One Step Behind

by Henning Mankell

  When death came for you, you had already emptied three bottles. That means you were drunk. Wallander got up thoughtfully. Nyberg came up behind him.

  "I'd like to know if any wine ran out into the grass or if we can determine if they drank it all."

  Nyberg pointed to a stain on the blue cloth.

  "Some of it spilled right there. It's not blood, if that's what you're thinking."

  Wallander kept going. You ate and drank and became intoxicated. You had a tape recorder, you were listening to music. Someone entered this scene and killed you when you were resting on the blue cloth with your arms around each other. One of you, Astrid Hillström, may in fact have been asleep. It was probably already morning, maybe early dawn.

  Wallander paused.

  His eyes fell on a wineglass near one of the baskets. He knelt down to examine it and waved a photographer over to get a close-up. The glass was leaning against the basket but there was a little pebble supporting it underneath. Wallander looked around. He lifted the edge of the cloth carefully but didn't see any stones or rocks anywhere. He tried to think what it meant. When Nyberg walked by he stopped him.

  "There's a pebble propping up that wineglass. If you see any others like it please let me know."

  Nyberg made a note of it. Wallander continued his rounds. Then he pulled back a bit and surveyed the scene from more of a distance.

  You spread your feast out at the foot of a tree. You chose a private place where no one would see you. Wallander pushed his way through the bushes and stood on the other side of the tree.

  He must have come from somewhere. There are no signs of panic. You were resting on the cloth, and one of you was already asleep. But the other two were perhaps still awake.

  Wallander went back and studied the corpses for a long time. Something wasn't right. Then he realised what it was. The picture in front of him wasn't real. It had been arranged.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  As dusk approached on Sunday, 11 August, and police spotlights gave an unearthly glow to the scene, Wallander did something unexpected. He left. The only person he spoke to was Höglund. He needed to borrow her car since his own was still parked at Mariagatan. He told her to get in touch with him on his mobile phone if he was needed. He didn't tell her where he was going. She returned to the crime scene, where there were no longer any bodies. They had been carried out around 4 p.m. Once the bodies had been removed, Wallander felt consumed by fatigue and nausea. He forced himself to put in a couple more hours; then he felt the need to leave the scene. When he asked Höglund for her car keys, he knew where he was going. He wasn't simply going away. However tired and depressed he got, he rarely functioned without a clear plan. He drove off almost in a hurry. There was something he wanted to see, a mirror he wanted to hold up in front of himself.

  Wallander pulled up outside Svedberg's building on Lilla Norregatan. The cement mixer was still there, and Svedberg's keys were in his pocket. The air inside the flat was stale. He went into the kitchen and opened the window. Then he drank a glass of water and reminded himself that he had an appointment with Dr Göransson the next morning. He knew he was going to miss it. He hadn't managed to improve his habits at all since receiving the diagnosis. He still ate as poorly, and had taken no exercise. At this point even his own health would have to be put on hold.

  The streetlamps cast a faint light into the living room. Wallander stood completely still in the twilight. He had left the crime scene because he needed some perspective on what had happened. But there was also a thought that had occurred to him earlier and that he wanted time to consider. They had all talked about the connections between the crimes and the hideous possibility that Svedberg was involved. But suddenly it occurred to Wallander that they were ignoring the most likely scenario. Svedberg had been conducting his own investigation without telling anyone what he was doing. It looked like he spent most of his holiday investigating the disappearance of these three young people. Of course, this could mean that he had something to hide. But it could also be that he had stumbled upon the truth. He might have had grounds to doubt that Boge, Norman and Hillström were travelling around Europe. He might have believed that something was wrong, and he might have crossed someone's path, only to end up murdered himself. Wallander knew that this did not explain why Svedberg hadn't told his colleagues what he was doing, but he may have had a good reason.

  The events of the day slowly passed through his mind. Only an hour or so after they had discovered the bodies, Wallander had come to the conclusion that there was something wrong with the scene. He discovered what it was when the pathologist told him he was certain that the time of death was not as long ago as 50 days. This suggested two possibilities: either the shots were fired later than Midsummer, or else the bodies had been stored somewhere in the meantime, where they would have been better preserved. They couldn't conclude that the place where the bodies were found was necessarily the same place as the location of the crime.

  For Wallander and the team, it didn't seem possible that someone had killed the three people where they were found, moved them to an unknown location for storage, then returned them to their original place. Hansson had suggested that they really did go on their European holiday, but that they returned earlier than anticipated. Wallander acknowledged this as a possibility, however unlikely. But he didn't write anything off yet. He made his observations, listened to anyone who had anything to say, and felt he was being forced deeper and deeper into an endless fog.

  The warm August day had seemed never-ending. They took refuge in the structure of police routines and made their thorough examination of the scene. Wallander watched his colleagues, downcast and horrified, do what was expected of them. He watched them and wondered if every one of them was wishing that he or she had become anything but a police officer. People left as soon as they got the chance. Some camping chairs and tables were placed along the path where they could drink cups of coffee that got colder each time the thermoses were opened. Wallander didn't see anyone eat anything all day.

