He hasn't said anything so far, Wallander thought. It is always easier to get a sense of a person when you have heard his voice. But the man standing here is mute.
Wallander made a slow movement with his head. As if he had started to get a stiff neck. But it was in order to be able to glance at his watch.
Twenty-five minutes to seven. By now Mona would have started to wonder. Perhaps she was even worried. But I can't count on the fact that she has already called. It is too early. She is much too accustomed to me being late.
'I don't know why you want to keep me here,' Wallander said. 'I don't know why you don't let me go.'
No reply. The man twitched but said nothing.
His fear had died down for several minutes. But now it returned in full force.
The man must be crazy in some way, Wallander thought. He robs a store on Christmas Eve and kills an old woman. He ties me up and threatens me with a pistol.
And he doesn't leave. That above all. He stays here.
The telephone next to the cash register started to ring. Wallander was startled, but the man in the hood appeared unmoved. He did not seem to hear it.
The ringing continued. The man did not move. Wallander tried to imagine who it could be. Someone who wondered why Elma Hagman had not come home? That was most likely. She should have closed up her shop by now. It was Christmas. Somewhere her family was waiting for her.
Anger welled up inside him. It was so strong that it swept away his fear. How could you kill an old woman so brutally? What was happening to Sweden?
They often talked about it at the station, over lunch or while drinking coffee. Or while commenting on a case they were handling.
What was happening? An underground fissure had suddenly surfaced in Swedish society. Radical seismographers had registered it. But where had it come from? The fact that criminal activity was always changing was nothing noteworthy in itself. As one of Wallander's colleagues had once put it: 'In the past, people stole hand-cranked record players. You didn't steal car stereos, for the simple reason that they didn't exist.'
But the emerging fissure was of a different order. It brought an increase in violence. A brutality that did not ask if it was necessary or not.
And now Wallander found himself caught in it. On Christmas Eve. Before him stood a man wearing a hood and with a gun in his belt. A dead woman lay a few metres behind him.
There was no logic in all of this. If you looked hard enough, there was often a factor that was comprehensible. But not this time. You didn't bludgeon a woman with an iron pipe in a remotely located shop if it wasn't absolutely necessary. If she hadn't offered violent resistance.
Above all, you did not linger at the scene with a hood over your face, waiting.
The telephone rang again. Wallander was now convinced that someone was expecting Elma Hagman. Someone who was starting to become concerned.
He tried to imagine what the man in the hood was thinking.
But the man remained quiet and unmoving. His arms hung by his sides.
The ringing stopped. In one of the neon tubes the light started to flicker.
Wallander noticed suddenly that he was thinking about Linda. He saw himself standing in the doorway to the apartment in Mariagatan, happily anticipating her running to meet him.
The whole situation is insane, he thought. I should not be sitting here on a stool. With a big bruise on the back of my neck, nauseous and afraid.
The only things people should wear on their heads at this time of year are Santa Claus hats. Nothing else.
He twisted his head again. It was nineteen minutes to seven. Now Mona would call and ask for him. And she would not give up. She was stubborn. In the end the call would be routed to Hemberg, who would send out a dispatch. In all likelihood he would check up on it personally. When something was thought to have happened to a police officer, there were always resources. Then even the commanding officers did not hesitate to immediately rush out into the field.
The nausea returned. On top of this he felt he would need to use the toilet soon.
At the same time he felt that he could no longer remain ignorant. There was only one way to go. He knew that. He had to start talking to the man in the black mask.
'I'm in civilian dress,' he started. 'But I'm a policeman. The best thing you can do is give up. Give up your weapon. It won't be long before there will be a lot of police cars outside. The best thing you can do is give up now. So things won't get any worse than they already are.'
Wallander had been speaking slowly and clearly. He had forced his voice to appear firm.
The man did not react.
'Put the gun on the counter,' Wallander said. 'You can stay or leave. But put the gun on the counter.'
Still no reaction.
Wallander started to wonder if the man was mute. Or was he so confused that he did not hear what Wallander said?
