking manner and her unconvincing apology didn’t match up.

“Don’t go,” Linda ordered sharply. “Now that you’re here, you might as well tell me what’s going on.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“If you know anything about where Zeba is, you have to tell me.”

“I don’t know where she is. I just came to ask you if you’ve found her, or at least have any clues.”

“You’re lying.”

Anna’s reaction was so surprising that Linda didn’t have time to prepare for it. It was as if Anna underwent a sudden transformation. She shoved Linda in the chest and shouted, “I never lie! But you don’t understand what’s happening!”

Then she turned and walked away. Linda didn’t say anything. She watched — speechless — as Anna walked away. Anna had one hand in her pocket. She has something in there, Linda thought. Something she’s clinging to like a life vest. But why is she so upset? Linda wondered if she should run after her, but Anna was already far away.

She walked back up to the front doors of the police station, but something stopped her. She tried to think fast. She shouldn’t have let Anna go. If it was true, as she thought, that Anna was acting strange, then she should have brought her into the station and asked someone else to talk to her. She had been given the task of staying close to Anna. Now she had made a mistake and brushed her away far too soon.

Linda tried to make a decision. She wavered between going back in and trying to stop Anna. She chose the latter and decided to borrow the car, since that would be faster. She drove the way that Anna should have walked, but without spotting her. She drove back the same way but saw nothing. There was an alternate route — same result. Had Anna disappeared again? Linda drove to her apartment building and stopped. The lights were on in the apartment. On her way to the front door, Linda saw a bicycle. The tires were wet, and the water-splashed frame had not yet dried. It wasn’t raining, but the streets were full of puddles. Linda shook her head. Something warned her against ringing the doorbell. Instead she returned to the car and backed it up until it was in shadow.

She felt that she needed to consult with someone, so she dialed her father’s cell phone. No answer. He must have misplaced it again, she thought. She dialed the number to Lindman’s phone. Busy, just like Martinsson’s, which she tried next. Linda was about to try all three again when a car turned onto the street and stopped outside Anna’s door. It was dark blue or black, maybe a Saab. The light in Anna’s apartment was turned off. Linda’s whole body was tense; her hands holding the cell phone were sweaty. Anna appeared and climbed into the back seat, then they drove away. Linda followed. She tried to call her dad, but he still didn’t answer. On Österleden she was overtaken by a speeding truck. Linda stayed behind the truck but pulled out from time to time to make sure the dark car didn’t disappear. It turned onto the road to Kåseberga.

Linda kept as great a distance between herself and the other car as she dared. She tried to make another call but only managed to drop the cell phone between the seats. They passed the road to Kåseberga Harbor and kept driving east. It was only when they reached Sandhammaren that the car in front of her made a right turn. The move seemed to come out of nowhere, as the driver had not used the turn signal. Linda continued past the place where it had turned and only stopped when she had gone over a hill and around a corner. She found a bus stop and turned around, then drove back, although she didn’t dare take the same turn.

Instead she chose a small dirt road to the left. It came to an end by a broken gate and a rusty harvester. Linda climbed out of the car. There was a stronger wind down here by the sea. She looked around for her father’s black knit watch cap. When she pulled it over her head, she felt as if it made her invisible. She wondered if she should try to call again, but when she saw that her phone’s battery was running low she put it in her pocket without calling and started walking back the way she had come. It was only a few hundred meters back to the other road. She walked so fast that she broke into a sweat. The road was dark. She stopped and listened, but only heard the wind and the roar of the sea.

She searched among the houses scattered over the area for about forty-five minutes and had almost given up when she suddenly spotted the dark blue car parked between some trees. There was no house nearby. She listened, but everything was quiet. She shielded the flashlight with her hand to hide the light, then shone it into the car. There were a scarf and some earplugs in the backseat where Anna had been. Then she directed the beam of light onto the ground. There were paths leading in several directions, but one had a multitude of footprints.

Linda thought again about calling her dad but changed her mind when she reminded herself about the battery being low. Instead she sent him a text message: With Anna. Will call later. She turned off the light and started following the sandy path. She was surprised that she wasn’t scared even though she was breaking the golden rule often repeated during her schooling: Never work alone, never go into the field alone. She stopped, hesitating. Perhaps she should turn back. I’m just like Dad, she thought, and inside she felt a gnawing suspicion that this was about showing him she was good enough.

