Authors: Henning Mankell
It was all over in half an hour. Afterwards, Holgersson was interviewed by the
Sydnytt
newspaper, while Wallander spoke to some reporters from the evening papers. It was only when they asked him to pose outside the block of flats on Lilla Norregatan that he let his impatience show.
At midday Holgersson asked the members of the investigative team to a simple lunch at her home. Wallander and Holgersson spoke about some of their memories of Svedberg. Wallander was the only one who had heard Svedberg explain why he had decided to become a police officer.
"He was afraid of the dark," Wallander said. "That's what he said. The fear had been with him since his earliest childhood, and he had never been able to understand it or overcome it. He became a police officer because he thought it would be a way to fight this fear, but it never left him."
A little before 1.30 p.m. they returned to the station. Wallander drove back with Martinsson.
"She handled that very well," Martinsson said.
"Lisa's good at her job," Wallander answered. "But you knew that already, didn't you?"
Martinsson didn't answer.
Wallander suddenly remembered something. "Did you find the Audi?"
"There's a private car park at the back of the building. It was there. I looked it over."
"Did you see a telescope in the boot?"
"There was only a spare tyre and a pair of boots. And a can of insecticide in the glove compartment."
"August is the month for bees," Wallander said glumly.
They went their separate ways when they arrived at the station. Wallander had got a bunch of keys from Nyberg at the lunch, but before he returned to the fiat he drove to Hedeskoga. Sture Björklund's directions were very clear, Wallander thought, as he turned into a little farmhouse that lay just outside the town. There was a fountain in front of the house, and the large lawn had plaster statues dotted all over it. Wallander saw to his surprise that they all looked like devils, all with terrifying, gaping jaws. He wondered briefly what he would have expected a professor of sociology to have in his garden, but his thoughts were interrupted by a man wearing boots, a worn leather coat, and a torn straw hat. He was very tall and thin. Through the tear in the hat Wallander could see one similarity between Svedberg and his cousin: they were both bald.
Wallander was thrown for a moment. He hadn't expected Professor Björklund to look like this. His face was sunburnt, and had a couple of days' worth of stubble. Wallander wondered whether professors in Copenhagen really appeared unshaven at their lectures. But then he reminded himself that the semester had not yet started and that Björklund probably had other business across the strait.
"I hope this isn't too much of an inconvenience," Wallander said.
Sture Björklund threw his head back and laughed. Wallander noted a certain amount of derision in his laughter.
"There's a woman I meet in Copenhagen every Friday," Sture Björklund said. "I suppose you would call her a mistress. Do policemen in the Swedish countryside have mistresses?"
"Hardly," Wallander said.
"It's an ingenious solution to the problems of coexistence," Björklund said. "Each time may be the last. There's no co-dependence, no late-night discussions that might get out of hand and lead to things like furniture buying or pretending that one takes the idea of marriage seriously."
This man in the straw hat with the shrill laugh was starting to get on Wallander's nerves.
"Well, murder is something to take seriously," he said.
Sture Björklund nodded and took off the hat, as if he felt compelled to show a sign of something resembling mourning.
"Let's go in," he said.
The house was not like anything Wallander had ever seen before. From the outside it looked like a typical Scanian farmhouse. But the world that Wallander entered was completely unexpected. There were no walls left on the inside of the house – it was simply one big room that stretched all the way to the rafters. Here and there were little tower-like structures with spiral staircases made out of wrought iron and wood. There was almost no furniture and the walls were bare. One of the walls at the end of the house was entirely taken up by a large aquarium. Sture Björklund led him to a huge wooden table flanked by a church pew and a wooden stool.
"I've always thought that chairs should be hard," Björklund said. "Uncomfortable chairs force you to finish what you have to do more quickly, whether it's eating, thinking, or talking to a policeman."
Wallander sat down in the pew. It really was very uncomfortable.
"If my notes are correct, you're a professor at Copenhagen University," he said.
"I teach sociology, but I try to keep my course load down to an absolute minimum. My own research is what interests me, and I can do that from home."
