Sidetracked (12 page)

It was a magnificent evening. The dance was still in full swing. But many of the guests had started gathering around the TV sets. Sweden’s football match against Russia would be starting shortly. He wanted to finish his conversation with her so that he could watch it too.

Carlman had a contract in his pocket. It would provide her with a large cash sum in exchange for his acquiring the exclusive right to sell her work for three years. On the surface it seemed a very advantageous contract. But the fine print, difficult to read in the pale light of the summer night, granted him certain rights to future paintings. He wiped off two chairs with a handkerchief and invited her to sit. It took him less than half an hour to persuade her to agree to the arrangement. Then he handed her one of the designer pens and she signed the contract.

She left the arbour and went back to the barn. Later she would claim with absolute certainty that it had been three minutes to midnight. For some reason she had looked at the time as she walked along the gravel path up towards the house. With equal conviction she told the police that Arne Carlman had given no impression that he was uneasy. Nor that he was waiting for anyone. He had said that he was going to sit there for a few minutes and enjoy the fresh air after the rain. She hadn’t looked back. But she was certain that there was no-one else in that part of the garden.

Hoover had been hiding on top of the hill all evening. The damp ground made him cold. Now and then he got up to shake some life into his limbs. Just after 11 p.m. he had seen through his binoculars that the moment was approaching. There were fewer and fewer people in the garden. He took out his weapons and stuck them in his belt. He also took off his shoes and socks and put them in his backpack. Then, bent almost double, he slipped down the hill and ran along a tractor path in the cover of a rape field. When he reached the edge of the property, he sank onto the wet ground. Through the hedge he had a view of the garden.

It was not long before his wait was over. Carlman was walking straight towards him, accompanied by a young woman. They sat down in the arbour. Hoover couldn’t hear what they were talking about. After about half an hour the woman got up, but Carlman remained seated. The garden was deserted. The music in the barn had stopped; instead he could hear the blare of TV sets. Hoover got up, drew his axe, and squeezed through the hedge right behind the arbour. Swiftly, he checked again that no-one was in the garden. Then all doubt vanished, and his sister’s revelations exhorted him to carry out his task. He rushed into the arbour and buried the axe in Arne Carlman’s face. The powerful blow split the skull all the way to the upper jaw. He was still sitting on the bench, with the two halves of his head pointing in opposite directions. Hoover pulled out his knife and cut off the hair on the part of Carlman’s head that was closest. Then he left as quickly as he had come. He climbed up the hill, picked up his backpack, and ran down the other side to the little gravel road where he had left his moped leaning against one of the road workers’ huts.

Two hours later he buried the scalp next to the other one, beneath his sister’s window.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the wind had died completely. Midsummer Day would be both fair and warm. Summer had arrived. More quickly than anyone could have imagined.

Skåne

25–28 June 1994

CHAPTER 11

The emergency call came in to the Ystad station just after 2 a.m.

Thomas Brolin had just scored for Sweden in the match against Russia. He rammed in a penalty kick. A cheer rose in the Swedish summer night. It had been an unusually calm Midsummer Eve. The officer who received the call did so standing, since he had leapt to his feet shouting. But he realised at once that the call was serious. The woman shrieking in his ear seemed sober. Her hysteria was real. The officer sent for Hansson, who had felt his temporary appointment as police chief to be such a responsibility that he hadn’t risked leaving the station on Midsummer Eve. He’d been busy weighing how his limited resources could best be employed on each case. At 11 p.m. fights had broken out at two different parties. One was caused by jealousy. In the other the Swedish goalkeeper, Ravelli, was the cause of the tumult. In a report later drafted by Svedberg, he stated that it was Ravelli’s action in the game against Cameroon, when Cameroon scored their second goal, that triggered a violent argument that left three people in hospital.

Hansson went out to the operations centre and spoke with the officer who had taken the call.

“Did she really say that a man had his head split in half?”

The officer nodded. Hansson pondered this.

“We’ll have to ask Svedberg to drive out there,” he said.

“But isn’t he busy with that domestic violence case in Svarte?”

“Right, I forgot,” said Hansson. “Call Wallander.”

For the first time in over a week Wallander had managed to get to sleep before midnight. In a moment of weakness he considered joining the rest of the country watching the match against Russia. But he fell asleep while he was waiting for the players to take the field. When the telephone rang, he didn’t know where he was for a moment. He fumbled on the table next to the bed.

“Did I wake you up?” asked Hansson.

“Yes,” replied Wallander. “What is it?”

