Sidetracked (36 page)

“Why can’t she be left in peace?” the woman said. Her voice sounded tormented and unsure, as if she doubted her ability to defend her daughter.

Wallander would have liked to avoid this conversation more than anything. He was unsure of how to handle it.

“Of course she’ll be left in peace,” he said. “But unfortunately it’s part of the duty of the police to gather all the information we can to help solve a brutal crime.”

“She hadn’t seen her father in many years,” the woman said. “She can’t tell you anything important.”

“Does Louise know that her father is dead?”

“Why should she?”

“It’s not unreasonable, is it?”

Wallander saw that she was about to break down. His distaste at what he was doing increased with each question and answer. Without wanting to, he had put her under a pressure she could hardly endure. Stefan said nothing.

“First of all, you have to understand that Louise no longer has any relationship to reality,” the woman said in a voice that was so faint that Wallander had to lean forward to hear her. “She has left everything behind. She’s living in her own world. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t listen. She’s pretending that she doesn’t exist.”

Wallander thought carefully before he continued.

“Even so, it could be important for the police to know why she became ill. I actually came here to ask for your permission to meet her. Speak to her. I realise now that it may not be appropriate. But then you’ll have to answer my questions instead.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. “She got sick. It came out of nowhere.”

“She was found in Pildamm Park,” Wallander prompted her.

Both the son and the mother stiffened. Even the little boy on her lap seemed to react, affected by the others.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“There’s a report on how and when she was taken to the hospital,” said Wallander. “But that’s all I know. Everything to do with her illness is confidential. I understand that she was having some difficulty in school before she got sick.”

“She never had any trouble, but she was always very sensitive.”

“I’m sure she was. Still, usually specific events trigger acute cases of mental illness.”

“How do you know that? Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m a police officer. But I know what I’m talking about.”

“Nothing happened.”

“But you must have wondered about it. Night and day.”

“I’ve hardly thought about anything else.”

Wallander felt the atmosphere becoming so intolerable that he wished he could break off the conversation and leave. The answers he was getting were leading him nowhere, though he believed they were mostly truthful, or at least partly so.

“Do you have a photograph of her I could look at?”

“Is it necessary?”

“Please.”

The boy sitting next to her began to speak, but checked himself instantly. Wallander wondered why. Didn’t the boy want him to see his sister? Why not?

The mother got up with the little boy hanging on to her. She opened a drawer and handed him some photographs. Louise was blonde, smiling, and resembled Stefan, but there was nothing of that wariness he sensed now in the room, or that he’d seen in the family photograph in Fredman’s flat. She smiled openly and trustingly at the camera. She was pretty.

“A nice-looking girl,” he said. “Let’s hope she gets better some day.”

“I’ve stopped hoping,” the mother said. “Why should I hope any more?”

“Doctors can work wonders these days,” Wallander said.

“One day Louise is going to leave that hospital,” the boy said suddenly. He smiled at Wallander.

“And it’s vital that when she does she has a family to support her,” Wallander replied, annoyed that he expressed himself so stiffly.

“We support her in every way,” the boy went on. “The police have to search for the person who killed our Dad. Not go bothering her.”

“If I visit her at the hospital it’s not to bother her,” Wallander said. “It’s as part of the investigation.”

“We’d prefer it if you left her in peace.”

Wallander nodded. The boy was quite determined.

“If the prosecutor, the leader of the preliminary investigation, makes the decision, then I’ll have to visit her,” said Wallander. “And I presume that will happen. Very soon. Either today or tomorrow. But I give you my word that I won’t tell her that her father is dead.”

“Then why are you going there at all?”

“To see her,” said Wallander. “A photograph is still just a photograph. Although I’ll have to take this with me.”

“Why?” The response was immediate. Wallander was surprised by the animosity in the boy’s voice.

“I have to show it to some people,” he said. “To see whether they recognise her. That’s all.”

“You’re going to give it to the newspapers,” said the boy. “Her face will be plastered all over the country.”

“Why would I do that?” asked Wallander.

The boy jumped up from the sofa, leaned over the table, and grabbed the photographs. It happened so fast that Wallander didn’t have time to react. He regained his composure, but he was angry.

“I’m going to be forced to come back here with a warrant to make you hand over those pictures,” he said, although this wasn’t true. “There’s a risk that some reporters will hear about it and follow me here. I can’t stop them. If I can borrow a picture now, this won’t have to happen.”

The boy stared at Wallander. His previous wariness had now evolved into something else. Without a word he handed back one of the photos.

