Faceless Killers

Chapter nine

The last thing Kurt Wallander felt like was a laughing policeman as he stepped into the Svea Hotel in Simrishamn at seven o’clock on Friday morning. An almost impenetrable mixture of snow and rain was falling over Skane, and water had seeped through his shoes on his way from the car to the hotel.

He also had a headache.

He asked the waitress for a couple of headache tablets. She came back with a glass of water fizzing with white powder.

As he drank his coffee, he noticed that his hand was shaking.

He figured it was just as much from fear as from relief.

A few hours earlier, when Norén had ordered him to get out of his car on the two-lane road between Svaneholm and Slimminge, he had thought that it was all over. Now he wouldn’t be a cop anymore. The serious charge of driving under the influence would mean immediate suspension. And even if someday he were allowed to return to active duty on the police force, after having served a jail sentence, he would never be able to look his former colleagues in the eye.

He quickly imagined the possibility that he might become head of security for some company. Or he might slip through the background check of some less choosy guard service. But his twenty-year career with the police would be over. And he was a cop to the core.

He didn’t even consider trying to bribe Peters and Norén. He knew that was impossible. The only thing he could do was plead. Appeal to their team spirit, to their camaraderie, to their friendship, which didn’t really exist.

But he didn’t have to do that.

“Ride with Peters, and I’ll drive your car home,” Norén had said.

Kurt Wallander recalled his feeling of relief, but also the unmistakable hint of contempt in Norén’s voice.

Without a word he got into the back seat of the patrol car. Peters was silent and uncommunicative during the whole drive to Mariagatan in Ystad.

Norén had followed close behind; he parked the car and handed the keys to Wallander.

“Did anyone see you?” asked Norén.

“Nobody but you.”

“You were damn lucky.”

Peters nodded. And then Wallander realized that nothing was going to happen. Norén and Peters were committing a serious breach of duty for his sake. He had no idea why.

“Thank you,” he said.

“That’s all right,” Norén replied.

And then they had driven off.

Wallander went into his apartment and polished off the last of an almost empty bottle of whiskey. Then he fell asleep for several hours, lying on top of his bed. Without thinking, without dreaming. At six fifteen he got into his car again, after giving himself a cursory shave.

He knew, of course, that he was still intoxicated. But now there was no danger of running into Peters and Norén. They went off duty at six.

He tried to concentrate on what was in store for him. He was going to meet Göran Boman, and together they would go in search of a missing link in the investigation of the double murder at Lenarp.

Wallander pushed all other thoughts aside. He would let them come back when he had the energy to deal with them. When he no longer had a hangover, when he had managed to put everything in perspective.

He was the only person in the hotel dining room. He gazed out at the gray sea, barely visible through the wet snowfall. A fishing boat was on its way out of the harbor, and he tried to make out the number painted in black on the hull.

A beer, he thought. A good old pilsner is what I need right now.

It was a strong temptation. He also thought that he ought to try to drop in at the state liquor store, so he would have something to drink in the evening.

He realized that he wasn’t ready to sober up too quickly.

A rotten policeman, that’s what I am, he thought.

A dubious cop.

The waitress refilled his coffee cup. He imagined himself going into the hotel and she would come with him. Behind drawn curtains he would forget that he existed, forget everything around him, and sink into a world that had nothing to do with reality.

He drank the coffee and picked up his briefcase. He still had a little time to read through the investigation reports.

Filled with a sudden restlessness, he went out to the lobby and called the police station in Ystad. Ebba answered.

“Did you have a nice evening?” she asked.

“Couldn’t have been better,” he replied. “And thanks again for your help with my suit.”

“Any time.”

“I’m calling from the Svea Hotel in Simrishamn. If you need to get hold of me. Later I’m going to drive around with Boman from the Kristianstad police. But I’ll call in.”

“Everything’s quiet. Nothing has happened at the refugee camps.”

He hung up and went into the men’s room to wash his face. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror. With his fingertips he gingerly touched the bump on his forehead. It hurt. But the stinging in his arm was almost gone.

Only when he stretched did he notice a twinge shoot through his thigh.