Suddenly she caught sight of a light between the trees and the sand dunes up ahead. She listened. There were still only the sounds of the wind and the sea. She took a few steps in the direction of the light. There were several lit windows. It was a house set off from others, without neighbors. There was a fence and a gate. She turned off her flashlight when she was close enough that the light from the house illuminated the ground in front of her. The garden was large, and she knew the sea must be close by, although she couldn’t see it. She wondered who had such a large house near the shore and what Anna was doing there, if that’s where she was. Then her phone rang. She was startled and dropped the flashlight, but answered it quickly. It was one of her fellow students from the academy, Hans Rosquist, who now worked in Eskilstuna. They hadn’t talked since the graduation ball.

“Is this is a bad time?” he said.

Linda could hear music, the clinking of glasses and bottles in the background.

“Sort of,” she said. “Call me tomorrow. I’m working.”

“You can’t talk even for a few minutes?”

“No. Let’s chat tomorrow.”

She hung up and kept a finger on the off button in case he called again. When she had waited for two minutes without anything happening, she tucked the phone back into her pocket. Cautiously she climbed over the fence. There were more cars parked in front of the house, and there were also a few tents on the lawn.

Someone opened a window close to where she was. She flinched and crouched down. There was a shadow behind a curtain and the sound of voices. She waited. Then she noiselessly made her way up to the window. The voices had stopped. The feeling that there were eyes out here in the darkness was very strong. I should run away from this place, she thought, her heart pounding. I shouldn’t be here, at least not alone. A door opened, she couldn’t see exactly where, but she saw the long patch of light it cast onto the grass. Linda held her breath. Now she caught the whiff of tobacco smoke on the wind. Someone is standing in the doorway, smoking, she thought. At the same time, the voices through the window started up again.

The patch of light on the grass disappeared and the unseen door closed. The voices became clearer. It took a few minutes for her to realize that there was actually only one speaker, a man. But the pitch of his voice varied so much that she had at first thought it was several speakers. He spoke in short sentences, paused, and then continued. She strained to hear what language he was using. It was English.

At first she didn’t understand what he was talking about, it was simply an incoherent jumble of words. He was giving the names of people, of cities: Luleå, Västerås, Karlstad. It was part of a briefing, she realized. Something was set to happen in these places. A time and a date were repeated over and over. Linda made the calculation in her head. Whatever it was, it would happen in twenty-six hours. The voice spoke methodically and slowly and could occasionally become sharp, almost shrill, and then drop down to a mild tone again.

Linda tried to imagine what the man looked like. She was very tempted to stand up on tiptoe and try to peek into the room, but she stayed in her uncomfortable position crouched next to the wall. Suddenly the voice inside started to talk about God. Linda felt her stomach contract.

Linda didn’t have to think about what the alternatives were. She knew she should make her way back and contact the station. Perhaps they were even wondering where she had gone. But she also felt she couldn’t leave just yet, not while the voice was talking about God and the thing that was to happen in twenty-six hours. What was the message between the lines of what he was saying? He talked about a special grace that awaited the martyrs. Martyrs? What was he talking about? There were too many questions and not enough room in her head. What was going on, and why was his voice so mild?

How long did she listen until she grasped what he was saying? It might have been half an hour or just a few minutes. The terrifying truth slowly dawned on her and she started to sweat, even though it was cold. Here in a house in Sandhammaren a group of people were preparing a terrible attack — no, thirteen attacks, and a few of those who would set the catastrophe in motion had already left.

She heard a few repeated phrases: located by the altars and towers. Also: the explosives, and at the corners of the structures. Linda was suddenly reminded of her father’s irritation when someone tried to inform him of an unusually large dynamite theft. Could there be a connection to what she was hearing through the window? The man inside started to talk about how important it was to attack the foremost symbols of the false prophets, and that that was why he had chosen the thirteen cathedrals as targets.

Linda was sweating, but she was also cold. Her legs were stiff, her knees ached, and she realized she had to get away immediately. What she had heard, what she now knew was true, was so terrifying that she couldn’t really get it into her head. This isn’t really happening, she thought. These kinds of things happen far away.

She carefully straightened her back. It was quiet inside. He started to talk again just as she was about to leave. She stiffened. The man who was speaking now said all is ready, only that: all is ready. But he wasn’t speaking a true Swedish, it was as if she were hearing a voice inside herself and on the tape that had disappeared from the police call-center archive. She shivered and waited for Torgeir Langaas to say something else, but the room was quiet. Linda carefully felt her way over to the fence and climbed over. She didn’t dare turn on her flashlight. She walked into branches and stumbled over rocks.

After a while she realized she was lost. She couldn’t find the path and she had ended up in some sand dunes. Wherever she turned she couldn’t see any light except from a ship far out to sea. She took off her hat and stuffed it into her pocket, as if her bare head would help her find her way. She tried to figure out where she was from her position in relation to the sea and the direction of the wind. Then she started to walk, pulling out the hat and putting it on again.

