Faceless Killers - Wallander 01

by Henning Mankell

  He tossed the ticket into the glove compartment, thinking again how good-looking she was. Good-looking and charming. Then he remembered the bun he'd just eaten.

  It was 3 p.m. before Näslund rang. By then Wallander had decided to postpone the trip to Kristianstad.

  "I'm soaked," Näslund said. "I've been tramping around in the mud after Herdin all over Fyledalen."

  "Give him a thorough going over," said Wallander. "Put a little pressure on him. We want to know everything he knows."

  "Should I bring him in?" asked Näslund.

  "Go home with him. Maybe he'll talk more freely at home at his own kitchen table."

  The press conference started at 4 p.m. Wallander looked for Rydberg, but nobody knew where he was.

  The room was full. Wallander saw that the reporter from the local radio was there, and he made up his mind to find out what she really knew about Linda.

  He could feel his stomach churning. I'm repressing things, he thought. Along with everything else I don't have time for. I'm searching for the slayers of the dead and can't even manage to pay attention to the living. For a dizzying instant his entire consciousness was filled with only one urge. To take off. Flee. Disappear. Start a new life.

  He stepped onto the little dais and welcomed his audience to the press conference.

  After just under an hour it was over. Wallander thought that he probably came off pretty well by denying all rumours that the police were searching for foreign citizens in connection with the murders. He hadn't been asked any questions that gave him trouble. When he stepped down, he felt satisfied.

  The young woman from the local radio waited while he was interviewed for television. As always when a TV camera was pointed at his face, he got nervous and stumbled over his words. But the reporter was satisfied and didn't ask for another take.

  "You'll have to get yourself some better informants," said Wallander when it was all over.

  "I might have to at that," replied the reporter and laughed.

  When the TV crew had left, Wallander suggested that the young woman from the local radio station accompany him to his office.

  He was less nervous with a radio microphone than in front of the camera. When she was finished, she turned off the tape recorder. Wallander was just about to bring up Linda when Rydberg knocked on the door and came in.

  "We've almost finished," said Wallander.

  "We have finished" said the young woman, getting up.

  Crestfallen, Wallander watched her go. He hadn't managed to get in one word about Linda.

  "More trouble," said Rydberg. "They just called from the refugee processing unit here in Ystad. A car drove into the courtyard and someone threw a bag of rotten turnips at an old man from Lebanon, hitting him in the head."

  "Damn," said Wallander. "What happened?"

  "He's at the hospital getting bandaged up. But the director is nervous."

  "Did they get the registration number?"

  "It all happened too quickly."

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  "Let's not do anything conspicuous just now," he said. "In the morning there will be strong denials about the foreigners in all the papers. It'll be on TV tonight. Then we just have to hope that things calm down. We could ask the night patrols to check the camp."

  "I'll tell them " said Rydberg.

  "Come back afterwards and we'll do an update," said Wallander.

  It was 8.30 p.m. when Wallander and Rydberg finished.

  "What do you think?" asked Wallander as they gathered up their papers.

  Rydberg scratched his forehead. "It's obvious that this Herdin lead is a good one. As long as we can get hold of that mystery woman and the child, the son. There's a lot to indicate that the solution might be close at hand. So close that we can't see it. But at the same time..." Rydberg broke off.

  "At the same time?"

  "I don't know," Rydberg went on. "There's something funny about all this. Especially that noose. I don't know what it is."

  He shrugged and stood up. "We'll have to go on tomorrow," he said.

  "Do you remember seeing a brown briefcase at Lövgren's house?" Wallander asked. Rydberg shook his head.

  "Not that I can recall," he said. "But a whole pile of old junk fell out of the wardrobes. I wonder why old people turn into such hoarders?"

  "Send someone out there tomorrow morning to look for an old brown briefcase," said Wallander. "With a cracked handle."

  Rydberg left. Wallander could see that his leg was bothering him a lot. He should find out whether Ebba had reached Sten Widén. But he didn't bother. Instead he looked up Anette Brolin's home address in a department directory. To his surprise he discovered that she was almost his neighbour.

  I could ask her to dinner, he thought. Then he remembered that she wore a wedding ring.

  He drove home through the storm and took a bath. Then he lay on his bed and flicked through a biography of Giuseppe Verdi.

  He woke up with a start a few hours later because he was cold. His watch showed almost midnight. He felt dejected. Now he'd have another sleepless night. Driven by despondency, he got dressed. He might as well spend a few night-time hours in his office.

  Outside, he noticed that the wind had died down. It was getting cold again. Snow, he thought. It'll be here soon.

  He turned into Österleden. A lone taxi was heading in the opposite direction. He drove slowly through the empty streets. On an impulse, he decided to drive past the refugee camp on the west side of town.

  The camp consisted of huts in long rows in an open field. Floodlights lit up the green-painted structures. He stopped in the car park and got out of the car. The waves were breaking on the beach not far away.

  He looked at the camp. Put a fence around it and it'd be a concentration camp, he thought. He was just about to get back in his car when he heard a faint crash of glass breaking. In the next instant there was a dull boom.

  Then tall flames were shooting out of one of the huts.

