Sidetracked

CHAPTER 32

When they got to the dock, ten kilometres west of Ystad, Wallander was immediately sure that it was the right place. It was just as he had imagined it. They had driven along the coast road and stopped where a man in shorts and a T-shirt advertising the golf course in Malmberget waved them down and directed them to a barely visible dirt road. They stopped just short of the dock, so they wouldn’t disturb the tyre marks.

The laboratory technician, Erik Wiberg, told them that in the summer he lived in a cabin on the north side of the coast road. He often came down to this dock to read his morning paper, as he had on 29 June. He’d noticed the tyre tracks and the dark spots on the brown wood, but thought nothing of it. He left that same day for Germany with his family, and it wasn’t until he saw in the paper on his return that the police were looking for a murder site, probably near the sea, that he remembered those dark spots. Since he worked in a laboratory, he knew that what was on the dock at least looked like blood. Nyberg, who had arrived just after Wallander and the others, was on his knees by the tyre tracks. He had toothache and was more irritable than ever. Wallander was the only one he could bear to talk to.

“It could be Fredman’s van,” he said, “but we’ll have to do a proper examination.”

They walked out on the dock together. Wallander knew they had been lucky. The dry summer helped. If it had rained there wouldn’t have been tracks. He looked for confirmation from Martinsson, who had the best memory for the weather.

“Has it rained since 28 June?” he asked.

“It drizzled on the morning of Midsummer Eve,” he said. “Ever since then it’s been fine.”

“Arrange to cordon off the whole place,” said Wallander, nodding to Hoglund. “And be careful where you put your feet.”

He stood near the land end of the dock and looked at the patches of blood. They were concentrated in the middle of the dock, which was four metres long. He turned around and looked up towards the road. He could hear the noise, but he couldn’t see the cars, just the roof of a tall lorry flashing by. He had an idea. Hoglund was on the phone to Ystad.

“And tell them to bring me a map,” he said. “One that includes Ystad, Malmo, and Helsingborg.” Then he walked to the end of the dock and looked into the water. The bottom was rocky. Wiberg was standing on the beach.

“Where’s the nearest house?” asked Wallander.

“A couple of hundred metres from here,” replied Wiberg. “Across the road.”

Nyberg had come out onto the dock.

“Should we call in divers?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Wallander. “Start with a radius of 25 metres around the dock.”

Then he pointed at the rings set into the wood.

“Prints,” he said. “If Fredman was killed here he must have been tied down. Our killer goes barefoot and doesn’t wear gloves.”

“What are the divers looking for?”

Wallander thought.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s see if they come up with anything. But I think you’re going to find traces of kelp on the slope, from the place where the tyre tracks stop all the way down to the dock.”

“The van didn’t turn around,” said Nyberg. “He backed it all the way up to the road. He couldn’t have seen whether any cars were coming. So there are only two possibilities. Unless he’s totally crazy.”

Wallander raised his eyebrows.

“He is crazy,” he said.

“Not in that way,” said Nyberg.

Wallander understood what he meant. He wouldn’t have been able to back up onto the road unless he had an accomplice who signalled when the road was clear. Or else it happened at night. When he’d see headlights and know when it was safe to back out onto the road.

“He doesn’t have an accomplice,” said Wallander. “And we know that it must have happened at night. The only question is why did he drive Fredman’s body to the pit outside the railway station in Ystad?”

“He’s crazy,” said Nyberg. “You said so yourself.”

When a car arrived with the map, Wallander asked Martinsson for a pen and then sat on a rock next to the dock. He drew circles around Ystad, Bjaresjo and Helsingborg. Then he marked the dock. He wrote numbers next to his marks. He waved over Hoglund, Martinsson and Svedberg, who had arrived last, wearing a dirty sun hat instead of his cap for a change. He pointed at the map on his knee.

“Here we have his movements,” he said. “And the murder sites. Like everything else they form a pattern.”

“A road,” Svedberg said. “With Ystad and Helsingborg as the end points. The scalp murderer on the southern plain.”

