Faceless Killers kw-1 Read online

  Mona. It might be their most important meeting since the occasion on which he had proposed to her. Now he was trying to prevent a divorce that was already set in motion.

  But what did he really want? He wiped off his lapel with a paper napkin, drained the glass, and ordered another. He would have to go in 10 minutes. By then he would have to make up his mind. What was he going to say to Mona? And what would her answer be?

  His drink came and he tossed it back. The liquor burned in his temples, and he could feel himself starting to sweat. Deep inside he hoped that Mona would say the words he was waiting to hear.

  She had been the one who wanted the divorce, so she was also the one who should take the initiative and put a stop to it.

  He paid his bill and left. He walked slowly so as not to arrive too early.

  He decided two things while he waited for the light to turn green on the corner of Vallgatan. He was going to have a serious talk with Mona about Linda. And he would ask her advice about his father. Mona knew the old man well. Even though they hadn't really got along, she understood his changeable moods.

  I should have called Kristina, he thought as he crossed the street. I probably forgot about it on purpose. He walked across the canal bridge and was passed by a carload of youths. A boy, obviously drunk, was leaning right out of the open window and bellowing something.

  Wallander remembered how he used to walk across this bridge more than 20 years before. In these neighbourhoods the city still looked the same. He had walked the beat here as a young policeman, usually with an older partner, and they would go into the railway station to check up on things. Occasionally they had to throw out someone who was drunk and didn't have a ticket, but there was seldom any violence.

  That world doesn't exist any more, he thought. It's gone, and we'll never get it back. He went into the station. It had changed a lot, but the stone floor was the same. And the sound of the screeching carriage wheels and braking engines.

  Suddenly he caught sight of his daughter. At first he thought he must be imagining it. It could just as easily have been the girl tossing hay at Sten Widén's farm. But then he was sure. It was Linda. She was standing with a coal-black man, trying to get a ticket from the automatic machine. He was almost a foot and a half taller than she was. He had frizzy black hair and was dressed in purple overalls.

  As if he were on surveillance, Wallander swiftly drew back behind a pillar. The man said something and Linda laughed. He realised it had been years since he had seen his daughter laugh.

  What he saw saddened him. He sensed that he couldn't reach her. She was beyond his grasp, even though she was so close.

  My family, he thought. I'm in a railway station spying on my daughter. And her mother, my wife, has probably already arrived at the restaurant so that we can meet and have dinner and maybe manage to talk without starting to shout and scream at each other.

  He realised that he was having a hard time seeing. His eyes were misted over with tears. He hadn't had tears in his eyes for a long time. It was as distant a memory as the last time he had seen Linda laugh.

  The black man and Linda were walking towards the platform. He wanted to rush after her, pull her to him. Then they were gone from his field of vision, and he continued his surveillance. He slunk along in the shadows of the platform where the icy wind from the sound blew. He watched them walk hand in hand, laughing. The last thing he saw was the blue doors hissing shut and the train leaving towards Landskrona or Lund.

  He tried to focus on the fact that she had looked happy. Just as carefree as when she was a young girl. But all he seemed to feel was his own misery. Pathetic Inspector Wallander and his pitiful family life.

  Now he was late. By now Mona would have turned on her heel and left. She was always punctual and hated having to wait. Especially for him.

  He started along the platform at a run. A bright-red engine screeched alongside him like an angry beast. He was in such a hurry that he stumbled on the stairs leading to the restaurant. The shaven-headed doorman gave him a sour look."Where do you think you re going?" he asked.

  Wallander was paralysed by the question. Its implication was immediately clear to him. The doorman thought he was drunk. He wasn't going to let him in."I'm going to have dinner with my wife," he said.

  "No, I don't think you are," said the doorman. "I think you'd better go on home."Wallander felt his blood boil.

  "I'm a police officer!" he shouted. "And I'm not drunk, if that's what you think. Now let me in before I really get angry."

  "Piss off!" said the doorman. "Before I call the police." For a moment he felt like punching the doorman in the nose. Then he regained composure and calmed down.

  He took his identity card out of his inside pocket.

  "I really am a police officer" he said. "And I'm not drunk. I stumbled. And my wife is here waiting for me."

  The doorman gave the card a sceptical scrutiny. Then his face lit up.

  "Hey, I recognise you," he said. "You were on TV the other night."Finally, some benefit from the TV, he thought."I'm with you," said the doorman. "All the way.""With me about what?"

  "Keeping those damned niggers oh a short leash. What kind of shit are we letting into this country, going around killing old people? I'm with you, we should kick 'em all out. Chase 'em out with a stick."

  Wallander could see that there was no point to getting into a discussion with the man. Instead, he attempted a smile.

  "Well, I guess I'll go and have dinner, I'm starving," he said.The doorman held open the door for him."You understand we have got to be careful?"

  "No problem," replied Wallander and went into the warmth of the restaurant.

  He hung up his coat and looked around. Mona was sitting at a window table with a view over the canal. He wondered whether she had been watching him arrive. He sucked in his stomach as best he could, ran his hand over his hair, and walked over to her.

