Sidetracked

by Henning Mankell

  Martinsson came striding around the corner of the house. He had a telephone in his hand.

  “This may be irrelevant right now,” he said. “But we’ve received a message from Interpol. They have a positive identification of the girl who burned herself to death.”

  Wallander looked at him quizzically.

  “The girl in Salomonsson’s field?”

  “Yes.”

  Wallander got up.

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s a message waiting for you at the station.”

  They left Bjäresjö at once and headed back to Ystad.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dolores María Santana.

  It was 5.45 a.m. on Midsummer morning. Martinsson read out the message from Interpol identifying the girl.

  “Where’s she from?” asked Höglund.

  “The message is from the Dominican Republic,” replied Martinsson. “It came via Madrid.”

  Puzzled, he looked around the room.

  Höglund knew the answer.

  “The Dominican Republic is one half of the island where Haiti is,” she said. “In the West Indies. Isn’t it called Hispaniola?”

  “How the hell did she wind up here, in a rape field?” asked Wallander. “Who is she? What else did Interpol say?”

  “I haven’t had time to go through the message in detail,” said Martinsson. “But it seems that her father has been looking for her, and she was reported missing in late November last year. The report was originally filed in a city called Santiago.”

  “Isn’t that in Chile?” Wallander interrupted, surprised.

  “This city is called Santiago de los Treinta Caballeros,” said Martinsson. “Don’t we have an atlas somewhere?”

  “I’ll get one,” said Svedberg and left the room.

  A few minutes later he returned, shaking his head.

  “It must have been Björk’s,” he said. “I couldn’t find it.”

  “Call our bookseller and wake him up,” said Wallander. “I want an atlas here now.”

  “Are you aware that it’s not even six in the morning and it’s Midsummer Day?” Svedberg asked.

  “It can’t be helped. Call him. And send a car over to get it.”

  Wallander took a 100-krona note out of his wallet and gave it to Svedberg. A few minutes later Svedberg had roused the bookseller and the car was on its way.

  They got coffee and went into the conference room. Hansson told them that they wouldn’t be disturbed by anyone except Nyberg. Wallander took a look around the table. He met the gazes of the group of weary faces and wondered how he looked himself.

  “We’ll have to come back to the girl later,” he began. “Right now we need to concentrate on what happened last night. And we might as well assume from the start that the same person who killed Gustaf Wetterstedt has struck again. The modus operandi is the same, even though Carlman was struck in the head and Wetterstedt had his spine severed. But both of them were scalped.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Svedberg. “The man who did this must be a complete animal.”

  Wallander held up his hand.

  “Hold on a minute,” he said. “There’s something else we know too. Arne Carlman was an art dealer. And now I’m going to tell you something I learnt yesterday.”

  Wallander told them about his conversation with Lars Magnusson, and the rumours about Wetterstedt.

  “So we have a conceivable link,” he concluded. “Art: stolen art and fenced art. And somewhere, when we find the point that connects the two men, we’ll find the offender.”

  No-one spoke. Everyone seemed to be considering what Wallander had said.

  “We know where to concentrate our investigation,” Wallander continued. “Finding the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman. But we have another problem.”

  He looked around the table and could see that they understood.

  “The killer could strike again,” said Wallander. “We don’t know why he killed either man. So we don’t know whether he’s after other people too. And we don’t know who they might be. The only thing we can hope for is that the people threatened are aware of it.”

  “Another thing we don’t know,” said Martinsson. “Is the man insane? We don’t know whether the motive is revenge or something else. We can’t even be sure that he hasn’t simply invented a motive. No-one can predict the workings of an insane mind.”

  “You’re right, of course,” replied Wallander. “We’re dealing with many unknowns.”

  “Maybe this is just the beginning,” Hansson said grimly. “Do you think we’ve got a serial killer on our hands?”

  “It could be that bad,” said Wallander firmly. “That’s why I also think we should get some help from outside, from the criminal psychiatric division in Stockholm. Since this man’s modus operandi is so remarkable, perhaps they can do a psychiatric profile of him.”

  “Has this offender killed before?” asked Svedberg. “Or is this the first time?”

  “I don’t know,” said Wallander. “But he’s cautious. I get a feeling that he plans what he does very carefully. When he strikes he does it without hesitation. There could be at least two reasons for this. First, he doesn’t want to get caught. Second, he doesn’t want to be interrupted before he finishes what he set out to do.”

  A shudder of revulsion passed through the group.

  “This is where we have to start,” he said. “Where is the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman? Where do their paths cross? That’s what we have to clarify. And we have to do it as quickly as possible.”

  “We should also realise that we won’t be working in peace,” said Hansson. “Reporters will be swarming around us. They know that Carlman was scalped. They have the story they’ve been longing for. For some strange reason Swedes love to read about crime when they’re on holiday.”

  “That might not be such a bad thing,” said Wallander. “At least it might send a warning to anyone who might be on the hit list.”

