Firewall (25 page)

"I'm glad to be of help, but there are some things I can't disclose for security reasons."

Winberg was sounding as bureaucratic as Wallander sometimes did.

"What I'm after is of a technical nature. The first question is very simple: how often does it happen that a machine makes a mistake on a withdrawal or with an account balance?"

"Very rarely, I believe, though I have no exact figures to give you."

"Can I take it that 'very rarely' means that it virtually never happens?"

"Yes."

"And is there any possibility that the date and time printed on a slip would be incorrect?"

"I've never heard of it. I imagine it's not inconceivable, but the odds against it happening would be astronomical. Security and accuracy at the bank, all banks, have to be as good as perfect."

"So one can absolutely rely on what comes out of these machines?"

"Have you had an experience to the contrary?"

"No, but I need answers to these questions."

Winberg opened a drawer in his desk and looked for something. Then he pulled out a cartoon strip of a man being slowly swallowed by a cash machine.

"It never gets quite this bad," he said, smiling. "But it's a funny image. And when it comes down to it the bank's computers are as vulnerable as all other computerised systems."

There it is again, Wallander thought, this talk of vulnerability. He looked at the sketch and agreed it was good.

"North Bank has a customer by the name of Tynnes Falk," Wallander said. "I need printouts of his bank activities for the past year, which should include his withdrawals at cash machines."

"You'll have to speak to someone higher up," Winberg said. "I couldn't authorise the release of such information, even to you."

"Who should I talk to?"

"Martin Olsson, the manager, is your best bet. He has an office on the second floor."

"Can you see if he's free now?"

Winberg left his desk. Wallander glumly anticipated an extended bureaucratic process before he could reach Olsson, but Winberg escorted him directly to the bank manager. He, too, was surprisingly young. He would do all he could to help Wallander. All he required was an official police request. Once he learned that the customer was deceased, he said the widow could sign in his stead.

"He was divorced," Wallander said.

"A paper from the police is all we need," Olsson said. "I'll see that this is taken care of quickly at our end."

Wallander thanked him and returned to Winberg. "One more question," he said. "Can you check to see if Falk kept a security box here?"

"I don't know if that's allowed," Winberg said.

"Your boss has already cleared it," Wallander lied.

Winberg was gone for a few minutes.

"There's no box in his name," he said when he returned.

Wallander was about to leave, when it occurred to him that he might as well take care of all his business at once.

"You're right, it is time for me to get a new car. Let's do the paperwork now while we're at it," he said.

"How much do you need?"

Wallander thought quickly. He had no other debt right now.

"One hundred thousand should do it. If I qualify for that much."

"No problem," Winberg said, and reached for the appropriate form.

They were finished by 1.30 p.m. Wallander left the bank with the feeling of being rich. When he walked past the bookshop by Stortorget he remembered the book on renovating furniture that he should have collected a couple of days ago. He also remembered he had no cash on him. He turned back and walked to the cash machine next to the post office. There were four people ahead of him in line. A woman with a pram, two teenage girls and an older man. Wallander watched absently as the woman put in her card, took out the cash and then the printed slip. Then he started thinking about Falk. The two girls took out their money, then discussed the amount printed on the slip with great energy. The older man looked around before putting in his card and punching in his code. He put his notes into his wallet and pocketed the printed slip without looking at it.

Then it was Wallander's turn. He took out one thousand kronor and read through the account balance on the slip. Everything seemed to be in order. He crumpled the piece of paper and fed it into the bin next to the machine. Then he froze. He thought about the blackout that had cut the power to most of Skåne. Someone had known exactly which point to hit to affect as many areas as possible. However advanced technology might become, there would always be points of vulnerability. He thought about the blueprint in Falk's office. It could not have been coincidence. Just as it had been no coincidence that the electrical relay was in the morgue. None of what had happened had been coincidence.

