"We have to consider it as a possibility," Wallander said.
"You're right," Nyberg interrupted. "However unappealing it is. Since the Belgian case I've had the feeling that anything is possible."
Nyberg was right. The macabre string of child murders in Belgium had been linked in unsavoury ways to both the police and politicians. These links were still tenuous, but no one doubted that many dramatic revelations were to come.
Wallander nodded for Nyberg to continue.
"What I'm wondering is how Louise fits into the picture."
"We don't know," Wallander said. "We have to try to proceed in as open-minded a fashion as possible and try to answer all our questions, including who this woman is."
A certain gloom fell over the group as they divided up the tasks and accepted that they would now be working around the clock. Holgersson would see about bringing in extra personnel. They finished a little after 10.30 a.m. Wallander signalled to Höglund to remain behind. When they were alone, he gestured for her to close the door.
"Tell me what your thinking is on this," he said when she had sat down.
"Naturally some thoughts are so repulsive that you try to block them out."
"Of course. Svedberg was our friend. Now we have reason to speculate that he may have been a criminal."
"Do you really think so?"
"No, but I have to consider even what seems impossible, if that makes any sense."
"Then what do you think happened?"
"That's what I want you to tell me."
"Well, a connection has now been established between Svedberg and those three young people."
"No, that's not true. A connection has been established between Svedberg and Astrid Hillström."
She nodded.
"What else do you see?" he asked.
"That Svedberg was someone other than we thought."
Wallander pounced on this. "And how did we think he was?"
She thought a moment before answering. "That he was open, trustworthy."
"But in reality he turned out to be secretive and untrustworthy, is that what you mean?"
"Not exactly, but something like that."
"One of his secrets involved a woman, who may have been called Louise. We know what she looks like."
Wallander got up, turned on the projector, and slipped the picture back into the machine.
"I have the strange feeling that there's something wrong with this face. But I can't think what it is."
Höglund hesitated, but Wallander sensed that his statement didn't surprise her.
"There's something odd about her hair," she said finally. "Although I can't put my finger on it."
"We have to find her," Wallander said. "And we will."
He put the second photograph in the projector and looked at Höglund. Again she answered hesitantly.
"I'm quite convinced that they're wearing clothes from the 16th century. I have a book at home about fashion through the ages. But I could be wrong."
"What else do you see?"
"Young people who seem happy. Excited and drunk."
Wallander suddenly thought of the pictures that Sten Widen showed him from their trip to Germany, especially the drunken one of himself with the beer bottle in his hand. There was a similarity in the expressions on their faces.
"What else do you see?"
"The boy, the second from the left, is yelling something to the photographer."
"They're sitting on a blanket with food spread out, and they're dressed up. What does that mean?"
"A masquerade of some sort. A party."
"Let's assume it's a summer event of some kind," Wallander said.
"The whole picture gives the impression of warm weather. It could very well be a Midsummer's Eve party, but it can't have been taken this summer, since Norman isn't in the picture."
"And Astrid Hillström seems a little younger."
Wallander agreed. "I thought that too. The picture could be a couple of years old."
"There's nothing threatening in the photograph," she said. "At that age, they're as happy as they can be. Life seems endless, the sorrows few."
"I have such a strange feeling about this," Wallander said. "I've never been at the beginning of an investigation like this one. Svedberg is the centre, of course, but the compass needle keeps swinging back and forth. We can't see where we should go."
They left the room. Höglund took the envelope with the two photographs to give to Nyberg so he could check them for fingerprints. First she would make some copies of both. Wallander went to the lavatory and then drank almost a litre of water in the canteen.
Everyone set to work on their assigned tasks. Wallander's job was to talk to Eva Hillström and Sture Björklund again. He sat down in his office and reached for the phone. He was going to start with Hillström, but he decided against phoning her first. Höglund knocked on his door and handed him some photocopies of the pictures. The picture of the young people had been enlarged so that their faces appeared as clearly as possible.
It was around midday when Wallander left the station. He heard someone say that it was about 23°C. He took off his jacket before getting into the car.
Eva Hillström lived on Körlingsväg, which was just outside Ystad's eastern border. He parked the car outside the gate and looked at the house. It was a large, turn-of-the-century villa, with a beautifully maintained garden. He walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Eva Hillström opened the door and jumped when she saw who it was.
"Nothing's happened," Wallander said quickly, anxious to stop her from imagining the worst. "I just have some more questions."
She let him into a big hall that smelled strongly of disinfectant. She was barefoot and wearing a tracksuit. Her eyes darted anxiously around the room.
"I hope I'm not intruding," Wallander said.
She mumbled something unintelligible and he followed her into a spacious living room. The art and furniture gave the impression of being valuable. There was certainly nothing wrong with the Hillströms' finances. He sat down obediently on the sofa that she indicated to him.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked.
