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  A puddle had formed on the kitchen floor around Svedberg’s boots. But Wallander didn’t feel like asking him to take them off. They were unlikely to find the clue to Wetterstedt’s death in his kitchen.

  Svedberg sat down and dried off his hair with a handkerchief.

  “I vaguely remember that you once told me you were interested in the history of the American Indians,” Wallander began. “Or am I wrong?”

  Svedberg gave him a puzzled look.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve read a lot about American Indians. I never liked watching movies that didn’t tell the truth about them. I corresponded with an expert named Uncas. He won a prize on a TV show once. I think that was before I was born. But he taught me a lot.”

  “I assume you’re wondering why I ask,” Wallander went on.

  “Actually, no,” said Svedberg. “Wetterstedt was scalped, after all.”

  Wallander looked at him intently.

  “Was he?”

  “If scalping is an art, then in this case it was done almost perfectly. A cut with a sharp knife across the forehead. Then some cuts up by the temples. To get a firm grip.”

  “He died from a blow to the spine,” said Wallander. “Just below the shoulder blades.”

  Svedberg shrugged.

  “Native American warriors struck at the head,” he said. “It’s hard to hit the spine. You have to hold the axe at an angle. It’s particularly hard, of course, if the person you’re trying to kill is in motion.”

  “What if he’s standing still?”

  “In any case, it’s not very warrior-like,” said Svedberg. “In fact, it’s not like an American Indian to kill someone from behind. Or to kill anyone at all, for that matter.”

  Wallander rested his head in his hands.

  “Why are you asking about this?” said Svedberg. “It’s hardly likely that an American Indian murdered Wetterstedt.”

  “Who would take his scalp?” asked Wallander.

  “A madman,” said Svedberg. “Anyone who does something like this has to be nuts. We must catch him as fast as possible.”

  “I know,” said Wallander.

  Svedberg stood up and left. Wallander got a mop and cleaned the floor. Then he went in to see Hoglund in the study.

  “Your father didn’t sound too happy,” she said. “But I think the main thing that was bothering him was that you hadn’t called earlier.”

  “He’s right about that,” said Wallander. “What have you found?”

  “Surprisingly little,” she said. “On the surface nothing seems to have been stolen. No cabinets are broken open. I think he must have had a housekeeper to keep this big place clean.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Two reasons. First, you can see the difference in the way a man and a woman clean. Don’t ask me how. That’s just the way it is.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “There’s a note in his diary that says ‘charwoman’ and then a time. The note comes up twice a month.”

  “Did he really write ‘charwoman’?”

  “A fine old contemptuous word.”

  “When was she here last?”

  “Last Thursday.”

  “That explains why everything seems so clean and tidy.”

  Wallander sank down into a chair in front of the desk.

  “How did it look down there?” she asked.

  “An axe blow severed the spine. He died instantly. The killer cut off his scalp.”

  “Earlier you said there had to be at least two of them.”

  “I know I did. But now all I’m certain about is that I don’t like this one bit. Why would someone murder an old man who’s been living in seclusion for 20 years? And why take his scalp?”

  They sat for a while in silence. Wallander thought about the burning girl. About the man with his hair torn off. And about the pouring rain. He tried to push these thoughts away by remembering himself and Baiba in a hollow behind a dune at Skagen in Denmark. But the girl kept running through the field with her hair on fire. And Wetterstedt lay scalped on a stretcher on the way to Malmo.

  He forced himself to concentrate, and looked at Hoglund.

  “Give me a run-down,” he said. “What do you think? What happened here? Describe it for me. Don’t hold anything back.”

  “He went out,” she said. “A walk down to the beach. To meet someone. Or just to get some exercise. But he was only going for a short walk.”

  “Why?”

  “The clogs. Old and worn out. Uncomfortable. But good enough if you’re just going to be out for a short time.”

  “And then?”

  “It happened at night. What did the doctor say about the time?”