"This is probably not relevant, but what is it you do your research on?"
"Man's relationship to monsters."
Wallander wondered if Sture Björklund was joking. He waited for him to continue.
"Monsters in the Middle Ages were not the same as they were in the 18th century. My ideas are not the same as those of future generations will be. It's a complicated and fascinating world: hell, the home of all terror, is constantly changing. Above all, this kind of work gives me a chance to make extra money, a factor which is not insignificant."
"In what way?"
"I work as a consultant for American film companies that make horror movies. Without boasting, I think I can claim to be one of the most sought-after consultants in the world when it comes to commercial terror. There's some Japanese man in Hawaii, but other than that it's just me."
Just as Wallander was starting to wonder if the man sitting across from him on the little stool was insane, he handed him a drawing that had been lying on the table.
"I've interviewed seven-year-olds in Ystad about monsters. I've tried to incorporate their ideas into my own work and have come up with this figure. The Americans love him. He's going to get the starring role in a cartoon series aimed at frightening seven- and eight-year-olds."
Wallander looked at the picture. It was extremely unpleasant. He put it down.
"What do you think, Inspector?"
"You can call me Kurt."
"What do you think?"
"It's unpleasant."
"We live in an unpleasant world."
He laid the straw hat on the table and Wallander smelt a strong odour of sweat.
"I've just decided to cancel my telephone service," he said. "Five years ago I got rid of the TV. Now I'm getting rid of the phone."
"Isn't that a little impractical?"
Björklund looked at him seriously. "I'm going to exercise my right to decide when I want to have contact with the outside world. I'll keep the computer, of course. But the phone is going."
Wallander nodded and took the opportunity to change the subject.
"Your cousin, Karl Evert Svedberg, has been killed. Apart from Ylva Brink, you are the only remaining relative. When was the last time you saw him?"
"About three weeks ago."
"Can you be more precise?"
"Friday, 19 July, at 4.30 p.m."
The answer came so quickly that Wallander was surprised. "How can you remember the time of day so well?"
"We had decided to meet at that time. I was going to Scotland to see some friends, and Kalle was going to house-sit, like he always did. That was really the only time we saw each other, when I was going away and when I came back."
"What was involved in house-sitting?"
"He lived here."
The answer came as a surprise to Wallander, but he had no reason to doubt Björklund.
"This happened regularly?"
"For the last ten years at least. It was a wonderful arrangement."
Wallander thought for a moment. "When did you come back?"
"27 July. Kalle picked me up at the airport and drove me home. We chatted for a bit and then he went back to Ystad."
"Did you have the feeling that he was overworked?"
Björklund threw his head back and laughed his shrill laugh again.
"I take it you meant that as a joke, but isn't it disrespectful to joke about the dead?"
"I meant the question seriously."
Björklund smiled. "I suppose we can all seem a bit overworked if we indulge in passionate relationships with women, can't we?"
Wallander stared at Björklund.
"What do you mean?"
"Kalle met his woman here while I was gone. That was part of the arrangement. They lived here whenever I went to Scotland or anywhere else."
Wallander gasped.
"You seem surprised," Björklund said.
"Was it always the same woman? What was her name?"
"Louise."
"What was her last name?"
"I don't know. I never met her. Kalle was quite secretive about her, or perhaps one should say 'discreet'."
Wallander was caught completely by surprise. He had never heard of Svedberg having any relationship with a woman, let alone a long-term one.
"What else do you know about her?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"But Kalle must have said something?"
"Never. And I never asked. Our family is not one for idle curiosity."
Wallander had nothing more to ask. What he needed now was time to digest this latest piece of information. He got up, and Björklund raised his eyebrows.
"Was that it?"
"For now. But you'll hear from me again."
Björklund followed him out. It was warm and there was almost no breeze.
"Do you have any idea who might have killed him?" Wallander asked when they reached his car.
"Wasn't there a break-in? Who knows what criminal is lurking just around the corner?"
They shook hands and Wallander got into the car. He had just started the engine when Björklund leaned down to the window.