Time was of the essence. She couldn’t keep wandering around in circles in these sand dunes. She had to make a call. But the phone wasn’t in her pocket. She felt through all her pockets. The hat, she thought. It must have fallen out when I took out the hat. It fell onto the sand and I didn’t hear it. She started crawling around in her own tracks with the flashlight on but she didn’t find it. I’m so incompetent, she thought furiously. Here I am crawling around without a clue. But she forced herself to regain her composure. Again she tried to determine the right direction. From time to time she stopped and let the flashlight cut through the dark.

At last she found the path she had walked in on. The house with the brightly lit windows was on her left. She veered as far away as she could, then broke into a run toward the dark blue car. It was a moment accompanied by a rush of relief. She looked down at her watch: a quarter past eleven. The time had flown by.

The arm came out of the darkness from behind, and it gripped her tightly. She couldn’t move; the force holding her was too great. She felt his breath against her cheek. The arm turned her around and a flashlight shone into her face. Without him saying a word she knew that the man looking at her was Torgeir Langaas.

50

Dawn came as a slowly creeping shade of gray. The blindfold over Linda’s eyes let in some light and she knew the night was coming to an end. But what would the day bring? It was quiet all around her. Oddly enough, her bowels had held up. It was a stupid thought, but when Langaas had grabbed her it had sped through her mind like a little sentry, screaming: Before you kill me you have to let me go to the bathroom. If there isn’t one around, then leave me for a minute. I’ll crouch in the sand, I always have toilet paper in my pocket, and then I’ll kick the sand over my shit like a cat.

But of course she hadn’t said anything. Langaas had breathed on her, the flashlight had blinded her eyes. Then he had pushed her aside, put the blindfold over her eyes, and tightened it. She had hit her head when he forced her into the car. Her fear was so great it could only be compared to the terror she felt when she was balancing on the edge of the bridge and arrived at the surprising insight that she didn’t want to die. It had been quiet all around her, just the wind and the roar of the sea.

Was Langaas still there by the car? She didn’t know, nor did she know how much time passed before the doors to the car were opened. But she deduced from the motion of the car that two people had climbed in, one behind the wheel and the other on the passenger side. The car jerked into action. The person driving was careless and nervous, or simply in a hurry.

She tried to sense where they were driving. They came out on the main road and turned left, toward Ystad. She also thought she felt them drive through Ystad, but at some point on the road to Malmö she lost control of her inner map. The car turned around, changed direction several times, asphalt gave way to gravel which in turn gave way to asphalt. The car stopped, but no doors opened. It was still quiet. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but it was toward the end of this phase of waiting that the gray light of morning started to trickle in through her blindfold.

Suddenly the peace was broken by the sound of the car doors being thrown open, and someone pulled her out of the car. She was led along a paved road and then onto a sandy path. She was ushered up four stone steps, noting that the edges were uneven. She imagined that the steps were old. Then she was surrounded by cool air, an echoing coolness. She immediately realized she was in a church. The fear that had grown numb during the night returned with full force. She saw in her mind’s eye what she had only heard about: Harriet Bolson strangled in front of the altar.

Steps echoed on the stone floor, a door was opened, and she tripped over a doorjamb. Her blindfold was removed. She blinked in the gray light and saw Langaas’s back as he walked out and locked the door behind him. A lamp in the room was lit. She was in a vestry with oil portraits of stern ministers from the past. Shutters were closed over the windows. Linda looked around for a door to a toilet, but there was none. Her bowels were still calm, but her bladder was about to burst. There were some tall goblets on a table. She thought God would forgive her and used one of them as a chamber pot. She looked down at her watch: a quarter to seven, Saturday, the eighth of September. She heard a plane coming in to land passing right over the church.

Linda cursed the cell phone she had managed to lose during the night. There was no phone in the vestry. She searched the cupboards and drawers. Then she started to work on the windows. They opened, but the shutters were tightly sealed and locked. She looked through the vestry one more time but didn’t find any tools.

The door opened and a man walked in. Linda recognized him at once, even though he was thinner than in the pictures Anna had showed her, the pictures she had kept hidden in her bureau. He was dressed in a suit with a dark blue shirt buttoned all the way up. His hair was combed back and long at the neck. His eyes were light blue, just like Anna’s, and it was even more clear than from the photographs how much they looked like each other. He stopped in the shadows by the door and smiled at her.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said kindly and approached her with his arms outstretched, as if he wanted to demonstrate that he was unarmed and did not intend to attack.

A thought flashed through Linda’s head when she saw his open, outstretched arms. Anna must have had a weapon in her coat pocket. That’s why she came down to the station. To kill me. But she couldn’t. The thought made Linda weak in the knees. She staggered to one side and Erik Westin helped her sit down.

