Firewall (18 page)

"Heaven knows what, but clearly this means something. Someone went to a lot of trouble to steal the body and now to return it here."

Martinsson was pale and Wallander pulled him aside.

"We need to get a hold of the nightwatchman, the one who discovered the body the first time," he said. "We also need the security guards' schedule to establish the time they patrol this area. Then we'll be in a better position to zero in on the time that he was dropped back here."

"Who found him this time?"

"A man from Trelleborg, called Nils Jönsson."

"Was he getting cash?"

"He says he stopped to fill up with petrol."

Wallander went to talk to the officer who had taken down Jönsson's statement. He had indeed said nothing of interest.

Martinsson came over with information from the night guard. "Someone drove by here around 11 p.m.," he said.

It was now 12.30 a.m. Wallander recalled that the first time Falk was found the call came into the station around midnight. Jönsson said he had discovered the body this time at around 11.45 P.m.

"The body can only have been here for about an hour," Wallander said. "And I am certain that whoever brought him back knew exactly what time the guards would do their rounds."

"What do you think our chances are of finding a witness?"

"Negligible. There aren't many residential buildings here, from which someone might have looked out of a window. And who comes here late at night?"

"People out walking their dogs."

"Maybe."

"They may at least have noticed a car or some unusual activity. People with dogs tend to have habitual natures and they would notice something out of the ordinary."

Wallander agreed. It was worth a try.

"We'll put an officer down here tomorrow night," he said. "He can talk to every dog walker and jogger that goes by"

"Hansson loves dogs," Martinsson said.

So do I, Wallander thought. But I'll be thankful if I don't have to stand out here tomorrow night.

A car slowed down and stopped by the police tape. A young man in a tracksuit that looked like the one Martinsson was wearing stepped out. Wallander felt like he was slowly being surrounded by the members of a football team.

"That's our security guard," Martinsson said. "The one from last Sunday. He was off tonight."

He walked over to talk to him. Wallander went back to the body.

"Someone has cut off two of his fingers," Nyberg said. "It gets worse and worse."

"I know you aren't a doctor," Wallander said. "But you used the word 'cut'?"

"Both of them look like clean cuts. There is a small possibility it could have been another kind of instrument if it was powerful enough. That's up to the doctor to determine. She's on her way."

"Susann Bexell?"

"I don't know for sure if it's her."

Half an hour later, Bexell arrived. Wallander explained the situation. The dog unit that Nyberg had requested arrived soon after. They were to search for the missing fingers.

"I really don't know what I'm supposed to be doing out here," Bexell said when Wallander had finished telling her everything. "If he's dead there's not a great deal I can do."

"I need you to look at his hands. Two of his fingers are missing."

Nyberg was smoking again. Wallander was surprised he wasn't feeling more exhausted himself. The dog officer had started his work. Wallander remembered a time when a dog had found a blackened finger. How long ago was that? He couldn't say. Five, maybe ten years ago.

Bexell worked quickly. "I think these fingers were cut off with pliers," she said. "But where that happened I can't say."

"It definitely wasn't here," Nyberg said.

No-one disputed this declaration, nor did anyone bother to ask him how he arrived at this conviction.

Bexell finished up and directed the loading of the body into the morgue van.

"Let's hope the body won't disappear again," Wallander said. "It would be nice if they could actually bury it this time."

Bexell and the morgue van drove away. The dog had given up the search.

"He would have found a couple of fingers if they had been anywhere here," his trainer said. "That's an easy job for him."

"I want the area searched again tomorrow," Wallander said, thinking of Hökberg's handbag. "Whoever removed them may have dropped them a little further away. Just to make our job harder."

It was 1.45 a.m. and the security guard had gone home.

"He agreed with me," Martinsson said. "The body was in a different place."

"That could mean one of two things," Wallander said. "Either they simply couldn't be bothered putting it in the original position. Or else they didn't know where that was."

"But how could that be? And why bring it back at all?"

"I don't know, but I don't think there's any use in staying here. We need to sleep."

Nyberg was packing up his bags for the second time this evening. The area would remain cordoned off until the next day.

"I'll see you tomorrow at 8 a.m.," Wallander said.

Then they went their separate ways. Wallander went home and made himself a cup of tea. He drank about half a cup and then went to bed. His back and legs ached. The street lamp swayed outside the window. Just as he was about to fall asleep, he was jerked back into consciousness. At first he didn't know what it was. He listened for noise, but then he realised the disturbance had come from within. It was something to do with the fingers.

He sat up in bed. It was 2.20 a.m. I have to know now, he thought. It can't wait until tomorrow.

He got out of bed and walked out into the kitchen. The phone book lay on the table. It took him less than a minute to find the phone number he was looking for.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Eriksson was asleep. Wallander hoped he wasn't tearing her from a dream she didn't want to leave. She answered the phone after the eleventh ring.

"This is Kurt Wallander."

"Who?""

"I came to your place last night."

