One Step Behind

by Henning Mankell

  Sture Björklund gave Wallander directions. His house didn't seem hard to find.

  After the phone conversation, Wallander spent a half hour writing out a summary of the case. He was still searching for the thought he had had when he first saw Svedberg lying on the floor – the thought that something wasn't quite right, the same idea that had also struck Nyberg. Wallander realised that it could simply be a reaction to the unbearable and incomprehensible experience of seeing a colleague dead. But he still tried to explore what might have caused it.

  A little after 10 a.m. he went to get another cup of coffee. A number of people were gathered in the canteen. There was a general atmosphere of shock and dismay. Wallander lingered for a while, talking to some traffic officers. Then he walked back to his office and called Nyberg on his mobile phone.

  "Where are you?" Wallander asked.

  "Where do you think?" he replied sourly. "I'm still in Svedberg's flat."

  "You haven't seen a telescope, by any chance?"

  "No."

  "Anything else?"

  "We have a number of prints on the shotgun. We'll be able to get complete copies of at least two or three of them."

  "Then we'll hope he's already in the database. Is that it?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm on my way to question Svedberg's other cousin, who lives outside Hedeskoga. After that I'll be back to do a more thorough search of the flat."

  "We'll be done by then. I'm also planning to attend the press conference."

  Wallander couldn't remember Nyberg ever coming to a meeting that involved the press before. Maybe it was Nyberg's way of expressing how upset he was. Wallander was suddenly moved.

  "Have you found any keys?" he asked after a moment.

  "There are some car keys and a key to the basement storage area."

  "Nothing in the attic?"

  "There don't seem to be storage areas in the attic, only in the basement. You'll get the keys from me at the press conference."

  Wallander hung up and went to Martinsson's office.

  "Where's Svedberg's car?" he asked. "The Audi."

  Martinsson didn't know. They asked Hansson, who didn't know either. Höglund wasn't in her office.

  Martinsson looked at his watch.

  "It's got to be in a car park close to the flat," he said. "I think I have time to check before 11 a.m."

  Wallander went back to his office. He saw that people had started to send flowers. Ebba looked like she had been crying, but Wallander didn't say anything to her. He hurried past her as fast as he could.

  The press conference started on time. Afterwards Wallander remembered thinking that Lisa Holgersson conducted the proceedings with dignity. He told her that no one could have done a better job. She was wearing her uniform and standing in front of a table with two bouquets of roses. Her speech was clear and to the point. She told the press the known facts, and her voice did not fail her this time. A respected colleague, Karl Evert Svedberg, had been found murdered in his flat. The exact time of death and the motive were not yet known, but there were indications that Svedberg was attacked by an armed burglar. The police did not have any leads. She concluded by describing Svedberg's career and his character. Wallander thought her description of Svedberg was very good, not exaggerated in any way. Wallander answered the few questions that were asked. Nyberg described the murder weapon as a Lambert Baron shotgun.

  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.r />
  "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.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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 h
imself 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.