“Good,” said Wallander. “Do the times match up?”
“It all fits perfectly.”
“Did you ask him about the briefcase?”
“Lundin seemed to remember that he had a briefcase with him.”
“Did he have anything else?”
“Lundin didn’t think so.”
“Did Lundin see whether Lövgren met anybody in Ystad?”
“No.”
“Did Lövgren say anything about what he was going to do in town?”
“No, nothing.”
“And you don’t think that this chimney sweep knew about Lövgren having twenty-seven thousand kronor in his briefcase?”
“Hardly. He seemed the least likely person to be a robber. I think he’s just a solitary chimney sweep who lives contentedly with his rabbits and his aquavit. That’s all.”
Wallander thought for a moment. “Do you think Lövgren could have arranged a meeting with someone on that dirt road? Since the briefcase is gone.”
“Maybe. I was thinking of taking a canine patrol out to fine-comb the road.”
“Do it right away,” said Wallander. “Maybe we’re finally getting somewhere.”
Martinson left the office. He almost collided with Hanson, who was on his way in.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
Wallander nodded. “How’s it going with Bergman?”
“He’s not talking. But he’s been linked to the crime. That bitch Brolin is going to remand him today.”
Wallander didn’t feel like commenting on Hanson’s contemptuous attitude toward Anette Brolin.
“What do you want?” he merely asked.
Hanson sat down on the spindle-backed chair near the window, looking ill at ease.
“You probably know that I play the horses a bit,” he began. “By the way, the horse you recommended ran dead last. Who gave you that tip?”
Wallander vaguely recalled a remark he had let drop one time in Hanson’s office. “It was just a joke,” he said. “Go on.”
“I heard that you were interested in an Erik Magnusson, who works in central supply for the county council in Malmö,” he said. “It just so happens that there’s a guy named Erik Magnusson who often shows up at Jägersrö. He bets big time, loses a bundle, and I happen to know that he works for the county council.”
Wallander was immediately interested.
“How old is he? What does he look like?”
Hanson described him. Wallander realized at once that he was the same man he had met twice.
“There are rumors that he’s in debt,” said Hanson. “And gambling debts can be dangerous.”
“Good,” said Wallander. “That’s exactly the kind of information we need.”
Hanson stood up. “You never know,” he said. “Gambling and drugs can sometimes have the same effect. Unless you’re like me and just gamble for the fun of it.”
Wallander thought about something Rydberg had said. About people who, because of a drug dependency, were capable of unlimited brutality.
“Good,” he said to Hanson. “Excellent.”
Hanson left the office. Wallander thought for a moment and then called Göran Boman in Kristianstad. He was in luck and got hold of him at once.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked after Wallander told him about Hanson’s story.
“Run the vacuum cleaner over him,” said Wallander. “And keep an eye on her.”
Boman promised to put Ellen Magnusson under surveillance.
Wallander got hold of Hanson just as he was on his way out of the station.
“Gambling debts,” he said. “Who would he owe the money to?”
Hanson knew the answer. “There’s a hardware dealer from Tagarp who lends money,” he said. “If Erik Magnusson owes money to anybody, it would be him. He’s a loan shark for a lot of the high rollers at Jägersrö. And as far as I know, he’s got some real unpleasant types working for him that he sends out with reminders to people who are lax with their payments.”
“Where can I get hold of him?”
“He’s got a hardware store in Tågarp. A short, hefty guy in his sixties.”
“What’s his name?”
“Larson. But people call him the Junkman.”
Wallander went back to his office. He looked for Rydberg but couldn’t find him. Ebba, who was at the switchboard, knew where he was. Rydberg wasn’t due in until ten, because he was over at the hospital.
“Is he sick?” wondered Wallander.
“It’s probably his rheumatism,” said Ebba. “Haven’t you noticed how he’s been limping this winter?”
Wallander decided not to wait for Rydberg. He put on his coat, went out to his car, and drove to Tågarp.
The hardware store was in the middle of town.
At the moment there was a sale on wheelbarrows.
The man who came out of the back room when the doorbell rang was indeed short and hefty. Wallander was the only one in the store, and he decided to get right to the point. He took out his police ID. The man called the Junkman studied it carefully but seemed totally unaffected.
“Ystad,” he said. “What can the police from Ystad want with me?”
“Do you know a man named Erik Magnusson?”
The man behind the counter was much too experienced to lie.
“Could be. Why?”
“When did you first meet him?”
Wrong question, thought Wallander. It gives him the chance to retreat.
“I don’t remember.”
“But you do know him?”
“We have a few common interests.”
“Such as the sport of harness racing and tote betting?”
“That’s possible.”
Wallander felt provoked by the man’s overbearing self-confidence.
“Now you listen to me,” he said. “I know that you lend money to people who can’t control their gambling. Right now I’m not thinking of asking about the interest rates you charge on your loans. I don’t give a damn about your involvement in an illegal money-lending operation. I want to know something else entirely.”
