Faceless Killers kw-1 Read online

  "It seems we're in luck," said Boman. "It's going to be possible to get hold of the woman in Gladsax and the two in Kristianstad without much trouble."They started with the woman in Gladsax.

  "Her name is Anita Hessler," said Boman, "and she's 58. She married a couple of years ago; her husband is an estate agent.""Is Hessler her maiden name?" Wallander wondered.

  "Her name is Johanson now. Her husband is Klas Johanson. They live in a suburb not far outside the town. We've done a little snooping. As far as we know, she's a housewife."He checked his papers.

  "On 9 March 1951, she gave birth to a son at Kristianstad's maternity ward. At 4.13 a.m., to be exact. As far as we know, he's her only child. But Klas Johanson has four children from a previous marriage. He's also six years younger than she is."

  "So her son is 39," said Wallander. "He was christened Stefan," said Boman. "He lives in Anus and works as a tax-assessment supervisor in

  Kristianstad. His finances are in order. He has a terrace house, a wife and two children."

  "Do tax-assessment supervisors usually commit murder?" asked Wallander."Not very often," replied Boman.

  They drove out to Gladsax. The sleet had changed to a steady rain. Just before entering the town, Boman turned left.

  The two-storey houses in the residential neighbourhood were in sharp contrast to the low white buildings of the town itself. Wallander thought that it could just as well have been an affluent suburb outside any large city.

  The house was at the end of a terrace. A huge satellite dish stood on a slab of cement next to the house. The yard was well kept. They sat in the car for a few minutes and stared at the red-brick building. A white Nissan was parked in the drive in front of the garage.

  "The husband probably isn't home," said Boman. "His office is in Simrishamn. Apparently he specialises in selling property to well-heeled Germans.""Is that legal?" asked Wallander, in surprise.Boman shrugged.

  "They use dummy owners," he said. "The Germans pay well and the deeds are placed in Swedish hands. There are people in Skåne who make a good living by assuming the illegal ownership of residential property."

  All of a sudden they caught a glimpse of movement behind the curtains. It was so fast that only the practised eye of the police would have noticed.

  "Somebody's home," said Wallander. "Shall we go and say hello?"

  The woman who opened the door was astoundingly attractive. Her radiance was unmistakable, even though she was wearing a baggy tracksuit. It occurred to Wallander fleetingly that she didn't look Swedish.

  He also thought that their initial introduction might be just as important as all their questions put together. How would she react when they told her that they were policemen?

  The only thing he noticed was that she slightly raised one eyebrow. Then she smiled, revealing even rows of white teeth. Wallander wondered whether Boman was right. Was she really 58? If he hadn't known better, he would have guessed 45."This is unexpected," she said. "Come in."

  They followed her into a tastefully-furnished living room. The walls were covered with crowded bookshelves. A top-of-the-line Bang & Olufsen TV stood in the corner. Tiger-striped fish swam in an aquarium. Wallander had trouble associating this room with Johannes Lövgren. There was nothing to suggest a connection."Can I offer you gentlemen anything?" asked the woman.They declined and sat down.

  "We've come to ask you some questions," said Wallander. "My name is Kurt Wallander, and this is Goran Boman from the Kristianstad police."

  "How exciting to have a visit from the police," said the woman, still smiling. "Nothing unusual ever happens here in Gladsax."

  "We just wanted to ask you whether you know a man named Johannes Lövgren," said Wallander. She gave him a look of surprise. "Johannes Lövgren? No. Who's he?" "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure!""He was murdered a few days ago along with his wife, in a village called Lunnarp. Maybe you read about it in the newspapers." Her surprise looked genuine.

  "I don't understand," she said. "I remember seeing something about it in the paper. But what does this have to do with me?"

  Nothing, thought Wallander and glanced at Boman, who seemed to share his opinion. What could this woman have to do with Johannes Lövgren?

