Faceless Killers - Wallander 01

by Henning Mankell

  "Probably far too much," said Rydberg. "That's why they don't have money for any good programmes."

  He got up from his chair.

  "Don't forget one thing," he said as he stood with his hand on the doorframe. "A policeman who snitches can snitch again."

  "What does that mean?"

  "He can insist that one of our leads does point to foreigners. It's true, after all."

  "It's not even a lead," said Wallander. "It's the last confused words of a dying woman." Rydberg shrugged.

  "Do as you like," he said. "See you in a while."

  The case meeting went as badly as it could have. Wallander had decided to start with the leak and its possible consequences. He would describe the anonymous call he had received and then invite suggestions on a plan of action before the deadline. But when he announced angrily that there was someone at the meeting disloyal enough to betray confidential information, possibly for money, he was met by equally furious protests. Several officers said that the leak could have come from the hospital. Hadn't doctors and nurses been present when the old woman uttered those last words?

  Wallander tried to refute their objections, but they kept protesting. By the time he finally managed to steer the discussion to the investigation itself, a sullen mood had settled over the meeting. Yesterday's optimism had been replaced by a slack, uninspired atmosphere. Wallander had got off on the wrong foot.

  The effort to identify the car with which the lorry driver had almost collided had yielded no results. An additional man was assigned to concentrate on this.

  The investigation of Lars Herdin's past was continuing. On the first check nothing remarkable had come to light. He had no police record and no conspicuous debts.

  "We're going to run a vacuum cleaner over this man," said Wallander. "We have to know everything there is to know. I'm going to meet the prosecutor in a few minutes. I'll ask for authorisation to go into the bank."

  Peters delivered the biggest news of the day.

  "Lövgren had two safe-deposit boxes," he said. "One at the Union Bank and one at the Merchants' Bank. I went through the keys on his key ring."

  "Good," said Wallander. "We'll check them out later today."

  The charting of Lövgren's family, friends and relatives would go on.

  It was decided that Rydberg should take care of the daughter who lived in Canada, who would be arriving at the hovercraft terminal in Malmö just after 3 p.m.

  "Where's the other one?" asked Wallander. "The handball player?"

  "She's already arrived," said Svedberg. "She's staying with relatives."

  "You go and talk to her," said Wallander. "Do we have any other tip-offs that might produce something? Ask the daughters if either of them was given a wall clock, by the way.

  Martinsson had sifted through the tip-offs. Everything that the police learnt was fed into a computer. Then he did a rough sort. The most ridiculous ones never got beyond the print-outs.

  "Hulda Yngveson phoned from Vallby and said that it was the disapproving hand of God that dealt the blow," said Martinsson.

  "She always calls," sighed Rydberg. "If a calf runs off, it's because God is displeased."

  "I put her on the C.F. list," said Martinsson.

  The sullen atmosphere was broken by a little amusement when Martinsson explained that C.F. stood for "crazy fools".

  They had received no tip-offs of immediate interest. But every one would be checked. Finally there was the question of Johannes Lövgren's secret relationship in

  Kristianstad and the child that they had together.

  Wallander looked around the room. Thomas Näslund, a 30-year veteran who seldom called attention to himself but who did solid, thorough work, was sitting in a corner, pulling on his lower lip as he listened.

  "You can come with me," said Wallander. "See if you can do a little footwork first. Ring Herdin and pump him for everything you can about this woman in Kristianstad. And the child too, of course."

  The press conference was fixed for 4 p.m. By then Wallander and Näslund hoped to be back from Kristianstad. Rydberg had agreed to preside if they were late.

  "I'll write the press release," said Wallander. "If no-one has anything more, we'll adjourn."

  It was 11.25 a.m. when he knocked on Per Akeson's door in another part of the police building. The woman who opened the door was very striking and very young. Wallander stared at her.

  "Seen enough yet?" she said. "You're half an hour late, by the way."

  "I told you the meeting might run over," he replied.

  He hardly recognised the office. Per Akeson's spartan, colourless space had been transformed into a room with pretty curtains and potted plants round the walls.

  He followed her with his eyes as she sat down behind her desk. She couldn't be more than 30. She was wearing a rust-brown suit that he was sure was of good quality and no doubt quite expensive.

  "Have a seat," she said. "Maybe we ought to shake hands, by the way. I'll be filling in for Akeson all the time he's away. So we'll be working together for quite a while."

  He put out his hand and noticed at the same time that she was wearing a wedding ring. To his surprise, he realised that he felt disappointed. She had dark brown hair, cut short and framing her face. A lock of bleached hair curled down beside one ear.

  "I'd like welcome you to Ystad," he said. "I have to admit that I quite forgot that Per was on leave."

  "I assume we'll be using our first names. Mine is Anette."

  "Kurt. How do you like Ystad?"

  She shook off the question brusquely. "I don't really know yet. Stockholmers no doubt have a hard time getting used to the leisurely pace of Skåne."

  "Leisurely?"

  "You're half an hour late."

  Wallander could feel himself getting angry. Was she provoking him? Didn't she understand that a case meeting might run over? Did she regard all Scanians as leisurely?