When he returned to the dining room, he ordered breakfast. As he ate, he leafed through all his papers.

Göran Boman was punctual. At the stroke of nine he entered the dining room.

“What awful weather!” he said.

“At least it’s better than a snowstorm,” said Wallander.

While Boman drank his coffee they figured out what had to be done during the course of the day.

“It seems we’re in luck,” said Boman. “It’s going to be possible to get hold of the woman in Gladsax and the two in Kristianstad without much trouble.”

They started with the woman in Gladsax.

“Her name is Anita Hessler,” said Boman. “Fifty-eight years old. She married a couple of years ago; her husband is a real estate agent.”

“Is Hessler her maiden name?” wondered Wallander.

“Her name is Johanson now. Her husband is Klas Johanson. They live in a residential area not far outside the town. We’ve done a little snooping. As far as we know, she’s a housewife.”

He checked his papers.

“On March 9, 1951, she gave birth to a son at Kristianstad’s maternity ward. At four thirteen in the morning, to be exact. As far as we know, he’s her only child. But Klas Johanson has four children from a previous marriage. He’s also six years younger than she is.”

“So her son is thirty-nine,” said Wallander.

“He was christened Stefan,” said Boman. “He lives in Åhus and works as a tax-assessment supervisor in Kristianstad. His finances are in order. He has a row house, a wife, and two kids.”

“Do tax-assessment supervisors usually commit murder?” asked Wallander.

“Not very often,” replied Boman.

They drove out to Gladsax. The wet snow had now changed to a steady rain. Just before entering the town, Göran Boman turned left.

The two-story houses in the residential neighborhood were in sharp contrast to the low white buildings of the town itself. Wallander thought that it could just as well have been a well-to-do suburb outside any large city.

The house was at the end of a row. A huge satellite dish stood on a slab of cement next to the house. The yard was well kept. They sat in the car for a few minutes and stared at the red-brick building. A white Nissan was parked in the driveway in front of the garage.

“The husband probably isn’t home,” said Boman. “His office is in Simrishamn. He apparently specializes in selling property to well-heeled Germans.”

“Is that legal?” asked Wallander, in surprise.

Göran Boman shrugged.

“They use dummy owners,” he said. “The Germans pay well and the deeds are placed in Swedish hands. There are people in Skåne who make a good living by assuming the illegal ownership of real estate.”

All of a sudden they caught a glimpse of movement behind the curtains. It happened so fast that only the trained eyes of the police would have noticed.

“Somebody’s home,” said Wallander. “Shall we go and say hello?”

The woman who opened the door was astoundingly attractive. Her radiance was unmistakable, even though she was wearing a baggy jogging suit. The fleeting thought occurred to Wallander that she didn’t look Swedish.

He also thought that their initial introductions might be just as important as all their questions put together.

How would she react when they told her that they were cops?

The only thing he noticed was that she raised one eyebrow slightly. Then she smiled, revealing even rows of white teeth. Wallander wondered whether Boman was right. Was she really fifty-eight years old? If he hadn’t known better, he would have guessed forty-five.

“This is unexpected,” she said. “Come in.”

They stepped into a tastefully furnished living room. The walls were covered with crowded bookshelves. A top-of-the-line Bang & Olufsen TV stood in the corner. Tiger-striped fish swam in an aquarium. Wallander had trouble connecting this living room with Johannes Lövgren. There was nothing to indicate a connection.

“Can I offer you gentlemen anything?” asked the woman.

They declined and sat down.

“We’ve come to ask you some routine questions,” said Wallander. “My name is Kurt Wallander, and this is Göran Boman from the Kristianstad police.”

“How exciting to have a visit from the police,” said the woman, still smiling. “Nothing unusual ever happens here in Gladsax.”

“We just wanted to ask you whether you know a man named Johannes Lövgren,” said Wallander.

She gave him a look of surprise.

“Johannes Lövgren? No. Who’s he?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!”

“He was murdered along with his wife in a town called Lenarp a few days ago. Maybe you read about it in the newspapers.”

Her surprise seemed quite genuine.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I remember seeing something about it in the paper. But what does this have to do with me?”

