Wallander's First Case

  ‘It’s as I expected,’ he said. ‘The Malmö taxi call centre is extremely well organised.’

  Wallander had already pulled over a pen and paper.

  ‘The drive went out to Arlöv,’ he said. ‘There is no record of another name. The driver’s name was Norberg. But I can probably hunt him down and ask him if he remembers what the client looked like.’

  ‘There’s no chance that it could have been another trip?’

  ‘No one else ordered a taxi to that address on Wednesday.’

  ‘And the car went out to Arlöv?’

  ‘More specifically, to Smedsgatan 9. That’s right next to a sugar mill. An old neighbourhood with rows of terraced houses.’

  ‘No rented apartments then,’ Wallander said. ‘Only a family must live there. Or a single person, I suppose.’

  ‘You would think so.’

  Wallander made a note of it.

  ‘You’ve done good,’ he said.

  ‘I may have even more for you,’ Andersson replied. ‘Even if you never asked me for it. There is also a record of a cab ride from Smedsgatan. Specifically, Thursday morning at four o’clock. The driver’s name was Orre. But you won’t be able to get hold of him right now. He’s on holiday in Mallorca.’

  Can taxi drivers afford to do that? Wallander thought. Is that because they make money under the table? But of course he mentioned nothing of these speculations to Andersson.

  ‘It could be important.’

  ‘Do you still not have a car?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Are you planning to go there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can use a police car, of course, can’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Because otherwise I could take you. I’m not doing anything in particular. It’s a long time since we had a chat.’

  Wallander decided to take him up on his offer and Lars Andersson promised to pick him up in half an hour. During that time Wallander called directory assistance and asked who was registered on telephone service at Smedsgatan 9. He received the answer that there was service there but that the number was private.

  It was raining harder. Wallander put on his rubber boots and a raincoat. He stood at the kitchen window and saw Andersson slow down in front of his building. The car had no sign on the roof. It was his private car.

  A crazy expedition in crazy weather, Wallander thought as he locked the front door. But rather this than pacing around the apartment waiting for Mona to call. And if she does it’ll serve her right. That I don’t answer.

  Lars Andersson immediately started to bring up old school memories. Half of it Wallander no longer had any recollection of. He often thought Andersson tiring because he constantly returned to their school years, as if they represented the best time of his life so far. For Wallander, school had been a grey drudge, where only geography and history enlivened him somewhat. But he still liked the man who sat behind the wheel. His parents had run a bakery out in Limhamn. For a while, the boys had been in frequent contact. And Lars Andersson was someone Wallander had always been able to count on. Someone who took their friendship seriously.

  They left Malmö behind and were soon in Arlöv.

  ‘Do you often get requests out here?’ Wallander asked.

  ‘It happens. Mostly on the weekends. People who have been drinking in Malmö or Copenhagen and who are on their way home.’

  ‘Has anything bad ever happened to you?’

  Lars Andersson glanced over at him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Muggings, threats. I don’t know.’

  ‘Never. I’ve had a guy who tried to slip away without paying. But I caught up with him.’

  They were now in the centre of Arlöv. Lars Andersson drove straight to the address.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said and pointed through the wet windscreen. ‘Smedsgatan 9.’

  Wallander cranked down his window and squinted out into the rain. Number 9 was the last of a row of six town houses. There was a light on in one window. Someone must be home.

  ‘Aren’t you going to go in?’ Lars Andersson asked with surprise.

  ‘It’s a matter of surveillance,’ Wallander answered vaguely. ‘If you drive up a little I’ll get out and take a look around.’

  ‘Do you want me to come along?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  Wallander got out of the car and pulled up the hood of his raincoat. What do I do now? he wondered. Ring the doorbell and ask if it is possible that Mr Hålén was here last Wednesday between three in the afternoon and four in the morning? Is it a matter of adultery? What do I say if a man answers the door?

  Wallander felt silly. This is senseless and childish and a waste of time, he thought. The only thing that I have managed to prove is that Smedsgatan 9 is actually an address in Arlöv.

  Nonetheless, he couldn’t help crossing the street. There was a mailbox next to the gate. Wallander tried to read the name on it. He had cigarettes and a box of matches in his pocket. With some difficulty he was able to light one of the matches and read the name before his flame was extinguished by the rain.

  ‘Alexandra Batista,’ he read. So Maria in the newsagent had been right, it was the first name that started with A. Hålén had called a woman named Alexandra. The question now was if she lived there alone or with family. He looked over the fence to see if there were any children’s bicycles or other items that would indicate a family’s presence. But he saw nothing like that.

  He walked round the house. On the other side there was an undeveloped piece of property. Several old rusty drums had been placed behind a dilapidated fence. That was all. The house was dark from the back. Light was only coming from the kitchen window facing the street. Despite a rising feeling of being involved in something absolutely unjustified and senseless, Wallander decided to complete his investigation. He stepped over the low fence and ran across the lawn to the house. If anyone sees me they will call the police, he thought. And I will get caught. And then the rest of my police career goes up in smoke.

