Authors: Henning Mankell
"She is a witness, in a way," he said. "We're convinced that this is not a crime of opportunity. Svedberg's murder may still turn out to be just that, although I doubt it, but the deaths of these young people were well planned. The crucial thing here is that they made their own arrangements in secret, but someone else seems to have had access to that information – what they were thinking, where they were going to meet, perhaps even the exact time. Someone was spying on them. Someone managed to find out what they were up to. If it turns out that the bodies were buried fairly close to the place where they were killed, then we'll know this for sure. Holes don't dig themselves. Isa was part of these elaborate preparations. But she fell ill at the moment when everything was to begin. If she had been able to go, she would have. Her illness saved her life. And she is the one who can help us find out what happened that night. Somewhere along the way, without their realising it, she and the others crossed paths with the person who decided to take their lives."
"Is that what you think Svedberg believed?" Martinsson asked.
"Yes. But he knew something else as well. Or at least suspected it. We don't know how this suspicion arose in the first place, or why he conducted his whole investigation in secret. But it must have been important. He dedicated his entire holiday to it. He insisted on taking all of his holiday time. He had never done that before."
"Something's still missing," Höglund said. "And that's a motive. Revenge, hatred, jealousy. It doesn't add up. Who would've wanted to murder three young people? Or four, for that matter. Who could've hated them? Who had reason to be jealous? There's a brutality to this crime that goes beyond anything I've ever seen. It's worse than the case involving the poor boy who dressed up as an Indian."
"He may have chosen this party deliberately," Wallander said. "Although it's almost too terrible to imagine, he could have chosen his moment precisely because their joy was at its peak. Think how alone people can feel over Midsummer."
"In that case we're dealing with a madman," Martinsson said, visibly upset.
"A methodical and deliberate madman, yes," Wallander said. "But the important thing is to try to find the invisible common denominator in these crimes. The murderer got his information from some source. He must have had access to their lives. That's the key we're after. We have to look thoroughly into their lives. We'll find this point of intersection. We may already have come across it and not seen it."
"So you think Isa Edengren should be our focus," Höglund said. "In a way you think she's leading this investigation, and we're carefully following in her footsteps."
"Something like that. We can't overlook the fact that she tried to kill herself. We have to find out why. We also don't know how the killer feels about the fact that she survived."
"You're thinking about the person who called the hospital and pretended to be Lundberg," Martinsson said.
Wallander nodded. "I want one of you to talk to whoever took that call. Find out what the caller sounded like. Was he old or young? What dialect did he speak? Anything could turn out to be important."
Martinsson promised to take on this task. For the next hour they went over what else had to be covered. At one point Holgersson came in to talk about the arrangements for Svedberg's funeral.
"Does anyone know what kind of music he liked?" she asked.
"Strangely enough, Ylva Brink says she has no idea."
Wallander realised to his surprise that he had no idea either. Holgersson left again, after he had given her an update on the investigation.
"I wish we could know what exactly happened and why when we attend his funeral," Martinsson said.
"I doubt we will," Wallander said. "But that's what we'd all like."
It was 5 p.m. They were about to leave when the phone rang. It was Ebba.
"Please, no reporters," Wallander said.
"It's Nyberg. It sounds important."
Wallander felt a twinge of excitement. There was a hiss of static, then Nyberg's voice came on.
"I think we were right."
"Have you found the spot?"
"That's what we think. We're taking pictures now, and we're trying to see if we can get a footprint."
"Were we right about the location?"
"This is about 80 metres from where they were found. It's a very well selected spot. It's surrounded by thick shrubbery and no one would choose to walk through it."
"When are you going to start digging?"
"I was going to see if you wanted to come and take a look at it first."
"I'm on my way."
Wallander hung up. "They think they've found the place where the bodies were buried," he said.
They quickly decided that Wallander would go out there alone. The others had a number of tasks to take care of as soon as possible.
When he got to the nature reserve, he drove his car past the roadblocks all the way up to the crime scene. A forensic technician was waiting for him, and escorted him to a spot where Nyberg had cordoned off an area of about 30 square metres. Wallander saw at once that the spot was well chosen, just as he had said. He crouched down beside Nyberg, who started to point things out to him.
"The ground over here has been dug up," he said. "Clumps of grass have been taken out and replanted. If you look over there under the leaves you'll see dirt that's been swept aside. If you dig a hole and fill it with something else, there'll be earth left over."
Wallander brushed his hand along the ground. "It's been carefully done."