Nothing, thought Wallander and glanced at Boman, who seemed to share his opinion. What did this woman have to do with Johannes Lövgren?

“In 1951 you gave birth to a son in Kristianstad,” said Boman. “On all the documents in various records you listed the father as unknown. Is it possible that a man by the name of Johannes Lövgren might be this unknown father?”

She gazed at them for a long time before she answered.

“I don’t understand why you’re asking these questions,” she said. “And I understand even less what this has to do with that murdered farmer. But if it’s any help, I can tell you that Stefan’s father was named Rune Stierna. He was married to someone else. I knew what I was getting into, and I chose to thank him for the child by keeping his identity secret. He died twelve years ago. And Stefan got along well with his father during his whole childhood.”

“I know that these questions must seem strange,” said Wallander. “But sometimes we have to ask odd questions.”

They asked a few more questions and took some notes. Then it was over.

“I hope you will forgive us for disturbing you,” said Wallander as he got to his feet.

“Do you think I’m telling the truth?” she asked all of a sudden.

“Yes,” said Wallander. “We think you’re telling the truth. But if you’re not, we’ll find out. Sooner or later.”

She burst out laughing. “I’m telling the truth,” she said. “I’m not a very good liar. But feel free to come back if you have more strange questions.”

They left the house and went back to the car.

“Well, that’s that,” said Boman.

“She’s not the one,” said Wallander.

“Do we need to talk to the son in Åhus?”

“I think we can skip him. For the time being, at any rate.”

They got into Wallander’s car and drove straight back toward Kristianstad.

When they reached the hills around Brösarp the rain stopped and the clouds began to dissipate.

Outside the police station in Kristianstad they switched cars and continued on in one of the police vehicles.

“Margareta Velander,” said Boman. “Forty-nine years old, owns a beauty shop called ‘The Wave’ on Krokarpsgatan. Three children, divorced, remarried, divorced again. Lives in a row house out toward Blekinge. Gave birth to a son in December 1958. The son’s name is Nils. Evidently quite an entrepreneur. Used to go around the marketplaces selling imported knickknacks. Also listed as the owner of a company dealing in women’s specialty underwear. Lives in Sölvesborg, of all places. Who the hell would buy women’s specialty underwear sold by a mail-order company from a town like that?”

“Plenty of people,” said Wallander.

“Once did time for assault and battery,” Boman continued. “I haven’t seen the report. But he got one year. That means the assault must have been pretty bad.”

“I want to see that report,” said Wallander. “Where did it happen?”

“He was sentenced by the Kalmar district court. They’re looking for the paperwork on the case.”

“When did it happen?”

“In 1981, I think.”

Wallander sat and thought while Boman drove through the town.

“So she was only seventeen when the boy was born. And if we’re picturing Johannes Lövgren as the father, there was a big age difference.”

“I’ve thought of that. But that could mean a lot of things.”

The beauty shop was in an ordinary apartment building on the outskirts of Kristianstad. It was located on the basement level.

“Maybe I should get a haircut more often,” said Boman. “Who cuts your hair, by the way?”

Wallander was just about to say that his wife Mona took care of that.

“It varies,” he replied evasively.

There were three chairs in the beauty shop. All of them were occupied as they came in.

Two women were sitting under hair dryers while a third woman was having her hair washed.

The woman who was washing the customer’s hair looked up at them in surprise.

“I only work by appointment,” she said. “I’m booked up today. And tomorrow too. If you want to make an appointment for your wives.”

“Margareta Velander?” asked Göran Boman.

He showed her his ID.

“We’d like to talk to you,” he said.

Wallander could see that she was scared.

“I can’t leave right now,” she said.

“We’d be happy to wait,” said Boman.

“You can wait in the back room,” said Margareta Velander. “I won’t be long.”

It was a very small room. A table covered with oilcloth and a couple of chairs took up practically all the space. A shelf held a number of tabloids between some coffee cups and a grimy coffee maker. Wallander studied a black-and-white photograph pinned up on the wall. It was blurry and faded, showing a young man in a sailor’s uniform. Wallander could read the word “Halland” on band around the cap.

