Faceless Killers - Wallander 01 Read online

  He continued on to Ystad. On his way in he ran into a temp who was on her way out to lunch. He asked her to pick up a pizza for him.

  He looked into Hansson's office: still no car.

  "Case meeting in my office in 15 minutes," said Wallander. "Try to round everybody up. Anyone who isn't here should be reached by phone."

  Without taking off his overcoat, Wallander sat down and called his sister again. They agreed that he would pick her up at Sturup airport at 10 a.m. the following morning.

  He felt the lump on his forehead, which was now changing colour, shifting to yellow and black and red. Within 20 minutes, everyone except Martinsson and Svedberg was there.

  "Svedberg is out digging around in a gravel pit," said Rydberg. "Somebody called and said they saw a mysterious car out there. Martinsson is trying to track down a man in the Citroen club who apparently knows about all the Citroens on the road in Skåne. A dermatologist from Lund."

  "A dermatologist from Lund?" Wallander asked in surprise.

  "There are hookers who collect stamps," said Rydberg. "Why shouldn't a dermatologist be into Citroens?"

  Wallander reported on his meeting with the ex-policeman in Malmd. He could hear how hollow it sounded when he said that he had ordered a thorough investigation of the man.

  "That doesn't sound very likely," said Hansson. "A policeman who wants to commit a murder wouldn't be dumb enough to report his own car stolen, would he?"

  "Maybe not," said Wallander. "But we can't afford to ignore a single lead, no matter how unlikely it seems."

  The discussion turned to the missing car.

  "We aren't getting tip-offs from the public," said Hansson. "Which reinforces my belief that the car never left the area."

  Wallander unfolded a detailed map, and they leaned over it as if preparing for battle.

  "The lakes," said Rydberg. "Krageholm Lake, Svaneholm Lake. Let's assume that they drove out there and ditched the car. There are minor roads all over the place."

  "It still sounds risky," objected Wallander. "Somebody could easily have seen them."

  They decided at any rate to drag the lakes. And to send some men out to search through abandoned barns. A dog patrol from Malmö had been out searching without finding a single trace. The helicopter search had produced no results either.

  "Could your Iranian have been mistaken?" wondered Hansson.

  Wallander thought about this for a moment.

  "We'll bring him in again," he said. "We'll test him on six different kinds of cars. Including a Citroen."

  Hansson was detailed to take care of the witness. They moved on to a summary of the search for the killers in Lunnarp. Here, too, the car that the early-morning lorry driver had seen still eluded them.

  Wallander could see that his colleagues were tired. It was Saturday, and many of them had been working non-stop for a long time.

  "We'll put Lunnarp on hold until Monday morning," he said. "Right now we're going to concentrate on Hageholm. Whoever isn't needed at the moment should go home and get some rest. It looks like next week is going to be just as busy as this one."

  Then he remembered that Björk would be back at work on Monday.

  "Björk will be taking over," he said. "So I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone for their efforts so far."

  "Did we pass?" asked Hansson sarcastically.

  "You get the highest marks," replied Wallander.

  After the meeting he asked Rydberg to stay behind for a moment. He needed to talk through the situation with somebody in peace and quiet. And Rydberg was, as usual, the one whose opinion he respected most. He told him about Boman's efforts in Kristianstad. Rydberg nodded thoughtfully. Wallander saw that he was hesitant.

  "It might be a dud," said Rydberg. "This double murder is puzzling me more and more, the longer I think about it."

  "In what way?" asked Wallander.

  "I can't get away from what the woman said before she died. I have a feeling that deep inside her tormented and wounded consciousness, she must have realised that her husband was dead. And that she was going to die too. I think it's human instinct to offer a solution to a mystery if there's nothing else left. And she said only one word: 'foreign'. She repeated it. Four or five times. It has to mean something. And that noose. The knot. You said it yourself. That murder smells of revenge and hatred. But still we're looking in a completely different direction."

