A Flock of Sheep in the Fog
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On Monday, May 4, Inspector Wallander was ready to hand over responsibility for the investigation into Mrs Akerblom's death to one of his colleagues. It was not because he believed their getting nowhere reflected badly on him as a policeman. It was something quite different: a feeling he had that was getting all the time stronger. It was that he couldn't drive himself to the necessary intensity of effort and concentration any more.
The investigation was completely stalled on Saturday and Sunday. It was the May Day holiday weekend, and people were away or unobtainable. It was practically impossible to get any response from the forensic people in Stockholm. The search there for the man who had shot a young policeman was obviously taking all their resources.
The investigation into Louise Akerblom's death was wreathed in silence. Bjork had been struck down by a severe attack of gallstones on Friday night and rushed to the hospital. Wallander went to see him early on Saturday to receive instructions.
When he got back from the hospital, Wallander sat down with Martinsson and Svedberg in the conference room at the station.
"Today and tomorrow Sweden is closed down," he said. "The results of the tests we're waiting for are not going to be here before Monday. We can use the next two days to go through the material we already have. I also think it would be a good idea for you, Martinsson, to show your face at home and spend some time with your family. Next week might be a bit busy. But let's keep our wits about us for a while this morning. I want us to go through the whole thing just one more time, right from the beginning. And I also want you both to answer me a question."
He paused for a moment before continuing.
"This isn't in accordance with police procedure, I know," he said, "but all through this investigation I've had the feeling there's something funny going on. I can't put it any clearer than that. What I want to know is, have either of you had the same feeling? That we were up against a crime that doesn't fit any of the usual patterns?"
"I've never seen anything quite like this," Martinsson said. "Of course, I don't have as much experience as you, Kurt. But I have to admit I'm baffled by the whole business. First we try to catch somebody who's carried out the horrific murder of a woman. The deeper we dig, the harder it is to understand why she's been murdered. In the end we come back to the feeling that her death is just an incident on the periphery of something quite other, something bigger. I didn't get much sleep this last week. That's unusual for me."
Wallander nodded and turned to Svedberg.
"What can I say?" he said, scratching his bald head. "Martinsson's already said it, better than I could put it. When I got home last night I made a list:
dead woman, well, black finger, blown-up house, radio transmitter, pistol, South Africa
. Then I sat staring at that list for an hour, as if it were a rebus. There just don't seem to be any connections and contexts in this investigation. I've never had such a feeling of trying to find my way in the pitch dark as I have in this case."
"That's what I wanted to hear," Wallander said. "It can't be insignificant that we all feel the same. Nevertheless, let's see if we can penetrate a bit of this darkness Svedberg describes."
For nearly three hours they went through the investigation. They agreed that they hadn't made any obvious mistakes, or overlooked anything. But nor had they found any new ways forward.
"The only real clue we have is a black finger," Wallander said, in summary. "We can be pretty sure the man who lost his finger was not alone, assuming he's the one who did it. The farmhouse was rented by Alfred Olsson to an African. We know that for sure. But we've no idea who this man is who calls himself Nordstrom and paid 10,000 kronor up front. Nor do we know what the house was used for. When it comes to the connection between these people and Louise Akerblom or the house that was blown up, the radio transmitter, and the pistol, we have only theories we can't substantiate. There's nothing so dangerous as an investigation that invites guessing rather than logical thinking. The theory that seems most likely just now is that Louise Akerblom happened to see something someone didn't want her to see. But what kind of people turn that into a reason for cold-blooded murder?"
They sat in silence, mulling over what he had said. The door opened and a cleaning lady peeked in.
"Not now," Wallander said.
She shut the door again.
"I think I'll spend the day going through the tip-offs we've had," Svedberg said. "If I need help, I'll let you know. I'm hardly going to have time for anything else."
"It might be as well to sort out Stig Gustafson once and for all," Martinsson said. "I can start by checking his alibi, in so far as that's possible on a day like today. If necessary I'll drive to Malmo. But first I'll try and track down that flower seller Forsgard he claims to have met in the toilets."
"This is a murder investigation," Wallander said. "Track these people down even if they're in their weekend cottages trying to get some peace and quiet."
They agreed to meet again at 5 p.m. to see where they were. Wallander got some coffee, went to his office and called Nyberg at home.
"You'll have my report on Monday," Nyberg said. "But you already know the most important parts."
"I still don't know why the house burned down. I don't know the cause of the fire."
"Maybe you ought to talk to the chief fire officer about that," Nyberg said. "He might have a good explanation. We're not ready yet."
"I thought we were working together," Wallander said, irritated. "Us and the fire service. But maybe there've been some new instructions I don't know about."
"It's just that we don't have an obvious explanation," Nyberg said.
"What do you think, then? What does the fire service think? What does Peter Edler think?"
"The explosion seems to have been so powerful that there's nothing left of the detonator. We've discussed the possibility of a series of explosions."
"No," Wallander said. "There was only one bang."
"I don't mean it quite like that," Nyberg said patiently. "You can set off ten explosions within a second if you're smart enough. We'd be talking about a chain with a tenth-of-a-second delay between each charge. But that increases the effect enormously. It has to do with the changed air pressure."
Wallander thought for a moment. "We would not be talking about a bunch of amateurs in that case?" he said.
"Not by any means."
"Could there be any other cause of the fire?"
"Hardly."