  It was Nyberg's tenacity that was the most impressive of all. He rummaged around the half-rotten, stinking food remains with sullen determination. He directed the photographer and the policeman doing the videotaping, sealed countless objects in plastic bags, and made detailed maps of the crime scene. Wallander sensed the hatred Nyberg felt for the person who had caused the mess he was now forced to root around in. He knew that no one else was capable of Nyberg's thoroughness. At one point Wallander had realised that Martinsson was exhausted. He took him aside and ordered him to go home, or at the very least to go down to the forensic technicians' van and sleep for a while. But Martinsson simply shook his head and continued his work on the area closest to the cloth. Some dog patrols from Ystad arrived. Edmundsson was there with his dog, Kall. The dogs had picked up a couple of different scents. One of them had found human excrement behind one of the bushes. In other places there were beer cans and pieces of paper. Everything was duly noted on Nyberg's maps. In one particular spot, under a tree a little distance away, Kall indicated a find but after a careful search they were still unable to locate any human object. Wallander returned to the spot behind this tree several times that day. He discovered that it was one of the most sheltered locations from which to observe the place where the Midsummer celebrations had taken place. He felt a cold grip around his stomach. Had the murderer stood in this very place? What had he seen?

  Shortly after midday, Nyberg told Wallander to take a look at the tape recorder that lay on its side by the cloth. They found a number of unmarked cassette tapes in one of the baskets.' Everyone stopped talking when Wallander turned on the tape recorder. A dusky male voice they all recognised came on: the singer Fred Åkerström interpreting a ballad from the collection Fredman's Epistles. Wallander looked at Höglund. She had been right. This was a celebration set in the 18th century, the age of that eternally popular poet Bellman.

  Wallander got up and went into Svedberg's study. First he
looked around for a minute, then he sat down at the desk. He let images from the investigation come to him. There were the three postcards that Eva Hillström had doubted from the very beginning. Wallander hadn't believed her; no one had. It had been inconceivable that someone would send fake postcards. But now they had found her daughter dead, they knew that the postcards had been sent by someone else. Someone had travelled all over Europe, to Hamburg, Paris and Vienna for this. Why? Even if the three young people were not killed on Midsummer's Eve, there was no doubt that they were killed before the last postcard came from Vienna. But what was the reason for this false trail?

  Wallander stared blankly out into the dimly lit room.

  I'm afraid, he thought. I've never believed in pure evil. There are no evil people, no one with brutality in their genes. There are evil circumstances and environments, not evil per se. But here I sense the actions of a truly darkened mind.

  Wallander reached for Svedberg's pocket calendar and went through it again. There was the recurring name, "Adamsson". Could this be the surname of the woman in the photograph whom Sture Björklund told them was called Louise? Louise Adamsson. He went back to the kitchen and looked in the phone book. There was no Louise Adamsson listed. She could be married, of course, and have a different surname. He made a mental note to ask Martinsson to find out what Svedberg had done on the days marked "Adamsson" in his calendar.

  He turned out the light and went to the living room. Here someone had walked across the floor with a shotgun in his hand. It had been aimed and fired at Svedberg's head, then thrown to the floor and left behind. Wallander tried to think whether this marked the beginning or end of a series of events. Or was it part of something even larger? He almost didn't have the energy to follow this last thought to its conclusion. Was there really someone out there who was going to continue the senseless killing? He didn't know. Nothing gave him the mental foothold he was looking for. He walked over to the place where the shotgun had been found and tried to see where Svedberg must have been sitting. The cement mixer would have been rumbling on the street. Two shots, Svedberg thrown to the ground – probably dead before he even hit the floor. Wallander didn't hear any argument or raised voices, only the dry shots from the gun. He changed his position and walked over to the chair that lay on the ground.

  You let in a person you know, someone you are not afraid of. Or else someone enters who has his own key. Perhaps someone picks the lock. There are no marks on the door; he didn't use a crowbar. We'll assume it's a he. He has a shotgun, or else you keep an unregistered shotgun in the flat. A shotgun that is loaded, and that the person you have let in knows about. There are so many questions, but in the end it comes down to a who and a why. Only one who. And one lone why.

  He went back to the kitchen and called the hospital. Luckily, the doctor he had spoken to before was in.

  "Isa Edengren is doing well. She'll be released tomorrow or the day after."

  "Has she said anything?"

  "Not really. But I think she's happy you found her."

  "Does she know it was me?"

  "Shouldn't we have told her that?"

  "What was her reaction?"

  "I don't think I understand your question."

  "How did she react when she was told that a policeman had come looking for her?"

  "I don't know."

  "I need to talk to her as soon as possible."

  "Tomorrow will be fine."

  "I'd rather talk to her tonight. I need to talk to you, too."

  "It sounds rather urgent."

  "It is."

  "I'm actually on my way out. It would be more convenient to talk tomorrow."

  "I wish it were that unimportant," Wallander said. "But I have to ask you to stay. I'll be there in ten minutes."

  "Has something happened?"

  "Yes. Something I don't think you could possibly imagine."