  "In 1951 you had a son in Kristianstad," said Boman. "On all the documents in various records you listed the father as unknown. Is it possible that a man by the name of Johannes Lövgren might have been this unknown father?"She gazed at them for a long time before she answered.

  "I don't understand why you're asking these questions," she said. "And I understand even less what this has to do with that murdered farmer. But if it's any help, I can tell you that Stefan's father was named Rune Stierna. He was married to someone else. I knew what I was getting into, and I chose to thank him for the child by keeping his identity secret. He died twelve years ago. And Stefan got along well with his father throughout his childhood."

  "I know that these questions must seem strange," said Wallander. "But sometimes we have to ask odd questions."

  They asked a few more questions and took some notes. Then it was over.

  "I hope you will excuse us for disturbing you," said Wallander, as he got to his feet."Do you think I'm telling the truth?" she asked.

  "Yes," said Wallander. "We think you're telling the truth. But if you're not, we'll find out. Sooner or later."She burst out laughing. "I'm telling the truth," she said.

  "I'm not a very good liar. But feel free to come back if you have more strange questions."They left the house and went back to the car."Well, that's that," said Boman.

  "She's not the one," said Wallander."Do we need to talk to the son in Ahus?"

  "I think we can skip him. For the time being, at any rate."

  They got into Wallander's car and drove straight back to Kristianstad. The rain had stopped falling and the sky had begun to clear by the time they reached the hills around Brosarp. Outside the police station in Kristianstad they switched to a police car and continued.

  "Margareta Velander," said Boman, "is 49, and owns a beauty shop called 'The Wave' on Krokarpsgatan. Three children, divorced, remarried, divorced again. Lives in a terrace house out towards Blekinge. Gave birth to a son in December 1958. The son's name is Nils. Evidently quite an entrepreneur. Used to go around to markets and sell imported knick-knacks. Also listed as the owner of a company dealing in women's novelty underwear. Lives in Solvesborg, of all places. Who the hell would buy women's novelty underwear sold by a mail order company from a town like that?""Plenty of people," said Wallander.

  "Once did time for assault and battery," Boman continued. "I haven't seen the report. But he got one year. That means the assault must have been pretty serious."

  "I want to see that report," said Wallander. "Where did it happen?"

  "He was sentenced by the Kalmar district court. They're looking for the paperwork on the case." "When did it happen?"

  "In 1981, I think."

  Wallander sat and thought while Boman drove through the town.

  "So she was only 17 when the boy was born. And if we're taking Lövgren to be the father, there was a big age difference.""I've thought of that. But that could mean a lot of things."

  The beauty salon was in the basement of a block of flats on the outskirts of Kristianstad.

  "Maybe I should come here," said Boman. "Who cuts your hair, by the way?"

  Wallander was just about to say that Mona took care of that."It varies," he replied evasively.

  There were three chairs in the salon. Each was occupied. Two women were sitting under hair dryers while a third was having her hair washed. The woman who was washing the customer's hair looked up at them in surprise.

  "I only work by appointment," she said. "I'm booked up today. And tomorrow too if you want to make an appointment for your wives.""Margareta Velander?" asked Goran Boman.He showed her his identity card."We'd like to talk to you," he said.Wallander could see that she was frightened."I can't leave right now," she said."We'd be happy to wa
it," said Boman.

  "You can wait in the back room," said Margareta Velander. "I won't be long."

  It was a very small room. A table covered with oilcloth and a couple of chairs took up practically all the space. Between some coffee cups and a grimy coffee maker on a shelf there was a stack of tabloid newspapers. Wallander studied a black-and-white photograph pinned to the wall. It was a blurred and faded image of a young man in a sailor's uniform. Wallander could read the word Hollandon the band around the cap.

  "Holland?he said. "Was that a cruiser or a destroyer?""A destroyer. Scrapped ages ago."

  Margareta Velander came into the room. She was drying her hands on a towel."I've got a few minutes now," she said. "What's it about?"

  "We wonder whether you know a man named Johannes Lövgren," began Wallander."Is that so?" she said. "Would you like some coffee?"

