Sidetracked

by Henning Mankell

  “I think so. The blow to the spine must have come from someone standing behind him. It’s most likely that the force of the blow made him fall forwards. He has grains of sand in his mouth and eyes. It probably happened right nearby.”

  “There must be traces of blood somewhere,” said Wallander.

  “The rain makes it difficult,” said the doctor. “But with a little luck maybe you can scrape through the surface layer and find some blood that seeped deep enough that the rain hasn’t washed it away.”

  Wallander pointed at Wetterstedt’s butchered head.

  “How do you explain this?” he asked.

  The doctor shrugged.

  “The incision in the forehead was made with a sharp knife,” he said. “Or maybe a razor. The skin and hair seem to have been torn off. I can’t tell yet if it was done before or after he received the blow to the spine. That will be a job for the pathologist in Malmö.”

  “Malmström will have a lot to do,” said Wallander.

  “Who?”

  “Yesterday we sent in the remains of a girl who burned herself to death. And now we’re sending over a man who’s been scalped. The pathologist I talked to was named Malmström. A woman.”

  “There’s more than one,” said the doctor. “I don’t know her.”

  Wallander squatted next to the corpse.

  “Give me your interpretation,” he said to the doctor. “What do you think happened?”

  “Whoever struck him in the back knew what he was doing,” said the doctor. “A sharpshooter couldn’t have done better. But to scalp him! That’s the work of a madman.”

  “Or an American Indian,” said Wallander.

  He got up and felt a twinge in his knees. The days when he could squat without pain were over.

  “I’m finished here,” said the doctor. “I’ve already told Malmö that we’re bringing him in.”

  Wallander didn’t reply. He had noticed that Wetterstedt’s fly was open.

  “Did you touch his clothes?” he asked.

  “Just on the back, around the wound to his spine,” said the doctor.

  Wallander nodded. He could feel the nausea rising.

  “Could I ask you one thing?” he said. “Could you check inside Wetterstedt’s fly and see if he’s still got what’s supposed to be there?”

  The doctor gave Wallander a questioning look.

  “If someone cut off half his scalp, they might cut off other things too,” Wallander explained.

  The doctor nodded and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he cautiously stuck his hand in and felt around.

  “Everything that’s supposed to be there seems to be there,” he said when he pulled out his hand.

  Wallander nodded.

  Wetterstedt’s corpse was taken away. Wallander turned to Nyberg, who was kneeling next to the boat, which had been turned right side up.

  “How’s it going?” asked Wallander.

  “I don’t know,” said Nyberg. “With this rain, everything is washing away.”

  “We’ll have to dig tomorrow,” said Wallander and told him what the doctor said. Nyberg nodded.

  “If there’s any blood, we’ll find it. Any special place you want us to start looking?”

  “Around the boat,” said Wallander. “Then in the area from the garden gate down to the water.”

  Nyberg pointed at a case with the lid open. There were plastic bags inside.

  “All I found in his pockets was a box of matches,” said Nyberg. “You’ve got his keys. The clothes are expensive. Except for the clogs.”

  “The house seems to be untouched,” Wallander said. “But I’d appreciate it if you could take a look at it tonight.”

  “I can’t be in two places at once,” Nyberg grumbled. “If we’re going to secure any evidence out here, we’ll have to do it before it’s all washed away by the rain.”

  Wallander was just about to return to Wetterstedt’s house when he noticed that Lindgren was still there. He went over to him. He could see that the young man was freezing.

  “You can go home now,” Wallander said.

  “Can I phone my father and tell him about it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What happened?” Lindgren asked.

  “It’s too soon to say,” Wallander replied.

  There were still a handful of people outside the cordon, watching the police work. Some senior citizens, a younger man with a dog, a boy on a moped. Wallander thought about the days that lay ahead with dread. A former minister of justice who had been found scalped with his spine chopped in half was the sort of juicy titbit that would drive the media wild. The only positive thing that he could think of was that the girl who burned herself to death in Salomonsson’s rape field would not end up on the front pages after all.