Nyberg nodded. "It's very precise," he said. "He didn't take any shortcuts. We would never have noticed this place without having set out to look for it."
Wallander got up. "Let's dig it up," he said. "We've got no time to lose."
The work went slowly. Nyberg directed the others. It was beginning to get dark by the time the first layer of earth had been removed. Spotlights were set up around the site. The earth underneath the sod was porous and came out easily. As they removed it, a rectangular hole became visible. By this time it was after 9 p.m. Holgersson had come out with Höglund and they watched in silence. By the time Nyberg was satisfied, Wallander knew what he was looking at. The rectangular hole in front of him was a grave.
They gathered in a semicircle around the edge.
"It's big enough," Nyberg said.
"Yes," Wallander said. "It's big enough. Even for four bodies."
He shivered. For the first time they were following closely in the killer's tracks. They had been right. Nyberg kneeled next to the hole.
"There's nothing here," he said. "It's possible that the bodies were sealed in airtight body bags. If there was also a tarpaulin tucked in around them under the sod, I doubt that even Edmundsson's dog would pick up anything. But of course we'll go over it, down to the last tiny speck of dirt."
Wallander walked back up to the main path with Holgersson and Höglund.
"What is this killer doing?" Holgersson asked, distaste and fear in her voice.
"I don't know," Wallander said. "But at least we have a survivor."
"Isa Edengren?"
Wallander didn't answer. He didn't need to. They all knew what he meant. The grave had been intended for her as well.
At 5 a.m. on Tuesday, 13 August, Wallander left Ystad, deciding to drive along the coast, through Kalmar. He was already at Sölvesborg when he realised he had forgotten his promise to visit Dr Göransson at the clinic that morning. He pulled over by the side of the road and called Martinsson. It was just past 7 a.m. Wallander told him about the doctor's appointment and asked Martinsson to call and give an excuse.
"Tell him an urgent matter called me out of town," Wallander said.
"Are you sick?" Martinsson asked.
"It's a routine check-up," Wallander told him. "That's all."
Afterwards, when he had pulled back out onto the road, it occurred to him that Martinsson must have wondered why he didn't call Dr Göransson himself. Wallander asked himself the same question. Why couldn't he tell people that he had in all likelihood developed diabetes? He was having trouble making sense of his own actions.
He was thirsty, and his body ached. When he passed a roadside cafe he stopped and had breakfast. On the way out he bought two bottles of mineral water. He made it to Kalmar by 9 a.m. The phone rang. It was Höglund, who was going to help him with directions once he reached Östergötland.
"I talked to a colleague in Valdemarsvik," she said. "I thought it would be best to make it sound like a personal favour."
"Good idea," Wallander said. "Police officers don't tend to like it when you trespass on their territory."
"Especially not you," she said with a laugh. She was right. He didn't like having police officers from other districts in Ystad.
"How do I get out to the island?" he asked.
"That depends on where you are right now. Are you far away?
"I've just passed Kalmar. Västervik is 100 kilometres away, and then it's about another hundred after that."
"Then it'll be tight."
"What do you mean?"
"My contact in Valdemarsvik suggested that you take the post boat, but it leaves Fyrudden between 11 a.m. and 11.30."
"Is there no other way?"
"Oh, I'm sure there is. But you'll have to organise that once you get to the dock."
"I may be able to do that. Can't someone call the post office and tell them I'm on my way? Where does the post get sorted? In Norrköping?"
"I'm looking at a map right now," she said. "I think it would have to be in Gryt, if there's even a post office there."
"Where's that?"
"Between Valdemarsvik and Fyrudden harbour. Don't you even have a map with you?"
"Unfortunately I left it on my desk."
"Let me call you back," she said. "But I really think the best thing would be for you to go out with the post boat. If my colleague is right, it's the easiest way for people to get out to the islands. Those that don't have their own boats, of course, or anyone who's willing to come and get them."
Wallander understood what she meant.
"Good thinking," he said. "You mean that Isa Edengren may have taken the post boat herself?"
"It was just an idea."
Wallander thought for a moment. "But do you really think she made it up there by 11 a.m. if she left the hospital at 6 a.m.?"
"She may have," Höglund replied. "If she had a car, and Isa Edengren does have her licence. And we mustn't forget that she could have left the hospital as early as 4 a.m."
She promised to call him back. Wallander increased his speed. The traffic was getting heavier and there were a number of cars with trailers on the road. They reminded him that it was still summer, and holiday time. For a moment he considered turning on his police light, but decided against it. Instead he continued to increase his speed.