  "I don't think Scanians are any lazier than anyone else," he said. "All Stockholmers aren't stuck-up, are they?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Forget it."

  She leaned back in her chair. He was having difficulty looking her in the eye.

  "Perhaps you would give me a summary of the case," she said.

  Wallander tried to make his report as concise as possible. He could tell that, without intending to, he had wound up in a defensive position. He avoided mentioning the leak in the police department. She asked a few brief questions, which he answered. He could see that despite her youth she did have professional experience.

  "We have to take a look at Lövgren's bank statements," he said. "He also has two safe-deposit boxes we want to open."

  She wrote out the documents he needed.

  "Shouldn't a judge look at this?" asked Wallander as she pushed them over to him.

  "We'll do that later," she said. "And I'd appreciate receiving copies of all the investigative material."

  He nodded and got up to leave.

  "This article in the papers," she inquired. "About foreigners who may have been involved?"

  "Rumour," replied Wallander. "You know how it is."

  "I do?" she asked.

  When he left her office he noticed that he was sweating. What a babe, he thought. How the hell can someone like that become a prosecutor? Devote her life to catching small-time crooks and keeping the streets clean?

  He stopped in the reception area of the station, unable to decide what to do next. Eat, he decided. If I don't get some food now, I never will. I can write the press release over lunch.

  When he walked out of the police station he was almost blown over. The storm had not died down.

  He ought to drive home and make himself a simple salad. Despite the fact that he had hardly had a thing all day, his stomach felt heavy and bloated. But instead he allowed himself to be tempted by the Hornpiper down by the square. He wasn't going to tackle his eating habits seriously today either.

  At 12.45 he was back at the stat
ion. Since he had once again eaten too fast, he had an attack of diarrhoea and made for the men's room. When his stomach had settled somewhat, he handed the press release to one of the office clerks and then headed for Näslund's room.

  "I can't get hold of Herdin," said Näslund. "He's on some kind of winter hike with a conservation group in Fyledalen."

  "Then I suppose we'll have to drive out there and look for him," said Wallander.

  "I thought I might as well do that, then you can check the safe-deposit boxes. If everything was so secret with this woman and their child, maybe there's something locked up there. We'll save time that way, I mean."

  Wallander nodded. Näslund was right. He was charging like a bull at a gate.

  "OK, that's what we'll do," he said. "If we don't make it today we'll go up to Kristianstad tomorrow morning."

  Before he got into his car to drive down to the bank, he tried once more to get hold of Sten Widén. There was no answer this time either.

  He gave the number to Ebba at the reception desk.

  "See if you can get an answer," he said. "Check whether this number is right. It's supposed to be in the name of Sten Widén. Or a racing stable with a name I don't know."

  "Hansson probably knows," said Ebba.

  "I said racehorses, not trotters."

  "He bets on anything that moves," said Ebba with a laugh.

  "I'll be at the Union Bank if there's anything urgent," said Wallander.

  He parked across from the book shop on the square. The powerful wind almost blew the parking ticket out of his hand after he put the money in the machine. The town seemed abandoned. The winds were keeping people indoors.

  He stopped at the electrical shop by the square. He was considering buying a video in an attempt to conquer the loneliness of his evenings. He looked at the prices and tried to work out whether he could afford to buy one this month. Or should he invest in a new stereo instead? After all, it was music he turned to when he lay tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

  He tore himself away from the window and turned down the pedestrian street by the Chinese restaurant. The Union Bank was right next door. He walked in through the glass doors, finding only one customer inside the small lobby. A farmer with a hearing aid, complaining about interest rates in a high, shrill voice. To the left, an office door stood open. Inside a man sat studying a computer screen. Wallander assumed this was where he was supposed to go. As he appeared in the doorway, the man looked up quickly, as though he might be a bank robber. He walked into the room and introduced himself.

  "We're not happy about this at all," said the man. "In all the years I've been at this bank we've never had any trouble with the police."

  Wallander was instantly annoyed by the man's attitude. Sweden had turned into a country where people seemed to be afraid of being bothered more than anything else. Nothing was more sacred than ingrained routine.

  "It can't be helped," said Wallander, handing over the documents that Anette Brolin had drawn up. The man read them carefully.

  "Is this really necessary?" he asked. "The whole point of a safe-deposit box is that it's protected from inspection."

  "Yes, it is necessary," said Wallander. "And I haven't got all day."

  With a sigh the man got up from his desk. Wallander could see that he had prepared himself for this visit. They passed through a barred doorway and entered the safe-deposit vault. Lövgren's box was at the bottom in one corner. Wallander unlocked it, pulled out the drawer, and put it on the table. He raised the lid and started going through the contents. There were some papers for burial arrangements and some title deeds to the farm in Lunnarp, some old photographs and a pale envelope with old stamps on it. That was all.

  Nothing, he thought. Nothing that I had hoped for.

  The man stood to one side, watching him. Wallander wrote down the number of the title deed and the names on the burial documents. Then he closed the box.

  "Will that be all?"

