Firewall (5 page)

Wallander left the room. He felt sick to his stomach. Hökberg had not been putting on an act in there. She had no sense of wrongdoing. Wallander walked into Martinsson's office and sat down. Martinsson was on the phone but gestured that he would be off soon. While Wallander waited he felt a strong urge to smoke. That almost never happened. But his meeting with Sonja Hökberg had been profoundly disturbing.

Martinsson put the phone down. "How did it go?"

"She confessed to everything. She's as cold as ice."

"Persson is the same way and she's only 14."

Wallander looked at Martinsson with something like pleading in his eyes. "What's happening to the world?"

"I don't know."

Wallander was visibly shaken.

"They're just little girls."

"I know, I know. And they have no remorse at all."

They were silent for a while and Wallander felt utterly empty inside. Martinsson was the one who finally spoke.

"Do you understand now why I think so often of quitting?"

Wallander roused himself. "And do you understand why it is so important you don't?" He got up and walked over to the window. "How is Lundberg?"

"Still critical."

"We have to get to the bottom of this, whether he dies or not. They didn't attack him like that just to get some cash. Either they needed the money for a particular purpose or the attack was about something else entirely."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. It's just a feeling that I have that there's a deeper layer to all this."

"Isn't the most probable scenario that they were a bit drunk and concocted this lunatic plan to get some money? Without thinking of the consequences?"

"Why do you think that?"

"I'm just sure it wasn't a random act, as you said."

Wallander nodded. "Well, we agree on that. But I want to know what their reasons were. Tomorrow I'll talk to Persson, as well as her parents. Do either of them have a boyfriend?"

"Persson said she had someone."

"Not Hökberg?"

"No."

"Then she's lying. She has someone and we'll find him."

Martinsson made a note. "Who will take that on? You or me?"

Wallander's response was immediate. "I'll do it. I want to know what's going on in this country."

"Suits me."

"You're not completely off the hook, though. Not you, not Hansson, not Höglund. We have to get to the bottom of this attack. I feel sure it was an attempted homicide and if Lundberg does die, then it's murder."

Wallander returned to his office. It was 5.30 p.m. and already it was dark outside. He thought about Sonja Hökberg and why the two girls had needed money so badly. Had there been another reason entirely? Then he thought of Anette Fredman.

He still had work to do, but he couldn't bear to stay in his office. He grabbed his coat and left. The sharp autumn wind burned his face. He heard the strange engine noise when he started the car. As he turned out of the parking area he decided to go shopping. His fridge was almost empty except for the bottle of champagne that he had won in a bet with Hansson. He could no longer remember what the bet had been. On an impulse he decided to drive past the cash machine, where the man had died the night before. He could do his shopping in one of the supermarkets near there.

After parking the car he walked up to the cash machine and waited while a woman with a pushchair withdrew some money. The concrete of the pavement was rough and uneven. Wallander looked around. There seemed to be no residential buildings nearby. In the middle of the night the square would be quite deserted. Even under the powerful street lamps, a man could cry out and collapse to the ground without anyone hearing or seeing him.

Wallander went into the nearest department store and found the food section. As usual he was plagued by boredom and indecision as he inspected the shelves. He quickly filled up his basket with an assortment of items, paid and left. Back in the car the mystery engine noise seemed to increase. He took off his dark suit as soon as he was back in his flat. He showered and noted that he was almost out of soap. He made some vegetable soup for dinner which tasted surprisingly good. He made some coffee and took a cup with him into the living room. He was tired. He flipped the channels without finding anything interesting, then reached for the phone and called Linda in Stockholm. She was sharing a flat in Kungsholmen with two women he only knew by name. To make ends meet she sometimes worked as a waitress in a nearby restaurant. Wallander had eaten dinner there last time he was in town and had enjoyed the food. But he was surprised she could stand the music, which was oppressively loud.

