Firewall

  Who would respond to something like that? he wondered. Hardly anyone stable.

  He turned the page over to start afresh, but was almost immediately interrupted by a knock on the door. It was already midday. It was Höglund. He realised too late that the personal section of the newspaper was still lying face up on his desk. He crumpled it and threw it in the waste-paper basket, but he thought she had seen what he was doing, and it irritated him.

  I'm never going to write a personal ad, he thought angrily. The chances are too great that someone like Höglund would answer.

  She looked tired.

  "I've just finished questioning Persson," she said and sat down heavily.

  Wallander pushed all thoughts of personal ads aside.

  "How was she?"

  "She didn't change her story. She insists that Hökberg used both the knife and the hammer."

  "I asked how she was."

  Höglund thought about it before answering. "She was different. She seemed more prepared for the questions."

  "What made you think that?"

  "She spoke faster. Many of her answers seemed prepared in advance. It was only when we got to the questions she wasn't expecting that she started speaking in that slow, apathetic way. That's how she protects herself, giving herself time to think. I don't know how intelligent she is, but she's not confused. She keeps track of her lies. I didn't catch a single instance of her contradicting herself in the two hours that we were at it. That's pretty impressive."

  Wallander reached for his notepad. "We'll take the most important stuff now, your impressions. The rest I'll read about in your report."

  "I am convinced that she's lying. Quite honestly I don't understand how a 14-year-old girl can be so hard-boiled."

  "Because she's a girl?"

  "I think it would be unusual even for a boy her age."

  "You didn't manage to budge her at all?"

  "No, not really. She sticks to her new story that she is innocent and only said what she said because she was afraid of Hökberg. I tried to get her to tell me why she was afraid, but she wouldn't. All she said was that Hökberg could be very tough on her."

  "She's probably right about that."

  Höglund looked at her notes. "She denied taking any calls from Hökberg, or anyone else, after Hökberg's escape from the station."

  "When did she find out Hökberg was dead?"

  "Erik Hökberg called her mother."

  "Did Hökberg's death come as a shock to her?"

  "She claims it did, but I certainly couldn't tell. Maybe she was surprised. She had no explanation as to why Hökberg would have gone out to the substation, nor any idea who could have taken her there."

  Wallander got up and walked over to the window. "Did she really have no reaction? No regret, no pain?"

  "In my opinion she was in control and utterly cold. Many of her answers were prepared in advance, some pure lies. But I got the impression that she wasn't surprised by what had happened, though she claims she was."

  Wallander was struck by a thought that seemed important. "Did she seem afraid of anything happening to her?"

  "No, I thought about that. I don't think what happened to Hökberg made her worried for her own life."

  Wallander returned to the desk. "Let's assume that's the case. What does that mean?"

  "It means Persson is at least partly telling the truth. Not about Lundberg's murder, since I'm convinced she had a hand in it. But I don't think she had much idea what else Hökberg was involved in."

  "And what would that be?"

  "I don't know."

  "Why did they switch seats in the restaurant?"

  "Because Hökberg complained of a draught. She won't change her line on that."

  "And the man sitting behind them?"

  "She claims not to have seen him or anyone else. She also says she didn't notice Hökberg having contact with anyone other than her."

  "She didn't notice anyone as they were leaving the restaurant?"

  "No. That may even be true. I don't think she would qualify for the title of the World's Most Observant Person."

  "Did you ask her if she had ever heard of Tynnes Falk?"

  "She said she had never heard the name."

  "Was that true?"

  Höglund paused. "There might have been a very slight hesitation on her part, but I can't be sure."

  I should have talked to her myself, Wallander thought helplessly. If Eva Persson had been holding something back, I would have seen it.

  Höglund seemed to be reading his thoughts.

  "I don't have your certainty about these things. I wish I could have given you a better answer."

  "We'll get to the bottom of this sooner or later. If the main entrance is closed, you try the back door."

  "I've been trying to make sense of it," Höglund said. "But nothing hangs together."

  "It will take time," Wallander said. "I wonder if we shouldn't get reinforcements. We don't have the manpower we need, even if we shelve our other duties and concentrate on this case."

