by Unknown
“I have to disappoint you,” Forsfält told him. “He had the passport for four years, and it has stamps from Turkey, Morocco and Brazil. That’s all.”
Wallander was indeed disappointed, although he wasn’t sure what he had expected. Forsfält promised to fax over the details on the passport. Then he said he had something else to tell him that had no direct bearing on the investigation.
“We found some keys to the attic when we were looking for the passport. Among all the junk up there we found a box containing some antique icons. We were able to determine pretty quickly that they were stolen. Guess where from.”
Wallander thought for a moment but couldn’t come up with anything. “I give up.”
“About a year ago there was a burglary at a house near Ystad. The house was under the administration of an executor, because it was part of the estate of a deceased lawyer named Gustaf Torstensson.”
Wallander remembered him. One of two lawyers murdered the year before. Wallander had seen the collection of icons in the basement that belonged to the older of the two lawyers. He even had one of them hanging on the wall of his bedroom, a present he’d received from the dead lawyer’s secretary. Now he also recalled the break-in; it was Svedberg’s case.
“So now we know,” said Wallander.
“You’ll be getting the follow-up report,” Forsfält told him.
“Not me,” said Wallander. “Svedberg.”
Forsfält asked how it was going with Louise Fredman.
“With a little luck we’ll know something later today,” said Wallander, and told him about his last conversation with Åkeson.
“Keep me informed.”
After they hung up he checked his list of unanswered questions. He could cross out some of them, while others he would have to bring up at the team meeting. But first he had to see the two trainees who were keeping track of the tip-offs coming in from the public. Had anything come in that might indicate exactly where Fredman was murdered? Wallander knew this could be highly significant for the investigation.
One of the trainees had close-cropped hair and was named Tyrén. He had intelligent eyes and was thought of as competent. Wallander quickly explained what he was looking for.
“Someone who heard screams?” asked Tyrén. “And saw a Ford van? On the night of Tuesday, 28 June?”
“That’s right.”
Tyrén shook his head.
“I would have remembered that,” he said. “A woman screamed in a flat in Rydsgård. But that was on Wednesday. And she was drunk.”
“Let me know immediately if anything comes in,” said Wallander.
He left Tyrén and went down to the meeting room. Hansson was talking to a reporter in reception. Wallander remembered seeing him before. He was a stringer for one or other of the big national evening papers. They waited a few minutes until Hansson got rid of the reporter, and then closed the door. Hansson sat down and gave Wallander the floor at once. Just as he was about to start, Åkeson came in and sat at the far end of the table, next to Ekholm. Wallander raised his eyebrows and gave him an inquiring look. Åkeson nodded. Wallander knew that meant there was news about Louise Fredman. With difficulty, he contained his curiosity, and called on Höglund. She reported the news from the hospital. Carlman’s daughter was in a stable condition. It would be possible to talk to her within 24 hours. No-one could see an objection to Höglund and Wallander visiting the hospital.
Wallander went quickly down the list of unanswered questions. Nyberg was well prepared, as usual, able to fill in many of the gaps with laboratory results. But nothing was significant enough to provoke long discussion. Mostly they had confirmation of conclusions they had already drawn. The only new information was that there were faint traces of kelp on Fredman’s clothes. This could be an indication that Fredman had been near the sea on the last day of his life. Wallander thought for a moment.
“Where are the traces of kelp?” he asked.
Nyberg checked his notes.
“On the back of his jacket.”
“He could have been killed near the sea,” said Wallander. “As far as I can recall, there was a slight breeze that night. If the surf was loud enough, it might explain why no-one heard screams.”
“If it happened on the beach we would have found traces of sand,” said Nyberg.
“Maybe it was on a boat,” Svedberg suggested.
“Or a dock,” said Höglund.
The question hung in the air. It would be impossible to check the thousands of pleasure boats and docks. Wallander noted that they should watch out for tip-offs from people who lived near the sea. Then he gave the floor to Åkeson.