Linda was 26 years old now. They had a good relationship, but he missed being able to see her regularly.

An answering machine came on. Neither Linda nor her flatmates were at home. The message was repeated in English. Wallander said who he was and that it wasn't important. He put the phone down and stared at his coffee. It was cold. I can't keep living like this, he thought, irritatedly. I'm only 50 years old, but I feel ancient and weak.

He knew he should go for an evening walk and tried desperately to think of an excuse. Finally he put on his trainers and headed out.

It was 8.30 p.m. when he returned. The walk had cleared his mind and his spirits had lifted.

The phone rang and Wallander thought it must be Linda. But it was Martinsson.

"Lundberg has died. They just called from the hospital."

Wallander said nothing.

"That means Hökberg and Persson have committed murder."

"I know," Wallander said. "And we have one hell of a mess on our hands."

They agreed to meet at eight the next morning. There was nothing more to say.

Wallander stayed in front of the television and watched a news programme, his mind elsewhere. The dollar had gained more ground against the krona. The only story that managed to grab his attention was the story on the insurance company Trustor. It seemed bewilderingly simple these days to drain the resources of an entire corporation without anyone catching on until it was too late.

Linda didn't call. Wallander went to bed at 11 p.m. It took him a long time to fall asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wallander woke up with a sore throat a little after 6 a.m. on Tuesday, October 7. He was sweating and he knew that he was coming down with flu. He stayed in bed for a while and debated whether or not he should remain at home, but the thought of Johan Lundberg's having died drove him up. He showered, made himself coffee and swallowed some pills to lower his fever. He tucked the bottle of pills into his pocket. Before leaving, he forced himself to eat a bowl of yoghurt. The street lamp outside the kitchen window was swaying in the gusty wind. It was overcast and only two degrees above freezing. Wallander rummaged on his shelves for a warm sweater. He wondered whether he should call Linda, but it was too early. When he reached the street he thought of the list of things he had to do, which he had left on the kitchen table. There was something he had been planning to buy today, but he couldn't remember what it was, and he didn't have the energy to go back and get it.

He took the usual route to the station. Each time he drove this way he felt guilty. He should be walking to work, to keep his blood sugar at a healthy level. Even today, he wasn't so weak from the flu that he couldn't have walked.

He parked and was on his way through reception as the clock was striking seven. As he sat down at his desk he remembered what he meant to buy. Soap. He wrote it down. Then he turned his concentration to the case.

Some of the unpleasant feelings from the day before returned. He recalled Hökberg's lack of emotion. He tried to persuade himself that she had in fact manifested some inkling of human feeling, and that he had just not been able to pick up on it. But to no avail. His experience in these matters told him that he had not been wrong. He got up and went to get a cup of coffee from the canteen. He stopped at Martinsson's office since he, too, was an early riser. The door was open. Wallander couldn't imagine how Martinsson could work with an open door. For Wallander a closed door was a must if he was going to focus on something.

"I thought you'd be here," Martinsson said, when he saw Wallander in the doorway.

"I don't feel so good today," Wallander said.

"A cold?"

"I always get a sore throat in October."

Martinsson, who was forever worrying about getting ill, pulled his chair back a few inches.

"You could have stayed at home," he said. "This wretched Lundberg case is solved already."

"Only partially," Wallander said. "We don't have a motive yet. I don't believe the line that they needed extra money for nothing in particular. Have you found the knife?"

"Nyberg's dealing with it. I haven't talked to him yet."

"Call him."

Martinsson made a face. "He's not easy to talk to in the morning."

"Then I'll call him."

Wallander reached for Martinsson's phone and tried Nyberg's home number. After a few moments he was automatically transferred to his mobile number. Nyberg answered, but it was a poor connection.

"It's me, Kurt. I just wanted to know if you'd found the knife yet."

"How the hell are we supposed to find anything when it's still dark?" Nyberg said, angrily.

"I thought Persson said where she had left it?"

