Sidetracked (5 page)

“At any rate, we know there was no crime committed,” said Hansson. “So our job is to determine who she was.”

“She must have come from somewhere,” said Höglund. “Did she walk here? Did she ride a bike? Did she drive? Where did she get the petrol?”

“And why here, of all places?” said Martinsson. “Why Salomonsson’s place? This farm is way off the beaten track.”

The questions hung in the air. Norén came into the kitchen and said that some reporters had arrived who wanted to know what happened. Wallander, who knew that he had to get moving, stood up.

“I’ll talk to them,” he said.

“Tell them the truth,” said Hansson.

“What else?” Wallander replied in surprise.

He went out into the yard and recognised the two newspaper reporters. One was a young woman who worked for
Ystad Recorder
, the other an older man from
Labour News
.

“It looks like a film shoot,” said the woman, pointing at the floodlights in the charred field.

“It’s not,” said Wallander.

He told them what had happened. A woman had died in a fire. There was no suspicion of criminal activity. Since they still didn’t know who she was, he didn’t want to say anything more at this time.

“Can we take some pictures?” asked the man from
Labour News
.

“You can take as many pictures as you like,” replied Wallander. “But you’ll have to take them from here. No-one is allowed to go into the field.”

The reporters drove off in their cars. Wallander was about to return to the kitchen when he saw one of the technicians working out in the field waving to him. Wallander went over. It was Sven Nyberg, the surly but brilliant head of forensics. They stopped at the edge of the area covered by the floodlights. A slight breeze came wafting from the sea across the field. Wallander tried to avoid looking at the body, with its upstretched arms.

“I think we’ve found something,” said Nyberg.

In his hand he had a little plastic bag. He handed it to Wallander, who moved under one of the floodlights. In the bag was a gold necklace with a tiny pendant.

“It has an inscription,” said Nyberg. “The letters ‘D.M.S.’ and it’s a picture of the Madonna.”

“Why didn’t it melt?” asked Wallander.

“A fire in a field doesn’t generate enough heat to melt jewellery,” Nyberg replied. He sounded tired.

“This is exactly what we needed,” said Wallander.

“We’ll be ready to take her away soon,” said Nyberg, nodding towards the black hearse waiting at the edge of the field.

“How does it look?” Wallander asked cautiously.

Nyberg shrugged.

“The teeth should tell us something. The pathologists are excellent. They can find out how old she was. With DNA technology they can also tell you whether she was born in this country of Swedish parents or if she came from somewhere else.”

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” said Wallander.

“No thanks,” said Nyberg. “I’ll be done here pretty soon. In the morning we’ll go over the entire field. Since there was no crime it can wait until then.”

Wallander went back to the house. He laid the plastic bag containing the necklace on the kitchen table.

“Now we have something to go on,” he said. “A pendant, a Madonna. Inscribed with the initials ‘D.M.S.’ I suggest you all go home now. I’ll stay here a while longer.”

“We’ll meet at nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” said Hansson, getting up.

“I wonder who she was,” said Martinsson. “The Swedish summertime is too beautiful and too brief for something like this to happen.”

They parted in the yard. Höglund lingered behind.

“I’m thankful I didn’t have to see it,” she said. “I think I understand what you’re going through.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

When the cars had gone he sat down on the steps of the house. The floodlights shone as if over a bleak stage on which a play was being performed, with him the only spectator.

The wind had started to blow. They were still waiting for the warmth of summer. The night air was cold, and Wallander realised that he was freezing sitting there on the steps. How intensely he longed for the summer heat. He hoped it would come soon.

After a while he got up and went inside the house and washed the coffee cups.

CHAPTER 4

Wallander gave a start. Someone was trying to tear off one of his feet. When he opened his eyes he saw that his foot was caught in the broken bed frame. He turned over onto his side to free it. Then he lay still. The dawn light filtered through the crookedly drawn shade. He looked at the clock on the beside table. It was 4.30 a.m. He had hardly slept, and he was very tired. He found himself back out in the field again. He could see the girl much more clearly now. It wasn’t me she was afraid of, he thought. She wasn’t hiding from me or Salomonsson. There was someone else.

He got up and shuffled out to the kitchen. While he waited for the coffee to brew he went into his messy living-room and checked the answer machine. The red light was flashing. He pushed the replay button. First was his sister Kristina. “I need you to call me. Preferably in the next couple of days.” It must be something to do with their father. Although he had married his care worker and no longer lived alone, he was still moody and unpredictable.

There was a scratchy, faint message from
Skåne Daily
, asking if he was interested in a subscription. He was just on his way back to the kitchen when he heard the next message. “It’s Baiba. I’m going to Tallinn. I’ll be back on Saturday.”

He was seized with jealousy. Why was she going to Tallinn? She had said nothing about it the last time they spoke. He poured a cup of coffee, and called her number in Riga, but there was no answer. He dialled again. His unease was growing. She could hardly have left for Tallinn at 5 a.m. Why wasn’t she home? Or if she was home, why didn’t she answer?

