Authors: Henning Mankell
Wallander would retain the image of the screaming woman in his head for a long time. It had been one of the most beautiful days of an unusually warm summer, the garden was green and lush, and Höglund was leaning against the pear tree talking on her mobile phone while he sat across from Lars Skander in a white wooden chair. Both he and Höglund immediately thought it was too late, that the woman who had flung open the window was about to hurl herself down onto the flagstones. They would never get to her in time.
There was a moment of complete calm, as if everything was frozen. Then Höglund dropped her phone and ran towards the window, while Wallander yelled something – he hardly knew what. Lars Skander got to his feet very slowly. The woman in the window continued to scream. She was the mother of the dead bride, and her pain cut that warm August day like a diamond cuts glass. They agreed afterwards that it was her scream that shook them the most.
Höglund disappeared into the house, while Wallander remained under the window with outstretched arms. Lars Skander stood at his side like a ghost, staring up at the distraught woman in the window. Then Höglund appeared out of nowhere behind her and pulled her into the room. Everything went quiet.
When Wallander and Lars Skander entered the bedroom, Höglund was sitting on the floor with her arms around the woman. Wallander went back downstairs and called an ambulance. They returned to the garden at the back of the house once the ambulance had come and gone. Höglund picked up the phone that lay in the grass.
"Martinsson had just answered when it happened. He must have wondered what was going on," she said.
He sat back down in one of the chairs. "Call him," he said.
She sat down across from him. A bee buzzed back and forth between them. Svedberg had a phobia of bees. Now he was dead. That's why they were there, in the Skanders' garden. Many others were also dead. Too many.
"I'm afraid he's going to strike again," Wallander said. "Every second I think I'll get a call telling me he's done it again. I'm going crazy looking for signs that the nightmare will soon be over, that we won't have to kneel over any more bodies of people who have been shot, but I can't find them."
"All of us have that fear," she replied.
That was all that needed to be said. Höglund called Martinsson who, as expected, demanded to know what had happened. Wallander moved his chair over into the shade and took hold of his thoughts.
If the decision to move the photo session to Nybrostrand was made only a couple of weeks ago, who would have had access to that information? Why hadn't anyone confirmed whether or not Rolf Haag had an assistant?
Höglund finished her conversation and also moved her chair into the shade.
"He'll call me back," she said. "Apparently the Werners are both very old. Martinsson can't tell whether they're in shock or just senile."
"What about the question of Rolf Haag's assistant?" Wallander asked brusquely. "The Malmö police were going to take care of that for us. Do you remember Birch? We worked with him on a case last year."
"How could I forget?"
Birch was a police officer of the old school. It had been a pleasure to meet him.
"He moved to Malmö," she said. "I think he was put in charge of this."
"Then he's already done the work," Wallander said firmly.
He took up his phone and dialled the Malmö police station. He was in luck: Birch was in his office. After exchanging greetings, Birch got straight to the point.
"I called Ystad with my report," he said. "It hasn't reached you?"
"Not yet."
"Then I'll tell you the main points of interest. Rolf Haag's studio is located close to the Nobel plaza, and his main occupation was studio photography, though he also published some travel books."
"I'm going to interrupt you here," Wallander said. "What I really need to know is whether or not he had an assistant."
"Yes, he did."
"What's his name?" Wallander gestured for Höglund to give him a pen.
"Her name is Maria Hjortberg."
"Have you talked to her?"
"I couldn't. She's at her parents' house outside Hudiksvall for the weekend. It's a small place in the woods and they have no phone. She's coming back to Malmö this evening and I'm planning to meet her at the airport. But I very much doubt she's the person who shot her boss and this young couple."
This wasn't the answer that Wallander was looking for, and it irritated him, which he thought was probably a sign that he was a bad policeman.
"What I need to know is whether someone else knew where the wedding pictures were going to be taken."
"I searched the studio last night," Birch said. "It took half the night. I found a letter from Torbjörn Werner to Haag dated 28 July. In it he confirmed the time and place for the photo session."
"Where was it posted?"
"Ystad appears at the top of the page."
"There's no envelope? No postmark?"
"There's a big bag of paper in Haag's office, so it could be in there. Otherwise, I'm afraid it might already have been thrown away. It was written several weeks ago, after all."
"I need that envelope."
"Why is it so important? Can't we assume it was posted in Ystad, since that's where it was written?"
"I need to know if the envelope was opened by someone before it reached Haag. I want our forensics team to have a look at it, if only to rule out this possibility."
Birch didn't need further explanation. He promised to go down to the studio at once.
"That's some theory you've got," he said.
"It's all I have right now," Wallander answered.
Birch promised to call if he found anything.
It was already midday. Wallander went home, fried some eggs for lunch, then lay down to rest for half an hour. At 1.10 p.m. he was back at the police station.
Going through the notes in his office, he decided that the theory about someone having opened the letters needed to be explored before they dismissed it. He went out to the front desk and talked to the girl who filled in for Ebba on the weekends. He asked her if she knew where the post in Ystad was sorted. She didn't.
"Maybe you could find that out for me," Wallander said.
"But it's Sunday," she said.
"A regular working day, as far as I'm concerned."
"But surely not for the post office."
Wallander was starting to get angry, but he controlled himself.
"Post is collected even on Sundays," he said. "At least once. That means that someone is working down at the post office today."
She promised to try to find the answer to his question. Wallander hurried back to his office, feeling that he had disturbed her. Just as he closed his door, it struck him that he was wrong about one thing. He had told Höglund that two postmen already figured in this investigation. But there were actually three. What was it Sture Björklund had said that day? He had the feeling that someone had been at his house when he wasn't there. His neighbours knew how much he valued his privacy. The only person who came by regularly was the postman.