Höglund called him back after 20 minutes.
"I was right," she said. "The post gets sorted in Gryt. I even talked to the captain of the post boat. He sounded very nice."
"What was his name?"
"I didn't catch it. But he'll wait for you until midday. Otherwise he can come and get you later in the afternoon but I think that will cost you more."
"I was planning to write this trip off to expenses," Wallander said. "But I'll get there before midday."
"There's a car park next to the wharf," she said. "And the post boat is just across from it."
"Do you have his phone number?"
Wallander pulled over to the side of the road and wrote down the number. As he sat there he was passed by a lorry he had finally managed to overtake a little earlier.
It was 11.40 a.m. when Wallander drove down the hill towards Fyrudden harbour. He found a car park and then walked out onto the pier. There was a soft wind. The harbour was full of boats. A man in his 50s was loading the last of his boxes into a large motorboat. Wallander hesitated, having imagined that the post boat would look different. He had even expected a flag bearing the post office logo. The man, who had just set down a crate of soda water, looked at Wallander.
"Are you the one going out to Bärnsö?"
"That's me."
The man stepped onto the dock and reached out his hand. "Lennart Westin."
"I'm sorry I'm a little late."
"Oh, there's no hurry."
"I don't know if the woman who called told you but I have to get back somehow, either later this afternoon or tonight."
"You aren't spending the night?"
The situation was starting to get confusing. Wallander didn't even know if Höglund had told him that he was a policeman.
"I should tell you I'm a detective with the Ystad homicide unit," Wallander said and got out his identification. "I'm working on a particularly difficult and unpleasant case at the moment."
This postman called Westin was a fast thinker.
"Is it that case involving the young people that I read about in the paper? Wasn't there a police officer killed, too?"
Wallander nodded.
"I thought I recognised them from the picture in the paper," Westin said. "At least one of them. I had the feeling I had given them a ride a year or so ago."
"With Isa?"
"Yes, that's right. They were with her. I think it was late autumn a couple of years ago. There was a storm coming in from the southwest. I wasn't sure we could pull up to the Bärnsö landing. It's a particularly exposed spot when the wind is blowing from that direction. But we made it. One of their bags fell in the water, and we managed to fish it out. That's why I remember. But you should never be too sure of your memory."
"I think you're probably right," Wallander said. "Have you seen Isa recently? Today or the day before?"
"No."
"Does she normally catch a ride out with you?"
"When her parents are out here, they collect her. Otherwise she gets a ride with me."
"So she's not here now?"
"If she is, she went out with someone else."
"Who would that have been?"
Westin shrugged. "There are always people around out here who would be willing to give her a ride. Isa knows whom to call. But I think she would have asked me first."
Westin glanced at his watch. Wallander hurried back to his car to get the little bag he had packed. Then he got on the boat. Westin pointed to the map beside the steering wheel.
"I could take you directly to Bärnsö but that would be out of my way," he said. "Are you in a hurry? If we go to Bärnsö on my regular route we'll be there in an hour. I have three other stops first."
"That's fine."
"When do you want me to pick you up?"
Wallander thought for a moment. Isa was most likely not on the island. He had drawn the wrong conclusion, which was a disappointment. But now that he was here he might as well search the house. He would probably need a couple of hours.
"You don't need to make up your mind right now," Westin said and gave him his card. "You can reach me over the phone. I can either come by this afternoon or this evening. I live on an island that's not too far away."
He pointed it out on the map.
"I'll call you," Wallander said and put the card away.
Westin started both the engines and set off.
"How long have you been delivering the post?" Wallander asked. He had to shout to make himself heard above the engine noise.
"Too long," Westin shouted back. "More than 25 years now."
"What do you do in the winter?"
"Hydrocopter."
Wallander felt his exhaustion lifting. The speed, the experience of being out on the water, gave him a surprising sense of well-being. When had he last felt like this? Perhaps during those days with Linda on Gotland. He knew it must be hard work delivering the post in the archipelago. But right now all suggestion of storms and autumn darkness seemed far away. Westin looked over at him, as if he knew what he was thinking.
"Maybe that would be something for me," he said. "Being a policeman."
Normally Wallander rushed to defend his profession. But here with Westin, as they sped across the smooth surface of the water, the familiar topic coaxed a different response from him.
"Sometimes I have my doubts," he shouted. "But when you reach 50 you're kind of on your own. Most doors are closed."
"I turned 50 this spring," Westin said. "Everyone I know out here threw a big party."