“I succeeded in gathering some information about Louise Fredman,” he said. “I remind you that this is highly confidential and cannot be mentioned to anyone outside the investigative team.”
“We understand this,” Wallander said.
“Louise Fredman is at St Lars Hospital in Lund,” Åkeson continued. “She has been there for more than three years. The diagnosis is severe psychosis. She has stopped talking, sometimes has to be force-fed, and there is no sign of improvement. She’s 17 years old. Judging from a photograph I saw she’s quite pretty.”
The group was silent.
“Psychosis is usually caused by something,” said Ekholm.
“She was admitted on 9 January 1991,” said Åkeson, after looking through his papers. “Her illness seems to have struck like a bolt from the blue. She had been missing from home for a week. She was having serious problems at school and was often truant. There were signs of drug abuse. Not heavy narcotics, mostly amphetamines and possibly cocaine. She was found in Pildamm Park, completely irrational.”
“Were there signs of external injuries?” asked Wallander, who was listening intently.
“Not according to the material I’ve received.”
Wallander thought about this.
“Well, we can’t talk to her,” he said finally. “But I want to know whether she had any injuries. And I want to talk to the person who found her.”
“It was three years ago,” said Åkeson. “But the people involved could probably be traced.”
“I’ll talk to Forsfält in Malmö,” said Wallander. “Uniformed officers most probably found her. There will be a report on it.”
“Why do you wonder if she had any injuries?” Hansson asked.
“I just want to fill in the picture as completely as possible,” Wallander replied.
They left Louise Fredman and went on to other topics. Since Ekholm was still waiting for the F.B.I. programme to finish cross-referencing all the investigative material, Wallander turned the discussion to the question of reinforcements. Hansson had already received a positive response from the county chief of police as to the possibility of a sergeant from Malmö. He would be in Ystad by lunchtime.
“Who is it?” asked Martinsson, who had so far been silent.
“His name is Sture Holmström,” said Hansson.
“Do we know anything about him?” Martinsson asked.
No-one knew him. Wallander promised to call Forsfält to check on him.
Then Wallander turned to Åkeson.
“The question now is whether we should ask for additional reinforcements,” Wallander began. “What’s the general view? I want everyone’s opinion. I also undertake to bow to the will of the majority. Even though I’m not convinced that extra personnel will improve the quality of our work. I’m afraid we might lose the pace of our investigation. At least in the short run. But I want to hear your views.”
Martinsson and Svedberg were in favour of requesting extra personnel. Höglund sided with Wallander, and Hansson and Ekholm didn’t offer an opinion. Wallander saw that another burdensome mantle of responsibility had been draped around his shoulders. Åkeson proposed that they postpone the decision for a few more days.
“If there’s another murder, it’ll be unavoidable,” he said. “But for the time being let’s keep going the way we have been.”<
br />
The meeting finished just before 10 a.m. Wallander went to his room. It had been a good meeting, much better than the last, even though they hadn’t made any progress. They had shown one another that their energy and will were still strong.
Wallander was about to call Forsfält when Martinsson appeared in his doorway.
“There’s one more thing that’s occurred to me,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Louise Fredman was found wandering around on a path in the park. There’s a similarity to the girl running in the rape field.”
Martinsson was right. There was a similarity, albeit a remote one.
“I agree,” he said. “It’s a shame that there’s no connection.”
“Still, it’s weird,” said Martinsson.
He remained in the doorway.
“You bet right this time.”
Wallander nodded.
“I know,” he said. “So did Ann-Britt.”
“You’ll have to split a thousand.”
“When’s the next match?”
“I’ll let you know,” said Martinsson and left.
Wallander called Malmö. While he waited, he looked out of the open window. Another beautiful day. Then Forsfält came on the line, and he pushed all thoughts of summer aside.
