Firewall

by Henning Mankell

  "You're saying she's lying."

  "I am not going to answer that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because to do so I would need to give you information about an ongoing investigation. Information that is still classified."

  "But are you saying that she's lying?"

  "Those are your words. I can only tell you what happened."

  Wallander could see the headlines, but he knew what he was doing was right. Persson and her mother were cunning, but it wasn't going to help them in the long run, nor would exaggerated and emotional newspaper coverage.

  "The girl is very young," Törngren said. "She claims she was drawn into these tragic events by her much older friend. Doesn't that sound plausible? Couldn't Eva be telling the truth?"

  Wallander considered telling him the truth about Hökberg. The most recent events had yet to be made public, but he decided against it. Anyway, it still gave him an advantage.

  "You and your newspaper are not the ones in charge of this investigation. We are. If you wish to draw your own conclusions and arrive at your own judgement, we can't stop you. But the truth is going to turn out quite different. Not that your editor will give it much space."

  Wallander let his hands fall palms down on the table to signal the end of the interview.

  "Thank you for your time," Törngren said and started putting his tape recorder away.

  "Inspector Martinsson will show you out," Wallander said.

  He left the room without shaking hands. While he was collecting his post he tried to judge how the interview had gone. Was there something he should have added? Was there something he should have expressed differently? He carried a cup of coffee back to his office with his letters tucked under his arm. He decided that the conversation with Törngren had gone rather well, even if he couldn't influence what eventually appeared in the published report. He sat down and went through the post. There was nothing that couldn't wait. He reminded himself of Enander's visit, rifled through his notes in the top desk drawer and called the coroner's office in Lund. He was in luck and was put through at once to the pathologist in question. Wallander told him what Enander had said. The pathologist listened and evidently took notes. He promised to let Wallander know if any of this new information was likely to lead to a revision of the conclusions of the autopsy.

  At 8 a.m., Wallander got up and went to the large conference room. Holgersson was already there, as well as the lawyer Lennart Viktorsson. Wallander felt a surge of adrenalin when he caught sight of him. Most people would probably keep a low profile after turning up in such circumstances on the front page of a newspaper. Wallander had gone through his moment of weakness the day before when he left the station early. Now he was ready for battle. He sat in his chair and started speaking.

  "As you all know, the evening papers ran a photograph last night of Eva Persson, with a caption, saying that she had fallen down because I slapped her. The girl and her mother may deny this, but what happened was that the girl was hitting her mother in the face and I was trying to intervene. She was in a fury. To snap her out of it, I slapped her. Not hard, but it was enough to knock her off balance and she fell over. This is also what I told the reporter who was creeping around the station. I met him this morning, as Martinsson can report."

  He paused before continuing and looked round at those who were gathered around the table. Chief Holgersson seemed put out. Probably she had wanted to be the one to bring it up.

  "I have been told that there will be an internal investigation of the matter, which is fine with me. But for now I think we should turn our attention to the most important matter at hand, Lundberg's murder and sorting out what actually happened to Hökberg."

  Holgersson started speaking as soon as he had finished. Wallander didn't like the expression on her face. He still felt as though she were letting him down.

  "I think it goes without saying that you will not be allowed to question Eva Persson," she said.

  Wallander nodded. "Even I understand that."

  I should have said more, he thought. That a police officer's first duty is to stand by his colleagues – not uncritically, not at any price. But for as long as it is a question of one person's word against another's. Persson's lie is easier for her to swallow than standing up for the uncomfortable truth.

  Viktorsson lifted his hand and interrupted Wallander's train of thought. "I will be following this internal investigation closely and I suggest that we seriously consider Eva Persson's new version of what happened. It's quite possible that it was as she says, that Sonja Hökberg was solely responsible for the planning and execution of the assault."

  Wallander couldn't believe his ears. He looked around the room trying to elicit support from his closest colleagues. Hansson in his checked flannel shirt looked lost in thought. Martinsson was rubbing his chin and Höglund was slumped in her chair. No-one met his gaze, but he decided to interpret from what he saw that they were still with him.

  "Persson is lying," he said. "Her first story is the true one. That's the version we will also be able to prove, if we get down to business and do our jobs."