  “We ought to stress that we want clues from the public,” said Höglund. “If we assume that you’re right, that the murderer has a list he’s working through, and that other people could realise that they’re on it, then there may be a chance that some of them have an idea of who the killer is.”

  “You’re right,” said Wallander, turning to Hansson. “Call a press conference as soon as possible. We’ll tell the press everything we know. That we’re looking for a single killer. And that we need all the clues we can get.”

  Svedberg got up and opened a window. Martinsson yawned loudly.

  “I know we’re all tired,” said Wallander. “But we have to carry on. Try to grab some sleep when you get a chance.”

  There was a knock on the door. An officer handed over an atlas. They set it on the table and found the Dominican Republic and the city of Santiago.

  “We’ll have to deal with this girl later,” said Wallander. “We can’t worry about it now.”

  “I’ll send a reply,” said Martinsson. “And ask for more information about her disappearance.”

  “How did she end up here?” muttered Wallander.

  “The message from Interpol gives her age as 17,” said Martinsson. “And her height as about 160 centimetres.”

  “Send them a description of the medallion,” said Wallander. “If the father can identify it, the case is closed.”

  They left the conference room. Martinsson went home to talk to his family and cancel their holiday. Svedberg went down to the basement and took a shower. Hansson vanished down the hall to organise the press conference. Wallander followed Höglund into her office.

  “Do you think we’ll catch him?” she asked gravely.

  “I don’t know,” said Wallander. “We have a lead that seems solid. This isn’t an offender who simply kills anyone who gets in his way. He’s after something. The scalps are his trophies.”

  She sat down in her chair as Wallander leaned against the
doorframe.

  “Why do people take trophies?” she asked.

  “So they can brag about them.”

  “To themselves or to others?”

  “Both.”

  Suddenly he realised why she had asked about the trophies.

  “You think that he took these scalps so he could show them to somebody?”

  “It can’t be ruled out,” she said.

  “No,” said Wallander, “it can’t be ruled out. Nothing can.”

  He was just about to leave the room, but turned around.

  “Will you call Stockholm?” he asked.

  “It’s Midsummer Day,” she said. “I don’t think they’ll be on duty.”

  “You’ll have to call someone at home,” said Wallander. “Since we don’t know whether he’s going to strike again, we’ve got no time to lose.”

  Wallander went to his own office and sat down heavily in the visitor’s chair. One of its legs creaked precariously. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.

  He woke up with a start when someone entered the room. He glanced at his watch and saw that he’d been asleep for almost an hour. He still had a headache, but he wasn’t quite so tired.

  It was Nyberg. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was standing on end.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said apologetically.

  “I was just dozing,” said Wallander. “Have you got any news?”

  Nyberg shook his head.

  “All I can come up with is that the person who killed Carlman must have had his clothes drenched with blood. Subject to the forensic examination, I think we can assume that the blow came from directly overhead. That would mean that the person holding the axe was standing quite close.”

  “Are you sure it was an axe?”

  “No,” said Nyberg. “It could have been a heavy sabre. Or something else. But Carlman’s head was split like a log.”

  Wallander felt sick.

  “All right, then,” he said. “So the killer got his clothes covered with blood. Someone might have seen him. And that clears all of the guests.”

  “We looked along the hedge,” said Nyberg. “We searched all the way along the rape field and up towards that hill. The farmer who owns the fields around Carlman’s farmhouse came and asked whether he could harvest the rape. I said that he could.”

  “A wise decision,” said Wallander. “Isn’t it late already?”

  “I think so,” said Nyberg. “It’s Midsummer, after all.”

  “What about the hill?” asked Wallander.

  “The grass was trampled down. At one spot it looked as if some-one had been sitting there. We took samples of the grass and the soil.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think that old bicycle is of any interest to us,” said Nyberg.

  “The police dog lost the scent. Why?”

  “You’ll have to ask the officer about that,” said Nyberg. “But it could be that another smell is so strong that the dog loses the scent he was originally following. There are plenty of reasons why trails suddenly stop.”

  “Go home and get some sleep,” said Wallander. “You look exhausted.”

  “I am,” said Nyberg.

  After Nyberg left, Wallander went into the canteen and fixed himself a sandwich. A girl from the front desk came and gave him a pile of messages. He leafed through them and saw that reporters were calling. He knew he ought to go home and change his clothes, but instead he decided to do something entirely different. He knocked on the door of Hansson’s office and told him he was driving out to Carlman’s farm.

  “I said we’d talk to the press at one o’clock,” said Hansson.

  “I’ll be back by then,” replied Wallander. “But unless something crucial happens, I don’t want anyone to look for me. I need to think.”

  “And everybody needs to get some sleep,” said Hansson. “I never imagined we’d wind up in such a nightmare.”

  “It always happens when you least expect it,” said Wallander.

  He drove out towards Bjäresjö in the beautiful summer morning, the windows rolled down. He ought to visit his father today. And call Linda too. Tomorrow Baiba would be back in Riga after her trip to Tallinn. In less than two weeks his holiday should be starting.

