Sidetracked (10 page)

“So the girl walks to the farm from somewhere. She goes into Salomonsson’s barn and finds a number of containers of petrol. She takes five of them with her out into the rape. Then she sets herself on fire.”

“That’s about it,” said Wallander. “Even if we manage to find out who she was, we’ll probably never know the whole story.”

They got coffee and discussed what they were going to say at the press conference. It was mid-morning when Hansson joined them.

“I talked to Per Åkeson,” he said. “He told me he would contact the chief public prosecutor.”

Wallander looked up from his papers in surprise.

“Why?”

“Wetterstedt was an important person. Ten years ago the prime minister of this country was murdered. Now we have a minister of justice murdered. I assume that he wants to know whether the investigation should be handled in any special way.”

“If he were still in office I could understand it,” said Wallander. “But he was an old man who had left his public duties behind a long time ago.”

“You’ll have to talk to Åkeson yourself,” said Hansson. “I’m just telling you what he said.”

At 1 p.m. they took their seats on the little dais at one end of the conference room. They had agreed to keep the meeting with the press as brief as possible. The main thing was to head off too many wild, unfounded speculations. So they decided to be vague when it came to answering how Wetterstedt had actually been killed. They wouldn’t say anything at all about his having been scalped.

The room was crowded with reporters. Just as Wallander had imagined, the national newspapers were regarding Wetterstedt’s murder as a major event. Wallander counted cameras from three different TV stations when he looked in the crowd.

It went unusually well. They were as terse as possible with their answers, citing the requirements of the investigation for limiting candour and withholding detail. Eventually the press realised they weren’t going to get anything more. When the newspaper reporters had gone, Wallander allowed himself to be interviewed by the local radio station while Höglund answered questions for one of the TV stations. He looked at her and was relieved that for once he didn’t have to be the one on camera.

At the end of the press conference Åkeson had slipped in unnoticed to the back of the room. Now he stood waiting for Wallander.

“I heard you were going to call up the chief public prosecutor,” said Wallander. “Did he give you any directives?”

“He wants to be kept informed,” said Åkeson. “The same way you keep me informed.”

“You’ll get a daily summary,” said Wallander. “And hear as soon as we make a breakthrough.”

“Nothing conclusive yet?”

“No.”

The investigative team had a quick meeting at 4 p.m. Wallander knew that this was the time for work, not reports. He went rapidly around the table before asking everyone to go back to their tasks. They agreed to meet again at 8 a.m. the next morning, provided nothing crucial happened before then.

Just before 5 p.m. Wallander left the station and drove to Styrbordsgången, where Sara Björklund lived. It was a part of town that Wallander almost never visited. He parked and went in through the gate. The door was opened before he reached the house. The woman standing there was younger than he had expected. He guessed her to be around 30. And to Wetterstedt she had been a “charwoman”. He wondered fleetingly whether she knew what Wetterstedt had called her.

“Good afternoon,” said Wallander. “I called earlier today. Are you Sara Björklund?”

“I recognised you,” she said, nodding.

She invited him in. She had set out a tray of buns and coffee in a thermos in the living-room. Wallander could hear a man upstairs scolding some children for making a racket. Wallander sat down in an armchair and looked around. He half expected one of his father’s paintings to be hanging on the wall. That’s all that’s missing, he thought. Here’s the old fisherman, the gypsy woman, and the crying child. My father’s landscape is all that’s needed. With or without the grouse.

“Would you like coffee, sir?” she asked.

“No need to call me sir,” said Wallander. “Yes, please.”

“You had to be formal with Wetterstedt,” she said suddenly. “You had to call him Mr Wetterstedt. He gave strict instructions about that when I started working there.”

Wallander was thankful to start right away on the matter in hand. He took out a notebook and pen.

“So you know that Gustaf Wetterstedt has been murdered,” he began.

“It’s terrible,” she said. “Who could have done it?”

“We’re wondering the same thing,” said Wallander.

“Was he really lying on the beach? Under that ugly boat? The one you could see from upstairs?”

“Yes, he was,” said Wallander. “But let’s begin at the beginning. You cleaned the house for Mr Wetterstedt?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been with him?”

“Almost three years. I wasn’t working. This house costs money so I was forced to look for cleaning work. I found the job in the paper.”

“How often did you go to his house?”

“Twice a month. Every other Thursday.”

Wallander made a note.

“Always on Thursdays?”

“Always.”

