Faceless Killers (27 page)

"We'll just forget it," she said. "Good night."

He tried to think of something more to say. Somewhere in his muddled consciousness the thought gnawed at him that he had done something both unforgivable and dangerous. Just as he had driven his car home from the meeting with Mona when he was drunk. He left, and heard the door close behind him.

I have to stop drinking, he thought angrily. I can't handle it. Down on the street he sucked the cool air deep into his lungs.

How the hell could anyone be so stupid? he thought. No better than a drunken boy who doesn't know a thing about himself, women, or the world.

He went home to Mariagatan. The next day he would have to get back onto the hunt for the Lunnarp killers.

CHAPTER 13

Early on Monday morning, 15 January, Wallander drove out to the shopping centre on the Malmö road and bought two bouquets of flowers. Just over a week earlier he had driven the same road, towards Jenarp and the scene of the crime that was still demanding all of his attention. The past week had been the most intense of his career. When he looked at his face in the rearview mirror, he thought that every scratch, every lump, every discolouration from purple to black was a memento of the week's events.

It was - 6° C. There was no wind. The white ferry from Poland was making its way into the harbour.

When Wallander arrived at the police station a little after 8 a.m., he gave one of the bouquets to Ebba. At first she refused to take it, but he could see that she was pleased. He took the other bouquet with him to his office. He took a card from his desk drawer and pondered a long time what to write to Anette Brolin. Too long. By the time he managed a few lines, he had abandoned all attempts to find the perfect words. He simply apologised for his rash behaviour the night before. He blamed his rashness on fatigue.

"I'm actually quite shy by nature," he wrote. Which was not entirely true. But he thought this might give Anette Brolin the opportunity to turn the other cheek.

He was on the point of going over to the prosecutor's office when Björk came in. As usual, he had knocked so softly that Wallander hadn't heard him.

"Somebody sent you flowers?" said Björk. "You deserve them, as a matter of fact. I'm impressed how quickly you solved the murder of the Negro."

Wallander disliked Björk referring to the Somali as the Negro. A person lying under that tarpaulin was what there had been. But he had no intention of getting into an argument about it.

Björk was wearing a flowery shirt that he had bought in Spain. He sat down on the rickety wooden chair near the window.

"I thought we ought to go over the murders at Lunnarp," he said. "I've looked through the investigation reports. There seem to be a lot of gaps. I've been thinking that Rydberg should take over the primary responsibility for the investigation while you concentrate on getting Bergman to talk. What do you think about that?"

Wallander countered with a question. "What does Rydberg say?"

"I haven't talked to him yet."

"I think we should do it the other way around. Rydberg has a bad leg, and there's still a lot of footwork to be done in that investigation."

What Wallander said was true enough, but it wasn't concern for Rydberg's rheumatism that made him suggest reversing the responsibilities. He didn't want to give up the hunt for the Lunnarp killers. Police work was a team effort, but he thought of the murderers as belonging to him.

"There's a third option," said Björk. "We could let Svedberg and Hansson handle Bergman." Wallander nodded. He'd go along with that. Björk got up from the rickety chair. "We need some new furniture," he said.

"We need more manpower," replied Wallander.

After Björk had left, Wallander sat down at his typewriter and typed up a comprehensive report on the arrest of Rune Bergman and the death of Valfrid Ström. He made a particular effort to compile something that Anette Brolin would not object to. It took him over two hours. Finally, he pulled the last page out of the typewriter, signed it, and took it to Rydberg.

Rydberg was sitting at his desk. He looked tired. When Wallander came into his office, he was just putting the telephone down.

"I hear that Bjdrk wants to split us up," he said. "I'm glad to be spared dealing with Bergman."

Wallander put his report on the desk. "Read through it," he said. "If you have no quarrel with it, give it to Hansson."

"Svedberg had a go at Bergman this morning," said Rydberg. "But he still refuses to talk. Even though the cigarettes match. The same brand that was lying in the mud next to where the car must have been."

"I wonder what's going to turn up," said Wallander. "What's behind this whole thing? Neo-Nazis? Racists with connections all over Europe? Why would someone commit a crime like this anyway? Jump out into the road and shoot a complete stranger? Just because he happened to be black?"

"No way of knowing," said Rydberg. "But it's something we're going to have to learn to live with."

They agreed to meet again in half an hour, after Rydberg had been through the report. Then they would start on the Lunnarp investigation in earnest.

Wallander went over to the prosecutor's office. Anette Brolin was in district court. He left the flowers with the young woman at reception.

"Is it her birthday?" she asked. "Sort of" said Wallander.

When he got back to his office, Kristina was waiting for him. She had already left the flat by the time he woke up that morning. She told him that she had talked to both a doctor and the social worker.

"Dad seems better," she said. "They don't think he's slipping into chronic senility. Maybe it was just a temporary period of confusion. We agreed to try regular home care. I was thinking about asking you to drive us out there around midday today. If you can't do it, maybe I could borrow your car."

"Of course I can drive you. Who's going to do the home care?"

"I'm supposed to have a meeting with a woman who doesn't live far from Dad."

Wallander nodded. "I'm glad you're here. I couldn't have handled this alone."

They agreed that he would come to the hospital right after midday. After his sister left, Wallander straightened up his desk and placed the thick folder of material on the Lövgren case in front of him. It was time to get started.

Björk had told him that for the time being, there would be four people on the investigative team. Since Näslund was laid up with the flu, only three of them were at the case meeting in Rydberg's office. Martinsson had nothing to say and seemed to have a hangover. But Wallander remembered the decisive manner with which he had taken care of the hysterical widow at Hageholm.

