Sidetracked

CHAPTER 26

Wallander sat up half the night talking with Linda, but he still forced himself to get up at 6 a.m. He stood in the shower for a long time before managing to shake off his weariness. He moved quietly through the flat and thought that it was only when either Baiba or Linda was there that it really felt like home. When he was alone it felt like little more than a temporary roof over his head. He made coffee and went down to the drying room. One of his neighbours pointed out that he hadn’t cleaned up after himself the day before. She was an old woman who lived alone, and he greeted her when they ran into each other, but didn’t know her name. She showed him a spot on the floor where there was some spilled washing powder. Wallander apologised and promised to do better in the future. What a nag, he thought as he went upstairs. But he knew she was right, he had been too lazy to clean up.

He dumped his laundry on the bed and then carried the papers Forsfalt had given him out to the kitchen. He felt guilty because he hadn’t read them the night before. But the talk with Linda had been important. They had sat out on the balcony in the warm night. Listening to her, he felt for the first time that she was an adult. She told him that Mona was talking about remarrying. Wallander was depressed at this news. He knew that Linda had been asked to inform him. But for the first time he talked about why he thought the marriage had fallen apart. From her response he could tell that Mona saw it quite differently. Then she asked him about Baiba, and he tried to answer her as honestly as he could, though there was a lot that was still unresolved about their relationship. And when they finally turned in, he felt sure that she didn’t blame him for what had happened, and that now she could view her parents’ divorce as something that had been necessary.

He sat down at the kitchen table and looked at the extensive material describing Bjorn Fredman’s life. It took him two hours just to skim through it all. Once in a while he would jot down notes. By the time he pushed aside the last folder and stretched, it was after 8 a.m. He poured another cup of coffee and stood by the open window. It was going to be a beautiful day. He couldn’t remember the last time that it had rained.

He tried to think through what he had read. Bjorn Fredman had been a sorry character from the outset. He had had a difficult and troubled home life as a child, and his first brush with the police, over a stolen bicycle, occurred when he was seven. He had been in constant trouble ever since. Bjorn Fredman had struck back at a life that had never given him any pleasure. Wallander thought of how many times during his career he’d read these grey, colourless sagas in which it was clear from the first sentence that the story would end badly.

Sweden had pulled herself out of material poverty, largely under her own steam. When Wallander was a child there had still been desperately poor people, even though they were few in number by then. But the other kind of poverty, he thought, we’ve never dealt with that. And now that progress seemed to have stopped for the time being, and the welfare state was being eroded, the spiritual poverty that had been there all along was beginning to surface.

Fredman was not the only one. We haven’t created a society where people like him could feel at home, Wallander thought. When we got rid of the old society, where families stuck together, we forgot to replace it with something else. The great loneliness that resulted was a price we didn’t know we were going to have to pay. Or perhaps we chose to ignore it.

He put the folders back in the black plastic bag and then listened once again outside Linda’s door. She was asleep. He couldn’t resist the temptation to open the door a crack, and peek in at her. She was sleeping curled up, turned to the wall. He left a note on the kitchen table and wondered what to do about his keys. He called the station. Ebba was at home. He looked up her home number. Neither the restaurant nor the clothing shop had found his keys. He added to the note that Linda should put the house keys under the doormat. Then he drove to the station.

Hansson was sitting in his office, looking greyer than ever. Wallander felt sorry for him, and wondered how long he would last. They went to the canteen and had some coffee. There was little sign that the biggest manhunt in the history of the Ystad police force was under way. Wallander told Hansson that he realised now that they needed reinforcements. And that Hansson needed a break. They had enough manpower to send out in the field, but Hansson needed relief on the home front. He tried to protest, but Wallander refused to back down. Hansson’s grey face and harried eyes were evidence enough. Finally Hansson gave in and promised to speak to the county chief of police on Monday. They would have to borrow a sergeant from another district.

The investigative team had a meeting set for 10 a.m. Wallander left Hansson, who already seemed relieved. He went to his office and called Forsfalt, who couldn’t be located. It took 15 minutes before Forsfalt called back. Wallander asked about Bjorn Fredman’s passport.

