Sidetracked (8 page)

“The killer might have cleaned up,” Höglund suggested.

“We’ll find that out after Nyberg goes through the house with a fine-tooth comb,” said Wallander. “But I’m sure it happened outside.”

They went back downstairs in silence.

“There was no mail on the floor inside the front door,” she said. “The property is walled off. There must be a letter box somewhere.”

“We’ll take that up later,” said Wallander.

He walked into the living-room and stood in the middle. She watched from the doorway, as though expecting him to make an impromptu speech.

“I make a habit of asking myself what I’m missing,” Wallander said. “But everything here seems in place. A man living alone in a house where everything is orderly, no bills are unpaid, and where loneliness lingers like old cigar smoke. The only thing that doesn’t fit is that the man in question is now lying dead underneath a rowing boat down on the beach.”

Then he corrected himself, “No, there’s one other thing,” he said. “The light by the garden gate isn’t working.”

“It may have just burned out,” she said, surprised.

“Right,” said Wallander, “but it still breaks the pattern.”

There was a knock on the door. When Wallander opened it, Hansson was standing there, raindrops streaming down his face.

“Neither Nyberg nor the doctor are going to get anywhere unless we turn that boat over,” he said.

“Turn it over,” said Wallander. “I’ll be right there.”

Hansson disappeared into the rain.

“We have to start looking for his relatives,” Wallander said. “He must have an address book somewhere.”

“There’s one thing that’s odd,” said Höglund. “This house is full of souvenirs from a long life with lots of travel and countless meetings with people. But there are no family photographs.”

They were back in the living-room. Wallander looked around and saw that she was right. It bothered him that he hadn’t thought of it himself.

“Maybe he didn’t want to be reminded that he was old,” Wallander said without conviction.

“A woman would never be able to live without pictures of her family,” she said. “That’s probably why I thought of it.”

There was a telephone on a table next to the sofa.

“There’s a phone in his study too,” he said, pointing. “You look in there, and I’ll start here.”

Wallander squatted by the low telephone stand. Next to the phone was the remote control for the TV. Wetterstedt could talk on the phone and watch TV at the same time, he thought. Just like me. We live in a world where people can’t bear not to be able to change channel and talk on the phone at the same time. He riffled through the phone books, but didn’t find any private notes. Next he pulled out two drawers in a bureau behind the telephone stand. In one there was a stamp album, in the other some tubes of glue and a box of napkin rings.

As he was walking towards the study, the phone rang. He stopped. Höglund appeared at once in the doorway to the study. Wallander sat down carefully on the corner of the sofa and picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “Gustaf? Why haven’t you called me?”

“Who’s speaking, please?” asked Wallander.

The woman’s voice suddenly turned formal. “This is Gustaf Wetterstedt’s mother calling,” she said. “With whom am I speaking?”

“My name is Kurt Wallander. I’m a police officer here in Ystad.”

He could hear the woman breathing. He realised that she must be very old if she was Gustaf Wetterstedt’s mother. He made a face at Höglund, who was standing looking at him.

“Has something happened?” asked the woman.

Wallander didn’t know how to react. It went against all written and unwritten procedures to inform the next of kin of a sudden death over the telephone. But he had already told her his name, and that he was a police officer.

“Hello?” said the woman. “Are you still there?”

Wallander didn’t answer. He stared helplessly at Höglund. Then he did something which he couldn’t decide was justified. He hung up.

“Who was that?” she asked.

Wallander shook his head. He picked up the phone and called the headquarters of the Stockholm police.

CHAPTER 7

Later that evening, Gustaf Wetterstedt’s telephone rang again. By that time Wallander had arranged for his colleagues in Stockholm to tell Wetterstedt’s mother of his death. An inspector who introduced himself as Hans Vikander was calling from the Östermalm police. In a few days, 1 July, the old name would disappear and be replaced by “city police”.

“She’s been informed,” Vikander said. “Because she was so old I took a clergyman along with me. I must say she took it calmly, even though she’s 94.”

“Maybe that’s why,” said Wallander.

“We’re trying to track down Wetterstedt’s two children,” Vikander went on. “The older, a son, works at the UN in New York. The daughter lives in Uppsala. We hope to reach them this evening.”

“What about his ex-wife?” asked Wallander.

“Which one?” Vikander asked. “He was married three times.”

“All three of them,” said Wallander. “We’ll have to contact them ourselves later.”

“I’ve got something that might interest you,” Vikander went on. “When we spoke with the mother she said that her son called her every night, at precisely nine o’clock.”

Wallander looked at his watch. It was just after 9 p.m. At once he understood the significance of what Vikander had said.

“He didn’t call yesterday” Vikander continued. “She waited until 9.30 p.m. Then she tried to call him. No-one answered, although she claimed she let it ring at least 15 times.”

“And the night before?”

“She couldn’t remember too well. She’s 94, after all. She said that her short-term memory was pretty bad.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“It was a little hard to know what to ask.”

