Sidetracked

CHAPTER 22

Copenhagen’s skyline was just visible across the Sound in the hazy sunlight.

Wallander wondered whether he’d get to meet Baiba there or whether the killer they sought — about whom they seemed to know less, if that were possible — would force him to postpone his holiday.

He stood waiting outside the hovercraft terminal in Malmo. It was the morning of the last day of June. Wallander had decided the night before to take Hoglund rather than Svedberg when he returned to Malmo to talk to Fredman’s family. She’d asked whether they could leave early enough for her to do an errand on the way. Svedberg hadn’t complained in the least at being left behind. His relief at not having to leave Ystad two days in a row was unmistakable. While Hoglund took care of her errand in the terminal — Wallander hadn’t asked what it was — he’d walked along the pier. A hydrofoil, the Runner, he thought it said, was on its way out of the harbour. It was hot. He took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, yawning.

After they’d returned from Malmo the night before, he’d called a meeting with the investigative team, since they were all still there. He and Hansson had also held an impromptu press conference. Ekholm had attended the meeting. He was still working on a psychological profile of the killer. But they had agreed that Wallander should inform the press that they were looking for someone who wasn’t considered dangerous to the public, but who was certainly extremely dangerous to his victims.

There had been differing opinions on whether it would be wise to take this action. But Wallander had insisted that they couldn’t ignore the possibility that someone might come forward out of sheer self-preservation. The press were delighted with this information, but Wallander felt uncomfortable, knowing that they were giving the public the best possible news, since the nation was about to close down for the summer holiday. Afterwards, when both the meeting and the press conference were over, he was exhausted.

He still hadn’t gone over the telex from Interpol with Martinsson. The girl had vanished from Santiago de los Treinta Caballeros in December. Her father, Pedro Santana, a farm worker, had reported her disappearance to the police on 14 January. Dolores Maria, who was then 16 years old, but who had turned 17 on 18 February — a fact that made Wallander particularly depressed — had been in Santiago looking for work as a housekeeper. Before then she had lived with her father in a little village 70 kilometres outside the city. She had been staying with a distant relative when she had disappeared. Judging by the scanty report, the Dominican police had not taken much interest in her case, though her father had hounded them to keep looking for her, managing to get a journalist involved, but eventually the police decided that she had probably left the country.

The trail ended there. Interpol’s comments were brief. Dolores Maria Santana hadn’t been seen in any of the countries belonging to the international police network. Until now.

“She disappears in a city called Santiago,” said Wallander. “About six months later she pops up in farmer Salomonsson’s rape field, where she burns herself to death. What does that mean?”

Martinsson shook his head dejectedly. Wallander was so tired he could hardly think, but he roused himself. Martinsson’s apathy made him furious.

“We know that she didn’t vanish from the face of the earth,” he said with determination. “We know that she had been in Helsingborg and got a lift from a man from Smedstorp. She seemed to be fleeing something. And we know she’s dead. We should send a message back to Interpol telling them all this. And I want you to make a special request that the girl’s father be properly informed of her death. When this other nightmare is over, we’ll have to find out what terrified her in Helsingborg. I suggest you make contact with our colleagues there tomorrow. They might have some idea what happened.”

After this muted outburst, Wallander drove home. He stopped and ordered a hamburger. Newspaper placards were posted everywhere, proclaiming the latest news on the World Cup. He had a powerful urge to rip them down and scream that enough was enough. But instead he waited patiently in line, paid, picked up his hamburger, and went back to his car.

When he got home he sat down at the kitchen table, tore open the bag and ate. He drank a glass of water with the hamburger. Then he made some strong coffee and cleared the table, forcing himself to go over all the investigative material again. The feeling that they had been sidetracked was still with him. Wallander hadn’t laid the clues they were following. But he was the one who was leading the investigative group, and determining the course that they took. He tried to see where they should have paid more attention, whether the link between Wetterstedt and Carlman was already clearly visible, but unnoticed.

He went over all the evidence that they had gathered, sometimes solid, sometimes not. Next to him he had a notebook in which he listed all the unanswered questions. It troubled him that the results from many of the forensic tests still weren’t available. Although it was past midnight, he was sorely tempted to call up Nyberg and ask him whether the laboratory in Linkoping had closed for the summer. But he refrained. He sat bent over his papers until his back hurt and the letters began blurring on the page.

He didn’t give up until after 2 a.m., when he’d concluded that they couldn’t do anything but continue on the path that they had chosen. There must be a connection between the murdered men. Perhaps the fact that Bjorn Fredman didn’t seem to fit with the others might point to the solution.

The pile of dirty laundry was still on the floor, reminding him of the chaos inside his own head. Once again he had forgotten to get an appointment for his car. Would they have to request reinforcements from the National Criminal Bureau? He decided to talk to Hansson about it first thing, after a few hours’ sleep.