  He decided to give up. He could find the telephone number for the Batista family tomorrow. If it was a woman who answered he could ask a few questions. If it was a man he could hang up.

  The rain was letting up. Wallander dried off his face. He was about to go back the same way that he had come when he discovered that the door to the balcony was open. Maybe they have a cat, he thought. That needs free passage at night.

  At the same time he had a feeling that something wasn’t right. He could not put his finger on what it was. But he was not able to dismiss it. Carefully he walked over to the door and listened. The rain had stopped almost completely now. In the distance he heard the sound of a tractor trailer die away and disappear. From inside the house he heard nothing. Wallander left the balcony door and walked over to the front of the house again.

  The light was still shining in the window, which was open a little. He pressed up against the wall and strained to hear something. Everything was still, quiet. Then he gently raised himself on tiptoe and peered in through the window.

  He jumped. Inside, there was a woman sitting in a chair, staring straight at him. He ran out to the street. At any moment someone was going to come running out onto the front steps and call for help. Or else there would be police cars. He hurried over to the car where Andersson was waiting and jumped into the front seat.

  ‘Has anything happened?’

  ‘Just drive,’ Wallander said.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Away from here. Back to Malmö.’

  ‘Was anyone home?’

  ‘Don’t ask. Start the engine and drive. That’s all.’

  Lars Andersson did as Wallander asked. They came out onto the main road towards Malmö. Wallander thought about the woman who had stared at him.

  The feeling was there again. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘Turn into the next car park, would you?’

  Lars Andersson conti
nued to do as he was told. They stopped. Wallander sat without saying anything.

  ‘You don’t think it’s best that I be told what’s going on?’ Andersson asked gingerly.

  Wallander didn’t answer. There was something about that woman’s face. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.

  ‘Go back,’ he said.

  ‘To Arlöv?’

  Wallander could hear that Andersson was starting to resist.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ Wallander said. ‘Drive back to the same address. If you have the taxi meter you can turn it on.’

  ‘I don’t charge my friends, damn it!’ Andersson said angrily.

  They drove back to Arlöv in silence. There was no longer any rain.

  Wallander got out of the car. No police cars, no reaction. Nothing. Only the lone light in the kitchen window.

  Wallander carefully opened the gate. He walked back to the window. Before he heaved himself up to look he drew some deep breaths.

  If things were as he suspected it would be very unpleasant.

  He stood on tiptoe and gripped the windowsill. The woman was still sitting in the chair, staring straight at him with the same expression.

  Wallander walked round the back of the house and opened the balcony door. In the light from the street he glimpsed a table lamp. He turned it on, then he removed his boots and walked out into the kitchen.

  The woman was sitting there in the chair. But she was not looking at Wallander. She was staring at the window.

  Around her neck was a bicycle chain, tightened with the help of a hammer handle.

  Wallander felt his heart thumping in his chest.

  Then he located the telephone, which was out in the hall, and he called the police station in Malmö.

  It was already a quarter to eleven.

  Wallander asked to speak to Hemberg. He was told that Hemberg had left the police station at around six o’clock. Wallander asked for his home number and called him immediately.

  Hemberg picked up. Wallander could hear that he had been sleeping and had been awakened by the call.

  Wallander explained the situation.

  That there was a dead woman sitting in a chair in a town house in Arlöv.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hemberg came out to Arlöv a little after midnight. At that point the forensic investigation was already under way. Wallander had sent Andersson home in his car without giving him a better explanation of what had happened. Then he had stood by the gate and waited for the first police car to arrive. He had spoken with a detective inspector by the name of Stefansson, who was his own age.

  ‘Did you know her?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Wallander answered.

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ll explain that to Hemberg,’ Wallander said.

  Stefansson regarded him sceptically but did not ask any further questions.

  Hemberg started by walking around the kitchen. He stood in the doorway for a long time, simply looking at the dead woman. Wallander saw how his gaze travelled around the room. After standing there for a length of time he turned to Stefansson, who appeared to have great respect for him.

  ‘Do we know who she is?’ Hemberg asked.

  They went into the living room. Stefansson had opened a handbag and spread some identifying documentation on the table.

  ‘Alexandra Batista-Lundström,’ he answered. ‘A Swedish citizen, but born in Brazil in 1922. It seems she came over right after the war. If I have understood this correctly, she was married to a man named Lundström. There are divorce papers here from 1957. But at that point she already had citizenship. She gave up the Swedish surname later on. She has a post office savings account under the name of Batista. No Lundström.’

  ‘Did she have any children?’

  Stefansson shook his head.

  ‘It doesn’t seem like anyone else lived here with her. We’ve talked to one of the neighbours. Apparently she has lived here since the place was built.’

  Hemberg nodded and then turned to Wallander.

  ‘Let’s go up a floor,’ he said, ‘and let the technicians work undisturbed.’