“That isn’t funny,” Martinsson snapped.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Svedberg protested. “It’s how it is.”

“Looking at the big picture, you’re probably right,” said Wallander. “The area is limited. One murder takes place in Ystad. One murder occurs here, perhaps, we aren’t sure yet, and the body is taken to Ystad. One murder happens just outside Ystad, in Bjaresjo, where the body is also discovered. And then we have Helsingborg.”

“Most of them are concentrated around Ystad,” said Hoglund. “Does that mean that the man we’re looking for lives here?”

“With the exception of Fredman the victims were found close to or inside their homes,” said Wallander. “This is the map of the victims, not the murderer.”

“Then Malmo should be marked too,” said Svedberg. “That’s where Fredman lived.”

Wallander circled Malmo. The breeze tugged at the map.

“Now the picture is different,” said Hoglund. “We get an angle, not a straight line. Malmo is in the middle.”

“It’s always Fredman who’s different,” said Wallander.

“Maybe we should draw another circle,” said Martinsson. “Around the airport. What do we get then?”

“An area of movement,” said Wallander. “Revolving around Fredman’s murder.”

He knew that they were on their way towards a crucial conclusion.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said. “Fredman lives in Malmo. Together with the man who kills him, either held captive or not, he is driven east in the van. They come here, where Fredman dies. The journey continues to Ystad. The body is dumped in a hole under a tarpaulin in Ystad. Later the van returns west. It’s parked at the airport, about halfway between Malmo and Ystad. There the tracks vanish.”

“There are plenty of ways to get away from Sturup,” said Svedberg. “Taxis, airport buses, rental cars. Another vehicle parked there earlier.”

“So the murderer probably doesn’t live in Ystad,” Wallander said. “Malmo’s a good possibility. But it could just as well be Lund. Or Helsingborg. Or why not Copenhagen?”

“Unless he’s leading us on a wild-goose chase,” Hoglund said. “And he really does live in Ystad.”

“That’s possible, of course,” said Wallander, “but I don’t buy it.”

“Which means that we ought to concentrate on Sturup more than we have so far,” Martinsson said.

Wallander nodded. “I believe that the man we’re looking for uses a motorcycle,” he said. “We talked about this before. Witnesses may have seen one outside the house in Helsingborg. Sjosten is working on that right now. Since we’re getting reinforcements this afternoon, we can afford to do a careful examination of the transport options from Sturup. We’re looking for a man who parked the van there on the night of 28 June. And somehow left. Unless he works at the airport.”

“There’s one question we can’t yet answer,” said Svedberg. “And that is: what does this monster look like?”

“We know nothing about his face,” Wallander said. “But we know he’s strong, and a basement window in Helsingborg tells us that he’s thin. We’re dealing with someone in good shape, who goes barefoot.”

“You mentioned Copenhagen just now,” Martinsson said. “Do you think he’s a foreigner?”

“I doubt it,” Wallander replied. “I think we’re dealing with a 100 per cent Swedish serial killer.”

“That’s not much to go on,” said Svedberg. “Haven’t we found a single hair? Does he have light or dark hair?”

“We don’t know. According to Ekholm he probably tries not to attract attention. And we can’t say anything about the way he’s dressed when he commits the murders.”

“What about his age?” asked Hoglund.

“His victims have been men in their 70s, except for Fredman. But he’s in good shape, goes barefoot, and may ride a motorcycle, and these facts don’t imply an older man. We just can’t guess.”

“Over 18,” said Svedberg. “If he rides a motorcycle.”

“Can’t we start with Fredman?” asked Hoglund. “He differs from the other men, who are considerably older. Maybe we can assume that Fredman and the man who killed him are the same age. Then we’re talking about a man who’s under 50. And there are quite a few of them who are in good shape.”

Wallander gave his colleagues a gloomy look. They were all under 50; Martinsson, the youngest, was barely 30. None of them was in particularly good shape.

