CHAPTER 6
Overnight a storm moved in across Skåne. Kurt Wallander was sitting in his untidy flat as the winter wind tore at the roof tiles, drinking whisky and listening to a German recording of Aida, when everything went dark and silent. He went over to the window and looked out into the darkness. The wind was howling, and somewhere an advertising sign was banging against a wall.
The luminous hands on his wristwatch showed 2.50 a.m. Oddly enough, he no longer felt tired. It had been after midnight by the time he got away from the station. The last caller had been a man who refused to give his name. He had proposed that the police join forces with the domestic nationalist movements and chase the foreigners out of the country once and for all. For a moment Wallander had tried to listen to what the man was saying. Then he had slammed down the receiver, called the switchboard, and had all incoming calls held. He'd turned off the lights in his office, walked down the silent corridor, and driven straight home. By the time he unlocked his front door, he had decided to find out who had leaked the information. It wasn't really his business at all. If conflicts arose within the police force, it was the duty of the chief of police to intervene. In a few days Björk would be back from his winter holiday. Then he could deal with it. The truth would have to come out.
But as Wallander drank his first glass of whisky, it had occurred to him that Björk would do nothing. Even though each individual police officer was bound by an oath of silence, it could hardly be considered a criminal offence if an officer called up a contact at Swedish Television and told him what was discussed at a case meeting. Nor would it be easy to prove any irregularities if Swedish Television had paid its secret informant. Wallander wondered briefly how -Swedish Television entered such an expense in their books. And in any case Björk wouldn't be disposed to question internal loyalty in the middle of a murder investigation.
By the second glass of whisky he was back to worrying who could have been the source of the leak. Apart from himself, he felt he could safely eliminate Rydberg. But then why was he so sure of Rydberg? Could he see more deeply into him than into any of the others?
The storm had obviously knocked out the power. He sat alone in the dark, thinking. His thoughts about the murdered couple, about Lars Herdin, about the strange knot on the noose were mixed with thoughts of Sten Widén and Mona, of Linda and his ageing father. Somewhere in the dark a vast meaninglessness was beckoning. A sneering face that laughed scornfully at every attempt he made to manage his life.
He woke up when the power came back on. He had slept for over an hour. The record was still spinning on the record player. He emptied his glass and went to lie down on his bed.
I've got to talk to Mona, he thought. I've got to talk to her after all that's happened. And I've got to talk to my daughter. I have to visit my father and see what I can do for him. On top of all that I really ought to catch the murderers ...
He had dozed off again. He thought he was in his office when the telephone rang. Drowsily he snatched the phone. Who could be calling him at this hour? As he answered, he prayed that it was Mona.
At first he thought that the man on the line sounded like Sten Widén."Now you've got three days to make good," said the man."Who is this?" said Wallander.
"It doesn't matter who I am," replied the man. "I'm one of the Ten Thousand Redeemers."
"I refuse to talk to anyone if I don't know who it is," said Wallander, wide awake now.
"Don't hang up," said the man. "You now have three days to make up for shielding foreign criminals. Three days, no more."
"I don't understand what you're talking about," said Wallander, feeling uneasy at the unknown voice.
"Three days to catch the killers and put them on display," said the man. "Or else we'll take over.""Take over what? And who's 'we'?""Three days. No more. Then something's going to burn."The connection was broken off.
Wallander went into the kitchen, turned on the light and sat down at the table. He wrote down the conversation in an old notebook that Mona used to use for her shopping lists. At the top of the pad it said "bread". He couldn't read what she had written below that.
It wasn't the first time in his years as a policeman that Wallander had received an anonymous threat. Several years earlier, a man who considered himself unjustly convicted of assault and battery had harassed him with insinuating letters and night-time phone calls. It was Mona who finally got fed up and demanded that he do something about it.
Wallander had sent Svedberg to the man with a warning that he was risking a long jail sentence. Another time his tyres had been slashed.
But this man's message was different. "Something's going to burn," he had said. That meant anything from refugee camps to restaurants to houses owned by foreigners.
Three days - 72 hours. That meant Friday, or Saturday the 13th at the latest.
He went and lay down on the bed again and tried to sleep. The wind tore and ripped at the walls of the house. How could he sleep when he kept waiting for the man to call again?
At 6.30 a.m. he was back at the station. He exchanged a few words with the duty officer and learned that the stormy night had been peaceful at least. An articulated lorry had tipped over outside Ystad, and some scaffolding had blown down in Skarby. That was all.
He got himself some coffee and went to his office. With an old electric shaver that he kept in a desk drawer he got rid of the stubble on his cheeks. Then he went out for the morning papers. The more he looked through them, the more irritated he became. Despite the fact that he had been on the telephone talking to a number of reporters until late the night before, they had printed only vague and incomplete denials that the police were concentrating their investigation on foreign citizens. It was as though the papers had only reluctantly accepted the truth.
