"Why do you want one of his letters?"
"I just need a sample of his handwriting."
"Well, I could fax it over to you if you're in a hurry."
The boy was a fast thinker. Wallander gave him the number of one of the faxes at the police station.
"I'd like you to mention this matter to your parents," he said.
"I'm planning to be asleep when they get back."
"Could you tell them about it tomorrow?"
"Martin's letter was addressed to me."
"It would be best if you mentioned it anyway," Wallander said patiently.
"Martin and the others will be back soon," the boy said. "I don't know why that Hillström lady is so worried. She calls us every day."
"But your parents aren't worried?"
"I think they're relieved that Martin's gone. At least Dad is."
Somewhat surprised, Wallander waited to see if the boy would go on, but he didn't.
"Thanks for your help," he said finally.
"It's like a game," the boy said.
"A game?"
"They pretend they're in a different time. They like to dress up, like children do, even though they're grown up."
"I'm not sure that I follow," Wallander said.
"They're playing roles, like you would in the theatre. But it's for real. They might have gone to Europe to find something that doesn't really exist."
"So that was what they normally did? Play? But I'm not sure I would call a Midsummer's Eve celebration a game. It's just the same eating and dancing as at any other party."
"And drinking," the boy said. "But if you put on costumes, that makes it something else, doesn't it?"
"Is that what they did?"
"Yes, but I don't know more. It was secret. Martin never said much about it."
Wallander didn't completely follow what the boy was saying. He looked down at his watch. Lillemor Norman would be expecting him shortly.
"Thanks for your help," he said, bringing the conversation to an end. "And don't forget to tell your parents that I called and what I asked for."
"Maybe," the boy replied.
Three different reactions, Wallander thought. Eva Hillström is afraid. Lillemor Norman is suspicious. Martin Boge's parents are relieved he's gone, and his brother in turn seems to prefer it when their parents are gone. He picked up his coat and left. On the way out, he reserved a new time at the laundry for Friday.
Although it wasn't far to Käringgatan, he took the car. The new exercise regimen would have to wait. He turned onto Käringgatan from Bellevuevägen, and stopped outside a white two-storey house. The front door opened as he was opening the gate, and he recognised Lillemor Norman. In contrast to Eva Hillström, she looked robust. He thought about the photographs in Martinsson's file and realised that Lena Norman and her mother looked alike.
The woman was holding a white envelope.
"I'm sorry to bother you," Wallander said.
"My husband will have a few words with Lena when she comes back. It's completely irresponsible of them to go away like this without a word."
"They're adults and can do as they please," Wallander said. "But of course it's both irritating and worrying."
He took the letter and promised to return it. Then he drove to the police station and went to the room where the officer on duty was manning the phones. He was taking a call as Wallander stepped into the room, but pointed to one of the fax machines. Klas Boge had faxed his brother's letter as promised. Wallander went to his office and turned on the desk lamp. He laid the two letters and the postcards next to each other, then angled the light and put on his glasses.
He leaned back in his chair. His hunch was correct. Both Martin Boge and Lena Norman had irregular, spiky handwriting. If someone had wanted to forge any one of the three's handwriting, the choice would have been clear: Astrid Hillström. Wallander felt profoundly disturbed by this, but his mind kept working methodically. What did this mean? It was nothing, really. It didn't supply an answer to why someone would want to write postcards in their names, and who would have had access to their handwriting. Nonetheless, he couldn't shake off his concern.
We have to go through this thoroughly, he thought. If something has happened, they've been missing for almost two months.
He got himself a cup of coffee. It was 10.15 p.m. He read through the description of events one more time but found nothing new. Some good friends had celebrated Midsummer's Eve together, then left for a trip. They sent a few postcards. And that was all.
Wallander shuffled the letters together and put them in the folder along with the postcards. There was nothing more he could do tonight. Tomorrow he would talk to Martinsson and the others, go through this Midsummer's Eve case one last time, and then decide if they would proceed with a missing persons investigation.
Wallander turned off the light and left the room. In the corridor he realised that Ann-Britt Höglund's light was on. The door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open gently. She was staring down at her desk but there were no papers in front of her. Wallander hesitated. She almost never stayed this late at the station. She had children to take care of, and her husband travelled often with his job and was rarely at home. He recalled her emotional behaviour in the canteen. And now here she was staring down at an empty desk. She probably wanted to be left alone. But it was also possible that she wanted to talk to somebody.
She can always ask me to leave, Wallander thought.
He knocked on the door, waited for her answer, and stepped inside.
"I saw your light," he said. "You aren't normally here so late, not unless something has happened."
She looked back at him without answering.
"If you want to be left alone, just say the word."
"No," she replied. "I don't really want to be left alone. Why are you here yourself? Is something going on?"
Wallander sat down in her visitor's chair. He felt like a big, lumbering animal.
"It's the young people who went missing at Midsummer."
"Has anything turned up?"
