Sidetracked (18 page)

“Is it possible that we’re thinking along the wrong lines altogether?” asked Martinsson suddenly. “Maybe for the killer there’s a
symbolic
link between Wetterstedt and Carlman. While we search for facts, maybe he sees a connection that’s invisible to us. Something that’s completely inconceivable to our rational minds.”

Wallander knew that Martinsson had the ability to turn an investigation around on its axis and get it back on the right track.

“You’re thinking of something,” he said. “Keep going.”

Martinsson shrugged his shoulders and seemed about to change his mind.

“Wetterstedt and Carlman were wealthy men,” he said. “They both belonged to a certain social class. They were representatives of political and economic power.”

“Are you suggesting a political motive?” Wallander asked, surprised.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Martinsson. “I’m listening to you and trying to see the case clearly myself. I’m as afraid as everyone else in this room that he’s going to strike again.”

Wallander looked around the table. Pale, serious faces. Except for Svedberg with his sunburn. Only now did he see that they were all as frightened as he was. He wasn’t the only one who dreaded the next ring of the telephone.

The meeting broke up before 10 a.m., but Wallander asked Martinsson to stay behind.

“What is happening with the girl?” he asked. “Dolores María Santana?”

“I’m still waiting to hear from Interpol.”

“Give them a nudge,” said Wallander.

Martinsson gave him a puzzled look.

“Do we really have time for her now?”

“No. But we can’t just let it drop either.”

Martinsson promised to send off another request. Wallander went in his office and called Lars Magnusson. He answered after a long time. Wallander could hear that he was drunk.

“I need to continue our conversation,” he said.

“I don’t conduct conversations at this time of day,” said Magnusson.

“Make some coffee,” said Wallander. “And put away the bottles. I’m coming over in half an hour.” He hung up on Magnusson’s protests.

Someone had placed two preliminary autopsy reports on his desk. Wallander had gradually learned to decipher the language used by pathologists and forensic doctors. Many years ago he had taken a course in Uppsala arranged by the national police board. Wallander remembered how unpleasant it was to visit an autopsy room.

There was nothing unexpected in the reports. He put them aside and looked out the window, trying to visualise the killer. What did he look like? What was he doing right now? But Wallander saw nothing but darkness before him. Depressed, he got up and left.

CHAPTER 17

When Wallander left Lars Magnusson’s flat after more than two hours of trying to conduct a coherent conversation, all he wanted to do was go home and take a bath. He hadn’t noticed the filth on his first visit, but this time it was obvious. The front door was ajar when Wallander arrived. Magnusson was lying on the sofa while a saucepan of coffee boiled over in the kitchen. He’d greeted Wallander by telling him to go to hell.

“Don’t come around here, just get out and forget there’s anyone called Lars Magnusson,” he’d shouted.

But Wallander stood his ground. The coffee on the stove indicated that Magnusson had thought he might talk to someone in the daytime after all. Wallander searched in vain for clean cups. In the sink were plates on which the food and grease seemed have fossilised. Eventually he found two cups, which he washed and carried into the living-room.

Magnusson wore only a pair of dirty shorts. He was unshaven and clutched a bottle of dessert wine like a crucifix. Wallander was horrified at his dissipation. What he found most disgusting was that Lars Magnusson was losing his teeth. Wallander grew annoyed and then angry that the man on the sofa wasn’t listening to him. He yanked the bottle away from him and demanded answers to his questions. He had no idea what authority he was acting on. But Magnusson did as he was told. He even hauled himself up to a sitting position. Wallander wanted to get more of a sense of the time when Wetterstedt was minister of justice, of the rumours and scandal. But Magnusson seemed to have forgotten everything. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said on Wallander’s last visit. Finally, Wallander gave him back the bottle and once he had taken a few more slugs, feeble memories begin to surface.

Wallander left the flat with one lead. In an unexpected moment of clarity, Magnusson remembered that there was a policeman on the Stockholm vice squad who had developed a particular interest in Wetterstedt. Rumour had it that this man, who Magnusson remembered was Hugo Sandin, had created a dossier on Wetterstedt. As far as Magnusson knew, nothing had ever come of it. He’d heard that Sandin had moved south when he retired and now lived with his son, who had a pottery workshop outside Hässleholm.

“If he’s still alive,” Magnusson said, smiling his toothless smile, as though he hoped that Hugo Sandin had died before him.

Wallander drove back to the station, feeling determined to locate Sandin. In reception he ran into Svedberg, whose burnt face was still troubling him.

“Wetterstedt was interviewed by a journalist from
MagaZenith
,” said Svedberg.

