“That’s the one. He must have seen his successor at some point.”
“The ferry leaves at six tomorrow morning.”
“So you’ll have to take care of all this by then,” Wallander said patiently.
Hansson disappeared. Wallander and Martinsson remained in the cafeteria for a while longer. Susann Bexell came in after a while and sat down with them. She was very pale.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said. “First a young woman burned to death in a high-voltage area, and now this.”
“Can you confirm if the victim is a young man?” Wallander said.
“Yes, it’s a young man.”
“Can you give us a cause of death? A time?”
“Of course not. You saw what kind of shape he was in. The boy was completely crushed. One of the rescue workers vomited. I have a great deal of understanding for that reaction.”
“Is Nyberg still there?”
“I think so.”
Bexell left. Captain Sund still had not returned. Martinsson’s cell phone started to vibrate. It was Lisa Holgersson calling from Copenhagen. Martinsson stretched the phone out to Wallander, but he shook his head.
“You talk to her.”
“What should I tell her?”
“Tell her the facts. What do you think?”
Wallander got up and started pacing up and down the empty cafeteria. Landahl’s death had closed an avenue that had seemed promising. But what kept working its way to the front of his mind was the idea that his death might have been avoidable, if it was the case that Landahl had fled not because he was the killer but because he feared someone else. The real murderer.
Wallander chastised himself. He hadn’t been thinking clearly. He had simply jumped to the easiest conclusion without keeping other theories in mind. And now Landahl was dead.
Martinsson finished his conversation and put his phone away. Wallander returned.
“I don’t think she was completely sober, to tell you the truth,” he said.
“She’s at a police conference,” Wallander replied. “But at least now she knows what our evening has been like.”
Captain Sund returned.
“There is one bag that was left behind in one of the cabins,” he said.
Wallander and Martinsson got up at the same time. They followed the captain through a myriad of corridors until they came to a cabin with a woman wearing the company uniform posted outside. She was Polish and spoke poor Swedish.
“According to our records this cabin was booked by a passenger named Jonasson.”
Wallander and Martinsson exchanged glances.
“Is there anyone who can give us a description of him?”
It turned out that the captain spoke excellent Polish. He translated the question for the woman, who listened and then shook her head.
“He didn’t share the cabin with anyone?”
“No.”
Wallander went in. The cabin was narrow and windowless. Wallander shuddered at the thought of having to spend a stormy night in such quarters. On the bed that was attached to the wall there was a small suitcase with wheels. Martinsson handed him a pair of rubber gloves, which he put on. He opened the bag. It was empty. They searched the room for about ten minutes but without results.
“Nyberg will have to take a look in here,” Wallander said when they had given up. “And the taxi driver who took Landahl to the ferry might be able to identify the bag.”
Wallander went back out into the corridor. Martinsson made the arrangements to keep the cabin undisturbed and unoccupied until further notice. Wallander looked at the doors to the cabins on either side. There were used sheets and towels outside each one. The numbers on the doors were 309 and 311.
“Try to find out who the people were who were staying on either side,” Wallander said. “They may have heard something or even seen someone come or go.” Martinsson wrote it down in his notebook, then started speaking in English to the Polish woman. Wallander had often been envious of Martinsson’s proficiency in that language. Wallander spoke it badly. Linda had often teased him about his poor pronunciation, especially when they traveled together. Captain Sund escorted Wallander back up the stairs.
It was almost midnight.
“Would it be in order for me to offer refreshments of a stronger nature after this ordeal?” Sund asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Wallander said.
A call came through on Sund’s radio. He excused himself. Wallander was actually glad to be left alone. His conscience kept gnawing at him. Could Landahl have had a chance if Wallander had made different assumptions from the beginning? He knew there was no answer to be found, just the reality of having to live with his self-accusations.
Martinsson turned up after twenty minutes.
“There was a Norwegian named Larsen in room 309. He’s probably on the road to Norway as we speak, but I do have his phone number. In 311, however, there was a couple from Ystad, a Mr. and Mrs. Tomander.”
“Talk to them first thing tomorrow,” Wallander said. “That may give us something.”
“I saw Nyberg on the stairs, by the way. He was covered in oil up to his waist. But he promised to take a look at the cabin once he had put on fresh clothes.”
“I don’t know that we can do much else tonight,” Wallander said.
They walked together through the deserted ferry terminal, where a few young men were sleeping curled up on benches. The ticket counters were all closed. They stopped when they reached Wallander’s car.
“We have to go through everything again tomorrow morning,” Wallander said. “At eight o’clock.”
Martinsson studied his face.
“You seem nervous.”
“That’s because I am. I’m always nervous when I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“How is the internal investigation going?”
“I haven’t heard anything new. No journalists have tried to call, either, but that may be because I keep my phone unplugged most of the time.”
“It’s too bad when these things happen.” Martinsson said. Wallander sensed a double meaning in his words. He was on his guard immediately, and angry.
“What exactly do you mean?”
“Isn’t it what we’re always afraid of? That we’re going to lose control and start lashing out at people?”
“I slapped her. End of story. I was trying to protect her mother.”
“I know,” Martinsson said. “But still.”
He doesn’t believe me, Wallander thought after he sat down behind the wheel. Maybe no one does.
The insight came as a shock. He had never before felt truly betrayed or abandoned by his closest colleagues. He sat there without even turning on the engine. The feeling overwhelmed him, even overshadowing the image of the young man who had been crushed in the propeller axles.
For the second time that week he felt hurt and bitter. I’m quitting, he thought. I’ll turn in my pink slip first thing tomorrow and then they can shove this whole investigation up their ass.
He was still upset when he got home. In his mind he continued a heated discussion with Martinsson.
It took a long time for him to fall asleep.
They met at eight o’clock the following morning. Viktorsson joined them, as did Nyberg, who still had oil under his fingernails. Wallander was in a better mood this morning than he had been the previous night. He was not going to quit, nor would he confront Martinsson. First he would wait for the results of the internal investigation. Then he would wait for the right moment to tell his colleagues what he thought of them and their lack of faith in him.
They talked at length about the events of last night. Martinsson had already spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Tomander, neither of whom had seen or heard anything from the cabin next door. The Norwegian, Larsen, had not yet reached his home, but his wife had assured Martinsson he would be back by mid-morning.