Sidetracked

by Unknown

  “What do we know?” Wallander began, looking around the table. He felt like a vicar who had lost his faith. But he had to say something to spur them on again as a unit.

  “The man wound up in that pit sometime last night. Let’s assume that it took place in the early hours. We can assume that he wasn’t murdered there. There would have been a lot of blood at the place where he was killed. Nyberg hadn’t found a thing by the time we left, so he must have been transported there in a vehicle. Maybe the people working at the hot dog stand next to the railway crossing noticed something. It appears that he was killed by a powerful blow from the front that went all the way through his skull.”

  Martinsson turned completely white. He got up and left the room without a word. Wallander decided to carry on without him.

  “He was scalped like the others. And he had his eyes put out. The doctor wasn’t sure how, but there were some spots near the eyes that might indicate a corrosive agent. Maybe our specialist has some opinion on what this indicates.”

  Wallander turned to Ekholm.

  “Not yet,” said Ekholm. “It’s too soon.”

  “We don’t need a comprehensive analysis,” said Wallander firmly. “At this stage we have to think out loud. Maybe we’ll uncover the truth. We don’t believe in miracles. But we don’t have much else to go on.”

  “I think the fact that the eyes were put out means something,” said Ekholm. “We can assume that the same man is involved. This victim was younger than the other two. And he suffered the loss of his sight, presumably while he was still alive. It must have been excruciating. The murderer took scalps from the first two he killed, and this time too. But he also blinded his victim. Why? What kind of revenge was he exacting this time?”

  “The man must be a psychopath,” said Hansson suddenly. “A serial killer of the kind I thought existed only in the United States. But here? In Ystad? In Skåne?”

  “There’s still something controlled about him,” said Ekholm. “He knows what he wants. He kills and scalps. He pokes out or dissolves the eyes. There’s nothing to indicate unbridled rage. Psychopath, yes. But one in control of his actions.”

  “Are there instances of something like this having happened before?” asked Höglund.

  “Not that I can recall,” replied Ekholm. “At least not here in Sweden. In America studies have been done on the role that eyes have played in psychopathic killings. I’ll read about it today.”

  Wallander had been half-listening to the conversation. A thought that he couldn’t quite yet grasp had popped into his head. It was something about eyes. Something somebody had said about eyes. What was it? He turned his attention to the meeting. But the thought lingered like an uneasy ache.

  “Anything else?” he asked Ekholm.

  “Not at the moment.”

  Martinsson came back into the room. He was still very pale.

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Wallander. “After hearing Mats I’m convinced that the murder took place elsewhere. The man must have screamed. Someone would have seen or heard something if it happened outside the railway station. We’ll have to confirm this. But for the time being let’s say I’m right. Why then did he pick that pit to hide the body? I talked to one of the workmen. Persson was his name, Erik Persson. He said that the pit had been excavated on Monday afternoon. Less than two days ago. The killer could have stumbled on it by chance, of course. But that doesn’t fit with the fact that he seems to plan everything he does carefully. The killer must have been outside the railway station at some time after Monday afternoon. He must have looked into the pit to see if it was deep enough. We’ll need to interview all the workmen. Did they notice anybody hanging around? And did the staff at the railway station notice anything?”

  Everyone around the table was listening intently, making him feel that his ideas weren’t completely off track.

  “I also think the question of whether it was meant as a hiding place is crucial,” he went on. “He must have known that the body would be found the next morning. So why did he choose the pit? So it would be discovered? Or is there another explanation?”

  Everyone in the room waited for him to continue.

  “Is he taunting us?” said Wallander. “Does he want to help us? Or is he trying to fool us? Does he want to trick me into thinking exactly the way I’m thinking now? What would the alternative be?”

  No-one answered him.

  “The timing is also important,” said Wallander. “This murder was very recent. That might assist us.”

  “For that we need help,” said Hansson. Clearly he’d been waiting for an opportunity to bring up the question of reinforcements.

  “Not yet,” said Wallander. “Let’s decide later on today. Or maybe tomorrow. As far as I know, no-one in this room is going on holiday soon. Let’s keep it to this group for a few more days. Then we can seek reinforcements if necessary.”

  “What about the connection?” said Wallander in conclusion. “Now there’s one more person to fit into the puzzle we’re trying to piece together.”

  He looked around the table once more.

  “We have to realise that he could strike again,” he said. “In fact, we should assume that he will.”

  The meeting was over. They all knew what they had to do. Wallander remained sitting at the table while the others filed out of the door. He was trying to recapture that thought. He was sure that it was something someone had said in relation to the investigation. Somebody had mentioned eyes. He thought back to the day he’d first heard that Wetterstedt had been found murdered. He searched his memory, but found nothing. Irritated, he tossed his pen aside and went out to the canteen for a cup of coffee. When he got back to his office he set the coffee cup on his desk and was about to shut the door when he saw Svedberg coming down the hall. Svedberg was walking fast. He only did that when something important had happened. Wallander instantly got a knot in his stomach. Not another one, he thought. We just can’t cope.

  “I think we’ve found the scene of the crime,” said Svedberg.

  “Where?”

