Firewall

  He rang one of Stefan's doctors, to try and find out what became of the boy, after his admittance to the psychiatric ward. He was told that Stefan had hardly said a word during the past few years, had shut himself off from the world outside. But the boy who came smashing down onto that slab of concrete on the hospital grounds had worn full-blown warrior warpaint. That disturbing mask of paint and blood held little clue as to who the young person locked inside had been, but it spoke volumes about the violent and largely indifferent society in which he had been formed.

  Wallander drove slowly. He had been surprised when he put on his suit that morning and found that the trousers fitted him. He must have lost weight. Since being diagnosed with diabetes the previous year he had been forced to modify his eating habits, start exercising and lose weight. At the beginning he had put himself on the bathroom scales several times a day, until finally he threw them out in a rage.

  But his doctor had not relented, and had insisted that Wallander do something about his unhealthy eating habits and his almost complete lack of exercise. His nagging had eventually borne fruit. Wallander had bought a tracksuit and trainers and was taking regular walks. When Martinsson suggested they run together, Wallander had drawn the line. He had established a regular circuit that took about an hour, from Mariagatan through the Sandskogen park, and back. He forced himself out on a walk at least four times a week, and had also forced himself to stay away from his favourite fast-food places. As a result his blood sugar levels had dropped and he had lost weight. One morning as he was shaving, he noticed in the mirror that his cheeks were hollow again. It was like getting his old face back after having worn an artificial padding of fat and bad skin. His daughter Linda had been delighted with the change when she last saw him. On the other hand, no-one at the station made any comments about his appearance. It's as if we never really see each other, Wallander thought. We work together, but we don't see each other.

  Wallander drove by Mossbystrand, which was empty on this autumn morning. He thought of the time six years ago when a rubber dinghy had drifted ashore here with two bodies in it.

  On a whim, he slammed on the brakes and turned round. He had plenty of time. He parked and got out. There was no wind and it was perhaps a couple of degrees above freezing. He buttoned his coat and followed the trail that snaked between the sand dunes to the sea. There was no-one there, but there were tracks of people and dogs in the sand. And horses. He looked out over the water. A flock of birds was flying south in formation.

  He still remembered exactly where they had found them. It had been a difficult investigation and had led Wallander to Latvia. He had met Baiba in Riga. She was the widow of a Latvian police officer, a man Wallander had got to know and like.

  They had started seeing each other. For a long time he had thought it was going to work, that she would move to Sweden. They had even looked at houses. But then she had begun to draw back. Wallander thought, jealously, that she had met someone else. He even flew to Riga once, without warning her, to surprise her. But there was no-one else, only Baiba's doubts about marrying another policeman and leaving her homeland where she had an underpaid but rewarding job as a translator. So it had ended.

  Wallander walked along the shore and realised that a year had gone by since he had last talked to her. She sometimes appeared in his dreams still, but he never managed to take hold of her. Whenever he approached her or put out his hand to touch her she was gone. He asked himself if he really missed her. His jealousy was gone; he no longer flinched at the thought of her with another man.

  I miss the companionship, he thought. With Baiba I managed to escape the loneliness I hadn't even been aware of.

  He returned to the car. I should avoid deserted beaches in the autumn, he thought. They make me depressed. He had taken refuge once in a remote part of northern Jylland. He had been on sick leave due to depression and thought he would never go back to his work as a police officer in Ystad again. It was many years ago, but he could recall in terrifying detail how he had felt then. He never wanted to experience it again. That bleak and blustery landscape had seemed to awaken his deepest anxieties.

  He got back into the car and drove on to Malmö. He wondered what the coming winter was going to be like, if there would be much snow or if it would simply rain. He also wondered what he was going to do during the week of leave he was due in November. He had discussed with Linda taking a charter flight to somewhere warmer. It would be his treat. But she was still in Stockholm, studying something – he didn't know what – and said she really couldn't get away. He had tried to think of someone else he could go with, but he had practically no friends. There was Sten Widén, who raised horses on a stud farm outside Ystad, but Wallander was not sure he would be such a good travel companion. Widén drank like a fish, and Wallander was struggling to keep his own once considerable alcohol consumption to a minimum. He could ask Gertrud, his father's widow. But what would they talk about for a whole week? There was no-one else.

  He would stay at home and use the money towards a new car. The Peugeot was getting old. It had started to sound pretty odd.