They began with a thorough review of all the material. Martinsson was able to add information produced by his work with the central criminal records. Wallander felt a great sense of security in this methodical and meticulous scrutiny of details. To an outside observer such work would probably seem unbearably tedious. But that was not the case for the three police officers. The solution and the truth might be found through the combination of the most inconsequential information.

They isolated the loose ends that had to be dealt with first.

"You take Lövgren's trip to Ystad," Wallander said to Martinsson. "We need to know how he got to town and how he got home. Are there other safe-deposit boxes? What did he do during the hour between his appearances at the two banks? Did he go into a shop and buy something? Who saw him?"

"I think Näslund has already started calling around the banks," said Martinsson.

"Call him at home and find out," said Wallander. "This can't wait until he's feeling better."

Rydberg was to pay a visit to Lars Herdin and Wallander to drive over to Malmö again to talk to the man called Erik Magnusson, the one Goran Boman thought might be Lövgren's secret son.

"All the other items will have to wait," said Wallander. "We'll start with these and meet again at five o'clock."

Before he left for the hospital, Wallander called Boman in Kristianstad.

"Erik Magnusson works for the county council," said Boman. "Unfortunately, I haven't discovered exactly what he does. We've had an unusually rowdy weekend up here with a lot of fights and drunkenness. I haven't had time for much besides hauling people in."

"No problem. I'll find him," said Wallander. "I'll call you tomorrow morning at the latest."

Just after midday he set off for the hospital. His sister was waiting in the reception. They took the lift up to the ward where their father had been moved after the first 24 hours of observation.

By the time they arrived, he had already been discharged and was sitting in the corridor, waiting for them. He had his hat on, and the suitcase full of dirty underwear and tubes of paint was by his side. Wallander didn't recognise the suit he was wearing.

"I bought it for him," his sister said. "It must be 30 years since he bought himself a new suit."

"How are you Dad?" asked Wallander.

His father looked him in the eye. Wallander could see that he had recovered.

"It'll be nice to get back home," he said curtly and stood up.

Wallander picked up the suitcase as his father leaned on Kristina's arm. She sat with him in the back seat on the drive to Loderup.

Wallander, who was in a hurry to get to Malmd, promised to come back around 6 p.m. His sister was going to stay the night, and she asked him to buy food for dinner. His father had immediately changed out of his suit and into his painting overalls. He was already at his easel, working on the unfinished painting.

"Do you think he'll be able to get by with home care?" asked Wallander.

"We'll have to wait and see," replied his sister.

It was almost 2 p.m. when Wallander pulled up in front of the county council's main building in Malmö. He parked his car and went into the large reception.

"I'm looking for Erik Magnusson," he told the woman who shoved the glass window open.

"We have at least three Erik Magnussons working here," she said. "Which one are you looking for?"

Wallander took out his police identity card and showed it to her.

"I don't know," he said. "But he was born in the late 1950s."

The woman behind the glass knew at once who it was.

"Then it must be Erik Magnusson in central supply," she said. "The two other Erik Magnussons are much older. What did he do?"

Wallander smiled at her undisguised curiosity.

"Nothing," he said. "I just want to ask him some questions."

She told him how to get to central supply. He thanked her and returned to his car. The county council's supply warehouse was located on the northern outskirts, near the Oil Harbour. Wallander wandered around for a long time before he found the right place.

He went through a door marked
Office
.
Through a big glass window he could see yellow fork-lift trucks driving back and forth between long rows of shelves.

The office was empty. He went down some stairs and into the enormous warehouse. A young man with hair down to his shoulders was piling up big plastic sacks of toilet paper. Wallander went over to him.

"I'm looking for Erik Magnusson," he said.

The young man pointed to a yellow fork-lift which had stopped next to a loading dock where a van was being unloaded.

The man in the cab of the yellow fork-lift had fair hair. It seemed unlikely that Maria Lövgren would have thought about foreigners if this blonde man was the one who put the noose around her neck. He pushed the thought away with annoyance. He was getting ahead of himself again.

"Erik Magnusson!" he shouted over the engine noise. The man gave him an inquiring look before he turned off the engine and jumped down.

"Erik Magnusson?" asked Wallander.

"Yes?"

"I'm a policeman. ‘I’d like to have a word with you for a moment."

Wallander scrutinised his face. There was nothing unexpected about his reaction. He merely looked surprised. Quite naturally surprised.

"Why is that?" he asked.

Wallander looked around. "Is there somewhere we can sit down?" he asked.

Magnusson led the way to a corner with a coffee vending machine. There was a dirty wooden table and several makeshift benches. Wallander fed two one-krona coins into the machine and got a cup of coffee. Magnusson settled for a pinch of snuff.

"I'm from the police in Ystad" he began. "I have a few questions for you regarding a particularly nasty murder in a village called Lunnarp. Maybe you read about it in the papers?"

"I think so. But what does that have to do with me?"

Wallander was beginning to wonder the same thing. The man named Erik Magnusson seemed completely unruffled by a visit from the police at his place of work.

"I have to ask you for the name of your father."

The man frowned.

"My dad?" he said. "I don't have a dad." "Everybody has one." "Not one that I know about, at any rate." "How can that be?"

"Mum wasn't married when I was born."

"And she never told you who your father was?" "No."

"Did you ever ask her?"

"Of course I've asked her. I bugged her about it my whole childhood. Then I gave up."

"What did she say when you asked her about it?"

Magnusson stood up and pressed the button for a cup of coffee. "Why are you asking about my dad? Does he have something to do with the murder?"

"I'll get to that in a minute," said Wallander. "What did your mother say when you asked her about your father?"

"It varied."

"How do you mean?"

"Sometimes she would say that she didn't really know. Sometimes that it was a salesman she never saw again. Sometimes something else."