Faceless Killers (11 page)

He also had another phone call he wanted to make before Rydberg arrived. He dialled the number and waited.

"Public prosecutor's office," a cheerful female voice answered.

"This is Kurt Wallander. Is Akeson there?"

"He's on leave of absence^ Did you forget?"

He had forgotten. It had completely slipped his mind that public prosecutor Per Akeson was taking some university courses. And they had had dinner together as recently as the end of November.

"I can connect you with his deputy, if you'd like," said the receptionist.

"Do that," said Wallander.

To his surprise a woman answered. "Anette Brolin."

"I'd like to talk with the prosecutor," said Wallander.

"Speaking," said the woman. "What is this about"

Wallander realised that he hadn't introduced himself. He gave her his name and went on, "It's about this double murder. I think it's time we presented a report to the public prosecutor's office. I had forgotten that Per was on leave."

"If you hadn't called this morning, I would have called you," said the woman.

Wallander thought he detected a reproachful tone in her voice. Bitch, he thought. Are you going to teach me how the police are supposed to co-operate with the prosecutor's office?

"We actually don't have much to tell you," he said, noticing that his voice sounded a little hostile. "Is an arrest imminent?" "No. I was thinking more of a short briefing." "All right," said the woman. "Shall we say eleven o'clock

at my office? I've got a warrant application hearing at quarter past ten. I'll be back by eleven."

"I might be a little late. We have a case meeting at ten. It might run on."

"Try to make it by eleven."

She hung up, and he sat there holding the receiver.

Co-operation between the police and the prosecutor's office wasn't always easy. But Wallander had established an informal and confidential relationship with Per Akeson. They often called each other to ask advice. They seldom disagreed on when detention or release was justified.

"Damn," he said out loud. "Anette Brolin, who the hell is she?"

Just then he heard the unmistakable sound of Rydberg limping by in the corridor. He stuck his head out of the door and asked him to come in. Rydberg was dressed in an outmoded fur jacket and beret. When he sat down he grimaced.

"Bothering you again?" asked Wallander, pointing at his leg.

"Rain is OK," said Rydberg. "Or snow. Or cold. But this damned leg can't stand the wind. What do you want?"

Wallander told him about the call he had received during the night.

"What do you think?" he asked when he'd finished. "Serious or not?"

"Serious. At least we have to proceed as if it is."

"I'm thinking about a press conference this afternoon. We'll present the status of the investigation and concentrate on Lars Herdin's story. Without mentioning his name, of course. Then I'll speak about the threat. And say that all rumours about foreigners being involved are groundless."

"But that's actually not true," Rydberg mused. "What do you mean?"

"The woman said what she said. And the knot may be Argentine."

"How do you intend to make that fit in with a robbery that was presumably committed by someone who knew Lövgren very well?"

"I don't know yet. I think it's too soon to draw conclusions. Don't you?"

"Provisional conclusions," said Wallander. "All police work deals with drawing conclusions, which you later discard or keep building on."

Rydberg shifted his sore leg.

"What are you thinking of doing about the leak?" he asked. "I'm thinking of giving them hell at the meeting," said Wallander. "Then Björk can deal with it when he gets back." "What do you think he'll do?" "Nothing." "Exactly."

Wallander threw his arms wide.

"We might as well admit it right now. Whoever leaked it to the TV people isn't going to get his nose twisted off. By the way, how much do you think Swedish Television pays policemen for leaks?"

"Probably far too much," said Rydberg. "That's why they don't have money for any good programmes."

He got up from his chair.

"Don't forget one thing," he said as he stood with his hand on the doorframe. "A policeman who snitches can snitch again."

"What does that mean?"

"He can insist that one of our leads does point to foreigners. It's true, after all."

"It's not even a lead," said Wallander. "It's the last confused words of a dying woman." Rydberg shrugged.

"Do as you like," he said. "See you in a while."

The case meeting went as badly as it could have. Wallander had decided to start with the leak and its possible consequences. He would describe the anonymous call he had received and then invite suggestions on a plan of action before the deadline. But when he announced angrily that there was someone at the meeting disloyal enough to betray confidential information, possibly for money, he was met by equally furious protests. Several officers said that the leak could have come from the hospital. Hadn't doctors and nurses been present when the old woman uttered those last words?

Wallander tried to refute their objections, but they kept protesting. By the time he finally managed to steer the discussion to the investigation itself, a sullen mood had settled over the meeting. Yesterday's optimism had been replaced by a slack, uninspired atmosphere. Wallander had got off on the wrong foot.

The effort to identify the car with which the lorry driver had almost collided had yielded no results. An additional man was assigned to concentrate on this.

The investigation of Lars Herdin's past was continuing. On the first check nothing remarkable had come to light. He had no police record and no conspicuous debts.

"We're going to run a vacuum cleaner over this man," said Wallander. "We have to know everything there is to know. I'm going to meet the prosecutor in a few minutes. I'll ask for authorisation to go into the bank."

Peters delivered the biggest news of the day.

"Lövgren had two safe-deposit boxes," he said. "One at the Union Bank and one at the Merchants' Bank. I went through the keys on his key ring."

"Good," said Wallander. "We'll check them out later today."

The charting of Lövgren's family, friends and relatives would go on.

It was decided that Rydberg should take care of the daughter who lived in Canada, who would be arriving at the hovercraft terminal in Malmö just after 3 p.m.

"Where's the other one?" asked Wallander. "The handball player?"

"She's already arrived," said Svedberg. "She's staying with relatives."

"You go and talk to her," said Wallander. "Do we have any other tip-offs that might produce something? Ask the daughters if either of them was given a wall clock, by the way.

