Faceless Killers (18 page)

"I'm having a hell of a time. Otherwise, everything's fine."

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

He had forgotten that he had been supposed to think of an excuse for their meeting. Now he had no idea what to say. The truth, he thought wryly. Why not try the truth?

"I just wanted to see you," he said. "The other stuff was all lies."

She smiled.

"I'm glad that we could see each other," she said.

Suddenly he burst into tears.

"I miss you terribly," he mumbled.

She reached out her hand and put it on his. But she said nothing. And it was in that instant that Wallander knew that it was over. The divorce wouldn't change anything. Maybe they'd have dinner once in a while. But their lives were irreversibly going in different directions. Her silence told him that.

He started thinking about Anette Brolin. And the black woman who visited him in his dreams. He had been unprepared for loneliness. Now he would be forced to accept it and maybe gradually build a new life.

"Tell me one thing," he said. "Why did you leave me?"

"If I hadn't left you, I would have died," she said. "I wish you could understand that it wasn't your fault. I was the one who felt the separation was necessary, I was the one who decided. One day you'll understand what I mean."

"I want to understand now."

When they were about to leave she wanted to pay her share. But he insisted he'd pay and she gave in.

"How are you getting home?" she asked.

"There's a night bus," he replied. "How are you getting home?"

"I'm walking," she said.

"I'll walk with you part of the way."

She shook her head.

"We'll say goodbye here," she said. "That would be best. But call me again sometime. I want to stay in touch."

She kissed him quickly on the cheek. He watched her walk across the canal bridge with a vigorous stride. When she disappeared between the Savoy and the tourist bureau, he followed her. Earlier that evening he had shadowed his daughter. Now he was tailing his wife.

Near the television shop at the corner of Stortorget a car was waiting. She got into the front seat. Wallander ducked into a stairwell as the car drove past. He had a quick glimpse of the man behind the wheel.

He walked to his car. There was no night bus to Ystad. He stopped at a phone box and called Anette Brolin at home. When she answered he hung up at once. He got back into his car and pushed in the Maria (Dallas cassette and closed his eyes.

He woke up with a start because he was cold. He had slept for almost two hours. Even though he wasn't sober, he decided to drive home. He would take the back roads through Svedala and Svaneholm. That way he wouldn't risk running into any police patrols.

But he did. He had completely forgotten that the night patrols from Ystad were watching the refugee camps. And he was the one who had given the order.

Peters and Norén came upon an erratic driver between Svaneholm and Slimminge, after they had checked that everything was quiet at Hageholm. Normally either of them would have recognised Wallander's car, but it didn't occur to them that he might be out driving around at this time of night. Besides, the licence plate was so covered with mud that it was unreadable. Not until they had stopped the car and knocked on the windscreen, and Wallander had rolled down the window did they recognise their acting chief.

None of them said a word. Norén's torch shone into Wallander's bloodshot eyes.

"Everything quiet?" Wallander asked finally.

Norén and Peters looked at each other.

"Yes," said Peters. "Everything seems quiet."

"That's good," said Wallander, about to roll up the window.

Then Norén stepped forward.

"You'd better get out of the car," he said. "Now, right away."

Wallander looked questioningly at the face he could hardly recognise in the sharp glare from the torch. Then he did as he was told. He got out of the car. The night was cold. He was freezing.

Something had come to an end.

CHAPTER
9

The last thing Wallander felt like was a laughing policeman as he stepped into the Svea Hotel in Simrishamn at 7 a.m. on Friday morning. Almost impenetrable sleet was falling over Skåne, and water had seeped into his shoes on his way from the car to the hotel.

Also he had a headache. He asked the waitress for a couple of aspirin. 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 reckoned it was as much from fear as from relief. A few hours earlier, when Norén had ordered him out of his car on the highway road between Svaneholm and Slimminge, he had thought that it was all over. He wouldn't be a policeman any more. The charge of driving under the influence would mean immediate suspension. And even if someday he were allowed to return to active duty on the force, having served a jail sentence, he would never be able to look his former colleagues in the eye.

He had explored 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 20-year career with the police would be over. And he was a policeman 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 a friendship which didn't really exist. But he didn't have to do that.

"Go with Peters, and I'll drive your car home," Norén had said.

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 said not a word the whole way 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 damned lucky."

Peters nodded. And then Wallander realised 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 flat and polished off the dregs of a bottle of whisky. Then he fell asleep for several hours, lying on top of his bed. Without thinking, without dreaming. At 6.15 a.m. 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 Nor6n. They went off duty at 6 a.m.

He tried to concentrate on what was in store for him. He was going to meet Goran Boman, and together they would go seek a missing link to the investigation of the murders at Lunnarp.

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 grey sea, barely visible through the sleet. A fishing boat was on its way out of the harbour, and he tried to read 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 it would be as well to drop in at the state liquor outlet, so he would have something to drink in the evening. He realised 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 a hotel room with her. Behind drawn curtains he would forget that he existed, forget everything around him, and sink into a world free from reality.

He drank the coffee and picked up his briefcase. He still had a litde time to read through the investigation reports. Restless, he went out to the reception 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'll be on the move with Boman from the Kristianstad police. But I'll call in."

"Everything's quiet. No trouble 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 felt the bump on his forehead. It hurt. When he stretched he feel a twinge shoot through his thigh.

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

Boman was punctual. On the stroke of 9 a.m. he walked into the dining room.

"What awful weather!" he said.

"It's better than a snowstorm," said Wallander.

While Boman drank his coffee they worked out what had to be done in 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, "and she's 58. She married a couple of years ago; her husband is an estate agent."

"Is Hessler her maiden name?" Wallander wondered.

"Her name is Johanson now. Her husband is Klas Johanson. They live in a suburb 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 9 March 1951, she gave birth to a son at Kristianstad's maternity ward. At 4.13 a.m., 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 39," said Wallander. "He was christened Stefan," said Boman. "He lives in Anus and works as a tax-assessment supervisor in

Kristianstad. His finances are in order. He has a terrace house, a wife and two children."

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

"Not very often," replied Boman.

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

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

The house was at the end of a terrace. 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 drive in front of the garage.

"The husband probably isn't home," said Boman. "His office is in Simrishamn. Apparently he specialises in selling property to well-heeled Germans."

"Is that legal?" asked Wallander, in surprise.

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 residential property."

All of a sudden they caught a glimpse of movement behind the curtains. It was so fast that only the practised eye 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 tracksuit. It occurred to Wallander fleetingly that she didn't look Swedish.

He also thought that their initial introduction might be just as important as all their questions put together. How would she react when they told her that they were policemen?

The only thing he noticed was that she slightly raised one eyebrow. Then she smiled, revealing even rows of white teeth. Wallander wondered whether Boman was right. Was she really 58? If he hadn't known better, he would have guessed 45.

"This is unexpected," she said. "Come in."

They followed her 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 associating this room with Johannes Lövgren. There was nothing to suggest a connection.

"Can I offer you gentlemen anything?" asked the woman.

They declined and sat down.

"We've come to ask you some questions," said Wallander. "My name is Kurt Wallander, and this is Goran 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 a few days ago along with his wife, in a village called Lunnarp. Maybe you read about it in the newspapers." Her surprise looked 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 could this woman have to do with Johannes Lövgren?