  "Svedberg has made a chart of all of Lövgren's relatives," said Wallander. "There are no foreign connections. Only Swedish farmers and one or two craftsmen."

  "Don't forget his double life," said Rydberg. "Nyström described the neighbour he had known for 40 years as an ordinary man. With few assets. After two days we discovered that none of this was true. So what's to prevent us from finding other false bottoms to this story?"

  "So what do you think we should do?"

  "Exactly what we are doing. But be open to the possibility that we might be on the wrong track."

  They turned to the murdered Somali. Ever since he left Malmö, Wallander had been toying with an idea.

  "Can you stay a little longer?" he asked.

  "Sure," replied Rydberg, surprised. "Of course I can."

  "There was something about that police officer," said Wallander. "I know it's mostly a hunch. An extremely unreliable trait in a policeman. But I thought we ought to keep an eye on that gentleman, you and I. Through the weekend, in any case. Then we can see whether we should continue and bring in more manpower. But if I'm right, that he might be involved, that his car wasn't stolen, then he should be feeling a little uneasy right now."

  "I agree with Hansson that no policeman would be dim enough to pretend his car had been stolen if he were planning to commit a murder," Rydberg objected.

  "I think you're both wrong," Wallander replied. "The same way that he was wrong in thinking that just because he had once been a policeman, that alone would steer all suspicion away from him."

  Rydberg rubbed his aching knee.

  "We'll do as you say, then," he said. "What I believe or don't believe is neither here or there if you think it's important."

  "I want him under surveillance," said Wallander. "We'll split up the shifts until Monday morning. It'll be rough, but we can do it. I can take the night shifts, if you like."

  Rydberg said that he might as well handle the watch until midnight. Wallander gave him the address. The temp came into the office with the pizza he had ordered.

  "Have you eaten?" Wallander asked.

  "Yes," replied Rydberg hesitantly.

  "No you haven't. Take this one and I'll get another."

  Rydberg ate the pizza at Wallander's desk. He wiped his mouth and stood up.

  "Maybe you're right," he said.

  "Maybe," replied Wallander.

  Nothing happened the rest of the day. The car continued to elude them. The fire department dragged the lakes, finding only parts of an old combine. Few tip-offs came in from the public.

  Reporters from the newspapers, radio and TV called constantly, wanting updates. Wallander repeated his appeal for information on a missing pale blue Citroen with a white roof. Directors of the various refugee camps called in, anxious and demanding increased police protection. Wallander answered as patiendy as he could.

  An old woman was hit and killed by a car in Bjaresjo. Svedberg, back from the gravel pit, took on that case, even though Wallander had promised him the afternoon off.

  Näslund called at 5 p.m., and Wallander could tell that he was tipsy. He wanted to know whether anything was happening, or whether he could go to a party in Skillinge. Wallander told him to go ahead.

  He called the hospital twice to ask about his father. Each time they told him that he was tired and uncommunicative. He also called Sten Widén. A familiar voice answered the phone.

  "I was the one who helped you with the ladder up to the loft," Wallander said. "The man you guessed was a policeman. I'd like to talk to Sten, if he's there."

 
"He's in Denmark buying horses," replied Louise.

  "When is he back?"

  "Maybe tomorrow."

  "Would you ask him to call me?"

  ‘I’ll do that."

  He hung up. Wallander had the distinct impression that Sten Widénwas not in Denmark at all. Maybe he was even standing right next to the young woman, listening. Maybe they were together in the unmade bed when he called.

  Wallander gave his memo to one of the patrol officers, who promised to hand it to Björk the minute he stepped off the plane at Stump airport that evening.

  He decided to go through his bills, which he had forgotten to pay on the first of the month. He filled out a bunch of giro slips and enclosed a cheque in the manila envelope. He wasn't going to be able to afford either a video or a stereo this month.

  Next he answered an inquiry about a trip to the Royal Opera in Copenhagen at the end of February. He said yes. Woyzeck was an opera he hadn't seen staged.