He took a long time selecting the right axe from the ones lying polished on the black silk cloth. Finally he chose the smallest one, the one he hadn’t used yet. He stuck it in his wide leather belt and pulled the helmet over his head.
As before, he was barefoot when he locked the door behind him. The evening was warm. He rode along side roads that he had selected on the map. It would take him almost two hours. He would get there a little before 11 p.m.
He’d had to change his plans. The man who had gone abroad suddenly had returned. He decided not to risk his taking off again. He had listened to Geronimo’s heart. The rhythmic thumping of the drums inside his chest had delivered their message to him. He must not wait. He would seize the opportunity.
The summer landscape seen from inside his helmet took on a bluish tinge. He could see the sea to his left, the blinking lights of ships, and the coast of Denmark. He felt elated and happy. It wouldn’t be long now before he could bring his sister the last sacrifice that would liberate her from the fog that surrounded her. She would return to life in the loveliest part of the summer.
He got to the city just after 11 p.m., and 15 minutes later stopped on a street next to the large villa, hidden away in a garden full of tall, sheltering trees. He chained his moped to a lamppost and locked it. On the opposite footpath an old couple were walking their dog. He waited until they disappeared before he pulled off his helmet and stuffed it into his backpack. In the shadows he ran to the back of the property, which looked out over a football pitch. He hid his backpack in the long grass and crept through the hedge, at a point where he had long ago prepared an opening. The hedge scratched his bare arms and feet. But he steeled himself against all pain. Geronimo would not stand for weakness. He had a sacred mission, as written in the book he had received from his sister. The mission required all his strength, which he was prepared to sacrifice with devotion.
He was inside the garden now, closer to the beast than he had ever been. The entire ground floor was in darkness, but there was a light on upstairs. He remembered with anger how his sister had been here before him. She had described the house, and one day he would burn it to the ground. But not yet. Cautiously he ran up to the wall of the house and prised open the basement window from which he had earlier removed the latch. It was easy to crawl inside. He knew that he was in an apple cellar, surrounded by the faint aroma of sour apples. He listened. All quiet. He crept up the cellar stairs, into the big kitchen. Still quiet. The only thing he heard was the faint sound of water pipes. He turned on the oven and opened the door. Then he made his way upstairs. He had taken the axe out of his belt. He was completely calm.
The door to the bathroom was ajar. In the darkness of the hall he caught a glimpse of the man he was going to kill. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror rubbing cream onto his face. Hoover slipped in behind the bathroom door, waiting. When the man turned off the light in the bathroom he raised the axe. He struck only once. The man fell to the floor without a sound. With the axe he sliced off a piece of the man’s hair from the top of his head. He stuffed the scalp into his pocket. Then he dragged the man down the stairs. He was in pyjamas. The bottoms slipped off the body and were dragged along by one foot. He avoided looking at him.
He pulled the man into the kitchen and leaned the body against the oven door. Then he shoved the man’s head inside. Almost at once he smelled the face cream starting to melt. He left the house the way he had come in.
He buried the scalp beneath his sister’s window in the dawn light. Now all that was left was the extra sacrifice he would offer her. He would bury one last scalp. Then it would be over.
He thought about the man he had watched sleeping. The man who had sat across from him on the sofa, understanding nothing of the sacred mission he had to perform. He still hadn’t decided whether he should also take the girl sleeping in the next room. He would make his final decision the next day, but now he had to rest.
Skåne
5–8 July 1994
CHAPTER 29
Waldemar Sjösten was a criminal detective in Helsingborg who devoted all his free time during the summer to a 1930s mahogany boat he had found by accident. And this was just what he planned to do on Tuesday morning, 5 July, when he let the shade on his bedroom window roll up with a snap just before 6 a.m. He lived in a newly renovated block of flats at the centre of town. One street, the railway line and the docks were all that separated him from the Sound. The weather was as beautiful as the weather reports had promised. His holiday didn’t start until the end of July, but whenever he could he spent a few early mornings on his boat, docked at the marina a short bike ride away. Sjösten was going to celebrate his 50th birthday this autumn. He had been married three times, had six children and was planning his fourth marriage. The woman shared his love of the boat, Sea King II. He had taken the name from the beautiful boat that he’d spent his childhood summers on board with his parents, Sea King I. His father had sold it to a man from Norway when he was ten, and he had never forgotten it. He often wondered whether the boat still existed, or whether it had sunk or rotted away.