  He parked the car by the cordon surrounding Carlman’s farm. Small groups of people had gathered on the road. Wallander nodded to the officer guarding the cordon. Then he walked around the garden and followed the dirt road up towards the hill. He stood at the spot where the dog had lost the scent and looked around.

  He had chosen the hill with care. From here he could see everything going on in the garden. He also must have been able to hear the music coming from inside the barn. Late in the evening the crowd in the garden thinned out. The guests had all said that everyone went indoors. At about 11.30 p.m. Carlman came walking towards the arbour with Madelaine Rhedin. Then what did you do?

  Wallander didn’t try to answer the question. Instead he turned around and looked down the other side of the hill. At the bottom there were tractor tracks. He followed the grassy slope until he reached the road. In one direction the tractor tracks led into a wood, and in the other down towards a road to the motorway to Malmö and Ystad. Wallander followed the tracks towards the woods. He walked under a clump of tall beech trees. The sunshine shimmered through the foliage. He could smell the earth. The tractor tracks stopped at a site where some newly felled trees were stacked.

  Wallander searched in vain for a path. He tried to picture the roads. Anyone wanting to reach the motorway from the woods would have to pass two houses and several fields. The motorway was about two kilometres away. He retraced his steps and continued in the opposite direction. After almost a kilometre he came to the place where the road reached the E65.

  By the side of the road was a road workers’ hut, which was locked. He stood there and looked around. Then he went around to the back, finding a folded tarpaulin and a couple of iron pipes. Something was lying on the ground. He bent down and saw that it was a piece torn from a brown paper bag. It had some dark spots on it. Carefully he placed the piece of paper back on the ground. He looked underneath the hut, which was raised on four concrete blocks, and saw the rest of the paper bag. He reached in and pulled it out. There were no spots on the bag itself. He stood motionless, thinking. Then he put down the bag and called the station. He got hold of Martinsson, who had just got back.

  “I need Eskilsson and his dog,” said Wallander.

  “Where are you? Did something happen?”

  “I’m out by Carlman’s farm,” replied Wallander. “I just want to make sure of one thing.”

  After a short while Eskilsson arrived with his dog. Wallander explained what he wanted.

  “Go over to the hill where the dog lost the scent,” he said. “Then come back here.”

  Eskilsson left. After about ten minutes he returned. Wallander saw that the dog had stopped searching. But just as he reached the hut he reacted. Eskilsson gave Wallander a questioning look.

  “Let him go,” said Wallander.

  The dog went straight for the piece of paper and halted. But when Eskilsson tried to get him to continue his search he quickly gave up. The scent had disappeared again.

  “Is it blood?” asked Eskilsson, pointing at the piece of torn paper.

  “I think so,” said Wallander “At any rate, we’ve found something associated with the man who was up on the hill.”

  Eskilsson left with his dog. Wallander was just about to call Nyberg when he found that he had a plastic bag in one pocket. Carefully he deposited the piece of paper in it.

  It couldn’t have taken you more than a few minutes to get here from Carlman’s farm. Presumably there was a bicycle here. You changed clothes since you had blood all over them. But you also wiped an object. Maybe a knife or an axe. Then you took off, either towards Malmö or Ystad. You probably crossed the motorway and chose one of the many small roads that criss-cross t
his area. I can follow you this far right now. But no further.

  Wallander walked back to Carlman’s farm. He asked the officer guarding the cordon whether the family was still there.

  “I haven’t seen anybody,” he said. “But no-one has left the house.”

  Wallander nodded and walked to his car. There was a crowd of onlookers standing outside the cordon. Wallander glanced at them hastily and wondered what kind of people would give up a summer morning for the opportunity to smell blood.

  He didn’t realise until he drove off that he had seen something important. He slowed down and tried to remember what it was.

  It had something to do with the people who were standing outside the cordon. What was it he had thought? Something about people sacrificing a summer morning?

  He braked and made a U-turn in the middle of the road. When he got back to Carlman’s house the onlookers were still there outside the cordon. Wallander looked around without finding any explanation for his reaction. He asked the officer whether anyone had just left.

  “Maybe. People come and go all the time.”

  “Nobody special that you recall?”

  The officer thought for a moment. “No.”

  Wallander went back to his car.

  It was 9.10 a.m. on the morning of Midsummer Day.

  CHAPTER 13

  When Wallander got back to the station, the girl in reception told him he had a visitor waiting in his office. Wallander lost his temper and shouted at the girl, a summer intern, that no-one, no matter who it was, was to be allowed into his office. He stormed down the hall and threw open the door, coming face to face with his father, sitting in the visitor’s chair.

  “The way you tear open doors,” said his father. “Somebody might think you were in a rage.”

  “All they told me was that someone was waiting in my office,” said Wallander, astonished. “Not that it was you.”

  Wallander’s father had never visited him at work. When he was a young officer, his father had even refused to let him into the house in uniform. But now here he was, wearing his best suit.

  “I’m surprised,” said Wallander. “Who drove you here?”