  It was 8 p.m. He read through Svedberg's report on the fatal accident in Bjaresjo. He could see at once that there was no question of criminal proceedings. The woman had stepped out into the road slap in front of a car travelling within the speed limit. The farmer who was driving the car was not at fault, all the eyewitness accounts agreed on that. He made a note to see to it that Anette Brolin read through the report after the autopsy was done.

  At 8.30 p.m. two men started slugging each other in a block of flats on the outskirts of Ystad. Peters and Norén swiftly separated the combatants. They were two brothers, well known to the police. They got into a fight about three times a year.

  A greyhound was reported lost in Marsvinsholm. The dog had been seen heading west, so the report was passed to the station in Skurup.

  At 10 p.m. Wallander left the police station. It was cold and the wind was blowing in gusts. The sky was clear and filled with stars. Still no snow. He went home and put on heavy-duty long underwear and a woollen cap. Absent-mindedly he watered the drooping plants in the kitchen window. Then he drove to Malmö.

  Norén was duty officer that night. Wallander had promised to call in regularly. But presumably Norén would have his hands full with Björk, who would be coming home to discover that his holiday was definitely over.

  Wallander stopped at a hotel restaurant in Svedala. He hesitated before deciding on only a salad. He doubted that this was a wise moment to change his eating habits, but he knew that he might fall asleep if he ate too much before an all-night shift.

  He drank several cups of strong coffee after his meal. An elderly woman came over to his table and tried to sell him The Watch Tower. He bought a copy, thinking that it would be sufficiently dull to last all night.

  Wallander pulled out onto the E65 again and drove the last stretch to Malmö. He began to doubt the value of this assignment. Was he justified in trusting his intuition? Shouldn't Hansson's and Rydberg's objections have been enough for him to drop the idea of this surveillance? He felt unsure of himself. Irresolute. And the salad had not been enough.

  It was 11.35 pm when he turned onto a street near the yellow house where Bergman lived. He pulled his cap over his ears as he stepped out into the freezing night. All around him were darkened houses. In the distance he heard the screech of car tyres. He kept to the shadows as far as possible and turned down the street called Rosenalle.

  Almost at once he caught sight of Rydberg, who was standing under a tall chestnut tree. The trunk was so thick that it nearly hid him entirely.

  Wallander slipped into the shadow of the huge tree trunk. Rydberg was freezing. He was rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet.

  "Anything going on?" asked Wallander.

  "Not much in twelve hours," replied Rydberg. "At four, he went to buy groceries. Two hours later he came out to close the gate, which had blown open. But he's definitely on his guard. I think you may be right after all."

  Rydberg pointed at the house next door.

  "That one's empty," he said. "From the yard you can see both the street and his back door. He might take it into his head to slip out that way. There's a bench where you can sit. If your clothes are warm enough."

  Wallander had noticed a phone box on his way over to Bergman's house. He asked Rydberg to go over and call Norén. If nothing urgent was happening, Rydberg could get in his car and drive home.

  "I'll be back around seven," said Rydberg. "Don't freeze to death."

  He vanished without a sound. Wallander stood still for a moment, looking at the yellow house. Lights were on in two of the windows, one on the lower floor and one upstairs. The curtains were drawn. He looked at his watch. Just after midnight. Rydberg had not returned. So everything must be quiet at the station in Ystad.

  He hurried across the street and opened the gate to the yard of the empty house. He fumbled his way in the dark and found the bench that Rydberg had mentioned. From there he had a good view. To keep warm, he started pacing, five steps forwards and five steps back.

  The next time he looked at his watch, it was only 12.50 a.m. It was going to be a long night. He was already feeling cold. He tried to make the time pass by studying the starry sky. When his neck started to hurt, he resumed his pacing.

