Authors: Henning Mankell
"No, that's not true. A connection has been established between Svedberg and Astrid Hillström."
She nodded.
"What else do you see?" he asked.
"That Svedberg was someone other than we thought."
Wallander pounced on this. "And how did we think he was?"
She thought a moment before answering. "That he was open, trustworthy."
"But in reality he turned out to be secretive and untrustworthy, is that what you mean?"
"Not exactly, but something like that."
"One of his secrets involved a woman, who may have been called Louise. We know what she looks like."
Wallander got up, turned on the projector, and slipped the picture back into the machine.
"I have the strange feeling that there's something wrong with this face. But I can't think what it is."
Höglund hesitated, but Wallander sensed that his statement didn't surprise her.
"There's something odd about her hair," she said finally. "Although I can't put my finger on it."
"We have to find her," Wallander said. "And we will."
He put the second photograph in the projector and looked at Höglund. Again she answered hesitantly.
"I'm quite convinced that they're wearing clothes from the 16th century. I have a book at home about fashion through the ages. But I could be wrong."
"What else do you see?"
"Young people who seem happy. Excited and drunk."
Wallander suddenly thought of the pictures that Sten Widen showed him from their trip to Germany, especially the drunken one of himself with the beer bottle in his hand. There was a similarity in the expressions on their faces.
"What else do you see?"
"The boy, the second from the left, is yelling something to the photographer."
"They're sitting on a blanket with food spread out, and they're dressed up. What does that mean?"
"A masquerade of some sort. A party."
"Let's assume it's a summer event of some kind," Wallander said.
"The whole picture gives the impression of warm weather. It could very well be a Midsummer's Eve party, but it can't have been taken this summer, since Norman isn't in the picture."
"And Astrid Hillström seems a little younger."
Wallander agreed. "I thought that too. The picture could be a couple of years old."
"There's nothing threatening in the photograph," she said. "At that age, they're as happy as they can be. Life seems endless, the sorrows few."
"I have such a strange feeling about this," Wallander said. "I've never been at the beginning of an investigation like this one. Svedberg is the centre, of course, but the compass needle keeps swinging back and forth. We can't see where we should go."
They left the room. Höglund took the envelope with the two photographs to give to Nyberg so he could check them for fingerprints. First she would make some copies of both. Wallander went to the lavatory and then drank almost a litre of water in the canteen.
Everyone set to work on their assigned tasks. Wallander's job was to talk to Eva Hillström and Sture Björklund again. He sat down in his office and reached for the phone. He was going to start with Hillström, but he decided against phoning her first. Höglund knocked on his door and handed him some photocopies of the pictures. The picture of the young people had been enlarged so that their faces appeared as clearly as possible.
It was around midday when Wallander left the station. He heard someone say that it was about 23°C. He took off his jacket before getting into the car.
Eva Hillström lived on Körlingsväg, which was just outside Ystad's eastern border. He parked the car outside the gate and looked at the house. It was a large, turn-of-the-century villa, with a beautifully maintained garden. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Eva Hillström opened the door and jumped when she saw who it was.
"Nothing's happened," Wallander said quickly, anxious to stop her from imagining the worst. "I just have some more questions."
She let him into a big hall that smelled strongly of disinfectant. She was barefoot and wearing a tracksuit. Her eyes darted anxiously around the room.
"I hope I'm not intruding," Wallander said.
She mumbled something unintelligible and he followed her into a spacious living room. The art and furniture gave the impression of being valuable. There was certainly nothing wrong with the Hillströms' finances. He sat down obediently on the sofa that she indicated to him.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked.
Wallander shook his head. He was thirsty but didn't want to ask for a glass of water. She was sitting on the very edge of her seat, and Wallander had the strange impression that she was a runner at the start of a race, waiting for the gun to go off. He took out his photocopies, and handed her the picture of Louise. She looked at it briefly and then up at him.
"Who is this?"
"You don't recognise her?"
"Does she have anything to do with Astrid?"
Her attitude was hostile and Wallander forced himself to sound very firm.
"It is sometimes necessary for us to ask routine questions," he said. "I just showed you a picture, and my question is, do you know who it is?"
"Who is she?"
"Just answer the question."
"I've never seen her before."
"Then we don't have to say anything more about it."
She was about to ask him something else when Wallander gave her the other picture. She looked at it quickly, then got up out of her chair and left the room, as if the starting gun had just gone off. She came back after about a minute and handed Wallander a photograph.
"Photocopies are never as good as the original," she said in response to his puzzled face.
Wallander looked down at the photo. It was the same as the photocopy, the same picture he had found in Svedberg's flat. He felt a step closer to something important.
