One Step Behind

by Henning Mankell

  They were early risers and left Ystad a little after 7 a.m. As usual they were planning to be gone the whole day. They put two rucksacks in the boot. These contained everything they might possibly need, even raincoats. Although it looked like it was going to be a fine day, you could never be sure. They lived a well-organised life. She was a teacher, he an engineer. They never left anything to chance.

  They parked at the reserve shortly before 8 a.m., had a cup of coffee, then put on their rucksacks and started walking. At 8.15 a.m. they looked around for a nice place to have breakfast. They heard some dogs barking at a distance but had not yet seen any other people. It was warm and there was no breeze. When they found a good spot they spread out a blanket and sat down to eat. On Sundays they discussed the things they didn't have time for during the week. Today it was buying a new car. The one they had was getting old, but could they really afford a new one? After talking for a while, they decided they would wait another month or so. When they had finished eating, Rosmarie Leman stretched out on the blanket and fell asleep. Mats Leman intended to do the same, but first he had to relieve himself. He took some toilet paper with him and walked to the other side of the path and headed down the slope towards an area surrounded by thick bushes. Before squatting down, he looked around carefully but saw no one.

  This is the best part of Sunday, he thought when he had finished. To lie down next to Rosmarie and doze for half an hour. As he had this thought, he noticed something in the bushes. He didn't know what it was, but there was some colour that contrasted with the green foliage. Normally he was not particularly curious, but he couldn't help walking closer and parting the branches for a better look. What he saw he would never forget as long as he lived.

  Rosmarie was woken by his screams. At first she didn't know what it was, then she realised to her horror that it was her husband's voice calling for help. She had just managed to stand up when he came running towards her. She couldn't know what had happened or what he had seen, but his face was completely ashen. He made it to her side by the blanket and tried to tell her something.

  Then he fainted.

  The police station in Ystad took the call at 9.05 a.m. The caller was so hysterical that he was difficult to understand. Finally, however, the policeman taking the call pieced together that the caller's name was Mats Leman and he claimed to have found some dead bodies in Hagestad's nature reserve. Although his account was disjointed, the policeman on duty realised that it was serious. He took down the caller's mobile-phone number and told him to stay where he was. Then he went into Martinsson's office, since he had seen him come in just a few minutes before. The policeman stood in the doorway and told him about the call. There was one detail in particular that made Martinsson's stomach knot up.

  "Did he say three?" he asked. "Three dead bodies?"

  "That's what he said."

  Martinsson got up. "I'll check it out right now," he said. "Have you seen Wallander?"

  "No."

  Martinsson remembered that Wallander was going to see someone this morning, someone named Sundberg – or was it Sundström? He called Wallander's mobile.

  Wallander had walked to Vädergränd from his flat on Mariagatan, stopped in front of a beautiful house that he had admired many times, and rang the bell. Sundelius opened the door, dressed in a neatly pressed suit. They had just sat down in the living room when the phone rang. Wallander saw Sundelius's disapproving look as he pulled it out of his pocket with a quick apology.

  He listened to what Martinsson had to say. He asked the same question as Martinsson.

  "Did he say three? Three people?"

  "It hasn't been confirmed, but that's what he thought he saw."

  Wallander felt as though a weight was starting to press against his head.

  "You realise what this might mean," he said.

  "Yes," Martinsson answered. "We have to hope he was hallucinating."

  "Did he give that impression?"

  "Not according to the officer who took the call."

  Wallander looked at a clock hanging on Sundelius's wall. It was 9.09 a.m.

  "Come by and pick me up. I'm at number seven, Vädergränd," he said.

  "Should we have full back up?"

  "No, let's check it ourselves first."

  Martinsson was on his way. Wallander got to his feet. "Unfortunately our conversation will have to wait," he said.

  Sundelius said he understood. "I take it there's been an accident of some kind?"

  "Yes," Wallander said. "A traffic accident. Unfortunately, there's no way of knowing when something like this will come up. I'll be in touch about visiting you again."

  Sundelius walked him to the door. Martinsson pulled up and Wallander jumped in. He reached out and placed the flashing police light on the roof. When they arrived at the nature reserve, a woman ran out to meet them. Wallander could see a man sitting on a rock with his head in his hands. Wallander got out of the car. The woman was distraught and kept pointing and shouting something. Wallander took her by the shoulders and told her to calm down. The man remained where he was. When Wallander and Martinsson walked over to him he looked up. Wallander crouched down beside him.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  The man pointed into the nature reserve. "They're in there," he mumbled. "They're dead. They've been dead for a long time."

  Wallander looked at Martinsson. Then he turned back to the man.

  "You said that there were three of them."

  "I think so."

  One question remained, perhaps the worst one. "Could you tell how old they were?"

  The man shook his head. "I don't know."

  "I know it must have been a terrible sight," Wallander said. "But you have to lead us to the spot."

  "I'm never going back there," he said. "Never."

  "I know where it is."

  It was the woman. She came up behind her husband and put her arm around him.

  "But you never saw them yourself?"

  "Our rucksacks and blanket are still up there. I know where it is."