  At 1.30 a.m. the light on the ground floor went out. Wallander thought he could hear a radio on the second floor. Mr Bergman keeps late hours, he thought. Maybe that's what happens if you take early retirement. At 1.55 a.m. a car drove past, immediately followed by another one. Then all was quiet again. The light was still on upstairs. Wallander was freezing.

  At 2.55 a.m. the light went out. Wallander listened for the radio. But everything was quiet. He flapped his arms to keep warm. In his head he hummed the melody of a Strauss waltz.

  The sound was so slight that he almost missed it.

  The click of a door latch. That was all. Wallander stood stock-still and listened. Then he noticed the shadow.

  The man must have been moving very quietiy. Even so, Wallander caught a glimpse of Rune Bergman as he slipped through the back yard of his house. Wallander waited a few seconds. Then cautiously he climbed over the fence. It was hard to get his bearings in the dark, but he could just make out a narrow passage between a shed and the yard opposite Bergman's house. He moved fast. Too fast, considering how little he could see.

  He emerged onto the street parallel to Rosenalle. One second later and he would not have seen Bergman vanish down a cross-street to the right.

  For a moment Wallander hesitated. His car was only 50 metres away. If he didn't get it now, and Bergman had another car parked somewhere nearby, he would have no chance of following him.

  He ran like a madman. His frozen joints creaked and he was soon out of breath. He fumbled with his keys, and yanked open the door, deciding to try to intercept Bergman.

  He turned into the street that he thought was the right one. Too late he saw that it was a dead end. He swore and backed up. Bergman probably had any number of streets to choose from. There was also a park nearby.

  Make up your mind, he thought furiously. Make up your mind, damn it.

  He drove towards the big car park between the Jagersro track and some large department stores. He was just about to give up when he caught sight of Bergman. He was in a phone box over by a new hotel next to the stables.

  Wallander pulled over and turned off his engine and headlights. The man in the phone box hadn't noticed him.

  A few minutes later a taxi pulled up and Bergman got into the back. Wallander started the car. The taxi took the motorway heading towards Goteborg. Wallander had to let a lorry go by before he took up the chase. He glanced at the petrol gauge. He wasn't going to be able to follow the taxi further than Halmstad. Suddenly it indicated a right turn. He was going to take the exit for Lund. Wallander followed.

  The taxi stopped at the railway station. As Wallander drove past, Bergman was paying the driver. He turned off the main road and parked hurriedly. Bergman was walking fast. Wallander followed him, hugging the shadows.

  R
ydberg had been right. The man was on his guard. Without warning he stopped short and looked around. Wallander threw himself headlong into a doorway. He struck his forehead on the edge of a step and could feel the lump above his eye split open. Blood ran down his face. He wiped it off with his glove, counted slowly to ten, and took up his pursuit. The blood over his eye was sticky.

  Bergman stopped outside a building covered with scaffolding and protective sacking. Again he looked around, and Wallander crouched down behind a parked car.

  Then he was gone. Wallander waited until he heard a door shut. Soon afterwards the lights went on in rooms on the third floor.

  He ran across the street and pushed his way behind the sacking. Without hesitating, he climbed up onto the scaffolding. It creaked and groaned under him. He had to keep wiping away the blood trickling into his eye. He heaved himself up onto the second level. The lit windows were barely a metre above his head. He took out his handkerchief and tied it around his head to stem the blood.

  Cautiously he hauled himself up onto the next platform. The effort so exhausted him that he had to remain lying down for over a minute before he could go on. He crept forwards along the freezing planks, which were covered with scraped off stucco. He dared not think how far above the ground he was, or he would get vertigo at once.

  He peered over the window ledge into the first lit room. Through the net curtains he could see a woman sleeping in a double bed. The covers next to her had been thrown back as if someone had got out in a hurry.

  He crawled further along. When he looked over the next window ledge, he saw Bergman talking to a man wearing a dark-brown dressing gown. Wallander felt as if he had actually seen him before. That was how well the Romanian woman had described the man standing in the field eating an apple.