She seemed to be waking up slowly. "Oh, the policeman. What time is it?"

"It's 2.30 a.m. I wouldn't have called if it wasn't urgent."

"What's happened?"

"We found the body."

There was a scratchy sound at the other end. He thought she was probably sitting up in bed.

"Come again?"

"We have found Falk's body."

Wallander realised as he was saying this that he had never told her about it being missing in the first place. He was so tired that it had slipped his mind. So he told her. She listened without interrupting him.

"Do you really expect me to believe all this?" she said.

"It sounds strange, I know, but every word is true."

"Who would do something like that? And why?"

"That's what we're trying to find out."

"And you found the body where it was found the first time?"

"Yes."

"Oh my God!"

He heard her breathing hard.

"But how could it have ended up there?"

"We don't know that yet, but I'm calling because I'm hoping you'll be able to help me with something else."

"Are you planning to come over?"

"The phone is fine."

"Don't you ever sleep, by the way?"

"Things get a little hectic at times. Now, the question I have to ask you will seem a little odd."

"That's no surprise. I think everything about you is a little odd, if you don't mind my being completely honest while we're talking like this in the middle of the night."

Her comment threw him. "I don't understand."

She laughed. "Don't take it to heart. I didn't mean it so seriously. It's just that I find it funny when people who are obviously thirsty decline a drink, and people who are dying of hunger won't accept any food. That's all."

"I wasn't thirsty or hungry. If you're referring to me, that is."

"Who do you think?"

Wallander wondered why he couldn't tell her the truth. What was he afraid of? He didn't think she believed him.

"Have I offended you?"

"Not at all," he said. "Can I ask you my question?"

"Of course."

"Could you tell me how Falk used a computer keyboard?"

"That was your question?"

"Yes."

"He used a keyboard the way anyone would."

"But people often type in different ways. The stereotype of a policeman, for example, is someone pecking away at an old typewriter with two index fingers."

"I see what you're getting at."

"Did he use all his fingers when he was typing?"

"I don't think many people do."

"So he used a couple of fingers?"

"Yes."

Wallander held his breath. He was about to find out if his hunch had been correct.

"Which fingers did he use?"

"I have to think about it. To make sure I'm right."

Wallander waited with excitement. She was fully awake now and he knew she was trying her best to help him.

"I'd like to call you back," she said. "There's something I'm not sure about. It'll be easier if I sit down at the computer. That will jog my memory."

Wallander gave her his home phone number. Then he waited at the kitchen table. His head ached. Tomorrow I have to try to get an early night, he thought. Whatever happens. He wondered how Nyberg was doing. If he was sleeping or tossing restlessly.

Ten minutes later the phone rang. He wondered nervously if it could be another journalist but decided it was too early for that. He picked up the receiver. She launched directly into what she had to say.

"It was the second finger on the right hand and the fourth finger on the left hand."

Wallander felt a stir of excitement. "Are you positive?"

"Yes. It's a pretty unusual way of typing, but that's what he did."

"Good," Wallander said. "That confirms something for us."

"You will understand that you've made me very curious."

Wallander considered telling her about the missing fingers, but decided to hold off.

"Unfortunately I can't tell you more at this point. Perhaps at a later date. Don't forget to fax me the list of clients tomorrow. Good night, and thank you."

"Good night."

Wallander got up and walked to the window. The temperature had risen to about 7°C. The wind was still strong and there was a light rain. It was 2.56 a.m. Wallander went back to bed, but the missing fingers danced in front of his eyes for a long time before he managed to sleep.

The man in the shadows in Runnerströms Torg was counting his breaths. He had learned to do this as a child. Breathing and patience were connected. A person had to know when it was best to wait. Listening to his own breathing was also a way to keep his anxiety in check. There had been too many unanticipated happenings. It wasn't possible to have total control over a situation, he knew, but Tynnes Falk's death had been a huge blow. They were busy reorganising and control would soon be established, which was just as well since time was running out. If there was no more interference, they would be able to stay on track with their original schedule.

He thought about the man who lived far away in tropical darkness. He held everything in his hand. A man he had never met, yet one he both feared and respected. There could be no mistakes. Mistakes would not be tolerated. But there were no grounds for his anxiety. Who would be able to break into the computer that functioned at the heart of the operation? It was simply a failure of confidence. If there was any mistake so far it was that he had not managed to kill the policeman in Falk's flat. But even so they were safe. The policeman probably didn't know anything.

Falk himself had often said: nothing and no-one is ever completely safe. And he had been right. Now he was dead. No-one could ever be totally safe.

They had to take care. The man who now stood alone at the helm had told him to hold off and see what happened next. If the policeman was attacked a second time it would only attract unnecessary attention.

He had kept watch outside the building on Apelbergsgatan, and when the policeman made his way to Runnerströms Torg he had followed him. He had been expecting this, that they would find the secret office. A little later another policeman had arrived, carrying bags. The first policeman had then left the flat only to return about an hour later. Then they had both left Falk's office before midnight.

