Sidetracked

by Henning Mankell

Wallander went to his office. He called the switchboard and asked them to find Nyberg, who called back 15 minutes later.

  “Do you remember the camera from Wetterstedt’s house?” Wallander asked.

  “Of course I remember,” said Nyberg grumpily.

  “Has the film been developed yet? There were seven pictures exposed.”

  “Didn’t you get them?” Nyberg asked, surprised.

  “No.”

  “They should have been sent over to you last Saturday.”

  “I never got them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Maybe they’re lying around somewhere.”

  “I’ll have to look into this,” said Nyberg. “I’ll get back to you.”

  Somebody would bear the brunt of Nyberg’s wrath, and Wallander was glad that it wouldn’t be him.

  He found the number of the Hässleholm police and after some difficulty managed to get hold of Hugo Sandin’s phone number. When Wallander asked about Sandin, he was told that he was about 85 years old but that his mind was still sharp.

  “He usually stops by to visit a couple of times a year,” said the officer Wallander spoke to, who introduced himself as Mörk.

  Wallander wrote down the number and thanked him. Then he called Malmö and asked for the doctor who had done the autopsy on Wetterstedt.

  “There’s nothing in the report about the time of death,” Wallander said to him. “That’s very important for us.”

  The doctor asked him to wait a moment while he got his file. After a moment he returned and apologised.

  “It was left out of the report. Sometimes my dictaphone acts up. But Wetterstedt died less than 24 hours before he was found. We’re still waiting for some results from the laboratory that will enable us to narrow the time span further.”

  “I’ll wait for those results,” said Wallander and thanked him.

  He went in to see Svedberg, who was at his computer.

  “Did you talk to that journalist?”

  “I’m just typing up a report.”

  “Did you get the time of their visit?”

  Svedberg looked through his notes.

  “They got to Wetterstedt’s house at 10 a.m. and stayed until 1 p.m.”

  “After that, nobody else saw him alive?”

  Svedberg thought for a moment. “Not that I know of.”

  “So, we know that much,” said Wallander and left the room.

  He was just about to call Hugo Sandin, when Martinsson came in.

  “Have you got a minute?” he asked.

  “Always,” said Wallander. “What’s up?”

  Martinsson waved a letter.

  “This came in the mail today,” he said. “It’s from someone who says he gave a girl a ride from Helsingborg to Tomelilla on Monday, 20 June. He’s seen the description of the girl in the papers, and thinks it might have been her.”

  Martinsson handed the envelope to Wallander, who took out the letter and read it.

  “No signature,” he said.

  “But the letterhead is interesting.”

  Wallander nodded. “Smedstorp Parish,” he said. “Official church stationery.”

  “We’ll have to look into it,” said Martinsson.

  “We certainly will,” said Wallander. “If you take care of Interpol and the other things you’re busy with, I’ll look after this.”

  “I still don’t see how we have time,” said Martinsson.

  “We’ll make time,” said Wallander.

  After Martinsson left, Wallander realised that he’d been subtly criticised for not leaving the suicide case for the moment. Martinsson might be right, he thought. There was no space for anything but Wetterstedt and Carlman. But then he decided the criticism was unjustified. They must make time to handle every case.

  As if to prove that he was right, Wallander left the station and drove out of town towards Tomelilla and Smedstorp. The drive gave him time to think about the murders. The summer landscape seemed a surreal backdrop to his thoughts. Two men are axed to death and scalped, he thought. A young girl walks into a rape field and sets herself on fire. And all around me it’s summertime. Skåne couldn’t be more beautiful than this. There’s a paradise hidden in every corner of this countryside. To find it, all you have to do is keep your eyes open. But you might also glimpse hearses on the roads.

  The parish offices were in Smedstorp. After he passed Lunnarp he turned left. He knew that the office kept irregular hours, but there were cars parked outside the whitewashed building. A man was mowing the lawn. Wallander tried the door. It was locked. He rang the bell, noting from the brass plate that the office wouldn’t be open until Wednesday. He waited. Then he rang again and knocked on the door. The lawnmower hummed in the background. Wallander was just about to leave when a window on the floor above opened. A woman stuck out her head.

  “We’re open on Wednesdays and Fridays,” she shouted.

  “I know,” Wallander replied. “But this is urgent. I’m from the Ystad police.”

  Her head disappeared. Then the door opened. A blonde woman dressed in black stood before him, heavily made up and wearing high heels. What surprised Wallander was the white clerical collar set against all that black. He introduced himself.

  “Gunnel Nilsson,” she replied. “I’m the vicar of this parish.”

  Wallander followed her inside. If I were walking into a nightclub I could better understand it, he thought. The clergy don’t look the way I’d imagine these days.

  She opened the door to an office and asked him to have a seat. Gunnel Nilsson was a very attractive woman, although Wallander couldn’t decide whether the fact that she was a vicar made her seem more so.

  He saw a letter lying on her desk. He recognised the parish letterhead.

  “The police received a letter on your letterhead. That’s why I’m here.”