The man called the Junkman looked at him with curiosity.
“I want to know whether Erik Magnusson owes you money,” he said. “And I want to know how much.”
“Nothing,” replied the man.
“Nothing?”
“Not a single öre.”
A dead end, thought Wallander. Hanson’s lead was a dead end.
The next second he realized that he was wrong. They were finally on the right track.
“But if you want to know, he did owe me money,” said the man.
“How much?”
“A lot. But he paid up. Twenty-five thousand kronor.”
“When?”
The man made a swift calculation. “A little over a week ago. The Thursday before last.”
Thursday, January eleventh, thought Wallander.
Three days after the murder in Lenarp.
“How did he pay you?”
“He came over here.”
“In what denominations?”
“Thousands. Five hundreds.”
“Where did he have the money?”
“What do you mean?”
“In a bag? A briefcase?”
“In a plastic grocery bag. From ICA, I think.”
“Was he late with the payment?”
“A little.”
“What would have happened if he hadn’t paid?”
“I would have been forced to send him a reminder.”
“Do you know how he got hold of the money?”
The man called the Junkman shrugged. At that moment a customer came into the store.
“That’s none of my business,” he said. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, thanks. Not at the moment. But you may hear from me again.”
Wallander went out to his car.
The wind had picked up.
Okay, he thought. Now we’ve
got him.
Who would have thought that something good would come out of Hanson’s lousy gambling?
Wallander drove back to Ystad, feeling as if he had drawn a winning number in the lottery.
He was on the scent of the solution.
Erik Magnusson, he thought.
Here we come.
Chapter Fourteen
After intensive work that dragged on until late into the night on Friday, January nineteenth, Kurt Wallander and his colleagues were ready for battle. Björk had sat in on the long meeting of the investigative team, and at Wallander’s request he had let Hanson put aside work on the murder in Hageholm so he could join the Lenarp group, as they now called themselves. Näslund was still sick, but he called in and said he’d be there the next day.
In spite of the weekend, the work had to continue with undiminished effort. Martinson had returned with a canine patrol from a detailed inspection of the dirt road that led from Veberödsvägen to the rear of Lövgren’s stable. He had made a meticulous examination of the road, which ran for 1.912 kilometers through a couple of patches of woods, divided two pieces of pasture land as the boundary line, and then ran parallel to an almost dry creek bed. He hadn’t found anything unusual, even though he returned to the police station with a plastic bag full of objects. Among other things, there was a rusty wheel from a doll’s baby buggy, a greasy sheet of plastic, and an empty cigarette pack of a foreign brand. The objects would be examined, but Wallander didn’t think they would produce anything of use to the investigation.
The most important decision during the meeting was that Erik Magnusson would be placed under round-the-clock surveillance. He lived in a rented house in the old Rosengård area. Since Hanson reported that there were harness races at Jägersrö on Sunday, he was assigned the surveillance during the races.
“But I’m not authorizing any tote receipts,” said Björk, in a dubious attempt at a joke.
“I propose that we all go in on a regular v5 ticket,” replied Hanson. “There’s a unique possibility that this murder investigation could pay off.”
But it was a serious mood that dominated the group in Björk’s office. There was a feeling that a decisive moment was approaching.
The question that aroused the longest discussion concerned whether Erik Magnusson should be told that a fire had been lit under his feet. Both Rydberg and Björk were skeptical. But Wallander thought that they had nothing to lose if Magnusson discovered that he was the object of police interest. The surveillance would be discreet, of course. But beyond that, no measures would be taken to hide the fact that the police had mobilized.
“Let him get nervous,” said Wallander. “If he has anything to be nervous about, then I hope we discover what it is.”
It took three hours to go through all the investigative material to look for threads that indirectly could be tied to Erik Magnusson. They found nothing, but they also found nothing to contradict the idea that it could have been Magnusson who was in Lenarp that night, despite the alibi his fiancée gave him. Now and then Wallander felt a vague uneasiness that they were traipsing around in yet another blind alley after all.
It was mostly Rydberg who showed signs of doubt. Time after time he asked himself whether a lone individual could have carried out the double murder.
“There was something that hinted at teamwork in that slaughterhouse,” he said. “I can’t get it out of my mind.”
“Nothing is preventing Erik Magnusson from having an accomplice,” replied Wallander. “We have to take one thing at a time.”
“If he committed the murder to cover up a gambling debt, he wouldn’t want an accomplice,” Rydberg objected.
“I know,” said Wallander. “But we have to keep at it.”
Thanks to some quick work by Martinson, they obtained a photograph of Erik Magnusson, which was dug up from the county council’s archives. It was taken from a brochure in which the county council presented its comprehensive activities for a populace that was assumed to be ignorant. Björk was of the opinion that all national and municipal governmental institutions needed their own ministries of defense, which when necessary could drum into the uninformed public the colossal significance of precisely that institution. He thought the brochure was excellent. In any case, Erik Magnusson was standing next to his yellow forklift truck, dressed in dazzling white overalls. He was smiling.