  Viktorsson wanted to go on, but Wallander didn't let him. He didn't think that most of them had been told what Höglund had called to tell him about last night.

  "Hökberg was murdered," he said. "The pathologist has advised us that fractures have been found consistent with a heavy blow to the back of the head. It may have been the cause of death; at the very least it made her unconscious. Thereafter she was thrown among the power lines. At any rate, we need have no more doubts about whether or not she was murdered."

  He had been correct. Everyone in the room was surprised.

  "I should emphasise that this is the pathologist's preliminary report," he said. "There may be more information forthcoming."

  No-one said anything and he felt he had control of the proceedings now. The photograph in the papers nagged at him and gave him renewed energy, but he couldn't get over Holgersson's open distrust of him.

  He went on to give a thorough report of the investigation to date.

  "Johan Lundberg is murdered in what appears to be a hastily planned and quickly executed robbery. The girls say they needed money, but not for anything in particular. They make no attempts to hide from the police after the attack. When we bring them in, both confess almost immediately. Their stories are consistent and neither shows any remorse. We also find the murder weapons. Then Hökberg escapes from the police station in what looks to have been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Twelve hours later she is found murdered in one of the Sydkraft power substations. Establishing how she got there will be of crucial importance for us. Also we don't know why she was murdered. Parallel to these developments, something else happens that is also crucial: Persson retracts her earlier confession. She lays the whole blame for what happened on Hökberg. She gives new information that cannot be checked because Hökberg is dead. The question is: how did Persson know this – she must have known it. News of the murder has not been released. The people who know about it are very few in number; yesterday that number was even smaller. Yet that was when Persson suddenly changed her story."

  Wallander leaned back in his chair. The level of attentiveness in the room had risen sharply. Wallander had isolated the decisive issues.

  "What did Hökberg do when she left the station?" Hansson said. "That's what we need to find out."

  "She didn't walk to the substation," Wallander said. "Even if it will be hard to prove 100 per cent. We have to assume that she was driven."

  "Aren't we going a little too fast?" Viktorsson said. "She could have been dead when she got there."

  "I haven't finished yet," Wallander said. "That is, of course, a possibility."

  "Is there indeed anything that speaks against this assumption?"

  "No."

  "Isn't it in fact the most logical conclusion? What reason could we have for supposing that she went there of her own volition?"

  "Only that she knew
the person who drove her there."

  Viktorsson shook his head. "Why would anyone seek out a power substation, one located in the middle of a field? Wasn't it raining all this time? Doesn't this tell us that she was in fact killed somewhere else?"

  "Hold on," Wallander said. "We're just trying to lay all the alternatives on the table. We shouldn't be homing in on any one of them yet."

  "Who drove her?" Martinsson said. "If we know that, we'll know who killed her, even if we won't know why."

  "That will have to come later," Wallander said. "My thought is that Persson could not have found out about Hökberg's death other than through the person who killed her. Or at the very least from a witness." He looked at Holgersson. "That means Persson is our key to working out what happened. She's a juvenile and she's lying, and now we have to turn up the heat. I want to know how she learned of Hökberg's death." He stood up. "Since I won't be involved in her interrogation, I'll get on with attending to other matters."

  He walked from the room, pleased with his exit. It was a childish display, he knew, but he thought it would hit its mark. He assumed that Höglund would be given the responsibility of talking to Persson. She knew what to ask; he didn't have to prepare her.

  Wallander collected his coat and left. He would be using his time to check something else. Before leaving the station he put two photographs from the case file into his pocket. He walked down towards the centre of town. One aspect of the case had continued to bother him. Why had Hökberg been killed, and why in such a way as to cut power to large parts of Skåne? Had that been intended or mere chance?

  He crossed the main square and ended up on Hamngatan. The restaurant where Hökberg and Persson had had their beers wasn't yet open. He peered in through a window. Someone was there, and it was a man he recognised. He knocked on the pane. The man went on with his work behind the counter. Wallander knocked harder and the man looked up. When he recognised Wallander, he smiled and came to open the door.

  "It's not even nine yet," he said. "Do you want pizza already?"