Wallander had never heard of the magazine.

“Retirees get it,” Svedberg told him. “The journalist’s name was Anna-Lisa Blomgren, and she did take a photographer with her. Now that Wetterstedt is dead they aren’t going to publish the article.”

“Talk to her,” said Wallander. “And ask for the pictures.”

Wallander went to his office. He called the switchboard and asked them to find Nyberg, who called back 15 minutes later.

“Do you remember the camera from Wetterstedt’s house?” Wallander asked.

“Of course I remember,” said Nyberg grumpily.

“Has the film been developed yet? There were seven pictures exposed.”

“Didn’t you get them?” Nyberg asked, surprised.

“No.”

“They should have been sent over to you last Saturday.”

“I never got them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Maybe they’re lying around somewhere.”

“I’ll have to look into this,” said Nyberg. “I’ll get back to you.”

Somebody would bear the brunt of Nyberg’s wrath, and Wallander was glad that it wouldn’t be him.

He found the number of the Hässleholm police and after some difficulty managed to get hold of Hugo Sandin’s phone number. When Wallander asked about Sandin, he was told that he was about 85 years old but that his mind was still sharp.

“He usually stops by to visit a couple of times a year,” said the officer Wallander spoke to, who introduced himself as Mörk.

Wallander wrote down the number and thanked him. Then he called Malmö and asked for the doctor who had done the autopsy on Wetterstedt.

“There’s nothing in the report about the time of death,” Wallander said to him. “That’s very important for us.”

The doctor asked him to wait a moment while he got his file. After a moment he returned and apologised.

“It was left out of the report. Sometimes my dictaphone acts up. But Wetterstedt died less than 24 hours before he was found. We’re still waiting for some results from the laboratory that will enable us to narrow the time span further.”

“I’ll wait for those results,” said Wallander and thanked him.

He went in to see Svedberg, who was at his computer.

“Did you talk to that journalist?”

“I’m just typing up a report.”

“Did you get the time of their visit?”

Svedberg looked through his notes.

“They got to Wetterstedt’s house at 10 a.m. and stayed until 1 p.m.”

“After that, nobody else saw him alive?”

Svedberg thought for a moment. “Not that I know of.”

“So, we know that much,” said Wallander and left the room.

He was just about to call Hugo Sandin, when Martinsson came in.

“Have you got a minute?” he asked.

“Always,” said Wallander. “What’s up?”

Martinsson waved a letter.

“This came in the mail today,” he said. “It’s from someone who says he gave a girl a ride from Helsingborg to Tomelilla on Monday, 20 June. He’s seen the description of the girl in the papers, and thinks it might have been her.”

Martinsson handed the envelope to Wallander, who took out the letter and read it.

“No signature,” he said.

“But the letterhead is interesting.”

Wallander nodded. “Smedstorp Parish,” he said. “Official church stationery.”

“We’ll have to look into it,” said Martinsson.

“We certainly will,” said Wallander. “If you take care of Interpol and the other things you’re busy with, I’ll look after this.”

“I still don’t see how we have time,” said Martinsson.

“We’ll make time,” said Wallander.

After Martinsson left, Wallander realised that he’d been subtly criticised for not leaving the suicide case for the moment. Martinsson might be right, he thought. There was no space for anything but Wetterstedt and Carlman. But then he decided the criticism was unjustified. They must make time to handle every case.

As if to prove that he was right, Wallander left the station and drove out of town towards Tomelilla and Smedstorp. The drive gave him time to think about the murders. The summer landscape seemed a surreal backdrop to his thoughts. Two men are axed to death and scalped, he thought. A young girl walks into a rape field and sets herself on fire. And all around me it’s summertime. Skåne couldn’t be more beautiful than this. There’s a paradise hidden in every corner of this countryside. To find it, all you have to do is keep your eyes open. But you might also glimpse hearses on the roads.

The parish offices were in Smedstorp. After he passed Lunnarp he turned left. He knew that the office kept irregular hours, but there were cars parked outside the whitewashed building. A man was mowing the lawn. Wallander tried the door. It was locked. He rang the bell, noting from the brass plate that the office wouldn’t be open until Wednesday. He waited. Then he rang again and knocked on the door. The lawnmower hummed in the background. Wallander was just about to leave when a window on the floor above opened. A woman stuck out her head.

“We’re open on Wednesdays and Fridays,” she shouted.

“I know,” Wallander replied. “But this is urgent. I’m from the Ystad police.”