"How many people out here do you know?"
"Everyone. It was a big party."
Westin turned the wheel and slowed the boat down. Right next to a big cliff there was a red boathouse and a pier built out over a row of old stone structures.
"Båtmansö Island," Westin said. "When I was a child there were nine families living out here – more than 30 people. Now there are people out here over the summer, but come winter there's only one. His name is Zetterquist and he's 93 years old, but he still makes it through the winter. He's been widowed three times. He's the kind of old man you don't meet any more. I think the national board of health must have outlawed them."
His last remark took Wallander by surprise and made him laugh.
"Was he a fisherman?"
"He's been a jack-of-all-trades. He worked on a tugboat once upon a time."
"You know everybody. And they all know you?"
"That's the way it goes. If this old chap didn't show up to meet my boat, I'd go up and see if he was sick, or if he'd had a fall. If you're a country postman, either at sea or on land, you end up knowing everybody's business. What they're doing, where they're going, when they're due back. Whether or not you actually want to."
Westin had brought the boat softly alongside the landing, and now he unloaded a couple of boxes. Quite a few people had gathered on the pier. Westin took the packet of post and walked up to a small red house.
Wallander stretched his legs on the pier, looking at a pile of old-fashioned stone sinkers. The air was cooler. Westin came back after a couple of minutes and they left. Their route took them through the varied landscape of the archipelago. After two more post stops, they approached Bärnsö. They came out on an open stretch of sea called Vikfjärden. Bärnsö lay strangely isolated, as if it had been thrown out of the community of islands.
"You must know the whole Edengren family," Wallander said, when Westin had pulled back the throttle and they were gliding towards the little dock.
"I suppose you could say that," Westin said. "Although I haven't had much contact with the parents. Honestly speaking, I think they're rather snobbish. But Isa and Jörgen have caught a ride with me many times."
"You know that Jörgen is dead," Wallander said carefully.
"I heard he was in a car accident," Westin said. "His father told me. I had to collect him once when there was something wrong with their boat."
"It's tragic when children die," Wallander said.
"I had always thought Isa was the one who would have an accident."
"Why is that?"
"She lives her life to the extreme. At least, if you believe what she says."
"She talks to you? Maybe as a postman you become something of a confidant."
"Hell, no," Westin said. "My son is Isa's age. They were together for a while a couple of summers ago. But it ended, like these things often do at that age."
The boat hit the edge of the pier. Wallander took his bag and got off.
"I'll give you a call this afternoon."
"I eat at 6 p.m.," Westin answered. "Before or after is fine."
Wallander watched the boat disappear around the point. He thought about how Westin had described Jörgen's death. His parents had changed the story. A toaster in the bath had become a car accident.
Wallander walked onto the green, lush island. Next to the dock was a boathouse and a small guest house. It reminded him of the gazebo in Skårby where he had found Isa. An old wooden rowing boat lay turned over on some trestles. Wallander caught a faint whiff of tar. Several large oak trees grew on the hillside leading up to the main house. It was a red two-storey house, old but in good condition. Wallander walked up to it, looking around and listening. There was a sailing boat in the distance, and the dying sound of an outboard motor. Wallander was sweating. He put the bag down, took his coat off and threw it over the railing of the front steps. The curtains were drawn in the windows. He went up the steps and knocked on the door. He waited. Then he banged on it with his fist. No one answered. He felt the handle. It was locked. For a moment he hesitated, then he walked around the back, feeling as though he was repeating his visit to Skårby. There was a garden with fruit trees behind the house – apples, plums and a lone cherry tree. Garden furniture was piled up under a plastic sheet.
A path led away from the house towards the thick woods. Wallander started walking down the path, and came to an old well and an earth cellar. The numbers 1897 were carved into the rock above the door, and the key was in the lock. Wallander opened the door. It was dark and cool inside, and there was a smell of potatoes. When his eyes became accustomed to the dark he saw that it was empty. He closed the door and continued along the path, catching glimpses of the sea on his left. From the position of the sun he knew he was walking northwards. After about a kilometre he came to a junction where a smaller path led off to the left. He kept walking straight ahead, and after a couple of hundred metres came to the end. Ahead of him were smooth boulders and cliffs. Beyond them, just the open sea. It was the tip of the island. A seagull squawked above him, rising and falling on the wind. He climbed out onto the rocks, sat down, and wiped the sweat from his forehead, wishing that he'd brought some water with him. Gone were all thoughts of Svedberg and the dead young people.