Wallander shook his head. He was thirsty but didn't want to ask for a glass of water. She was sitting on the very edge of her seat, and Wallander had the strange impression that she was a runner at the start of a race, waiting for the gun to go off. He took out his photocopies, and handed her the picture of Louise. She looked at it briefly and then up at him.
"Who is this?"
"You don't recognise her?"
"Does she have anything to do with Astrid?"
Her attitude was hostile and Wallander forced himself to sound very firm.
"It is sometimes necessary for us to ask routine questions," he said. "I just showed you a picture, and my question is, do you know who it is?"
"Who is she?"
"Just answer the question."
"I've never seen her before."
"Then we don't have to say anything more about it."
She was about to ask him something else when Wallander gave her the other picture. She looked at it quickly, then got up out of her chair and left the room, as if the starting gun had just gone off. She came back after about a minute and handed Wallander a photograph.
"Photocopies are never as good as the original," she said in response to his puzzled face.
Wallander looked down at the photo. It was the same as the photocopy, the same picture he had found in Svedberg's flat. He felt a step closer to something important.
"Tell me about this photograph," he said. "When was it taken? Who are the other people in it?"
"I don't know exactly where it is," she said. "Somewhere around Österlen, I think. Maybe at Brösarp's hill. Astrid gave it to me."
"When was it taken?"
"Last summer, in July. It was Magnus's birthday."
"Magnus?"
She pointed to the boy who was shouting at the unknown photographer. Wallander pull
ed out the notebook he had for once remembered to bring.
"What's his full name?"
"Magnus Holmgren. He lives in Trelleborg."
"Who are the rest?"
Wallander took down their names and where they lived. Suddenly he remembered something else.
"Who took the picture?" he asked.
"Astrid's camera had a self-timing mechanism."
"So she took it?"
"I just told you the camera had a self-timer!"
Wallander moved on.
"This is a birthday party for Magnus, but why are they dressed up?"
"That was something they did. I can't see anything strange about it."
"I don't either, I just have to ask these questions."
She lit a cigarette. Wallander felt she was on the verge of breaking down again.
"So Astrid has a lot of friends," he said.
"Not that many," Eva Hillström said. "But good ones."
She took up the photo again and pointed to the other girl.
"Isa wasn't with them this year at Midsummer," she said. "Unfortunately she fell ill."
It took a moment for her words to sink in. Then Wallander understood.
"You mean that this other girl was supposed to have been with them?"
"She fell ill."
"And so it was just the three of them? And they went ahead with the party and then took off together for a trip to Europe?"
"Yes."
Wallander looked down at his notes.
"What's her full name?"
"Isa Edengren. Her father is a businessman. They live in Skårby."
"What has she said about the trip?"
"That nothing had been decided in advance. But she's sure they've gone. They always took their passports with them on these occasions."
"Have they sent her any postcards?"
"No."
"Doesn't she think that's strange?"
"Yes."
Eva Hillström put out her cigarette.
"Something's happened," she said. "I don't know what it is, but Isa's wrong. They haven't left. They're still here."
Wallander saw that there were tears in her eyes.
"Why won't anyone listen to me?" she asked. "Only one person listened, but now he's gone too."
Wallander held his breath.
"Only one person has listened to you," he said. "Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"Do you mean the police officer who visited you at the end of June?"
She looked at him with surprise. "He came many times," she said. "Not just then. During July he came every week, and a couple of times this week as well."
"Do you mean Officer Svedberg?"
"Why did he have to die?" she said. "He was the only one who listened, the only one who was as worried as I was."
Wallander was silent. Suddenly he had nothing to say.
CHAPTER TEN
The breeze was so gentle that sometimes he didn't feel it at all. He counted how often he actually felt the wind on his face, just to make the time go a little faster. He was going to add this to his list of pleasures in life, the joys of the happy person. He had remained hidden behind a large tree for several hours. The fact that he was so early gave him a feeling of satisfaction.
It was still a warm evening. When he had woken that morning, he had known that the time had come to go public. He couldn't wait any longer. He had slept for exactly eight hours, like he normally did. Somewhere in his subconscious the decision had been made. He was going to recreate the events that had occurred 50 days ago.
He got up around 5 a.m., again like always, making no exception to his routine although this was his day off. After drinking a cup of the tea that he ordered directly from Shanghai, he rolled away the red carpet in the living room and did his morning exercises. After 20 minutes he measured his heart rate, wrote it down in a notebook, and took a shower. At 6.15 a.m. he sat down to work. This morning he was making his way through a large report from the department of labour that examined possible solutions to the problem of unemployment. He marked some passages with a pen, occasionally also commenting on them, but nothing really struck him as new.
He put down his pen and thought about the anonymous people who had put this meaningless report together. They are in no danger of becoming unemployed, he thought. They are never to be granted the joy of being able to see straight through daily existence to what actually mattered, the things that gave life meaning.
