Sidetracked (14 page)

“I need Eskilsson and his dog,” said Wallander.

“Where are you? Did something happen?”

“I’m out by Carlman’s farm,” replied Wallander. “I just want to make sure of one thing.”

After a short while Eskilsson arrived with his dog. Wallander explained what he wanted.

“Go over to the hill where the dog lost the scent,” he said. “Then come back here.”

Eskilsson left. After about ten minutes he returned. Wallander saw that the dog had stopped searching. But just as he reached the hut he reacted. Eskilsson gave Wallander a questioning look.

“Let him go,” said Wallander.

The dog went straight for the piece of paper and halted. But when Eskilsson tried to get him to continue his search he quickly gave up. The scent had disappeared again.

“Is it blood?” asked Eskilsson, pointing at the piece of torn paper.

“I think so,” said Wallander “At any rate, we’ve found something associated with the man who was up on the hill.”

Eskilsson left with his dog. Wallander was just about to call Nyberg when he found that he had a plastic bag in one pocket. Carefully he deposited the piece of paper in it.

It couldn’t have taken you more than a few minutes to get here from Carlman’s farm. Presumably there was a bicycle here. You changed clothes since you had blood all over them. But you also wiped an object. Maybe a knife or an axe. Then you took off, either towards Malmö or Ystad. You probably crossed the motorway and chose one of the many small roads that criss-cross this area. I can follow you this far right now. But no further.

Wallander walked back to Carlman’s farm. He asked the officer guarding the cordon whether the family was still there.

“I haven’t seen anybody,” he said. “But no-one has left the house.”

Wallander nodded and walked to his car. There was a crowd of onlookers standing outside the cordon. Wallander glanced at them hastily and wondered what kind of people would give up a summer morning for the opportunity to smell blood.

He didn’t realise until he drove off that he had seen something important. He slowed down and tried to remember what it was.

It had something to do with the people who were standing outside the cordon. What was it he had thought? Something about people sacrificing a summer morning?

He braked and made a U-turn in the middle of the road. When he got back to Carlman’s house the onlookers were still there outside the cordon. Wallander looked around without finding any explanation for his reaction. He asked the officer whether anyone had just left.

“Maybe. People come and go all the time.”

“Nobody special that you recall?”

The officer thought for a moment. “No.”

Wallander went back to his car.

It was 9.10 a.m. on the morning of Midsummer Day.

CHAPTER 13

When Wallander got back to the station, the girl in reception told him he had a visitor waiting in his office. Wallander lost his temper and shouted at the girl, a summer intern, that no-one, no matter who it was, was to be allowed into his office. He stormed down the hall and threw open the door, coming face to face with his father, sitting in the visitor’s chair.

“The way you tear open doors,” said his father. “Somebody might think you were in a rage.”

“All they told me was that someone was waiting in my office,” said Wallander, astonished. “Not that it was you.”

Wallander’s father had never visited him at work. When he was a young officer, his father had even refused to let him into the house in uniform. But now here he was, wearing his best suit.

“I’m surprised,” said Wallander. “Who drove you here?”

“My wife has both a driver’s licence and a car,” replied his father. “She went to see one of her relatives while I came here. Did you see the game last night?”

“No. I was working.”

“It was great. I remember the way it was back in ’58, when the World Cup was held in Sweden.”

“But you were never interested in football, were you?”

“I’ve always liked football.”

Wallander stared at him in surprise.

“I didn’t know that.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know. In 1958 Sweden had a defender named Sven Axbom. He was having big problems with one of Brazil’s wingers, as I recall. Have you forgotten about that?”

“How old was I in 1958? I was a baby.”

“You never were much for playing football. Maybe that’s why you became a policeman.”

“I bet that Russia would win,” said Wallander.

“That’s not hard to believe,” said his father. “I bet 2–0 myself. Gertrud, on the other hand, was cautious. She thought it would be 1–1.”

“Would you like some coffee?” asked Wallander.

“Yes, please.”

In the hall Wallander ran into Hansson.

“Will you see to it that I’m not disturbed for the next half hour?” he said.

Hansson gave him a worried look.

“I absolutely must speak with you.”

Hansson’s formal manner irritated Wallander.

“In half an hour,” he repeated. “Then we’ll talk as much as you like.”

