He gave Rydberg a report of his visit to Kristianstad. Then he stood up.
"I'm going home now," he said.
"You're looking a little bedraggled."
"I'm coming down with a cold. But everything seems to be moving along by itself right now."
He went straight home, made some tea, and crawled into bed. When he woke up several hours later, the teacup was still at his bedside untouched. He was feeling a little better. He threw out the cold tea and made coffee instead. Then he called his father.
Wallander realised he had heard nothing about the fire. "Weren't we going to play cards?" he snapped.
"I'm ill," said Wallander.
"But you're never ill."
"I've got a cold."
"I don't call that being ill."
"Not everybody is as healthy as you are." "What does that mean?"
Wallander sighed. If he didn't come up with something, this conversation with his father was going to end badly.
"I'll come out and see you early tomorrow," he said. "Around eight o'clock. If you're up by then."
"I never sleep past four."
"No, but I do."
He said goodbye and hung up the phone. In the same instant he regretted the arrangement. Starting off the day by driving out to visit his father was equivalent to accepting a whole day filled with feelings of depression and guilt.
He looked around his flat. There were layers of dust everywhere. Even though he frequently aired the place out, it still smelled musty. Lonely and musty.
He thought about the black woman, who visited to him, night after night. Where did she come from? Where had he seen her? Was she in a photograph in the newspaper, or had he seen her on TV?
He wondered why it was that in his dreams he had an erotic obsession that was so different from his experience with Mona. The thought excited him. Perhaps he should call Anette Brolin. But he couldn't bring himself to do that. Angrily he sat down on the floral-patterned sofa and switched on the TV. He found one of the Danish channels, where the news was just about to start.
The anchorman reviewed the top stories. Another catastrophic famine. Chaos spreading in Romania. A huge cache of drugs confiscated in Odense. Wallander reached for the remote control and turned off the TV. He couldn't take any more news.
He thought about Mona. But his thoughts took an unexpected turn. He was no longer sure that he really wanted her back. How could he be sure anything would be better? He couldn't. He was just fooling himself.
Restless, he went out to the kitchen and drank a glass of juice. Then he sat down and wrote a detailed progress report on the investigation. When he had finished, he spread out all his notes on the table and looked at them as if they were pieces of a puzzle. He had a strong feeling that they might not be too far from finding a solution. Even though there were still a lot of loose ends, a number of details did fit together.
It wasn't possible to point to a particular person. There weren't even any actual suspects. But still he had the feeling that the police were close. This made him feel both gratified and uneasy. Too many times he had been in charge of a complicated criminal investigation that seemed promising at first but later petered out in a dead end, and in the worst instances they had had to drop the case altogether.
Patience, he thought. Patience.
Once more he though of calling Anette Brolin. But he had no idea what he would say to her. And her husband might answer the phone.
He sat down and switched on the TV again. To his immense surprise he was confronted by his own face. He heard the droning voice of a woman reporter. The gist of it was that Wallander and the police in Ystad seemed to be showing no concern for the safety of the refugees in their various camps.
Wallander's face disappeared and was replaced by a woman being interviewed outside a large office block. When her name appeared on the screen, he realised that he should have recognised her. It was the head of the Immigration Service, whom he had talked to that very day.
- "It cannot be ruled out that there may be an element of racism behind the lack of interest shown by the police," she stated.
Bitterness welled up inside him. You're a bitch, he thought. And what you're saying is a bloody lie. And why didn't those damned reporters contact me? I could have shown them Rydberg's protection plan. Racists? What was she talking about? His anger was mixed with the shame of being unjustly accused.
Then the phone rang. He considered not answering it. But then he went out to the hall and picked up the receiver.
It was the same voice. A little hoarse, muffled. Wallander guessed that the man was holding a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
"We're waiting for results," he said.
"Go to hell!" roared Wallander.
"By Saturday at the latest."
"Were you the bastards who started the fire last night?" he shouted into the phone.
"Saturday at the latest," repeated the man, unmoved. Then the line went dead.
Wallander felt sick He couldn't rid himself of a sense of foreboding. It was like an ache in his body, slowly spreading.
Now you're scared, he thought. Now Kurt Wallander is scared. He went back to the kitchen and stood at the window, looking out into the street. There was no wind. The streetlight was hanging motionless.
Something was going to happen. He was sure of it. But what? And where?
CHAPTER 8
In the morning he got out his best suit. He stared despondently at a spot on a lapel.
Ebba, he thought. This is a good project for her. When she hears that I'm going to meet Mona, she'll put her heart into getting rid of this spot. Ebba is a woman who thinks that the level of divorces is a considerably greater threat to the future of our society than the increase in crime and violence.
He laid the suit on the back seat and drove off. A thick cloud cover hung over the town. Is this snow? he wondered. Snow that I really don't want. He drove slowly eastwards, through Sandskogen, past the abandoned golf course, and turned off towards Kaseberga.