“Don’t be afraid,” he repeated. “I’m sorry I was forced to let you wait blindfolded in the car. I am also sorry that I am forced to detain you for a few more hours. Then you will be free to go.”

“Where am I?”

“That I cannot tell you. The only thing that is important is that you should not be afraid. I also need you to answer one question.”

His tone was still concerned, the smile seemed genuine. Linda was confused.

“You have to tell me what you know,” Westin said.

“About what?”

He fixed her with his gaze, still smiling.

“That wasn’t very convincing,” he said softly. “I could ask my question more directly, but that won’t be necessary, since you understand full well what I mean. You followed Anna last night and you found your way to a house by the sea.”

The majority of what I tell him has to be true, she thought quickly, otherwise he’ll see through me. There is no alternative, she thought, giving herself more time by blowing her nose.

“I never made it to a house,” she said. “I found a parked car under the trees. But I was looking for Anna.”

Westin seemed lost in thought, but Linda knew he was weighing her answer. She recognized his voice now. He was the one who had been preaching to an invisible audience in the house by the beach. Although his voice and presence made an impression of a gentle calm, she could not forget what he had said during the night.

He looked at her again.

“You did not find your way to a house?”

“No.”

“Why were you looking for Anna?”

No more lies, Linda thought.

“I was worried about Zeba.”

“Who is that?”

Now he was the one who was lying and she the one trying to conceal the fact that she saw through it.

“Zeba is a friend we have in common. I think she’s been abducted.”

“Why would Anna know where she is?”

“She has seemed awfully tense lately.”

He nodded.

“You may be telling the truth,” he said. “Time will tell.”

He stood up without taking his eyes off her.

“Do you believe in God.”

No, Linda thought. But I know the answer you’re looking for.

“I believe in God.”

“We shall soon see the measure of your faith,” he said. “It is as it is written in the Bible: Soon our enemies will be destroyed and their excesses consumed by fire.”

He walked over to the door and opened it.

“You won’t have to wait by yourself.”

Zeba came in, followed by Anna. The door closed behind Westin and a key turned in the lock. Linda stared at Zeba, then Anna.

“What are you doing?” Linda asked.

“Only what needs to be done.”

Anna’s voice was steady, but forced and hostile.

“She’s crazy,” said Zeba, who had collapsed onto a chair. “Out of her mind.”

“No, a person who kills an innocent child is crazy. It is a crime that must be punished.”

Zeba rushed up from her chair and grabbed Linda’s arm.

“She’s crazy,” she shouted. “She’s saying I should be punished because of the abortion.”

“Let me talk to her,” Linda said.

“You can’t reason with crazy people.”

“I don’t believe she’s crazy,” Linda said as calmly as she could.

She walked over to Anna and looked her straight in the eye, feverishly trying to order her thoughts. Why had Westin left Anna in the same room as her and Zeba?

“Don’t tell me you’re part of this,” Linda said.

“My father has returned. He has restored the hope I had lost.”

“What kind of hope?”

“That there is a meaning to life, that God has a meaning for each of us.”

That’s not true, Linda thought. She saw the same thing in Anna’s eyes that she had seen in Zeba’s: fear. Anna had turned her body so that she could see the door. She’s afraid it will open, Linda thought. She’s terrified of her father.

“What is he threatening you with?” she asked in a low tone, almost a whisper.

“He hasn’t threatened me.”

Anna had also lowered her voice to a whisper. It can only mean she’s listening, Linda thought. That gives us a possibility.

“You have to stop telling lies, Anna. We can get out of this if you’ll just stop lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

Time was short. She didn’t launch into an argument with Anna. If she didn’t want to answer a question, or answered with a lie, Linda could only go on.

“Believe what you like,” she said. “But you won’t make me responsible for people being murdered. Don’t you understand what’s going on?”

“My father came back to get me. A great task awaits us.”

“I know what task you’re talking about. Is that really what you want? Do you really want more people to die, more churches to burn?”

Linda saw that Anna was near the breaking point. She had to keep going, not relax her grip.

“And if Zeba is punished, as you call it, you will have her son’s face in front of you for all eternity, an accusation that you will never be able to escape. Is that what you want?”

They heard the sound of the key in the lock. They had run out of time. But just before the door opened Anna pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and passed it to Linda. Erik Westin appeared in the doorway.

“Have you said good-bye?” he asked.

“Yes,” Anna said. “I’ve said good-bye.”

Westin stroked her forehead with his fingertips. He turned to Zeba and then to Linda.

“Only a little while longer,” he said. “An hour or so.”