  They both declined, and Wallander was annoyed that she had turned her back to him when he asked the question.

  "Johannes Lövgren," he repeated. "A farmer from a village outside of Ystad. Did you know him?"

  "The man who was murdered?" she asked, looking him straight in the eye.

  "Yes," he said. "The man who was murdered. That's the one."

  "No," she replied, pouring coffee into a plastic cup. "Why should I know him?"

  The police officers exchanged glances. There was something about her voice that suggested she felt pressured.

  "In December 1958 you gave birth to a son who was christened Nils," said Wallander. "You listed the father as unknown."

  The instant he mentioned the name of her son, she started to cry. The coffee cup tipped over and fell to the floor."What has he done?" she asked. "What has he done now?" They waited until she had calmed down.

  "We're not here to bring you bad news," Wallander assured her. "But we'd like to know whether Johannes Lövgren was Nils's father.""No."

  Her answer was not convincing. "Then we'd like you to tell us the name of his father." "Why do you want to know?" "It's important for our investigation." "I've told you that I don't know anybody named Johannes Lövgren." "What's the name of Nils's father?" "I can't tell you."

  "It won't go any further than this room." She paused a little too long before she answered. "I don't know who Nils's father was." "Women usually know."

  "I was sleeping with more than one man at the time. I don't know who it was. That's why I listed the father as unknown."She stood up quickly.

  "I've got to get back to work," she said. "The old ladies are going to be boiled alive under those dryers." "We can wait."

  "But I don't have anything else to tell you!" She seemed more and more upset."We have some more questions."

  Ten minutes later she was back. She was holding some notes that she stuffed into her purse, which was hanging on the back of a chair. She now seemed composed and ready for an argument."I don't know anyone called Lövgren," she said.

  "And you insist that you don't know who was the father of your son, born in 1958?"

  "That's correct."

  "Do you realise that you may have to answer these questions under oath?" "I'm telling the truth." "Where can we find Nils?" "He travels a lot."

  "According to our records, his place of residence is in Solvesborg.""So go out there then!" "That's what we plan to do." "I have nothing more to say."

  Wallander hesitated for a moment. Then he pointed at the photograph pinned on the wall."Is that Nils's father?" he asked.

  She had just lit a cigarette. When she exhaled, it sounded like a hiss.

  "I don't know any Lövgren. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "All right then," said Boman. "We'll be off now. But you may be hearing from us again."

  "I have nothing more to say. Why can't you leave me alone?"

  "Nobody gets left alone when the police are looking for a murderer," said Boman. "That's the way it goes."

  When they came outdoors, the sun was shining. They stood next to the car for a moment."What do you think?" asked Boman."I don't know. But there's something there."

  "Shall we try to find the son before we move on to the third woman?""I think so."

  They drove over to Solvesborg and with great difficulty located what appeared to be the right address: a dilapidated wooden house outside the centre of the town, surrounded by wrecked cars and pieces of machinery. A ferocious German shepherd was barking and pulling on its iron chain. The house looked deserted. Boman leaned forwards and looked at a sign with sloppy lettering that was nailed to the door."Nils Velander," he said. "This is the place."

  He knocked several times, but no-one answered. They walked all the way around the house."What a bloody rat hole," said Boman.

  When they got back to the door, Wallander tried the handle. The house wasn't locked. Wallander looked at Boman, who shrugged."If it's open, it's open," he said. "Let's go in."

  They stepped into a musty hallway and listened. Silence. They both jumped when a hissing cat leaped out of a dark corner and vanished up the stairs to the first floor. The room on the left seemed to be some sort of office. There were two battered filing cabinets and an exceedingly messy desk with a phone and an answering machine. Wallander lifted the top of a box sitting on the desk. Inside was a set of black leather underwear and a mailing label.

  "Fredrik Aberg of Dragongatan in Alingsas ordered this stuff," he said with a grimace. "Plain brown wrapper, no doubt."