  Everything went wrong right from the start. He saw that she noticed the spot on his lapel, and this made him furious. And he didn't know if he entirely succeeded in hiding his fury."Hello," he said, sitting down across from her.

  "Late as usual," she said. "And you've really put on weight!"

  She had to start off with an insult. Not even a friendly word, no affection."But you look just the same. You've got a lovely tan." "We spent a week in Madeira."

  Madeira. First Paris, then Madeira. Their honeymoon. The hotel perched way out on the cliffs, the little fish restaurant down by the beach. And now she had been there again. With someone else."I see," he said. "I thought Madeira was our island."

  "Don't be childish!""I mean it!""Then you are being childish.""Of course I'm childish! What's wrong with that?"

  The conversation was spinning out of control. When a friendly waitress came to their table it was like being rescued from a deep hole in the ice.

  The wine arrived and the mood improved. Wallander sat looking at the woman who had been his wife and thought that she was extremely beautiful. He tried to avoid thoughts that gave him a sharp stab of jealousy.

  He did his best to give the impression of being very calm, which he definitely was not. They said skal and raised their glasses."Come back," he begged. "Let's start again."

  "No," she said. "You have to understand that it's finished. All over."

  "I went to the station while I was waiting for you," he said. "I saw Linda there." "Linda?""You seem surprised.""I thought she was in Stockholm."

  "What would she be doing in Stockholm?" "She was supposed to visit a college to see if it might be the right place for her." "I'm not blind. It was her." "Did you talk to her?"

  Wallander shook his head. "She was just getting onto a train. I didn't have time." "Which train?""Lund or Landskrona. She was with an African." "That's good, at least." "What do you mean by that?"

  "I mean that Herman is the best thing that's happened to Linda in a long time." "Herman?"

  "Herman Mboya. He's from Kenya." "He was wearing purple over
alls!" "He does have an amusing way of dressing sometimes.""What's he doing in Sweden?""He's in medical school. He'll be a doctor soon."Wallander listened in amazement. Was she pulling his

  leg? "A doctor?"

  "Yes! A doctor! A physician, or whatever you call it. He's warm, thoughtful, and has a good sense of humour." "Do they live together?" "He has a student flat in Lund." "I asked you if they were living together!" "I think Linda has finally decided." "Decided what?" "To move in with him.""Then how can she go to the college in Stockholm?" "It was Herman who suggested that."

  The waitress refilled their glasses. Wallander could feel himself starting to get drunk.

  "She called me one day," he said. "She was in Ystad. But she never came to say hello. If you see her, you can tell her that I miss her.""She does what she wants.""All I'm asking is for you to tell her!""I will! Don't shout!""I'm not shouting!"

  Just then the roast beef arrived. They ate in silence. Wallander couldn't taste a thing. He ordered another bottle of wine and wondered how he was going to get home.

  "You seem to be well," he said.She nodded, firmly and maybe defiantly too.

  "And you?"

  "I'm having a hell of a time. Otherwise, everything's fine.""What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

  He had forgotten that he had been supposed to think of an excuse for their meeting. Now he had no idea what to say. The truth, he thought wryly. Why not try the truth?

  "I just wanted to see you," he said. "The other stuff was all lies."She smiled."I'm glad that we could see each other," she said.Suddenly he burst into tears."I miss you terribly," he mumbled.

  She reached out her hand and put it on his. But she said nothing. And it was in that instant that Wallander knew that it was over. The divorce wouldn't change anything. Maybe they'd have dinner once in a while. But their lives were irreversibly going in different directions. Her silence told him that.

  He started thinking about Anette Brolin. And the black woman who visited him in his dreams. He had been unprepared for loneliness. Now he would be forced to accept it and maybe gradually build a new life."Tell me one thing," he said. "Why did you leave me?"

  "If I hadn't left you, I would have died," she said. "I wish you could understand that it wasn't your fault. I was the one who felt the separation was necessary, I was the one who decided. One day you'll understand what I mean.""I want to understand now."

  When they were about to leave she wanted to pay her share. But he insisted he'd pay and she gave in."How are you getting home?" she asked.

  "There's a night bus," he replied. "How are you getting home?""I'm walking," she said."I'll walk with you part of the way."She shook her head.

  "We'll say goodbye here," she said. "That would be best. But call me again sometime. I want to stay in touch."

  She kissed him quickly on the cheek. He watched her walk across the canal bridge with a vigorous stride. When she disappeared between the Savoy and the tourist bureau, he followed her. Earlier that evening he had shadowed his daughter. Now he was tailing his wife.

  Near the television shop at the corner of Stortorget a car was waiting. She got into the front seat. Wallander ducked into a stairwell as the car drove past. He had a quick glimpse of the man behind the wheel.

  He walked to his car. There was no night bus to Ystad. He stopped at a phone box and called Anette Brolin at home. When she answered he hung up at once. He got back into his car and pushed in the Maria (Dallas cassette and closed his eyes.

  He woke up with a start because he was cold. He had slept for almost two hours. Even though he wasn't sober, he decided to drive home. He would take the back roads through Svedala and Svaneholm. That way he wouldn't risk running into any police patrols.