“Did you have your own keys?”

“No. He never would have given them to me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“When I was in the house he watched every step I took. It was incredibly nerve-wracking. But he paid well.”

“Did you ever come across anything odd?”

“Such as?”

“Was there ever anyone else there?”

“No, never.”

“He didn’t have people to dinner?”

“Not that I know of. There were never any dishes waiting for me when I came.”

Wallander paused for a moment before continuing.

“How would you describe him as a person?”

Her reply was swift and firm.

“He was the type you’d call arrogant.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He patronised me. To him I was nothing more than a cleaning woman. Despite the fact that he once belonged to the party that supposedly represented our cause. The cleaning women’s cause.”

“Did you know that he referred to you as a charwoman in his diary?”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“But you stayed on with him?”

“I told you, he paid well.”

“Try to remember your last visit. You were there last week?”

“Everything was as usual. He was just the way he always was.”

“Over the past three years, then, nothing out of the ordinary happened?”

She hesitated before she answered. He was immediately on the alert.

“There was one time last year,” she began tentatively. “In November. I don’t know why, but I forgot what day it was. I went there on a Friday morning instead of Thursday. As I arrived, a big black car drove out of the garage. The kind with windows you can’t see through. Then I rang the bell at the front door as I always do. It took a long time before he came to open the door. When he saw me he was furious. He slammed the door. I thought I was going to get the sack. But when I came back the next time he said nothing about it, just pretended that nothing had happened.”

Wallander waited for her to go on.

“Was that all?”

“Yes.”

“A big black car leaving his house?”

“That’s right.”

Wallander knew that he wouldn’t get any further. He finished his coffee and stood up.

“If you remember anything else that might be helpful to the enquiry, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me,” he said as he left.

He drove back to Ystad.

A big black car had visited Wetterstedt’s house. Who was in the car? A strong wind began to blow, and the rain started again.

CHAPTER 9

By the time Wallander returned to Wetterstedt’s house, Nyberg and his crew had moved back inside. They had carted off tons of sand without finding what they were looking for. When it started raining again, Nyberg immediately decided to lay out the tarpaulins. They couldn’t carry on until the weather improved. Wallander returned to the house feeling that what Sara Björklund had said about showing up on the wrong day and the big black car meant they had knocked a small hole in Wetterstedt’s shell. She had seen something that no-one was supposed to see. Wallander couldn’t interpret Wetterstedt’s rage in any other way, or the fact that he didn’t fire her and never spoke of it again. The anger and the silence were two sides of the same temperament.

Nyberg was in Wetterstedt’s living-room drinking coffee from an old thermos that reminded Wallander of the 1950s. He was sitting on a newspaper to protect the chair.

“We haven’t found the murder site yet,” said Nyberg “And now there’s no point in looking because of the rain.”

“I hope the tarpaulins are securely fastened,” Wallander said. “It’s blowing harder all the time.”

“They won’t move,” said Nyberg.

“I thought I’d finish going through his desk,” said Wallander.

“Hansson called. He has spoken to Wetterstedt’s children.”

“It took him this long?” said Wallander. “I thought he’d done that a while ago.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Nyberg. “I’m just telling you what he said.”

Wallander went into the study and sat down at the desk. He adjusted the lamp so that it cast its light in as big a circle as possible. Then he pulled out one of the drawers in the left-hand cabinet. In it lay a copy of this year’s tax return. Wallander placed it on the desk. He could see that Wetterstedt had declared an income of almost 1,000,000 kronor, and that the income came primarily from Wetterstedt’s private pension plan and share dividends. A summary from the securities register centre revealed that Wetterstedt held shares in traditional Swedish heavy industry; Ericsson, Asea Brown Boveri, Volvo, and Rottneros. Apart from this income, Wetterstedt had reported an honorarium from the foreign ministry and royalties from Tidens publishing company. Under the entry “Net Worth” he had declared 5,000,000 kronor. Wallander memorised this figure.

He put the tax return back. The next drawer contained something that looked like a photo album. Here are the family pictures Ann-Britt was missing, he thought. But he leafed through the pages with growing astonishment: old-fashioned pornographic pictures, some of them quite sophisticated. Wallander noted that some of the pages fell open more easily than others. Wetterstedt had a preference for young models. Martinsson walked in. Wallander nodded and pointed to the open album.

“Some people collect stamps,” said Martinsson, “others evidently collect pictures like this.”

Wallander closed the album and put it back in the desk drawer.