He picked up his coffee cup, opened the balcony door facing Mariagatan, and sat down. Once again he saw the girl running through the rape. For an instant she looked like Baiba. He forced himself to accept that his jealousy was unwarranted. They had agreed not to encumber their new relationship with promises of fidelity. He remembered how they had sat up on Christmas Eve and talked about what they wanted from one another. Most of all, Wallander wanted them to get married. But when Baiba spoke of her need for freedom, he had agreed with her. Rather than lose her, he would accept her terms.

The sky was clear blue and the air was already warm. He drank his coffee in slow sips and tried to keep from thinking of the girl. When he had finished he went into the bedroom and searched for a long time before finding a clean shirt. Next he gathered all the clothes strewn around the flat. He made a big pile in the middle of the livingroom floor. He would have to go to the launderette today.

At 5.45 a.m. he left his flat and went down to the street. He got into his car and remembered that it was due for its M.O.T. by the end of June. He drove off down Regementsgatan and then out along Österleden. On the spur of the moment, he turned onto the road heading out of town and stopped at the new cemetery at Kronoholmsvägen. He left the car and strolled along the rows of gravestones. Now and then he would catch sight of a name he vaguely recognised. When he saw a year of birth the same as his own he averted his eyes. Some young men in blue overalls were unloading a mower from a trailer. When he reached the memorial grove, he sat on one of the benches. He hadn’t been here since the windy autumn day four years ago when they had scattered Rydberg’s ashes. Björk had been there, and Rydberg’s distant and anonymous relatives. Wallander had often meant to come back. A gravestone with Rydberg’s name on it would have been simpler, he thought. A focal point for my memories of him. In this grove, full of the spirits of the dead, I can find no trace of him.

He realised that he had difficulty remembering what Rydberg looked like. He’s dying away inside me, he thought. Soon even my memories of him will be gone.

He stood up, suddenly distressed. He kept seeing the burning girl. He drove straight to the station, went into his office, and closed the door, forcing himself to prepare a summary of the car theft investigation that he had to turn over to Svedberg. He moved folders onto the floor so that his desk would be completely clear.

He lifted up his desk blotter to see whether there were any items there that he’d forgotten about. He found a scratch-off lottery ticket he had bought several months before. He rubbed it with a ruler until the numbers appeared, and saw that he had won 25 kronor. From the hall he could hear Martinsson’s voice, then Ann-Britt Höglund’s. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, and closed his eyes. When he woke up he had a cramp in one of his calf muscles, but he’d slept for no more than ten minutes. The telephone rang. It was Per Åkeson from the prosecutors’ office. They exchanged greetings, and some words about the weather. They had worked together for many years, and had slowly developed a rapport that had become like a friendship. They often disagreed about whether an arrest was justified or whether remanding an offender in custody was reasonable. But there was also a trust that went deep, although they almost never spent time together off duty.

“I read in the paper about the girl who burned to death in a field by Marsvinsholm,” said Åkeson. “Is that something for me?”

“It was suicide,” replied Wallander. “Other than a farmer named Salomonsson, I was the only witness.”

“What in heaven’s name were you doing there?”

“Salomonsson called. Normally a squad car would have dealt with it. But they were busy.”

“The girl can’t have been a pretty sight.”

“It was worse than you could imagine. We have to find out who she was. The switchboard has already started taking calls from people worried about missing relatives.”

“So you don’t suspect foul play?”

Without understanding why, Wallander hesitated before answering.

“No,” he said then. “I can’t think of a more blatant way to take your own life.”

“You don’t sound entirely convinced.”

“I had a bad night. It was as you say – a pretty horrible experience.”

They fell silent. Wallander could tell that Åkeson had something else he wanted to talk about.

“There’s another reason why I’m calling,” he said finally. “But keep it between us.”

“I usually know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Do you remember I told you a few years ago that I was thinking of doing something else? Before it’s too late, before I get too old.”

“I remember you talked about refugees and the UN. Was it the Sudan?”

“Uganda. And I’ve actually got an offer. Which I’ve decided to accept. In September I’m going to take a year’s sabbatical.”

“What does your wife think about this?”

“That’s why I’m calling. For moral support. I haven’t discussed it with her yet.”

“Is she supposed to go with you?”

“No.”

“Then I suspect she’ll be a little surprised.”

“Have you any idea how I should break it to her?”

“Unfortunately not. But I think you’re doing the right thing. There has to be more to life than putting people in jail.”

“I’ll let you know how it goes.”

They were just about to hang up when Wallander remembered that he had a question.

“Does this mean that Anette Brolin is coming back as your replacement?”

“She’s changed sides; she’s working as a criminal barrister in Stockholm now,” said Åkeson. “Weren’t you a little in love with her?”