Wallander was surprised at himself. He usually claimed that he was awake when someone called, no matter what time it was.

Hansson told him about the call. Later Wallander would brood over why he hadn’t immediately made the connection between what had happened in Bjäresjö and Wetterstedt’s murder. Was it because he didn’t want to believe that they had a serial killer on their hands? Or was he simply incapable of imagining that a murder like Wetterstedt’s could be anything but an isolated event? The only thing he did now was to ask Hansson to dispatch a squad car to the scene ahead of him.

Just before 3 a.m. he pulled up outside the farm in Bjäresjö. On the car radio he heard Martin Dahlin score his second goal against Russia. He realised that Sweden was going to win and that he had lost another 100 kronor.

He saw Norén running over to him, and knew at once that it was serious. But it wasn’t until he went into the garden and passed a number of people who were either hysterical or dumbstruck that he grasped the full extent of the horror. The man who had been sitting on the bench in the arbour had actually had his head split in half. On the left half of his head, someone had also sliced off a large piece of skin and hair.

Wallander stood there completely motionless for more than a minute. Norén said something, but it didn’t register. He stared at the dead man and knew without doubt that it was the same killer who had axed Wetterstedt to death. Then for a brief moment he felt an indescribable sorrow.

Later, talking to Baiba, he tried to explain the unexpected and very un-policeman-like feeling that had struck him. It was as though a dam inside him had burst, and he knew that there were no longer invisible lines dividing Sweden. The violence of the large cities had reached his own police district once and for all. The world had shrunk and expanded at the same time.

Then sorrow gave way to horror. He turned to Norén, who was very pale.

“It looks like the same offender,” said Norén.

Wallander nodded.

“Who’s the victim?” he asked.

“His name is Arne Carlman. He’s the one who owns this farm. There was a Midsummer party going on.”

“No-one must leave yet. Find out if anyone saw anything.”

Wallander took out his phone, punched in the number of the station, and asked for Hansson.

“It looks bad,” he said when Hansson came on.

“How bad?”

“I’m having a hard time thinking of anything worse. There’s no doubt it’s the same person who killed Wetterstedt. This one was scalped too.”

Wallander could hear Hansson’s breathing.

“You’ll have to mobilise everything we’ve got,” Wallander went on “And I want Åkeson to come out here.”

Wallander hung up before Hansson could ask questions. What will I do now? he thought. Who am I looking for? A psychopath? An offender who acts in a precise and calculated way?

Deep inside he knew the answer. There must be a connection between Gustaf Wetterstedt and Arne Carlman. That was the first thing he had to discover.

After 20 minutes the emergency vehicles started arriving. When Wallander caught sight of Nyberg, he ushered him straight to the arbour.

“Not a pretty sight,” was Nyberg’s first comment.

“This has got to be the same man,” said Wallander. “He has struck again.”

“It doesn’t look as though we’ll have trouble identifying the scene of the crime this time,” said Nyberg, pointing at the blood sprayed over the hedge and the table. He summoned his crew and set to work.

Norén had assembled all the guests in the barn. The garden was strangely deserted. He came over to Wallander and pointed up towards the farmhouse.

“He’s got a wife and three children in there. They’re in shock.”

“Maybe we ought to call a doctor.”

“She called one herself.”

“I’ll talk to them,” said Wallander. “When Martinsson and Ann-Britt and the others get here, tell them to talk to anyone who might have seen something. The rest can go home. But write down every name. And don’t forget to ask for identification. Were there any witnesses?”

“Nobody has come forward.”

“Have you got a time frame?”

Norén took a notebook out of his pocket.

“At 11.30 Carlman was seen alive. At 2 a.m. he was found dead. So the murder took place sometime in between.”

“It must be possible to shorten the time span,” said Wallander. “Try and find out who was the last one to see him alive. And of course who found him.”

Wallander went inside. The old Scanian farmhouse had been lovingly restored. Wallander stepped into a large room that served as living-room, kitchen, and dining area. Oil paintings covered the walls. In one corner of the room, the dead man’s family sat on a sofa upholstered in black leather. A woman in her 50s stood up and came over to him.

“Mrs Carlman?”

“Yes.”

She had been crying. Wallander looked for signs that she might break down. But she seemed surprisingly calm.

“I’m sorry,” said Wallander.

“It’s just terrible.”

Wallander noted something a little rehearsed in her answer.

“Do you have any idea who might have done such a thing?”

“No.”

The answer came too quickly. She had been prepared for that question. That means there are plenty of people who might have considered killing him, he told himself.