“‘Halland,’” he said. “Was that a cruiser or a destroyer?”

“A destroyer. Scrapped long ago.”

Margareta Velander came into the room. She was drying her hands on a towel.

“I’ve got a few minutes now,” she said. “What’s it about?”

“We wonder whether you know a man named Johannes Lövgren,” began Wallander.

“Is that so,” she said. “Would you like some coffee?”

They both declined, and Wallander was annoyed that she had turned her back to him when he asked the question.

“Johannes Lövgren,” he repeated. “A farmer from a little town outside of Ystad. Did you know him?”

“The man who was murdered?” she asked, looking him straight in the eye.

“Yes,” he said. “The man who was murdered. That’s the one.”

“No,” she replied, pouring coffee into a plastic cup. “Why should I know him?”

The police officers exchanged glances. There was something about her voice that indicated she was feeling pressured.

“In December 1958 you gave birth to a son who was christened Nils,” said Wallander. “You listed the father as unknown.”

The instant he mentioned the name of her son, she started to cry.

The coffee cup tipped over and fell to the floor.

“What has he done?” she asked. “What has he done now?”

They waited until she calmed down before they continued their questioning.

“We’re not here to bring you bad news,” Wallander assured her. “But we’d like to know whether Johannes Lövgren is the name of Nils’s father.”

“No.”

Her answer was not exactly convincing.

“Then we’d like you to tell us the name of his father.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“It’s important for our investigation.”

“I’ve already told you that I don’t know anybody named Johannes Lövgren.”

“What’s the name of Nils’s father?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“It won’t go any further than this room.”

She paused a little too long before she answered. “I don’t know who Nils’s father was.”

“Women usually know things like that.”

“I was sleeping with more than one man at the time. I don’t know who it was. That’s why I listed the father as unknown.”

She stood up quickly.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” she said. “The old ladies are going to be boiled alive under those dryers.”

“We can wait.”

“But I don’t have anything else to tell you!”

She seemed more and more upset.

“We have some more questions.”

Ten minutes later she was back. She was holding some bills that she stuffed into her purse, which was hanging on the back of a chair. She now seemed composed and ready for an argument.

“I don’t know anyone named Lövgren,” she said.

“And you insist that you don’t know who the father was of your son who was born in 1958?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you realize that you may have to answer these questions under oath?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Where can we find your son Nils?”

“He travels a lot.”

“According to our records, his place of residence is in Sölvesborg.”

“So go out there then!”

“That’s what we plan to do.”

“I have nothing more to say.”

Wallander hesitated for a moment. Then he pointed at the blurry, faded photograph pinned up on the wall.

“Is that Nils’s father?” he asked.

She had just lit a cigarette. When she exhaled, it sounded like a hiss.

“I don’t know any Lövgren. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All right then,” said Göran Boman, bringing the conversation to a close. “We’ll be going now. But you may be hearing from us again.”

“I have nothing more to say. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Nobody gets left alone when the police are looking for a double murderer,” said Boman. “That’s the way it goes.”

When they came outdoors, the sun was shining. They stood next to the car for a moment.

“What do you think?” asked Boman.

“I don’t know. But there’s something there.”

“Shall we try to locate the son before we move on to the third woman?”

“I think so.”

They drove over to Sölvesborg and with great difficulty located what was supposedly the right address. A dilapidated wooden house outside the center of town, surrounded by junked cars and pieces of machinery. A furious German shepherd was yanking and pulling on its iron chain. The house looked deserted. Boman leaned forward and looked at a nameplate with sloppy lettering that was nailed to the door.

“Nils Velander,” he said. “This is the place.”

He knocked several times. But no one answered. They walked all the way around the house.

“What a damn rat hole,” said Boman.

When they got back to their starting point, Wallander tried the door handle.

The house wasn’t locked.

Wallander looked at Boman, who shrugged.

“If it’s open, it’s open,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

They stepped into a musty entryway and listened. There wasn’t a sound, until they both jumped when a hissing cat leaped out of a dark corner and vanished up the stairs to the second floor. The room on the left seemed to be some sort of office. There were two battered file cabinets and an exceedingly messy desk with a phone and an answering machine. Wallander lifted the top of a box sitting on the desk. Inside was a set of black leather underwear and a mailing label.