  Höglund looked at him with surprise. "I never thought I'd hear you say that. Usually you insist on us carrying out the investigation alone."

  "Maybe I've changed my mind. I just want to make sure we're able to carry out the footwork necessary in this investigation. I'll talk to Lisa about it. If she hasn't already suspended me, that is."

  "Persson is sticking to that story as well – that you hit her without provocation."

  "Of course she is. If she's lying about everything else she might as well lie about that too."

  Wallander got up. He told her in a nutshell about the break-in at Falk's flat.

  "Has the body been found?"

  "Not as far as I know."

  Höglund was still in her chair. "Do you understand any of this?"

  "No," Wallander said. "It worries me. Don't forget that a large area of Skåne was left without power."

  They walked into the corridor together. Hansson put his head out of his door to say that the police in Växjö had found Persson's father.

  "They say he lives in a run-down shack somewhere between Växjö and Vislanda. They're wondering what it is we want to know."

  "Nothing for now," Wallander said. "We have more important questions to cover."

  They decided to meet again at 1.30 p.m., when Martinsson was back. Wallander went to his office to call the garage. His car was ready. He walked down Frihemsgatan towards Surbrunn's Torg. A gusting wind came and went.

  The mechanic's name was Holmlund and he had worked on several of Wallander's cars over the years. He was especially fond of motorcycles. He had a number of teeth missing and spoke with such a strong Skåne accent that Wallander had trouble understanding him. His appearance hadn't changed a bit since he first met him. Wallander still couldn't have said if he was 50 or 60.

  "It's going to cost you," Holmlund said and smiled his gap-toothed smile. "But you'll recoup some of the cost if you sell the car pretty soon."

  When Wallander drove away, the erratic noise from the engine was gone. The thought of a new car excited him. The only question was would he stick with a Peugeot or try a new make. He decided to ask Hansson, who knew as much about cars as horse racing.

  Wallander drove to a fast-food place by Österleden and had a meal. He tried to read a newspaper, but he couldn't concentrate on it His thoughts kept returning to the case. He had been trying to find a new focal point and had considered the blackout as a candidate. Then they wouldn't be looking only at a murder but at a highly calculated form of sabotage. But what if he tried to focus his inquiries around something else, such as the man who had appeared at the restaurant? He had made Hökberg switch places. He had a forged identity. And he was in a photograph in Falk's living room – a photograph that had since been stolen. Wallander cursed himself for not taking it himself, as he had been intending. Then he could have asked István to identify him.

  Wallander put down his fork and called Nyberg's mobile number
. He was about to hang up when Nyberg answered.

  "Have you by any chance come across a group photo?" he asked. "Something with a large group of men?"

  "I'll ask."

  Wallander waited and picked at the tasteless piece of fried fish in front of him.

  Nyberg came back. "We have a photo of three men holding up a salmon for the camera. A fishing trip in Norway from 1983."

  "Is that it?"

  "Yes. How would you know that he would have a photograph like that anyway?"

  He's not stupid, Wallander thought. Luckily he had prepared an answer ahead of time.

  "I don't know. But I'm trying to find as many pictures as I can of Falk's acquaintances."

  "We're almost done here," Nyberg said.

  "Found anything interesting?"

  "It seems to be a standard breaking-and-entering. Possibly a drug addict."

  "No clues?"

  "We have fingerprints, but they could all belong to Falk. I'm not sure how we're going to verify that now that the body is gone."

  "We'll find it sooner or later."

  "I doubt it. If someone steals a body it's surely to bury it."

  Nyberg was right. He had an idea, but Nyberg got there first.

  "I asked Martinsson to look up Falk in the police files. We couldn't rule out the possibility that we already had something on him."

  "And what did he find?"

  "He was there in fact. But not his fingerprints."

  "What had he done?"

  "According to Martinsson, Falk had been sued and fined for damaging property."

  "In connection with what?"

  "You'll have to get the details from Martinsson," Nyberg said irritably.

  It was 1.10 p.m. Wallander filled up the car and returned to the station. Martinsson walked in at the same time.