"Tell me about this photograph," he said. "When was it taken? Who are the other people in it?"
"I don't know exactly where it is," she said. "Somewhere around Österlen, I think. Maybe at Brösarp's hill. Astrid gave it to me."
"When was it taken?"
"Last summer, in July. It was Magnus's birthday."
"Magnus?"
She pointed to the boy who was shouting at the unknown photographer. Wallander pulled out the notebook he had for once remembered to bring.
"What's his full name?"
"Magnus Holmgren. He lives in Trelleborg."
"Who are the rest?"
Wallander took down their names and where they lived. Suddenly he remembered something else.
"Who took the picture?" he asked.
"Astrid's camera had a self-timing mechanism."
"So she took it?"
"I just told you the camera had a self-timer!"
Wallander moved on.
"This is a birthday party for Magnus, but why are they dressed up?"
"That was something they did. I can't see anything strange about it."
"I don't either, I just have to ask these questions."
She lit a cigarette. Wallander felt she was on the verge of breaking down again.
"So Astrid has a lot of friends," he said.
"Not that many," Eva Hillström said. "But good ones."
She took up the photo again and pointed to the other girl.
"Isa wasn't with them this year at Midsummer," she said. "Unfortunately she fell ill."
It took a moment for her words to sink in. Then Wallander understood.
"You mean that this other girl was supposed to have been with them?"
"She fell ill."
"And so it was just the three of them? And they went ahead with the party and then took off together for a trip to Europe?"
"Yes."
Wallander looked down at his notes.
"What's her full name?"
"Isa Edengren. Her father is a businessman. They live in Skårby."
"What has she said about the trip?"
"That nothing had been decided in advance. But she's sure they've gone. They always took their passports with them on these occasions."
"Have they sent her any postcards?"
"No."
"Doesn't she think that's strange?"
"Yes."
Eva Hillström put out her cigarette.
"Something's happened," she said. "I don't know what it is, but Isa's wrong. They haven't left. They're still here."
Wallander saw that there were tears in her eyes.
"Why won't anyone listen to me?" she asked. "Only one person listened, but now he's gone too."
Wallander held his breath.
"Only one person has listened to you," he said. "Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Do you mean the police officer who visited you at the end of June?"
She looked at him with surprise. "He came many times," she said. "Not just then. During July he came every week, and a couple of times this week as well."
"Do you mean Officer Svedberg?"
"Why did he have to die?" she said. "He was the only one who listened, the only one who was as worried as I was."
Wallander was silent. Suddenly he had nothing to say.
The breeze was so gentle that sometimes he didn't feel it at all. He counted how often he actually felt the wind on his face, just to make the time go a little faster. He was going to add this to his list of pleasures in life, the joys of the happy person. He had remained hidden behind a large tree for several hours. The fact that he was so early gave him a feeling of satisfaction.
It was still a warm evening. When he had woken that morning, he had known that the time had come to go public. He couldn't wait any longer. He had slept for exactly eight hours, like he normally did. Somewhere in his subconscious the decision had been made. He was going to recreate the events that had occurred 50 days ago.
He got up around 5 a.m., again like always, making no exception to his routine although this was his day off. After drinking a cup of the tea that he ordered directly from Shanghai, he rolled away the red carpet in the living room and did his morning exercises. After 20 minutes he measured his heart rate, wrote it down in a notebook, and took a shower. At 6.15 a.m. he sat down to work. This morning he was making his way through a large report from the department of labour that examined possible solutions to the problem of unemployment. He marked some passages with a pen, occasionally also commenting on them, but nothing really struck him as new.
He put down his pen and thought about the anonymous people who had put this meaningless report together. They are in no danger of becoming unemployed, he thought. They are never to be granted the joy of being able to see straight through daily existence to what actually mattered, the things that gave life meaning.
He read until 10 a.m., and then dressed and went shopping. He made lunch and rested for a while until around 2 p.m. He had soundproofed his bedroom. It was very expensive but worth every penny. No sounds from the street ever intruded. The windows were gone. A soundless air conditioning unit provided him with air. On one side of the room he had a large picture of the world, on which he could follow the progression of sunlight around the globe. This room was the centre of his world. Here he could think clearly about what had happened and what was going to happen. He never had to think about who he was or if he was right. Right about there being no justice in the world.