“No,” Wallander said. “I was just curious.”

He hung up. He felt a pang of jealousy. He would have liked to travel to Uganda himself, to have a complete change. Nothing could undo the horror of seeing a young person set herself alight. He envied Per Åkeson, who wasn’t going to let his desire to escape stop at mere dreams.

The joy he had felt yesterday was gone. He stood at the window and gazed out at the street. The grass by the old water tower was still green. Wallander thought about the year before, when he had been on sick leave for a long time after he had killed a man. Now he wondered whether he had ever really recovered from that depression. I ought to do something like Åkeson, he thought. There must be a Uganda for me somewhere. For Baiba and me.

He stood by the window for a long time, then went back to his desk and tried to reach his sister. Several times he got a busy signal. He spent the next half hour writing up a report of the events of the night before. Then he called the pathology department in Malmö but couldn’t find a doctor who could tell him anything about the burned corpse.

Just before 9 a.m. he got a cup of coffee and went into one of the conference rooms. Höglund was on the phone, and Martinsson was leafing through a catalogue of garden equipment. Svedberg was in his usual spot, scratching the back of his neck with a pencil. One of the windows was open. Wallander stopped just inside the door with a strong feeling of déjà vu. Martinsson looked up from his catalogue and nodded, Svedberg muttered something unintelligible, while Höglund patiently explained something to one of her children. Hansson came into the room. He had a coffee cup in one hand and a plastic bag with the necklace that had been found in the field in the other.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Hansson.

Wallander felt himself bristle at the question.

“Why do you ask?”

“Have you taken a look in the mirror lately?”

“I didn’t get home until early this morning. I sleep as much as I need to.”

“It’s those football matches,” said Hansson. “They’re on in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t watch them,” said Wallander.

“I thought everyone stayed up to watch.”

“I’m not that interested,” Wallander admitted. “I know it’s unusual, but as far as I know, the chief of the national police hasn’t sent out any instruction that it’s a dereliction of duty not to watch the games.”

“This might be the last time we’ll have a chance to see it,” Hansson said sombrely.

“See what?”

“Sweden playing in the World Cup. I just hope our defence doesn’t go pear-shaped.”

“I see,” Wallander said politely. Höglund was still talking on the phone.

“Ravelli,” Hansson went on, referring to Sweden’s goalkeeper.

Wallander waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

“What about him?”

“I’m worried about him.”

“Why? Is he sick?”

“I think he’s erratic. He didn’t play well against Cameroon. Kicking the ball out at strange times, odd behaviour in the goal area.”

“Policemen can also be erratic,” said Wallander.

“You can’t really compare them,” said Hansson. “At least we don’t have to make lightning-fast decisions about whether to rush out or stay back on the goal line.”

“Hell, who knows?” said Wallander. “Maybe there’s a similarity between the policeman who rushes to the scene of a crime and the goalie who rushes out on the field.”

Hansson gave him a baffled look. The conversation died. They sat around the table and waited for Höglund to finish her call. Svedberg, who had a hard time accepting female police officers, drummed his pencil on the table in annoyance to let her know they were waiting for her. Soon Wallander would have to tell Svedberg to put a stop to these tiresome protests. Höglund was a good policewoman, in many ways much more talented than Svedberg.

A fly buzzed around his coffee cup. They waited.

Finally Höglund hung up and sat down at the table.

“A bike chain,” she said. “Children have a hard time understanding that their mothers might have something more important to do than come straight home and fix it.”

“Go ahead,” said Wallander on impulse. “We can do this run-through without you.”

She shook her head. “They’d come to expect it”, she said.

Hansson put the necklace in its plastic bag on the table in front of him.

“A woman commits suicide,” he said. “No crime has been committed. All we have to do is work out who she was.”

Hansson was starting to act like Björk, thought Wallander, just managing not to burst out laughing. He caught Ann-Britt’s eye. She seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“Calls have started coming in,” said Martinsson. “I’ve put a man on it.”

“I’ll give him my description of her,” said Wallander. “Otherwise we have to concentrate on people who’ve been reported missing. She might be one of them. If she’s not on that list, someone is going to miss her soon.”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Martinsson.

“The necklace,” said Hansson, opening the plastic bag. “A Madonna and the letters D.M.S. I think it’s solid gold.”

“There’s a database of abbreviations and acronyms,” said Martinsson, who knew the most about computers. “We can put in the letters and see if we get anything.”

Wallander reached for the necklace. It was still soot-marked.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “But people in Sweden mostly wear a cross, don’t they? Madonnas are more common in Catholic countries.”

“It sounds as though you’re talking about a refugee or immigrant,” said Hansson.

“I’m talking about what the medallion represents,” replied Wallander. “In any case, it has to be included in the description of the girl, and the person taking the calls has to know what it looks like.”

“Shall we release a description?” Hansson asked.