Her head disappeared. Then the door opened. A blonde woman dressed in black stood before him, heavily made up and wearing high heels. What surprised Wallander was the white clerical collar set against all that black. He introduced himself.

“Gunnel Nilsson,” she replied. “I’m the vicar of this parish.”

Wallander followed her inside. If I were walking into a nightclub I could better understand it, he thought. The clergy don’t look the way I’d imagine these days.

She opened the door to an office and asked him to have a seat. Gunnel Nilsson was a very attractive woman, although Wallander couldn’t decide whether the fact that she was a vicar made her seem more so.

He saw a letter lying on her desk. He recognised the parish letterhead.

“The police received a letter on your letterhead. That’s why I’m here.”

He told her about the girl. The vicar seemed upset. When he asked her why, she explained that she had been sick for a few days and hadn’t read the papers. Wallander showed her the letter.

“Do you have any idea who wrote it? Or who has access to your letterhead?”

She shook her head.

“Only women work here.”

“It’s not clear whether a man or a woman wrote the letter,” Wallander pointed out.

“I don’t know who it could be,” she said.

“Does anyone in the office live in Helsingborg? Or drive there often?”

She shook her head again. Wallander could see that she was trying to be helpful.

“How many people work here?” he asked.

“There are four of us. And there’s Andersson, who takes care of the garden. We also have a full-time watchman, Sture Rosell. But he mainly stays out at our churches. Any of them could have taken some letterhead from here, of course. Plus anyone who visited the vicar’s office on business.”

“You don’t recognise the handwriting?”

“No.”

“It’s not illegal to pick up hitchhikers,” said Wallander. “So why would someone write an anonymous letter? Because they wanted to hide the fact that they’d had been in Helsingborg? It’s puzzling.”

“I could ask whether anyone here was in Helsingborg that day,” she said. “And try to match the handwriting.”

“I’d appreciate your help,” said Wallander, standing up. “You can reach me at the Ystad police station.”

He wrote his phone number down for her. She followed him out.

“I’ve never met a female vicar before,” he said.

“Many people are still surprised,” she replied.

“In Ystad we have our first woman chief of police,” he said. “Everything changes.”

“For the better, I hope,” she said and smiled.

Wallander looked at her, deciding she was quite beautiful. He didn’t see a ring on her finger. He couldn’t help thinking forbidden thoughts. She really was terribly attractive.

The man cutting the grass was now sitting on a bench smoking. Without really knowing why, Wallander sat down on the bench and started talking to him. He was about 60, and dressed in a blue work shirt, dirty corduroy trousers and a pair of ancient tennis shoes. Wallander noted that he was smoking unfiltered Chesterfields, the brand that his father had smoked when he was a child.

“She doesn’t open the door when the office is closed,” the man said thoughtfully. “This is the first time it’s ever happened.”

“The vicar is quite good-looking,” said Wallander.

“She’s nice too,” said the man. “And she gives a good sermon. I don’t know whether we’ve ever had such a good vicar. But many people would still rather have a man.”

“They would?” said Wallander absentmindedly.

“Quite a few people would never think of having a woman. People in Skåne are conservative. For the most part.”

The conversation died. It was as if both men had run out of steam. Wallander listened to the birds. He could smell the freshly mown grass. He remembered that he should contact Hans Vikander at the Östermalm police, and find out how the interview with Gustaf Wetterstedt’s mother had gone. He had a lot to do. He certainly didn’t have time to sit on a bench outside the parish offices in Smedstorp.

“Were you here to get a change of address certificate?” the man asked suddenly.

“I had a few questions to ask,” he said, getting up.

The man squinted at him.

“I recognise you,” he said. “Are you from Tomelilla?”

“No,” said Wallander. “I’m originally from Malmö. But I’ve lived in Ystad for many years.”

He was about to say goodbye when he noticed the white T-shirt showing under the man’s unbuttoned work shirt. It advertised the ferry line between Helsingborg and Helsingør, in Denmark. He knew it could be a coincidence, but decided that it wasn’t. He sat back down on the bench. The man stubbed out his cigarette in the grass, about to get up.

“Just a moment,” said Wallander. “There’s something I’d like to ask you about.”

The man heard the change in Wallander’s voice. He gave him a wary look.

“I’m a police officer,” said Wallander. “I didn’t come here to talk to the vicar. I came to talk to you. Why didn’t you sign the letter you sent? About the girl you gave a lift from Helsingborg.”

It was a reckless move, he knew, in defiance of everything he had been taught. It was a punch below the belt – the police didn’t have the right to lie to extract information, especially when no crime had been committed.