  He told her about the girl. The vicar seemed upset. When he asked her why, she explained that she had been sick for a few days and hadn’t read the papers. Wallander showed her the letter.

  “Do you have any idea who wrote it? Or who has access to your letterhead?”

  She shook her head.

  “Only women work here.”

  “It’s not clear whether a man or a woman wrote the letter,” Wallander pointed out.

  “I don’t know who it could be,” she said.

  “Does anyone in the office live in Helsingborg? Or drive there often?”

  She shook her head again. Wallander could see that she was trying to be helpful.

  “How many people work here?” he asked.

  “There are four of us. And there’s Andersson, who takes care of the garden. We also have a full-time watchman, Sture Rosell. But he mainly stays out at our churches. Any of them could have taken some letterhead from here, of course. Plus anyone who visited the vicar’s office on business.”

  “You don’t recognise the handwriting?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not illegal to pick up hitchhikers,” said Wallander. “So why would someone write an anonymous letter? Because they wanted to hide the fact that they’d had been in Helsingborg? It’s puzzling.”

  “I could ask whether anyone here was in Helsingborg that day,” she said. “And try to match the handwriting.”

  “I’d appreciate your help,” said Wallander, standing up. “You can reach me at the Ystad police station.”

  He wrote his phone number down for her. She followed him out.

  “I’ve never met a female vicar before,” he said.

  “Many people are still surprised,” she replied.

  “In Ystad we have our first woman chief of police,” he said. “Everything changes.”

  “For the better, I hope,” she said and smiled.

  Wallander looked at her, deciding she was quite beautiful. He didn’t see a ring on her finger. He couldn’t help thinking forbidden thoughts. She really was terribly attractive.

  The man cutting the grass was now sitting on a bench smok
ing. Without really knowing why, Wallander sat down on the bench and started talking to him. He was about 60, and dressed in a blue work shirt, dirty corduroy trousers and a pair of ancient tennis shoes. Wallander noted that he was smoking unfiltered Chesterfields, the brand that his father had smoked when he was a child.

  “She doesn’t open the door when the office is closed,” the man said thoughtfully. “This is the first time it’s ever happened.”

  “The vicar is quite good-looking,” said Wallander.

  “She’s nice too,” said the man. “And she gives a good sermon. I don’t know whether we’ve ever had such a good vicar. But many people would still rather have a man.”

  “They would?” said Wallander absentmindedly.

  “Quite a few people would never think of having a woman. People in Skåne are conservative. For the most part.”

  The conversation died. It was as if both men had run out of steam. Wallander listened to the birds. He could smell the freshly mown grass. He remembered that he should contact Hans Vikander at the Östermalm police, and find out how the interview with Gustaf Wetterstedt’s mother had gone. He had a lot to do. He certainly didn’t have time to sit on a bench outside the parish offices in Smedstorp.

  “Were you here to get a change of address certificate?” the man asked suddenly.

  “I had a few questions to ask,” he said, getting up.

  The man squinted at him.

  “I recognise you,” he said. “Are you from Tomelilla?”

  “No,” said Wallander. “I’m originally from Malmö. But I’ve lived in Ystad for many years.”

  He was about to say goodbye when he noticed the white T-shirt showing under the man’s unbuttoned work shirt. It advertised the ferry line between Helsingborg and Helsingør, in Denmark. He knew it could be a coincidence, but decided that it wasn’t. He sat back down on the bench. The man stubbed out his cigarette in the grass, about to get up.

  “Just a moment,” said Wallander. “There’s something I’d like to ask you about.”

  The man heard the change in Wallander’s voice. He gave him a wary look.

  “I’m a police officer,” said Wallander. “I didn’t come here to talk to the vicar. I came to talk to you. Why didn’t you sign the letter you sent? About the girl you gave a lift from Helsingborg.”

  It was a reckless move, he knew, in defiance of everything he had been taught. It was a punch below the belt – the police didn’t have the right to lie to extract information, especially when no crime had been committed.

  But it worked. The man jumped, caught off guard. Wallander could see him wondering how he could know about the letter.

  “It’s not against the law to write anonymous letters,” he said. “Or to pick up hitchhikers. I just want to know why you did. And what time you picked her up and where you took her. The exact time. And whether she said anything during the journey.”

  “Now I recognise you,” muttered the man. “You’re the policeman who shot a man in the fog a few years ago. On the shooting range outside Ystad.”

  “You’re right,” said Wallander. “That was me. My name is Kurt Wallander.”

  “She was standing at the slip road of the southbound motorway,” said the man suddenly. “It was 7 p.m. I had driven over to Helsingborg to buy a pair of shoes. My cousin has a shoe shop there. He gives me a discount. I don’t usually pick up hitchhikers. But she looked so forlorn.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. What do you mean?”

  “When you stopped the car. What language did she speak?”

  “I have no idea what language it was, but it certainly wasn’t Swedish. And I don’t speak English. I said I was going to Tomelilla. She nodded. She nodded to everything I said.”

  “Did she have any luggage?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Not even a handbag?”

  “Nothing.”

  “And then you drove off?”