  CHAPTER 7

  He had no idea how long he stood there, stunned by the flames raging in the winter night. Perhaps it was minutes, perhaps only a few seconds. But when he managed to break out of his paralysis, he had enough presence of mind to grab the car phone and raise the alarm.

  The static on the phone made it difficult to hear the man who answered.

  "The refugee camp in Ystad is on fire!" shouted Wallander. "Get the fire department out here! The wind is blowing hard."

  "Can I have your name?" asked the man at the emergency switchboard.

  "This is Wallander of the Ystad police. I just happened to be driving past when the fire started."

  "Can you identify yourself?" continued the voice on the phone, unmoved.

  "Damn it! 4-7-1-1-2-1! And get a bloody move on!"

  He hung up the phone to avoid answering any more questions. Besides, he knew that the emergency switchboard could identify all the police officers on duty in the district. He ran across the road towards the burning huts. The fire was blazing in the wind. He wondered fleetingly what would have happened if the fire had started the night before, during the heavy storm. Even now the flames were getting a firm grip on the hut next door.

  Why didn't someone sound the alarm? he thought. But he didn't know whether there were refugees living in all the huts. The heat of the fire hit him in the face as he pounded on the door of the hut that had so far only been licked by the flames.

  The hut where the fire had started was now completely engulfed. Wallander tried to approach the door, but was driven back. He ran around one side. There was only one window. He banged on the glass and tried to look inside, but the smoke was so thick that he found himself staring straight into a white haze. He looked around for something to break the glass with but found nothing. He tore off his jacket, wrapped it around his arm, and smashed his fist through the windowpane. He held his breath to keep from inhaling the smoke and groped for the latch. Twice he had to leap back to catch his breath b
efore he managed to open the window.

  "Get out!" he shouted into the fire. "Get out! Get out!"

  Inside the hut were two bunk beds. He hauled himself up onto the window ledge and felt the splinters of glass cutting into his thigh. The upper bunks were empty. But someone was lying on one of the lower bunks.

  Wallander yelled again but got no response. Then he heaved himself through the window, banging his head on the edge of a table as he fell to the floor. He was almost suffocating from the smoke as he fumbled his way towards the bed. At first he thought he was touching a lifeless body. Then he realised that what he had taken for a person was only a rolled-up mattress. At the same moment his jacket caught fire and he threw himself headfirst out of the window. He could hear sirens far off, and as he stumbled away from the fire he saw crowds of half-dressed people milling around outside the huts. Two more of the low buildings were now in flames. Wallander threw open doors and saw that people were living in these huts. But those who had been asleep inside had fled. His head was pounding and his thigh hurt, and he felt sick from the smoke he had inhaled. At that moment the first fire engine arrived, followed closely by an ambulance. He saw that the fire captain on duty was Peter Edler. He was in his mid 30s and Wallander remembered that his hobby was flying kites. Wallander had heard only favourable things about him. He was a man who was never unsure of himself. As Wallander staggered over to Edler, he realised that he had burns on one arm.

  "The huts that are burning are empty," he said. "I don't know about the other ones."

  "You look terrible," said Edler. "I think we can handle this."

  The firemen were already hosing down the huts. Wallander heard Edler order a tractor to drag away those that were already burning in order to isolate the fire.

  The first police car came to a skidding stop, its blue light flashing and its siren wailing. Wallander saw that it was Peters and Norén. He hobbled over to their car.

  "What's happening?" asked Norén.

  "It'll be OK," said Wallander. "Start cordoning off the area and ask Edler if he needs any help."

  Peters stared at him. "You look awful. How did you happen to be here?"

  "I was just driving by," replied Wallander. "Now get moving."

  For the next hour a peculiar mixture of chaos and efficient fire-fighting prevailed. The dazed director of the refugee camp was wandering around aimlessly, and Wallander had to exert real pressure to get him to try to find out how many refugees should be at the camp and then

  do a count. To his great surprise, it turned out that the Immigration Service's records were hopelessly confused. And the director couldn't help either. In the meantime a tractor dragged away the smouldering huts, and before long the fire-fighters had the blaze under control. The ambulance had taken only a few of the refugees to the hospital, most of them suffering from shock, although there was a little Lebanese boy who had fallen and hit his head on a rock.

  Edler pulled Wallander aside. "Go and get yourself patched up."

  Wallander nodded. His arm was stinging and burning, and he could feel that one leg was sticky with blood.

  "I hate to think about what might have happened if you hadn't raised the alarm the moment the fire broke out," said Edler.

  "Why the hell do they put the huts so close together?" asked Wallander.

  Edler shook his head. "The boss here is starting to get tired. You're right of course - the buildings are too damn close."

  Wallander went over to Norén, who had just finished cordoning off the area.

  "I want that director in my office first thing tomorrow morning," he said.

  Norén nodded.

  "Did you see anything?" he asked.

  "I heard a crash. Then the hut exploded. But no cars. No people. If it was set, then it was done with a delayed-action detonator."

  "Shall I drive you home or to the hospital?"

  "I can drive myself. But I'd better go now."