  “He’s not sure yet. Keep going. Why at night?”

  “The risk of being seen is too great in the daytime. At this time of year, the beach is never deserted.”

  “What else?”

  “There’s no obvious motive. But I think you can tell that the killer had a plan.”

  “Why?”

  “He took time to hide the body.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “To delay its discovery. So he’d have time to get away.”

  “But nobody saw him, right? And why a man?”

  “A woman would never sever someone’s spine. A desperate woman might hit her husband with an axe. But she wouldn’t scalp him. It’s a man.”

  “What do we know about the killer?”

  “Nothing. Unless you know something I don’t.”

  Wallander shook his head.

  “You’ve outlined everything we know,” he said. “I think it’s time for us to leave the house to Nyberg and his people.”

  “There’s going to be a big commotion about this,” she said.

  “I know,” said Wallander. “It’ll start tomorrow. You can be glad you’ve got your holiday coming up.”

  “Hansson has already asked me whether I’d postpone it,” she said. “I said yes.”

  “You should go home now,” Wallander said. “I think I’ll tell the others that we’ll meet early tomorrow morning to plan the investigation.”

  Wallander knew that they had to form a picture of who Wetterstedt was. They knew that every evening at the same time he called his mother. But what about all the routines that they didn’t know about? He went back to the kitchen and searched for some paper in one of the drawers. Then he made a list of things to remember for tomorrow morning’s meeting. A few minutes later Nyberg came in. He took off his wet raincoat.

  “What do you want us to look for?” he asked.

  “I want to be able to rule out that he was killed inside. I want you to go over the house in your usual way,” Wallander answered.

  Nyberg nodded and left the kitchen. Wallander heard him reprimanding one of his crew. He knew he ought to drive home and sleep for a few hours, but instead he decided to go through the house one more time. He started with the basement. An hour later he was on the top floor. He went into Wetterstedt’s spacious bedroom and opened his wardrobe. Pulling the suits back, he searched the bottom. Downstairs he could hear Nyberg’s voice raised in anger. He was just about to close the wardrobe doors when he caught sight of a small case in one corner. He bent down and took it out, sat down on the edge of the bed, and opened it. Inside was a camera. Wallander guessed that it wasn’t particularly expensive. He could see that it was more or less the same type as the one Linda had bought last year. There was film in it, and seven pictures out of 36 were exposed. He put it back in the bag. Then he went downstairs to Nyberg.

  “There’s a camera in this bag,” he said. “I want you to get the photos developed as quickly as possible.”

  It was almost midnight when he left Wetterstedt’s villa. It was still pouring outside. He drove straight home.

  When he got to his flat he sat down at the kitchen table, wondering what the photographs would be of. The rain pounded against his windows, and he was aware of a feeling of foreboding.
He sensed that what had happened was only the beginning of something much worse.

  CHAPTER 8

  On Thursday morning, 23 June, there was no Midsummer Eve mood in the Ystad station. Wallander had been woken at 3 a.m. by a reporter from Daily News in Stockholm who had heard about Wetterstedt’s death from the Ostermalm police. Just when Wallander finally managed to get back to sleep, the Express called. Hansson had also been woken during the night. They gathered in the conference room just after 7 a.m., everyone looking haggard and tired. Nyberg was there, even though he had been going through Wetterstedt’s house until 5 a.m. Before the meeting, Hansson took Wallander aside and told him that he would have to run the investigation.

  “I think Bjork knew this would happen,” said Hansson. “That’s why he retired.”

  “He didn’t retire,” said Wallander. “He was promoted. Besides, seeing into the future was definitely not one of his talents. He worried enough about what was happening around him from day to day.”

  But Wallander knew that the responsibility for organising the hunt for Wetterstedt’s killer would fall to him. The big difficulty was the fact that they would be short of staff all summer. He was grateful that Ann-Britt Hoglund had agreed to postpone her holiday. But what was going to happen to his? He had counted on being on his way to Skagen with Baiba in two weeks.

