“I don’t have one,” Ekholm said. “When we’re talking about someone’s psyche, especially that of a disturbed or sick person, we’re getting into territory in which there are no absolute answers.”
Ekholm looked as if he was waiting for a comment. But Wallander just shook his head.
“I see a pattern,” Ekholm went on. “The person who did this selected his victims in advance. He has some kind of relationship with these men. It’s not necessary for him to have known the first two personally. It might be a symbolic relationship. But I’m fairly certain that the mutilation of Fredman’s eyes reveals that the killer knew his victim. And knew him well.”
Wallander leaned forward and gave Ekholm a penetrating look.
“How well?” he asked.
“They might have been friends. Colleagues. Rivals.”
“And something happened?”
“Something happened, yes. In reality or in the killer’s imagination.”
Wallander tried to see the implications of Ekholm’s words. At the same time he asked himself whether he accepted his theory.
“So we ought to concentrate on Björn Fredman,” he said after he had thought carefully.
“That’s one possibility.”
Wallander was irritated by Ekholm’s tendency to avoid taking a decisive view. It bothered him, even though he knew that it was right to keep their options open.
“Let’s say you were in my place,” said Wallander. “I promise not to quote you. Or blame you if you’re wrong. But what would you do?”
“I would concentrate on retracing Fredman’s life,” he said. “But I’d keep my eyes open.”
Wallander nodded. He understood.
“What kind of person are we looking for?” he asked.
Ekholm batted at a bee that had flown in through the window.
“The basic conclusions you can draw yourself,” he said. “That it’s a man. That he’s strong. That he’s practical, meticulous and not squeamish.”
“And his prints aren’t in the criminal records,” Wallander added. “He’s a first-timer.”
“This reinforces my belief that he leads a quite normal life,” said Ekholm. “The psychotic side to his nature, the mental collapse, is well hidden. He could sit down at the dinner table with the scalps in his pocket and eat his meal with a healthy appetite.”
“In other words, there are two ways we can set about catching him,” Wallander said. “Either in the act, or by gathering a body of evidence that spells out his name in big neon letters.”
“That’s right. It’s not an easy task that we have ahead of us.”
Just as Ekholm was about to leave, Wallander asked one more question.
“Will he strike again?”
“It might be over,” said Ekholm. “Björn Fredman as the grand finale.”
“Is that what you think?”
“No. He’ll strike again. What we’ve seen so far is the beginning of a long series of murders.”
When Wallander was alone he shooed the bee out of the window with his jacket. He sat quite still with his eyes closed, thinking through everything Ekholm had said. At 4 p.m. he went to get some more coffee. Then he went to the conference room, where the rest of the team were waiting for him.
He began by asking Ekholm to repeat his theory. When Ekholm had finished the room was quiet for a long time. Wallander waited out the silence, knowing that each of them was trying to grasp the significance of what they had just heard. They’re each absorbing this information, he thought. Then we’ll work on determining the collective opinion of the team.
They agreed with Ekholm. They would make Björn Fredman’s life the prime focus. Having settled the next steps in the investigation, they ended the meeting at around 6 p.m. Martinsson was the only one who left the station, to go and collect his children. The rest of them went back to work.
Wallander stood by his window looking out at the summer evening. The thought that they were still on the wrong track gnawed at him. What was he missing? He turned and looked around the room, as if an invisible visitor had come in.
So that’s how things are, he thought. I’m chasing a ghost when I ought to be searching for a living human being. He sat there pondering the case until midnight. Only when he left the station did he remember the dirty laundry still heaped on the floor.
CHAPTER 24
Next morning at dawn Wallander went downstairs to the laundry room, still half asleep, and discovered to his dismay that someone had got there first. The washing machine was in use, and he had to sign up for a slot that afternoon. He kept trying to recapture the dream he’d had during the night. It had been erotic, frenzied, and passionate, and Wallander had watched himself from a distance, participating in a drama he never would have come close to in his waking life. But the woman in his dream wasn’t Baiba. Not until he was on his way back upstairs did he realise that the woman reminded him of the female vicar he had met at Smedstorp. At first it surprised him, and then he felt a little ashamed. Later, when he got back to his flat, it dissolved into what it actually was, something beyond his control.
He sat at the kitchen table and drank coffee, the heat already coming through the half-open window. Maybe Ann-Britt’s grandmother was right: they were in for a truly beautiful summer. He thought of his father. Often, especially in the morning, his thoughts would wander back in time, to the era of the “silk knights”, when he woke each morning knowing he was a child loved by his father. Now, more than 40 years later, he found it hard to remember what his father had been like as a young man. His paintings were just the same even then: he had painted that landscape with or without the grouse with total determination not to change a thing from one painting to the next. His father had only painted one single picture in his whole life. He never tried to improve on it. The result had been perfect from the first attempt.
