'There was a stabbing incident last night,' Hansson said. 'Two brothers who ended up in a fight with their father. Drunk, of course. One of the brothers and the father are in the hospital. Apparently they attacked each other with various tools.'
'What kind of tools?' Wallander asked.
'A hammer. A crowbar. Screwdriver maybe. At least, the father has stab wounds.'
'We'll have to deal with that when we have time,' Wallander said. 'Right now we have three murders on our plate. Or two, if we combine the sisters into one.'
'I don't really understand why Sjöbo can't deal with Holm on their own,' Hansson said with irritation.
'Because Holm has to do with us,' Wallander replied, just as irritated. 'If both of us investigate these things on our own we'll never get anywhere.'
Hansson did not back down. He was apparently in a very bad mood this morning.
'Do we know that Holm had anything to do with the Eberhardssons?'
'No,' Wallander said. 'But we know everything indicates that the same person killed them. I think that's enough of a connection to bind the cases and for us to lead a coordinated investigation from Ystad.'
'Has Åkeson weighed in on this?'
'Yes,' Wallander said.
It was not true. Per Åkeson had not said anything. But Wallander knew that he would have backed him up.
Wallander marked the end of this discussion with Hansson by turning to Rydberg.
'Do we have any updates on the drug trade?' he asked. 'Has anything happened in Malmö? Have the prices changed, or the supply?'
'I called,' Rydberg said, 'but there didn't appear to be anyone working there over Christmas.'
'Then we'll have to proceed with Holm,' Wallander decided. 'Unfortunately, I suspect this investigation will prove both long and difficult. We need to dig deeper. Who was Holm? Who did he associate with? What was his position in the drug-trade hierarchy? Did he even have a position? And what about the sisters? We know too little.'
'Absolutely correct,' Rydberg said. 'Digging down usually takes one forward.'
Wallander decided to store these words in his memory.
Digging down usually takes one forward.
They ended the meeting with Rydberg's words of wisdom buzzing in their ears. Wallander drove down to the travel agency to speak to Anette Bengtsson. But to his disappointment she had taken time off over Christmas. Her colleague did, however, find an envelope to give to him.
'Have you found him yet?' she asked. 'The one who killed the sisters?'
'No,' Wallander answered. 'But we're working on it.'
On the way back to the station, Wallander suddenly remembered that he had signed up for the laundry room this morning. He stopped at Mariagatan, walked up to the apartment and carried down all the dirty laundry that had accumulated in his wardrobe. When he reached the laundry room there was a note taped to the front of the washer saying it was out of order. Wallander was so furious he carried all the laundry out to his car and threw it in the boot. There was a washing machine at the station. As he turned onto Regementsgatan he was almost hit by a motorcycle approaching at high speed. He pulled over to the side of the road, turned off the engine and closed his eyes. I'm stressed, he thought. If a broken washer almost causes me to lose control then there's something wrong with my life.
He knew what it was. Loneliness. The increasingly anaemic latenight hours with Emma Lundin.
Instead of driving to the station he decided to pay a visit to his father out in Löderup. It was always a risky proposition to arrive without prior notice. But right now Wallander felt the need to experience the smell of oil paints in the studio. The dream from last night still haunted him. He drove through the grey landscape and wondered where he should begin in order to achieve a change in his existence. Perhaps Martinsson was right and he should seriously consider whether or not he should remain a police officer for the rest of his life. Sometimes Per Åkeson would speak dreamily about a life beyond all charges, all leaden and uniform hours in courtrooms and questioning chambers. Even my father has something that I lack, he thought as he turned into the driveway. The dreams that he has decided to stay faithful to. Even if they cost his only son a small fortune.
He got out of the car and walked towards the studio. A cat strutted out through the half-open door and regarded him suspiciously. When Wallander bent down to pet it, it slunk away. Wallander knocked and went in. His father was leaning forward in front of his easel.
'You here?' he said. 'That's unexpected.'
'I was in the neighbourhood,' Wallander said. 'Am I disturbing you?'
His father pretended not to hear the question. Instead he talked of his trip to Egypt. As if it were a vivid but already very distant memory. Wallander sat down on an old sledge and listened.