“Ekholm is working on the psychological profile,” said Wallander, getting to his feet. “It’s important that we all read through it every day. It might give us some ideas.”

Noren came towards Wallander with a telephone in his hand. Wallander squatted down out of the wind. It was Sjosten.

“I think I’ve got someone for you,” he said. “A woman who was at parties at Liljegren’s villa.”

“Well done,” Wallander said. “When can I meet her?”

“Any time.”

Wallander looked at his watch. “I’ll be there no later than 3 p.m.,” he said. “By the way, we think we’ve found the place where Fredman died.”

“I heard about it,” Sjosten said. “I also heard that Ludwigsson and Hamren are on their way from Stockholm. They’re good men, both of them.”

“How’s it going with the witnesses who saw a man on a motorcycle?”

“They didn’t see a man,” Sjosten answered. “But they did see a motorcycle. We’re trying to establish what kind it was. But it’s not easy. Both the witnesses are old. They’re also passionate health nuts who despise all petrol-powered vehicles. In the end it may turn out to be a lawnmower they saw.”

A scratchy noise came from the phone. The conversation sputtered out in the wind. Nyberg was looking at the dock, rubbing his swollen cheek.

“How’s it going?” Wallander asked him cheerily.

“I’m waiting for the divers.”

“Are you in a lot of pain?”

“It’s a wisdom tooth.”

“Get it removed.”

“I will. But first I want those divers here.”

“Is it blood on the dock?”

“Almost certainly. Tonight you’ll know whether it ever ran around inside Fredman’s body.”

On his way to the car Wallander remembered something. He went back.

“Louise Fredman,” he said to Svedberg. “Did Akeson come up with anything else on her?”

Svedberg didn’t know, but said he’d talk to Akeson.

Wallander turned off at Charlottenlund, thinking that if they’d found the place where Fredman was murdered, it was chosen with great care. The closest house was too far away for screams to be heard. He drove to the E65 and headed towards Malmo. The wind was buffeting the car, but the sky was still totally clear. He thought about the map. There were a lot of reasons to think the killer lived in Malmo. He didn’t live in Ystad, that seemed certain. But why did he go to the trouble of dumping Fredman’s body in a pit at the railway station? Was Ekholm right, that he was taunting the police? Wallander took the road to Sturup and briefly considered stopping at the airport. But what good would that do? The interview in Helsingborg was more important.

Her name was Elisabeth Carlen. They were in the Helsingborg police station in Sjosten’s office. As Wallander shook hands with her he thought of the female vicar he had met the week before. Maybe it was because she was dressed in black and wore heavy make-up. She was about 30. Sjosten’s description of her was quite apt. Sjosten had said that she was attractive because she looked at the world with a cold, disparaging expression. To Wallander it seemed as if she had decided to challenge any man who came near her. He’d never seen eyes like hers before. They blazed contempt and interest at the same time. He went over Sjosten’s account of her as she lit a cigarette.

“Elisabeth Carlen is a whore,” he had said. “I doubt she’s been anything else since she was 20. She left middle school and then worked as a waitress on one of the ferries crossing the Sound. Got tired of that and opened a boutique with a girlfriend. That was a flop. Her parents had guaranteed a loan she took out for the business. After the money was gone, she did nothing but fight with them, and she drifted around a lot. Copenhagen for a while, then Amsterdam. When she was 17 she went there as a courier with a haul of amphetamines. Probably she was a user herself, but she seemed to be able to control it. That was the first time I met her. Then she was away for a few years, a black hole I don’t know anything about, before she popped up in Malmo, working in a chain of brothels.”

Wallander had to interrupt. “Are there still brothels?” he asked in surprise.

“Whorehouses, then,” said Sjosten. “Call them what you like. But yes, there are still plenty of them. Don’t you have them in Ystad? Just wait.”

Wallander didn’t interrupt again.

