Sidetracked (41 page)

So he’d had the same idea about the empty house. He was somewhere inside. Geronimo had not failed him. He had helped him track the monster to his lair. He didn’t have to search any further. The cold darkness that had penetrated his sister’s soul would soon be gone. He went back to her and told her to stay there for a while, and keep as quiet as she could. He would be back very soon.

He went into the garage. There were some cans of paint, and he opened two of them carefully. With his fingertip he drew two lines across his forehead. One red line, then a black one. He picked up his axe and took off his shoes. Just as he was about to leave he had an idea. He held his breath again, which he had learned from Geronimo. Compressed air in the lungs made thoughts clearer. He knew that his idea was a good one. It would make everything easier. Tonight he would bury the last of the scalps outside the hospital window alongside the others. There would be two of them. And he would bury a heart. Then it would be all over. In the last hole he would bury his weapons. He gripped the axe handle and started walking towards the house and the man he was to kill.

At 6.30 p.m. Wallander suggested to Hansson that they could start sending people home. Everyone was exhausted. They might as well be waiting, and resting, in their own homes. They would remain on call through the night.

“So who should stay here?” asked Hansson.

“Ekholm and Höglund,” Wallander answered. “And one more. Whoever’s the least tired.”

Ludwigsson and Hamrén both stayed.

They all moved down to one end of the table instead of spreading out as usual.

“The hideout,” Wallander said. “What would be a secret and impregnable fortress? What would an insane boy who transforms himself into a lone warrior seek?”

“I think his plans must have fallen apart,” Ekholm said. “Otherwise they would have stayed in the basement room.”

“Smart animals dig extra exits,” Ludwigsson said thoughtfully.

“You mean that he might have a second hideout in reserve?”

“Maybe. In all likelihood it’s also in Malmö.”

The discussion petered out. Hamrén yawned. A phone rang down the hall and someone appeared in the doorway, saying that there was a call for Wallander. He got up, much too tired to ask who it was. It didn’t occur to him that it might be Baiba, not until he had picked up the phone in his own office. By then it was too late. But it wasn’t Baiba. It was a man who spoke with a broad Skåne accent.

“Who is this?” Wallander asked.

“Hans Logård.”

Wallander almost dropped the receiver. “I need to meet with you. Now.”

Logård’s voice was strained, as if he was having a lot of trouble forming his words. Wallander wondered whether he was on drugs.

“Where are you?”

“First I want a guarantee that you’ll come. And that you’ll come alone.”

“You won’t get it. You nearly killed me and Sjösten.”

“God damn it! You have to come!”

The last words sounded almost like a shriek. Wallander grew cautious. “What do you want?”

“I can tell you where Stefan Fredman is. And his sister.”

“How can I be sure of that?”

“You can’t. But you should believe me.”

“I’ll come. You tell me what you know. And then we’ll bring you in.”

“All right.”

“Where are you?”

“Are you coming?”

“Yes.”

“Wetterstedt’s villa.”

A feeling that he should have thought of that possibility raced through Wallander’s mind.

“Do you have a gun?” he asked.

“The car is in the garage. The revolver is in the glove compartment. I’ll leave the door to the house open. You’ll see me when you come in the door. I’ll keep my hands in sight.”

“All right, I’m coming.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone.”

Wallander hung up, thinking feverishly. He had no intention of going alone. But he didn’t want Hansson to start organising a major strike force. Ann-Britt and Svedberg, he thought. But Svedberg was at home. He called him and told him to meet him outside the hospital in five minutes. With his service revolver. Did he have it? He did. Wallander told him briefly that they were going to arrest Logård. When Svedberg tried to ask questions, Wallander cut him off. Five minutes, he said, outside the hospital. Until then, don’t use the phone.

He unlocked a desk drawer and took out his revolver. He detested even holding it. He loaded it and tucked it in his jacket pocket, then went to the conference room and waved Höglund outside. He took her into his office and explained. They would meet in the car park right away. Wallander told her to bring her service revolver. They would take Wallander’s car. He told Hansson he was going home to shower. Hansson yawned and waved him goodbye. Svedberg was outside the hospital. He got into the back seat.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Wallander told them about the phone call. If the revolver wasn’t in the car they’d call it off. Same thing if the door wasn’t open. Or if Wallander suspected something was wrong. The two of them were supposed to stay out of sight but ready.