  “Our colleagues at Sturup found a delivery van soaked in blood in the airport car park.”

  A van. That would fit.

  A few minutes later they left the station. Wallander couldn’t remember ever in his life feeling that he had so little time. When they reached the edge of town he told Svedberg to turn on the police lights. In the fields beside the road a farmer was harvesting his rape.

  CHAPTER 21

  They arrived at Sturup Airport. The air felt stagnant in the oppressive heat of the late morning. In a very short period of time they determined that the murder had very likely taken place in the van. They also thought they knew who the dead man was.

  The van was a late-1960s Ford, with sliding side doors, and painted black sloppily, the original grey showing through in patches. The body was dented in many places. Parked in an isolated spot, it resembled an old prizefighter who had just been counted out, hanging on the ropes in his corner.

  Wallander knew some of the officers at Sturup. He also knew that he wasn’t particularly popular after an incident that had occurred the year before. The side doors of the Ford were standing open. Some forensic technicians were already inspecting it. An officer named Waldemarsson came to meet them. Even though they had driven like madmen from Ystad, Wallander tried to appear totally nonchalant.

  “It’s not a pretty sight,” said Waldemarsson as they shook hands.

  Wallander and Svedberg went over to the Ford and looked in. Waldemarsson shone a torch inside. The floor of the van was covered with blood.

  “We heard on the morning news that he had struck again,” said Waldemarsson. “I called and talked to a woman detective whose name I can’t remember.”

  “Ann-Britt Höglund,” said Svedberg.

  “Whatever her name is, she said you were looking for a crime scene,” Waldemarsson went on. “And a vehicle.”

  Wallander nodded.

  “When did
you find the van?” he asked.

  “We check the car park every day. We’ve had a number of car thefts here. But you know all about that.”

  Wallander nodded again. During the investigation into the export of stolen cars to Poland he had been in contact with the airport police several times.

  “The van wasn’t here yesterday afternoon,” said Waldemarsson. “It couldn’t have been here more than 18 hours.”

  “Who’s the owner?” asked Wallander.

  Waldemarsson took a notebook out of his pocket.

  “Björn Fredman,” he said. “He lives in Malmö. We called his number but didn’t get an answer.”

  “Could he be the one we found in the pit?”

  “We know something about Fredman,” said Waldemarsson. “Malmö has given us information. He was known as a fence, and has done time on several occasions.”

  “A fence,” said Wallander, feeling a flash of excitement. “For works of art?”

  “They didn’t say. You’ll have to talk with our colleagues.”

  “Who should I ask for?” Wallander demanded, taking his mobile phone out of his pocket.

  “An Inspector Sten Forsfält.”

  Wallander got hold of Forsfält. He explained who he was. For a few seconds the conversation was drowned out by the noise of a plane. Wallander thought of the trip to Italy he planned to take with his father.

  “First of all, we have to identify the man,” said Wallander when the plane had climbed away in the direction of Stockholm.

  “What did he look like?” asked Forsfält. “I met Fredman several times.”

  Wallander gave as accurate a description as he could.

  “It might be him,” said Forsfält. “He was big, at any rate.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “Can you drive to the hospital?” he asked. “We need a positive identification as quickly as possible.”

  “Sure, I can do that,” said Forsfält.

  “Prepare yourself, because it’s a hideous sight,” said Wallander. “He had his eyes poked out. Or burnt away.”

  Forsfält didn’t reply.

  “We’re coming to Malmö,” said Wallander. “We need some help getting into his flat. Did he have any family?”

  “He was divorced,” said Forsfält. “Last time he was in, it was for battery.”

  “I thought it was for fencing stolen property.”

  “That too. Fredman kept busy. But not doing anything legal. He was consistent on that score.”

  Wallander said goodbye and called Hansson to give him a brief run-down.

  “Good,” said Hansson. “Let me know as soon as you have more information. By the way, do you know who called?”

  “The national commissioner again?”

  “Almost. Lisa Holgersson. Björk’s successor. She wished us luck. Said she just wanted to check on the situation.”

  “It’s great that people are wishing us luck,” said Wallander, who couldn’t understand why Hansson was telling him about the call in such an ironic tone.

  Wallander borrowed Waldemarsson’s torch and shone it inside the van. He saw a footprint in the blood. He leaned forward.

  “That’s not a shoe print. It’s a left foot.”

  “A bare foot?” said Svedberg. “So he wades around barefoot in the blood of the people he kills?”

  “We don’t know that it’s a he,” said Wallander dubiously.

  They said goodbye to Waldemarsson and his colleagues. Wallander waited in the car while Svedberg ran to the airport café and bought some sandwiches.

  “The prices are outrageous,” he complained when he returned. Wallander didn’t bother answering.

  “Just drive,” was all he said.

  It was past midday when they stopped outside the police station in Malmö. As he stepped out of the car Wallander saw Björk heading towards him. Björk stopped and stared, as if he had caught Wallander doing something he shouldn’t.

  “You, here?” he said.

  “We need you back,” said Wallander in an attempt at a joke. Then he explained what had happened.