  “She sat in the back seat. She didn’t speak. I thought there was something odd about the whole thing. I was sorry I’d picked her up.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Maybe she wasn’t going to Tomelilla at all. Who the hell goes to Tomelilla?”

  “So she didn’t say a word?”

  “Not a word.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Do?”

  “Did she sleep? Look out the window? What?”

  The man tried to remember.

  “There was one thing I worried about afterwards. Every time a car passed us she crouched down. As if she didn’t want to be seen.”

  “So she was frightened?”

  “Definitely.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I stopped at the roundabout on the outskirts of Tomelilla and let her out. To tell you the truth, I don’t think she had any idea where she was.”

  “So she wasn’t going to Tomelilla?”

  “I think she just wanted to get out of Helsingborg. I drove off. But when I was almost home I thought, I can’t just leave her there. So I drove back. But she was gone.”

  “How long did it take you to go back?”

  “Not more than ten minutes.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “When you picked her up outside Helsingborg, she was standing at the slip road. Is it possible she’d had a lift to Helsingborg? Or was she coming from there?”

  The man thought for a while.

  “From Helsingborg,” he said. “If she’d had a lift down from the north, she wouldn’t have been standing where she was.”

  “And you never saw her again? You didn’t look for her?”

  “Why would I?”

  “What time was this?”

  “I let her off at 8 p.m. I remember the news came on the car radio just as she got out of the car.”

  Wallander thought about what he had heard. He knew he’d been lucky.

  “Why did you write to the police?” he asked. “Why anonymously?”

  “I read about the girl who’d burned herself to death,” he said. “And I had a feeling that it might have been her. But I decided not to identify myself. I’m a married man. The fact that I picked up a female hitchhiker might have been misinterpreted.”

  Wallander could see that he was telling the truth.

  “This conversation is off the record,” he said. “But I will still have to ask you for your name and telephone number.”

  “My name is Sven Andersson,” said the man. “I hope there won’t be any trouble.”

  “Not if you’ve told me the truth,” Wallander replied.

  He wrote down the number.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Can you remember whether she was wearing a necklace?”

  Andersson thought. Then he shook his head. Wallander got up and shook his hand.

  “You’ve been a great help,” he said.

  “Was it her?” Andersson asked.

  “Possibly,” said Wallander. “The question we must answer is what she was doing in Helsingborg.”

  He left Andersson and walked to his car. Just as he opened the door his phone rang. His first thought was that the killer had struck again.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wallander answered the phone and spoke to Nyberg, who told him that the developed photos were on his desk. He felt great relief that it wasn’t news of a third killing. As he drove away from Smedstorp, he realised he should learn to control his anxiety. There was no knowing whether the man had more victims on his list, but Wallander couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding. They must continue the investigation as though nothing else was going to happen. Otherwise they’d waste their energy with fruitless worry. On the way back to Ystad, Wallander decided he would drive up to Hässleholm later that day to talk to Hugo Sandin.

  He went straight to his office and wrote up a report of his conversation with Andersson. He tried to get hold of Martinsson, but all Ebba could tell him was that he had left the station without saying where h
e was going. Wallander tried to reach him on his mobile phone, but it was turned off. He was annoyed that Martinsson was often impossible to contact. At the next meeting, he would state that everyone must be contactable at all times. Then he remembered the photos. He had put his notebook on top of the envelope without noticing it. He turned on his desk lamp and looked at them one by one. Although he didn’t really know what he had expected, he was disappointed. The photos showed nothing more than the view from Wetterstedt’s house. They were taken from upstairs. He could see Lindgren’s overturned boat and the sea, which was calm. There were no people in the pictures. The beach was deserted. Two of the pictures were blurry. He wondered why Wetterstedt had taken them – if, indeed, he had. He found a magnifying glass in a desk drawer, but still couldn’t see anything of interest. He put them back in the envelope, deciding he’d ask someone else on the team to have a look, just to confirm he hadn’t missed anything.

  He was just about to call Hässleholm when a secretary knocked on the door with a fax from Hans Vikander in Stockholm. It was a report, five single-spaced pages, of the conversation he had had with Wetterstedt’s mother. He read through it quickly. It was a precise report, but completely lacking in imagination. Every question was routine. An interview related to a criminal investigation should balance general enquiries with surprise questions. But perhaps he was being unfair to Hans Vikander. What was the chance that a woman in her 90s would say something unexpected about her son, whom she hardly ever saw and only exchanged brief phone calls with?

  As he got some coffee, he thought idly about the female vicar in Smedstorp. Back in his room, he called the number in Hässleholm. A young man answered. Wallander introduced himself. It took several minutes for Hugo Sandin to come to the phone. He had a clear, resolute voice. Sandin told Wallander that he would meet him that same day. Wallander grabbed his notebook and wrote down the directions.

  On the way to Hässleholm he stopped to eat. It was late afternoon when he turned off at the sign for the pottery shop and drove to the renovated mill. An old man was in the garden pulling up dandelions. When Wallander got out of the car the man came towards him, wiping his hands. Wallander couldn’t believe that this vigorous man was over 80, that Sandin and his own father were almost the same age.