But by the time he got up at 6 a.m., he’d changed his mind. He wanted to wait one more day. Instead he called Nyberg and complained about the laboratory. He had expected Nyberg to be angry, but to Wallander’s great surprise he had agreed that it was taking an unusually long time and promised to follow the matter up. They’d discussed Nyberg’s examination of the pit where they’d found Fredman. Traces of blood indicated that the killer had parked his car right next to it. Nyberg had also managed to get out to Sturup Airport and look at Fredman’s van. There was no doubt that it had been used to transport the body. But Nyberg didn’t think that the murder could have taken place in it.

“Fredman was big and strong,” he said. “I can’t see how he could have been killed inside the van. I think the murder happened somewhere else.”

“So we must find out who drove the van,” said Wallander, “and where the murder occurred.”

Wallander had arrived at the station just after 7 a.m. He’d called Ekholm at his hotel and found him in the breakfast room.

“I want you to concentrate on the eyes,” he said. “I don’t know why. But I’m convinced they’re important. Maybe crucial. Why would he do that to Fredman and not to the others? That’s what I want to know.”

“The whole thing has to be viewed in its entirety,” said Ekholm. “A psychopath almost always creates rituals, which he then follows as if they were written in a sacred book. The eyes have to fit into that framework.”

“Whatever,” Wallander said curtly. “But I want to know why only Fredman had his eyes put out. Framework or no framework.”

“It was probably acid,” said Ekholm.

Wallander had forgotten to ask Nyberg about that.

“Can we assume that’s the case?” he asked.

“It seems so. Someone poured acid in Fredman’s eyes.”

Wallander grimaced.

“We’ll talk this afternoon,” he said and hung up.

Soon afterwards he had left Ystad with Hoglund. It was a relief to get out of the station. Reporters were calling all the time. And now the public had started calling too. The hunt for the killer had become a national concern. Wallander knew that this was inevitable, and also useful. But it was an enormous task to record and check on all the information that was flooding in.

Hoglund emerged from the terminal and caught up with him on the pier.

“I wonder what kind of summer it’ll be this year,” he said.

“My grandmother in Almhult predicts the weather,” said Hoglund. “She says it’s going to be long, hot and dry.”

“Is she usually right?”

“Almost always.”

“I think it’ll be the opposite. Rainy and cold and crappy.”

“Can you predict the weather too?”

“No.”

They walked back to the car. Wallander wondered what she’d been doing in the terminal. But he didn’t ask.

They pulled up in front of the Malmo police station at 9.30 a.m. Forsfalt was waiting on the footpath. He got into the back seat and gave Wallander directions, talking to Hoglund about the weather at the same time. When they stopped outside the block of flats in Rosengard he told them what had happened the day before.

“The ex-wife took the news of Fredman’s death calmly. One of my colleagues smelt alcohol on her breath. The place was a mess. The younger boy is only four. He probably won’t comprehend that his father, whom he almost never saw, is dead. But the older son understood. The daughter wasn’t home.”

“What’s her name?” asked Wallander.

“The daughter?”

“The wife. The ex-wife.”

“Anette Fredman.”

“Does she have a job?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How does she make a living?”

“No idea. But I doubt that Fredman was very generous to his family.”

They got out of the car and went inside, taking the lift up to the fifth floor. Someone had smashed a bottle on the floor of the lift. Wallander glanced at Hoglund and shook his head. Forsfalt rang the doorbell. After a while the door opened. The woman standing before them was very thin and pale, and dressed all in black. She looked with terror at the two unfamiliar faces. As they hung up their coats in the hall, Wallander saw someone peer quickly through the doorway to the flat and then disappear. He guessed it was the older son or the daughter.

Forsfalt introduced them, speaking gently and calmly. There was nothing hurried in his demeanour. Wallander could see he might be able to learn from Forsfalt as he once had from Rydberg.

They went into the living-room. It looked as though she had cleaned up. The living-room had a sofa and chairs that looked almost unused. There was a stereo, a video, and a Bang amp; Olufsen TV, a Danish brand Wallander had had his eye on but couldn’t afford. She had set out cups and saucers. Wallander listened. There was a four-year-old boy in the family. Children that age weren’t quiet. They sat down.

“Let me say how sorry I am for the inconvenience,” he said, trying to be as friendly as Forsfalt.

“Thank you,” she replied in a low, fragile voice, that sounded as if it might break at any moment.

“Unfortunately I have to ask you some questions,” continued Wallander. “I wish they could wait.”

She nodded but said nothing. At that moment the door into the living-room opened. A well-built boy of about 14 entered. He had an open, friendly face, but his eyes were wary.

“This is my son,” she said. “His name is Stefan.”

The boy was very polite, Wallander noticed. He came and shook hands with each of them. Then he sat down next to his mother on the sofa.

“I’d like him to hear this too,” she said.

“That’s fine,” said Wallander. “I’m sorry about what happened to your father.”

“We didn’t see each other very much,” replied the boy. “But thank you.”

Wallander was impressed. He seemed mature for his age, perhaps because he’d had to fill the void left by his father.

“You have another son, don’t you?” Wallander went on.