“Fredrik Åberg of Dragongatan in Alingsås ordered this stuff,” he said with a grimace. “Plain brown wrapper, no doubt.”

They moved on to the next room, which was a storeroom for Nils Velander’s specialty underwear. There were also a number of whips and dog collars.

Everything was jumbled up in the storeroom, with no sign of organization.

The next room was the kitchen, with dirty dishes on the counter. A half-eaten chicken lay on the floor. The whole room smelled of cat piss.

Wallander threw open the door to the pantry.

There was a home distillery and two large carboys.

Boman snickered and shook his head.

They went upstairs and peeked into the bedroom. The sheets were dirty and clothing was heaped on the floor. The curtains were drawn, and together they counted seven cats scurrying off as they approached.

“What a pigsty,” repeated Boman. “How can anybody live like this?”

The house looked as if it had been vacated in a hurry.

“Maybe we’d better go,” said Wallander. “We’ll need a search warrant before we can give the place a thorough going-over.”

They went back downstairs. Boman stepped into the office and punched the button on the answering machine.

Nils Velander, assuming it was him, stated that no one was in the Raff-Sets office at the moment, but you were welcome to leave your order on the answering machine.

The German shepherd jerked on its chain as they came out into the yard.

Right at the corner, on the left-hand side of the house, Wallander discovered a basement door almost hidden behind the remains of an old mangle.

He opened the unlocked door and stepped into the darkness. He fumbled his way over to a fuse box. An old oil furnace stood in the corner. The rest of the basement room was filled with empty birdcages. He called to Boman, who joined him down in the basement.

“Leather underpants and empty birdcages,” said Wallander. “What exactly is this guy up to?”

“I think we’d better find out,” replied Boman.

As they were about to leave, Wallander noticed a small steel cabinet behind the furnace. He bent down and pressed on the handle. It was unlocked, like everything else in the house. He put his hand in and grabbed hold of a plastic bag. He pulled it out and opened it.

“Look at this,” he said to Boman.

The plastic bag held a stack of thousand-krona bills.

Wallander counted twenty-three.

“I think we’re going to have to have a talk with this guy,” said Boman.

They stuffed the money back and went outside. The German shepherd was barking.

“We’ll have to talk to our colleagues here in Sölvesborg,” said Boman. “They can check this guy out for us.”

At the Sölvesborg police station they met an officer who was quite familiar with Nils Velander.

“He’s probably mixed up in all kinds of illegal activities,” said the policeman. “But the only thing we have on him is suspicion of illegally importing caged birds from Thailand. And operating a home still.”

“He was once sentenced for assault and battery,” said Boman.

“He doesn’t usually get into fights,” replied the police officer. “But I’ll try to check him out for you. Do you really think he’s turned to murdering people?”

“We don’t know,” said Wallander. “But we want to get hold of him.”

They returned to Kristianstad. It had started raining again. They both had a good impression of the police officer in Sölvesborg and were counting on him to find Nils Velander for them.

But Wallander was having doubts.

“We don’t know anything,” he said. “Thousand-krona bills in a plastic bag aren’t proof of anything.”

“But something is going on there,” said Boman.

Wallander agreed. There was something about the beauty-shop owner and her son.

They stopped for lunch at a motel restaurant just outside Kristianstad.

Wallander thought he ought to check in with the police station in Ystad.

The pay phone that he tried was broken.

It was one thirty by the time they got back to Kristianstad. Before they continued on to the third woman, Boman wanted to check in at his office.

The young woman at the reception desk flagged them down.

“There was a call from Ystad,” she said. “They want Kurt Wallander to call back.”

“Let’s go to my office,” said Boman.

Full of foreboding, Wallander punched in the number while Boman went to get some coffee.

Without a word Ebba connected him to Rydberg.

“You’d better come back,” said Rydberg. “Some idiot has shot a Somali refugee at Hageholm.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I said. This Somali was out taking a little walk. Someone blasted him with a shotgun. I’ve had a hell of a time tracking you down. Where have you been?”