“May I ask what was your husband’s job?”

“He was an art dealer.”

Wallander stiffened. She misconstrued his intense gaze and repeated her answer.

“I heard you,” said Wallander. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Wallander went back outside. He thought about what the woman inside had said, connecting it with what Lars Magnusson had told him about the rumours about Wetterstedt. Stories of stolen art. And now an art dealer was dead, murdered by the hand that took Wetterstedt’s life. He was about to go back inside when Ann-Britt Höglund came around the corner of the house. She was paler than usual and very tense. Wallander remembered his early years as a detective, when he took every violent crime to heart. From the start, Rydberg had taught him that a policeman could never permit himself to identify with a victim of violence. That lesson had taken Wallander a long time to learn.

“Another one?” she asked.

“Same offender,” said Wallander. “Or offenders.”

“This one scalped too?”

“Yes.”

He saw her flinch involuntarily.

“I think I’ve found something that ties these two men together,” Wallander went on, and explained. In the meantime Svedberg and Martinsson arrived. Wallander quickly repeated what he had told Höglund.

“You’ll have to interview the guests,” said Wallander. “If I understood Norén correctly, there are at least a hundred. And they all have to show some identification before they leave.”

Wallander went back into the house. He pulled up a chair and sat down near the sofa where the family was gathered. Besides Carlman’s widow there were two boys in their 20s and a girl a couple of years older. All of them seemed oddly calm.

“I promise that I’ll only ask questions that we absolutely must have answers to tonight,” he said. “The rest can wait.”

Silence. None of them said a word.

“Do you know who the murderer is?” Wallander asked. “Was it one of the guests?”

“Who else could it be?” replied one of the sons. He had short-cropped blond hair. Wallander had an uneasy feeling that he could see a resemblance to the mutilated face he had just examined out in the arbour.

“Is there anyone in particular that comes to mind?” Wallander continued.

The boy shook his head.

“It doesn’t seem very likely that someone would have chosen to come here when a big party was going on,” said Mrs Carlman.

Someone cold-blooded enough wouldn’t have hesitated, thought Wallander. Or someone crazy enough. Someone who doesn’t care whether he gets caught or not.

“Your husband was an art dealer,” Wallander went on. “Can you describe for me what that involves?”

“My husband has 30 galleries around the country,” she said. “He also has galleries in the other Nordic countries. He sells paintings by mail order. He rents paintings to companies. He’s responsible for a large number of art auctions each year. And much more.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“A successful man is always disliked by those who have the same ambitions but lack the talent.”

“Did your husband ever say he felt threatened?”

“No.”

Wallander looked at the children sitting on the sofa. They shook their heads almost simultaneously.

“When did you see him last?” he continued.

“I danced with him at around 10.30 p.m.,” she said. “Then I saw him a few more times. It might have been around 11 p.m. when I saw him last.”

None of the children had seen him any later than that. Wallander knew that all the other questions could wait. He put his notebook back in his pocket and stood up. He wanted to offer some words of sympathy, but couldn’t think what to say, so he just nodded and left the house.

Sweden had won the football game 3–1. Ravelli had been brilliant; Cameroon was forgotten, and Martin Dahlin’s headed goal was a work of genius. Wallander picked up fragments of conversations going on around him, and pieced them together. Höglund and two other police officers had guessed the right score. Wallander sensed that he had solidified his position as the biggest loser. He couldn’t decide whether this annoyed or pleased him.

They worked hard and efficiently. Wallander set up his temporary headquarters in a storeroom attached to the barn. Just after 4 a.m. Höglund came in with a young woman who spoke a distinct Göteborg dialect.

“She was the last one to see him alive,” said Höglund. “She was with Carlman in the arbour just before midnight.”

Wallander asked her to sit down. She told him her name was Madelaine Rhedin and she was an artist.

“What were you doing in the arbour?” asked Wallander.

“Arne wanted me to sign a contract.”

“What sort of contract?”

“To sell my paintings.”

“And you signed it?”

“Yes.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I got up and left. I looked at my watch. It was 11.57 p.m.”

“Why did you look at your watch?”

“I usually do when something important happens.”

“The contract was important?”

“I was supposed to get 200,000 kronor on Monday. For a poor artist that’s a big deal.”

“Was there anyone nearby when you were sitting in the arbour?”

“Not that I saw.”

“And when you left?”

“The garden was deserted.”

“What did Carlman do when you left?”

“He stayed there.”

“How do you know? Did you turn around?”

“He told me he was going to enjoy the fresh air. I didn’t hear him get up.”