  He was in the suburb of Rosengård soon after 10 a.m. The funeral was at 11.00. The church was a modern building. Nearby some boys were bouncing a football off a concrete wall. There were seven of them, three black. Another three also looked as though they might have immigrant parents. The last one had freckles and unruly blond hair. The boys were kicking the ball around with enthusiasm and a great deal of laughter. For a second Wallander felt an overwhelming urge to join them, but he stayed where he was. A man walked out of the church and lit a cigarette. Wallander got out of the car and approached him.

  "Is this where Stefan Fredman's funeral is going to be held?" he said.

  The man nodded. "Are you a relative?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think there would be very many people here," the man said. "I take it you know what he did."

  "Yes, I know."

  The man looked down at his cigarette. "Someone like him is better off dead."

  Wallander felt himself get angry. "Stefan wasn't even 18 years old. Someone that young is never better off dead." He realised he was shouting.

  The smoker looked at him with curiosity. Wallander shook his head angrily and turned away. At that moment the hearse drove up. The brown coffin was unloaded. There was only a single wreath on it. He should have brought flowers himself.

  Wallander walked over to the boys who were still playing football. "Any of you know of a flower shop around here?" he said.

  One of the boys pointed into the distance.

  Wallander took out his wallet and held up a hundred-kronor note. "Run over and buy me some flowers," he said. "Roses. And hurry back. I'll give you ten kronor for your trouble."

  The boy looked at him wide-eyed, but took the money.

  "I'm a police officer," Wallander said. "A dangerous police officer. If you make off with the money I'll find you."

  The boy shook his head. "Then why aren't you wearing a uniform?" he asked in broken Swedish. "You don't look like a policeman. Not a dangerous one, anyway."

  Wallander got out his police badge and showed it to him. The boy studied it for a while, then nodded and set off. The others resumed their game.

  There's a good chance he won't be back, Wallander thought gloomily. It's been a long time since civilians had any respect for the police.

  But the boy returned with the roses as promised. Wallander gave him 20 kronor, the ten he'd promised him and ten for actually coming back. He knew he was being overly generous, but it was too late now. A taxi drew up at the church steps and Stefan's mother got out. She had aged and was so thin she looked ill. A young boy of about seven stood by her side. He looked a lot like his brother. His eyes were wide and frightened. He still lived in fear from that time. Wallander walked over and greeted them.

  "It's just going to be us and the minister," the woman said.

  They walked into the church. The minister was a
young man who was sitting on a chair next to the coffin, leafing through a newspaper. Wallander felt Anette Fredman suddenly grab hold of his arm. He understood.

  The minister got up and put his newspaper away. They sat down to the right of the coffin. She was still clinging to Wallander's arm.

  First she lost her husband, Wallander thought. Björn Fredman was an unpleasant and brutal man, who hit her and terrified his children, but he had been her husband and the father of her children. He was murdered by his own son. Then her oldest child, Louise, had died. And now here she is, about to bury her son. What's left for her? Half a life? As much as that?

  Someone entered the church behind them. Fru Fredman did not seem to hear anything, or else she was trying so hard to stay in control of herself that she couldn't focus on anything else. A woman was walking up the aisle. She was about Wallander's age. Anette Fredman finally looked up and nodded to her. The woman sat down a few rows behind them.

  "She's a doctor," she said. "Her name is Agneta Malmström. She helped Jens a while back when he wasn't doing so well."

  Wallander recognised the name, but it took him a moment to remember that it was Agneta Malmström and her husband who had provided him with the most important clues in the Stefan Fredman case. He had spoken to her late one night with the help of Stockholm Radio. She had been on a yacht far out at sea, beyond Landsort.

  Wallander heard organ music although he had not seen an organist. The minister had turned on a tape recorder. Wallander wondered why he had not heard any church bells. Didn't funerals always start with the ringing of church bells? This thought was pushed aside when Anette Fredman's grip on his arm tightened. He cast a glance at the boy by her side. Should a child his age be attending a funeral? Wallander didn't think so. But the boy looked fairly collected.

  The music died away and the minister began to speak. He started by reminding them of Christ's words, "Let the little ones come unto me." Wallander concentrated on the wreath that lay on the coffin, counting the blossoms to keep the lump in his throat from growing.

  The service was short. Afterwards, they approached the coffin. Fru Fredman was breathing hard, as if she were in the final few yards of a race. Dr Malmström stood right behind them. Wallander turned to the minister, who seemed impatient.

  "Bells," Wallander said to him. "Why were there no bells? There should be bells ringing as we walk out, and not a recording either."

  The minister nodded hesitantly. Wallander wondered what would have happened if he had pulled out his police badge. They started walking out. Jens and his mother went ahead. Wallander said hello to Agneta Malmström.

  "I recognised you," she said. "We've never met, but I've seen your face in the papers."