Zeba lunged at the door. Linda grabbed her and forced her down in the chair. She kept her there until Zeba started to calm herself.

“I have a phone now,” Linda whispered. “We’ll get through this.”

“They’re going to kill me.”

Linda pressed her hand over Zeba’s mouth.

“If I’m going to get us out of this, you have to help me by being quiet.”

Zeba did as she was told. Linda was shaking so hard she dialed the wrong number twice. The phone rang again and again without her dad picking up. She was just going to hang up when he answered. When he heard her voice he started to shout. Where was she? Didn’t she understand how worried he was?

“We don’t have time,” she whispered. “Listen.”

“Where are you?”

“Be quiet and listen.”

She told him what had happened after she left the station, first leaving a note on his desk. He interrupted.

“There’s no note. I stayed there the whole night waiting for you to call.”

“Then it must have gotten lost. We don’t have time, you have to listen.”

She was about to cry. He didn’t interrupt her again, only breathing heavily as if each breath were a difficult question he needed to find an answer to, an important decision that needed to be made.

“Is this true?” he asked.

“Every word. I heard them.”

“They’re completely mad,” he said.

“No,” Linda objected. “It’s something else. They believe in what they’re doing. They don’t think it’s crazy.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll alert all major cities,” he said, “I believe we have fifteen cathedrals in this country.”

“I only heard mention of thirteen,” Linda said. “Thirteen towers. The thirteenth tower is the last one and marks the onset of the great cleansing process. What it all means I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where you are?”

“No. I’m pretty sure we drove through Ystad; the roundabouts matched up. I don’t think we could have made it as far as Malmö.”

“In what direction?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you notice anything else when you were in the car?”

“Different kinds of road. Asphalt, gravel, sometimes dirt roads.”

“Did you cross any bridges?”

She thought hard.

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you hear any sounds?”

She thought of it immediately. The airplanes passing overhead. She had heard them several times.

“I’ve heard airplanes. One was close by.”

“What do you mean by close?”

“It was about to land. Or else it was taking off.”

“Wait,” her dad said.

He called to someone in the room.

“We’re getting out a map,” he said when he came back on the line. “Can you hear an airplane right now?”

“No.”

“Were they big or little planes?”

“Jet planes. Big.”

“Then it must be Sturup Airport.”

Paper rustled in the background. Linda heard her father tell someone to call the air traffic control tower at Sturup and to patch the call into his line with Linda.

“We have a map here now. Can you hear anything?”

“Airplanes? No, nothing.”

“Can you tell me anything more about where you are in relation to the airplanes?”

“Are church towers toward the east or west?”

“How would I know that?”

Wallander shouted out to Martinsson, who answered.

“The tower is always in the west, the altar area in the east. It has to do with the resurrection.”

“Then the planes have been coming from the south. If, as I think, I’m facing east, the planes have been coming from the south heading north. Or maybe northwest. They have been passing by almost directly overhead.”

There was mumbling and scraping on the other end. Linda felt the sweat running down her body. Zeba sat apathetic, cradling her head in her hands. Wallander came back on the line.

“I’m going to let you talk to a flight controller called Janne Lundwall. I’ll be able to hear your conversation and may jump in from time to time. Do you understand?”

“I get it. I’m not stupid, Dad. But you have to hurry.”

His voice wavered when he answered.

“I know. But we can’t do anything if we don’t know where you are.”

Janne Lundwall’s voice came on.

“Let’s see if we can figure out where you are,” he said cheerily. “Can you hear any planes right now?”

Linda wondered what her dad had told him. The flight controller’s upbeat tone only increased her anxiety.

“I can’t hear anything.”

“We have a KLM flight due in five minutes. As soon as you hear it, you let me know.”

The minutes passed extremely slowly. Finally she heard the faint sound of an approaching plane.

“I can hear it.”

“Are you facing east?”

“Yes. The plane is approaching on my right.”

“Good. Now tell me when the plane is just above you or in front of you.”

There was a noise at the door. Linda turned off the cell phone and shoved it in her pocket. Langaas came in. He stopped, looked at both of them, and then left without saying a word. Zeba sat curled up in her corner. Only when Langaas had left and slammed the door behind him did Linda realize the plane had come and gone.

She dialed the number to her father again. He was clearly upset. He’s just as scared as I am, Linda thought. Just as scared and he has as little idea of where I am as I do. We can talk to each other but we can’t find each other.

“What happened?”

“Someone came in. The one called Torgeir Langaas. I had to hang up.”

“Good God. Here’s Lundwall again.”

The next plane was due in four minutes. Lundwall told her it was a charter flight from Las Palmas that was fourteen hours delayed.

