Firewall Read online

  It didn't take Wallander long to grasp what must have happened. Someone had been careless, someone had disregarded the most basic security measures. But above all someone had forgotten the fact that Sonja Hökberg was not the innocent young girl she appeared to be, that she had committed a brutal murder only a couple of days before.

  It was easy to reconstruct the chain of events. Hökberg was to be moved from one room to another. She had met her lawyer and was to be brought back to the holding cell. While she was waiting to be moved she had asked to go to the toilet. When she came back out she saw that the officer on guard had turned his back and was talking to someone in one of the offices. She had simply walked the other way. No-one had tried to stop her. She had walked straight out through the front hall. No-one had seen her. Not Irene, not anyone else. After about five minutes the officer in charge of her had gone into the toilet and discovered that she was gone. He had then looked into the room where she had talked to her lawyer, and once he had established she was not there either, alerted security. At which point Hökberg had had ten minutes to do her disappearing act.

  Wallander groaned and felt his headache worsen.

  "I've alerted all available personnel," Martinsson said. "And I called her father. You had just left the house. Did you discover anything that might tell us where she might be heading?"

  "Her mother is staying with her sister in Höör." He gave Martinsson the number.

  "She can hardly be planning to go there on foot," Hansson said.

  "She has a driving licence," Martinsson said, with the telephone receiver pressed against his ear. "She could hitch a lift, steal a car."

  "We have to talk to Persson," Wallander said. "And pronto. Juvenile or not, she's going to tell us everything she knows."

  Hansson got up to leave and almost collided with Holgersson who had only just learned of the disappearance. While Martinsson was talking on the phone with Hökberg's mother, Wallander told Holgersson how the escape had happened.

  "This is simply unacceptable," she said. She was furious.

  Wallander liked that about her. The previous chief, Björk, would always worry about his own reputation at times like these.

  "These things are not supposed to happen," Wallander said. "But they do. What matters is to track her down. Then we'll have to go over our security procedures and work out who's responsible for what went wrong in this case."

  "Do you think there's a danger of more violence?"

  Wallander thought for a moment. He saw an image of Hökberg's room, the stuffed animals sitting all in a row.

  "We don't know enough about her at this point," he said. "But you couldn't rule it out."

  Martinsson put the phone down.

  "That was her mother," he said. "And I've talked to our colleagues in Höör. They know what to do."

  "I'm not sure any of us knows that," Wallander said. "But I want that girl picked up as soon as possible."

  "Was the escape planned?" Holgersson said.

  "Not according to the officer in charge," Martinsson said. "I think she took advantage of the situation."

  "Oh, it was planned," Wallander said. "She was waiting for the right moment, that's all. She wanted to get away from here. Has anyone spoken to her lawyer? Could he be of any help?"

  "I doubt if anyone's thought of that yet," Martinsson said. "He left the station when he had finished talking to her."

  Wallander got up. "I'll speak to him."

  "What about the press conference?" Holgersson said. "What should we do about that?"

  Wallander looked at his watch. It was 11.20 a.m.

  "We'll do it as planned and we'll have to tell them what's happened, even if we would rather not."

  "I suppose I should be there," Holgersson said.

  Wallander didn't answer. He went back to his office, his head throbbing. Every time he had to swallow it hurt.

  I should be in bed, he thought. Not running around after teenage girls who murder taxi drivers.

  He found some tissues in a desk drawer and dabbed himself down as well as he could. He had a temperature and was sweating profusely. He called Hökberg's lawyer.

  "This is unexpected," Lötberg said when Wallander had finished.

  "What this is is a problem," Wallander said. "Do you have any information that might help us?"

  "I don't think so. It was hard to make a connection with her. She seemed very calm on the surface, but as to what was going on underneath I have no idea."

  "Did she mention a boyfriend? Anyone she wanted to see?"

  "No."

  "No-one?"

  "She asked about Persson."