“It should be in his flat, of course,” said Forsfalt. “Funny we haven’t found it.”

“I don’t know if this means anything,” said Wallander. “But I want to find out more about those trips Peter Hjelm was talking about.”

“E.U. countries hardly use entry and exit stamps any more,” Forsfalt pointed out.

“I think Hjelm was talking about trips further afield,” replied Wallander. “But I could be wrong.”

Forsfalt said that they would start searching for Fredman’s passport immediately.

“I spoke with Marianne Eriksson last night,” he said. “I thought about calling you, but it was late.”

“Where did you find her?”

“In Malaga. She didn’t even know that Fredman was dead.”

“What did she have to say?”

“Not much, I must say. Obviously she was upset. I couldn’t spare her any details, unfortunately. They had met occasionally over the past six months. I got a feeling that she actually liked Fredman.”

“In that case, she’s the first,” said Wallander. “If you don’t count Hjelm.”

“She thought he was a businessman,” Forsfalt continued. “She had no idea he had been involved in illegal activities. She also didn’t know he was married and had three children. She was quite upset. I smashed the image she had of Fredman to smithereens with one phone call, I’m afraid.”

“How could you tell she liked him?”

“She was hurt that he had lied to her.”

“Did you learn anything else?”

“Not really. But she’s on her way back to Sweden. She’s coming home on Friday. I’ll talk to her then.”

“And then you’re going on holiday?”

“I was planning to. Weren’t you supposed to start yours soon too?”

“I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Once they start moving, things could happen quickly.”

Wallander didn’t respond to Forsfalt’s last remark. They said good-bye. Wallander dialled the switchboard, and asked the receptionist to track down Akeson. After more than a minute she told him that Akeson was at home. Wallander looked at the clock. Just after 9 a.m. He made a quick decision and left his office. He ran into Svedberg in the hall, still wearing his silly cap.

“How is the sunburn?” asked Wallander.

“Better. But I don’t dare go out without the cap.”

“Do you think locksmiths are open on Saturday?” asked Wallander.

“I doubt it. But there are locksmiths on call.”

“I need to get a couple of keys copied.”

“Did you lock yourself out?”

“I’ve lost my house keys.”

“Were your name and address on them?”

“Of course not.”

“Then at least you don’t need to change your lock.”

Wallander told Svedberg that he might be a little late for the meeting. He had to see Akeson about something important. Akeson lived in a residential neighbourhood near the hospital. Wallander had been to the house before and knew the way. When he arrived and got out of the car, he saw Akeson mowing his lawn. He stopped when he saw Wallander.

“Has something happened?” he asked when they met at the gate.

“Yes and no,” said Wallander. “Something is always happening. But nothing crucial. I need your help with part of the investigation.”

They went into the garden. Wallander thought gloomily that it looked like every other garden he’d been in. He turned down an offer of coffee. They sat in the shade of a roofed patio.

“If my wife comes out I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that I’m going to Africa this autumn. It’s still quite a sensitive topic,” said Akeson.

Wallander said he wouldn’t. He explained about Louise Fredman and his suspicion that she might have been abused by her father. He was honest and said that this could well be a false trail and might not add anything to the investigation. He outlined the new tack they were trying in the case, which was based around the knowledge that Fredman had been killed by the same person as Wetterstedt and Carlman. “Bjorn Fredman was the black sheep in the scalped ‘family’,” he said, realising immediately how inappropriate the description was.

How did he fit into the picture? How didn’t he fit? Maybe they could find the connection by starting with Fredman at a place where a link was by no means obvious. Akeson listened intently.

“I talked to Ekholm,” he said when Wallander had finished. “A good man, I thought. Competent. Realistic. The impression I got from him was that the man we’re looking for may strike again.”

“I’m always thinking about that.”

“What about getting reinforcements?” Akeson asked.