'I have my badge in my inside pocket,' Wallander continued. 'So you can see that I am a police officer. I am unarmed. But you probably already know that.'
And then at last came a reaction. From nowhere. A sound like clicking. Wallander thought that the man must have smacked his lips. Or clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
That was all. And he continued to stand without moving.
Perhaps as much as a minute went by.
Then he suddenly lifted one hand. Gripped the top of the mask and pulled it off.
Wallander stared at the man's face. He was looking straight into a pair of dark and tired eyes.
Later, Wallander would ask himself many times what he had really expected. How had he imagined the face under the mask? The only thing he was absolutely sure of was that he had never expected the face that he finally saw.
The man standing in front of him was a black man. Not brown, not copper-coloured, not a mestizo. Just that: black.
And he was young. Hardly more than twenty.
Different thoughts went through Wallander's head. He realised that the man probably had not understood him when he had been speaking Swedish. Wallander repeated what he had just said in his poor English. And now he could see that the man understood. Wallander spoke very slowly. And told him the facts. That he was a policeman. That the shop would soon be surrounded by patrol cars. That the best thing he could do would be to give himself up.
The man shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Wallander thought he gave an impression of great fatigue. It was visible now that the mask was removed.
I can't forget that he has brutally murdered an old woman, Wallander reminded himself. He knocked me down and tied me up. He pointed a gun at my head.
What had he really learned about how to behave in a situation like this? Retain his calm, not make any sudden movements or confrontational speeches. Speak calmly, an even stream of words. Patience and kindness. Try to start a conversation. Not lose control of oneself. Above all, not that. To lose control of oneself was to lose control, full stop.
Wallander thought a good start might be to talk about himself. So he said his name. That he had been on his way home to his wife and daughter to celebrate Christmas. He noticed that the man was listening now.
Wallander asked him if he could understand.
The man nodded. But he still said nothing.
Wallander looked at the time. By now Mona had surely called. Hemberg might already be on his way.
He decided to tell the man this.
The man listened. Wallander had the impression that he already expected to hear the approaching sirens.
Wallander paused. He tried to smile.
'What is your name?' he asked. 'Everyone has a name.'
'Oliver.'
His voice was unsteady. Despondent, Wallander thought. He is not waiting for someone to come. He is waiting for someone to explain to him what he has done.
'Do you live here in Sweden?'
Oliver nodded.
'Are you a Swedish citizen?'
Wallander immediately realised the sup
erfluousness of this question.
'No.'
'Where do you come from?'
He did not answer. Wallander waited. He was sure that the answer would come. There was much that he wanted to know before Hemberg and the police cars arrived outside. But he could not hurry this up. The step towards the moment where this man raised his gun and shot him was not necessarily so great.
The ache in the back of his head had increased. But Wallander tried to think it away.
'Everyone comes from somewhere,' he said. 'And Africa is large. I read about Africa when I was at school. Geography was my best subject. I read about the deserts and rivers. And the drums, beating in the night.'
Oliver listened attentively. Wallander had the feeling that he was already now somewhat less on his guard.
'Gambia,' Wallander said. 'Swedes go there on holiday. Even some of my colleagues. Is that where you come from?'
'I come from South Africa.'
The answer came quickly and decidedly. Almost harshly.
Wallander was very poorly informed about what exactly was going on in South Africa. He did not know more than that the apartheid system and its racial laws were now more severe than ever before. But the resistance had also increased. He had read in newspapers about bombs exploding in Johannesburg and Cape Town.
He also knew that some South Africans had received asylum in Sweden. Not least those who had openly taken part in the black resistance and risked being sentenced to death by hanging if they remained.
He made a quick summary in his head. A young South African by the name of Oliver has killed Elma Hagman. That was what he knew. Neither more nor less.
No one would believe me, Wallander thought. This simply doesn't happen. Not in Sweden, and not on Christmas Eve.
'She started to scream,' Oliver said.
'She must have been frightened. A man who enters the store with a mask on is frightening,' Wallander said. 'Especially if he has a gun or an iron pipe in his hand.'