  "None of the neighbours heard or saw anything," Martinsson said as they crossed the car park together. "I managed to talk to all of them. Some are retired and home most of the day. One of them was a physiotherapist, about your age."

  Wallander had no comments to make. Instead he said, "What was all that business about Falk damaging property?"

  "I have the paperwork in my office. Something about a mink farm."

  Wallander read the report in Martinsson's office. Falk had been arrested in 1991, north of Sölvesborg. One night, a mink farmer had discovered that someone was opening the cages. He had called the police and two patrol cars had been dispatched. Falk had not been alone, but he was the only one caught. He had confessed and told the officer that he was vehemently opposed to animals being killed for fur. He had, however, denied acting on behalf of any organisation and had never given the names of his accomplices.

  Wallander put down the report. "I thought only young people did things like this," he said. "Falk was 40-plus in 1991."

  "I suppose we could be more sympathetic to their cause," Martinsson said. "My daughter is a Greenpeace supporter."

  "There's a difference between wanting to protect the environment and taking away a mink farmer's livelihood."

  "These organisations teach you an enormous respect for animal life."

  Wallander didn't want to be dragged into a debate he felt he would eventually lose, but he was perplexed by Falk's involvement in animal rights activism.

  Wallander called Mrs Falk. An answering machine cut in, but as he started leaving his message her voice came on the line. They agreed to meet in the flat on Apelbergsgatan around 3 p.m. Wallander arrived in good time. Nyberg and his forensic team had left. A patrol car was parked outside. As Wallander was walking up the stairs to the flat the door to the flat below, the one he would rather have forgotten about, opened. The door was opened by a woman who looked familiar, but he wasn't sure.

  "I saw you from the window," she said, smiling. "I just wanted to say hello. If you remember me, that is."

  "Of course I do," Wallander said.

  "You know, you never got in touch as you promised."

  Wallander couldn't remember making any promises, but he knew it was possible. When he was drunk and strongly attracted to a woman, he was capable of promising almost anything.

  "Things came up," he said. "You know how it is."

  "I do?"

  Wallander mumbled something.

  "Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?"

  "As you may have heard, there's been a break-in upstairs. I don't have time right now."

  She pointed to her door. "I had a security door put in several years ago. Almost all of us did. Everyone except Falk."

  "Did you know him?"

  "He kept to himself. We said hello if we met on the stairs, but that was it."

  Wallander suspected she wasn't telling the truth, but he decided not to prove it. The only thing he wanted was to get away.

  "I'll have to take a rain check on that coffee," he said.

  "We'll see," she said.

  The door closed. Wallander was sweating. He ran up the last flight. At least she had produced a significant fact. People in the building had put in security doors, but not Falk, the man whom his wife described as anxious and surrounded by enemies.

  The door had not yet been repaired. He walked into the flat and saw that Nyberg and his team had left the chaos intact. He walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. It was very quiet in the flat. He looked at his watch. It was 2.50 p.m. He thought he could hear footsteps on the stairs. Falk was probably too mean to have it put in, he thought. Security doors cost somewhere between 10,000 and 15,000 kronor. Or maybe Marianne Falk is wrong. There were no enemies. But Wallander was doubtful. He thought about the mysterious notations in the diary. There was also the fact that Falk's body had been stolen, and that someone had broken into his flat and made off with the diary and a photograph. That could mean only one thing: someone didn't want the picture or the diary to be studied by the police. Wallander cursed himself once again for not taking the photograph when he had had the chance.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs outside. Mrs Falk. The door to the flat softly opened. Wallander got up to greet her. He stepped into the hall.

  He sensed danger instinctively and pulled back. But it was too late. A violent explosion ricocheted through the flat.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Wallander's instincts saved his life. Nyberg extracted the bullet from the wall next to the living-room door jamb. In the reconstruction of events and from examining the entry hole in Wallander's jacket, they were able to determine what had happened. Wallander had walked into the hall to greet Marianne Falk. As he reached for the front door he sensed a threat behind it. Whoever it was behind the door was not Mrs Falk. He had jerked back and tripped on the rug. The bullet aimed at his chest passed between his body and his left arm. It had torn through his jacket, leaving only a small hole.