“A whole lot of grumpy, pissed-off passengers on their way in for landing,” he said smugly. “Sometimes I’m grateful I’m tucked up here in my tower. Can you hear anything?”

Linda told him when she heard the plane.

“Same as before. Tell me when it’s above you or right in front.”

The plane grew nearer. At the same time the cell phone started to beep. Linda looked at the display. The battery was almost out of power.

“The phone is dying,” she said.

“We have to know where you are,” her dad shouted.

It’s too late, Linda thought. She damned and cursed the phone and pleaded with it not to die on her just yet. The plane came closer and closer, the phone still beeped. Linda called out when the whine of the engines were right between her ears.

“Then we have a pretty good idea where you are,” Lundwall said. “Just one more question—”

What he wanted to know, Linda never found out. The phone died. Linda put it in a cupboard with robes and mantles. Did they have enough information to identify the church? She could only hope so. Zeba looked at her.

“It’s going to be all right,” Linda said. “They know where we are.”

Zeba didn’t answer. She was glassy-eyed and took hold of Linda’s wrist so hard that her nails dug into the skin and drew blood. We’re equally frightened, Linda thought. But I’m pretending not to be. I have to keep Zeba calm. If she goes into a panic our waiting period may be cut short. What were they waiting for? She didn’t know, but if the truth was that Anna had told her father about Zeba’s abortion, and if an abortion was the grounds for Harriet Bolson’s execution in Frennestad Church, then there was no doubt about what was going to happen.

“It’s going to be all right,” Linda whispered. “They’re on their way.”

They waited. It could have been half an hour or more. Then it was as if lightning struck out of nowhere. The door flew open and three men came in and grabbed Zeba. Two more followed and grabbed Linda. They were pulled out of the room. Everything went so fast that it never even occurred to Linda to resist. The arms that held her were too strong. Zeba screamed. It sounded like the howl of an animal. Westin and Langaas were waiting in the church. There were two women and a man in the front pew. Anna was also there, but she sat a little farther back. Linda tried to meet her gaze but Anna’s face was like a stiff mask. Or was she wearing a real mask? Linda couldn’t tell. The people sitting in the front had something that looked like white masks in their hands.

Linda was filled with a paralyzing fear when she saw the hawser in Westin’s hands. He’s going to kill Zeba, she thought desperately. He’s going to kill her and then he’s going to kill me because I’ve seen too much. Zeba struggled to free herself.

Then it was as if the walls collapsed. The church doors burst open, while four of the stained glass windows, two on either side of the church, were shattered. Linda heard a voice shouting in a megaphone, and it was her father. He shouted as if he didn’t trust the megaphone’s amplifying capacity. Everyone inside the church froze.

Westin gave a start, grabbing Anna and using her as a shield. She tried to pull away. He shouted at her to calm down, but she kept writhing. He dragged her with him toward the front doors of the church. Again she tried to get out of his grasp. A shot rang out. Anna jerked and collapsed. Westin had a gun in his hand. He stared in disbelief at his daughter, then ran out of the church. No one dared to stop him.

Wallander and a large number of armed officers — Linda didn’t recognize most of them — stormed into the church through the side doors. Langaas started to shoot. Linda pulled Zeba along with her into a pew where they lay down on the floor. The officers were firing back. Linda couldn’t see what was happening. Suddenly it grew quiet. She heard Martinsson’s voice. He shouted that a man had gone out the front door. That must be Torgeir Langaas, she thought.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and flinched. Perhaps she even screamed without realizing. It was her dad.

“You have to get out,” he said.

“How is Anna?”

He didn’t answer, and Linda knew she was dead. She and Zeba scurried out a door. In the distance she saw the dark blue car disappear down the road, followed by two police cars. Linda and Zeba sat down on the ground on the other side of the cemetery wall.

“It’s over,” Linda said.

“Nothing is over,” Zeba whispered. “I’m going to live with this for the rest of my life. I’m always going to feel something pressing around my throat.”

Suddenly there was one more shot, then two more. Linda and Zeba crouched down by the low wall. There were voices, orders, cars that took off at high speed with their sirens going. Then silence.

Linda told Zeba to stay there. She carefully got to her feet and peeked out over the wall. There were a lot of officers surrounding the church, but everyone was still. It was like looking at a painting. She saw her dad and walked over to him. He was pale and grabbed her arm hard.

“Both of them got away,” he said. “Westin and Langaas.”

He was interrupted by someone who handed him a cell phone. He listened, then handed it back without a word.

“A car loaded with dynamite has just driven right into Lund Cathedral. It drove right through the poles with iron chains and then crashed into the left tower. There’s chaos on the scene. No one knows how many are dead. But we seem to have averted attacks against the other cathedrals. Twenty people have been arrested so far.”