"Not really. There was just something I wanted to double-check. But I think that we'll need to do a thorough reexamination of the case. Eva Hillström is seriously concerned."
"But what could really have happened to them?"
"That's the question."
"Are we going to declare them missing?"
Wallander threw his arms out. "I don't know. We'll have to decide tomorrow."
The room was dark except for the circle of light projected onto the floor by the desk lamp.
"How long have you been a policeman?" she asked suddenly.
"A long time. Too long, maybe. But I'm a policeman through and through. That's not going to change, at least until I retire."
She looked at him for a long time before asking her next question. "How do you keep going?"
"I don't know."
"Don't you ever run out of steam?"
"Sometimes. Why do you ask?"
"I'm thinking of what I said in the canteen earlier. I told you I'd had a bad summer and that's true. My husband and I are having problems. He's never at home. It can take us a week to get back to normal after his trips, and then he just has to leave again. This summer we started talking about a separation. That's never an easy thing, especially when you have children."
"I know," Wallander said.
"At the same time I've started questioning my work. I read in the paper that some of our colleagues in Malmö were arrested for racketeering. I turn on the television and learn that senior members of the force are involved in the world of organised crime. I see all this and I realise it's happening more and more. Eventually it leads me to wonder what I'm doing. Or, to put it another way, I wonder how I'm going to last another 30 years."
"It's all coming apart at the seams," Wallander agreed. "It's been going on for a long time. Corruption in the justice system is nothing new and there have always been police officers willing to cross the line. It'
s worse now, of course, and that's why it's even more important that people like you keep going."
"What about you?"
"That applies to me too."
"But how do you do it?"
Her questions were full of anger. He recognised a part of himself in her. How many times had he sat staring into his own desk, unable to find a reason to continue?
"I try to tell myself that things would be even worse without me," he said. "It's a consolation at times. A small one, but if I can't think of any other I take it."
She shook her head. "What's happening to our country?"
Wallander waited for her to continue, but she didn't. A truck rattled past on the street outside.
"Do you remember that violent attack last spring?" Wallander asked.
"The one in Svarte?"
"Two boys, both 14 years old, attack a third boy who is only 12. There's no provocation, no reason behind it. When he's lying there unconscious they start stomping on his chest. Finally he's not just unconscious, he's dead. I don't think it ever hit me so clearly before. People have always had fights, but they would stop when the other person was down. You can call it what you like. Fair play. Something you take for granted. But that's not the way it is any more, because these boys never learned it. It's as if a whole generation has been abandoned by their parents. Or as if not caring has become the norm. You have to rethink what it means to be a police officer because the parameters have changed. The experience you've acquired after years and years of grinding work doesn't apply any more."
He stopped. They heard voices from the corridor. Some of the officers on night duty were talking about a drunk driver. Then everything went quiet again.
"How have you been these past few years?" he asked her.
"You mean since I was shot?"
He nodded.
"I dream about it," she said. "I dream that I die or that the bullet hits me in the head. I think that's almost worse."
"It's easy to lose your nerve," Wallander said.
She got up. "The day I get seriously scared I'll quit," she said. "But I'm not quite there yet. Thanks for stopping by. I'm used to dealing with my problems on my own, but tonight I needed someone to talk to."
"It takes some strength to admit that."
She put her coat on and smiled her pale smile. Wallander wondered how well she was sleeping, but he didn't ask her.
"Can we talk about the car smugglers tomorrow?" she asked.
"How about in the afternoon? Don't forget we have to talk about these young people in the morning."
She looked at him closely.
"Are you really worried?"
"Eva Hillström is, and I can't disregard that."
They walked out together. She rejected his offer of a ride home.
"I need to walk," she said. "And it's so warm. What an August it's been!"
"We're in the dog days," he said. "Whatever that saying means."
They said goodbye. Wallander drove home. He drank a cup of tea and leafed through the Ystad daily paper, then went to bed. He left the window slightly open since it was so warm, and fell asleep at once.
A violent pain woke him up with a start. His left calf muscle was locked in a spasm. He lowered his leg onto the floor and flexed it. The pain disappeared. He lay down again carefully, afraid that the cramp would return. The alarm clock on the bedside table read 1.30 a.m. He had been dreaming about his father again, in a disjointed way. They walked around the streets of a city that Wallander didn't recognise. They were looking for someone. Who, he never found out.
The curtain in front of the window moved slowly. He thought about Linda's mother, Mona. He had been married to her for a long time. Now she was living a new life with another man who played golf and probably did not have elevated blood-sugar levels.
His thoughts kept wandering. All at once he saw himself walking along Skagen's endless beaches with Baiba. Then she was gone.
Suddenly he was wide awake. He sat up in bed. He didn't know where the thought came from; it simply appeared among the others and fought its way to the front: Svedberg.
The fact that he hadn't called in sick didn't make sense. Not only was he never sick, if something had happened he would have let them know. He should have thought of it before. If Svedberg hadn't been in contact, it could only mean one thing: something was preventing him from communicating with them.
