Faceless Killers (33 page)

But nothing did happen. In spite of massive police effort and the relatively small size of the town, the men had vanished.

The next few days passed without result. The two county police chiefs gave the go-ahead to implement special measures in their districts. The video tape was distributed. Wallander had doubts as to whether the pictures should be released to the press. He was afraid that the men would make themselves even scarcer. He asked for Rydberg's advice.

"You have to drive foxes out into the open," he said. "Wait a few days. But then publish the pictures."

For a long time he sat staring at the copies that Wallander had brought along.

"There's no such thing as a murderer's face," he said. "You imagine something: a profile, a hairline, a set of the jaw. But it never matches up."

On Tuesday, 31 July, ragged clouds raced across the sky, and the wind was gusting up to gale force. After waking at dawn, Wallander lay in bed for a long time and listened to the wind. When he stood on the scales in the bathroom, he saw that he had lost another kilo. This cheered him up so much that when he drove into the car park at the station he had shed the gloom he'd felt of late.

This investigation is turning into a personal defeat, he had been thinking. I'm driving my colleagues hard, we've fetched up in a dead end again. But those two men are out there, he thought angrily as he slammed the car door. Somewhere.

In the reception he stopped to chat to Ebba. There was an old-fashioned music box next to the switchboard.

"I haven't seen one of those in ages," he said. "Where did you get it?"

"I bought it at a stall in the Sjobo market," she replied. "Sometimes you can actually find something wonderful amongst all the junk."

Wallander smiled and moved on. On the way to his office he stopped to see Hansson and Martinsson and asked them to come along with him. Still no trace of Skinhead or Lucia.

"Two more days," said Wallander. "If we don't come up with something by Thursday, we'll call a press conference and release the pictures."

"We should have done that right away," said Hansson.

Wallander said nothing.

They went over the chart again. Martinsson would go on organising the search of camping grounds where the two men might be hiding out.

"Check the youth hostels," said Wallander. "And all the rooms rented in private homes for the summer."

"It was easier in the old days," said Martinsson. "People used to stay put in the summer. Now they scatter all over the place."

Hansson would go on to looking into a number of smaller, less particular building firms that were known to hire workers from various Eastern European countries without work permits. Wallander would go out to the strawberry fields. The two men might be hiding at one of the big fruit farms.

But their searches were in vain. When they gathered again late in the afternoon, they had drawn only blanks.

"I found one Algerian pipefitter," said Hansson, "two Kurdish bricklayers and a huge number of Polish manual labourers. I feel like writing a note to Björk. If we hadn't had this damned double murder to solve, we could have cleaned up that shit. They're making the same wages as kids with summer jobs. They have no insurance. If there's an accident, the companies will say that the workers were living without permission at the sites."

Martinsson had no good news either.

"I found a bald Bulgarian," he said. "With a little luck he could have been Skinhead. But he's a doctor at the clinic in Mariestad and would have no trouble producing an alibi."

It was stuffy in the room. Wallander got up and opened the window. For some reason he thought of Ebba's music box. Though he hadn't heard its tune, the music box had been playing in his subconscious all day.

"The markets," he said, turning around. "We should look there. Which market is open next?"

Both Hansson and Martinsson knew the answer. The one in Kivik.

"It's open today and tomorrow," said Hansson.

"I'll go there tomorrow," said Wallander.

"It's a big one," said Hansson. "You should take somebody with you.

"I can go," said Martinsson.

Hansson looked relieved to be spared the assignment. Wallander thought that there probably were races on Wednesday nights. The meeting over, they said goodbye to one another, and Hansson and Martinsson left. Wallander remained at his desk and sorted through a pile of phone messages. He arranged them in order of priority for the following day and got ready to leave. Then he caught sight of a note that had fallen under the desk. He bent to pick it up and saw that it was a message to call the director of a refugee camp.

He dialled the number. It rang ten times and he was about to hang up when someone answered.

"This is Wallander at the Ystad police. I want to speak to Mr Modin."

"Speaking."

"I'm returning your call."

"I think I have something important to tell you."

Wallander held his breath.

"It's about the two men you're looking for. I came back from holiday today. The photographs the police sent were on my desk. I recognise those two men. They lived at this camp for a while."

"I'm on my way," said Wallander. "Don't leave your office before I get there."

The camp was outside Skurup, and Wallander was there in 19 minutes. It was housed in an old vicarage, and was only used as a temporary shelter when all the permanent camps were full.

Modin, the director, was a short man, maybe 60. He was in the drive when Wallander's car skidded to a stop.

"The camp is empty at the moment," Modin said. "But we're expecting a number of Romanians next week."

They went into his small office.

"Start at the beginning," Wallander said.

"They were here from December of last year to the middle of February," said Modin, leafing through some papers. "Then they were transferred to Malmö. To Celsius House, to be exact."

Modin pointed to the photo of Skinhead. "That one is Lothar Kraftczyk. He's a Czech seeking political asylum on the grounds that he was persecuted as a member of an ethnic minority."

"Are there minorities in Czechoslovakia?" wondered Wallander.

"I think he claims he is a gypsy."

"Claims?"

Modin shrugged. "I don't believe he is. Refugees who know they don't have a strong enough case to be permitted to stay in Sweden quickly learn that one excellent way to improve their chances is to say that they're gypsies."