They had been at a conference in the Jömtland mountains. The director of the engineering firm he worked for had suddenly appeared in his doorway and ordered him to go. Someone had fallen sick. Naturally he agreed, although he had already made plans for that weekend. He said yes because he wanted to please his boss. The conference was on something to do with new digital technology. It was spearheaded by an older man who had invented the mechanical cash registers that were manufactured in Åtvidaberg. He talked about the new era, and everyone stared down at their notebooks. On one of the last evenings, they had all decided to go to the sauna. He didn't really like being naked in front of other men, so he waited for them in the bar. He didn't know exactly how to act. Afterwards they joined him and sat drinking for a long time. Someone started telling a story about good ways to fire employees. All of the men except for him were in important positions at their companies. They told one story after another and finally looked at him. But he had never fired anyone. It never even occurred to him that he would one day be fired. He had studied hard, could do his job, had paid off his student loans, and had learned how to agree with people. Afterwards, after the catastrophe was a fact, he suddenly remembered one of the stories. A small, unpleasantly plump man from a factory in Torshälla told them about how he had once summoned an old worker and said, "I don't know how we could have managed without you here all these years." "It was great," the fat man said, laughing. "The old guy was so proud and happy that he wasn't on guard. Then it was easy. I just said, 'But we'll just have to try, starting tomorrow.'" So the old man was fired. He often thought about that story. If it had been possible he would have gone to Torshälla and killed the person who had fired the old man like that, and had the gall to show off about it afterwards.
He left his flat around 3 p.m. He drove eastwards until he reached a car park in Nybrostrand, where he waited until there were no other people around. Then he quickly switched to another car he had parked there and drove away.
When he arrived at the nature reserve he saw that he was in luck. There were no other cars around, which meant he didn't have to bother with the fake number plates. It was already 4 p.m. and a Saturday, and so he doubted that anyone else would turn up that evening. He had spent three Saturdays watching the entrance to the nature reserve and had noted the pattern of visitors. Almost no one came in the evening. The few who did always left by 8 p.m. He took his tools out of the boot. He had also packed a few sandwiches and a thermos of tea. He looked around, listened, then disappeared down one of the trails.
When the time was right, he started making his way towards the place. He immediately saw that no one had been there. In the space between the two trees that was the only natural opening into the clearing, he had hung a thin thread. He knelt down to examine it and saw that it was untouched. Then he got out his collapsible shovel and started digging. He went about his task calmly and methodically. The last thing he wanted to do was break out in a sweat, which would increase the risk of his catching a cold. He paused after every eighth shovelful and listened for noises. It took 20 minutes to remove the layer of sod and reach the tarpaulin. Before lifting it aside he smeared some menthol ointment under his nostrils and put on a mask. The three plastic bags were lying undisturbed in the ground. There was no unpleasant odour, which meant they hadn't leaked. He lifted up one of the bags and threw it over his shoulder. His workouts had made him strong. It only took him 10 minutes to carry all three bags to their original location. Then he filled the hole, replaced the layer of sod, and stamped the ground on top until it was flat, pausing from time to time to listen out for sounds.
Next he went to the tree where he had placed the three bags. He unpacked the tablecloth, glasses, and the remains of the rotting food that he had stored in his refrigerator. Then he took the bodies out of the bags. Their wigs were a little yellowed and the bloodstains had taken on a greyish tinge. He put the bodies in their places, breaking and cracking what was necessary so that everything looked like it had when he had taken the picture on Midsummer's Eve. His last touch was to pour a little wine into one of the glasses. He listened. Everything was still.
He folded the bags under his arm, stuffed them into a sack, and left. He had already removed his mask and wiped away the menthol. He didn't see a single person on his way back to the car. He drove to Nybrostrand, changed cars again, and made it back to Ystad before 10 p.m. He didn't drive straight home but continued in the direction of Trelleborg. He pulled over at a spot where he could drive down towards the water without being observed. He put two of the big bags inside the third, weighted them down with pieces of steel pipe that he had procured for this purpose, and threw them into the water. They sank immediately.
He returned home, burned his mask, and threw his shoes into the rubbish. He put the menthol ointment in the bathroom cabinet. Then he took a shower and rubbed his body with disinfectant.
Later, he had some tea. When he looked into the tea container, he realised he would soon have to order more. He wrote it down on the noticeboard he kept in the kitchen. He watched a programme about the homeless on TV. No one said anything he didn't already know.
Around midnight he sat down at the kitchen table with a stack of letters in front of him. It was time for him to start thinking of the future. He opened the first letter carefully and started to read.
Shortly before 1.30 p.m. on Saturday, 10 August, Wallander left the Hillströms' villa on Körlingsväg. He decided to drive straight to Skårby, where Isa Edengren, the girl whom Eva Hillström claimed should have been with the others on Midsummer's Eve, lived. Wallander had asked Hillström why she hadn't told him about this earlier, but inside he felt a growing sense of guilt over the fact that he had taken so long to realise that something might be seriously wrong.