Wallander told him about his conversation with Hansson earlier that morning.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Akeson said. “It’s not enough for Hansson to have support. I think you have a tendency to overestimate the work that you and your colleagues can handle. This case is big, in fact it’s too big. I want to see more people working on it. More manpower means more things can be done at the same time. We’re dealing with a man who could kill again. That means we have no time to lose.”

“I know,” said Wallander. “I keep worrying that we’re already too late.”

“Reinforcements,” Akeson repeated. “What do you think?”

“For the time being no, that’s not the problem.”

Tension rose between them.

“Let’s say that I, as the leader of the investigation, can’t accept that,” said Akeson. “But you don’t want more manpower. Where does that leave us?”

“In a difficult situation.”

“Very difficult. And unpleasant. If I request more manpower against the wishes of the police, my argument has to be that the present investigative team isn’t up to the task. I’d have to declare your team incompetent, even though I’d phrase it in more kindly terms. And I don’t want to do that.”

“I assume you’ll do it if you have to,” said Wallander. “And that’s when I’ll resign from the force.”

“God damn it, Kurt!”

“You were the one who started this discussion, not me.”

“You’ve got your regulations. I’ve got mine. So I regard it as a dereliction of my duty if I don’t request that you have more personnel put at your disposal.”

“And dogs,” said Wallander sarcastically. “I want police dogs. And helicopters.”

The discussion was at an end. Wallander regretted flying off the handle. He wasn’t sure why he was so opposed to getting reinforcements. He knew that problems in cooperation could damage and delay an investigation. But he couldn’t argue with Akeson’s point that more things could be investigated simultaneously with more people.

“Talk to Hansson,” Wallander said. “He’s the one who makes the decision.”

“Hansson doesn’t do anything without asking you. And then he does whatever you say.”

“I’ll refuse to give him my opinion. I’ll give you that much help.”

Akeson stood up and turned off a dripping tap with a green hose attached to it. Then he sat down again.

“Let’s wait until Monday,” he said.

“Let’s do that,” said Wallander. Then he returned to Louise Fredman. He reiterated that there was no proof that Fredman had abused his daughter. But it might be true; he couldn’t rule out anything, and that was why he needed Akeson’s help.

“It’s possible I’m making a big mistake,” Wallander concluded. “And it wouldn’t be the first time. But I can’t afford to ignore any leads. I want to know why Louise Fredman is in a psychiatric hospital. And when I find out, we’ll decide whether there’s any reason to take the next step.”

“Which would be?”

“Talking to her.”

Akeson nodded. Wallander was sure he could count on his cooperation. They knew each other well. Akeson respected Wallander’s instincts, even when they lacked solid evidence.

“It can be complicated,” said Akeson. “But I’ll try to do something over the weekend.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Wallander. “You can call me at the station or at home whenever you like.”

Akeson went inside to make sure he had all of Wallander’s phone numbers. The tension between them had evaporated. Akeson followed him to the gate.

“Summer is off to a good start,” he said. “But I’m afraid you haven’t had much time to think about that.”

Wallander sensed that Akeson was feeling sympathetic.

“Not much,” he replied. “But Ann-Britt’s grandmother predicted that the good weather is going to last for a long time.”

“Can’t she predict where we should be looking for the killer instead?” said Akeson.

Wallander shook his head in resignation.

“We’re getting lots of tip-offs all the time. The usual prophets and psychics have been calling in. There are trainees sorting through the information. Then Hoglund and Svedberg go through it, but so far nothing useful has come in. No-one saw a thing, either outside Wetterstedt’s house or at Carlman’s farm. There aren’t many leads about the pit outside the railway station or the van at the airport either.”

“The man you’re hunting for is careful,” said Akeson.

“Careful, cunning, and totally devoid of human emotions,” said Wallander. “I can’t imagine how his mind works. Even Ekholm seems dumbstruck. For the first time in my life I’ve got the feeling that a monster is on the loose.”

For a moment Akeson seemed to be pondering what Wallander had said.

“Ekholm told me he’s putting all the data into the computer. He’s using the F.B.I. programme. It might produce something.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Wallander.

Wallander said no more. But Akeson understood what was implied. Before he strikes again.