He drank the last of his coffee and tried to imagine a world without his father. He wondered what he would do when his constant feelings of guilt were gone. The trip to Italy would probably be their last chance to understand each other, maybe even to reconcile. He didn’t want his good memories to end at the time when he had helped his father to cart out the paintings and place them in a huge American car, and then stood by his side, both of them waving to the silk knight driving off in a cloud of dust, on his way to sell them for three or four times what he had just paid for them.
At 6.30 a.m. he became a policeman again, sweeping the memories aside. As he dressed he tried to decide how he’d go about all the tasks he had set himself that day. At 7 a.m. he walked through the door of the station, exchanging a few words with Norén, who arrived at the same time. Norén was actually supposed to be on holiday, but he had postponed it, just as many of the others had.
“No doubt it’ll start raining as soon as we catch the killer,” he said. “What does a weather god care about a simple policeman when there’s a serial killer on the loose?”
Wallander muttered something in reply, but he did not discount the possibility that there might be some grim truth in Norén’s words.
He went in to see Hansson, who seemed now to spend all his time at the station, weighed down by anxiety. His face was as grey as concrete. He was shaving with an ancient electric razor. His shirt was wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot.
“You’ve got to try and get a few hours’ sleep once in a while,” said Wallander. “Your responsibility isn’t any greater than anyone else’s.”
Hansson turned off the shaver and gloomily observed the result in a pocket mirror.
“I took a sleeping pill yesterday,” he said. “But I still didn’t get any sleep. All I got was a headache.”
Wallander looked at Hansson in silence. He felt sorry for him. Being chief had never been one of Hansson’s dreams.
“I’m going back to Malmö,” he said. “I want to talk to the members of Fredman’s family again. Especially the ones who weren’t there yesterday.”
Hansson gave him a quizzical look.
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“Are you going to interrogate a four-year-old boy? That’s not legally permitted.”
“I was thinking of the daughter,” said Wallander. “She’s 17. And I don’t intend to ‘interrogate’ anyone.”
Hansson nodded and got up slowly. He pointed to a book lying open on the desk.
“I got this from Ekholm,” he said. “Behavioural science based on a number of case studies of serial killers. It’s unbelievable the things people will do if they’re sufficiently deranged.”
“Is there anything about scalping?” asked Wallander.
“That’s one of the milder forms of trophy collecting. If you only knew the things that have been found in people’s homes, it would make you sick.”
“I feel sick enough already,” said Wallander. “I’ll leave the rest to my imagination.”
“Ordinary human beings,” said Hansson in dismay. “Completely normal on the surface. Underneath, mentally ill beasts of prey. A man in France, the foreman of a coal depot, used to cut open the stomachs of his victims and stick his head inside to try and suffocate himself. That’s one example.”
“That’ll do,” said Wallander, trying to discourage him.
“Ekholm wanted me to give you the book when I’ve read it,” said Hansson.
“I bet he did,” said Wallander. “But I really don’t have the time. Or the inclination.”
Wallander made himself a sandwich in the canteen and took it with him. As he ate it in the car, he wondered whether he should call Linda. But he decided not to. It was still too early.
He arrived in Malmö at around 8.30 a.m. The summer calm had already started to descend on the countryside. The traffic on the roads that intersected the motorway into Malmö was lighter than usual. He headed towards Rosengård and pulled up outside the block of flats he had visited the day before. He turned off the engine, wondering why he had come back so soon. They had decided to investigate Björn Fredman’s life. Besides, it was necessary that he meet the absent daughter. The little boy was less important.
He found a dirty petrol receipt in the glove compartment and took out a pen. To his great irritation he saw that it had leaked ink around the breast pocket where he kept it. The spot was half the size of his hand. On the white shirt it looked as if he’d been shot through the heart. The shirt was almost new. Baiba had bought it for him at Christmas after she’d been through his wardrobe and cleaned out the old, worn-out clothes.
His immediate impulse was to return to Ystad and go back to bed. He didn’t know how many shirts he’d had to throw away because he forgot to cap the pen properly before he put it in his pocket. Perhaps he should go and buy a new shirt. But he’d have to wait at least an hour until the shops opened, so he decided against it. He tossed the leaking pen out the window and then looked for another one in the messy glove compartment. He wrote down some key words on the back of the receipt. BF’s friends. Then and now. Unexpected events. He crumpled up the note and was just about to stuff it in his breast pocket when he stopped himself. He got out of the car and took off his jacket. The ink from his shirt pocket hadn’t reached the jacket lining. He went into the building and pushed open the lift door. The broken glass was still there. He got out on the fifth floor and rang the doorbell. There was no sound from inside the flat. Maybe they were still asleep. He waited more than a minute. Then he rang again. The door opened. It was the boy, Stefan. He seemed surprised to see Wallander. He smiled, but his eyes were wary.
“I hope I haven’t come too early,” said Wallander. “I should have called first, of course. But I was in Malmö anyway. I thought I’d pop in.”