“I have only one more question,” said Wallander. “Do you know if Louise ever met a man named Gustaf Wetterstedt?”

The mother looked perplexed. The boy got up and stood looking out of the open balcony door with his back to them.

“No,” she said.

“Does the name Arne Carlman mean anything to you?”

She shook her head.

“Åke Liljegren?”

“No.”

She doesn’t read the papers, Wallander thought. Under that blanket there’s probably a bottle of wine. And in that bottle is her life. He got up from his chair. The boy by the balcony door turned round.

“Are you going to visit Louise?” he asked again.

“It’s a possibility.”

Wallander said goodbye and left. When he got to the street he felt relieved. The boy was standing in the fifth-floor window looking down at him. As he got into his car, he decided he would put off visiting Louise Fredman for the time being, but he’d check straight away whether Elisabeth Carlén recognised her. He rolled down his window and called Sjösten. The boy was gone from the window. As the phone rang, he searched for an explanation for the uneasiness he had felt at the sight of the frightened little boy. But he couldn’t identify it. Wallander told Sjösten he was on his way to Helsingborg with something that he wanted Elisabeth Carlén to see.

“According to the latest report she’s lying on her balcony sun-bathing,” Sjösten said.

“How’s it going with Liljegren’s employees?”

“We’re working on locating the one who was supposed to be his right-hand man. Name is Hans Logård.”

“Did Liljegren have any family?”

“Apparently not. We spoke with his lawyer. Strangely enough, he left no will, and there’s no indication of direct heirs. Liljegren seems to have lived in his own universe.”

“That’s good,” Wallander said. “I’ll be in Helsingborg within the hour.”

“Should I bring Elisabeth Carlén in?”

“Do that, but be nice to her. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be needing her for a while. She might stop cooperating if it doesn’t suit her any more.”

“I’ll pick her up myself,” said Sjösten. “How’s your father?”

“My father?”

“You were going to meet him this morning.”

“Oh, he’s fine,” Wallander said. “But it was very important that I saw him.”

He hung up. He glanced up at the window on the fifth floor. No-one was there.

Hoover went into the basement just after 1 p.m. The coolness from the stone floor permeated his whole body. The sunlight shone weakly through some cracks in the paint he had put on the window. He sat down and looked at his face in the mirrors.

He couldn’t allow the policeman to visit his sister. They were so close to their goal now, the sacred moment, when the evil spirits in her head would be driven out for good. He couldn’t let anyone get near her.

The policeman’s visit had been a sign that now was the time to act. He thought about the girl it had been so easy for him to meet. She had reminded him of his sister somehow. That was a good sign, too. Louise would need all the strength he could give her.

He took off his jacket and looked around the room. Everything he needed was there. The axes and knives gleamed, laid out on the black silk cloth. Then he took one of the wide brushes and drew a single line across his forehead.

Time was running out.

CHAPTER 35

Wallander put the photograph of Louise Fredman face down on the desk in front of him. Elisabeth Carlén followed his movements with her eyes. She was dressed in a white summer dress, which Wallander guessed was very expensive. They were in Sjösten’s office, Sjösten in the background, leaning against the doorframe, Elisabeth Carlén in the visitor’s chair. The summer heat swept in through the open window. Wallander felt himself sweating.

“I’m going to show you a photograph,” he said. “And I simply want you to tell me whether you recognise the person in it.”

“Why do policemen have to be so dramatic?” she asked.

Her haughty, imperturbable manner irritated Wallander, but he controlled himself.

“We’re trying to catch a man who has killed four people,” he said. “And he scalps them too. Pours acid into their eyes. And stuffs their heads into ovens.”

“Well obviously you can’t let a maniac like that run around loose, can you?” she replied calmly. “Shall we look at that photograph?”

Wallander slid it over and watched Elisabeth Carlén’s face. She picked it up and seemed to be thinking. Almost half a minute passed, then she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’ve never seen her before. At least not that I can remember.”

“It’s very important,” said Wallander.

“I have a good memory for faces,” she said. “I’m sure I’ve never met her. Who is she?”

“That doesn’t matter for the time being,” Wallander said. “Think carefully.”

“Where do you want me to have seen her? At Åke Liljegren’s?”

“Yes.”

“She may have been there sometime when I wasn’t.”

“Did that happen a lot?”

“Not recently.”

“How many years are we talking about?”

“Maybe four.”

“But she could have been there?”

“Young girls are popular with some men. The real creeps.”

“What creeps?”

“The ones with a single fantasy. To go to bed with their own daughters.”