  “It’s appalling what’s going on,” said Björk, and Wallander could hear that his anxious tone was genuine. It hadn’t occurred to him before that Björk might miss the people he worked with for so many years in Ystad.

  “Nothing is quite the same,” said Wallander.

  “How’s Hansson doing?”

  “I don’t think he’s enjoying his role.”

  “He can call if he needs any help.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  Björk left and they went into the station. Forsfält still wasn’t back from the hospital. They drank coffee in the canteen while they waited.

  “I wonder what it would be like to work here,” said Svedberg, looking around at all the policemen eating lunch.

  “One day we may all wind up here,” said Wallander. “If they close down the district. One police station per county.”

  “That would never work.”

  “No, but it could happen. The national police board and those bureaucrats have one thing in common. They always try to do the impossible.”

  Forsfält appeared. They stood up, shook hands, and followed him to his office. Wallander had a favourable impression of him. He reminded him of Rydberg. Forsfält was at least 60, with a friendly face. He had a slight limp. Wallander sat down and looked at some pictures of laughing children tacked up on the wall. He guessed that they were Forsfält’s grandchildren.

  “Björn Fredman,” said Forsfält. “It’s him, all right. He looked appalling. Who would do such a thing?”

  “If we only knew,” said Wallander. “Who was Fredman?”

  “A man of about 45 who never had an honest job in his life,” Forsfält began. “I don’t have all of the details. But I’ve asked the computer people for his records. He was a fence and he did time for battery. Quite violent attacks, as I recall.”

  “Was he involved in fencing stolen art?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  “That’s a pity,” said Wallander. “That would have linked him to Wetterstedt and Carlman.”

  “I have a hard time imagining that Fredman and Wetterstedt could have had much use for each other,” said Forsfält.

  “Why not?”

  “Let me put it bluntly,” said Forsfält. “Björn Fredman was what used to be called a rough customer. He drank a lot and got into fights. His education was nearly non-existent, although he could read, write, and do arithmetic tolerably well. His interests could hardly be called sophisticated. And he was a brutal man. I interrogated him myself a number of times. His vocabulary consisted almost exclusively of swear words.”

  Wallander listened. When Forsfält stopped he looked at Svedberg.

  “We’re back to square one again,” Wallander said slowly. “If there’s no connection between Fredman and the other two.”

  “There could be things I don’t know about,” said Forsfält.

  “I’m just thinking out loud,” said Wallander.

  “What about his family?” said Svedberg. “Do they live here in Malmö?”

  “He’s been divorced for a number of years,” said Forsfält. “I’m sure of that.”

  He picked up the phone and made a call. After a few minutes a secretary came in with a file on Fredman and handed it to Forsfält. He took a quick look and then put it down on the table.

  “He got divorced in 1991. His wife stayed in their flat with the children. It’s in Rosengård. There are three children. The youngest was just a baby when they split up. Fredman moved back to a flat on Stenbrottsgatan that he’d kept for many years. He used it mostly as an office and storeroom. I don’t think his wife knew about it. That’s where he also took his other women.”

  “We’ll start with his flat,” said Wallander. “The family can wait. You’ll see that they’re notified of his death?”

  Forsfält nodded. Svedberg had gone out to the hall to call Ystad. Wallander stood
by the window, trying to decide what was most important. There seemed to be no link between the first two victims and Fredman. For the first time he had a premonition that they were following a false lead. Was there a completely different explanation for the murders? He decided he would go over all the investigative material that evening with an open mind. Svedberg came back and stood next to him.

  “Hansson was relieved,” he said.

  Wallander nodded. But he didn’t say a word.

  “According to Martinsson an important message came from Interpol about the girl,” Svedberg went on.

  Wallander hadn’t been paying attention. He had to ask Svedberg to repeat himself. The girl seemed to be part of something that had happened a long time ago. And yet he knew that sooner or later he’d have to take up her case again. They stood in silence.

  “I don’t like it in Malmö,” said Svedberg suddenly. “I only feel happy when I’m home in Ystad.”

  Svedberg hated to leave the town of his birth. At the station it had become a running joke. Wallander wondered when he himself ever really felt happy. But then he remembered the last time. When Linda appeared at his door so early on Sunday morning.

  Forsfält came to get them. They took the lift down to the car park and then drove out towards an industrial area north of the city. The wind had started to blow. The sky was still cloudless. Wallander sat next to Forsfält in the front seat.

  “Did you know Rydberg?” he asked.

  “Did I know Rydberg?” he replied slowly. “I certainly did. Quite well. He used to come to Malmö sometimes.”

  Wallander was surprised at his answer. He’d always thought that Rydberg had discarded everything to do with the job, including his friends.

  “He was the one who taught me everything I know,” said Wallander.

  “It was tragic that he left us so soon,” said Forsfält. “He should have lived longer. He’d always dreamed of going to Iceland.”

  “Iceland?”

  Forsfält nodded.

  “That was his big dream. To go to Iceland. But it didn’t happen.”

  Wallander was struck by the realisation that Rydberg had kept something from him. He wouldn’t have guessed that Rydberg dreamt of a pilgrimage to Iceland. He hadn’t imagined that Rydberg had any dreams at all, or indeed any secrets.