Martinsson had sifted through the tip-offs. Everything that the police learnt was fed into a computer. Then he did a rough sort. The most ridiculous ones never got beyond the print-outs.

"Hulda Yngveson phoned from Vallby and said that it was the disapproving hand of God that dealt the blow," said Martinsson.

"She always calls," sighed Rydberg. "If a calf runs off, it's because God is displeased."

"I put her on the C.F. list," said Martinsson.

The sullen atmosphere was broken by a little amusement when Martinsson explained that C.F. stood for "crazy fools".

They had received no tip-offs of immediate interest. But every one would be checked. Finally there was the question of Johannes Lövgren's secret relationship in

Kristianstad and the child that they had together.

Wallander looked around the room. Thomas Näslund, a 30-year veteran who seldom called attention to himself but who did solid, thorough work, was sitting in a corner, pulling on his lower lip as he listened.

"You can come with me," said Wallander. "See if you can do a little footwork first. Ring Herdin and pump him for everything you can about this woman in Kristianstad. And the child too, of course."

The press conference was fixed for 4 p.m. By then Wallander and Näslund hoped to be back from Kristianstad. Rydberg had agreed to preside if they were late.

"I'll write the press release," said Wallander. "If no-one has anything more, we'll adjourn."

It was 11.25 a.m. when he knocked on Per Akeson's door in another part of the police building. The woman who opened the door was very striking and very young. Wallander stared at her.

"Seen enough yet?" she said. "You're half an hour late, by the way."

"I told you the meeting might run over," he replied.

He hardly recognised the office. Per Akeson's spartan, colourless space had been transformed into a room with pretty curtains and potted plants round the walls.

He followed her with his eyes as she sat down behind her desk. She couldn't be more than 30. She was wearing a rust-brown suit that he was sure was of good quality and no doubt quite expensive.

"Have a seat," she said. "Maybe we ought to shake hands, by the way. I'll be filling in for Akeson all the time he's away. So we'll be working together for quite a while."

He put out his hand and noticed at the same time that she was wearing a wedding ring. To his surprise, he realised that he felt disappointed. She had dark brown hair, cut short and framing her face. A lock of bleached hair curled down beside one ear.

"I'd like welcome you to Ystad," he said. "I have to admit that I quite forgot that Per was on leave."

"I assume we'll be using our first names. Mine is Anette."

"Kurt. How do you like Ystad?"

She shook off the question brusquely. "I don't really know yet. Stockholmers no doubt have a hard time getting used to the leisurely pace of Skåne."

"Leisurely?"

"You're half an hour late."

Wallander could feel himself getting angry. Was she provoking him? Didn't she understand that a case meeting might run over? Did she regard all Scanians as leisurely?

"I don't think Scanians are any lazier than anyone else," he said. "All Stockholmers aren't stuck-up, are they?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forget it."

She leaned back in her chair. He was having difficulty looking her in the eye.

"Perhaps you would give me a summary of the case," she said.

Wallander tried to make his report as concise as possible. He could tell that, without intending to, he had wound up in a defensive position. He avoided mentioning the leak in the police department. She asked a few brief questions, which he answered. He could see that despite her youth she did have professional experience.

"We have to take a look at Lövgren's bank statements," he said. "He also has two safe-deposit boxes we want to open."

She wrote out the documents he needed.

"Shouldn't a judge look at this?" asked Wallander as she pushed them over to him.

"We'll do that later," she said. "And I'd appreciate receiving copies of all the investigative material."

He nodded and got up to leave.

"This article in the papers," she inquired. "About foreigners who may have been involved?"

"Rumour," replied Wallander. "You know how it is."

"I do?" she asked.

When he left her office he noticed that he was sweating. What a babe, he thought. How the hell can someone like that become a prosecutor? Devote her life to catching small-time crooks and keeping the streets clean?

He stopped in the reception area of the station, unable to decide what to do next. Eat, he decided. If I don't get some food now, I never will. I can write the press release over lunch.

When he walked out of the police station he was almost blown over. The storm had not died down.

He ought to drive home and make himself a simple salad. Despite the fact that he had hardly had a thing all day, his stomach felt heavy and bloated. But instead he allowed himself to be tempted by the Hornpiper down by the square. He wasn't going to tackle his eating habits seriously today either.

At 12.45 he was back at the station. Since he had once again eaten too fast, he had an attack of diarrhoea and made for the men's room. When his stomach had settled somewhat, he handed the press release to one of the office clerks and then headed for Näslund's room.

"I can't get hold of Herdin," said Näslund. "He's on some kind of winter hike with a conservation group in Fyledalen."

"Then I suppose we'll have to drive out there and look for him," said Wallander.

"I thought I might as well do that, then you can check the safe-deposit boxes. If everything was so secret with this woman and their child, maybe there's something locked up there. We'll save time that way, I mean."

Wallander nodded. Näslund was right. He was charging like a bull at a gate.

"OK, that's what we'll do," he said. "If we don't make it today we'll go up to Kristianstad tomorrow morning."

Before he got into his car to drive down to the bank, he tried once more to get hold of Sten Widén. There was no answer this time either.

He gave the number to Ebba at the reception desk.

"See if you can get an answer," he said. "Check whether this number is right. It's supposed to be in the name of Sten Widén. Or a racing stable with a name I don't know."

"Hansson probably knows," said Ebba.

"I said racehorses, not trotters."

"He bets on anything that moves," said Ebba with a laugh.

"I'll be at the Union Bank if there's anything urgent," said Wallander.

He parked across from the book shop on the square. The powerful wind almost blew the parking ticket out of his hand after he put the money in the machine. The town seemed abandoned. The winds were keeping people indoors.