  Wallander paused. "She didn't ask about her parents?"

  "As a matter of fact, no."

  This struck Wallander as odd, like the impression her room had given him. The feeling was growing that something didn't add up about Sonja Hökberg.

  "I'll be in touch, of course, if she contacts me," Lötberg said.

  Wallander was left with the image of her room in his head. It was a child's room, he thought. Not a 19-year-old's room. It was still the room of a 10-year-old, as if the room had stopped ageing even though the girl herself was still growing.

  He couldn't develop this insight any further, but he knew it was important.

  It took Martinsson less than half an hour to arrange the meeting with Eva Persson. Wallander was shocked when he saw her. She was short and looked no older than 12. He studied her hands and tried, without success, to picture her holding a knife and plunging it into the chest of her victim. But he soon recognised that there was something in her that reminded him of Hökberg. The look in her eyes, the same indifference.

  Martinsson left them alone. Wallander would have liked Höglund there, but she was organising the search for Hökberg.

  Persson's mother looked as if she had been crying. Wallander felt sorry for her. He shuddered to think what she was going through.

  He came to the point at once. "Sonja has run away. I want you to tell me where you think she could have gone. Think carefully before you say anything, and make sure you tell me the whole truth. Do you understand?"

  Persson nodded.

  "Where do you think she's gone?"

  "Home, probably. Where else would she have gone?"

  His headache was making him impatient. "If she had gone home, we would already have found her," he said, raising his voice a little. The mother seemed to retreat into herself.

  "I don't know where she is."

  Wallander opened his notebook. "Who are her friends? Who does she normally go around with? Does she know anyone who has a car?"

  "It's normally just her and me."

  "What about her other friends?"

  "There's Kalle, I suppose."

  "What's his last name?"

  "Ryss."

  "His name is Kalle Ryss?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't want a single lie out of you, do you get that?"

  "What the fuck are you screaming at me for, you old bastard?"

  Wallander almost exploded, perhaps objecting most to being called "old".

  "Just tell me who he is."

  "He's a surfer. He goes to Australia a lot, but he's at home at the moment, working for his dad."

  "What does his dad do?"

  "He has a hardware store."

  "And he's friends with Sonja?"

  "They used to go out."

  Persson was unable to think of anyone else that Hökberg might have contacted. She didn't know where she would be likely to go. In a last attempt to get some more information, Wallander turned to the mother, but she said she knew very little about Sonja.

  "You must have known something about her; she was your daughter's best friend."

  "I never liked her."

  Persson swung round and hit her mother in the face. It happened so fast that Wallander had no time to catch her arm. The mother started screaming and the girl went on hitting her and yelling obscenities. She bit Wallander's hand, bu
t he managed to drag them apart.

  "Get rid of the old hag!" Persson yelled. "I don't want to see her any more!"

  Wallander lost control. He slapped Persson. Hard. The girl was knocked to the ground. Wallander quickly left the room with his palm stinging. Holgersson came hurrying down the corridor and stared at him.

  "What happened in there?"

  Wallander didn't answer. He looked at his hand. It had turned red and was hurting. Neither one of them saw the journalist who had arrived early for the press conference. During the chaos of the last few moments he had reached the door unnoticed. He snapped two, three, four pictures. A headline was already taking shape in his mind.

  The press conference started half an hour late. Holgersson had been clinging to the hope that a patrol would spot Hökberg. Wallander, who had been harbouring no illusions about the likelihood of this happening, had wanted to get started on time, in part also because his flu was now breaking out in full force.

  He convinced her at last to go ahead. The reporters were only going to get irritated and make things more difficult for them.

  "What do you want me to tell them?" she said.

  "Nothing," Wallander said. "I'll handle it. I just want you to be there, that's all."

  He excused himself and went to the toilet. He rinsed his face in cold water, then returned to the large conference room. He flinched when he saw how many reporters were there. He walked up to the podium with Holgersson. They sat down and Wallander looked out over the sea of faces. He recognised a good many. Some he knew by name, but some were complete strangers.