'Now only Italy remains,' his father concluded. 'Then I can lie down to die.'
'I think we'll wait with that trip,' Wallander said. 'At least a couple of months.'
His father painted. Wallander sat quietly. Now and again they exchanged a few words. Then more silence. Wallander noticed that he was more relaxed. His head felt lighter. After about half an hour he stood up to leave.
'I'll come by for New Year,' he said.
'Bring a bottle of cognac,' his father replied.
Wallander returned to the police station, which still gave the impression of being almost completely deserted. He knew that everyone was now lying low in preparation for New Year's Eve, when there would be a flurry of activity, as usual.
Wallander sat down in his office and reviewed the Eberhardsson sisters' trips during the past year. He tried to discern a pattern, without being sure of what he was really looking for. I know nothing about Holm, he thought. Or these pilots. I have nothing that I can apply like a grid to these trips to Spain. There are no fixed points, other than this single trip that Holm made at the same time as Anna Eberhardsson.
He put all the papers back into the envelope and put that into the folder where he kept all the documents having to do with the murder investigations. Then he wrote himself a reminder to buy a bottle of cognac.
It was already past noon. He felt hungry. In order to break his habit of downing a couple of hot dogs at a stand, he walked down to the hospital and had a sandwich at the cafe. Then he leafed through a ripped magazine that had been left on the table next to him. A pop star had almost died of cancer. An actor had fainted during a performance. Photographs from the parties of the rich. He tossed the magazine aside and started walking back to the station. He felt like an elephant lumbering around in a ring bounded by the city of Ystad. Something has to happen soon, he thought. Who has executed these three people, and why?
Rydberg was sitting in the reception area, waiting for him. Wallander sat down on a sofa next to him. As usual Rydberg got right to the point.
'Heroin is flowing into Malmö,' he said. 'In Lund, Eslöv, Landskrona, Helsingborg. I talked to a colleague in Malmö. He said that there were clear signs that the market had received a boost in supply. It could, in other words, coincide with a drug drop from the plane. In this case, there is only one important question.'
Wallander understood.
'Who was there to receive it?'
'In this, we can play with several different scenarios,' Rydberg went on. 'No one counted on the fact that the plane would crash. A wreck of a plane from Asia that should have been junked a long time ago. Something must then have happened on land. Either the wrong person picked up the package that was dropped in the night. Or else there was more than one predator stalking this prey.'
Wallander nodded. He had also thought this far.
'Something went wrong,' Rydberg said. 'And this led to the execution-style slayings of the Eberhardsson sisters and subsequently Holm. With the same weapon and by the same hand, or hands.'
'But I still resist this thought,' Wallander said. 'We know by now that Anna and Emilia were not nice old ladies. And yet from there, the step of saying they were involved in illegal narcot
ics transactions feels too great.'
'I actually think so too,' Rydberg said. 'But nothing surprises me any longer. Greed knows no bounds when it sinks its claws into people. Perhaps the sewing shop was doing worse and worse? If we analyse their tax returns we'll get a clearer picture. It should also be possible to tell from the numbers when something happens. At which point they no longer have to care about the profitability of the sewing shop. Perhaps they dreamed of a life in a sunny paradise. They could never have achieved this by selling snaps and silk thread. Suddenly something happens. And they are caught in the web.'
'You can also look at it from the reverse perspective,' Wallander said. 'A better cover than two older women in a sewing shop can hardly be imagined. They were the personification of innocence.'
Rydberg nodded.
'Who was there that night to receive the package?' he repeated. 'And one more question: who was behind all this? More precisely: who is behind it?'
'We're still searching for a midpoint,' Wallander said. 'The apex of the pyramid.'
Rydberg yawned and got up from the sofa with some effort.
'We'll figure it out sooner or later,' he said.
'Has Nyberg returned yet?' Wallander asked.
'According to Martinsson he's still in Tingsryd.'
Wallander returned to his office. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Nyberg called at four o'clock and said that his car had finally been fixed. They had a meeting at five. No one really had anything new to bring to the table.