What she said was true, of course, but her indifference angered him. She was part of this market that sucked in innocent children and wrecked their lives.

“If you can’t tell me whether she was ever at any of Liljegren’s parties, who could?”

“Somebody else.”

“Give me a straight answer. Who? I want a name and address.”

“It was always completely anonymous,” said Elisabeth Carlén patiently. “That was one of the rules for these parties. You recognised a face now and then. But nobody exchanged cards.”

“Where did the girls come from?”

“All over. Denmark, Stockholm, Belgium, Russia.”

“They came and then they disappeared?”

“That’s about it.”

“But you live here in Helsingborg?”

“I was the only one who did.”

Wallander looked at Sjösten, as if wanting confirmation that the conversation hadn’t completely got off the track before continuing.

“The picture is of a girl called Louise Fredman,” he said. “Does the name mean anything to you?”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“Wasn’t that
his
name? The one who was murdered? Fredman?”

Wallander nodded. She looked at the photograph again. For a moment she seemed moved by the connection.

“Is this his daughter?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head again.

“I’ve never seen her before.”

Wallander knew she was telling the truth, if only because she had nothing to gain by lying. He retrieved the photograph and turned it over again, as if to spare Louise Fredman from further participation.

“Were you ever at the house of a man named Gustaf Wetterstedt?” he asked. “In Ystad?”

“What would I be doing there?”

“The same thing you normally do to make your living. Was he your client?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Completely sure?”

“Yes.”

“Were you ever at the house of an art dealer named Arne Carlman?”

“No.”

Wallander had an idea. Maybe names weren’t used in those cases either.

“I’m going to show you some other photographs,” he said, getting to his feet. He took Sjösten outside.

“What do you think?” Wallander asked.

Sjösten shrugged. “She’s not lying.”

“We need photos of Wetterstedt and Carlman,” Wallander said. “Fredman too. They’re in the investigative material.”

“Birgersson has the folders,” said Sjösten. “I’ll get them.”

Wallander went back into the room and asked whether she’d like coffee.

“I’d rather have a gin and tonic,” she said.

“The bar isn’t open yet,” Wallander answered.

She laughed. His reply appealed to her. Wallander went out into the hall. Elisabeth Carlén was very beautiful. Her body was clearly visible through her dress. Sjösten came of out Birgersson’s office with a plastic folder. They went back into the room. Elisabeth Carlén was sitting there smoking. Wallander put a picture of Wetterstedt in front of her.

“I recognise him,” she said. “From TV. Wasn’t he the one who ran around with whores in Stockholm?”

“He may have still been at it later on.”

“Not with me,” she replied calmly.

“And you’ve never been to his house?”

“Never.”

“Do you know anyone else who’s been there?”

“No.”

Wallander replaced the picture with one of Carlman. He was standing next to an abstract painting, smiling broadly at the camera.

“This one I’ve seen,” she said firmly.

“At Liljegren’s?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

Elisabeth Carlén thought for a moment. Wallander surreptitiously studied her body. Sjösten took a notebook out of his pocket.

“About a year ago,” she said.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Wallander nodded. Another connection, he thought. Now all we have to do is find the right box to put Fredman in.

He showed her Björn Fredman. Fredman was playing guitar. It was a prison photograph, and must have been old. Fredman had long hair and was wearing bell-bottoms; the colours were faded.

She shook her head again. She had never seen him.

Wallander let his hands drop with a smack on the desk.

“That’s all I wanted to know for now,” he said. “I’ll swap places with Sjösten.”

Wallander took up the position by the door. He also took over Sjösten’s notebook.

“How the hell can you live a life like yours?” Sjösten began, surprisingly. He asked the question with a big smile. He sounded quite friendly, but Elisabeth Carlén didn’t let down her façade for a moment.

“What business is that of yours?”

“None. Just curious, that’s all. How can you stand to look at yourself in the mirror every morning?”

“What do you think when
you
look in the mirror?”

“That at least I’m not making a living by lying on my back for anyone who happens to have enough cash. Do you take credit cards?”

“Go to hell.”

She made a move to get up and leave. Wallander was annoyed at the way he was needling her. She might still be useful.

“Please forgive me,” Sjösten said, still just as friendly. “Let’s forget about your private life. Hans Logård? Is that name familiar?”

She looked at him without replying. Then she turned and looked at Wallander.

“I asked you a question,” Sjösten said.

Wallander understood her glance. She wanted to give only him the answer. He signalled to Sjösten to follow him into the hall. There he explained that Sjösten had destroyed Elisabeth Carlén’s trust.