"We still have an area of several hundred cubic metres to comb. She threw it 'somewhere in the Old Cemetery', was what she said."

"Why don't you have someone bring her down?"

"If it's here we'll find it," Nyberg said.

They ended the conversation.

"I didn't sleep well myself last night," Martinsson said. "My daughter Terese knows Eva Persson. They're almost the same age. And Persson has parents too. What are they going through right now? As far as I know, she is their only child."

They both thought about what he had said. Then Wallander began to sneeze. He beat a hasty retreat. The conversation was left hanging.

They gathered in one of the conference rooms at 8 a.m. Wallander sat in his usual spot at the end of the table. Hansson and Höglund were there. Martinsson was standing by the window and talking to someone on the phone, probably his wife. Wallander had always wondered how they could have so much to say to one another after presumably having had breakfast together hardly an hour earlier. The main feeling in the room was despondency. Lisa Holgersson walked in and Martinsson finished his conversation.

Hansson got up and shut the door. "Isn't Nyberg supposed to be here?" he said.

"He's in the Old Cemetery, looking for the knife," Wallander said. "I think we can assume he'll find it."

He looked at Holgersson. She nodded to him to start the meeting. He asked himself how many times he had found himself in exactly this situation. Up early in the morning, facing his colleagues across the conference table with a crime to solve.

They were waiting for him to begin.

"Johan Lundberg has died," he said. "In case anyone hasn't heard."

He pointed to a copy of the local newspaper, the
Ystad Allehanda,
on the table. The taxi driver's death was reported under a huge headline on the front page.

"This means that the two girls, Hökberg and Persson, have committed murder. We can't call it by any other name, since Hökberg in particular was so precise in her explanations. They planned this and they were carrying weapons. They were going to attack whichever taxi driver came their way. We have recovered the hammer, as well as Lundberg's empty wallet and his mobile phone. We have yet to find the knife. Neither girl has denied the charges, nor shifted the blame to the other. I'm assuming we can hand the matter over to the prosecutor tomorrow at the latest. Since Persson is so young, her case will be passed to the juvenile courts. The autopsy result isn't in yet, but I think we can say that our role in this unfortunate case is as good as concluded."

Wallander waited to see if anyone had anything to say.

"Why did they do it?" Holgersson finally asked. "It seems so pointless."

Wallander had hoped that someone would ask this question, so he wouldn't have to find a way to frame it himself.

"Hökberg was very firm on this point," he said. "In both her sessions, first with Martinsson and later with me. She said, 'We needed the money.' Nothing else."

"What for?" Hansson asked.

"We don't know what for. They won't tell us. If Hökberg is to be believed, they didn't even know themselves. They just wanted money." Wallander looked around the table before he continued. "I don't think they're telling the truth. I am certain Hökberg is lying. I haven't spoken with Persson yet, but still I'm convinced of it. They needed that money for some particular purpose. I also suspect that Persson was doing what Hökberg told her to do. That doesn't make her any less guilty, but it gives an appropriate picture of their relation to each other."

"Does it even matter?" Höglund said. "Whether they needed the money for clothes or something else?"

"I suppose not, at this point. The prosecutor certainly has enough evidence to convict Hökberg."

"They've never been in trouble with us before," Martinsson said. "I made a quick search of our database. And they were both doing well at school."

Wallander again sensed that they were taking the wrong approach to the case. Or at the least that they had been too hasty in writing off other explanations for the murder. But since he couldn't put this hunch into words, he said nothing. The motive for the murder could very well have been to do with money. They simply had to keep their eyes open for other possibilities.

The phone rang and Hansson answered. After a while he put the receiver down. "That was Nyberg," he said. "They found the knife."

Wallander nodded and shut the file in front of him. "Naturally, we still have to speak to the parents and make sure we conduct a thorough background investigation, but I think we can safely forward the preliminary information to the prosecutor."