"There's just one more thing," he said. "Louise changed her hair colour pretty often."
"How do you know?"
"The hairs left in the bathroom. One year it was red, then black, then blond. It was always different."
"But you think it was the same woman?"
"I actually think Kalle was very much in love with her."
Wallander nodded. Then he drove away. It was 3 p.m. One thing was certain, Wallander thought. Svedberg, our friend and colleague, may have been dead for just a couple of days, but we already know more about him than when he was alive.
At 3.10 p.m., Wallander parked his car in the town square and walked up to Lilla Norregatan. Without knowing why, he quickened his step. Something about this had suddenly become a matter of urgency.
Wallander went down into the basement. The steep stairs gave him the feeling that he was on his way to something far deeper than a normal basement; that he was journeying to the underworld. He arrived at a blue steel door, found the right key among the ones Nyberg had given him, and unlocked it. It was dark inside and the air smelt dank and musty. He took out the torch he had brought with him from the car and let the beam travel over the walls until he found the light switch. It was placed unusually low, as if for very small people. He walked into a narrow corridor with storage areas behind grilles on both sides. It occurred to him that Swedish basement storage lockers were not unlike rough prison cells, except that they didn't contain prisoners, but instead guarded old sofas, skis, and piles of suitcases. Svedberg's storage locker was all the way at the end of the corridor. The wire netting was reinforced with steel bars. A padlock hung around two of the bars. Svedberg must have reinforced this himself, Wallander thought. Is there something in there that he couldn't risk losing?
Wallander put on a pair of rubber gloves, opened the lock carefully, then turned on the light in the storage area and looked around. It was full of the things one would expect, and it took him only about an hour to go through everything there. He found nothing unusual. Finally, he straightened up and looked around again, looking for something that should have been there but wasn't, like the expensive telescope. He left the basement and locked it up.
He came back up into daylight. Since he was thirsty, he walked over to a cafe on the south side of the main square and drank some mineral water and a cup of coffee. He fought an inner battle over buying a Danish pastry. He knew he shouldn't but did it anyway.
Less than half an hour later he was back at the door of Svedberg's flat. It was deathly silent inside. Wallander held his breath before going in. The usual police tape was plastered across the door. He unpeeled the tape from the lock, got out the key, and let himself in. Immediately he heard the cement mixer from the street. He walked into the living room, cast an involuntary glance at the spot where Svedberg had lain, and walked over to the window. The rumble of the cement mixer seemed magnified among the buildings. Construction materials were being unloaded from a large truck. A thought suddenly came to Wallander. He left the flat and walked down to the street. An older man who had taken his shirt off was spraying water into the mixer. The man nodded at Wallander and seemed to know immediately that he was a police officer.
"It's terrible what happened," he yelled above the sound of the mixer.
"I need to speak to you," Wallander yelled back.
The man called out to a younger worker who was smoking in the shade. He came over and grabbed the hose. They went around the corner, where it was quieter.
"Do you know what has happened?" Wallander asked him.
"Some policeman by the name of Svedberg was shot."
"That's right. What I want you to tell me is how long you've been working here. It looks like you're just getting started."
"We started on Monday. We're rebuilding the entryway to the building."
"When did you start using the mixer?"
The man thought about it. "It must have been on Tuesday," he said. "At around 11 a.m."
"Has it been on since then?"
"Pretty much continuously from 7 a.m. until 5 p.m. Sometimes even a little longer."
"Has it been in the same spot the whole time?"
"Yes."
"So you've had a clear view of everyone coming and going from the building."
The man suddenly realised the importance of Wallander's question and became very serious.
"Of course you don't know the people who live here," Wallander said. "But you've probably seen a number of people more than once."
"I don't know what that policeman looked like, if that's what you're asking."
Wallander hadn't thought of this.
"I'll get someone to come down and show you a photograph," he said. "What's your name?"
"Nils Linnman, like the man who does those nature programmes."
Wallander was of course familiar with Nils Linnman, the Swedish television personality.