  "For the time being," said Wallander. "Now I'd like to take a look at the accounts that Lövgren had here at the bank."

  On the way out of the vault something occurred to him. "Did anyone else besides Lövgren have access to his safe-deposit box?" he asked.

  "No," replied the bank official.

  "Do you know whether he opened the box recendy?"

  "I've checked the register," was the reply. "It has to be many years since he last opened the box."

  The farmer was still complaining when they returned to the lobby. He had started on a tirade about the declining price of grain.

  "I have all the information in my office," said the man.

  Wallander sat down by his desk and went through two sheets of print-outs. Johannes Lövgren had four different accounts. Maria Lövgren was a joint signatory on two of them. The total amount in these two accounts was 90,000 kronor. Neither of the accounts had been touched for a long time. In the past few days interest had been paid into the accounts. The third account was left over from Lövgren's days as a working farmer. The balance in that one was 132 kronor and 97 ore.

  There was one more. Its balance was almost a million kronor. Maria Lövgren was not a signatory to it. On January 1, interest of more than 90,000 kronor had been paid into the account. On 4 January, Johannes Lövgren had withdrawn 27,000 kronor. Wallander looked up at the man sitting on the other side of the desk.

  "How far back can you trace records for this account?" he asked.

  "Theoretically, for ten years. But it'll take some time, of course. We'll have to run a computer search."

  "Start with last year. I'd like to see all activity in this account during 1989."

  The official rose and left the room. Wallander started studying the other document. It showed that Johannes Lövgren had almost 700,000 kronor in various mutual funds that the bank administered.

  So far Herdin's story seems to hold up, he thought.

  He recalled the conversation with Nyström, who had sworn that his neighbour didn't have any money. That's how much he knew about his neighbours.

  After about 5 minutes the man came back from the lobby. He handed Wallander another print-out. On three occasions in 1989 Johannes Lövgren had taken out a total of 78,000 kronor. The withdrawals were made in January, July, and September.

  "May I keep these papers?" he asked.

  The man nodded.

  "I'd very much like to speak with the clerk who paid out the money to Johannes Lövgren the last time," he said.

  "Britta-Lena Bodén," said the man.

  The woman who came into the office was quite young. Wallander thought she was hardly more than 20.

  "She knows what it's all about," said the man.

  Wallander nodded and introduced himself. "Tell me what you know."

  "It was quite a lot of money," said the young woman. "Otherwise I wouldn't have remembered it."

  "Did he seem uneasy? Nervous?"

  "Not that I recall."

  "How did he want the money?"

  "In thousand-krona notes."

  "Only thousands?"

  "He took a few five hundreds too."

  "What did he put the money in?"

  The young woman had a good memory.

  "A brown briefcase. One of those old-fashioned ones with a strap around it."

  "Would you recognise it if you saw it again?"

  "Maybe. The handle was tatty."

  "What do you mean by tatty?"

  "The leather was cracked."

  Wallander nodded. The woman's memory was excellent. "Do you remember anything else?" "After he got the money, he left." "And he was alone?" "Yes."

  "You didn't see whether anyone was waiting for him outside?"

  "I wouldn't be able to see that from the counter."

  "Do you remember what time it was?"

  The woman thought before she replied. "I went to lunch straight afterwards. It was around midday."

  "You've been a great help. If you remember anything else, please let me know."


  Wallander got up and went into the lobby. He stopped for a moment and looked around. The young woman was right. From the counters it was impossible to see whether anyone was waiting on the street outside.

  The farmer was gone, and new customers had arrived. Someone speaking a foreign language was changing money at one of the counters.

  Wallander went outside. The Merchants' Bank was in Hamngatan close by.

  A much friendlier bank officer accompanied him down to the vault. When Wallander opened the steel drawer, he was disappointed at once. The box was empty. No-one but Johannes Lövgren had access to this safe-deposit box either. He had rented it in 1962.

  "When was he here last?" asked Wallander. The answer gave him a start.

  "On the 4th of January," the official replied after studying the register of visitors. "At 1.15 p.m., to be precise. He stayed for 20 minutes."

  But when Wallander asked all the employees, no-one remembered whether Lövgren had anything with him when he left the bank. No-one remembered him having a briefcase. That young woman from the Union Bank, he thought. Every bank ought to have someone like her.

  Wallander struggled down windblown back streets to Fridolf's Cafe, where he had a cup of coffee and ate a cinnamon bun.

  I would like to know what Lövgren did between midday and 1.15, he thought. What did he do between his first and second bank visits? And how did he get to Ystad? How did he get back? He didn't own a car.

  He took out his notebook and brushed some crumbs off the table. After half an hour he had drawn up a summary of the questions that had to be answered as soon as possible.

  On the way back to the car he went into a menswear shop and bought a pair of socks. He was shocked at the price but paid without protesting. Mona had always bought his clothes. He tried to remember the last time he had bought a pair of socks.

  When he got back to his car, he found a parking ticket stuck under his windscreen wiper. If I don't pay it, they'll eventually start legal proceedings against me, he thought. Then acting public prosecutor Brolin will be forced to stand up in court and take me to task.