“He might have another gun,” Svedberg said. “He might try to take you hostage. I don’t like this. How could he know where Stefan Fredman is? What does he want?”

“Maybe he’s stupid enough to try and make a deal with us. People think Sweden is just like the United States.”

Wallander thought about Logård’s voice. Something told him he really did know where the boy was.

They parked the car out of sight of the house. Svedberg was to watch the beach side. When he got there he was alone, except for a girl sitting on the boat under which they’d found Wetterstedt’s dead body. She seemed to be completely entranced by the sea and the black rain cloud bearing down on the land. Höglund took up a position outside the garage. Wallander saw that the front door was open. He moved slowly. The car was in the garage. The revolver was in the glove compartment. He took out his own gun, put the safety catch off, and advanced cautiously to the door. Everything was still.

He stepped up to the door. Hans Logård stood in dark hall. He had his hands on his head. Wallander sensed danger. But he went inside. Logård looked at him. Then everything happened very fast. One of Logård’s hands slipped down and Wallander saw a gaping wound in his head. Logård’s body fell to the floor. Behind him stood Stefan Fredman. He had lines painted on his face. He threw himself furiously at Wallander, an axe lifted high. Wallander raised his revolver to shoot, but too late. Instinctively he ducked and a rug slipped under him. The axe grazed his shoulder. He fired a shot and an oil painting jumped on one of the walls. At the same instant Höglund, appeared in the doorway. She stood crouched and ready to fire. Fredman saw her just as he was raising the axe to slam it into Wallander’s head. He leapt to the left. Wallander was in the line of fire.

Fredman vanished towards the open terrace door. Wallander thought of Svedberg. Slow Svedberg. He yelled to Höglund to shoot. But he was gone. Svedberg, who had heard the first shot, didn’t know what to do. He yelled at the girl sitting on the boat to take cover, but she didn’t move. He ran towards the garden gate. It hit him in the head as it flew open. He saw a face he would never forget. He dropped his revolver. The man had an axe in his hand. Svedberg did the only thing he could do, he ran yelling for help. Fredman got his sister, motionless still on the boat, and dragged her to his moped. They rode off just as Wallander and Höglund came running out.

“Call for back-up!” Wallander shouted. “Where the hell is Svedberg? I’ll try and follow them in the car.”

Heavy rain begain to fall. Wallander ran to his car, trying to work out which way they would have gone. Visibility was poor even with the windscreen wipers on full. He thought he had lost them but suddenly caught sight of the moped again. They were going down the road towards the Saltsjöbad Hotel. Wallander kept a safe distance behind. He didn’t want to frighten them. The moped was going very fast. Wallander frantically tried to think how to put an end to the chase. He was just about to call in his location when the moped wobbled. He braked. The moped was heading straight for a tree. The girl was thrown off, right into the tree. Stefan Fredman landed somewhere off to the side.

“Damn!” said Wallander. He stopped the car in the middle of the road and ran towards the moped.

Louise Fredman was dead, he could see that at once. Her white dress seemed strangely bright against the blood streaming from her face. Stefan appeared uninjured. Wallander watched the boy fall to his knees beside his sister. The rain poured down. The boy started to cry. It sounded as if he was howling. Wallander knelt next to him.

“She’s dead,” he said.

Stefan looked at him, his face distorted. Wallander quickly got up, afraid that the boy would jump on him. But he didn’t. He kept howling.

Somewhere behind him in the rain he heard a siren. It wasn’t until Hansson was standing next to him that he realised he was crying himself. Wallander left all the work to the others. He told Höglund briefly what had happened. When he saw Åkeson, he took him to his car. The rain was drumming on the roof.

“It’s over,” Wallander said.

“Yes,” said Åkeson, “it’s over.”

“I’m going on holiday,” said Wallander. “I realise there’s a pile of reports that have to be written. But I thought I’d go anyway.”

Åkeson’s reply came without hesitation.

“Do that,” he said. “Go.”

Åkeson got out of the car. Wallander thought he should have asked him about his trip to the Sudan. Or was it Uganda?