For the first time in days he felt that he had had enough sleep. Nine hours straight. The swelling on his forehead had started to go down, and the burn on his arm didn't sting any longer.
Methodically he rehearsed the summary he had written the night before. The vital thing was to find Lövgren's mystery woman. And their son. Somewhere, in the circles surrounding these people, those responsible would be found. The murders had to be connected to the missing 27,000 kronor, maybe even to Lövgren's other assets.
Someone who knew about the money, and who had taken the time to feed the horse before making off. People who were familiar with Johannes Lövgren's routine.
The rental car from Goteborg didn't fit the puzzle. Maybe it had nothing at all to do with the case. He looked at his watch. 7.40 a.m. Thursday, 11 January.
Instead of driving straight to his father's house, he went a few kilometres past it and turned off on the little gravel road that wound through rolling sand dunes up towards Backakra, Dag Hammarskjold's old estate, which the statesman had bequeathed to the Swedish people. Wallander left his car in the car park and walked up the hill. From there he could see the sea stretching out along the strand below him.
There was a stone circle there. A stone circle of contemplation, erected some years earlier. It was an invitation to solitude and peace of mind. He sat down on a stone and looked out to sea.
He had never been particularly inclined to philosophical meditation, never felt a need to delve into himself. Life for him was a matter of juggling practical questions that needed resolution. Whatever lay ahead was inescapable, something he could not change, no matter how much he tried to give it meaning.
Having a few minutes of solitude was another thing altogether. Not having to think at all, just listen, observe, sit motionless, gave him great peace.
There was a boat on its way somewhere. A large sea bird glided soundlessly on the breeze. Everything was quiet. After 10 minutes he stood up and went back to the car
.
His father was in his studio painting when Wallander walked in. This time it was going to be a canvas with a grouse. His father looked at him crossly. Wallander could see that the old man was filthy. And he smelled terrible. "Why are you here?" his father said.
"We made a date yesterday."
"Eight o'clock, you said."
"Good grief, I'm only 11 minutes late."
"How the hell can you be a policeman if you can't keep track of time?"
Wallander didn't answer. Instead he thought about his sister Kristina. Today he would have to make time to call her. Ask her whether she was aware of their father's rapid decline. He had always imagined that senility was a slow process. That wasn't the case at all, he realised now.
His father was searching for a colour with his brush on the palette. His hands were still steady. Then he confidently daubed a hint of pale red on the grouse's plumage.
Wallander sat down on the old toboggan to watch. The stench of his father's body was acrid. Wallander was reminded of a foul-smelling man lying on a bench in the Paris Metro, when he and Mona were on their honeymoon.
I have to say something, he thought. Even if my father is on his way back to his childhood, I still have to speak to him as if he's an adult.
His father went on painting with great concentration. How many times has he painted that same motif? Wallander wondered. A quick and incomplete reckoning in his head came up with the figure of 7,000. He'd painted 7,000 sunsets.
He got up and poured coffee from the kettle steaming on the kerosene stove.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"When you're as old as I am, how you're feeling is how you're feeling," his father replied brusquely.
"Have you thought about moving?"
"Where would I move to? And why should I move anyway?"
The answers were like the cracks of a whip. "To a retirement home."
His father pointed his brush at him ferociously, as if it were a weapon.
"Do you want me to die?"
"Of course not! It would be for your own good."
"How do you think I'd survive with a bunch of old fogies? And they certainly wouldn't let me paint in my room."
"Nowadays you can have your own flat."
"I've already got my own house. Maybe you didn't notice that. Or maybe you're too ill to notice?"
"I just have a little cold."
At that moment he realised that the cold hadn't come to anything. He had been through this a few times before. When he had a lot to do, he refused to permit himself to get ill. But once the investigation was over, he would succumb almost at once.
"I'm going to see Mona tonight," he said.
Continuing to talk about an old people's home or a flat in sheltered accommodation was pointless. First he had to talk to his sister.
"If she left you, she left you. Forget her."
"I have absolutely no wish to forget her."
His father kept on painting. Now he was working on the pink clouds. The conversation had died.
"Is there anything you need?" asked Wallander.
His father replied without looking at him. "Are you leaving already?"
The reproach was unconcealed. Wallander knew it would do no good to try and stifle the guilt that flared up in him.
"I've got a job to do," he said. "I'm the acting chief. We're trying to solve a double murder. And track down some pyromaniacs."
His father snorted and scratched his crotch. "Chief of police. Is that supposed to impress me?" Wallander got up.
"I'll be back, Dad," he said. "I'm going to help you clean up this mess."
The old man flung his brush to the floor and stood in front of his son shaking his fist. The outburst took Wallander completely by surprise.
"You think you can come here and tell me this place is a mess?" he shouted. "You think you can come here and meddle in my life? Let me tell you this: I have both a cleaning woman and a housekeeper here. And by the way, I'm taking a trip to Rimini for my winter holiday. I'm going to have a show there. I'm demanding 25,000 kronor per canvas. And you come here talking about old people's homes. But you're not going to kill me off, I can tell you that!"