He had continued to wait, all the while counting his breaths. Now it was 3 a.m. and the square was deserted. He was cold. He decided it was very unlikely that anyone would come at this time. Finally, he slid out of the shadows and walked across the street. He unlocked the front door and ran soundlessly up the stairs. He had his gloves on when he unlocked the door to the flat. He walked in, turned on his flashlight and looked around. They had found the door to the inner room, but he had expected that. Without really knowing why, he had developed a kind of respect for the policeman he had tried to kill. His reflexes had been very quick, despite the fact that he was no longer a young man. He must have learned this early in life. It was always a mistake to underestimate an opponent.

He trained the flashlight on the computer and started it up. The monitor came on and after a while he was able to search out the file that showed him when the computer was last booted up. Six days ago. The policemen had not touched it.

It was too soon to feel safe, however. It might simply be a question of time. They could be planning to use a specialist and that caused him a twinge of anxiety, but the bottom line was that no matter who they used they would not be able to break the codes. Not in a thousand years. Someone with an extreme and heightened intuition might have some luck, but how likely was it when they didn't know what they were looking for? They couldn't imagine what this computer was set up to do, not in their wildest dreams.

He left the flat as silently as he had come and melted back into the night.

When Wallander woke the next morning, he felt as if he had overslept. But when he looked at the clock it was only 6.05 a.m. He had slept for 3 hours. He fell back against the pillows. His head was pounding from lack of sleep. I need to more minutes, he thought. Make that 7. I can't get up right now. But he forced himself up and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. His eyes were bloodshot. He stepped into the warm spray of the shower and leaned against the wall like a horse. Slowly he came back to life.

At 6.55 a.m., he was in the station car park. It was still raining. Hansson was unusually early. He was in the reception area flipping through a newspaper. He was also wearing a suit and tie. His normal outfit consisted of wrinkled corduroy trousers and shirts that hadn't been ironed.

"Is it your birthday?" Wallander said.

Hansson shook his head. "I happened to see myself in the mirror the other day. Not a pretty picture. I thought I should try to make more of an effort. Anyway, it's Saturday. We'll see how long it lasts."

They walked to the canteen together and had the obligatory cup of coffee. Wallander told him what had happened during the night.

"That's crazy," Hansson said. "What kind of a sicko dumps a corpse on the street?"

"That's what we're paid to find out," Wallander said. "By the way, you're in charge of looking out for dogs tonight."

"What does that mean?"

"It's Martinsson's idea. He says someone walking a dog might have noticed something unusual along Missunnavägen last night. We thought you could be posted there to stop them as they walk by."

"Why me?"

"You like dogs, don't you?"

"I have plans tonight. It's Saturday, remember?"

"You'll be able to do both. It's fine if you get there shortly before 11 p.m."

Hansson nodded. Wallander had never liked him much, but he had to commend him for his willingness to put in the time when needed.

"I'll see you at 8 a.m. in the conference room," Wallander said. "We need to review and discuss the developments."

"It doesn't seem as if we do anything else. And where does it get us?"

Wallander sat at his desk, looked over his notes and let himself sink deeply into thought. Nothing in all of this makes any sense, he thought. I can't find a beginning or an end. I have no idea why these people have died. But there has to be a motive in here somewhere.

He got up and walked to the window, coffee cup in hand.

What would Rydberg do? he thought Would he have had any advice in this situation? Or would he feel as lost as I do?

Rydberg remained silent.

It was 7.30 a.m. Wallander sat down again. He had to prepare for their meeting. After all, he was the one who had to lead the work. He backtracked to try to gain a new perspective. Which events lay at the core of all this? What were the connections? It was charting a solar system where the planets circled not a sun, but a black hole.

There's a main figure in all this, he thought. There's always a protagonist. Not everyone is of equal importance. Not all the people who have died are major players. But who is who, and how am I supposed to tell them apart? What story is being enacted?

He was back where he started. The only thing he felt sure of was that the taxi driver's murder was neither a likely centre nor a catalyst for the events that followed.

That left Falk. There had to be a connection between him and Hökberg, indicated by the relay and the power substation blueprint. That's what they had to concentrate on. The connection was so far inexplicable, but it was there. He pushed away his notes, and sat there for a few more minutes. I can't see anything in what I've written, he thought. He heard Höglund laugh in the corridor. That didn't happen every day. He gathered up his papers and headed to the conference room.

They made a thorough review of the case material. It took almost 3 hours. The tired and despondent mood in the room slowly lifted.

Nyberg had appeared at 8.30 a.m. He sat at the far end of the table without saying a word. Wallander looked at him, but Nyberg shook his head. He had nothing crucial to tell them.

"Could someone be laying out false tracks deliberately?" Höglund wondered while they were taking a break to stretch their legs. "Maybe this is all very simple when it comes down to it. Maybe all we need is a motive."