Wallander drove back to the station. He arrived in the conference room a few minutes late. To cheer up his hardworking detectives, Hansson had driven down to Fridolf’s bakery and bought pastries. Wallander sat down in his usual spot and looked around. Martinsson was wearing shorts for the first time that season. Hoglund had the first hint of a tan. He wondered enviously how she had had time to sunbathe. The only one dressed appropriately was Ekholm, who had established his base at the far end of the table.

“One of our evening papers had the good taste to provide its readers with historical background on the art of scalping,” Svedberg said gloomily. “We can only hope that it won’t be the next craze, given all the lunatics we’ve got running around.”

Wallander tapped the table with a pencil.

“Let’s get started,” he said. “We’re searching for the most vicious killer we’ve ever had to deal with. He has committed all three murders. But that’s all we know. Except for the fact that there’s a real risk that he’ll strike again.”

A hush fell around the table. Wallander hadn’t intended to create an oppressive atmosphere. He knew from experience that it was easier if the tone was light, even when the crimes being investigated were brutal. Everyone in the room was just as despondent as he was. The feeling that they were hunting a monster, whose emotional degeneracy was unimaginable, haunted each of them.

It was one of the most demoralising meetings Wallander had ever attended. Outside, the summer was almost unnaturally beautiful, Hansson’s pastries were melting and sticky in the heat, and his own revulsion made him feel sick. Although he paid attention to everything said, he was also wondering how he could bear to remain a policeman. Hadn’t he reached a point where he ought to realise he had done his share? There had to be more to life. But he also knew that what made him down-hearted was the fact that they couldn’t see a single prospect of a break, a chink in the wall that they could squeeze through. They still had a great many leads to pursue, but they lacked a specific direction. In most cases there was an invisible navigation point against which they could correct their course. This time there was no fixed point. They were even starting to doubt that a connection between the murdered men existed.

Three hours later, when the meeting was over, they knew that the only thing to do was keep going. Wallander looked at the exhausted faces around him and told them to try and get some rest. He cancelled all meetings for Sunday. They would meet again on Monday morning. He didn’t have to mention the one exception: unless something serious happened. Unless the man who was out there somewhere in the summertime decided to strike again.

Wallander got home in the afternoon and found a note from Linda saying that she would be out that evening. He was tired, and slept for a few hours. When he awoke, he called Baiba twice without success. He talked to Gertrud, who told him everything was fine with his father. He was talking a lot about the trip to Italy. Wallander hoovered the flat and mended a broken window latch. The whole time the thought of the unknown killer occupied his thoughts. At 7 p.m. he made himself a supper of cod fillet and boiled potatoes. Then he sat on the balcony with a cup of coffee and absentmindedly leafed through an old issue of Ystad Recorder. When Linda got home they drank tea in the kitchen. The next day Wallander would be allowed to see a rehearsal of the revue she was working on with Kajsa, but Linda was very secretive and didn’t want to tell him what it was about. At 11.30 p.m. they both went to bed.

Wallander fell asleep almost at once. Linda lay awake in her room listening to the night birds. Then she fell asleep too, leaving the door to her room ajar.

Neither of them stirred when the front door was opened very slowly at 2 a.m. Hoover was barefoot. He stood motionless in the hall, listening. He could hear a man snoring in a room to the left of the living-room. He stepped into the flat. The door to another room stood ajar. A girl who might have been his sister’s age was in there sleeping. He couldn’t resist the temptation to go in and stand right next to her. His power over the sleeper was absolute. He went on towards the room where the snoring was coming from. The policeman named Wallander lay on his back and had kicked off all but a small part of the sheet. He was sleeping heavily. His chest heaved with his deep breathing.

Hoover stood utterly still and watched him. He thought about his sister, who would soon be freed from all this evil. Who would soon return to life. He looked at the sleeping man and thought about the girl in the next room, who must be his daughter. He made his decision. In a few days he would return.

He left the flat as soundlessly as he had come, locking the door with the keys he had taken from the policeman’s jacket. A few moments later the silence was broken by a moped starting up. Then all was quiet again, except for the night birds singing.