One Step Behind

  "We're going to need those reinforcements," Höglund said. "Lisa says some people are arriving from Malmö this afternoon."

  "We need Svedberg," Wallander said. "That's what it is. We just aren't used to not having him around."

  They were silent for a while after this; then she left. Wallander opened the window. It was still warm, and there was only a gentle breeze. The phone rang. It was Ebba. She sounded tired, and Wallander thought how much she had seemed to age during the last few years. Before, she had always helped them keep their spirits up. Now she was often down herself, and sometimes she forgot to pass along their messages. She was due to retire next summer, but no one could bring themselves to think about it.

  "There's a call here from an officer called Larsson. He says he's from the police in Valdemarsvik" she told him. "Can you take it? Everyone else is busy."

  Larsson spoke with an Östgöta dialect.

  "Harry Lundström from Norrköping told us to inform you about anything stolen around Gryt on the day that girl was shot out on Bärnsö Island."

  "That's right."

  "We may have something that will interest you, stolen from Snäckvarp. The owner can't say exactly when, because he wasn't there when it happened. But it was found in an inlet just south of Snäckvarp. It's a six-metre fibreglass boat with a raised steering platform."

  Wallander felt his usual insecurity in discussing boats.

  "Is it big enough to take out to Bärnsö?"

  "If the wind wasn't too strong it could take you all the way out to Gotland."

  Wallander thought for a moment. "Any fingerprints?" he asked.

  "We've checked," Larsson said. "There was oil on the steering wheel so we found a couple of good prints there. They're already on their way over to you, via Norrköping. Harry is the one in charge of the whole thing."

  "Was there a road near where the boat was found?" Wallander asked.

  "The boat was hidden in a mass of reeds. But you can walk to Snäckvarp in about ten minutes and there's a dirt road from there."

  "This is important," Wallander said.

  "How are things going? Are you closing in on the killer?"

  "Yes, but these things take time."

  "I never met the girl, but I had a run-in with Edengren a couple of years ago."

  "Oh, what happened?"

  "Illegal fishing. He was putting nets and eel traps in other people's water."

  "Isn't it free fishing out there?"

  "It varies. Not that he bothered to find out. If I may speak plainly, I thought he was a royal pain in the arse. But of course I feel sorry for him now, with the girl and all."

  "Was that it? Illegal fishing?"

  "As far as I know."

  Wallander thanked him for the call. Then he tried to reach Harry Lundström in Norrköping, and was directed to his mobile phone. Lundström was in a car somewhere out in Vikboland. Wallander told him they had a positive ID on the murder weapon from the reserve, and that they would soon know about the gun used on Bärnsö Island. Lundström in turn told him they weren't sure of any prints found on the island, but he assumed the stolen boat in Snäckvarp was the one the killer had used.

  "People out here on the islands are getting worried," he said. "You have to get this man."

  "Yes," Wallander said. "Yes, we do. And we will."

  He went and got a cup of coffee when he was done with the conversation. It was already 9.30 a.m. Something occurred to him, and he went back to his office and looked up the number for the Lundberg family in Skårby. The wife answered. Wallander realised he hadn't spoken to them since Isa was murdered, and so he began by offering her his condolences.

  "Erik is still in bed," she said. "He doesn't have the energy to get up. He says we should sell the house and move away. Who could do something like this to a child?"

  Isa was like a daughter to her, Wallander thought. I should have thought of it earlier.

  He couldn't really answer her question, but he sensed that she held him responsible for Isa's death.

  "I called to see if her parents have come home," he said.

  "They came back last night."

  "That was all I wanted to know," he said. He expressed his regrets once again and then hung up.

  He planned to drive out to Skårby immediately after the press conference. He wanted to go right away, but there wasn't time. He picked up the phone and called Thurnberg. Without mentioning what he had heard the previous night, he gave him a short update on the latest findings from the forensic investigation. Wallander concluded by stressing that the findings meant they could now concentrate on searching for a single killer. Thurnberg said he looked forward to seeing the written report, and Wallander promised to send him a copy.

  "There will be a press conference at 11 a.m.," Wallander said. "I think we should reveal these latest findings to the press and have pictures of the guns published."

  "Do we have any pictures of them available now?"

  "We'll get them tomorrow at the latest." Thurnberg made no objections, and said he would participate in the press conference. They kept the conversation brief, but Wallander noticed by the end that he had broken into a sweat.

  They held the press conference in the largest room available. Wallander couldn't remember another case ever getting so much attention. As usual he got terribly nervous when he walked up to the podium. To his surprise, Thurnberg began. That had never happened in all the years he had worked there. Per Åkeson always let Wallander or the chief of police take on that task. Thurnberg spoke as if he was accustomed to speaking to the press. It's a new era, Wallander thought. He wasn't sure that he didn't feel a tiny bit envious. He listened carefully to what Thurnberg said, and couldn't deny that he expressed himself well.