“He’s with a friend of mine, playing with her son,” said Anette Fredman. “I thought it would be better. His name is Jens.”

Wallander nodded to Hoglund, who was taking notes.

“And a daughter too?”

“Her name is Louise.”

“But she’s not here?”

“She’s away for a few days, resting.”

It was the boy who’d answered. He took over from his mother, as if he wanted to spare her a heavy burden. His answer had been calm and polite. But something wasn’t quite right. It had come a little too quickly. Or was it that the boy had hesitated before replying? Wallander was immediately on the alert.

“I understand that this must be trying for her,” he continued cautiously.

“She’s very sensitive,” replied her brother.

Something doesn’t add up here, Wallander thought again. He knew he shouldn’t press this now. It would be better to come back to the girl later. He glanced at Hoglund, but she didn’t seem to have noticed.

“I won’t have to repeat the questions you’ve already answered,” said Wallander, pouring himself a cup of coffee, to show that everything was normal. The boy had his eyes fixed on him. There was a wariness in his eyes that reminded Wallander of a bird, as though he’d been forced to take on responsibility too soon. The thought depressed him. Nothing troubled Wallander more than seeing children and young people damaged.

“I know that you hadn’t seen Mr Fredman in several weeks,” he went on. “Was that true of Louise too?”

This time it was the mother who answered.

“The last time he was home, Louise was out,” she said. “It’s been several months since she saw him.”

Wallander approached the most difficult questions gingerly. He knew that he would provoke painful memories, but he tried to move as gently as he could.

“He was murdered,” he said. “Do either of you have any idea who might have done it?”

Anette Fredman looked at him with a surprised expression on her face. Her reply was shrill, her previous reticence gone.

“You ought to be asking who wouldn’t have killed him. I don’t know how many times I wished I’d had the strength to do it myself.”

Her son put his arm around her.

“I don’t think that’s what the detective meant,” he said soothingly.

She quickly pulled herself together after her outburst.

“I don’t know,” she said. “And I don’t want to know. But I don’t feel guilty for being relieved that he won’t be walking through this door again.”

She stood up abruptly and left the room. Wallander could tell that Hoglund couldn’t decide whether she should follow. But she remained seated as the boy began to speak.

“Mummy is extremely upset,” he said.

“We understand that,” said Wallander with sympathy. “But you seem to be calm. Maybe you have some thoughts. I know this must be unpleasant for you.”

“I don’t think it could be anybody except one of Dad’s friends. My Dad was a thief,” he added. “He also used to beat people up. I’m not sure, but I think he was what people call an enforcer. He collected debts, he threatened people.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you thinking about somebody in particular?”

“No.”

Wallander let him think.

“No,” he repeated. “I don’t know.”

Anette Fredman returned.

“Can either of you recall whether he had any contact with a man named Gustaf Wetterstedt? He was the minister of justice for a time. Or an art dealer named Arne Carlman?”

After looking at each other for confirmation, they both shook their heads. The interview limped along. Wallander tried to help them remember details. Now and then Forsfalt interjected. Finally Wallander could see that they weren’t going to get any further. He decided not to ask about the daughter again. Instead he nodded to Hoglund and Forsfalt that he was finished. But as they said goodbye out in the hall he told them he would have to call on them again, probably quite soon. He gave them his phone numbers at the station and at home.

Out on the street he saw Anette Fredman standing in the window looking down at them.

“The daughter,” said Wallander. “Louise Fredman. What do we know about her?”

“She wasn’t here yesterday either,” said Forsfalt. “She may have left home, of course. She’s 17.”

Wallander stood for a moment in thought.

“I want to talk to her,” he said.

The others didn’t react. He knew that he was the only one who had noticed the rapid change when he asked about her. He thought about the boy, Stefan, with his wary eyes. He felt sorry for him.

“That’ll be all for now,” said Wallander when they parted outside the Malmo police station. “But let’s keep in touch.”

They shook hands with Forsfalt and said goodbye.

They drove back towards Ystad, through the countryside of Skane during the most beautiful time of the year. Hoglund leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Wallander could hear her humming. He wished he could share her ability to switch off from the investigation, which made him so anxious. Rydberg had said many times that a police officer was never completely free. For once, Wallander wished that Rydberg was wrong.

Just after they passed the exit to Skurup he noticed that Hoglund had fallen asleep. He drove as smoothly as he could, not wanting to wake her. She didn’t open her eyes until he had to stop at the roundabout on the outskirts of Ystad. At that moment the phone rang. He nodded to her to answer it. He couldn’t tell who it was, but he saw at once that something serious had happened. She listened in silence. They were almost at the station when she hung up.

“That was Svedberg,” she said. “Carlman’s daughter is on a respirator at the hospital. She tried to commit suicide.”

Wallander was silent until he had parked and switched off the engine. Then he turned to her. He knew she hadn’t told him everything yet.

“What else?”

“She’s probably not going to live.”

Wallander stared out of the window. He thought about how she had slapped him. He got out of the car without a word.