He stopped at a cafe by the bus station and ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee. He realised too late that he should have ordered his sandwich without butter. Now he was forced to try and scrape it off with his knife. A man at the next table was watching him, and Wallander guessed that he had recognised him from the papers. Probably this would lead to rumours about how the police frittered their time away scraping butter off sandwiches instead of searching for their colleague's killer. Wallander sighed. He had never been able to get used to the rumour mill.
He finished his coffee, went to the lavatory, and left the café. He chose to follow the smaller road that went through Bjäresjö. Just as he left the main road his mobile phone rang. It was Höglund.
"I just spoke to Lena Norman's parents," she said. "I think I've found out something important."
Wallander held the phone more closely to his ear.
"There was supposed to be a fourth person at that Midsummer party," she said.
"I know. I'm on my way to her house right now."
"Isa Edengren?"
"Yes, Eva Hillström picked her out from Svedberg's picture. It turns out that she had the original. Astrid took it last summer with the self-timer on her camera."
"It feels like Svedberg is always one step ahead of us," she said.
"We'll catch up with him soon," Wallander said. "Anything else?"
"Some people have called in with leads, but nothing looks promising."
"Do me a favour and give Ylva Brink a call," Wallander said. "Ask her how big Svedberg's telescope was, and if it was heavy. I can't figure out where it's gone."
"Have we already ruled out the possibility of a burglary?"
"We haven't ruled anything out yet, but if someone made off with a telescope, you would think they would've been seen."
"Do you want me to do it right away, or can it wait? I'm on my way to see one of the boys from the photograph who lives in Trelleborg."
"It can wait. Who's going to talk to the other one?"
"Martinsson and Hansson are going together. I gave them his name. Right now they're in Simrishamn with the Boge family."
Wallander nodded with satisfaction. "I'm glad we're getting hold of everyone today," he said. "I think we'll know a lot more about the case by this evening."
They hung up and Wallander continued to Skårby. He followed the directions Eva Hillström had given him. She had told him that Isa Edengren's father had a big piece of property with several full-time landscapers working on it. A private road lined with big trees led up to a two-storey house. A BMW was parked in front. Wallander got out of his car and rang the bell. No one answered. He banged on the door and rang the bell again. It was 2 p.m. He was sweating. He rang the bell once more, then walked around to the back of the house. The garden was large and old-fashioned, with a variety of well-pruned fruit trees. There was a pool and a set of sun loungers that Wallander thought looked expensive. At the bottom of the garden there was a glassed-in gazebo, surrounded and almost completely hidden by bushes and overhanging branches. Wallander walked towards it. The green door was slightly ajar. He knocked but there was no answer. He pushed the door open. The curtains in the windows were pulled shut and it took a while for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.
He saw that there was a person inside. Someone was sleeping on a divan. He could see black hair sticking up over a blanket, but the person's back was turned towards him. Wallander closed the door and knocked again. Still no answer. Wallander walked in and flicked on the light switch. Light flooded the room. He grabbed the sleeper by the shoulder and gave a couple of shakes. When there was still no reaction Wallander knew that something was wrong. He turned the person over and saw that it was Isa Edengren. He spoke to her, and shook her again. Her breathing was slow and laboured. He shook her hard and sat her up but she didn't show any signs of waking. After fumbling in his pocket for his mobile phone, he remembered he had left it on the car seat after talking to Höglund. He ran back to the car and made an emergency call to the hospital on his way back to the gazebo, giving careful directions to the house.
"I think it's either a suicide attempt or serious illness," he said. "What do I do?"
"Make sure she doesn't stop breathing," he was told. "You're a police officer, you should be familiar with the procedure."
The ambulance arrived after 15 minutes. Wallander had managed to get hold of Höglund, who had not yet left for Trelleborg, and asked her to meet the ambulance when it arrived at the hospital. He was going to stay in Skårby for a while. After the ambulance left, he tried the doors of the main house, but they were locked. Then he heard an approaching car. A man wearing rubber boots and overalls got out of a little Fiat.
"I saw the ambulance," he said.
Wallander saw the look of worry in his eyes. After telling him who he was, Wallander said that Isa Edengren was ill. That was all he could say for the moment.
"Where are her parents?" he asked.
"Away."
The answer seemed deliberately vague.
"Can you be more specific? We'll have to notify them."
"They may be in Spain," the man said. "But they could also be in France. They own houses in both countries."
Wallander thought about the locked doors.
"Does Isa live here even when they're away?"
The man shook his head.
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's really none of my business," the man said and started backing towards his car.
"You've already made it your business," Wallander said firmly. "What's your name?"
"Erik Lundberg."
"Do you live close by?"
Lundberg pointed to a farm that lay south of where they were.
"Now I want you to answer my question: did Isa live here while her parents were away?"