He walked out of the studio, slamming the door behind him.
He's off his perch, thought Wallander. I've got to put a stop to this. Maybe he really imagines he has a cleaning woman and a housekeeper. That he's going to Italy to open a show. He wasn't sure if he should follow his father inside. He could hear him banging around in the kitchen. It sounded as if he was throwing pots and pans on the floor.
Wallander went out to his car. The best thing would be to call his sister. Now, right away. Together maybe they could persuade their father that he couldn't go on like this.
At 9 a.m. he walked into station and left his suit with Ebba, who promised to have it cleaned and pressed by that afternoon.
At 10 a.m. he called a case meeting for all the team members who were still in the station. The ones who had seen the spot on the news the night before shared his indignation. After a brief discussion they agreed that Wallander should write a sharp rebuttal and distribute it on the wire service.
"Why doesn't the chief of the national police respond?" Martinsson wondered.
His question was met with disdainful laughter.
"That guy?" said Rydberg. "He only responds if he has something to gain from it. He doesn't give a damn about how the police in the provinces are doing."
Nothing new had happened that demanded the attention of the investigators. They were still laying the groundwork. Material was collected and gone over, various tip-offs were checked and entered in the daily log.
Everyone agreed that the mystery woman in Kristianstad and her son were the hottest lead. No-one had any doubt either that the murder they were trying to solve had robbery as a motive. Wallander asked whether things had been quiet at the various refugee camps.
"I checked the nightly report," said Rydberg. "It was calm. The most dramatic thing to happen last night was an elk running about on the E65.
"Tomorrow is Friday," said Wallander. "Yesterday I got another anonymous phone call. The same individual. He repeated the threat that something was going to happen tomorrow or Saturday at the latest."
Rydberg suggested that they contact the national police. Let them decide whether additional manpower should be provided.
"Let's do that," said Wallander. "We might as well be on the safe side. In our own district we'll send out an extra night patrol to concentrate on the refugee camps."
"Then you'll have to authorise overtime," said Hansson.
"I know," said Wallander. "I want Peters and Norén on this special night detail. And I want someone to call and talk to the directors at all of the camps. Don't scare them. Just ask them to be a little more vigilant."
After about an hour the meeting was finished. Wallander was left alone in his office, getting ready to write the response to Swedish Television.
The telephone rang. It was Goran Boman in Kristianstad.
"I saw you on the news last night," he said, laughing.
"Wasn't that a bugger?"
"You're right. You ought to protest."
"I'm writing a letter as we speak."
"What the hell are those reporters thinking of?"
"Not about the truth, that's for sure, but how big a headline they can get."
"I've got good news for you."
Wallander felt himself go tense.
"Did you find her?"
"Maybe. I'm faxing you some papers now. We've found nine possibilities. The register of citizens isn't such a silly thing to have. I thought you ought to take a look at what we came up with. Call me and tell me which ones you want us to check first."
"Great, Goran," said Wallander. "I'll call you."
The fax machine was in the reception. A young female temp he hadn't never seen before was just taking a fax sheet out of the tray.
"Which one is Kurt Wallander?" she asked.
br /> "That's me," he said. "Where's Ebba?"
"She had to go to the dry cleaners," said the woman.
Wallander felt ashamed. He was making Ebba run his personal errands.
Boman had sent four pages in all. Wallander went back to his room and spread them on the desk. He studied one woman after another, their birth dates, when their babies with "fathers unknown" had been born. It didn't take him long to eliminate four. That left five who had given birth to sons during the 1950s.
Two were still living in Kristianstad, one in Gladsax outside Simrishamn. Of the other two, one lived in Strömsund and one had emigrated to Australia. He smiled at the idea that the investigation might require someone to be sent to the other side of the world.
He called Goran Boman.
"This looks promising," he said. "If we're on the right track, we've got five to choose from."
"Should I start bringing them in for a talk?"
"No, I'll take care of it myself. Or rather, I thought we might do it together. If you have time, I mean."
"I'll make time. Are we starting today?"
Wallander looked at his watch.
"Let's wait till tomorrow," he said. "I'll try to get up there by nine. If there's no trouble tonight, that is."
He quickly told Goran about the anonymous threats. "Did you catch the arsonist from the other night?" "Not yet."
"I'll set things up for tomorrow, and I'll make sure none of them has moved."
"Maybe I should meet you in Gladsax," Wallander suggested. "It's about halfway."
"Nine o'clock at the Hotel Svea in Simrishamn," said Boman. "A cup of coffee to start the day with."
"Sounds good. See you there. And thanks for your help."
Now, you bastards, thought Wallander after he hung up. I'm going to let you have it. He wrote the letter to Swedish Television. He did not mince words, and he decided to send copies to the Immigration Service, the Immigration Ministry, the county chief of police, and the chief of the national police.