Modin picked up the photo of Lucia. "Andreas Haas. Also a Czech. I don't really know what his grounds for seeking asylum were. The paperwork went with them to Celsius House."

"And you're positive that they're the men in the photographs?"

"Yes. I'm sure of it."

"OK," said Wallander. "Tell me more."

"About what?"

"What were they like? Did anything unusual happen while they were here? Did they have plenty of money? Anything you can remember."

"I've been trying," said Modin. "By and large they kept to themselves. You should know that life in a refugee camp is extremely stressful. I do remember that they played chess. Day in, day out."

"Did they have money?"

"Not that I recall."

"What were they like?"

"They kept to themselves, but they weren't unfriendly." "Anything else?"

Wallander noticed that Modin hesitated.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"This is a small camp," said Modin. "I'm not here at night, and neither is anyone else. On certain days it was also unstaffed. Except for a cook to prepare the meals. Usually we keep a car here. The keys are locked in my office. But sometimes when I got here in the morning I had the feeling that someone had been in my office, taken the keys, and used the car."

"And you suspected these two?"

Modin nodded. "I don't know why. It was just a feeling I had."

Wallander pondered this.

"So at night no-one was here," he said. "Or on certain days either. Is that right?" "Yes."

"January the 4th to January the 6th," said Wallander. "That's more than six months ago. Is there any way of knowing whether anyone was on duty those days?"

Modin paged through his desk calendar.

"I was at emergency meetings in Malmö," he said. "There was such a backlog of refugees that we had to find more temporary camps."

Wallander had goose bumps. The chart had come alive. Now it was speaking to him.

"So nobody was here on those days?"

"Only the cook. The kitchen is in the back so she might not have seen if anyone had driven away in the car."

"None of the refugees would have said anything?"

"Refugees don't get involved. They're scared. Even of each other."

Wallander stood up. Suddenly he was in a big hurry.

"Call your colleague at Celsius House and tell him I'm on my way," he said. "But don't say anything about these two men. Just make sure that the director is available."

Modin stared at him.

"Why are you looking for them?" he asked.

"They may have committed a crime. A serious crime."

"The murders in Lunnarp? Is that what you mean?"

Wallander saw no reason not to tell him. "Yes. I think they're the ones."

He reached Celsius House in central Malmö at a few minutes past 7 p.m. He parked on a side street and walked to the main entrance, where there was a security guard. After several minutes a man came to get him. His name was Larson, a retired seaman, and he smelled of beer.

"Haas and Kraftczyk," said Wallander when they were in Larson's office. "Two Czech asylum seekers."

"The chess players," he said. "Yes, they live here."

Damn it thought Wallander. We've finally got them.

"Are they here, in the building?"

"Yes," said Larson. "I mean, no."

"No?"

"They live here. But they're not here."

"Where the hell are they?"

"I really don't know."

"But they do live here?"

"They ran away."

"Ran away?"

"It happens all the time - people running away."

"But aren't they trying to get asylum?"

"They still run away."

"What do you do then?"

"We report them, naturally."

"And then what happens?"

"Nothing, usually."

"Nothing? People run away who are waiting to hear whether they can stay in this country or whether they're going to be deported? And nobody cares?"

"I guess the police are supposed to look for them."

"This is bloody ridiculous. When did they disappear?"

"They left in May. Probably they expected that their applications would be turned down."

"Where do you think they went?"

Larson threw his hands wide. "If you only knew how many people lived here without residency permits. More than you can imagine. They live together, forge their papers, trade names with each other, work illegally. You can spend a lifetime in Sweden without anyone checking up on you. No-one wants to believe it. But that's the way it is."

Wallander was speechless.

"This is crazy," he said. "This is fucking crazy."

"I agree with you. But that's the way of it."

Wallander groaned.

"I need all the documents you have on these two men." "I am not at liberty to hand those over."

"These two men have committed murder," Wallander exploded. "Double murder."

"Nevertheless I can't release the papers." Wallander stood up.

"Tomorrow you're going to hand over those papers. Even if I have to get the chief of the national police to come and get them himself."

"That's how it is. I can't change the regulations."

Wallander drove back to Ystad. At 8.45 p.m. he rang Björk's doorbell. Quickly he told him what had happened.

"Tomorrow we issue an APB for them," he said.

Björk nodded. "I'll call a press conference for 2 p.m. I have a meeting with the police chiefs in the morning, but I'll see to it that we get the papers from Celsius House."

Wallander went to see Rydberg. He was sitting in the dark on his balcony. Wallander looked at him and realised that he was in pain. Rydberg, who seemed to read his thoughts, said matter-of-factly, "I don't think I'm going to make it through this. I might live past Christmas; I might not."

Wallander didn't know what to say.

"One has to endure," said Rydberg. "Tell me why you're here."

Wallander told him. Dimly he could make out Rydberg's face in the darkness. They sat in silence. The night was cool. But Rydberg didn't seem to notice as he sat there in his old dressing gown and slippers.

"Maybe they've skipped the country," said Wallander. "Maybe we'll never catch them."

"In that case, we'll have to accept that at least we know the truth," said Rydberg. "Justice doesn't only mean that the people who commit crimes are punished. It also means that we can never give up seeking the truth."

With great effort he got to his feet and fetched a bottle of cognac, and with shaking hands poured two glasses.

"Some old police officers die worrying about ancient, unsolved puzzles," he said. "I suppose that I'm one of them."