  "She asked me to come. Did she call you too?"

  "No, I came of my own accord."

  "What's going to happen now?"

  Dr Malmström shook her head slowly. "I don't know. She's started drinking heavily. I have no idea how Jens is going to get on."

  At this point they reached the vestibule where Fru Fredman and Jens were waiting for them. The church bells rang out. Wallander opened the doors, throwing one last look at the coffin. Some men were already carrying it through a side door.

  Suddenly a flash went off in his face. There had been a press photographer waiting outside. Anette Fredman held up her hands to shield her face. The photographer turned from her and tried to get a picture of the boy. Wallander put out his arm to stop him, but the photographer was too quick. He got his picture.

  "Why can't you leave us alone?" Fru Fredman cried.

  The boy started to cry. Wallander grabbed the photographer and pulled him aside. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed.

  "None of your fucking business," the photographer said. He had bad breath. "I shoot whatever sells. Pictures of a serial killer's funeral sell. Too bad I didn't get here earlier."

  Wallander reached for his police badge, then changed his mind and snatched the camera. The photographer tried to pull it out of his hands, but Wallander was stronger. He opened the camera and pulled out the film.

  "There have to be limits," Wallander said, and handed the camera back to him.

  The photographer stared at him, then took his mobile from his jacket pocket. "I'm calling the police," he said. "That was assault."

  "Do it," Wallander said. "I'm a detective with the CID in Ystad. Inspector Kurt Wallander. Call my colleagues in Malmö and tell them whatever you want."

  Wallander let the roll of film fall to the ground and broke open the casing under his shoe. The church bells stopped ringing. He was sweating and still enraged. Anette Fredman's shrill plea to be left alone echoed in his head. The photographer stared at the destroyed film. The group of boys were still playing football.

  Fru Fredman had asked him to join them for coffee after the service when she called. He had not been able to say no.

  "There won't be any pictures in the paper," Wallander said.

  "Why can't they leave us alone?"

  Wallander had nothing to say. He looked over at Agneta Malmström, but she had nothing to say either.

  The flat in the shabby rental building was just as Wallander remembered. Dr Malmström came with them. They sat in silence while they were waiting for the coffee to percolate. Wallander thought he heard a clink of glass from the kitchen.

  Jens was on the floor playing quietly with a car. Wallander could see that Dr Malmström found it all as depressing as he did, but there was nothing to say.

  They sat there with their coffee cups. Anette Fredman sat across from them with shiny eyes. Dr Malmström tried to discover how she was managing, now that she was unemployed. Fru Fredman answered in vague perfunctory phrases.

  "We manage. Things will work out somehow. A day at a time."

  The conversation died away. Wallander looked down at his watch. He got up and shook Anette Fredman's hand. She burst into tears. Wallander was taken aback. He didn't know what to do.

  "You go," Dr Malmström said. "I'll stay with her a little while."

  "I'll call to see how things are going," Wallander said. Then, awkwardly, he patted the boy's head and left.

  He sat in the car for a while before starting the engine. He thought about the photographer who was so sure the pictures of a serial killer's funeral would sell.

  I can't deny that this is how things are now, he thought. But that doesn't mean that I can understand a single bit of it.

  He drove through the autumn landscape to Ystad. It had been a depressing morning.

  An easterly wind had picked up. As he walked into the police station, he saw that a belt of cloud was moving in over the coast.

  CHAPTER THREE

  By the time Wallander reached his office, he had a headache. He looked in his desk drawers for some tablets. He heard Hansson walk past his door whistling. Finally, he found a crumpled packet of acetaminophen. He went to the canteen to get himself a glass of water and a cup of coffee. A group of young officers, who had been taken on during the last couple of years, was sitting at one table talking loudly. Wallander nodded in their direction and said hello. He heard them talking about their time at Police Training College. He walked back to his office and watched the two tablets dissolve in the glass of water.

  He thought about Fru Fredman. He tried to imagine what the future might hold for the little boy in the impoverished suburb of Rosengård who had played so quietly on the living-room floor. He had seemed to be hiding from the world, carrying within him his memories of a dead father and two siblings, now both dead too.

  Wallander drained the glass and immediately felt the headache lifting. He looked at a folder that Martinsson had put on his desk, Urgent as all hell on a red Post-it on the front. Wallander already knew the facts of the case. They had discussed it last week on the telephone while Wallander was at a national police conference on new directions for policing the violence associated with the growing motorcycle gang movement. Wallander had asked to be excused, but Chief
Holgersson had insisted. She specifically wanted him on this. One of the gangs had just bought a farm outside Ystad and they had to be prepared to deal with them in the future.