  He sat down at the table and took stock of the exhausted faces around him. It was still raining, but it was easing off. In front of him on the table he had a pile of messages that he had picked up at the reception desk. He pushed them aside and tapped on the table with a pencil.

  “We have to get started,” he said. “The worst thing possible has happened. We’ve had a murder during the summer holiday. We’ll have to organise ourselves as best we can. We also have the Midsummer holiday coming up that will keep the uniformed officers busy. We’ll have to plan our investigation with this in mind.”

  No-one spoke. Wallander turned to Nyberg and asked how the forensic investigation was going.

  “If only it would stop raining for a few hours,” said Nyberg. “To find the murder site we’ll have to dig through the surface layer of the sand. That’s almost impossible to do until it’s dry. Otherwise we’ll just end up with lumps of wet sand.”

  “I called the meteorologist at Sturup Airport a while ago,” said Martinsson. “He’s predicting that the rain will stop here just after 8 a.m. But a new storm will come in this afternoon, and we’ll get more rain. After that it’ll clear up.”

  “If it’s not one thing it’s another,” said Wallander. “Usually it’s easier for us if the weather’s bad on Midsummer Eve.”

  “For once it looks like the football game will be a help,” said Nyberg. “I don’t think people will drink as much. They’ll be glued to their TVs.”

  “What’ll happen if Sweden loses to Russia?” asked Wallander.

  “They won’t,” Nyberg proclaimed. “We’re going to win.”

  Wallander hadn’t realised that Nyberg was a football fan.

  “I hope you’re right,” he said.

  “Anyway, we haven’t found anything of interest around the boat,” Nyberg continued. “We also went over the part of the beach between Wetterstedt’s gate, the boat, and down to the water. We picked up a number of items. But nothing that is likely to be of interest to us. With one possible exception.”

  Nyberg put one of his plastic bags on the table.

  “One of the officers found this. It’s a mace spray. The kind that women carry in their handbags to defend themselves if they’re attacked.”

  “Aren’t those illegal in Sweden?” asked Hoglund.

  “Yes, they are,” said Nyberg. “But there it was, in the sand just outside the cordon. We’re going to check it for prints. Maybe it’ll turn up something.”

  Nyberg put the plastic bag back in his case.

  “Could one man turn that boat over by himself?” asked Wallander.

  “Not unless he’s incredibly strong,” said Nyberg.

  “That means there were two of them,” Wallander replied.

  “The murderer could have dug out the sand under the boat,” said Nyberg hesitantly. “And then pushed it back in after he shoved Wetterstedt underneath.”

  “That’s a possibility,” said Wallander. “But does it sound plausible?”

  No-one at the table answered.

  “There’s nothing to indicate that the murder was committed inside the house,” Nyberg continued. “We found no traces of blood or other signs of a crime. No-one broke in. We can’t say whether anything was stolen, but it doesn’t appear so.”

  “Did you find anything else that seemed unusual?” asked Wallander.

  “I think the entire house is unusual,” said Nyberg. “Wetterstedt must have had a lot of money.”

  They thought about that for a moment. Wallander realised he should sum up.

  “It is important to find out when Wetterstedt was murdered,” he began. “The doctor who examined the body thought that it probably happened on the beach. He found grains of sand in the mouth and eyes. But we’ll have to wait to see what the doctors have to say. Since we don’t have any clues to go on or any obvious motive, we’ll have to proceed on a broad front. We have to find out what kind of man Wetterstedt was. Who did he associate with? What routines did he have? We have to understand his character, find out what his life was like. And we can’t ignore the fact that 20 years ago he was very famous. He was the minister of justice. He was very popular with some people, and he was hated by others. There were rumours of scandals that he was involved in. Could revenge be part of the picture? He was cut down with an axe and had his hair ripped off. He was scalped. Has anything like this happened before? Can we find any similarities with previous murders? Martinsson will have to get his computer going. And Wetterstedt had a housekeeper we’ll have to find and talk to, today.”