“A lawyer named Sjögren called from Malmö,” said Martinsson. “He said he had Wetterstedt’s will. There are rather large assets in the estate. I asked him whether there were any unexpected beneficiaries. But everything goes to the direct heirs. Wetterstedt had also set up a foundation to distribute scholarships to young law students. But he put the money into it long ago and paid tax on it.”

“So, we know that Gustaf Wetterstedt was a wealthy man. But wasn’t he born the son of a poor docker?”

“Svedberg is working on his background,” said Martinsson. “I gather he’s found an old party secretary with a good memory who had a lot to say about Wetterstedt. But I wanted to have a word about the girl who committed suicide.”

“Did you find out who she was?”

“No. But through the computer I’ve found more than 2,000 possibilities for what the letter combination might mean. It was a pretty long print-out.”

“We’ll have to put it out on Interpol,” said Wallander after a pause. “And what’s the new one called? Europol?”

“That’s right.”

“Send out a query with her description. Tomorrow we’ll take a photo of the medallion. Even if everything else is getting pushed aside in the wake of Wetterstedt’s death, we have to try and get that picture in the papers.”

“I had a jeweller look at it,” said Martinsson. “He said it was solid gold.”

“Surely somebody is missing her,” said Wallander. “It’s rare for someone to have no relatives at all.”

Martinsson yawned and asked whether Wallander needed any help.

“Not tonight,” he said, and Martinsson left the house. Wallander spent another hour going through the desk. Then he turned off the lamp and sat there in the dark. Who was Gustaf Wetterstedt? The picture he had of him was still unclear.

An idea came to him. He looked up a name in the telephone book. He dialled the number and got an answer almost at once. He explained who it was and asked whether he could come over. Then he hung up. He found Nyberg upstairs and told him he’d be back later that evening.

The wind and the rain lashed at him as he ran to his car. He drove into town, to a block of flats near Österport School. He rang the bell and the door was opened. When he reached the third floor Lars Magnusson was waiting for him in his stockinged feet. Beautiful piano music was playing.

“Long time no see,” said Magnusson as they shook hands.

“You’re right,” said Wallander. “It must be more than five years.”

Long ago Magnusson had been a journalist. After a number of years at the
Express
he had tired of city life and returned to his roots in Ystad. He and Wallander met because their wives became friends. The two men discovered that they shared an interest in opera. It wasn’t until many years later, after he and Mona had divorced, that Wallander found out Magnusson was an alcoholic. But when the truth finally did come out, it came out with a vengeance. By chance, Wallander had been at the station late one night when Magnusson was dragged in, so drunk that he couldn’t stand up. He had been driving in that state, and had lost control and gone straight through the plate-glass window of a bank. He’d ended up spending six months in jail.

When he returned to Ystad he didn’t go back to his job. His wife had left their childless marriage. He continued drinking but managed not to step too far over the line. He gave up his career in journalism and made a living setting chess problems for a number of newspapers. The only reason he hadn’t drunk himself to death was that every day he forced himself to hold off on that first drink until he had devised at least one chess problem. Now that he had a fax machine, he didn’t even have to go to the post office.

Wallander walked into the simple flat. He could smell that Magnusson had been drinking. A bottle of vodka stood on the coffee table, but Wallander didn’t see a glass.

Magnusson was a good many years older than Wallander. He had a mane of grey hair falling over his dirty collar. His face was red and swollen, but his eyes were curiously clear. No-one doubted Magnusson’s intelligence. Rumour had it that he once had a collection of poems accepted by Bonniers, but had withdrawn it at the last minute and repaid the small advance.

“This is unexpected,” said Magnusson. “Have a seat. What can I get you?”

“Nothing, thanks,” said Wallander, moving a pile of newspapers and making himself comfortable on a sofa.

Magnusson casually took a swig from the bottle of vodka and sat down opposite Wallander. He had turned down the piano music.

“It’s been a long time,” said Wallander. “I’m trying to remember when it was.”

“At the state off licence,” Magnusson replied quickly. “Almost exactly five years ago. You were buying wine and I was buying everything else.”

Wallander nodded. He remembered now.

“There’s nothing wrong with your memory,” he said.

“I haven’t ruined
that
yet,” said Magnusson. “I’m saving it for last.”

“Have you ever considered quitting?”

“Every day. But I doubt you came here to talk me into going on the wagon.”

“You’ve probably read that Gustaf Wetterstedt was murdered, haven’t you?”