“We’ll have to talk to her again,” Wallander said. “Since she’s already met you, it would be good if you could take it on.”

“I’m going on holiday the second week in July,” said Vikander. “Until then, that’s no problem.”

Wallander hung up. Höglund came into the hall. She had been checking the letter box.

“Newspapers from today and yesterday,” she said. “A phone bill. No personal letters. He can’t have been under that boat for very long.”

Wallander got up from the sofa.

“Go through the house one more time,” he said. “See if you can find any sign that something is missing. I’ll go down and take a look at him.”

It was raining even harder now. As Wallander hurried through the garden he remembered that he was supposed to be visiting his father tonight. With a grimace he went back to the house.

“Do me a favour,” he asked Höglund. “Call my father and tell him I’m tied up with an urgent investigation. If he asks who you are, tell him you’re the new chief of police.”

She nodded and smiled. Wallander gave her the number. Then he went out into the rain.

The cordoned area was a ghostly spectacle, lit up by the powerful floodlights. With a strong feeling of unease, Wallander walked in under the temporary canopy. Wetterstedt’s body lay stretched out on a plastic sheet. The doctor was shining a torch down Wetterstedt’s throat. He stopped when he realised that Wallander had arrived.

“How are you?” asked the doctor.

Wallander hadn’t recognised him until that moment. It was the doctor who had treated him in hospital a few years earlier when he’d thought he was having a heart attack.

“Apart from this business, I’m doing fine,” said Wallander. “I never had a recurrence.”

“Did you take my advice?” asked the doctor.

“Of course not,” Wallander muttered.

He looked at the dead man, who gave the same impression in death as he had on the TV screen. There was something obstinate and unsympathetic about his face, even when covered with dried blood. Wallander leaned forward and looked at the wound on his forehead, which extended up towards the top of his head, where the skin and hair had been ripped away.

“How did he die?” asked Wallander.

“From a powerful blow to the spine with an axe,” the doctor replied. “It would have killed him instantly. The spine is severed just below the shoulder blades. He was probably dead before he hit the ground.”

“Are you sure it happened outside?” Wallander asked.

“I think so. The blow to the spine must have come from someone standing behind him. It’s most likely that the force of the blow made him fall forwards. He has grains of sand in his mouth and eyes. It probably happened right nearby.”

“There must be traces of blood somewhere,” said Wallander.

“The rain makes it difficult,” said the doctor. “But with a little luck maybe you can scrape through the surface layer and find some blood that seeped deep enough that the rain hasn’t washed it away.”

Wallander pointed at Wetterstedt’s butchered head.

“How do you explain this?” he asked.

The doctor shrugged.

“The incision in the forehead was made with a sharp knife,” he said. “Or maybe a razor. The skin and hair seem to have been torn off. I can’t tell yet if it was done before or after he received the blow to the spine. That will be a job for the pathologist in Malmö.”

“Malmström will have a lot to do,” said Wallander.

“Who?”

“Yesterday we sent in the remains of a girl who burned herself to death. And now we’re sending over a man who’s been scalped. The pathologist I talked to was named Malmström. A woman.”

“There’s more than one,” said the doctor. “I don’t know her.”

Wallander squatted next to the corpse.

“Give me your interpretation,” he said to the doctor. “What do you think happened?”

“Whoever struck him in the back knew what he was doing,” said the doctor. “A sharpshooter couldn’t have done better. But to scalp him! That’s the work of a madman.”

“Or an American Indian,” said Wallander.

He got up and felt a twinge in his knees. The days when he could squat without pain were over.

“I’m finished here,” said the doctor. “I’ve already told Malmö that we’re bringing him in.”

Wallander didn’t reply. He had noticed that Wetterstedt’s fly was open.

“Did you touch his clothes?” he asked.

“Just on the back, around the wound to his spine,” said the doctor.

Wallander nodded. He could feel the nausea rising.

“Could I ask you one thing?” he said. “Could you check inside Wetterstedt’s fly and see if he’s still got what’s supposed to be there?”

The doctor gave Wallander a questioning look.

“If someone cut off half his scalp, they might cut off other things too,” Wallander explained.

The doctor nodded and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he cautiously stuck his hand in and felt around.

“Everything that’s supposed to be there seems to be there,” he said when he pulled out his hand.

Wallander nodded.

Wetterstedt’s corpse was taken away. Wallander turned to Nyberg, who was kneeling next to the boat, which had been turned right side up.

“How’s it going?” asked Wallander.

“I don’t know,” said Nyberg. “With this rain, everything is washing away.”

“We’ll have to dig tomorrow,” said Wallander and told him what the doctor said. Nyberg nodded.

“If there’s any blood, we’ll find it. Any special place you want us to start looking?”

“Around the boat,” said Wallander. “Then in the area from the garden gate down to the water.”