  “What about his political party?” asked Hoglund.

  “I was just getting to that. Did he have any unresolved political disputes? Did he continue to see old party allies? We have to clear this up too. Is there anything in his background that might point to a conceivable motive?”

  “Since the news broke, two people have already called in to confess to the murder,” said Svedberg. “One of them called from a phone booth in Malmo. He was so drunk it was hard to understand what he said. We asked our colleagues in Malmo to question him. The other one who called was a prisoner at Osteraker. His last leave was in February. So it’s quite clear that Gustaf Wetterstedt still arouses strong feelings.”

  “Those of us who have been around for a while know that the police hold a grudge too,” said Wallander. “During his tenure as minister of justice, a lot of things happened that none of us can forget. Of all the ministers of justice and national police chiefs, in my time anyway, Wetterstedt was the one who did the least for us.”

  They went over the various assignments and divided them up. Wallander himself was going to question Wetterstedt’s housekeeper. They agreed to meet again at 4 p.m.

  “A few more items,” said Wallander. “We’re going to be invaded by reporters. We’re going to be seeing headlines like ‘The Scalp Murderer’. So we might as well hold a news conference today. I would prefer not to have to run it.”

  “You must,” said Svedberg. “You have to take charge. Even if you don’t want to, you’re the one who does it best.”

  “All right, but I don’t want to do it alone,” said Wallander. “I want Hansson with me. And Ann-Britt. Shall we say 1 p.m.?”

  They were all about to leave when Wallander asked them to wait.

  “We can’t stop the investigation into the girl who burned herself to death,” he said.

  “You think there’s a connection?” Hansson asked in astonishment.

  “Of course not,” said Wallander. “But we still have to try and find out who she was, even though we’re busy working on Wetterstedt.”

  “We’ve no positive leads on our database search,”
said Martinsson. “Not even on the combination of letters. But I promise to keep working on it.”

  “Someone must miss her,” said Wallander. “A young girl. I think this is very odd.”

  “It’s summer,” said Svedberg. “A lot of young people are on the road. It could take a couple of weeks before someone is missed.”

  “You’re right,” Wallander admitted. “We’ll have to be patient.”

  The meeting was over. Wallander had run it at a brisk pace since they all had a lot of work ahead of them. When he got to his office he went rapidly through his messages. Nothing looked urgent. He took a notebook out of a drawer, wrote “Gustaf Wetterstedt” at the top of the page, and leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  What does his death tell me? What kind of person would kill him with an axe and scalp him? Wallander leaned over his desk again. He wrote:

  “Nothing indicates that Wetterstedt was murdered by a burglar, but of course that can’t be excluded yet. It wasn’t a murder of convenience either, unless it was committed by someone insane. The killer took the time to hide the body. So the revenge motive remains. Who would want to take revenge on Gustaf Wetterstedt, to see him dead?”

  Wallander put down his pen and read through the page with dissatisfaction. It’s too soon to draw conclusions, he thought. I have to know more. He got up and left the room. When he walked out of the station it had stopped raining. The meteorologist at Sturup was right. Wallander drove straight to Wetterstedt’s villa.

  The cordon on the beach was still there. Nyberg was already at work. Along with his crew he was busy removing the tarpaulins over a section of the beach. There were a lot of spectators standing at the edge of the cordon this morning.

  Wallander unlocked the front door with Wetterstedt’s key and then went straight to the study. Methodically he continued the search that Hoglund had begun the night before. It took him almost half an hour to find the name of the woman Wetterstedt had called the “char-woman”. Her name was Sara Bjorklund. She lived on Styrbordsgangen, which Wallander knew lay just past the big warehouses at the west end of town. He picked up the telephone on the desk and dialled the number. Eventually a harsh male voice answered.