  Wallander got up. "Let's go," he said.

  She led them into the reserve. The air was very still, and Wallander thought he could hear the faint sound of the sea. He wondered if the sound was simply the jumble of anxious thoughts inside his own head. They walked quickly and Wallander had trouble keeping up with the other two. Sweat ran down his chest. He needed to pee. A rabbit dashed across their path. Wallander couldn't imagine what they were about to find, but he knew that it would not be like anything he had seen before. Dead people are no more alike than the living, he thought. Nothing is ever repeated or the same, just like this anxiety. He recognised the knot in his stomach. It was still as if he were experiencing it for the first time.

  The woman slowed down. They were getting closer. When they arrived at the blanket, she turned around and pointed down a slope on the other side of the path. Her hand shook. Until this moment Martinsson had been in front, but now Wallander took the lead. Rosmarie Leman waited by the rucksacks.

  Wallander looked down the hillside. There was nothing but bushes below them. He started down the slope with Martinsson close behind. They arrived where the bushes started, and looked around.

  "Do you think she might be wrong about the spot?" Martinsson asked. His voice was low, as though he were afraid someone would overhear them.

  Wallander didn't answer. Something else had caught his attention. At first he didn't know what it was and then it struck him. A bad smell. He looked at Martinsson, who hadn't caught a whiff of it yet. Wallander started pushing his way through the bushes. He didn't see anything, just some trees up ahead. The smell disappeared, then returned more strongly.

  "What's that?" Martinsson asked.

  As soon as he had said it he realised what the answer was. Wallander proceeded slowly with Martinsson close behind. Then he stopped suddenly and saw Martinsson flinch. There was something behind the bushes to the left. The smell became stronger.

  Martin
sson and Wallander looked at each other, and each put a hand over his nose and mouth. A feeling of nausea washed over Wallander. He tried to take some deep breaths through his mouth while he kept his nose shut.

  "Wait here," he told Martinsson. His voice quavered.

  He forced himself forward and parted the branches. Three young people lay entwined on a blue linen cloth. They had been shot in the head. And they were in an advanced state of decomposition. Wallander shut his eyes and sat down.

  After a moment he got up and returned to the place where he had left Martinsson, and pushed him along in front of him as if someone were following them. He stopped only when they were up on the path again.

  "I've never seen anything so fucking horrible," Wallander stammered.

  "Is it – "

  "It has to be."

  They stood there in silence. Wallander would later remember that a bird sang in a nearby tree. Everything was like a strange nightmare, and yet at the same time an excruciating reality. Wallander used all his inner resources to force himself to start thinking like a policeman again, to start practising his profession. He got out his phone and called the station. After about a minute he got Höglund on the line.

  "It's me, Kurt."

  "Shouldn't you be visiting that retired bank manager this morning?"

  "We've found them. All three of them. They're dead."

  He heard her catch her breath. "You mean Boge and the others?"

  "Yes."

  "They're dead?"

  "Shot."

  "Oh my God."

  "Listen to me. Here's what we have to do. This is a red alert. I want everybody out here. We're at Hagestad nature reserve. I'll put Martinsson at the turn-off to guide people down here. We need Lisa immediately. And we'll need extra help to keep the area cordoned off from the public."

  "Who's going to call the parents?"

  Wallander felt a degree of anguish and panic he had never experienced before. Of course the parents had to be notified; they had to identify their children's bodies. But he just couldn't do it.

  "They've been dead for a long time," he said. "Do you understand? They may have been dead as long as a month."

  She understood.

  "I'll have to talk to Lisa about it," he said. "But we can't let the parents see this."

  There was nothing else to say. Wallander was left staring down at the phone after they had hung up.

  "You'd better get down to the turn-off," he told Martinsson.

  Martinsson inclined his head in Rosmarie Leman's direction. "What do we do with her?"

  "Get the important facts. Time, address, etcetera. Then send them home. Tell them not to talk to anyone about it until they hear otherwise."

  "Are we allowed to do that?"

  Wallander stared at Martinsson. "Right now we're allowed to do whatever the hell we want."

  Martinsson and Leman left, and Wallander was alone. The bird kept singing. A couple of metres away, hidden behind thick bushes, three young people lay dead. How alone can a person possibly feel, he wondered. He sat down on a rock by the path. The bird flew away.

  We didn't get them home, he thought. They never left for Europe. They were here the whole time and they were dead. Maybe even since Midsummer. Eva Hillström was right all along. Someone else wrote those postcards. They were here the whole time, in the same spot where they celebrated their Midsummer feast.

  He thought about Isa Edengren. Did she realise what had happened? Was that why she had tried to commit suicide? Did she realise the others were dead, just as she would have been if she'd been with them that night?

  There were already things that didn't make sense. Why had no one discovered the bodies for a whole month? Even if the spot was out of the way, someone would have come across it, or smelled them. Wallander didn't understand it, but he also couldn't quite bear to keep thinking about it. Who could possibly have wanted to kill three young people dressed up in costume and celebrating Midsummer together? It was an act of insanity. And somewhere in the network of connections to this act there was another dead body. Svedberg. How had he been involved in all this?