  They moved on to the next room, which was a storeroom for Nils Velander's novelty underwear. There were also a number of whips and dog collars. Everything was jumbled up, with no appearance of organisation.

  The next room was the kitchen, with dirty dishes stacked by the sink. A half-eaten chicken lay on the floor. The room stank of cat piss. Wallander threw open the door to the pantry. Inside was a home distillery and two large vats. Boman sniggered and shook his head.

  They went upstairs and peeked into the bedroom. The sheets were dirty and clothes lay in heaps on the floor. The curtains were drawn, and together they counted seven cats scurrying off.

  "What a pigsty," repeated Boman. "How can anybody live like this?"The house looked as if it had been abandoned in a hurry.

  "Maybe we'd better leave," said Wallander. "We'll need a search warrant before we can give the place a thorough going-over."

  They went back downstairs. Boman stepped into the office and punched the button on the answering machine. A man they assumed was Nils Velander stated that no-one was in the Raff-Sets office at the moment, but you were welcome to leave your order on the answering machine.

  The German shepherd jerked on its chain as they came out into the courtyard. At the corner, on the left-hand side of the house, Wallander discovered a basement door almost hidden behind the remains of an old mangle.

  He opened the unlocked door and stepped into the darkness. He fumbled his way over to a fuse box. An old oil furnace stood in the corner. The rest of the basement room was filled with empty birdcages. He called to Boman, who joined him.

  "Leather underpants and empty birdcages," said Wallander. "What exactly is this guy up to?""I think we'd better find out," replied Boman.

  As they were about to leave, Wallander noticed a small steel cabinet behind the furnace. He bent down and pressed on the handle. It was unlocked, like everything else in the house. He put his hand in and grabbed hold of a plastic bag. He pulled it out and opened it.

  "Look at this," he said to Boman.

  The plastic bag contained a bundle of 1,000-krona notes. Wallander counted 23.

  "I think we're going to have to have a talk with this chap," said Boman.

  They stuffed the money back and went outside. The German shepherd was still barking.

  "We'll have to talk to our colleagues here in Solvesborg," said Boman. "They can check him out for us."

  At the Solvesborg police station they found an officer who was quite familiar with Velander.

  "He's probably mixed up in all kinds of illegal activities," said the policeman. "But the
only thing we have on him is suspicion of illegally importing caged birds from Thailand. And operating a distillery."

  "He was once sentenced for assault and battery," said Boman.

  "He doesn't usually get into fights," replied the officer. "But I'll try to check up on him for you. Do you really think he's graduated to murdering people?"

  "We don't know," said Wallander. "But we need to find him."

  They set off for Kristianstad. It was raining again. They had formed a good impression of the police officer in Solvesborg and were counting on him to find Velander for them. But Wallander had doubts.

  "We don't know anything," he said. "1,000-krona notes in a plastic bag aren't proof of anything.""But something is going on there," said Boman.

  Wallander agreed. There was something about the owner of the beauty salon and her son.They stopped for lunch at a hotel restaurant. Wallander thought he ought to check in with the station in Ystad, but the pay phone he tried was broken.

  It was 1.30 p.m. by the time they got back to Kristianstad. Before they went to find the third woman on their list, Boman wanted to check in at his office. The young woman at the reception desk flagged them down.

  "There was a call from Ystad," she said. "They want Inspector Wallander to call back.""Let's go to my office," said Boman.

  Full of foreboding, Wallander dialled the number while Boman went to get some coffee. Without a word Ebba connected him to Rydberg.

  "You'd better come back," said Rydberg. "Some idiot has shot a Somali refugee at Hageholm.""What the hell do you mean by that?"

  "Exactly what I said. This Somali was out taking a stroll. Someone blasted him with a shotgun. I've had a hell of a time tracking you down. Where have you been?""Is he dead?""His head was blown off."

  Wallander felt sick to his stomach. "I'm on my way," he said.

  He hung up the phone just as Boman came in, balancing two mugs of coffee. Wallander gave him a rundown of what had happened.