Wallander glanced at his papers before going on. "Can you say anything else about the radio transmitter?" he said. "There's talk that it was made in Russia."
"That's not just talk," Nyberg said. "I've had confirmation. I had help from the military."
"What do you make of that?"
"It's a mystery. The army is interested to know how it got here."
Wallander pressed ahead. "The pistol butt?"
"Nothing new on that."
"Do you have anything else?"
"Not really. The report won't spring any surprises."
Wallander brought the call to a close. Then he did something he'd made up his mind to do during that morning's meeting. He dialled the number of police headquarters in Stockholm and asked to speak with Inspector Loven. Wallander had met him the previous year, while investigating the case of a raft carrying two bodies that was washed up at Mossby Beach. They had only worked together for a few days, but Wallander remembered him as a good detective.
"Inspector Loven isn't available at the moment," the operator said.
"This is Inspector Wallander, Ystad. I have a message for him which has to do with the policeman who was killed."
"I'll see if I can find Inspector Loven."
"It's urgent," Wallander said, but the line was cut.
It took Loven twelve minutes to call back. "Wallander," he said. "I thought of you the other day, when I read about the murder of that woman. How's it going?"
"Slowly," Wallander said. "How about you?"
"We'll get him," Loven said. "We always get the ones who kill one of ours in the end. You had something to tell us in that connection?"
"Could be," Wallander said. "It's just that the woman down here was shot through the head. Like Tengblad. I think it would be a good idea to compare the bullets."
"Right," Loven said. "Don't forget, this fellow was shooting through a windscreen. Must have been hard to make out a face on the other side. And it's one hell of a shot if you can get somebody in the middle of the forehead when they're in a moving car. But I agree with you. We ought to make the comparison."
"Do you have a description?" Wallander said.
The reply came without a pause. "He stole a car from a young couple after the murder. Unfortunately they were so scared they've only been able to give us very muddled accounts."
"They didn't happen to hear him speak, did they?"
"That was the only thing they agreed on," Loven said. "He had some sort of a foreign accent."
Wallander could feel his excitement growing. He told Loven about his conversation with Alfred Olsson and about the man who had paid 10,000 kronor to rent an empty farmhouse in the middle of nowhere in Skane. And about the black man's finger.
"We'll have to look into this," Loven said. "Even if it does sound odd."
"The whole thing is extremely odd," Wallander said. "I could drive up to Stockholm on Monday. I believe that's where my black man is."
"Maybe he was mixed up in the tear gas attack on a discotheque."
Wallander vaguely remembered seeing something about that in the
Ystad Allehande
.
"What attack was that?"
"Somebody threw some tear gas grenades into a club in Soder," Loven said. "A discotheque with lots of Africans among the clientele. We've never had any trouble there before. But we have now. Somebody fired a few shots as well."
"Take good care of those bullets," Wallander said. "Let's take a close look at them too."
"You think there's only one gun in this country?"
"No. But I'm looking for links."
"I'll set things in motion here," Loven said. "Thanks for calling. I'll tell the people running the investigation you'll be here on Monday."
They gathered again at 5 p.m., and the meeting was very short. Martinsson had confirmed so much of Gustafson's alibi that he was well on the way to being excluded from the investigation. Wallander was doubtful, without being sure why. "Let's not let him go altogether," he said. "We'll go through all the evidence concerning him one more time."
Martinsson stared at him in surprise. "What exactly do you expect to find?"
Wallander shrugged. "I don't know. I'm just worried about letting him go too soon."
Martinsson was about to protest, but checked himself. He had great respect for Wallander's intuition.
Svedberg had worked his way through the stack of tipoffs the police had received so far. There was nothing that obviously threw new light on either Mrs Akerblom's death or the blown-up farmhouse.
"You'd think somebody would have noticed an African missing a finger," Wallander said.
"Maybe he doesn't exist," Martinsson said.
"We've got the finger," Wallander said.
They agreed that Wallander should go to Stockholm. There could be a link, no matter how unlikely it seemed, between the murders of Louise Akerblom and Tengblad.
They concluded the meeting by listing the heirs to the farmhouse.
"They can wait," Wallander said afterwards. "There's not a lot here that looks as if it will get us any further."
He sent Svedberg and Martinsson home and stayed behind in his office. He called Akeson, the prosecutor, at home to give him a summary of where they stood.
"It's not good if we can't solve this quickly," Akeson said.
They decided to meet first thing on Monday morning. Wallander could tell that Akeson was afraid of being accused later of allowing a carelessly conducted investigation to go ahead. He switched off his desk lamp, and left the station. He drove down the long incline and turned into the hospital car park.
Bjork was feeling better and expected to be discharged on Monday. Wallander gave him a report, and Bjork too thought Wallander ought to go to Stockholm.
"This used to be a quiet district," he said as Wallander was getting ready to leave. "Nothing much used to happen here to attract attention. That's all changed."
"It's not just here," Wallander said. "You're remembering a whole different age."
"I'm getting old," Bjork sighed.
"You're not the only one."
The words were still echoing in his ears as he left the hospital. It was nearly 6.30 p.m., and he was hungry. He did not feel like cooking at home, and he decided to eat out. He went home, took a shower, and changed. Then he called his daughter Linda in Stockholm. He let the phone ring for quite some time before he gave up. He went down to the basement and booked himself a time in the laundry room. Then he walked in to the town centre. The wind had dropped, but it was chilly.