There was no information as yet on the Mercedes van, but Wallander had received a fax from the American Express office in Hong Kong confirming that there was no one by the name of Fu Cheng at the address indicated on the card. Robert Modin was still wrestling with Falk’s computer. After a long and, in Wallander’s opinion, unnecessary discussion they decided to wait yet another day before bringing in the computer experts from the National Police.
At six o’clock they were exhausted. Wallander looked at the pale and tired faces around him. He knew that the only thing he could do now was let everyone go home. They decided to meet again at eight the following morning. Wallander kept working after the meeting was over, but at half past eight even he went home. He ate the leftovers of his spaghetti dinner and lay down on his bed to read a book. It was an account of Napoleon’s various military campaigns, and it was incredibly boring. He soon fell asleep with the book draped over his face.
The phone rang. At first he didn’t know where he was or what time it was. He answered. It was someone from the station.
“One of the ferries approaching Ystad has just contacted us,” said the policeman on night duty.
“What’s happened?”
“One of the axles for the propellers started malfunctioning, and when they located the problem they called us immediately.”
“Yes?”
“There was a dead body down in the engine room.”
Wallander caught his breath.
“Where’s the ferry?”
“It’s only half an hour from land.”
“I’m coming right down.”
“Should I notify anyone else?”
Wallander thought for a moment.
“Call Martinsson and Hansson. And Nyberg. We’ll meet at the terminal.”
“Anything else?”
“Call Chief Holgersson.”
“She’s at a police conference in Copenhagen.”
“I don’t care. Call her.”
“What should I tell her?”
“That a suspected murderer is on his way back from Poland. But that unfortunately he’s coming back dead.”
They ended the conversation. Wallander knew he didn’t need to spend any more time thinking about where Jonas Landahl was.
Twenty minutes later he met his colleagues by the ferry terminal and waited for the large ship to dock.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As Wallander was climbing down the steep stairs into the engine room, he had a strong feeling that he was descending into an inferno. Even though the ferry was securely docked and the noise from below had died down to an even hum, he felt as though there was still a hell down there waiting for him. Two pale engineers and an equally pale first mate had greeted them and escorted them to the engine room. They had managed to communicate that the body waiting for them in the oily water below had been mutilated beyond the point of recognition. Someone, perhaps Martinsson, said the pathologist was on her way. A fire truck with rescue personnel was waiting outside.
Despite his misgivings, Wallander wanted to be the first to go down. Martinsson was glad to be excused. Hansson had still not arrived. Wallander asked Martinsson to take charge of documenting the events surrounding the discovery of the body and asked him to send Hansson down as soon as he arrived.
Then Wallander set off downstairs, closely followed by Nyberg. The technician who had first discovered the body accompanied them. Once they had reached the bottom, he directed them to the stern. Wallander was astonished by the size of the room. Finally the technician stopped at a ladder and pointed down into the abyss. Wallander started climbing down. While they were still on the ladder, Nyberg stepped on his hand. Wallander cursed from the pain and almost lost his grip but managed to catch himself. Then they made it all the way down and there, under one of the two large, oily propeller axles, was the body.
The engineers had not been exaggerating. Wallander had the distinct impression that what he was looking at was no longer human. It was as if a newly-slaughtered animal carcass had been thrown in there. Nyberg groaned. Wallander thought he hissed something about his retirement. Wallander was surprised that he didn’t feel the slightest bit queasy. He had been forced to endure so many terrible sights during his career. Car accidents. The remains of people who had died at home and not been discovered for months. But this was among the worst he had ever seen. There had been a picture of Jonas Landahl in his bedroom. A young man with a very normal appearance. Now Wallander tried to gauge if the body in front of him belonged to the person he had assumed it must be. But the face was almost completely gone. In its place was a bloody lump without any features.
The boy in the picture had been blond. The head in front of him, almost completely severed from the body, had a few tufts of hair remaining that were not matted with oil. They looked light. That was enough for Wallander, although it didn’t necessarily prove anything. He stepped aside so Nyberg could take a closer look. Then Susann Bexell arrived, accompanied by two rescue workers.
“How in the hell did he end up down here?” Nyberg asked.
Even though the engine was idling at low speed, he had to shout to make himself heard. Wallander shook his head without answering. Then he felt an almost violent urge to get out of there, to leave this hell as soon as possible. If only to be able to think clearly. He left Nyberg, the pathologist, and the rescue workers and climbed the ladder. He made it all the way up to the deck, walked outside, and took some deep breaths. Martinsson turned up from somewhere and asked him how it was.
“Worse than you can imagine.”
“Is it Landahl?”
They hadn’t talked openly about this possibility until now. But clearly it had been in Martinsson’s mind, too.
“It was too hard to tell,” Wallander said. “But I’m sure it was him.”
Then he tried to muster his organizational skills. Martinsson had found out that the ferry was not scheduled to leave again until the following morning. That would give them enough time to finish the forensic investigation and remove the body.
“I’ve already asked for a list of passengers,” Martinsson said. “But there was no record of a Jonas Landahl, at least for this trip.”
“But he was on board today,” Wallander said firmly. “Whether or not he appears on the list. He may have used a different name. We’ll need a printout of that list and all the names of the crew. Then we’ll see if there isn’t some name that looks familiar or like a version of Landahl.”
“You’re ruling out the possibility that it was an accident?”
“Yes,” Wallander said. “It’s about as much of an accident as what happened to Sonja Hökberg. And it’s the same people.”
Then he asked if Hansson had arrived. Martinsson said he was questioning the engineers.
They went back inside. The ferry seemed completely deserted. A small cleaning crew was working on the broad staircase that connected the different levels of the ship. Wallander directed Martinsson to the large cafeteria. There wasn’t a single person to be seen, but there were noises coming from the kitchen. Through the windows they saw the lights of Ystad.
“See if you can get hold of some coffee,” he said. “We need to talk.” Martinsson walked off in the direction of the kitchen. Wallander sat down at a table. What did it mean that Jonas Landahl was dead? He was slowly coming up with two different theories that he wanted to discuss with Martinsson.