Wallander felt himself getting worried. Of course it was just his imagination. After all, what could have happened to Svedberg? But the feeling of unease was strong. Wallander looked at the clock again, then went out into the kitchen, searched for Svedberg's number, and dialled it. After a few rings the machine picked up. Wallander hung up. Now he was sure that something was wrong. He put on his clothes and went down to the car. The wind had picked up but it was still warm. It took him only a few minutes to drive to the main square. He parked the car and walked towards Lilla Norregatan where Svedberg lived. The lights were on inside his flat. Wallander felt relieved, but only for a few seconds. Then the worry returned even more strongly. Why didn't Svedberg pick up the phone if he was at home? Wallander tried the door to the building. It was locked. He didn't know the security code, but the crack between the front doors was wide enough. Wallander took out a pocketknife and looked around. Then he slipped the thickest blade between the doors and pushed. They opened.
Svedberg lived on the fourth floor. Wallander was out of breath by the time he made it up the stairs. He pressed his ear against the door but heard nothing. Then he opened the letter slot. Nothing. He rang the bell, the sound echoing inside the flat. He rang three times, then pounded on the door. Still nothing.
Wallander tried to gather his thoughts. He felt a strong urge not to be alone. He groped for his mobile phone but realised it was still on the kitchen table at home. He went down the stairs and pushed a small stone between the two front doors. Then he hurried out to one of the telephone booths on the main square, and dialled Martinsson's number.
"I'm sorry to have to wake you up," Wallander said when Martinsson answered, "but I need your help."
"What is it?"
"Did you ever get hold of Svedberg?"
"No."
"Then something must have happened."
Martinsson didn't reply, but Wallander sensed that he was now fully awake.
"I'm waiting for you outside his block of flats on Lilla Norregatan," Wallander said.
"Ten minutes," Martinsson said. "At the most."
Wallander went to his car and unlocked the boot. He had some tools wrapped up in a dirty plastic bag. He took out a crowbar, then returned to Svedberg's building.
After less than ten minutes Martinsson drove up. Wallander saw that he was wearing his pyjama top under his jacket.
"What do you think has happened?"
"I don't know."
They walked upstairs together. Wallander nodded to Martinsson to ring the doorbell. Still no one answered. They looked at each other.
"Maybe he keeps some spare keys in his office."
Wallander shook his head.
"It'll take us too long," he said.
Martinsson took a step back. He knew what would be next. Wallander wedged the crowbar into the door, and forced it open.
CHAPTER FOUR
The night of 8 August 1996 became one of the longest of Kurt Wallander's life. When he staggered out from the flat building on Lilla Norregatan at dawn, he still hadn't managed to rid himself of the feeling that he was caught up in an incomprehensible nightmare.
But everything he had seen during that long night had been real, and this reality was horrifying. He had witnessed the remains of a bloody and brutal drama many times in the course of his career, but never had it touched him as closely as now.
When he forced open the door to Svedberg's flat he still didn't know what lay in store for him. Yet from the moment he wedged the crowbar in the door he had feared the worst, and his fears had been confirmed.
They walked silently thro
ugh the hall as if they were about to enter enemy territory. Martinsson stayed close behind. Lights were shining further down the hall. For a brief moment they stood there without making a sound. Wallander heard Martinsson's anxious breathing behind him. In the doorway to the living room, he jerked back so violently that he collided with Martinsson, who then bent forward to look at what Wallander had seen.
Wallander would never forget the sound Martinsson made, the way he whimpered like a child in front of the inexplicable thing before him on the floor.
It was Svedberg. One of his legs was hanging over the broken arm of a chair that had been knocked over. The torso was strangely twisted, as if Svedberg had no spine.
Wallander stood in the doorway, frozen with horror. There was no doubt in his mind about what he was seeing. The man he had worked with for so many years was dead. He no longer existed. He would never again sit in his usual place at the table in one of the conference rooms, scratching his bald spot with the end of a pencil.
Svedberg didn't have a bald spot any more. Half of his head was blown away.
A short distance from the body lay a double-barrelled shotgun. Blood was spattered several metres up the white wall behind the overturned chair. A confused thought went through Wallander's mind: now Svedberg will never be troubled by his phobia for bees again.
"What happened?" Martinsson said in an unsteady voice. Wallander realised that Martinsson was close to tears. He was a long way from such a reaction. He couldn't cry over something he didn't yet fully comprehend. And he really didn't comprehend the scene in front of him. Svedberg couldn't be dead. He was a 40-year-old police officer who would be in his usual chair again tomorrow when they had one of their regular team meetings. Svedberg with his bald spot, his fear of bees, who used the police station's sauna on his own every Friday night. It simply couldn't be Svedberg who lay there. It was someone else who looked just like him.
Wallander glanced instinctively at his watch. It was 2.09 a.m. They stood in the doorway for a few more seconds, then walked back out into the hall. Wallander turned on the light. He saw that Martinsson was shaking. He wondered what he looked like himself.