He drove home. Linda wasn’t there. He took a bath and was drying himself off when he heard her close the front door. That evening he told her what had really happened. And how he felt.

Then he called Baiba.

“I thought you were never going to call,” she said, keeping her anger in check.

“Please forgive me,” Wallander said. “I’ve had so much to do lately.”

“I think that’s a pretty poor excuse.”

“It is, I know. But it’s the only one I’ve got.”

Neither of them said anything else. The silence travelled back and forth between Ystad and Riga.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Wallander finally said.

“All right,” she said. “I guess so.”

They hung up. Wallander felt a knot in his stomach. Maybe she wouldn’t come. After supper he and Linda packed their bags. The rain stopped just after midnight. The air smelled fresh as they stood out on the balcony.

“The summer is so beautiful,” she said.

“Yes,” Wallander said. “It
is
beautiful.”

The next day they took the train together to Malmö. Then Wallander took the hydrofoil to Copenhagen. He watched the water racing past the sides of the boat. Distracted, he ordered coffee and cognac. In two hours Baiba’s plane would be landing. Something close to panic gripped him. He suddenly wished that the crossing to Copenhagen would take much longer. But when she arrived at the airport he was waiting for her.

Not until then did the image of Louise Fredman, dead and broken, finally disappear from his mind.

Skåne

16–17 September 1994

EPILOGUE

On Friday, 16 September, autumn suddenly rolled in to Skåne. Kurt Wallander woke up early that morning. His eyes flew open in the dark, as if he had been cast violently out of a dream. He lay still and tried to remember. But there was only the echo of something that was gone and would never return. He turned his head and looked at the clock next to the bed. The fluorescent hands showed 4.45 a.m. He turned over on his side to go back to sleep. But the knowledge of what day it was kept him awake.

He got up and went to the kitchen. The streetlight hanging over the street swayed forlornly in the wind. He checked the thermometer and saw that the temperature had dropped. It was 7°C. He smiled at the thought that tomorrow night he would be in Rome where it was still warm. He sat at the kitchen table and had some coffee, going over the preparations for the trip in his mind. A few days earlier he had finally fixed his father’s studio door. He had also taken a look at his father’s new passport. He had exchanged some money for Italian lire at the bank and had bought traveller’s cheques. He was going to leave work early to pick up the tickets.

Now he had to go to work for one last day before his holiday. He left the flat and went down to his car. He zipped up his jacket and shivered when he got into the driver’s seat. On the way to the station he thought about this morning’s meeting.

It was exactly 8 a.m. when he knocked on the door of Lisa Holgersson’s office and opened the door. She nodded and asked him to have a seat. She had been serving as their new chief for only three weeks, but Wallander thought she had already set her stamp on the atmosphere of the department.

Many had been sceptical about a woman who came from a police district in Småland. And Wallander was surrounded by colleagues who still believed that women weren’t even suited to be police officers. How could one be their chief? But Lisa Holgersson had soon demonstrated how capable she was. Wallander was impressed by her integrity, her fearlessness and the clear presentations she gave, no matter what the topic.

The day before she had arranged a meeting. Now Wallander sat in her visitor’s chair wondering what she wanted.

“You’re going on holiday,” she said. “I heard you were going to Italy with your father.”

“It’s his dream,” Wallander said. “It may be the last chance we get. He’s 80.”

“My father is 85,” she said. “Sometimes his mind is crystal clear. Sometimes he doesn’t recognise me. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that you never escape your parents. The roles are simply reversed. You become your parents’ parent.”

“Exactly,” Wallander replied.

She moved some papers on her desk.

“I don’t have a specific agenda for this meeting,” she said. “But I realised that I’ve never had a proper chance to thank you for your work this summer. It was model detective work.”

Wallander gave her a surprised look. Was she serious?

“That’s putting it a little strongly,” he said. “I made a lot of mistakes. I let the whole investigation be sidetracked. It could have failed miserably.”

“The ability to lead an investigation often means knowing when to shift tactics,” she said. “To look in a direction you may have just ruled out. The investigation was a model in many ways, especially because of your tenacity and your willingness to think along unconventional lines. I want you to know this. I’ve heard it said that the national police chief has expressed his satisfaction. I think you’ll be receiving an invitation to hold seminars about the investigation at the police academy.”