  Wallander drank a glass of water and left the flat. It was still warm outside, with only a faint breeze.

  When he arrived at the ward where Isa Edengren was being kept, the doctor was waiting for him. They went into an empty office and Wallander closed the door. On the way over he had decided to level with the doctor completely. He told him what they had found out in the nature reserve, that three young people had been murdered, and that Isa Edengren was meant to have been with them. The only detail he left out was the fact that they had been dressed up. The doctor listened in disbelief.

  "I thought about going into pathology," he said afterwards. "But hearing this I'm glad I decided against it."

  "You're right. It was a terrible sight."

  The doctor got up. "I take it you want to see her now."

  "Just one more thing. Naturally I'd like you not to mention this to anyone."

  "Doctors have to take an oath."

  "So do police officers. But information seems to have a way of getting out anyway."

  They stopped outside Isa's door.

  "I'll just make sure she's awake."

  Wallander waited. He didn't like hospitals. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. He remembered what Dr Göransson said about checking his blood-sugar levels. It was apparently a very simple test. The doctor came back out.

  "She's awake."

  "One more thing," Wallander said. "This will sound strange, but can you check my blood-sugar level?"

  The doctor looked at him with astonishment.

  "Why?"

  "I have an appointment with one of your colleagues tomorrow morning that I won't be able to attend. But I was going to have it checked."

  "Are you diabetic?"

  "No. My blood-sugar level is too high."

  "Then you're diabetic."

  "I just want to know if you can measure it or not. I don't have my insurance card with me but maybe you could make an exception in my case."

  A nurse walked by and the doctor stopped her.

  "Could you check this man's blood-sugar level? He's going to speak with Edengren afterwards."

  "Of course."

  The nurse's name tag said "Brundin". Wallander thanked the doctor for his help and followed the nurse. She pricked his finger and squeezed a drop of blood onto a strip of tape in a machine that looked like a Walkman.

  "It's very high – 15.5," she said.

  "It's way too high," Wallander said. "That's all I wanted to know."

  She looked closely at him, but in a friendly way.

  "You're a little on the heavy side," she said.

  Wallander nodded. He felt suddenly ashamed of himself, like a naughty child.

  He went back to Isa Edengren's room. He had expected her to be lying in bed, but she was curled up in an armchair with a blanket drawn tightly around her. The only light in the room came from the bedside lamp. As he came closer he saw something like fear in her eyes. He put out his hand and introduced himself, then sat down on a stool next to her.

  She doesn't know what's happened, he thought. That three of her closest friends are dead. Or does she suspect it already? Has she been waiting for this discovery? Is that why she couldn't take it any longer?

  He pulled his stool around so he was facing her. Her eyes never left him. When he had first walked into the room she had reminded him of Linda. Linda had also tried to commit suicide, at the age of 15. Wallander later realised it was part of the series of events that had led Mona to leave him. He had never really understood it, even though he and Linda talked about it years later. There was something there that he would never quite grasp. He wondered if he would be able to understand why this girl had tried to take her life.

  "I'm the one who found you," he said. "I know you know that already. But you don't know why I came out to Skårby. You don't know why I walked around the back of the locked house and kept looking for you until I found you in the gazebo where you were sleeping."

  He paused so she could speak, but she remained silent, watching him.

  "You were supposed to have celebrated Midsummer with your friends Martin, Lena
and Astrid," he continued. "But you fell ill. You had some kind of stomach bug and stayed at home. Isn't that right?"

  No reaction. Wallander was suddenly unsure of how to proceed. How could he tell her what had happened? On the other hand it would be in all the papers tomorrow. She would suffer a great shock in either case.

  I wish Ann-Britt were here, he thought. She would be better at this than I am.

  "Astrid's mother received some postcards," he said. "They were signed by all three, or just by Astrid, and sent from Hamburg, Paris and Vienna. Had the four of you talked about going away after Midsummer?"

  She finally began to answer his questions, but her voice was so low that Wallander had trouble hearing her.

  "No, we hadn't decided anything," she whispered.

  Wallander felt a lump in his throat. Her voice sounded as if it might break at any moment. He thought about what she was going to hear, that a simple virus had saved her life. Wallander wanted to call the doctor he had spoken to before and ask him what he should do. How would he tell her? He put it off for now.

  "Tell me about the Midsummer party," he said.

  "Why should I?"

  He wondered how such a fragile voice could sound so determined. But she wasn't hostile. Her answers would depend on his questions.

  "Because I'd like to know. Because Astrid's mother is worried."

  "It was just a party."

  "But you were going to dress up like 18th-century courtiers."

  She couldn't know how he knew. He was taking a risk in asking the question, but she might be impossible to talk to after she found out what had happened to her friends.

  "We did that sometimes."

  "Why?"

  "It made things different."

  "To leave your own age and enter another?"

  "Yes."

  "Was it always the 18th century?"

  There was an undertone of disdain in her answer. "We never repeated ourselves."

  "Why not?"

  She didn't reply, and Wallander immediately knew he had hit an important point. He tried to approach it from another direction.