“Why did they do it?” Linda asked.

Wallander thought for a long time before answering.

“Because they believe in God and love him,” he said. “But I don’t think their love is reciprocated.”

They were silent.

“Was it hard to find us?” Linda asked. “There are a lot of churches in Skåne.”

“Not really,” he said. “Lundwall was able to locate you almost exactly. We had two churches to choose from.”

Silence again. Linda knew they were thinking the same thing. What would have happened if she hadn’t been able to help them figure it out?

“Whose cell phone?” he asked.

“Anna’s. She felt terrible about what she had done.”

They walked over to Zeba. A black car had arrived, and Anna’s body was carried out.

“I don’t think he meant to shoot her,” Linda said. “I think the gun went off in his hand.”

“We’ll catch him,” Wallander said. “Then we’ll find out.”

Zeba stood up as they approached. She was frozen and shivering hard.

“I’ll go with her,” Linda said. “I did almost everything wrong, I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be able to relax more when I’ve got you wearing a uniform and know you’re securely seated in a patrol car circling the streets of Ystad,” her dad said.

“My cell phone is lost on the dunes somewhere out in Sandhammaren.”

“We’ll send someone out there to call your number. Maybe the sand will answer.”

Svartman was standing by his car. He wrapped a blanket around Zeba and opened the back door and Zeba crawled in and made herself small in the corner.

“I’ll stay with her,” Linda said.

“How are you doing?”

“I don’t know. The only thing I’m sure of is that I’m going to start work on Monday.”

“Push it off for a week,” her dad said. “There’s no hurry.”

Linda sat down in the car and they drove away. A plane flew low over their heads, coming in for landing. Linda looked out at the landscape. It was as if her gaze was being sucked into the brown-gray mud and there was the sleep that she needed more than anything else right now. After that she would return one last time to the long wait to start working. But this time the wait would be short. Soon she would be able to throw off her invisible uniform. She thought about asking Svartman if he thought they would catch Erik Westin and Torgeir Langaas, but she didn’t say anything. Right now she didn’t want to know.

Later, not now. Frost, autumn, and winter — time enough later for thinking. She leaned her head on Zeba’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Suddenly she saw Westin’s face in front of her eyes. That last moment when Anna slowly fell toward the floor. Now she realized the despair that had been in his face, the vast loneliness. The face of a man who has lost everything.

She looked out over the landscape again. Slowly everything fell away, Erik Westin’s face, into the gray clay.

Zeba was asleep by the time they reached her apartment. Linda gently shook her awake.

“We’re here,” she said. “We’re here and everything is over.”

51

Monday, the tenth of September, was a cold and blustery day in Skåne. Linda had tossed and turned and only managed to fall asleep at dawn. She was woken up by her father coming in and sitting down on the side of her bed. Just like when I was little, she thought. He was always the one who would sit on the side of my bed, never my mom.

He asked how she had slept and she told him the truth: poorly, and she had been plagued by nightmares.

The previous evening, Lisa Holgersson had called to say that Linda could wait a week before starting work. But Linda had refused. She didn’t want to put it off any longer, even after everything that had happened. They finally agreed that Linda would take one extra day and start work on Tuesday.

Wallander got to his feet.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “What do you have planned?”

“I’ll see Zeba. She needs someone to talk to and so do I.”

Linda spent the day with Zeba, whose son was with Mrs. Rosberg. The phone rang off the hook, mostly eager reporters. Finally she and Zeba escaped to Mariagatan. They went over what had happened again and again, especially the part that Anna had played. Could they understand it? Could anyone understand?

“She missed her father her whole life,” Linda said. “When he finally turned up, she refused to believe anything except that he was right, whatever he said and did.”

Zeba often fell silent. Linda knew what she was thinking, about how close to death she had been and that not only Anna’s father but Anna herself had been to blame.

Mid-morning, Wallander called and told her that Henrietta had collapsed and been taken to the hospital. Linda remembered Anna’s sighs that Henrietta had woven into one of her compositions. That’s all she has left, she thought. Her dead daughter’s sighs.

“There was a letter on her table,” Wallander continued, “where she tried to explain what she had done. She didn’t tell us about Westin’s return because she was afraid. He had threatened her and said that both she and Anna would die if she said anything. There’s no reason not to believe her, but she surely could have found a way to let someone know what was going on.”

“Did she say anything about my last visit?” Linda asked.

“Langaas was in the garden. She opened the window so he would hear that she didn’t reveal anything.”

“Westin used Langaas to scare people.”

“He knew a lot about people, we shouldn’t forget that.”

