Faceless Killers (12 page)

He stopped at the electrical shop by the square. He was considering buying a video in an attempt to conquer the loneliness of his evenings. He looked at the prices and tried to work out whether he could afford to buy one this month. Or should he invest in a new stereo instead? After all, it was music he turned to when he lay tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

He tore himself away from the window and turned down the pedestrian street by the Chinese restaurant. The Union Bank was right next door. He walked in through the glass doors, finding only one customer inside the small lobby. A farmer with a hearing aid, complaining about interest rates in a high, shrill voice. To the left, an office door stood open. Inside a man sat studying a computer screen. Wallander assumed this was where he was supposed to go. As he appeared in the doorway, the man looked up quickly, as though he might be a bank robber. He walked into the room and introduced himself.

"We're not happy about this at all," said the man. "In all the years I've been at this bank we've never had any trouble with the police."

Wallander was instantly annoyed by the man's attitude. Sweden had turned into a country where people seemed to be afraid of being bothered more than anything else. Nothing was more sacred than ingrained routine.

"It can't be helped," said Wallander, handing over the documents that Anette Brolin had drawn up. The man read them carefully.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked. "The whole point of a safe-deposit box is that it's protected from inspection."

"Yes, it is necessary," said Wallander. "And I haven't got all day."

With a sigh the man got up from his desk. Wallander could see that he had prepared himself for this visit. They passed through a barred doorway and entered the safe-deposit vault. Lövgren's box was at the bottom in one corner. Wallander unlocked it, pulled out the drawer, and put it on the table. He raised the lid and started going through the contents. There were some papers for burial arrangements and some title deeds to the farm in Lunnarp, some old photographs and a pale envelope with old stamps on it. That was all.

Nothing, he thought. Nothing that I had hoped for.

The man stood to one side, watching him. Wallander wrote down the number of the title deed and the names on the burial documents. Then he closed the box.

"Will that be all?"

"For the time being," said Wallander. "Now I'd like to take a look at the accounts that Lövgren had here at the bank."

On the way out of the vault something occurred to him. "Did anyone else besides Lövgren have access to his safe-deposit box?" he asked.

"No," replied the bank official.

"Do you know whether he opened the box recendy?"

"I've checked the register," was the reply. "It has to be many years since he last opened the box."

The farmer was still complaining when they returned to the lobby. He had started on a tirade about the declining price of grain.

"I have all the information in my office," said the man.

Wallander sat down by his desk and went through two sheets of print-outs. Johannes Lövgren had four different accounts. Maria Lövgren was a joint signatory on two of them. The total amount in these two accounts was 90,000 kronor. Neither of the accounts had been touched for a long time. In the past few days interest had been paid into the accounts. The third account was left over from Lövgren's days as a working farmer. The balance in that one was 132 kronor and 97 ore.

There was one more. Its balance was almost a million kronor. Maria Lövgren was not a signatory to it. On January 1, interest of more than 90,000 kronor had been paid into the account. On 4 January, Johannes Lövgren had withdrawn 27,000 kronor. Wallander looked up at the man sitting on the other side of the desk.

"How far back can you trace records for this account?" he asked.

"Theoretically, for ten years. But it'll take some time, of course. We'll have to run a computer search."

"Start with last year. I'd like to see all activity in this account during 1989."

The official rose and left the room. Wallander started studying the other document. It showed that Johannes Lövgren had almost 700,000 kronor in various mutual funds that the bank administered.

So far Herdin's story seems to hold up, he thought.

He recalled the conversation with Nyström, who had sworn that his neighbour didn't have any money. That's how much he knew about his neighbours.

After about 5 minutes the man came back from the lobby. He handed Wallander another print-out. On three occasions in 1989 Johannes Lövgren had taken out a total of 78,000 kronor. The withdrawals were made in January, July, and September.

"May I keep these papers?" he asked.

The man nodded.

"I'd very much like to speak with the clerk who paid out the money to Johannes Lövgren the last time," he said.

"Britta-Lena Bodén," said the man.

The woman who came into the office was quite young. Wallander thought she was hardly more than 20.

"She knows what it's all about," said the man.

Wallander nodded and introduced himself. "Tell me what you know."

"It was quite a lot of money," said the young woman. "Otherwise I wouldn't have remembered it."

"Did he seem uneasy? Nervous?"

"Not that I recall."

"How did he want the money?"

"In thousand-krona notes."

"Only thousands?"

"He took a few five hundreds too."

"What did he put the money in?"

The young woman had a good memory.

"A brown briefcase. One of those old-fashioned ones with a strap around it."

"Would you recognise it if you saw it again?"

"Maybe. The handle was tatty."

"What do you mean by tatty?"

"The leather was cracked."

Wallander nodded. The woman's memory was excellent. "Do you remember anything else?" "After he got the money, he left." "And he was alone?" "Yes."

"You didn't see whether anyone was waiting for him outside?"

"I wouldn't be able to see that from the counter."

"Do you remember what time it was?"

The woman thought before she replied. "I went to lunch straight afterwards. It was around midday."

"You've been a great help. If you remember anything else, please let me know."

Wallander got up and went into the lobby. He stopped for a moment and looked around. The young woman was right. From the counters it was impossible to see whether anyone was waiting on the street outside.

The farmer was gone, and new customers had arrived. Someone speaking a foreign language was changing money at one of the counters.

Wallander went outside. The Merchants' Bank was in Hamngatan close by.

A much friendlier bank officer accompanied him down to the vault. When Wallander opened the steel drawer, he was disappointed at once. The box was empty. No-one but Johannes Lövgren had access to this safe-deposit box either. He had rented it in 1962.