  "Sort of," Wallander said. "A cup of coffee would be nice. I need to talk to you."

  István Kecskeméti had come to Sweden from Hungary in 1956. He had run a number of restaurants in Ystad and Wallander had made it a habit to eat at one or other of them when he didn't have the energy to cook for himself. He talked a lot at times, but Wallander liked him. He was also one of the few people who knew of Wallander's diabetes.

  "You don't stop by very often," István said. "When you come, we're closed. That means you want something other than food." He raised his arms and sighed. "Everyone comes to István for help. Sports clubs and charities, someone who wants to start a cemetery for animals – all want money. They promise some advertising in return. But how is advertising in a pet cemetery to help a pizzeria? Perhaps you also want something? Is it a donation to the Swedish Police Force?"

  "Answers to a couple of questions will do fine," Wallander said. "Last Wednesday – were you here?"

  "I'm here always. But last Wednesday is a while ago."

  Wallander put the two photographs on the table. The lighting was poor.

  "See if you recognise either of these faces."

  István took the photographs to the bar. He looked at them for a long time before he said, "I think so."

  "Did you hear about the taxi murder?"

  "A terrible thing – how can it happen? And such young people." Then István understood the connection. "These two?"

  "Yes. And they were here that evening. I badly need you to tell me everything you remember. Where they sat, who they were with, that kind of thing."

  István strained to remember the evening, while Wallander waited. He picked up the photographs and walked around the restaurant. He walked slowly and seemed to be searching. He's looking for his guests, Wallander thought. He's doing what I would have done. The question is: will he find them?

  István stopped at a table by the window. Wallander walked over to it.

  "I think here," István said.

  "Who sat in which seat?"

  István looked troubled. Wallander waited again while István walked around the table a couple of times. Then, as if he were handing out menus, he put the photographs of Hökberg and Persson in front of their seats.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  But Wallander saw him wrinkle his brow. He was still trying to remember something.

  "There was something that happened that evening," he said. "I remember them because I had doubts about one of them being 18."

  "She wasn't," Wallander said. "But forget it."

  Wallander waited. He saw how István was struggling to remember.

  "Something happened that evening," he said, again. Then he remembered what it was. "They changed places," he said. "At some point that evening they switched seats."

  Wallander sat in the chair where Hökberg had spent the first part of the evening. From that seat, he could see a wall and the window over the street. Most of the restaurant was behind him. When he changed seats he saw the front door. Since a pillar and a booth hid much of the rest of the room, he had a clear view of only one table, a table for two.

  "Did anyone sit there?" he said, pointing to the table. "Did anyone sit there when the girls changed places?"

  "Actually, yes," István said. "Someone did come in and sit there, but I'm not sure if it was when they changed seats or not."

  Wallander realised he was holding his breath. "Can you describe him? Did you know him?"

  "I had never seen him before, but he's easy to describe."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, he was Chinese. Or at least he looked Asian."

  Wallander was close to something important.

  "Did he stay on after the girls left in the taxi?"

  "Yes, an hour at least."

  "Did they seem to make contact?"

  István shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't notice anything, but it's possible."

  "Do you remember how the man paid his bill?"

  "I think it was by credit card, but I'm not sure."

  "Good," Wallander said. "I want you to find that charge slip."

  "I will have sent it in. American Express, if I remember rightly."

  "Then we'll find your copy," Wallander said.

  He felt a sense of urgency. Sonja Hökberg saw someone walking down the street, he thought. She changed places in order to see him. He was Asian.

  "What is it you're looking for?" István said.

  "I'm just trying to understand what must have happened," Wallander said. "I haven't got any further than that."

  He said goodbye to István and left the restaurant. A man of Asian descent, he thought. A powerful wave of anxiety overtook him. He began to walk faster.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Wallander was out of breath by the time he arrived at the station. He had walked rapidly because he knew that Höglund was interrogating Persson. He had to tell her what he had learned at István's restaurant so she could ask questions that now needed answers. Irene handed him a little pile of messages that he stuffed unread into a pocket. He called Höglund in the room where the interrogation was taking place.

  "I'm almost finished here," she said.