  But he did. He had completely forgotten that the night patrols from Ystad were watching the refugee camps. And he was the one who had given the order.

  Peters and Norén came upon an erratic driver between Svaneholm and Slimminge, after they had checked that everything was quiet at Hageholm. Normally either of them would have recognised Wallander's car, but it didn't occur to them that he might be out driving around at this time of night. Besides, the licence plate was so covered with mud that it was unreadable. Not until they had stopped the car and knocked on the windscreen, and Wallander had rolled down the window did they recognise their acting chief.

  None of them said a word. Norén's torch shone into Wallander's bloodshot eyes."Everything quiet?" Wallander asked finally.Norén and Peters looked at each other."Yes," said Peters. "Everything seems quiet."

  "That's good," said Wallander, about to roll up the window.Then Norén stepped forward."You'd better get out of the car," he said. "Now, right away."

  Wallander looked questioningly at the face he could hardly recognise in the sharp glare from the torch. Then he did as he was told. He got out of the car. The night was cold. He was freezing.Something had come to an end.

  CHAPTER 9

  The last thing Wallander felt like was a laughing policeman as he stepped into the Svea Hotel in Simrishamn at 7 a.m. on Friday morning. Almost impenetrable sleet was falling over Skåne, and water had seeped into his shoes on his way from the car to the hotel.

  Also he had a headache. He asked the waitress for a couple of aspirin. She came back with a glass of water fizzing with white powder. As he drank his coffee, he noticed that his hand was shaking.

  He reckoned it was as much from fear as from relief. A few hours earlier, when Norén had ordered him out of his car on the highway road between Svaneholm and Slimminge, he had thought that it was all over. He wouldn't be a policeman any more. The charge of driving under the influence would mean immediate suspension. And even if someday he were allowed to return to active duty on the force, having served a jail sentence, he would never be able to look his former colleagues in the eye.

  He had explored the possibility that he might become head of security for some company. Or he might slip through the background check of some less choosy guard service. But his 20-year career with the police would be over. And he was a policeman to the core.

  He didn't even consider trying to bribe Peters and Norén. He knew that was impossible. The only thing he could do

  was plead. Appeal to their team spirit, to their camaraderie, to a friendship which didn't really exist. But he didn't have to do that.

  "Go with Peters, and I'll drive your car home," Norén had said.

  Wallander recalled his feeling of relief, but also the unmistakable hint of contempt in Norén's voice. Without a word he got into the back seat of the patrol car. Peters said not a word the whole way to Mariagatan in Ystad.

  Norén had followed close behind; he parked the car and handed the keys to Wallander."Did anyone see you?" asked Norén."Nobody but you.""You were damned lucky."

  Peters nodded. And then Wallander realised that nothing was going to happen. Norén and Peters were committing a serious breach of duty for his sake. He had no idea why."Thank you," he said.

  "That's all right," Norén replied. And then they had driven off.

  Wallander went into his flat and polished off the dregs of a bottle of whisky. Then he fell asleep for several hours, lying on top of his bed. Without thinking, without dreaming. At 6.15 a.m. he got into his car again, after giving himself a cursory shave.

  He knew, of course, that he was still intoxicated. But now there was no danger of running into Peters and Nor6n. They went off duty at 6 a.m.

  He tried to concentrate on what was in store for him. He was going to meet Goran Boman, and together they would go seek a missing link to the investigation of the murders at Lunnarp.

  Wallander pushed all other thoughts aside. He would let them come back when he had the energy to deal with them. When he no longer had a hangover, when he had managed to put everything in perspective.

  He was the only person in the hotel dining room. He gazed out at the grey sea, barely visible through the sleet. A fishing boat was on its way out of the harbour, and he tried to read the n
umber painted in black on the hull.

  A beer, he thought. A good old Pilsner is what I need right now.

  It was a strong temptation. He also thought that it would be as well to drop in at the state liquor outlet, so he would have something to drink in the evening. He realised that he wasn't ready to sober up too quickly.

  A rotten policeman, that's what I am, he thought. A dubious cop.

  The waitress refilled his coffee cup. He imagined himself going into a hotel room with her. Behind drawn curtains he would forget that he existed, forget everything around him, and sink into a world free from reality.

  He drank the coffee and picked up his briefcase. He still had a litde time to read through the investigation reports. Restless, he went out to the reception and called the police station in Ystad. Ebba answered."Did you have a nice evening?" she asked.

  "Couldn't have been better," he replied. "And thanks again for your help with my suit.""Any time."

  "I'm calling from the Svea Hotel in Simrishamn if you need to get hold of me. Later I'll be on the move with Boman from the Kristianstad police. But I'll call in.""Everything's quiet. No trouble at the refugee camps."He hung up and went into the men's room to wash his face. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror. With his fingertips he gingerly felt the bump on his forehead. It hurt. When he stretched he feel a twinge shoot through his thigh.

  When he returned to the dining room, he ordered breakfast. He leafed through all his papers as he ate.

  Boman was punctual. On the stroke of 9 a.m. he walked into the dining room."What awful weather!" he said."It's better than a snowstorm," said Wallander.

  While Boman drank his coffee they worked out what had to be done in the course of the day.