It was a flimsy lie, but it was the best he could come up with. The boy let him into the hall. He was dressed in a cut-off T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He was barefoot.
“I’m here by myself,” he said. “My mother went out with my little brother. They were going to Copenhagen.”
“It’s a great day for a trip to Copenhagen,” said Wallander warmly.
“Yes, she likes going there a lot. To get away from it all.”
His words echoed disconsolately in the hall. Wallander thought the boy had sounded strangely unmoved last time when he mentioned the death of his father. They went into the living-room. Wallander laid his jacket on a chair and pointed at the ink spot.
“This happens all the time,” he said.
“It never happens to me,” said the boy, smiling. “I can make some coffee if you want.”
“No thanks.”
They sat down at opposite ends of the table. A blanket and pillow on the sofa indicated that someone had slept there. Wallander glimpsed the neck of an empty wine bottle under a chair. The boy noticed at once that he had seen it. His attention didn’t flag for an instant. Wallander hastily asked himself whether he had the right to question a minor about his father’s death without a relative present. But he didn’t want to pass up this opportunity. And the boy was incredibly mature for 14. Wallander felt as though he was talking to someone his own age. Even Linda, who was several years older, seemed childish in comparison.
“What are you going to do this summer?” asked Wallander. “We’ve got fine weather.”
The boy smiled. “I’ve got plenty to do,” he replied.
Wallander waited for more, but he didn’t continue.
“What class are you going to be in this autumn?”
“Eighth.”
“Is school going well?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favourite subject?”
“None of them. But maths is the easiest. We’ve started a club to study numerology.”
“I’m not sure I know what that is.”
“The Holy Trinity. The seven lean years. Trying to predict your future by combining the numbers in your life.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It is.”
Wallander could feel himself becoming fascinated by the boy sitting across from him. His strong body contrasted sharply with his childish face, but there was obviously nothing wrong with his mind.
Wallander took the crumpled gas receipt out of his jacket. His house keys dropped out of the pocket. He put them back and sat down again.
“I have a few questions,” he said. “But this is not an interrogation, by any means. If you want to wait until your mother comes home, just say so.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll answer if I can.”
“Your sister,” said Wallander. “When is she coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
The boy looked at him. The question didn’t seem to bother him. He had answered without hesitation. Wallander began to wonder if he had been mistaken the day before.
“I assume that you’re in contact with her? That you know where she is?”
“She just took off. It’s not the first time. She’ll come home when she feels like it.”
“I hope you understand that I think that sounds a little unusual.”
“Not for us.”
Wallander was convinced that the boy knew where his sister was. But he wouldn’t be able to force an answer out of him. Nor could he disregard the possibility that the girl was so upset that she really had run away.
“Isn’t it true that she’s in Copenhagen?” he asked cautiously. “And that your mother went there today to see her?”
“She went over to buy some shoes.”
Wallander nodded. “Well, let’s talk about something else,” he went on. “You’ve had time to think now. Do you have any idea who might have killed your father?”
“No.”
“Do you agree with your mother, that a lot of people might have wanted to?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s that?”
For the first time it seemed as though the boy’s polite exterior was about to crack. He replied with unexpected vehemence.
“My father was an evil man,” he said. “He lost the right to live a long time ago.”
Wallander was shaken. How could a yo
ung person be so full of hatred?
“That’s not something you ought to say,” he replied. “That a person has lost his right to live. No matter what he did.”
The boy was unmoved.
“What did he do that was so bad?” Wallander asked. “Lots of people are thieves. Lots of them sell stolen goods. They don’t have to be monsters because of that.”
“He scared us.”
“How’d he do that?”
“We were all afraid of him.”
“Even you?”
“Yes. But not for the past year.”
“Why not?”
“The fear went away.”
“And your mother?”
“She was scared.”
“Your brother?”
“He’d run and hide when he thought Dad was coming home.”
“Your sister?”
“She was more afraid than any of us.”
Wallander heard an almost imperceptible shift in the boy’s voice. There had been an instant of hesitation, he was sure of it.
“Why?” he asked cautiously.
“She was the most sensitive.”
Wallander quickly decided to take a chance.
“Did your Dad touch her?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do. But he never touched her.”
There it is, thought Wallander, and tried to avoid revealing his reaction. He may have abused his own daughter. Maybe the younger brother too. Maybe even Stefan. Wallander didn’t want to go any further. The question of where the sister was and what may have been done to her was something he didn’t want to deal with alone. The thought of abuse upset him.
“Did your Dad have any good friends?” he asked.
“He hung around with a lot of people. But whether any of them were real friends, I don’t know.”
“Who do you think that I should talk to?”
The boy smiled involuntarily but then regained his composure at once.
“Peter Hjelm,” he replied.
Wallander wrote down the name.
“Why did you smile?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know Peter Hjelm?”