  He had to have a pee. He went down to the water and unzipped his fly. Maybe it’s that simple, he thought. Wetterstedt’s fly was open because he was standing taking a pee when he was attacked.

  He started to walk back up towards the house, then stopped. He was overlooking something. He went back to Nyberg.

  “Do you know where Svedberg is?” he asked.

  “I think he’s trying to find some more plastic sheeting and a couple of big tarpaulins. We’ve got to cover up the sand.”

  “I’ll talk to him when he gets back,” said Wallander. “Where are Martinsson and Hansson?”

  “I think Martinsson went to get something to eat,” said Nyberg sourly. “Who the hell has time for food?”

  “We can arrange to get you something,” said Wallander. “Where’s Hansson?”

  “He was going to speak to the prosecutors’ office. And I don’t want anything.”

  Wallander walked back to the house. After he hung up his soaked jacket and pulled off his boots he realised he was hungry. He went to the kitchen and turned on the light. He remembered how they had sat in Salomonsson’s kitchen drinking coffee. Now Salomonsson was dead. Compared with the old farmer’s kitchen, this was another world. Shiny copper pots hung on the walls. An open grill with a smoke hood attached to an old oven chimney stood in the middle of the room. He opened the refrigerator and took out a piece of cheese and a beer. He found some crispbread in one of the cupboards, and sat down at the kitchen table and ate, his mind empty. By the time Svedberg came in the front door he had finished.

  “Nyberg said you wanted to talk to me?”

  “How’d it go with the tarpaulins?”

  “We’re still trying to cover up the sand as best we can. Martinsson called the weather office and asked how long the rain was going to last. It’s supposed to keep raining all night. Then we’ll have a few hours’ break before the next storm arrives. That one’s expected to be a real summer gale.”

  A puddle had formed on the kitchen floor around Svedberg’s boots. But Wallander didn’t feel like asking him to take them off. They were unlikely to find the clue to Wetterstedt’s death in his kitchen.

  Svedberg sat down and dried off his hair with a handkerchief.

  “I vaguely remember that you once told me you were interested in the history of the American Indians,” Wallander began. “Or am I wrong?”

  Svedberg gave him a puzzled look.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve read a lot about American Indians. I never liked watching movies that didn’t tell the truth about them. I corresponded with an expert named Uncas. He won a prize on a TV show once. I think that was before I was born. But he taught me a lot.”

  “I assume you’re wondering why I ask,” Wallander went on.

  “Actually, no,” said Svedberg. “Wetterstedt was scalped, after all.”

  Wallander looked at him intently.

  “Was he?”

  “If scalping is an art, then in this case it was done almost perfectly. A cut with a sharp knife across the forehead. Then some cuts up by the temples. To get a firm grip.”

  “He died from a blow to the spine,” said Wallander. “Just below the shoulder blades.”
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  Svedberg shrugged.

  “Native American warriors struck at the head,” he said. “It’s hard to hit the spine. You have to hold the axe at an angle. It’s particularly hard, of course, if the person you’re trying to kill is in motion.”

  “What if he’s standing still?”

  “In any case, it’s not very warrior-like,” said Svedberg. “In fact, it’s not like an American Indian to kill someone from behind. Or to kill anyone at all, for that matter.”

  Wallander rested his head in his hands.

  “Why are you asking about this?” said Svedberg. “It’s hardly likely that an American Indian murdered Wetterstedt.”

  “Who would take his scalp?” asked Wallander.

  “A madman,” said Svedberg. “Anyone who does something like this has to be nuts. We must catch him as fast as possible.”

  “I know,” said Wallander.

  Svedberg stood up and left. Wallander got a mop and cleaned the floor. Then he went in to see Höglund in the study.

  “Your father didn’t sound too happy,” she said. “But I think the main thing that was bothering him was that you hadn’t called earlier.”