The police officers looked at his face and compared it with some black-and-white photos of Johannes Lövgren. One of the pictures showed Lövgren standing next to a tractor in a newly plowed field.
Could they be father and son? The tractor driver and the forklift operator?
Wallander had a hard time focusing on the pictures and making them blend together.
The only thing he thought he saw was the bloody face of an old man with his nose cut off.
By eleven o’clock on Friday night they had completed their plan of attack. By that time Björk had left them to go to a dinner organized by the local country club.
Wallander and Rydberg were going to spend Saturday paying another visit to Ellen Magnusson in Kristianstad. Martinson, Naslund, and Hanson would split up the surveillance of Erik Magnusson and also confront his fiancee with his alibi. Sunday would be devoted to surveillance and an additional run-through of all the investigative material. On Monday Martinson, who had been appointed computer expert in spite of his lack of any real interest in the subject, would examine Erik Magnusson’s business dealings. Did he have other debts? Had he ever been mixed up in any kind of criminal activity before?
Wallander asked Rydberg to go through everything personally. He wanted Rydberg to do what they called a crusade. He would try to match up events and individuals who outwardly had nothing in common. Were there actually points of contact that they had previously missed? That was what Rydberg would examine.
Rydberg and Wallander walked out of the police station together. Wallander was suddenly aware of Rydberg’s fatigue and remembered that he had paid a visit to the hospital.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
Rydberg shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something unintelligible in reply.
“With your leg, I mean,” said Wallander.
“Same old thing,” replied Rydberg, obviously not wanting to talk any more about his ailments.
Wallander drove home and poured himself a glass of whiskey. But he left it untouched on the coffee table and went into the bedroom to lie down. His exhaustion got the upper hand. He fell asleep at once and escaped all the thoughts that were whirling around in his head.
That night he dreamed about Sten Widen.
Together they were attending an opera in which the performers were singing in an unfamiliar language.
Later, when he awoke, Wallander couldn’t remember which opera they had seen.
On the other hand, as soon as he woke up the next day he remembered something they had talked about the day before.
Johannes Lövgren’s will. The will that didn’t exist.
Rydberg had spoken with the estate administrator who had been engaged by the two surviving daughters, a lawyer who was often called on by the farmers’ organizations in the area. No will existed. That meant that the two daughters would inherit all of Johannes Lövgren’s unexpected fortune.
Could Erik Magnusson have known that Lövgren had huge assets? Or had Lövgren been just as reticent with him as he had been with his wife?
Wallander got out of bed intending not to let this day pass before he knew definitively whether Ellen Magnusson had given birth to her son Erik with Johannes Lövgren as the unknown father.
He ate a hasty breakfast and met Rydberg at the police station just after nine o’clock. Martinson, who had spent the night in a car outside Erik Magnusson’s apartment in Rosengård and had been relieved by Naslund, had turned in a report which said that absolutely nothing had happened during the night. Magnusson was in his apartment. The night had been quiet.
The January day was hazy. Hoarfr
ost covered the brown fields. Rydberg sat tired and uncommunicative in the front seat next to Wallander. They didn’t say a word to each other until they were approaching Kristianstad.
At ten thirty they met Göran Boman at the police station in Kristianstad.
Together they went through the transcript of the woman’s interrogation, which Boman had conducted earlier.
“We’ve got nothing on her,” said Boman. “We ran a vacuum over her and the people she knows. Not a thing. Her whole story fits on one sheet of paper. She has worked at the same pharmacy for thirty years. She belonged to a choral group for a few years but finally quit. She takes out a lot of books from the library. She spends her vacations with a sister in Vemmenhög, never travels abroad, never buys new clothes. She’s a person who, at least on the surface, lives a completely undramatic life. Her habits are regular almost to the point of pedantry. The most surprising thing is that she can stand to live this way.”
Wallander thanked him for his work.
“Now we’ll take over,” he said.
They drove to Ellen Magnusson’s apartment building.
When she opened the door, Wallander thought that the son looked a lot like his mother. He couldn’t tell whether she had been expecting them. The look in her eyes seemed remote, as if she were actually somewhere else.
Wallander looked around the living room of the apartment. She asked if they wanted a cup of coffee. Rydberg declined, but Wallander said yes.
Every time Wallander stepped into a strange apartment, he felt as though he were looking at the covers of a book he had just bought. The apartment, the furniture, the pictures on the walls, and the smells were the title. Now he had to start reading. But Ellen Magnusson’s apartment was odorless. As if Wallander were in an uninhabited apartment. He breathed in the smell of hopelessness. A gray resignation. Against a background of pale wallpaper hung colored prints with indefinable abstract motifs. The furniture that filled the room was heavy and old-fashioned. Doilies lay decoratively arranged on several mahogany drop-leaf tables. On a little shelf stood a photograph of a child sitting in front of a rose bush. Wallander noticed that the only picture of her son she had on display was one from his childhood. As a grown man he was not present at all.