Holgersson raised her hand to speak. "We need a press conference. We've been barraged by calls from the media. It is still a far cry from normal that two young girls commit this kind of violent crime."

Wallander looked at Höglund, but she shook her head. Over the past few years she had often dealt with the media, a job he thoroughly despised. But not this time. Wallander understood.

"I'll do it," he said. "Do we have a time?"

"I'm going to suggest 1 p.m."

Wallander made a note.

They divided up the tasks and he brought the meeting to a close. Everyone wanted the matter disposed of as rapidly as possible. It was an exceptionally unpleasant case, and no-one wanted to spend more time on it than they had to. Wallander would visit the Hökberg family. Martinsson and Höglund would talk to Eva Persson and her parents.

Soon the room was empty. Wallander could feel the symptoms of his flu getting worse. At least maybe I'll infect a journalist, he thought and dug into his pockets for a tissue.

He bumped into Nyberg in the corridor. Nyberg was wearing boots and a warm coat, his hair splayed in all directions. He was clearly in a bad mood.

"I heard you found the knife," Wallander said.

"Looks like the county can no longer afford to pay for basic upkeep," Nyberg said. "We were ankle-deep in leaves, but we eventually found it."

"What kind of a knife?"

"Kitchen knife. Pretty big. The tip broke off, probably from hitting a rib, so she must have used a surprising amount of force. But then again it was a cheap knife."

Wallander shook his head.

"It's hard to believe," Nyberg said. "I don't know what happened to the basic respect for human life. How much money did they get?"

"We don't know yet, but probably about 600 kronor. It couldn't have been much more. Lundberg was at the beginning of his shift and he never carried a lot of cash at the start."

Nyberg muttered something under his breath and walked away. Wallander went back to his office. For a while he sat at his desk without knowing what to do next. His throat hurt. Finally, he opened the file with a sigh. The Hökbergs lived to the west of Ystad. He wrote down the address, got up and put on his coat. As he was leaving the phone rang. He picked it up. It was Linda. The noises and clatter in the background made him think she was calling from the restaurant.

"I got your message this morning," she said.

"This morning?"

"I wasn't at home last night."

Wallander knew better than to ask her where she spent the night. It would only make her cross and she'd slam down the phone.

"Well, I didn't call for anything special," he said. "I just wanted to know how you were."

"I'm fine. How about you?"

"I've got a slight cold. Otherwise things are the same. I was wondering if you had any plans to come down and visit soon?"

"I don't have time."

"I'm happy to pay your fare."

"I told you, I don't have time. It's not about the money."

Wallander realised he was not going to be able to change her mind. She was as stubborn as he was.

"How are you doing anyway?" she said, again. "Do you have any contact with Baiba these days?"

"That ended a long time ago. You know that."

"It's not good for you to go on like this."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. You're even starting to sound whiny. You never had that before."

"You think I sound whiny?"

"You're doing it right now. But I have a suggestion. I think you should contact a dating agency."

"A dating agency?"

"Where you can find someone. Otherwise you're going to turn into a whiny old man who worries about where I'm spending my nights."

She sees right through me, he thought. I'm an open book.

"You mean I should put an ad in the paper?"

"Yes, or use one of those companies."

"I'd never do that."

"Why not?"

"I don't believe in them."

"And why not?"

"I don't know."

"Well, it was just a suggestion. Think it over. I have to get back to work."

"Where are you?"

"At the restaurant."

They said goodbye and hung up. Wallander did wonder where she had spent the night. A couple of years ago Linda had been involved with a young man from Kenya who was at medical school in Lund. But that was over, and since then he had not known very much at all about who she was going out with, other than that every so often she started seeing someone new. He felt a pinch of irritation and jealousy. Though the idea of putting in a personal ad or of signing up with a dating agency had occurred to him before, he had always drawn back at the last minute. It was as if making that choice would mean sinking to an unacceptable level of desperation.