  “He’s right about that,” said Wallander. “What have you found?”

  “Surprisingly little,” she said. “On the surface nothing seems to have been stolen. No cabinets are broken open. I think he must have had a housekeeper to keep this big place clean.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Two reasons. First, you can see the difference in the way a man and a woman clean. Don’t ask me how. That’s just the way it is.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “There’s a note in his diary that says ‘charwoman’ and then a time. The note comes up twice a month.”

  “Did he really write ‘charwoman’?”

  “A fine old contemptuous word.”

  “When was she here last?”

  “Last Thursday.”

  “That explains why everything seems so clean and tidy.”

  Wallander sank down into a chair in front of the desk.

  “How did it look down there?” she asked.

  “An axe blow severed the spine. He died instantly. The killer cut off his scalp.”

  “Earlier you said there had to be at least two of them.”

  “I know I did. But now all I’m certain about is that I don’t like this one bit. Why would someone murder an old man who’s been living in seclusion for 20 years? And why take his scalp?”

  They sat for a while in silence. Wallander thought about the burning girl. About the man with his hair torn off. And about the pouring rain. He tried to push these thoughts away by remembering himself and Baiba in a hollow behind a dune at Skagen in Denmark. But the girl kept running through the field with her hair on fire. And Wetterstedt lay scalped on a stretcher on the way to Malmö.

  He forced himself to concentrate, and looked at Höglund.

  “Give me a run-down,” he said. “What do you think? What happened here? Describe it for me. Don’t hold anything back.”

  “He went out,” she said. “A walk down to the beach. To meet someone. Or just to get some exercise. But he was only going for a short walk.”

  “Why?”

  “The clogs. Old and worn out. Uncomfortable. But good enough if you’re just going to be out for a short time.”

  “And then?”

  “It happened at night. What did the doctor say about the time?”

  “He’s not sure yet. Keep going. Why at night?”

  “The risk of being seen is too great in the daytime. At this time of year, the beach is never deserted.”

  “What else?”

  “There’s no obvious motive. But I think you can tell that the killer had a plan.”

  “Why?”

  “He took time to hide the body.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “To delay its discovery. So he’d have time to get away.”

  “But nobody saw him, right? And why a man?”

  “A woman would never sever someone’s spine. A desperate woman might hit her husband with an axe. But she wouldn’t scalp him. It’s a man.”

  “What do we know about the killer?”

  “Nothing. Unless you know something I don’t.”

  Wallander shook his head.

  “You’ve outlined everything we know,” he said. “I think it’s time for us to leave the house to Nyberg and his people.”

  “There’s going to be a big commotion about this,” she said.

  “I know,” said Wallander. “It’ll start tomorrow. You can be glad you’ve got your holiday coming up.”

  “Hansson has already asked me whether I’d postpone it,” she said. “I said yes.”

  “You should go home now,” Wallander said. “I think I’ll tell the others that we’ll meet early tomorrow morning to plan the investigation.”

  Wallander knew that they had to form a picture of who Wetterstedt was. They knew that every evening at the same time he called his mother. But what about all the routines that they didn’t know about? He went back to the kitchen and searched for some paper in one of the drawers. Then he made a list of things to remember for tomorrow morning’s meeting. A few minutes later Nyberg came in. He took off his wet raincoat.

  “What do you want us to look for?” he asked.

  “I want to be able to rule out that he was killed inside. I want you to go over the house in your usual way,” Wallander answered.

  Nyberg nodded and left the kitchen. Wallander heard him reprimanding one of his crew. He knew he ought to drive home and sleep for a few hours, but instead he decided to go through the house one more time. He started with the basement. An hour later he was on the top floor. He went into Wetterstedt’s spacious bedroom and opened his wardrobe. Pulling the suits back, he searched the bottom. Downstairs he could hear Nyberg’s voice raised in anger. He was just about to close the wardrobe doors when he caught sight of a small case in one corner. He bent down and took it out, sat down on the edge of the bed, and opened it. Inside was a camera. Wallander guessed that it wasn’t particularly expensive. He could see that it was more or less the same type as the one Linda had bought last year. There was film in it, and seven pictures out of 36 were exposed. He put it back in the bag. Then he went downstairs to Nyberg.

