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. Hoglund 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. Hoglund came in with a young woman who spoke a distinct Goteborg dialect.
“She was the last one to see him alive,” said Hoglund. “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.”
“Did he seem uneasy?”
“No, he was cheerful.”
“Think it over,” Wallander said. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember something else. Anything might be important. I want you to keep in touch.”
When she left the room, Akeson came in from the other direction. He was totally white. He sat down heavily on the chair Madelaine Rhedin had just vacated.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” he said.
“You didn’t have to look at him,” said Wallander. “That’s not why I wanted you to come.”
“I don’t know how you stand it,” said Akeson.
“Me neither,” said Wallander.
Suddenly Akeson was all business.
“Is it the same man who killed Wetterstedt?” he asked.
“Without a doubt.”
“In other words, he may strike again?”
Wallander nodded. Akeson grimaced.
“If there was ever a time to give priority to an investigation, this is it,” he said. “I assume you need more personnel, don’t you? I can pull some strings if necessary.”
“Not yet,” said Wallander. “A large number of policemen might aid the capture if we knew the killer’s name and what he looked like. But we’re not that far yet.”
He told him what Magnusson had said, and that Arne Carlman was an art dealer.
“There’s a connection,” he concluded “And that will make the work easier.”
Akeson was doubtful.
“I hope you won’t put all your eggs in one basket too early,” he said.
“I’m not closing any doors,” said Wallander. “But I have to explore every avenue I find.”
Akeson stayed for another hour before he drove back to Ystad. By 5 a.m. reporters had begun to show up at the farm. Furious, Wallander called the station and demanded that Hansson deal with them. He knew already that they wouldn’t be able to conceal the fact that Carlman had been scalped. Hansson held an improvised and exceedingly chaotic press conference on the road outside the farm. Meanwhile Martinsson, Svedberg and Hoglund herded out the guests, who all had to undergo a short interrogation. Wallander interviewed the sculptor who had discovered Carlman’s body. He was extremely drunk.
“Why did you go out to the garden?” asked Wallander.
“To throw up.”
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you throw up?”
“Behind one of the apple trees.”
“Then what happened?”
“I thought I’d sit in the arbour to clear my head.”
“And then?”
“I found him.”
Wallander had been forced to stop there, because the sculptor started feeling sick again. He got up and went down to the arbour. The sky was clear, and the sun was already high. Midsummer Day would be warm and beautiful. When he reached the arbour he saw to his relief that Nyberg had covered Carlman’s head with an opaque plastic sheet. Nyberg was on his knees next to the hedge that separated the garden from the adjacent rape field.
“How’s it going?” asked Wallander encouragingly.
“There’s a slight trace of blood on the hedge here,” he said. “It couldn’t have sprayed this far from the arbour.”
“What does that mean?” asked Wallander.
“It’s your job to answer that,” replied Nyberg.
He pointed at the hedge.
“Right here it’s quite sparse,” he said. “It would have been possible for someone with a slight build to slip in and out of the garden this way. We’ll have to see what we find on the other side. But I suggest you get a dog out here. A.S.A.P.”
Wallander nodded.
The officer, named Eskilsson, arrived with his German shepherd shortly afterwards, as the last of the guests were leaving the garden. Wallander nodded to him. The dog was old and had been in service for a long time. His name was Shot.
The dog picked up a scent in the arbour at once and started towards the hedge. He wanted to push through the hedge exactly at the spot where Nyberg had found the blood. Eskilsson and Wallander found another spot where the hedge was thin and emerged onto the path that ran between Carlman’s property and the field. The dog found the scent again, following it alongside the field towards a dirt road that led away from the farm. At Wallander’s suggestion Eskilsson released the dog. Wallander felt a surge of excitement. The dog sniffed along the dirt road and came to the end of the field. Here he seemed to lose his bearings for a moment. Then he found the scent and kept following it towards a hill, where the trail seemed to end. Eskilsson searched in various directions, but the dog couldn’t find the scent again.