"Have you noticed anything unusual during the time you've been working here?" Wallander asked while he desperately searched for something to write on.
"How do you mean?"
"Someone who may have seemed very nervous, or as if they were in a hurry. Sometimes you notice things that just don't seem quite right."
Linnman thought it over and Wallander waited. He needed to pee again.
"No," Linnman said finally. "I can't think of anything. But Robban may have seen something."
"Robban?"
"The young guy who took over for me. But I doubt it. I think the only thing on his mind is his motorbike."
"We'd better ask him," Wallander said. "And if you think of anything later, please call me right away."
For once Wallander had a card with him, which Linnman tucked into the front pocket of his baggy overalls.
"I'll get Robban."
The ensuing conversation with Robban was very brief. His full name was Robert Tärnberg and he had heard only vague mention of someone being killed in the building. He had not noticed anything unusual. Wallander suspected he wouldn't even have noticed an elephant walking across the street, so he didn't bother giving him his card. He returned to the flat. At least he now had a satisfactory answer for why no one had heard the shots.
He went out into the kitchen and called the station. Höglund was the only one available. Wallander asked her to come down with a photo of Svedberg to show to the construction workers.
"We already have officers down there going door to door," she said.
"But they seem to have overlooked the workers."
Wallander walked out into the hall, then stopped and tried to rid himself of all extraneous thoughts. Many years ago, when Wallander had just moved to Ystad from Malmö, Rydberg had given him the following advice: slowly peel away all the extraneous layers. There are tracks and marks left at every crime scene, like shadows of the event itself. That's what you have to find.
Wallander opened the front door and immediately noticed at least one detail that wasn't right. In a basket under the hall mirror there was a stack of newspapers, all copies of the local paper,
Ystad Allehanda,
which Svedberg subscribed to. But there was no copy on the floor under the post slot, although at least one should have been there.
Maybe even two or three by now. Someone had moved them. He walked into the kitchen and saw that the Wednesday and Thursday editions lay on the counter. Friday's edition lay on the kitchen table.
Wallander called Nyberg's mobile phone. He answered right away. Wallander started by telling him about the cement mixer. Nyberg sounded doubtful.
"Sound travels inwards," he said. "People on the street would be unable to hear shots from inside if the cement mixer had been on, but inside the building it would be a different story. Sound travels differently in buildings. I read about it somewhere."
"Maybe we should do some test shots," Wallander said. "With and without the cement mixer on and without telling the neighbours about it beforehand."
Nyberg agreed.
"But what I'm really calling about is the paper," Wallander said.
"Ystad Allehanda!'
"I put it on the kitchen table," Nyberg said. "But someone else is responsible for the ones lying on the counter."
"We should test them for prints," Wallander said. "We don't know who might have put them there."
Nyberg was silent for a moment. "You're right," he said. "How the hell could I have missed it?"
"I won't touch them," Wallander told him.
"How long are you going to be there?"
"Two or three hours at least."
"I'll come down."
Wallander pulled out one of the kitchen drawers and found a couple of pens and a pad of paper where he remembered seeing them before. He wrote down Nils Linnman's and Robert Tärnberg's names and noted that someone should talk to the newspaper delivery person. Then he returned to the hall. Traces and shadows, Rydberg had told him. He held his breath while he let his gaze travel over the room. The leather coat Svedberg wore both winter and summer hung by the door. Wallander searched the pockets and found his wallet.
Nyberg has been sloppy, he thought.
He returned with it to the kitchen and emptied the contents onto the table. There was 847 kronor, a cash card, a card for petrol, and some personal identification cards.
Detective Inspector Svedberg,
he read. He compared the police ID and the driver's licence. The photo on the driver's licence was the older. Svedberg stared glumly into the lens. It looked like it had been taken in the summertime; the top of Svedberg's head was sunburned.
Louise should have told you to wear a hat, Wallander thought. Louise. Only two people claimed she existed. Svedberg and his cousin, the monster maker. But he had never seen her, only strands of her hair. Wallander made a face. It didn't make sense.