Perhaps it was a kind of sacrifice, he thought. There was an altar in Falk's secret chamber, with Falk's face as an object of worship. Perhaps Sonja Hökberg wasn't simply killed but had been sacrificed. To the end that the point of vulnerability would become more evident. A black hood had been pulled down over Skåne and everything had been brought to a halt.

The thought made him shiver. The feeling that he and his colleagues were fumbling around in the dark grew stronger.

He watched the steady stream of people coming to the cash machine. If you can control the power supply you can control this machine, he thought. And God only knows what else you control. Air traffic, trains, the water supply, electricity. All of this can be brought to its knees if you know the right place to strike.

He started walking again. The bookshop would have to wait. He returned to the station. Irene wanted to tell him something, but he waved her away and continued to his office. He threw his coat onto the visitor's chair and reached for his notepad. He wrote out the facts again, this time from the perspective that all that had happened was part of a planned act of sabotage. He thought back to the perplexing fact that Falk had been involved in the release of those minks. Did that gesture foreshadow something bigger, something much more sinister?

He threw the pen down and leaned back in his chair. He was still not convinced that he had found the point that would truly break the case open, but it did offer new possibilities. Lundberg's murder fell outside this scheme of things, but perhaps it was unforeseen, something that had not been planned. That needed addressing. It had, nevertheless, to be the case that Hökberg was killed to keep her quiet. And why were Falk's fingers cut off? To keep something from coming to light.

He kept delving through his material. What happened if they assumed Lundberg's death wasn't part of the larger pattern?

Half an hour later he was less convinced. It was too early to hope that the case would hang together, but he cheered himself up with the thought that he had come a bit further along the road. No doubt, there were more angles from which to view these events, and these would come to light if all of the team persevered.

He had just got up to go to the toilet when Höglund knocked and came in.

"You were right," she said. "Hökberg did have a boyfriend."

"What's his name?"

"More to the point, where is he?"

"Don't you know?"

"It looks as if he's vanished."

Wallander took stock. That visit to the toilet would have to wait.

It was 2.45 p.m.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In hindsight, Wallander would feel he had made one of the biggest mistakes of his life that afternoon by listening to what Höglund had to say. As soon as he heard that Hökberg had had a boyfriend, he should have immediately realised that the truth was more complicated. What Höglund had discovered was a half-truth, and half-truths have a tendency to lead you astray. The result was that he didn't see what he should have seen, and it was a costly mistake. In his darkest hours, he would feel that it had cost a person his life. And it could have led to an even greater catastrophe.

That Monday, October 13, Höglund had taken on the job of finding out once and for all if there had been a boyfriend in Hökberg's life. She had brought this up again with Persson, who had persisted in denying that there was one. The only name she gave was Kalle Ryss, with whom Hökberg had been close at an earlier time. Höglund wasn't sure if Persson was telling the truth, but she had not been able to get any further.

Höglund drove to the hardware shop where Ryss worked. They had gone into the storeroom to speak undisturbed. In contrast to Persson, Ryss answered simply and apparently truthfully all Höglund's questions. She thought that, although their relationship had been over for at least a year, he missed Sonja, mourned her death and was frightened by what had happened. He could not shed much light on the direction her life had taken after their break-up. Even though Ystad was not a big town, their paths had not crossed very often. And Ryss usually drove to Malmö at the weekends. That was where his new girlfriend lived.

"But I think there was someone else," he said. "Someone that Sonja was with."

Ryss didn't know much about him except that his name was Jonas Landahl and that he lived all alone in a big house on Snappehanegatan. He didn't know the exact address, but it was by the corner of Friskyttegatan, on the left-hand side if you were coming from town. What Landahl did for a living he couldn't say.

Höglund drove there immediately and saw a beautiful modern house on the left-hand side of the street. She walked through the gate and rang the bell. The house seemed deserted, though she couldn't have said why she thought so. No-one came to the door. She rang the bell several more times, then walked round to the back of the house. She banged on the back door and tried to look in through the windows. When she came back to the front she saw a man in a dressing gown and boots standing outside the front gate. It was a strange sight given the time of day and the cold. He explained that he lived in the house across the street and that he had seen her ringing the doorbell. He said his name was Yngve, but didn't give his last name.