  Wallander felt an increasing sense of helplessness. Although he had only gazed at the scene for a few seconds, he had not been able to mistake the bullet holes in their foreheads. The murderer knew what he was aiming at. And Svedberg had been the best shot in the force.

  A breeze tossed the trees from time to time. In between the small gusts, all was calm. Svedberg was the best shot. Wallander forced himself to think this through. Could Svedberg possibly have been the one? What was there that spoke against this possibility? For that matter, were there any clear alternatives to choose from?

  He got up and started walking to and fro along the path. He wished he could have called Rydberg on the phone. But Rydberg was dead, as dead as these three young people. As he moved along the path he had a sudden impulse to run away from it all. He didn't think he could handle the pressure any more. Someone else would have to take over: Martinsson or Hansson. He was burnt out. And he had developed diabetes. He was on a downward spiral.

  Finally he heard people approaching. There were sounds of cars in the distance and branches breaking somewhere down the path. Then they were there, gathering around him. He would have to take charge and tell them what to do. He had known many of them for as long as 15 years. Lisa Holgersson was pale. Wallander wondered what he looked like himself.

  "They're down there," he said and pointed to the bushes. "They've been shot. Although they haven't been identified yet, I'm sure they're the three missing young people, the ones we assumed, or hoped, were travelling through Europe. Now we know that isn't the case."

  He paused before continuing. "I want to prepare you for the fact that the bodies may have been lying here since Midsummer. You all know what that means. There is every reason to put on a mask."

  He looked at Holgersson. Did she want to see them? She nodded. Wallander led the way. The only sounds were rustling leaves and small branches breaking underfoot. When the smell of the bodies came wafting over them, someone groaned. Holgersson grabbed Wallander's arm. Wallander knew it was easier to deal with a macabre scene like this in a group rather than alone. Only one of the younger police officers had to turn away and vomit.

  "We can't let their parents see this," Holgersson said with a shaky voice. "It's horrible."

  Wallander turned to the doctor who had accompanied them. He was also very pale.

  "The investigation has to be as quick as possible," Wallander said. "We need to take the bodies back and get them fixed up as soon as possible before the parents have to identify them."

  The doctor shook his head. "I'm not touching this," he said simply. "I'm calling Lund."

  He went off to the side and made a call on Martinsson's phone.

  "We need to be clear about one thing," Wallander said to Holgersson. "We already have a dead police officer on our hands. Now we have three more murder victims. That means four murders to solve, and it's going to be huge when it gets out. There will be enormous pressure on us to catch the killer. We also have to be prepared for rumours of a connection between the two events. You understand where that may lead."

  "The suspicion that Svedberg was the killer?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you think he did it?"

  Her question came so quickly that he was taken by surprise. "I don't know," Wallander said slowly. "There are no indications that Svedberg had a motive. Somewhere there's a connection, yes. But we don't know what it is."

  "How much should we say at this point?"

  "I don't actually think it matters. We've never been able to protect ourselves from idle speculation."

  Höglund was listening to their conversation. He noticed that she was shaking.

  "There's one more thing to keep in mind," she said. "Eva Hillström is going to accuse us of not moving on this soon enough."

  "She may be right about that," Wallander said. "It may be something we'll have to acknowledge. I'll
bear responsibility for it."

  "Why you?" Holgersson asked.

  "Someone has to," Wallander said simply. "It doesn't matter who it is."

  Nyberg gave them all rubber gloves, and they started working. There were specific routines to be followed, tasks that had to be done in a certain order. Wallander walked over to Nyberg, who was instructing someone with a camera.

  "I want everything on video," Wallander said. "Both close-up and from far away."

  "Will do."

  "Try to get someone whose hand won't shake."

  "It's always easier to look at death through the lens," Nyberg said. "But we'll use a tripod just in case."

  Wallander gathered his team together: Martinsson, Hansson and Höglund. He started looking around for Svedberg but stopped himself.

  "They're dressed up," Hansson said. "And they're wearing wigs."

  "It's the 18th century," Höglund said. "This time I'm sure."

  "So it happened on Midsummer's Eve," Martinsson said. "That's two months ago."

  "We don't know that," Wallander broke in. "We don't even know that this is where the crime took place."

  He knew how ridiculous it sounded, but it was strange that no one had discovered them for so long. Wallander started walking around the blue linen cloth. He tried to see what had happened. He slowly let his mind pull back from everything else.

  They were here to have a party. There were supposed to be four of them but one had fallen ill. They carried food, drink and a tape recorder with them in two big baskets.

  Wallander interrupted himself and went over to Hansson, who was talking on the phone. Wallander waited until he was done.

  "The cars," he said. "Where are the cars that we assumed were somewhere in Europe? They must have got here somehow."

  Hansson promised to look into it. Wallander resumed his slow circling of the tablecloth where the dead lay. They set their things out, they ate and drank. Wallander crouched down. There was an empty bottle of wine in one of the baskets, two more in the grass. Three empty bottles altogether.