He picked up the phone and called Ylva Brink at the hospital. He was told she would be in that evening. Wallander looked up her home phone number and got her machine.
He went back to the contents of the wallet. The photo on the police ID was recent. Svedberg's face was a little fuller but just as glum. Wallander looked through the rest of the contents and found some stamps. That was all. He got out a plastic bag and dumped everything into it. Then he went out into the hall for the third time. Peel everything away, find the traces, Rydberg had said.
Wallander went into the bathroom and relieved himself. He thought about what Sture Björklund had said about the different coloured hairs. The only thing that Wallander knew about the woman in Svedberg's life was that she dyed her hair. He went out into the living room and stood beside the overturned chair. Then he changed his mind. You're proceeding too quickly, Rydberg would have told him. Traces of a crime need to be coaxed out, not rushed.
He returned to the kitchen and called Ylva Brink again. This time she answered.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said. "I know you work all night."
"I can't sleep anyway," she said.
"A lot of questions have come up and I need to ask you some of them right away."
Wallander told her about his talk with Sture Björklund and Björklund's claim that Svedberg had a woman called Louise.
"He never told me any of this," she said when Wallander had finished.
He sensed that the information disturbed her.
"Who never told you? Kalle or Sture?"
"Neither one."
"Let's start with Sture. What kind of relationship do you two have? Are you surprised that he never told you about this?"
"I just can't believe it."
"But why would he lie?"
"I don't know."
Wallander realised that the conversation needed to be continued in person. He looked at the time. It was 5.40 p.m. He needed another hour in the flat.
"It's probably best if we meet," he suggested. "I'm free after 7 p.m. tonight."
"How about at the station? That's close to the hospital, and I could come by on my way to work."
Wallander hung up and returned to the living room. He approached the broken and overturned chair, looked around the room, trying to imagine the actions that had taken place. Svedberg had been shot straight on. Nyberg had mentioned the possibility that the buckshot had entered slightly from below, suggesting that the killer held the shotgun at hip or chest level. The bloodstain on the wall confirmed this upward trajectory. Svedberg must have then fallen to the left, most probably taking the chair down with him, at which point one of its arms broke. But had he been about to sit down, or get up?
Wallander realised the importance of this at once. If Svedberg had been sitting in the chair he must have known his killer. If a burglar had surprised him, he would hardly have sat down or remained sitting.
Wallander went over to the spot where the shotgun had been found. He turned around and looked at the room from his new vantage point. This may not have been the point from which the shot was fired, but it would have been close. He kept still and tried to coax the shadows from their hiding places. The feeling that something about the case was very strange grew stronger. Had Svedberg come in from the hall and surprised a burglar? If this was the case, he would have been in the way. This would also have been true if Svedberg had entered from the bedroom. It was reasonable to assume that a burglar would not have had the shotgun at the ready. Svedberg would no doubt have tried to attack him. He may have been afraid of the dark, but he was certainly not afraid to take action when necessary.
The cement mixer was suddenly turned off. Wallander listened. The sound of traffic was not very loud.
There is another alternative, he thought. The person who entered the flat was someone Svedberg knew. He knew him so well that it would not have worried him to see the shotgun. Then something happened, Svedberg was killed, and the unknown assailant turned the flat inside out looking for something.
Perhaps he simply tried to make it look like a burglary. Wallander thought about the telescope again. It was missing, but who could say if anything else was gone? Maybe Ylva Brink would know the answer.
Wallander went up to the window and looked down at the street. Nils Linnman was locking up a work shed. Robert Tärnberg must already have gone. He had heard the roar of a motorbike being started up a couple of minutes ago.
The doorbell rang. Wallander jumped. He opened the door, and Ann-Britt Höglund came in.
"The construction workers have gone home," Wallander said. "You're too late."
"I showed them Svedberg's picture," she said. "No one saw him, or at least they don't remember it."
They sat down in the kitchen and Wallander told her about his meeting with Sture Björklund. She listened attentively.
"If he's right then that changes our picture of Svedberg quite dramatically," she said when Wallander had finished.