  Next it was his turn to speak. He had made some notes on a piece of paper to remind himself of what to say, but now, naturally, couldn't find it. He told them they had traced the murder weapons to Ludvika, with a possible link to a robbery in Orsa. He also told them that they were still waiting for a positive ID on the weapon used on Bärnsö Island in the Östergötland archipelago. As he spoke he thought of Westin, the postman who had taken him out to the island. Why he thought of him at that moment he couldn't say. He also talked about the findings regarding the stolen boat. When he finished, there were many questions. Thurnberg handled most of them, with Wallander jumping in from time to time. Martinsson was listening to the proceedings from the very back of the room.

  Finally a woman from one of the evening papers indicated that she wanted to ask a question. Wallander had never seen her before.

  "Would it be accurate to say that the police have no leads at this time?" she said, turning directly to Wallander.

  "We have many leads," Wallander said. "We're just not close to making an arrest."

  "It seems to me that the police investigation hasn't yielded any results. It seems more than likely that this killer will strike again. After all, I think it's clear to all of us that we're dealing with a madman."

  "We don't know that," Wallander answered. "That's why we're keeping our approach as comprehensive as we can."

  "That sounds like a strategy," the reporter said. "But it could also give the impression that you don't know where to turn, that you're helpless."

  Wallander glanced at Thurnberg, who encouraged him to continue with an almost invisible nod of his head.

  "The police are never helpless," Wallander said. "If we were, we wouldn't be police officers."

  "Don't you agree that you're looking for a madman?"

  "No."

  "What else could this person be?"

  "We don't know yet."

  "Do you think you'll catch whoever did this?"

  "Yes, without a doubt."

  "Will he strike again?"

  "We don't know."

  There was a brief pause. Wallander got up, which the others took as a signal that the conference was over. Wallander thought Thurnberg had probably intended to end it in a more formal ma
nner, but Wallander left the room before Thurnberg had a chance to talk to him. TV news teams were waiting to interview him in the reception area. Wallander told them to speak with Thurnberg. Later Ebba told him that Thurnberg was more than happy to oblige.

  Wallander went into his office to get his coat. He tried to think what it was that made him think of Westin during the press conference. He knew it was significant. He sat down at his desk and tried to coax the thought to the surface, but it wouldn't come. He gave up. As he was putting his coat on, Hansson called.

  "I found the cars," he said. "Norman's and Boge's: a 1991 Toyota and a Volvo that's one year older. They were in a car park down by Sandhammaren. I've already called Nyberg. He's on his way there."

  "So am I."

  At the edge of town, Wallander pulled over at a takeaway bar and ate a hotdog. It had become habit now to buy one-litre bottles of mineral water. He had forgotten to take the medication that Dr Göransson had prescribed for him, and he didn't have it with him.

  He drove back to Mariagatan in a bad temper. There was a heap of post on the floor in the hall, and he noticed a postcard from Linda, who was visiting friends in Hudiksvall, and a letter from his sister Kristina. Wallander took the post with him into the kitchen. His sister had put the name and address of a hotel on the back of the envelope. It was in Kemi, which Wallander knew was in northern Finland. He wondered what she was doing there, but he let the post wait, and took his medicine instead. Before he left the kitchen, he glanced at the post lying on the table and again his thoughts returned to Westin. Now he was able to catch hold of the thought.

  There was something Westin had said during their trip out to Bärnsö Island, something that Wallander's subconscious had been turning over and was trying to send to the surface. He tried to reconstruct their conversation in the noisy wheelhouse without success. But Westin had said something important. He decided to call him after he had looked at the two cars.

  Nyberg was already there when Wallander got out of his car. The Toyota and Volvo were parked next to each other. Police tape was plastered all around the area and the cars were being photographed. The doors and boots were wide open. Wallander walked up to Nyberg, who was getting a bag out of his car.

  "Thanks again for meeting me last night," he said.

  "An old friend came down to see me from Stockholm in 1973," Nyberg replied. "We went out to a bar one evening. I don't think I've been out since then."

  Wallander remembered that he hadn't paid Edmundsson back.

  "Well, anyway, I had a nice time," he said.

  "There's already a rumour going around that we were caught trying to get out of paying the bill," Nyberg said.

  "Just as long as Thurnberg doesn't get wind of it. He might take it the wrong way."

  Wallander walked over to Hansson, who was making some notes.

  "Any doubt they're the right ones?"

  "The Toyota is Lena Norman's, the Volvo belongs to Martin Boge."

  "How long have they been here?"

  "We don't know. In July the car park is full of cars coming and going. It's only in August that it starts to slow down and that people start noticing which cars haven't been moved."

  "Is there any other way to find out if they've been here since Midsummer?"

  "You'll have to talk to Nyberg about that."

  Wallander went back to Nyberg, who was staring at the Toyota.

  "Fingerprints are the most important," Wallander said. "The cars must have been driven here from the reserve."

  "Someone who leaves his prints on a boat might well leave us a greeting on a steering wheel."

  "That's what I'm hoping."

  "That probably also means our killer is fairly sure his prints don't appear in any records, either here or abroad."

  "I was thinking the same thing," Wallander said. "We'll just have to hope you're wrong."