"No-one's home," he said firmly. "Not even the boy."

Their conversation was short but informative. Yngve was apparently a man who liked to keep his neighbours under surveillance. The Landahl family were strange birds in these parts, he said, and had been there about 10 years. What Mr Landahl did he didn't know. They hadn't even bothered to call and introduce themselves when they moved in. They had carried all their possessions and the boy into the house and then shut their doors. He hardly ever saw them. The boy couldn't have been more than 12 or 13 when they arrived, but they often left him alone for long stretches of time. The parents took off on long trips to God knows where. From time to time they came back only to disappear as suddenly as they had come. Neither one of them seemed to hold down a job, but there was always money. The last time he had seen them was some time in September. Then the boy, now a grown man, was alone again. But a few days ago a taxi had come for him and taken him away.

"So the house is empty?" Höglund said.

"There's no-one there."

"When was it the taxi came?"

"Last Wednesday. In the afternoon."

Höglund imagined Yngve sitting in his kitchen with a log of his neighbours' comings and goings and activities in front of him. I suppose it's not unlike watching trains, she thought.

"Do you remember what taxi company it was?" she asked.

"No."

You know perfectly well what company it was, she thought. You may even remember the make of the car and have written down the number plate. But you're not going to tell me because you don't want to admit what I've already found out. That you spy on your neighbours.

"I'd be grateful if you would get in touch with us when he turns up again."

"What's he done?"

"Nothing. We just need to ask him a few questions."

"What about?"

His curiosity knew no bounds. She shook her head and he didn't ask again, but she could tell that he was irritated. It was as if she had breached some unspoken etiquette.

Höglund returned to the station and was lucky enough quickly to find the right taxi company and the driver who had picked up Landahl on Snappehanegatan. The driver came to the police station. His name was Östensson and he was in his thirties.

She asked him about his passenger and he turned out to have a good memory.

"I picked him up just before
2
p.m. I think his name was Jonas."

"Did he give a last name?"

"I think I thought it was a last name. Nowadays people have such strange names."

"And there was only one passenger?"

"Yes. A young man. He was friendly."

"Did he have much luggage?"

"Just one small case on wheels."

"Where did you take him?"

"To the ferry terminal."

"Was he going to Poland?"

"Is there any other destination?"

"What was your impression of him?"

"I didn't have one, really, but he was nice enough."

"Did he seem anxious?"

"No."

"Did he talk?"

"He sat in the back seat and looked out of the window, as far as I remember. But he gave me a tip. I remember that."

Höglund thanked him for his trouble. She decided to get a warrant to search the house on Snappehanegatan. She spoke to the state prosecutor, who sent over the paperwork she needed. She was just on her way over to the house when the day-care centre called to say that her youngest child was not well, was in fact vomiting. She drove over and took the child home, spending the next couple of hours there, until the child seemed better and her godsend of a neighbour, who often jumped in and helped her in times of need, was available to look after the little one. Now she was back at the station, and Wallander was there too.

"Do we have keys?" he said.

"I thought we would bring a locksmith with us."

"No need. Did the locks look complicated in any way?"

"No, not really."

"Then I'll take care of them myself."

"Just remember that a man in a dressing gown and green boots will be watching us from his kitchen window."

"You'll have to keep him busy, maybe sweet-talk him. Tell him his watchfulness has been a great help and that we would be grateful if he would take special notice of the comings and goings on his street for the next few days. And of course keep everything he finds out to himself. If there's one curious neighbour there could be more."

Höglund laughed. "He's just the type to fall for it," she said.

They drove to Snappehanegatan in her car. As usual he thought she drove too fast and made unnecessarily brusque movements. He was going to tell her about the photograph album, but he couldn't concentrate on anything but his prayers that they would not run into another car.

Wallander walked up to the front door while Höglund went over to the house belonging to the man called Yngve. Just as she had described, he too was struck by a feeling of desolation as he regarded the house. He was about to get the doors open when she returned.