“I can’t do that,” he said. “Ask someone else. I can’t speak to people I don’t know.”

“We’ll take this up again after you get back,” she said, smiling. “Right now the most important thing is that I had a chance to tell you what I thought.”

She stood to indicate that the meeting was over.

Wallander walked down the hall thinking that she’d meant what she said. He tried to dismiss it, but the appreciation made him feel good. It would be easy to work with her in the future.

He got some coffee from the canteen and exchanged a few words with Martinsson about one of his daughters who had tonsillitis. When he got to his office he made an appointment for a haircut. He had made a list the day before, which was on his desk. He’d planned to leave the station as early as midday so that he could deal with all his errands. But it was 4.15 p.m. by the time he left to go to the travel agency. He also stopped at the state off licence and bought a bottle of whisky. When he got home he called Linda. He promised to send her a postcard from Rome. She was in a hurry, and he didn’t ask why. The conversation was over much sooner than he would have liked.

At 6 p.m. he called Löderup and asked Gertrud if everything was in order. She told him that his father had such travel fever that he could hardly sit still. Wallander walked into the centre of town and ate dinner at one of the pizzerias. When he got back to Mariagatan he poured himself a glass of whisky and spread out a map of Rome. He had never been there and didn’t know a word of Italian. But there are two of us, he thought. My father has never been there either, except in his dreams. And he doesn’t speak Italian either. We’re heading into this dream together and will have to guide each other.

On impulse he called the tower at Sturup and asked one of the air traffic controllers, who he knew from an old case, what the weather was like in Rome.

“It’s warm. Right now it’s 21°C, even though it’s evening. Light winds from the southeast. Light fog too. The forecast for the next 24 hours is for more of the same.”

Wallander thanked him.

“Are you going away?”

“I’m going on holiday with my father.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Are you flying Alitalia?”

“Yes, the 10.45.”

“I’ll be thinking of you. Have a nice trip.”

Wallander went over his packing one more time, checking his money and travel documents. He tried to call Baiba, then remembered that she was visiting relatives.

He sat down with a glass of whisky and listened to
La Traviata
. He thought about the trip he had taken with Baiba in the summer. Tired and dishevelled, he had waited for her in Copenhagen. He stood there at Kastrup Airport like an unshaven ghost. He knew she was disappointed, though she said nothing. Not until they had reached Skagen and he had caught up on his sleep did he tell her everything that had happened. After that their holiday had started in earnest.

On one of the last days he asked her if she would marry him. She had said no. Not yet, at any rate, not now. The past was still too close. Her husband, police captain Karlis, whom Wallander had worked with, was still alive in her memory. His violent death followed her like a shadow. Above all she doubted she could ever consider marrying another policeman. He understood. But he wanted some kind of assurance. How long would she need to think about it? She was fond of him, he knew. But was that enough? What about him? Did he really want to live with someone else? Through Baiba he had escaped the loneliness that haunted him after his divorce from Mona. It was a big step, a great relief. Maybe he should settle for that. At least for the time being.

It was late when he went to sleep, questions swirling in his head. Gertrud picked him up the next morning. It was still raining. His father was in the front, dressed in his best suit. Gertrud had given him a haircut.

“We’re off to Rome,” his father said happily. “To think we’re actually going.”

Gertrud dropped them in Malmö at the terminal. On the ferry his father insisted on tottering around the rainswept deck. He pointed to the Swedish mainland, to a spot south of Malmö.

“That’s where you grew up. Do you remember?”

“How could I forget?”

“You had a very happy childhood.”

“I know.”

“You had everything.”

“Everything.”

Wallander thought about Stefan Fredman. About Louise. About the brother who had tried to put out his own eyes. About all they lacked or had been deprived of. But he pushed the thoughts away. They would still be there, lurking in the back of his mind; they would return. For now, he was on holiday with his father. That was the most important thing. Everything else would have to wait.

The plane took off as scheduled. His father had a window seat, and Wallander sat on the aisle. It was the first time his father had been in a plane. Wallander watched him press his face to the window as the plane gathered speed and slowly lifted off. Wallander could see him smiling, the smile of an old man, who had been granted, one last time in his life, the chance to feel the joy of a child.