  Wallander didn't need to stay any longer. As he passed the turn-off to his father's house, he couldn't resist having a look. There was a For Sale sign by the driveway. He didn't stop. Seeing the sign gave him a fanny feeling. He had just made it back to Ystad when the mobile phone rang. It was Höglund.

  "I'm in Lund," she said. "In Lena Norman's flat. I think you should come here."

  "What is it?"

  "You'll see when you get here. I think it's important."

  Wallander wrote down the address and was on his way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The block of flats was on the outskirts of Lund. It was four storeys high, one of five buildings comprising a large housing estate. Once, many years ago when Wallander had come down to Lund with Linda, she had pointed them out to him and told him they were student flats. If she had chosen to study in Lund, she would have lived in a place like this. Wallander shivered, imagining Linda out in the reserve.

  He didn't have to guess which building it was, as a police car was parked outside one of them. Wallander put his phone in his pocket and got out. A woman was stretched out in the sun on one of the lawns. Wallander wished he could lie down beside her and sleep for a while. His tiredness came and went in heavy waves. An officer stood inside the doorway, yawning. Wallander waved his identification in front of him and the officer pointed up the stairs absentmindedly.

  "All the way up. No elevator."

  Then he yawned again and Wallander felt a sudden urge to whip him into shape. Wallander was the superior officer, and one from another district at that. They were trying to catch a man who had killed five people so far. He didn't need to be greeted by an officer who yawned and could hardly bring himself to speak.

  But he said nothing. He walked up the stairs. Apart from the loud, raucous music coming from one flat, the building seemed abandoned. It was still August and the autumn term had not yet begun. The door to Lena Norman's flat was slightly ajar but Wallander rang the bell anyway.

  Höglund came to the door herself. He tried to read her expression without success.

  "I didn't mean to sound so dramatic over the phone," she said quickly. "But I think you'll understand why I wanted you to see this."

  He followed her into the flat, which hadn't been aired out for a while. The air had that characteristic but indescribable dry quality he had so often encountered in concrete buildings. He had read somewhere that the FBI had developed a method for determining how long a house had been locked up. He didn't know whether Nyberg had the technique at his disposal.

  At the thought of Nyberg he made another mental note to repay Edmundsson. The flat had two rooms and a kitchen. They reached the combined living room and study. The sun was shining in through the window and dust drifted slowly in the still air. There were a number of photographs tacked up on one wall. Wallander put on his glasses and peered at them. He recognised her at once. Lena Norman was dressed up in a scene that looked like it was supposed to be from the 17th century. Martin Boge was also in the picture, which was taken with what appeared to be a castle in the background. The next picture was also of a party. Lena Norman was in that one too, and now Astrid Hillström was there. They were indoors somewhere, half-naked. Wallander guessed they were staging a bordello scene. Neither Norman nor Hillström was particularly convincing. Wallander straightened up and cast a glance over the entire wall.

  "They play different roles at their parties," he said.

  "It goes further than that," she said and went over to a desk that stood at right angles to one of the windows. It was covered with binders and plastic folders.

  "I've gone through this material," she said. "Not completely, of course, but what I've seen so far worries me." Wallander lifted his hand to interrupt her.

  "Wait a second. I need to drink a glass of water, and use the bathroom."

  "My father has diabetes," she said.

  Wallander froze on his way to the door. "What do you mean by that?"

  "If I didn't know any better I'd think you had it too, the way you drink water these days. And need to go to the loo constantly."

  For a mo
ment Wallander thought he was going to break his silence and tell her the truth: that she was right. But instead he just muttered something inaudible and left the room. When he came out of the kitchen, the toilet was still flushing.

  "The flushing mechanism is broken," he said. "I guess that's not our problem."

  She was looking at him as if she was expecting him to talk.

  "Why are you worried?" he asked.

  "I'll tell you what I've found so far," she said. "But I'm convinced there's more, and that it'll become apparent when we've gone through everything."

  Wallander sat down on a chair by the desk. She remained standing.

  "They dress up," she started. "They have parties, and move between our own time and that of past ages. From time to time they even go into the future, but not very often. Probably because it's harder – no one knows how people will dress in a thousand years, or even 50. We know all this, of course. We've talked to the friends who weren't with them at Midsummer. You even had a chance to talk to Isa Edengren. We know they rented their costumes in Copenhagen. But there's a deeper level to this."

  She picked up a folder covered in geometric figures. "They appear to have belonged to a sect," she said. "It has its roots in the United States, in Minneapolis. It strikes me as an updated version of the Jim Jones cult or the Branch Davidians. Their rules are horrifying, something akin to the threatening letters people who have broken chain mail or pyramid schemes hand over to us. Anyone who divulges their secrets will suffer violent retribution – always death, of course. They pay dues to the head office that in turn sends out lists of suggestions for their parties and explains how to maintain their secrecy. But there is also a spiritual dimension to their activities. They think that people who practise moving through time like this will be able to choose the age of their rebirth at the moment of their death. It was highly unpleasant reading. I think Lena Norman was the head of the Swedish chapter."

  Wallander was listening with rapt attention. Höglund had called him down here with good reason.

  "Does the organisation have a name?"

  "I don't know what it would be in Swedish. In English they call themselves the Divine Movers."