'She should not have screamed,' Oliver said.
'You should not have killed her,' Wallander answered. 'She would probably have given you the money anyway.'
Oliver pulled the gun out of his belt. It happened so fast that Wallander never had time to react. Again he saw the gun pointed at his head.
'She should not have screamed,' Oliver said, and now his voice was unsteady with distress and fear.
'I can kill you,' he added.
'Yes,' Wallander said. 'You can. But why would you do that?'
'She should not have screamed.'
Wallander now realised that he had been completely wrong. The South African was not in the least controlled and calm. He was at a breaking point. What exactly was on the point of breaking, Wallander did not know. But now he seriously started to fear what would happen when Hemberg arrived. It could become an all-out massacre.
I have to disarm him, Wallander thought. Nothing else is important. First I have to get him to tuck that gun back into his belt. This man is fully capable of starting to shoot wildly around him. Hemberg is probably on his way right now. And he doesn't sense anything. Even if he fears that something has happened, he isn't expecting this. As little as I did. It could be an all-out catastrophe.
'How long have you been here?' he asked.
'Three months.'
'Not longer?'
'I came from West Germany,' Oliver said. 'From Frankfurt. I could not stay there.'
'Why?'
Oliver did not answer. Wallander sensed that it was perhaps not the first time that Oliver had put a mask over his head and robbed a store in a remote location. He could be on the run from the West German authorities.
And in turn this would mean that he was in Sweden illegally.
'What was it that happened?' Wallander asked. 'Not in Frankfurt but in South Africa. Why did you have to leave?'
Oliver took a step closer to Wallander.
'What do you know about South Africa?'
'Not much. Only that the blacks are treated very badly.'
Wallander almost bit his tongue. Were you allowed to say 'blacks', or was that discrimination?
'My father was killed by the police. They beat him to death with a hammer and chopped off one of his hands. It is preserved in a jar of alcohol somewhere. Maybe in Sanderton. Maybe somewhere else in Johannesburg's white suburbs. As a souvenir. And the only thing he had done was join the ANC. The only thing he had done was speak to his co-workers. About resistance and freedom.'
Wallander did not doubt that Oliver was telling the truth. His voice was calm now, in the midst of all this uproar. There was no room for lies.
'The police started looking for me too,' Oliver continued. 'I hid.
Every night I slept in a new bed. At last I went to Namibia and from there to Europe. To Frankfurt. And then here. But I am still running.
In reality I don't exist.'
Oliver grew silent. Wallander listened for sounds of approaching cars.
'You need money,' he said. 'You found this shop. She started to scream and you killed her.'
'They killed my father with a hammer. And one of his hands is preserved in alcohol in a glass jar.'
He's confused, Wallander thought. Helpless and disorientated. He doesn't know what he's doing.
'I am a policeman,' Wallander said. 'But I have never hit anyone on the head with a hammer. As you hit me.'
'I did not know you were police.'
'Right now that is lucky for you. They have started looking for me. They know I am here. Together we have to try to resolve this situation.'
Oliver shook his head.
'If anyone tries to take me I will shoot.'
'That will make nothing better.'
'Nothing can get worse either.'
Suddenly Wallander saw how he should continue this strained conversation.
'What do you think your father would have said about what you have done?'
This travelled like a shiver through Oliver's body. Wallander realised that the youth had never thought about this before. Or else he had thought it too many times.
'I promise that you won't be beaten,' Wallander said. 'I guarantee it. But you have committed the gravest crime there is. You have killed a person. The only thing you can do now is give up.'
Oliver never had time to answer. The sound of approaching cars was suddenly very clear. They braked abruptly. Car doors opened and slammed shut again.
Hell, Wallander thought. I needed more time. He slowly stretched out his hand.
'Give me the gun,' he said. 'Nothing will happen. No one will hit you.'
There was a banging on the door. Wallander heard Hemberg's voice. Dazed, Oliver looked from Wallander to the door.
'The gun,' Wallander said. 'Give it to me.'