Could it have been the postman who put Svedberg's telescope in Björklund's shed? It wasn't just a wholly unreasonable idea, it was crazy. He was grasping at straws. He growled angrily to himself and started leafing through the various reports that lay on his desk. Before he'd got very far, Martinsson appeared in the doorway.
"How did it go?" Wallander asked.
"Ann-Britt told me about the woman who tried to jump out the window. We didn't have quite as bad a time of it, but it's so tragic. Torbjörn had just taken over the farm. The old couple were getting ready to hand over all the responsibility to the next generation. One son died in a car crash a few years ago. And now they have no one."
"The killer doesn't consider things like that," Wallander said.
Martinsson walked over and stood by the window. Wallander could see how shaken he was. Once upon a time, he had been an eager young recruit with all the best intentions – and at a time when becoming a police officer was no longer seen as something noble. Young people seemed to despise the profession, in fact. But Martinsson held fast to his ideals and genuinely wanted to be a good policeman. It was only during the last few years that Wallander had noticed his faith starting to slip. Now Wallander doubted that Martinsson would make it to retirement.
"He's going to do it again," Martinsson said.
"We don't know that for sure."
"Why wouldn't he? He kills for the sake of killing – there's no other motive."
"We don't know that. We just haven't found his motive yet.
"You're wrong."
Martinsson's last words were delivered with such force that Wallander took them as an accusation.
"In what way am I wrong?"
"Until a few years ago, I would have agreed with you: there's an explanation for all violence. But that just isn't the case any more. Sweden's undergone a fundamental change. A whole generation of young people is losing its way. They don't know what's right or wrong. And I don't know what is the point of being a policeman any more."
"That's a question only you can answer."
"I'm trying."
Martinsson sat down. "You know what Sweden has become?" he asked. "A lawless nation. Who would have thought that could ever happen?"
"We're not quite there yet," Wallander said. "Even though I agree with you that it's where things seem to be heading. This is why it's so important for us not to give up."
"That's what I used to say to myself. But I'm not sure I think it's possible for us to make a difference any more."
"There isn't one police officer in this country who hasn't asked himself these same questions," Wallander said. "But that doesn't change the fact that we have to keep working, we have to resist the direction our society has taken. We have to stop this madman, and we're very close to him right now. We're going to get him."
"My son is convinced that he wants to be a policeman too," Martinsson said after a while. "He asks me what it's like. I never know what to say."
"Send him to me," Wallander said. "I'll have a talk with him."
"He's eleven."
"That's a good age."
"All right, I'll send him."
Wallander took advantage of the shift in their conversation to return to the matter at hand.
"How much did the Werners know about the photo session?"
"Nothing more than the time."
Wallander let his hands fall onto the table.
"Then we have a breakthrough. Tell everyone I want a meeting at 3 p.m. this afternoon."
Martinsson nodded and got ready to leave. He turned when he reached the door.
"Do you mean what you said about talking to my son?"
"I'll do it the moment all this is over," Wallander said. "I'll answer all his questions and even let him try on my policeman's cap."
"You have one of those?" Martinsson asked with surprise.
"Somewhere. I just have to find it."
Wallander went to the meeting that afternoon with the feeling that he was going to end up having another confrontation with Thurnberg. Apart from the unfortunate incident in Nybrostrand, there had been no further contact. Wallander was still unsure what would come of the charges the jogger had filed against him. Although Thurnberg hadn't said anything about it, Wallander felt that there was an ongoing war between them.
After the meeting, he realised he was wrong. Thurnberg surprised him by offering support when the others faltered or started to disagree. Whenever he made a comment, it was short and to the point. Perhaps Wallander had been too quick to judge him. Was Thurnberg's arrogance just a bluff, perhaps a sign of insecurity?
Wallander paused for a moment as they were getting ready to leave, wondering if he should say something to Thurnberg. But he couldn't think of anything.
It was now 4.30 p.m. In two hours, Haag's assistant would be arriving at the airport. Wallander tried to call Birch, but there was no answer. He decided to do something he had never done before. He had an old alarm clock in his desk drawer, and he got it out and set it. He locked the door of his office, stretched out on the floor, and pushed an old briefcase under his head for a pillow. Someone knocked on the door right before he fell asleep, but he didn't answer. If he was going to have the energy to keep working, he would need an hour of sleep.
* * *
A rapid succession of disjointed images passed before him. A glimpse of his father, the smell of turpentine, the holiday in Rome. Suddenly Martinsson was there, standing at the foot of the Spanish Steps. He looked like a small child. Wallander called out to him, but Martinsson couldn't hear him. Then the dream was gone.
It took some effort to get to his feet. His joints cracked as he walked to the men's room. He hated this crippling fatigue. It was getting harder and harder to bear as he got older. He splashed cold water on his face and took a long leak. He avoided looking at his face in the mirror. He reached Sturup Airport at 6.45 p.m. When he entered the arrivals area, he spotted Birch's imposing figure almost immediately. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. When he saw Wallander, his sombre face broke into a wide smile.
"You're here as well?"
"I thought you wouldn't mind the company."
"Let's go and grab a cup of coffee. Her plane's not due in for a while."
As they stood in line at the cafeteria, Birch told him he hadn't found the envelope Wallander was hoping for. "But I did talk to one of our forensic technicians," Birch said, as he helped himself to a piece of cake and a Danish pastry, "and he told me I'd never be able to tell if a letter had been opened and resealed. There have been new advances in this area, it seems. No more steam, like in the old days."
"I need that envelope," Wallander said. He forced himself not to follow Birch's example and kept to a cup of coffee. They walked over to the gate. Birch wiped crumbs from his mouth.
"I'm not sure I understand the relevance of the envelope. Of course, I'm also wondering why you decided to come out here. Maria Hjortberg must be important."