  “There’s a camera in this bag,” he said. “I want you to get the photos developed as quickly as possible.”

  It was almost midnight when he left Wetterstedt’s villa. It was still pouring outside. He drove straight home.

  When he got to his flat he sat down at the kitchen table, wondering what the photographs would be of. The rain pounded against his windows, and he was aware of a feeling of foreboding. He sensed that what had happened was only the beginning of something much worse.

  CHAPTER 8

  On Thursday morning, 23 June, there was no Midsummer Eve mood in the Ystad station. Wallander had been woken at 3 a.m. by a reporter from Daily News in Stockholm who had heard about Wetterstedt’s death from the Östermalm police. Just when Wallander finally managed to get back to sleep, the Express called. Hansson had also been woken during the night. They gathered in the conference room just after 7 a.m., everyone looking haggard and tired. Nyberg was there, even though he had been going through Wetterstedt’s house until 5 a.m. Before the meeting, Hansson took Wallander aside and told him that he would have to run the investigation.

  “I think Björk knew this would happen,” said Hansson. “That’s why he retired.”

  “He didn’t retire,” said Wallander. “He was promoted. Besides, seeing into the future was definitely not one of his talents. He worried enough about what was happening around him from day to day.”

  But Wallander knew that the responsibility for organising the hunt for Wetterstedt’s killer would fall to him. The big difficulty was the fact that they would be short of staff all summer. He was grateful that Ann-Britt Höglund had agreed to postpone her holiday. But what
was going to happen to his? He had counted on being on his way to Skagen with Baiba in two weeks.

  He sat down at the table and took stock of the exhausted faces around him. It was still raining, but it was easing off. In front of him on the table he had a pile of messages that he had picked up at the reception desk. He pushed them aside and tapped on the table with a pencil.

  “We have to get started,” he said. “The worst thing possible has happened. We’ve had a murder during the summer holiday. We’ll have to organise ourselves as best we can. We also have the Midsummer holiday coming up that will keep the uniformed officers busy. We’ll have to plan our investigation with this in mind.”

  No-one spoke. Wallander turned to Nyberg and asked how the forensic investigation was going.

  “If only it would stop raining for a few hours,” said Nyberg. “To find the murder site we’ll have to dig through the surface layer of the sand. That’s almost impossible to do until it’s dry. Otherwise we’ll just end up with lumps of wet sand.”

  “I called the meteorologist at Sturup Airport a while ago,” said Martinsson. “He’s predicting that the rain will stop here just after 8 a.m. But a new storm will come in this afternoon, and we’ll get more rain. After that it’ll clear up.”

  “If it’s not one thing it’s another,” said Wallander. “Usually it’s easier for us if the weather’s bad on Midsummer Eve.”

  “For once it looks like the football game will be a help,” said Nyberg. “I don’t think people will drink as much. They’ll be glued to their TVs.”

  “What’ll happen if Sweden loses to Russia?” asked Wallander.

  “They won’t,” Nyberg proclaimed. “We’re going to win.”

  Wallander hadn’t realised that Nyberg was a football fan.

  “I hope you’re right,” he said.

  “Anyway, we haven’t found anything of interest around the boat,” Nyberg continued. “We also went over the part of the beach between Wetterstedt’s gate, the boat, and down to the water. We picked up a number of items. But nothing that is likely to be of interest to us. With one possible exception.”

  Nyberg put one of his plastic bags on the table.

  “One of the officers found this. It’s a mace spray. The kind that women carry in their handbags to defend themselves if they’re attacked.”