"The dressing-gown man is now part of our undercover team," she said.

"I take it you didn't say we wanted the boy in connection with Hökberg?"

"Who do you take me for?"

"A talented policewoman, of course."

Wallander got the doors open and shut them once they were inside.

"Is anyone here?" Wallander shouted.

The words seemed to be swallowed up by the silence.

They worked their way slowly and deliberately through the house. It was a model of cleanliness and order. Everything in its place, nothing to suggest a hurried departure. There was something almost impersonal about the rooms, as if the furniture had all been bought at the same time and put there only to make the rooms occupied. There was a photograph of a young couple with a newborn baby on the mantelpiece. There was a bare minimum of personal items. An answering machine with a button blinking stood on a table. Wallander pressed it and the messages came on. A computer company reported that his new modem was in. Then there was a wrong number, no message, no name. Then there came the message Wallander had been hoping for. Wallander recognised it immediately, although it took Höglund a few seconds to process it. It was Sonja Hökberg's voice:
I'll call you again. It's important. I'll call you.

Wallander found the button that saved the message. They played it again.

"So now we know," he said. "Sonja was in touch with the boy who lived here. She didn't even say her name."

"Is this the call we've been looking for? When she escaped?"

"Probably."

Wallander went out into the kitchen, through the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. There was a car. A dark blue VW Golf.

"Call Nyberg," Wallander said. "I want that car gone over with a fine-tooth comb."

"Do you think it's the one that delivered her to her death?"

"It could be. We can't rule that out at any rate."

Höglund got out her phone and started the process of tracking down Nyberg. Wallander used the time to take a look around the second floor. There were four bedrooms, but only two of them, from a swift reconnaissance, looked as though they were lived in. One for the parents, one for the boy. Wallander opened the wardrobe in the parents' room and looked at the clothes hanging in neat rows. He heard Höglund coming up the stairs.

"Nyberg is on his way."

Then she too looked at the clothes. "They have good taste," she said. "And plenty of money, you can tell."

Wallander found a dog's collar and a short leather whip right at the back of the wardrobe.

"Perhaps their tastes run a little to the alternative side," he said thoughtfully.

"It's the in-thing nowadays," Höglund said knowingly. "People think you screw better if you pull a plastic bag over your head and flirt with death."

Her choice of words startled and embarrassed Wallander, but he said nothing.

They continued into the boy's room. It was unexpectedly spartan. There was nothing on the walls or on the bed. There was a computer on a large desk.

"I'll ask Martinsson to take a look at this," Wallander said.

"Do you want me to start it up for you?"

"No, let's hold off."

They went back downstairs. Wallander searched through the slips of paper stuffed into a kitchen drawer until he found what he was looking for.

"I don't know if you noticed this or not," he said, "but there was no name on the front door. That's a little unusual. But here at least is some junk mail addressed to Harald Landahl, Jonas's father."

"Are we going to put out a search for him? I mean the boy."

"Not just yet. We need a little more information first."

"Was he the one who killed her?"

"We don't know. But his departure can be interpreted as an attempt to flee."

They went through more drawers while they waited for Nyberg. Höglund found a number of photographs of what looked to be a newly built house somewhere, probably in the Mediterranean.

"Is that where they keep going?"

"It's not impossible."

"Where do they get their money?"

"The son is still the main focus of our investigation."

The doorbell rang. It was Nyberg and two of his team of technicians. Wallander led them out to the garage.

"Concentrate on fingerprints," he said. "They might correspond with some we've found in other places. On Sonja Hökberg's handbag, for example. Or in the office. Also look for signs placing the car at the power substation. Or that Hökberg has been in it."

"In that case we'll start with the tyres," Nyberg said. "That will be the fastest. You remember we had one set of tyre marks out there we couldn't account for."

Wallander waited and it only took Nyberg ten minutes to give him the answer he had been hoping for.

"This is the car," Nyberg said after having compared the tread with pictures taken of the crime scene.