“She never walked the streets, of course. She built up an exclusive clientele. She had something that was attractive and raised her market value to the skies. She didn’t even need to put those classified ads in the porn magazines. You can ask her what it is that makes her so special. It might be interesting to find out. During the last few years she’s turned up in certain circles that are connected to Liljegren. She’s been seen at restaurants with a number of his directors. Stockholm has a record of quite a few occasions when the police were interested in the man who happened to be escorting her. That’s Elisabeth Carlen in a nutshell. Quite a successful Swedish prostitute.”

“Why did you choose her?”

“She’s fun. I’ve spoken with her many times. She isn’t timid. If I tell her she isn’t suspected of anything, she believes me. Also I imagine that she has a whore’s sense of self-preservation. She notices things. She doesn’t like the police. A good way to keep us out of the way is to stay on good terms with us.”

Wallander hung up his jacket and shifted a heap of papers on the table. Elisabeth Carlen followed all his movements with her eyes. Wallander was reminded of a wary bird.

“You know that you aren’t suspected of anything,” he began.

“Ake Liljegren was roasted in his kitchen,” she said. “I’ve seen his oven. Quite fancy. But I wasn’t the one who turned it on.”

“Nor do we think you were,” said Wallander. “What I’m looking for is information. I’m trying to build a picture. I’ve got an empty frame. I’d like to put a photo in it. Taken at a party at Liljegren’s. I want you to point out his guests.”

“No,” she said, “that’s not what you want. You want me to tell you who killed him. And I can’t.”

“What did you think when you heard Liljegren was dead?”

“I didn’t think anything. I burst out laughing.”

“Why? No-one’s death should be funny.”

“He had plans other than winding up the way he did. The mausoleum in the cemetery outside Madrid? That’s where he was going to be buried. A virtual fortress built according to his own sketches. Out of Italian marble. But he fetched up dying in his own oven. I think he would have laughed himself.”

“His parties,” said Wallander. “Let’s get back to them. I’ve heard they were wild.”

“They sure were.”

“In what way?”

“In every way.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

She took a couple of deep drags on her cigarette while she thought about this, all the time looking Wallander in the eye.

“Liljegren liked to bring people together who lived life to the fullest,” she said. “Let’s say they were insatiable. Insatiable with regard to power, wealth and sex. And Liljegren had a reputation for being discreet. He created a safety zone around his guests. No hidden cameras, no spies. Nothing ever leaked out about his parties. He also knew which women he could invite.”

“Women like you?”

“Yes, women like me.”

“And who else?”

She didn’t seem to understand his question at first.

“What other women were there?”

“That depended on their desires.”

“Whose desires?”

“The desires of the guests. The men.”

“And what might they be?”

“Some wanted me to be there.”

“I understood that. Who else?”

“You won’t get any names.”

“Who were they?”

“Young girls, some very young, blonde, brown, black. Older ones sometimes, some of them hefty. It varied.”

“You knew them?”

“Not always. Not often.”

“How did he get hold of them?”

She put out her cigarette and lit a new one before she answered. She didn’t release his gaze even when she was stubbing it out.

“How does a person like Liljegren get what he wants? He had unlimited money. He had helpers. He had contacts. He could fly in a girl from Florida to attend a party. She probably had no idea she was going all the way to Sweden. Not to mention Helsingborg.”

“You say he had helpers. Who were they?”

“His chauffeurs. His assistant. He often had a butler with him. English, of course.”

“What was his name?”

“No names.”

“We’ll find out about them anyway.”

“You probably will. But that doesn’t mean the names are going to come from me.”

“What would happen if you gave me some names?”

She seemed utterly unmoved when she replied.

“Then I might be killed. Maybe not with my head in an oven, but in an equally unpleasant manner, I’m sure.”

“Were many of his guests public figures?”

“Many.”

“Politicians?”

“Yes.”

“Gustaf Wetterstedt?”

“I said no names.”

Suddenly he realised that she was sending him a message. Her answers had a subtext. She knew who Wetterstedt was, but he had not been at the parties.

“Businessmen?”

“Yes.”

“Arne Carlman, the art dealer?”