He read until 10 a.m., and then dressed and went shopping. He made lunch and rested for a while until around 2 p.m. He had soundproofed his bedroom. It was very expensive but worth every penny. No sounds from the street ever intruded. The windows were gone. A soundless air conditioning unit provided him with air. On one side of the room he had a large picture of the world, on which he could follow the progression of sunlight around the globe. This room was the centre of his world. Here he could think clearly about what had happened and what was going to happen. He never had to think about who he was or if he was right. Right about there being no justice in the world.
They had been at a conference in the Jömtland mountains. The director of the engineering firm he worked for had suddenly appeared in his doorway and ordered him to go. Someone had fallen sick. Naturally he agreed, although he had already made plans for that weekend. He said yes because he wanted to please his boss. The conference was on something to do with new digital technology. It was spearheaded by an older man who had invented the mechanical cash registers that were manufactured in Åtvidaberg. He talked about the new era, and everyone stared down at their notebooks. On one of the last evenings, they had all decided to go to the sauna. He didn't really like being naked in front of other men, so he waited for them in the bar. He didn't know exactly how to act. Afterwards they joined him and sat drinking for a long time. Someone started telling a story about good ways to fire employees. All of the men except for him were in important positions at their companies. They told one story after another and finally looked at him. But he had never fired anyone. It never even occurred to him that he would one day be fired. He had studied hard, could do his job, had paid off his student loans, and had learned how to agree with people. Afterwards, after the catastrophe was a fact, he suddenly remembered one of the stories. A small, unpleasantly plump man from a factory in Torshälla told them about how he had once summoned an old worker and said, "I don't know how we could have managed without you here all these years." "It was great," the fat man said, laughing. "The old guy was so proud and happy that he wasn't on guard. Then it was easy. I just said, 'But we'll just have to try, starting tomorrow.'" So the old man was fired. He often thought about that story. If it had been possible he would have gone to Torshälla and killed the person who had fired the old man like that, and had the gall to show off about it afterwards.
He left his flat around 3 p.m. He drove eastwards until he reached a car park in Nybrostrand, where he waited until there were no other people around. Then he quickly switched to another car he had parked there and drove away.
When he arrived at the nature reserve he saw that he was in luck. There were no other cars around, which meant he didn't have to bother with the fake number plates. It was already 4 p.m. and a Saturday, and so he doubted that anyone else would turn up that evening. He had spent three Saturdays watching the entrance to the nature reserve and had noted the pattern of visitors. Almost no one came in the evening. The few who did always left by 8 p.m. He took his tools out of the boot. He had also packed a few sandwiches and a thermos of tea. He looked around, listened, then disappeared down one of the trails.
When the time was right, he started making his way towards the place. He immediately saw that no one had been there. In the space between the two trees that was the only natural opening into the clearing, he had hung a thin thread. He knelt down to examine it and saw that it was untouched. Then he got out his collapsible shovel and started digging. He went about his task calmly and methodically. The last thing he wa
nted to do was break out in a sweat, which would increase the risk of his catching a cold. He paused after every eighth shovelful and listened for noises. It took 20 minutes to remove the layer of sod and reach the tarpaulin. Before lifting it aside he smeared some menthol ointment under his nostrils and put on a mask. The three plastic bags were lying undisturbed in the ground. There was no unpleasant odour, which meant they hadn't leaked. He lifted up one of the bags and threw it over his shoulder. His workouts had made him strong. It only took him 10 minutes to carry all three bags to their original location. Then he filled the hole, replaced the layer of sod, and stamped the ground on top until it was flat, pausing from time to time to listen out for sounds.
Next he went to the tree where he had placed the three bags. He unpacked the tablecloth, glasses, and the remains of the rotting food that he had stored in his refrigerator. Then he took the bodies out of the bags. Their wigs were a little yellowed and the bloodstains had taken on a greyish tinge. He put the bodies in their places, breaking and cracking what was necessary so that everything looked like it had when he had taken the picture on Midsummer's Eve. His last touch was to pour a little wine into one of the glasses. He listened. Everything was still.
He folded the bags under his arm, stuffed them into a sack, and left. He had already removed his mask and wiped away the menthol. He didn't see a single person on his way back to the car. He drove to Nybrostrand, changed cars again, and made it back to Ystad before 10 p.m. He didn't drive straight home but continued in the direction of Trelleborg. He pulled over at a spot where he could drive down towards the water without being observed. He put two of the big bags inside the third, weighted them down with pieces of steel pipe that he had procured for this purpose, and threw them into the water. They sank immediately.
He returned home, burned his mask, and threw his shoes into the rubbish. He put the menthol ointment in the bathroom cabinet. Then he took a shower and rubbed his body with disinfectant.
Later, he had some tea. When he looked into the tea container, he realised he would soon have to order more. He wrote it down on the noticeboard he kept in the kitchen. He watched a programme about the homeless on TV. No one said anything he didn't already know.