"When was he here last?" asked Wallander. The answer gave him a start.

"On the 4th of January," the official replied after studying the register of visitors. "At 1.15 p.m., to be precise. He stayed for 20 minutes."

But when Wallander asked all the employees, no-one remembered whether Lövgren had anything with him when he left the bank. No-one remembered him having a briefcase. That young woman from the Union Bank, he thought. Every bank ought to have someone like her.

Wallander struggled down windblown back streets to Fridolf's Cafe, where he had a cup of coffee and ate a cinnamon bun.

I would like to know what Lövgren did between midday and 1.15, he thought. What did he do between his first and second bank visits? And how did he get to Ystad? How did he get back? He didn't own a car.

He took out his notebook and brushed some crumbs off the table. After half an hour he had drawn up a summary of the questions that had to be answered as soon as possible.

On the way back to the car he went into a menswear shop and bought a pair of socks. He was shocked at the price but paid without protesting. Mona had always bought his clothes. He tried to remember the last time he had bought a pair of socks.

When he got back to his car, he found a parking ticket stuck under his windscreen wiper. If I don't pay it, they'll eventually start legal proceedings against me, he thought. Then acting public prosecutor Brolin will be forced to stand up in court and take me to task.

He tossed the ticket into the glove compartment, thinking again how good-looking she was. Good-looking and charming. Then he remembered the bun he'd just eaten.

It was
3
p.m. before Näslund rang. By then Wallander had decided to postpone the trip to Kristianstad.

"I'm soaked," Näslund said. "I've been tramping around in the mud after Herdin all over Fyledalen."

"Give him a thorough going over," said Wallander. "Put a little pressure on him. We want to know everything he knows."

"Should I bring him in?" asked Näslund.

"Go home with him. Maybe he'll talk more freely at home at his own kitchen table."

The press conference started at 4 p.m. Wallander looked for Rydberg, but nobody knew where he was.

The room was full. Wallander saw that the reporter from the local radio was there, and he made up his mind to find out what she really knew about Linda.

He could feel his stomach churning. I'm repressing things, he thought. Along with everything else I don't have time for. I'm searching for the slayers of the dead and can't even manage to pay attention to the living. For a dizzying instant his entire consciousness was filled with only one urge. To take off. Flee. Disappear. Start a new life.

He stepped onto the little dais and welcomed his audience to the press conference.

After just under an hour it was over. Wallander thought that he probably came off pretty well by denying all rumours that the police were searching for foreign citizens in connection with the murders. He hadn't been asked any questions that gave him trouble. When he stepped down, he felt satisfied.

The young woman from the local radio waited while he was interviewed for television. As always when a TV camera was pointed at his face, he got nervous and stumbled over his words. But the reporter was satisfied and didn't ask for another take.

"You'll have to get yourself some better informants," said Wallander when it was all over.

"I might have to at that," replied the reporter and laughed.

When the TV crew had left, Wallander suggested that the young woman from the local radio station accompany him to his office.

He was less nervous with a radio microphone than in front of the camera. When she was finished, she turned off the tape recorder. Wallander was just about to bring up Linda when Rydberg knocked on the door and came in.

"We've almost finished," said Wallander.

"We have finished" said the young woman, getting up.

Crestfallen, Wallander watched her go. He hadn't managed to get in one word about Linda.

"More trouble," said Rydberg. "They just called from the refugee processing unit here in Ystad. A car drove into the courtyard and someone threw a bag of rotten turnips at an old man from Lebanon, hitting him in the head."

"Damn," said Wallander. "What happened?"

"He's at the hospital getting bandaged up. But the director is nervous."

"Did they get the registration number?"

"It all happened too quickly."

Wallander thought for a moment.

"Let's not do anything conspicuous just now," he said. "In the morning there will be strong denials about the foreigners in all the papers. It'll be on TV tonight. Then we just have to hope that things calm down. We could ask the night patrols to check the camp."

"I'll tell them " said Rydberg.

"Come back afterwards and we'll do an update," said Wallander.

It was 8.30 p.m. when Wallander and Rydberg finished.

"What do you think?" asked Wallander as they gathered up their papers.

Rydberg scratched his forehead. "It's obvious that this Herdin lead is a good one. As long as we can get hold of that mystery woman and the child, the son. There's a lot to indicate that the solution might be close at hand. So close that we can't see it. But at the same time..." Rydberg broke off.

"At the same time?"

"I don't know," Rydberg went on. "There's something funny about all this. Especially that noose. I don't know what it is."

He shrugged and stood up. "We'll have to go on tomorrow," he said.

"Do you remember seeing a brown briefcase at Lövgren's house?" Wallander asked. Rydberg shook his head.

"Not that I can recall," he said. "But a whole pile of old junk fell out of the wardrobes. I wonder why old people turn into such hoarders?"

"Send someone out there tomorrow morning to look for an old brown briefcase," said Wallander. "With a cracked handle."

Rydberg left. Wallander could see that his leg was bothering him a lot. He should find out whether Ebba had reached Sten Widén. But he didn't bother. Instead he looked up Anette Brolin's home address in a department directory. To his surprise he discovered that she was almost his neighbour.

I could ask her to dinner, he thought. Then he remembered that she wore a wedding ring.

He drove home through the storm and took a bath. Then he lay on his bed and flicked through a biography of Giuseppe Verdi.

He woke up with a start a few hours later because he was cold. His watch showed almost midnight. He felt dejected. Now he'd have another sleepless night. Driven by despondency, he got dressed. He might as well spend a few night-time hours in his office.