He went back to his room and closed the door. His father took the plastic cup in both hands. Wallander sat down behind the desk.

“I never thought I’d see you in the station,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have to,” his father replied.

Wallander set his plastic cup on the desk. He should have known straight away that it must be something very important for his father to visit him here.

“What’s happened?” Wallander asked.

“Nothing, except that I’m sick,” replied his father simply.

Wallander felt a knot in his stomach.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’m starting to lose my mind,” his father went on calmly. “It’s a disease with a name I can’t remember. It’s like getting senile. But it can make you angry at everything. And it can progress very fast.”

Wallander knew what his father meant. Svedberg’s mother was stricken with it. But he couldn’t remember the name either.

“How do you know?” he asked. “Have you been to the doctor? Why didn’t you say something before now?”

“I’ve even been to a specialist, in Lund,” said his father. “Gertrud drove me there.”

Wallander didn’t know what to say.

“Actually, I came here to ask you something,” his father said, looking at him.

The telephone rang. Wallander put the receiver on the desk.

“I’ve got time to wait,” said his father.

“I told them I didn’t want to be disturbed. So tell me what it is you want.”

“I’ve always dreamed of going to Italy,” his father said. “Before it’s too late, I’d like to take a trip there. And I thought you might come with me. Gertrud doesn’t have any interest in Italy. I don’t think she wants to go. I’ll pay for the whole thing. I’ve got the money.”

Wallander looked at his father. He seemed small and shrunken sitting there in the chair. At that moment he suddenly looked his age. Almost 80.

“Of course, let’s go to Italy,” said Wallander. “When did you have in mind?”

“It’s probably best that we don’t wait too long. Apparently it’s not too hot in September. But will you have time then?”

“I can take a week off any time. Or did you want longer than that?”

“A week would be fine.”

His father leaned forward, put down the coffee cup, and stood up.

“Well, I won’t bother you any longer,” he said. “I’ll wait for Gertrud outside.”

“You can wait here,” said Wallander.

His father waved his cane at him.

“You’ve got a lot to do,” he said. “I’ll wait outside.”

Wallander accompanied him out to reception, where his father sat down on a sofa.

“I don’t want you to wait with me,” said his father. “Gertrud will be here soon.”

Wallander nodded.

“We’ll go to Italy together,” he said. “And I’ll come out and see you as soon as I can.”

“The trip might be fun,” said his father. “You never know.”

Wallander left him and went over to the girl at the front desk.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was quite right of you to let my father wait in my office.”

He went back to his room, tears welling in his eyes. Even though his relationship with his father was strained, coloured by guilt, he felt a great sorrow. He stood by the window and looked out at the beautiful summer weather.

There was a time when we were so close that nothing could come between us, he thought. That was back when the silk knights, as we called them, used to come in their shiny American cars that we called land yachts and buy your paintings. Even then you talked about going to Italy. Another time, only a few years ago, you actually set off. I found you, dressed in pyjamas, with a suitcase in your hand in the middle of a field. And now we have to make that trip. I won’t allow anything to stop us.

Wallander returned to his desk and called his sister in Stockholm. The answer machine informed him that she wouldn’t be back until that evening.

It took him a long while to push aside his father’s visit and collect his thoughts. He couldn’t seem to accept that what his father had told him was true.

After talking to Hansson he made an extensive review of the investigation. Just before 11 a.m. he called Per Åkeson at home and gave him an update. Then he drove over to Mariagatan, took a shower, and changed his clothes. By midday he was back at the station. On the way to his room he stopped to see Ann-Britt Höglund. He told her about the paper he’d found behind the road workers’ hut.

“Did you get hold of the psychologists in Stockholm?” he asked.

“I found a man named Roland Möller,” she said. “He was at his summer house outside Vaxholm. But Hansson must make a formal request as acting chief.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“He’s done it.”

“Good,” said Wallander. “Now, something else. Do criminals return to the scene of the crime?”

“It’s both a myth and a truth.”

“In what sense is it a myth?”

“In that it’s supposed to be something that always happens.”

“And what’s the reality?”

“That it actually does happen once in a while. The most classic example in our own legal history is probably from here in Skåne. The policeman who committed a series of murders in the early 1950s and was later on the team investigating what happened.”

“That’s not a good example,” Wallander objected. “He was forced to return. I’m talking about the ones who return of their own accord. Why?”