“Is he dead?”

“His head was blown off.”

Wallander felt sick to his stomach. “I’m on my way,” he said.

He hung up the phone just as Boman came in, balancing two mugs of coffee. Wallander gave him a brief rundown on what had happened.

“I’ll get you emergency transport,” said Boman. “I’ll send your car over later with one of the boys.”

Everything happened fast.

In a few minutes Wallander was on his way to Ystad in a car with wailing sirens. Rydberg met him at the police station and they drove at once to Hageholm.

“Do we have any leads?” asked Wallander.

“None. But the newsroom at Sydsvensan got a call only a few minutes after the murder. A man said that it was revenge for the murder of Johannes Lövgren. Next time they struck, they would take a woman for Maria Lövgren.”

“This is insane,” said Wallander. “We don’t suspect foreigners anymore, do we?”

“Somebody seems to have a different opinion. Thinks that we’re shielding some foreigners.”

“But I’ve already denied that.”

“Whoever did this doesn’t give a shit about your denials. They see a perfect opportunity to pull out a gun and start shooting foreigners.”

“This is crazy!”

“You’re damn right it’s crazy. But it’s true!”

“Did the newspaper tape the phone conversation?”

“Yes.”

“I want to hear it. To see if it’s the same person who’s been calling me.”

The car raced through the landscape of Skåne.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Wallander.

“We’ve got to catch the Lenarp killers,” said Rydberg. “And damned fast.”

At Hageholm everything was in chaos. Distressed and weeping refugees had gathered in the dining hall, reporters were conducting interviews, and phones were ringing. Wallander stepped out of the car onto a muddy dirt road several hundred meters from the residential buildings. The wind had started blowing again, and he turned up the collar of his jacket. An area near the road had been cordoned off. The dead man was lying face down in the mud.

Wallander cautiously lifted the sheet covering the body.

Rydberg hadn’t been exaggerating. There was almost nothing left of the head.

“Shot at close range,” said Hanson who was standing nearby. “Whoever did this must have jumped out of hiding and fired the shots from a few meters away.”

“The shots?” said Wallander.

“The camp director says that she heard two shots, close together.”

Wallander looked around.

“Car tracks?” he asked. “Where does this road go?”

“Two kilometers farther along you come out on E14.”

“And no one saw anything?”

“It’s hard to question refugees who speak fifteen different languages. But we’re working on it.”

“Do we know who the dead man is?”

“He had a wife and nine children.”

Wallander stared at Hanson in disbelief. “Nine children?”

“Just imagine the headlines tomorrow morning,” said Hanson. “Innocent refugee murdered taking a walk. Nine children left without a father.”

Svedberg came running from one of the police cars.

“The police chief is on the phone,” he said.

Wallander looked surprised.

“I thought he wasn’t due back from Spain until tomorrow.”

“Not him. The chief of the National Police.”

Wallander got into the car and picked up the phone. The chief’s voice was emphatic, and Wallander was immediately annoyed by what he said.

“This looks very bad,” said the chief. “We don’t need racist murders in this country.”

“No,” said Wallander.

“This investigation must be given top priority.”

“Yes. But we already have the double homicide in Lenarp on our hands.”

“Are you making any progress?”

“I think so. But it takes time.”

“I want you to report to me personally. I’m going to take part in a discussion program on TV tonight, and I need all the information I can get.”

“I’ll see to it.”

He hung up the phone.

Wallander remained sitting in the car.

Näslund will have to handle this, he thought. He’ll have to feed the paperwork to Stockholm.

Wallander felt depressed. His hangover was gone, and he thought about what had happened the night before. He was also reminded of it because he saw Peters approaching from a police car that had just arrived.

Then he thought about Mona and the man who had picked her up.

And Linda laughing. The black man at her side.

His father, painting his eternal landscape.

He thought about himself too.

A time to live, and a time to die.

Then Wallander forced himself to get out of the car to take charge of the criminal investigation.

Nothing else had better happen, he thought.

We can’t handle anything else.

It was three fifteen. Once again it had started to rain.