Nyberg pointed at a case with the lid open. There were plastic bags inside.

“All I found in his pockets was a box of matches,” said Nyberg. “You’ve got his keys. The clothes are expensive. Except for the clogs.”

“The house seems to be untouched,” Wallander said. “But I’d appreciate it if you could take a look at it tonight.”

“I can’t be in two places at once,” Nyberg grumbled. “If we’re going to secure any evidence out here, we’ll have to do it before it’s all washed away by the rain.”

Wallander was just about to return to Wetterstedt’s house when he noticed that Lindgren was still there. He went over to him. He could see that the young man was freezing.

“You can go home now,” Wallander said.

“Can I phone my father and tell him about it?”

“Go ahead.”

“What happened?” Lindgren asked.

“It’s too soon to say,” Wallander replied.

There were still a handful of people outside the cordon, watching the police work. Some senior citizens, a younger man with a dog, a boy on a moped. Wallander thought about the days that lay ahead with dread. A former minister of justice who had been found scalped with his spine chopped in half was the sort of juicy titbit that would drive the media wild. The only positive thing that he could think of was that the girl who burned herself to death in Salomonsson’s rape field would not end up on the front pages after all.

He had to have a pee. He went down to the water and unzipped his fly. Maybe it’s that simple, he thought. Wetterstedt’s fly was open because he was standing taking a pee when he was attacked.

He started to walk back up towards the house, then stopped. He was overlooking something. He went back to Nyberg.

“Do you know where Svedberg is?” he asked.

“I think he’s trying to find some more plastic sheeting and a couple of big tarpaulins. We’ve got to cover up the sand.”

“I’ll talk to him when he gets back,” said Wallander. “Where are Martinsson and Hansson?”

“I think Martinsson went to get something to eat,” said Nyberg sourly. “Who the hell has time for food?”

“We can arrange to get you something,” said Wallander. “Where’s Hansson?”

“He was going to speak to the prosecutors’ office. And I don’t want anything.”

Wallander walked back to the house. After he hung up his soaked jacket and pulled off his boots he realised he was hungry. He went to the kitchen and turned on the light. He remembered how they had sat in Salomonsson’s kitchen drinking coffee. Now Salomonsson was dead. Compared with the old farmer’s kitchen, this was another world. Shiny copper pots hung on the walls. An open grill with a smoke hood attached to an old oven chimney stood in the middle of the room. He opened the refrigerator and took out a piece of cheese and a beer. He found some crispbread in one of the cupboards, and sat down at the kitchen table and ate, his mind empty. By the time Svedberg came in the front door he had finished.

“Nyberg said you wanted to talk to me?”

“How’d it go with the tarpaulins?”

“We’re still trying to cover up the sand as best we can. Martinsson called the weather office and asked how long the rain was going to last. It’s supposed to keep raining all night. Then we’ll have a few hours’ break before the next storm arrives. That one’s expected to be a real summer gale.”

A puddle had formed on the kitchen floor around Svedberg’s boots. But Wallander didn’t feel like asking him to take them off. They were unlikely to find the clue to Wetterstedt’s death in his kitchen.

Svedberg sat down and dried off his hair with a handkerchief.

“I vaguely remember that you once told me you were interested in the history of the American Indians,” Wallander began. “Or am I wrong?”

Svedberg gave him a puzzled look.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’ve read a lot about American Indians. I never liked watching movies that didn’t tell the truth about them. I corresponded with an expert named Uncas. He won a prize on a TV show once. I think that was before I was born. But he taught me a lot.”

“I assume you’re wondering why I ask,” Wallander went on.

“Actually, no,” said Svedberg. “Wetterstedt was scalped, after all.”

Wallander looked at him intently.

“Was he?”

“If scalping is an art, then in this case it was done almost perfectly. A cut with a sharp knife across the forehead. Then some cuts up by the temples. To get a firm grip.”

“He died from a blow to the spine,” said Wallander. “Just below the shoulder blades.”

Svedberg shrugged.

“Native American warriors struck at the head,” he said. “It’s hard to hit the spine. You have to hold the axe at an angle. It’s particularly hard, of course, if the person you’re trying to kill is in motion.”

“What if he’s standing still?”

“In any case, it’s not very warrior-like,” said Svedberg. “In fact, it’s not like an American Indian to kill someone from behind. Or to kill anyone at all, for that matter.”

Wallander rested his head in his hands.

“Why are you asking about this?” said Svedberg. “It’s hardly likely that an American Indian murdered Wetterstedt.”

“Who would take his scalp?” asked Wallander.

“A madman,” said Svedberg. “Anyone who does something like this has to be nuts. We must catch him as fast as possible.”

“I know,” said Wallander.

Svedberg stood up and left. Wallander got a mop and cleaned the floor. Then he went in to see Höglund in the study.

“Your father didn’t sound too happy,” she said. “But I think the main thing that was bothering him was that you hadn’t called earlier.”