  What should I tell them? he wondered. Even when you think you know what you are going to say it never comes out exactly the way you had imagined.

  Holgersson welcomed the reporters and introduced Wallander.

  I hate this, he thought bitterly. I don't just dislike it. All these meetings with the media. I know they are a fact of life, but I hate them.

  He counted silently to three before he began.

  "Last Tuesday evening in Ystad, a taxi driver was brutally assaulted and robbed. As you know, he died from the wounds that were inflicted. Two people have since been charged with the crime and they have both confessed. One of the assailants is a juvenile and consequently we will not be releasing any names at this press conference."

  One of the reporters raised his hand.

  "Isn't it true that the assailants were both women?"

  "I'll get there, don't worry" Wallander said.

  The reporter was young and pushy. "This press conference was supposed to start at 1 p.m. and it's already past 1.30. Don't you realise that we have deadlines to meet?"

  Wallander ignored this question.

  "This case is therefore a homicide," he said. "There's no reason not to disclose that this was an unusually savage killing. It is therefore comforting to know that we were able to resolve the investigation as rapidly as we did."

  Then he took a deep breath. He felt as if he were diving into a pool without knowing how deep it was.

  "Regrettably there has been a complication. One of the assailants has escaped. We have, I should add, every expectation of catching her shortly."

  At first there was complete silence in the room. Then the questions burst from all sides.

  "What's her name?"

  Wallander looked over at Holgersson, who nodded.

  "Sonja Hökberg."

  "Where was she being detained?"

  "Here at the police station."

  "How could that happen?"

  "We're conducting an inquiry into the matter."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Exactly what you think it means. That we're looking into how Hökberg was able to escape from custody."

  "Would it be correct to describe her as dangerous?"

  Wallander hesitated. "We don't know yet if she poses a threat to the public."

  "She either poses a threat or she doesn't, surely? Which is it?"

  Wallander was on the verge of losing his temper, for the umpteenth time in this one day. He wanted very much to bring proceedings to a close and go home and go to bed.

  "Next question."

  The reporter was not going to give up. "I want a definite answer. Is she dangerous or not?"

  "I've given you my answer. Next question."

  "Is she armed?"

  "We don't know."

  "Lundberg, the taxi driver: how was he attacked?"

  "With a knife and with a hammer."

  "Have you recovered the murder weapons?"

  "Yes."

  "Can we see them?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "For reasons linked to the progress of the investigation. Next question."

  "Have the police nationwide been alerted?"

  "At this point there is only regional involvement. And that's all we have to tell you for the time being."

  Wallander's closing words were met with a storm of protest. He knew there were many more or less important questions left, but he got up and pulled Chief Holgersson up with him.

  "That will have to do for now," he said.

  "Shouldn't we stay longer?"

  "Then you'll have to take over. They've got the information they need. They'll fill in the rest better than we could have done."

  Reporters from television and radio stations wanted interviews. Wallander had to wade through a throng of microphones and camera lenses.

  "You'll have to deal with this yourself" he said to Holgersson. "Or Martinsson. I need to go home."

  They had reached the corridor. She looked at him with surprise.

  "You're going home?"

  "I give you permission to lay your hand on my brow, should you so wish. I'm sick. I am running a temperature. There are officers here more than capable of finding Hökberg, and of answering all these damned questions from the media."

  He left without waiting for a response. What I'm doing is wrong, he thought. I should stay and try to sort out this chaotic situation. But I just don't have the energy.

  He reached his office and put on his coat. A note left on the desk caught his attention. It was Martinsson's handwriting. According to pathologist's report, Tynnes Falk died from natural causes. No crime. Shelve it for now.

  It took Wallander a couple of seconds to remember that this was in reference to the man found dead by the cash machine. One less thing to worry about, he thought.