  At the casualty ward, Wallander found that he had suffered more damage than he had supposed. On one forearm he had a large burn, his groin and one thigh had been cut by the glass, and above his right eye he had a big lump and several nasty abrasions. He had also bitten his tongue without being aware of it.

  It was almost 4 a.m. by the time Wallander could leave the hospital. His bandages were too tight, and he still felt sick from the smoke.

  As he left the hospital, a camera flashed in his face. He recognised the photographer from the biggest morning newspaper in Skåne. He waved his hand to dismiss a reporter who appeared out of the shadows, wanting an interview. Then he drove home.

  To his own great amazement he was actually feeling sleepy. He undressed and crawled under the bed covers. His body ached, and flames were dancing in his head. And yet he fell asleep at once.

  At 8 a.m. Wallander woke because somebody was pounding a sledgehammer inside his head. He had once again dreamed of the mysterious black woman. But when he stretched out his hand for her, Sten Widénwas suddenly there with the whisky bottle, and the woman had turned her back on Wallander and gone off with Sten.

  He lay still, taking stock of how he felt. His neck and arm were stinging. His head was pounding. For a moment he was tempted to turn to the wall and go back to sleep. To forget all about the investigation and the night's blaze.

  He didn't get a chance to decide. He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. I don't feel like answering it, he thought.

  It was Mona.

  "Kurt," she said. "It's Mona."

  He was filled with an overwhelming sense of joy.

  Mona, he thought. Dear God! Mona! How I've missed you!

  "I saw your picture in the paper," she said. "Are you all right?"

  He remembered the photographer outside the hospital and the flash of a camera. "Fine," he said. "A little sore." "No worse than that?"

  His joy was gone. Now the bad feelings came back, the sharp pain in his stomach.

  "Do you really care how I am?"

  "Why shouldn't I care?"

  "Why should you?"

  He heard her breathing in his ear.

  "I think you're so brave," she said. "I'm proud of you. The papers say that you risked your life to save people."

  "I didn't save anybody! What kind of rubbish is that?"

  "I just wanted to be sure you weren't hurt."

  "What would you have done if I was?"

  "What would I have done?"

  "If I was hurt. If I was dying. What would you have done then?"

  "Why do you sound so angry?"

  "I'm not angry. I'm just asking you. I want you to come home. Back here. To me."

  "You know I can't do that. But I wish we could talk to each other."

  "You never call! So how are we supposed to talk to each other?"

  He heard her sigh. That made him furious. Or maybe scared.

  "Of course we can meet," she said. "But not at my place. Or at yours."

  He made up his mind swiftly. What he said was not entirely true. But it wasn't really a lie either.

  "There are a lot of things we need to talk about," he told her. "Practical matters. I can drive over to Malmö if you like."

  There was a pause before she answered. "Not tonight," she said. "But I could tomorrow." "Where? Shall we have dinner? The only places I know are the Savoy and the Central." "The Savoy is expensive." "Then how about the Central? What time?" "Eight o'clock?" ‘I’ll be there."

  The conversation was over. He looked at his pummelled face in the hall mirror. Was he looking forward to the meeting? Or did he feel uneasy? He wasn't sure. He felt confused. Instead of picturing his meeting with Mona, he saw himself with Anette Brolin at the Savoy. And although she was still the acting public prosecutor in Ystad, she was transformed into a black woman.

  Wallander dressed, skipped his morning coffee, and went out to his car. It had turned warmer again. The remnants of a damp fog were drifting from the sea over the town. There was no wind at all.

  He was greeted
with friendly nods and pats on the back when he entered the police station. Ebba gave him a hug and a jar of pear jam. He felt embarrassed, but also a little proud.

  Björk should have been here, he thought. In Ystad instead of in Spain. This was the kind of thing Björk dreamed of. Heroes on the force.

  By 9.30 a.m. everything was back to normal. By then he had already managed to give the director of the refugee camp a tough lecture on the sloppy supervision of the refugees. The director, who was short and plump and who radiated apathy and laziness, nevertheless defended himself vigorously, insisting that he had followed the rules and regulations of the Immigration Service to the letter.

  "It's the police's job to ensure that the camp is safe," he said, trying to turn Wallander's lecture on its head.

  "How are we supposed to guarantee anything at all when you have no idea how many people are living in those damned huts or who they are?"

  The director was red-faced with fury when he left.

  "I'm going to file a complaint," he said.

  "Complain to the king," replied Wallander. "Complain to the prime minister. Complain to the European Court. Complain to whoever the hell you like. But from now on you're going to have accurate lists of how many people there are at your camp, what their names are, and which huts they live in."

  Just before the case meeting was due to start, Edler called.

  "How do you feel?" he asked. "The hero of the day."

  "Piss off," replied Wallander. "Have you found anything?"

  "It wasn't hard," replied Edler. "A handy little detonator that ignited some rags soaked in petrol."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Damn right I'm sure! You'll have the report in a few hours."

  "We'll have to try and run the arson investigation parallel with the murders. But if anything else happens, I'm going to need reinforcements from Simrishamn or Malmö."

  "Are there any police left in Simrishamn? I thought the station there was closed down." "It was the volunteer fire-fighters who were disbanded.