He had finished a cup of coffee and was getting ready to leave when the telephone rang. He was surprised to hear it at such an early hour. He picked up the receiver.
“Waldemar?” It was Detective Sergeant Birgersson.
“Yes.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I was just on my way out.”
“Lucky I caught you then. You’d better get down here right away.”
Birgersson wouldn’t have called unless it was something serious.
“I’ll be right there,” he said. “What is it?”
“There was smoke coming out of one of those old villas up in Tågaborg. When the fire brigade got there they found a man in the kitchen.”
“Dead?”
“Murdered. You’ll understand why I called you when you see him.”
Sjösten could see his morning disappearing, but he was a dutiful policeman, so he had no trouble changing his plans. Instead of the key to his bicycle lock he grabbed his car keys and left at once. It took him only a few minutes to drive to the station. Birgersson was on the steps waiting. He got in the car and gave him directions.
“Who’s dead?” Sjösten asked.
“Åke Liljegren.”
Sjösten whistled. Åke Liljegren was well known, not just in the city but all over Sweden. He called himself “the Auditor” and had gained his notoriety as the éminence grise behind some extensive shell company dealing done during the 1980s. Apart from one six-month suspended sentence, the police had had no success in prosecuting the illegal operation he ran. Liljegren had become a by-word for the worst type of financial scams,
and the fact that he got off scot-free demonstrated how ill-equipped the justice system was to handle criminals like him. He was from Båstad, but in recent years had lived in Helsingborg when he was in Sweden. Sjösten recalled a newspaper article that had set out to uncover how many houses Liljegren owned across the world.
“Can you give me a time frame?” asked Sjösten.
“A jogger out early this morning saw smoke coming out of the house. He raised the alarm. The fire department got there at 5.15 a.m.”
“Where was the fire?”
“There was no fire.”
Sjösten gave Birgersson a puzzled look.
“Liljegren was leaning into the oven,” Birgersson explained. “His head was in the oven, which was on full blast. He was literally being roasted.”
Sjösten grimaced. He was beginning to get an idea what he was going to have to look at.
“Did he commit suicide?”
“No. Someone stuck an axe in his head.”
Sjösten stomped involuntarily on the brake. He looked at Birgersson, who nodded.
“His face and hair were almost completely burnt off. But the doctor thought he could tell that someone had sliced off part of his scalp.”
Sjösten said nothing. He was thinking about what had happened in Ystad. That was this summer’s big news. A serial killer who axed people to death and then took their scalps.
They arrived at Liljegren’s villa on Aschebergsgatan. A fire engine was parked outside the gates along with a few police cars and an ambulance. The huge property was cordoned off. Sjösten got out of the car and waved off a reporter. He and Birgersson ducked under the cordon and walked up to the villa. When they entered the house Sjösten noticed a sickly smell, and realised that it was Liljegren’s burnt corpse. He borrowed a handkerchief from Birgersson and held it to his nose and mouth. Birgersson nodded towards the kitchen. A very pale uniformed officer stood guard at the door. Sjösten peered inside. The sight that greeted him was grotesque. The half-naked man was on his knees. His body was bent over the oven door. His head and neck were out of sight inside the oven. With disgust Sjösten recalled the fairy tale of Hänsel and Gretel and the witch. A doctor was kneeling down beside the body, shining a torch into the oven. Sjösten tried to breathe through his mouth. The doctor nodded at him. Sjösten leaned forward and looked into the oven. He was reminded of a charred steak.