“Is there any trace of them?”

“We should find them, since this matter is top priority all over the world. But maybe they’ll find new hiding places, new followers. No one knows how many places Langaas prepared for them, and no one will know for sure until they’re found.”

“Torgeir Langaas is gone, Erik Westin is gone, but the most gone of all is Anna.”

When the conversation was over, Linda and Zeba talked about the fact that maybe Westin was already busy building up a new sect. They knew there were many out there who were prepared to follow him. One such person was Ulrik Larsen, the minister who had threatened and attacked Linda in Copenhagen. He was one of Erik Westin’s followers, waiting to be called to action. Linda thought about what her father had said. They couldn’t be sure of anything until Westin was caught. One day maybe a new assault would be launched, like the one in Lund.

Afterward, when she had followed Zeba home after first making sure she was feeling up to being on her own with her son, Linda took a walk and sat down on the pier down by the harbor café. It was cold and windy, but she found a sheltered spot out of the wind. She didn’t know if she missed Anna or if what she felt was something else. We never became friends for real, she thought. We never got that far. We were really only true friends as children.

That evening, Wallander came home and reported that Torgeir Langaas had been found dead. He had driven into a tree. Everything pointed to suicide. But Erik Westin was still at large. Linda wondered if she would ever find out if it was Westin she had seen in the sunlight outside Lestarp Church. And was he the one who had been in her car? These questions remained unanswered.

But there was one question she had found the answer to herself. The puzzling words in Anna’s diary: myth fear, myth fear. It was so simple, Linda thought Myth fear — my father, my father. An anagram, that was all.

Linda and her father sat up and talked for a long time. The police were slowly reconstructing Erik Westin’s life and had found a connection to the minister Jim Jones and his sect, who had found death in the jungles of Guyana. Westin was a complicated person whom it would never be possible to fully understand, but it was important to realize that he was a far cry from a madman. His self-image, not least as expressed in the holy pictures he asked his disciples to carry with them, was of a humble person carrying out God’s work. He wasn’t insane so much as a fanatic, prepared to do whatever it took to realize his beliefs. He was prepared to sacrifice people if need be, kill those who stood in his way, and punish those whom he deemed had committed mortal sins. He sought his justifications in the Bible. He let nothing happen that he did not feel could be justified by the Holy Book.

Westin was also a desperate man who saw only evil and decay around him, not that this in any way justified his actions. But the only hope of preventing something like this in the future, of identifying people prepared to blow themselves up as a chain in something they claimed was a Christian effort, was not to dismiss Westin as a simple madman, Wallander said.

There was not much to add. Those who were to have carried out the well-planned bombings were now awaiting trial. Police all over the world were looking for Westin, and soon fall would come with frosty nights and cold winds from the northeast.

They were about to go to bed when the phone rang. Wallander listened in silence, then asked a few short questions. When he hung up, Linda did not want to ask him what had happened. She saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes, and he told her that Sten Widén had just died. The woman who called was a girlfriend, possibly the last one he had lived with. She had promised Widén to contact Wallander and tell him that everything was over and that it had “gone well.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“We used to talk about it when we were younger, Sten and I. That death was something one could face like an opponent in a duel. Even if the outcome was a given, a skillful player could hold off and tire death out so that it only had the power to deliver a single blow. That was how we wanted our deaths to be, something we could take care of so they would ‘go well.’”

He was very sad, she could see that.

“Do you want to talk some more?”

“No. This is something I have to work through on my own.”

They were quiet for a while, then he stood up and went to bed without a word. Linda didn’t manage to sleep many hours that night either. She thought about all the people out there prepared to blow up the churches they hated — and themselves. According to what her father and Lindman had said, and from what she had read in the papers, these people were far from monsters. They spoke of their good intentions, their hopes to pave the road for the true Kingdom of God on Earth.

She was prepared to wait one day, but no longer. Therefore she walked up to the station the morning of September 11. It was a cold, dreary day after a night that had left traces of the first frost. Linda tried on her uniform and signed receipts for her equipment. Then she had a meeting with Martinsson for an hour and received her first shift assignment. She was free for the rest of the day, but she didn’t feel like sitting alone at home at Mariagatan and so she stayed at the station.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, she was drinking coffee in the lunchroom, talking to Nyberg, who had sat down at her table of his own accord and was showing his most friendly side. Martinsson came in and, shortly thereafter, her father. Martinsson turned on the TV.

“Something’s happened in the U.S.,” he said.

“What is it?” Linda asked.

“I don’t know,” Martinsson said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

There was an image of a clock, counting down the seconds to a special news report. More and more people filtered into the room. By the time the news report came on, the room was almost full.