“I saw it on the TV.”

“I seem to remember that you told me something about him once. About the scandals that were hushed up.”

“And that was the biggest scandal of them all,” Magnusson interrupted him.

“I’m trying to get a fix on what sort of man he was,” Wallander went on. “I hoped you might be able to help me.”

“The question is whether you want to hear the unsubstantiated rumours or whether you want to know the truth,” said Magnusson. “I’m not sure I can tell them apart.”

“Rumours don’t usually get started without reason,” said Wallander.

Magnusson pushed away the vodka bottle as though it was too close to him.

“I started as a 15-year-old trainee at one of the Stockholm news-papers,” he said. “That was in the spring of 1955. There was an old night editor there named Ture Svanberg. He was almost as big a drunk as I am now. But he was meticulous at his work. And he was a genius at writing headlines that sold papers. He wouldn’t stand for anything sloppily written. Once he flew into such a rage over a story that he tore up the copy and ate the pieces, chewed the paper and swallowed it. Then he said: ‘This isn’t coming out as anything but shit.’ It was Svanberg who taught me to be a journalist. He used to say that there were two kinds of reporters. ‘The first kind digs in the ground for the truth. He stands down in the hole shovelling out dirt. But up on top there’s another man, shovelling the dirt back in. There’s always a duel going on between these two. The fourth estate’s eternal test of strength for dominance. Some journalists want to expose and reveal things, others run errands for those in power and help conceal what’s really happening.’

“And that’s how it really was. I learned fast, even though I was only 15. Men in power always ally themselves with symbolic cleaning companies and undertakers. There are plenty of journalists who won’t hesitate to sell their souls to run errands for those men. To shovel the dirt back into the hole. Paste over the scandals. Pile on the semblance of truth, maintain the illusion of the squeaky-clean society.”

With a grimace he reached for the bottle again and took a swig. Wallander saw that he’d put on weight around the middle.

“Wetterstedt,” Magnusson said. “So what was it that actually happened?” He fished a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He lit one and blew out a cloud of smoke.

“Whores and art,” he said. “For years it was common knowledge that the good Gustaf had a girl delivered to the block of flats in Vasastan every week, where he kept a small hideaway his wife didn’t know about. He had a right-hand man who took care of the whole thing. The rumour was that this man was hooked on morphine, supplied by Wetterstedt. He had a lot of doctor friends. The fact that he went to bed with whores wasn’t something the papers bothered with. He was neither the first nor the last Swedish minister to do that. Sometimes I wonder whether we’re talking about the rule or the exception. But one day it went too far. One of the hookers got her courage up and reported him to the police for assault.”

“When was that?” Wallander interrupted.

“Mid-60s. Her client said he’d beaten her with a leather belt and cut the soles of her feet with a razor. It was probably the stuff with the razor and her feet that made the difference. Perversion was newsworthy. The only problem was that the police had lodged a complaint against the highest defender of Swedish law and order next to the king. So the whole thing was hushed up, and the police report disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“It literally went up in smoke.”

“But the girl who reported him? What happened to her?”

“Overnight she became the proprietor of a lucrative boutique in Västerås.”

Wallander shook his head.

“How do you know all this?”

“I knew a journalist called Sten Lundberg. He dug around in the whole mess. But when the rumours started that he was about to snoop his way to the truth, he was frozen out, blacklisted.”

“And he accepted it?”

“He had no choice. Unfortunately
he
had a weakness that couldn’t be covered up. He gambled. Had huge debts. There was a rumour that those gambling debts suddenly went poof. The same way the hooker’s assault report did. So everything was back to square one. And Wetterstedt went on sending his morphine addict out after girls.”

“You said there was one more thing,” Wallander said.

“There was a story that he was mixed up in some of those art thefts carried out during his term as minister of justice. Paintings that were never recovered, and which now hang on the walls of collectors who will never show them to the public. The police arrested a fence once, a middleman. Unintentionally, I’m afraid. The fence swore that Wetterstedt was involved. But it couldn’t be proved. It was buried. There were more people filling up the hole than there were people standing down in it and tossing the dirt out.”

“Not a pretty picture,” said Wallander.

“Remember what I asked? Do you want the truth or the rumours? Because the rumour about Wetterstedt was that he was a talented politician, a loyal party member, an amiable human being. Educated and competent. That’s how his obituaries will read. As long as none of the girls he whipped talk.”