Ten minutes later the phone rang. He wondered nervously if it could be a journalist but decided it was too early for that. They didn’t normally call before half past four in the morning. He picked up the receiver. She launched directly into what she had to say.
“It was the index finger on the right hand and the ring finger on the left hand.”
Wallander felt a stir of excitement.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“Yes. It’s a pretty unusual way of typing, but that’s what he did.”
“Good,” Wallander said. “That confirms something for us.”
“You have to understand that you’ve made me very curious.”
Wallander considered telling her about the missing fingers, but decided to hold off.
“Unfortunately I can’t tell you anything more at this point. Perhaps later.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“We’re still working on that one,” Wallander said. “Don’t forget to fax me that list of clients tomorrow. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Wallander got up and walked over to the window. The temperature had risen to about seven degrees Celsius. The wind was still strong, and there was a light rain. It was four minutes to three. Wallander went back to bed, but the missing fingers danced in front of his eyes for a long time before he managed to sleep.
The man waiting in the shadows by Runnerström Square was counting his breaths. He had learnt to do so as a child. Breathing and patience were connected. A person had to know when it was best to wait.
Listening to his own breaths was also a way to keep his anxiety in check. There had been too many unanticipated turns of events. He knew it wasn’t possible to have total control over a situation, but Tynnes Falk’s death had been a huge blow. Now they were busy reorganizing. Control would soon be achieved, which was just as well since time was running out. But if there was no more interference, they would be able to stay on track with their original schedule.
He thought about the man who lived far away in tropical darkness. A man he had never met, yet one he both feared and respected. He held everything in his hand.
There could be no mistakes.
Mistakes would not be tolerated.
But there were no grounds for his anxiety. Who would be able to break into the computer that functioned as the heart of the operation? It was simply a failure of confidence.
If there had been any mistake so far, it was that he had not managed to kill the policeman in Falk’s apartment. But even so, they were safe. The policeman probably didn’t know anything.
Of course, Falk himself had often said that nothing and no one is ever completely safe. And he had been right. Now he was dead. No one could ever be totally safe.
They had to take care. The man who now stood alone at the helm had told him to hold off and see what happened next. If the policeman was attacked a second time it would only attract unnecessary attention.
He had kept watch outside the building on Apelbergsgatan, and when the policeman made his way to Runnerström Square he had followed him. He had been expecting this, that they would discover the secret office. A little later, another policeman had arrived. He had been carrying bags. The first policeman had then left the apartment, only to return about an hour later. Then they had both left Falk’s office before midnight.
He had continued to wait, all the while counting his breaths. Now it was three o’clock in the morning and the Square was completely deserted. He was cold. He decided that it was very unlikely that anyone would come by at this time. Finally he slid out of the shadows and walked across the street. He unlocked the front door and ran soundlessly up the stairs. He had his gloves on when he unlocked the door to the apartment. He walked in, turned on his flashlight, and looked around. They had found the door to the inner room, but he had expected as much. Without really knowing why, he had developed a kind of respect for the policeman he had tried to kill. The man’s reaction had been very quick despite the fact that he was no longer young. He must have learnt this early in life.
It was always a mistake to underestimate an opponent.
He trained the flashlight on the computer and started it up. The monitor came on, and after a while he was able to search out the file that showed him when the computer was last booted up. Six days ago. The policemen had not touched it.
It was too soon to feel safe, however. It could simply be a question of time. They might be planning to use a specialist. That caused him a pang of anxiety, but the bottom line was that no matter who they used they would not be able to break the codes. Not in a thousand years. Someone with an extreme sense of intuition might have some luck, but how likely was it when they didn’t even know what they were looking for? They couldn’t imagine what this computer was set up to do, not in their wildest dreams.
He left the apartment as silently as he had come and melted back into the shadows.
When Wallander woke up the next morning, he felt as if he had overslept. But when he looked at the clock it was only five minutes past six o’clock. He had slept for three hours. He fell back against the pillows. His head was pounding from lack of sleep. I need ten more minutes, he thought. Make that seven. I just can’t get up right now.
But he forced himself up and walked unsteadily out to the bathroom. His eyes were bloodshot. He stepped into the warm spray of water in the shower and leaned against the wall like a horse. He slowly came back to life.
At five minutes to seven he was in the parking lot at the station. It was still raining softly. Hansson was unusually early. He was in the reception area flipping through a newspaper. He was also wearing a suit and tie, although his normal outfits consisted of wrinkled corduroy pants and shirts that hadn’t been ironed.
“Is it your birthday?” Wallander asked.
Hansson shook his head.
“I happened to see myself in the mirror the other day. Not a pretty picture. I thought I should try to make more of an effort. Anyway, it’s Saturday today. We’ll see how long it lasts.”
They walked over to the lunchroom together and had the obligatory cup of coffee. Wallander told him what had happened during the night.
“That’s crazy,” Hansson said when he finished. “What kind of a sicko dumps a corpse on the street?”
“That’s what we’re paid to find out,” Wallander said. “By the way, you’re in charge of looking out for dogs tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Martinsson’s idea. He says someone out walking a dog might have noticed something unusual along Missunnavagen last night. We thought you could be posted there just to stop them as they walk by.”
“Why me?”
“You like dogs, don’t you?”
“I have dinner plans tonight. It’s Saturday night, remember?”
“You’ll be able to do both. It’s fine if you get there shortly before eleven.”
Hansson nodded. Even though Wallander had never liked him very much, he had to commend him for his willingess to put in the time when needed.
“I’ll see you at eight in the conference room,” Wallander said. “We need to review and discuss the latest events.”
“It doesn’t seem like we do anything else. And where does it get us?” Wallander sat down at his desk, looked over his notes, and let himself sink deeply into thought. Nothing in all of this makes any sense, he thought. I can’t find a beginning or end. I have no idea why all these people have died. But there has to be a motive in here somewhere.
He got up and walked over to the window, coffee cup in hand.
What would Rydberg do? he thought. Would he have had any advice in this situation? Or would he feel as lost as I do?