“Did he have almost the same name as me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll say it one last time. Don’t push me for names, or I’ll get up and go.”

Not him either, thought Wallander. Her signals were very clear.

“Artists? Celebrities?”

“Once in a while. But seldom. I don’t think Ake trusted them. Probably with good reason.”

“You talked about young girls. Brown girls. Did you mean brunettes, or girls with brown skin?”

“Brown skin.”

“Do you remember ever meeting a girl named Dolores Maria?”

“No.”

“A girl from the Dominican Republic?”

“I don’t even know where that is.”

“Do you remember a girl named Louise Fredman? A teenager. A blonde.”

“No.”

Wallander turned the conversation in another direction. She still seemed willing to continue.

“You say that the parties were wild.”

“Yes, they were.”

“Tell me about wild.”

“Do you want details?”

“Please.”

“Descriptions of naked bodies?”

“Not necessarily.”

“They were orgies. You can imagine the rest.”

“Can I?” said Wallander. “I’m not so sure.”

“If I undressed and lay down on your desk it would be completely unexpected,” she said. “Something like that.”

“Unexpected events?”

“That’s what happens when insatiable people get together, isn’t it?”

“Insatiable men?”

“Exactly.”

Wallander made a hasty outline in his head. He was still scratching the surface.

“I’ve got a proposal,” he said. “And another question.”

“I’m still here.”

“My proposal is that you give me the opportunity to meet you one more time. Soon, within a few days.”

She nodded her assent. Wallander got an unpleasant feeling that he was entering into some sort of agreement.

“My question is simple,” he said. “You were speaking of Liljegren’s chauffeurs. And his butlers. But you said that he had an assistant. Not plural. Is that correct?”

He saw a faint change in her expression. She knew she had said too much even without providing names.

“This conversation is strictly for my memoirs,” said Wallander. “Did I hear correctly or not?”

“You heard wrong,” she said. “Of course he had more than one assistant.”

So, I was right, thought Wallander. “That’ll be all this time, then,” he said, getting up.

“I’ll leave when I finish my cigarette,” she said. For the first time in the conversation she released him from her gaze.

Wallander opened the door. Sjosten was sitting outside reading a sailing magazine. Wallander nodded. She put out her cigarette, stood up, and shook his hand. When Sjosten had shown her out and returned, Wallander was by the window, watching her get into her car.

“Did it go well?” Sjosten asked.

“Maybe,” said Wallander. “She agreed to meet me again.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing, actually.”

“And you think that was good?”

“It was what she didn’t know that interested me,” Wallander said. “I want 24-hour surveillance of Liljegren’s house, and I want you to put a tail on Carlen. Sooner or later somebody will show up who we’ll want to talk to.”

“That sounds like an inadequate reason for surveillance,” said Sjosten.

“I’ll take responsibility for that decision,” said Wallander kindly, “as the chosen leader of this investigation.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t me,” replied Sjosten. “Are you staying overnight?”

“No, I’ll drive home.”

They went down the steps to the ground floor.

“Did you read about a girl who burned herself to death in a field near here?” Wallander asked just before they said goodbye.

“Yes. Terrible story.”

“She had hitchhiked from Helsingborg,” Wallander went on. “And she was scared. I’m just wondering whether she might have had something to do with Liljegren’s fun and games. Although it’s a long shot.”

“There were rumours about Liljegren trading in girls,” said Sjosten. “Among a thousand other rumours.”

Wallander looked at him intently. “Trading girls?”

“There were rumours that Sweden was being used as a transit country for poor girls from South America, on their way to brothels in southern Europe and the former Eastern bloc countries. We’ve found a couple of girls who have managed to escape but we’ve never caught the ones running the business. And we haven’t been able to build a proper case.”

Wallander stared at Sjosten.

“And you waited until now to tell me this?”

Sjosten shook his head, surprised.

“You never asked me about this before now.”

Wallander stood stock still. The girl had started running through his head again.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I’ll stay the night.”

They took the lift back up to Sjosten’s office.