That night Wallander slept heavily, without dreaming. The next day it was sunny and five degrees above zero Celsius. He left the car at home and walked to the station. But when he was halfway there, he changed his mind. He thought of what Martinsson had told him, about the two people who lived in the house where Holm had a room. It was only a quarter past seven. He would have time to drive up there and see if they were in before his meeting at the station.
He turned into the front yard at a quarter to eight. The dog was in its fenced run, barking. Wallander looked around. The house appeared as abandoned as the day before. He walked up to the door and knocked. No answer. He felt the handle. It was locked. Someone must have been there. He stepped away in order to walk around the house. Then he heard the front door open behind him. He jumped involuntarily. A man wearing an undershirt and sagging jeans was standing there staring at him. Wallander walked over and introduced himself.
'Are you Rolf Nyman?' he asked.
'Yes, that's me.'
'I need to speak to you.'
The man looked hesitant.
'The house is a mess,' he said. 'And the girl who lives here is sleeping.'
'My place is also messy,' Wallander said. 'And we don't need to sit next to her bed.'
Nyman stepped aside and led Wallander to the cluttered kitchen. They sat down. The man made no gesture to offer Wallander anything. But he appeared friendly. Wallander assumed he was embarrassed at the mess.
'The girl has big problems with drugs,' Nyman said. 'Right now she's trying to detox. I'm helping her as much as I can. But it's hard.'
'And you?'
'I never touch anything.'
'But isn't it strange then to live in the same place as Holm? If you want her to get over a drug addiction.'
Nyman's reply was swift and convincing.
'I had no idea he was involved with drugs. We lived here cheaply. He was nice. I had no idea what he did. To me he said he was studying astronomy. We used to stand outside in the garden in the evenings. He knew the name of every single star.'
'What do you do?'
'I can't hold down a permanent job until she gets better. I work at a disco from time to time.'
'Disco?'
'I play records.'
'You're a DJ?'
'Yes.'
Wallander thought he made a sympathetic impression. He did not appear anxious about anything other than disturbing the girl who was sleeping somewhere.
'Holm,' Wallander said. 'How did you meet him? And when was that?'
'In a disco in Landskrona. We started talking. He told me about this house. A couple of weeks later we moved in. The worst thing is that I don't have the energy to clean. I did earlier. Holm did too. But now all my time goes to taking care of her.'
'You never suspected what Holm was up to?'
'No.'
'Did he ever have visitors?'
'Never. He was usually gone during the day. But he always said when he was coming back. It was only the last time, when he didn't come back, that he said where he was going.'
'Had he appeared nervous that day? Was there anything different about him?'
Rolf Nyman thought back.
'No, he was like normal.'
'And how was that?'
'Happy. But reserved sometimes.'
Wallander thought about how best to proceed.
'Did he have a lot of money?'
'He certainly didn't live in luxury. I can show you his room.'
'That won't be necessary. Are you sure he never had any visitors?'
'Never.'
'But there must have been telephone calls.'
Nyman nodded.
'It was as if he always knew when someone was going to call. Sat down next to the phone and it rang. If he wasn't at home or nearby, it never rang. That was the strangest thing about him.'
Wallander had reached the end of his questions and stood up.
'What will you do now?' he asked.
'I don't know. Holm rented the house from someone in Örebro. I guess we'll have to move.'
Rolf Nyman followed him out onto the front steps.
'Did you ever hear Holm mention the Eberhardsson sisters?'
'The ones who were killed? No, never.'
Wallander realised he had one final question.
'Holm must have had a car,' he said. 'Where is it?'
Rolf Nyman shook his head.
'I don't know.'
'What kind was it?'
'A black VW Golf.'
Wallander held out his hand and said goodbye. The dog was silent as Wallander walked to the car.
Holm must have concealed his business well, he thought on the way back to Ystad. Just as he concealed his true self well when I questioned him.
He parked the car outside the station at a quarter to nine. Ebba was at her desk and said that Martinsson and the others were waiting for him in the conference room. He hurried over. Nyberg had also arrived.
'What's going on?' Wallander said before he had even sat down.
'Big news,' Martinsson said. 'Our Malmö colleagues have made a routine search of a well-known drug dealer. In his house they found a .38 calibre pistol.'