He decided to call another press conference for that afternoon and to present an account of the status of the investigation. He would also disclose the anonymous threat he had received during the night.
From a shelf behind his desk, he took down a folder in which he kept records on the various refugee centres in the region. Besides the big refugee camp in Ystad, several smaller ones were scattered throughout the district.
But what was there to prove that the threat actually had to do with a refugee camp in Ystad's police district? Nothing. The threat might equally be directed at a restaurant or a house. For instance, how many pizzerias were there in the Ystad area? Twelve? More?
There was one thing he was quite sure of. The threat had to be taken seriously. In the past year there had been too many incidents that confirmed that these were well-organised factions that would not hesitate to resort to open violence against foreigners living in Sweden or refugees seeking asylum.
He looked at his watch. It was 7.45 a.m. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of Rydberg's house. After ten rings he hung up. Rydberg was on his way.Martinsson stuck his head around the door."Hello," he said. "What time is the meeting today?"
"Ten o'clock," said Wallander."Awful weather, isn't it?""As long as we don't get snow. I can live with the wind."
While he waited for Rydberg, he looked for the note Sten Widén had given him. After Herdin's visit he realised that perhaps it wasn't so unusual for someone to have given the horse hay during the night. If the killers were among Johannes and Maria Lövgren's acquaintances, or even members of their family, they would naturally know about the horse. Maybe they also knew that Johannes Lövgren made a habit of going out to the stable in the night.
Wallander had only a vague idea of what Widénwould be able to add. Maybe the real reason he had called him was to avoid losing touch with him. No-one answered, even though he let the phone ring for over a minute. He hung up and decided to try again a little later.
He also had another phone call he wanted to make before Rydberg arrived. He dialled the number and waited.
"Public prosecutor's office," a cheerful female voice answered."This is Kurt Wallander. Is Akeson there?""He's on leave of a
bsence^ Did you forget?"
He had forgotten. It had completely slipped his mind that public prosecutor Per Akeson was taking some university courses. And they had had dinner together as recently as the end of November.
"I can connect you with his deputy, if you'd like," said the receptionist."Do that," said Wallander.To his surprise a woman answered. "Anette Brolin.""I'd like to talk with the prosecutor," said Wallander."Speaking," said the woman. "What is this about"
Wallander realised that he hadn't introduced himself. He gave her his name and went on, "It's about this double murder. I think it's time we presented a report to the public prosecutor's office. I had forgotten that Per was on leave."
"If you hadn't called this morning, I would have called you," said the woman.
Wallander thought he detected a reproachful tone in her voice. Bitch, he thought. Are you going to teach me how the police are supposed to co-operate with the prosecutor's office?
"We actually don't have much to tell you," he said, noticing that his voice sounded a little hostile. "Is an arrest imminent?" "No. I was thinking more of a short briefing." "All right," said the woman. "Shall we say eleven o'clock
at my office? I've got a warrant application hearing at quarter past ten. I'll be back by eleven."
"I might be a little late. We have a case meeting at ten. It might run on."
"Try to make it by eleven."She hung up, and he sat there holding the receiver.
Co-operation between the police and the prosecutor's office wasn't always easy. But Wallander had established an informal and confidential relationship with Per Akeson. They often called each other to ask advice. They seldom disagreed on when detention or release was justified.
"Damn," he said out loud. "Anette Brolin, who the hell is she?"
Just then he heard the unmistakable sound of Rydberg limping by in the corridor. He stuck his head out of the door and asked him to come in. Rydberg was dressed in an outmoded fur jacket and beret. When he sat down he grimaced.
"Bothering you again?" asked Wallander, pointing at his leg.
"Rain is OK," said Rydberg. "Or snow. Or cold. But this damned leg can't stand the wind. What do you want?"
Wallander told him about the call he had received during the night.
"What do you think?" he asked when he'd finished. "Serious or not?""Serious. At least we have to proceed as if it is."
"I'm thinking about a press conference this afternoon. We'll present the status of the investigation and concentrate on Lars Herdin's story. Without mentioning his name, of course. Then I'll speak about the threat. And say that all rumours about foreigners being involved are groundless."
"But that's actually not true," Rydberg mused. "What do you mean?"
"The woman said what she said. And the knot may be Argentine."
"How do you intend to make that fit in with a robbery that was presumably committed by someone who knew Lövgren very well?"
"I don't know yet. I think it's too soon to draw conclusions. Don't you?"
"Provisional conclusions," said Wallander. "All police work deals with drawing conclusions, which you later discard or keep building on."Rydberg shifted his sore leg.
"What are you thinking of doing about the leak?" he asked. "I'm thinking of giving them hell at the meeting," said Wallander. "Then Björk can deal with it when he gets back." "What do you think he'll do?" "Nothing." "Exactly."Wallander threw his arms wide.
"We might as well admit it right now. Whoever leaked it to the TV people isn't going to get his nose twisted off. By the way, how much do you think Swedish Television pays policemen for leaks?"
"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.
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