  Stefansson was on his way to join them, but Hemberg held him back. There were three rooms upstairs. The woman’s bedroom, a room that was basically empty except for a linen cupboard, and a guest room. Hemberg sat down on the bed in the guest room and indicated to Wallander that he should sit in the chair in the corner.

  ‘I really only have one question,’ Hemberg began. ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘You’re of course wondering what I was doing here.’

  ‘I would probably put it more forcefully,’ Hemberg said. ‘How the hell did you end up here?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Wallander said.

  ‘Make it short,’ Hemberg replied. ‘But leave nothing out.’

  Wallander told him. About the betting forms, the telephone calls, the taxicabs. Hemberg listened with his eyes stubbornly directed at the floor. When Wallander finished, he sat for a while without saying anything.

  ‘Since you’ve found a murder victim, I naturally have to praise you for it,’ he started. ‘There also seems to be nothing wrong with your determination. Nor has your thinking been completely wrong. But apart from these things, it goes without saying that your actions have been completely unjustifiable. There is no room in police work for anything resembling independent and secret surveillance, with detectives assigning themselves their own work. I say this only once.’

  Wallander nodded. He understood.

  ‘Do you have anything else to tell me? Apart from what led you here to Arlöv?’

  Wallander told him about his visit to Helena at the shipping company.

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Wallander was prepared for a lecture. But Hemberg simply got up from the bed and nodded for him to follow suit.

  On the stairs he stopped and turned round.

  ‘I looked for you today,’ he said. ‘To tell you the results of the weapons inspection. There was nothing unexpected in the report. But they said you had called in sick?’

  ‘I had a stomach ache this morning. Stomach flu.’

  Hemberg gave him an ironic look.

  ‘That was quick,’ he said. ‘But since you seem to have got better you can stay here tonight. You may learn something. Don’t touch anything, don’t say anything. Just make mental notes.’

  At half past three the woman’s body was taken away. Sjunnesson had arrived shortly after one. Wallander wondered why he didn’t seem at all tired even though it was the middle of the night. Hemberg, Stefansson and another detective had methodically searched the apartment, opened drawers and cupboards, and found a number of things that they put out on the table. Wallander had also listened to a conversation between Hemberg and a medical examiner called Jörne. There was no doubt that the woman had been strangled. In his initial examination Jörne had also found signs that she had been struck on the head from behind. Hemberg explained that what he most needed to know was how long she had been dead.

  ‘She has probably been sitting in that chair for a couple of days,’ Jörne answered.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I won’t hazard a guess. You’ll have to wait until the autopsy is complete.’

  When the conversation with Jörne was over, Hemberg turned to Wallander.

  ‘You understand, of course, why I asked him this,’ he said.

  ‘You want to know if she died before Hålén?’

  Hemberg nodded.

  ‘In that case it would give us a reasonable explanation for why a person had taken his own life. It is not unusual for murderers to commit suicide.’

  Hemberg sat down on the couch in the living room. Stefansson was standing out in the hall, talking to the police photographer.

  ‘One thing we can nonetheless see quite clearly,’ Hemberg said after a pause. ‘The woman was killed as she sat in the chair. Someone hit her on the head. There are traces of blood
on the floor and on the wax tablecloth. Then she was strangled. That gives us several possible points of departure.’

  Hemberg looked at Wallander.

  He’s testing me, Wallander thought. He wants to know if I measure up.

  ‘It must mean that the woman knew the person who killed her.’

  ‘Correct. And more?’

  Wallander searched his mind. Were there any other conclusions to be drawn? He shook his head.

  ‘You have to use your eyes,’ Hemberg said. ‘Was there something on the table? One cup? Several cups? How was she dressed? It is one thing that she knew the person who killed her. Let us for the sake of simplicity assume it was a man. But how well did she know him?’

  Wallander understood. It bothered him that he had initially missed what Hemberg had been getting at.

  ‘She was wearing a nightgown and robe,’ he said. ‘That’s not something you wear with just anyone.’

  ‘How did her bed look?’

  ‘It was unmade.’

  ‘Conclusion?’

  ‘Alexandra Batista may have had a relationship with the man who killed her.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘There were no cups on the table, but there were some unwashed glasses next to the stove.’

  ‘We will examine them,’ Hemberg said. ‘What did they drink? Are there fingerprints? Empty glasses have many exciting things to tell us.’

  He rose heavily from the couch. Wallander suddenly realised that he was tired.

  ‘So we actually know a great deal,’ Hemberg continued. ‘Since there are no signs of an intruder we will work with the hypothesis that the murder was committed under the auspices of a personal connection.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain the fire at Hålén’s place,’ Wallander said.

  Hemberg studied him critically.

  ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself,’ he said. ‘We are going to move forward calmly and methodically. We know some things with a great deal of certainty. We proceed from these things. What we do not know, or what we cannot be sure of, will have to wait. You cannot solve a puzzle if half of the pieces are still in the box.’

  They had reached the hall. Stefansson had finished his conversation with the photographer and was now talking on the phone.