“To taunt the police. To gloat. Or to find out how much the police actually know.”

Wallander nodded thoughtfully.

“Why are you asking me this?”

“I had a peculiar experience,” said Wallander. “I got a feeling that I saw someone out by Carlman’s farm that I’d also seen outside the cordon near Wetterstedt’s villa.”

“Why couldn’t it be the same person?” she asked, surprised.

“No reason. But there was something odd about this person. I just can’t put my finger on what it was.”

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“I know,” said Wallander. “But in the future I want someone to photograph everyone standing outside the cordon, as discreetly as possible.”

“In the future?”

Wallander knew that he had said too much. He tapped on the desk three times with his index finger.

“Naturally I hope nothing else will happen,” he said. “But if it does.”

Wallander accompanied Höglund back to her office. Then he continued out of the station. His father was gone. He drove to a restaurant on the edge of town and ate a hamburger. On a thermometer he saw that it was 26°C.

The press conference on Midsummer Day at the Ystad station was memorable because Wallander lost his temper and left the room before it was over. Afterwards he refused to apologise. Most of his colleagues thought he did the right thing. But the next day Wallander got a phone call from the director of the national police board, telling him that it was highly unsuitable for the police to make abusive comments to journalists. The relationship was strained enough as it was, and no additional aggravation could be tolerated.

Towards the end of the press conference, a journalist from an evening paper had stood up and started to question Wallander about the fact that the offender had taken the scalps of his victims. Wallander tried hard to avoid going into the gory details. He had replied that some of the hair of both Wetterstedt and Carlman had been torn off. But the reporter persisted, demanding details even when Wallander said that he couldn’t give more information because of the forensic investigation. By then Wallander had developed a splitting headache. When the reporter accused him of hiding behind the requirements of the investigation, and said that it seemed like pure hypocrisy to withhold details when the police had called the press conference, Wallander had had enough. He banged his fist on the table and stood up.

“I will not let police policy be dictated by a journalist who doesn’t know when to stop!” he shouted.

The flashbulbs went off in an explosion as he left the room. Afterwards, when he had calmed down, he asked Hansson to excuse his behaviour.

“I hardly think that it will change the way the headlines will read tomorrow morning,” Hansson replied.

“I had to draw the line somewhere,” said Wallander.

“I’m on your side, of course,” said Hansson. “But I suspect there are others who won’t be.”

“They can suspend me,” said Wallander. “They can fire me. But they can’t ever make me apologise to that reporter.”

“That apology will probably be discreetly given by the national police board to the editor-in-chief of the newspaper,” said Hansson. “And we won’t ever hear about it.”

At 4 p.m. the investigative group shut themselves behind closed doors. Hansson had given strict instructions that they were not to be disturbed. At Wallander’s request a squad car had gone to pick up Åkeson.

He knew that the decisions they made this afternoon would be crucial. They would be forced to go in so many directions at once. All options had to be explored. But at the same time Wallander knew that they had to concentrate on the main lead.

Wallander borrowed a couple of aspirin from Höglund and thought again about what Lars Magnusson had said, about the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman. Was there something else he’d missed? He searched his weary mind without coming up with anything. They would concentrate their investigation on art sales and art thefts. They would have to dig deep into the rumours, some almost 30 years old, surrounding Wetterstedt, and they would have to move fast. Wallander knew they wouldn’t get help along the way. Lars Magnusson had talked about the collaborators who cleaned up the mess left by those wielding power. Wallander would have to find a way of throwing light on these activities, but it would be very difficult.

The investigative meeting was one of the longest Wallander had ever attended. They sat for almost nine hours before Hansson blew the final whistle. By then everyone was exhausted. Höglund’s bottle of aspirin was empty. Plastic coffee cups covered the table. Cartons of half-eaten pizza were piled in a corner of the room.

But this meeting was also one of the best Wallander had ever experienced. Concentration hadn’t flagged, everyone contributed their opinions, and logical plans for the investigation had developed as a result.

Svedberg went over the telephone conversations he had had with Wetterstedt’s two children and his third ex-wife, but no-one could see a possible motive. Hansson had also managed to talk with the 80-year-old who had been party secretary during Wetterstedt’s term as minister of justice. He had confirmed that Wetterstedt had often been the subject of rumours within the party. But no-one had been able to ignore his unflagging loyalty.