“Then we’ll arrest her,” said Sjösten. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let a whore give me trouble.”

“Arrest her for what?” asked Wallander. “Wait here, I’ll go in and get the answer. Calm down, damn it!”

Sjösten shrugged. Wallander went back in and sat down behind the desk.

“Logård used to hang out with Liljegren,” she said.

“Do you know where he lives?”

“In the country somewhere.”

“Do you know where?”

“Only that he doesn’t live in town.”

“What does he do?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“But he was at the parties?”

“Yes.”

“As guest or host?”

“As the host. And as a guest.”

“Do you know how I can get hold of him?”

“No.”

Wallander still believed she was telling the truth. Probably they wouldn’t be able to track down Logård through her.

“How did they get along?”

“Logård always had plenty of money. Whatever he did for Liljegren, he was well paid.”

She stubbed out her cigarette. Wallander felt as if he had been granted a private audience with her.

“I’m going,” she said, getting to her feet.

“Let me see you out,” said Wallander.

Sjösten came sauntering down the hall. She looked straight through him as they passed. Wallander waited on the steps until he saw someone follow her, then went back up to the office.

“Why were you needling her?” he asked.

“She stands for something I despise,” Sjösten said.

“We need her. We can despise her later.”

They got coffee and sat down to go over what they knew. Sjösten brought in Birgersson to help out.

“The problem is Fredman,” said Wallander. “He doesn’t fit. Otherwise we now have a number of links that seem to hang together, fragile points of contact.”

“Or maybe it just looks that way,” Sjösten said thoughtfully.

Wallander could tell that Sjösten was worried about something. He waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Sjösten kept staring out of the window.

“Why couldn’t this be possible?” he said. “That he was killed by the same man, but for a completely different reason.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Birgersson.

“Nothing makes sense in this case.”

“So you mean that we should be looking for two different motives,” said Wallander.

“That’s about it. But I could be wrong. It was just an idea, that’s all.”

Wallander nodded. “We shouldn’t disregard that possibility”

“It’s a sidetrack,” said Birgersson. “A blind alley, a dead end. It doesn’t seem likely at all.”

“We can’t rule it out,” Wallander said. “We can’t rule out anything. But right now we have to find Logård. That’s the priority.”

“Liljegren’s villa is a very strange place,” said Sjösten. “There wasn’t one piece of paper there. No address book. Nothing. And no-one has had the opportunity to go in and clean up.”

“Which means we haven’t searched hard enough,” Wallander replied. “Without Logård we’re not going to get anywhere.”

Sjösten and Wallander had a quick lunch at a restaurant next to the station, and drove to Liljegren’s villa. The cordons were still up. An officer opened the gates and let them in. Sunlight filtered through the trees. Suddenly the case seemed surreal. Monsters belonged in the cold and dark. Not in a summer like this one. He recalled Rydberg’s joke.
It’s best to be hunting insane killers in the autumn. In the summer give me a good old-fashioned bomber
. He laughed at the thought. Sjösten gave him a funny look, but he didn’t explain.

Inside the huge villa the forensic technicians had finished their work. Wallander took a look in the kitchen. The oven door was closed. He thought of Sjösten’s idea about Björn Fredman. A killer with two motives? Did such birds exist? He called Ystad, and Ebba got hold of Ekholm for him. It was almost five minutes before he came to the phone. Wallander watched Sjösten wandering through the rooms on the ground floor, drawing back the curtains from the windows. The sunlight was very bright.

Wallander asked Ekholm his question. It was actually intended for Ekholm’s programme. Had there been serial killers who combined very different motives? Did criminal psychology have a collective view on this? As always, Ekholm found Wallander’s question interesting. Wallander wondered whether Ekholm really was so charmed by everything he told him. It was beginning to remind him of the satirical songs about the absurd incompetence of the Swedish security police. Recently they relied more and more on various specialists. And no-one could really explain why.

Wallander didn’t want to be unfair to Ekholm. During his time in Ystad he had proved to be a good listener. In that sense he had learned something basic about police work. The police had to be able to listen, as well as question. They had to listen for hidden meanings and motives, for the invisible impressions left by offenders. Just like in this house. Something is always left behind after a crime is committed. An experienced detective should be able to listen his way to what it was. Wallander hung up and went to join Sjösten, who was sitting at a desk. Wallander didn’t say a thing. Neither did Sjösten. The villa invited silence. Liljegren’s spirit, if he had one, hovered restlessly around them.