Wallander looked around. A single tree bent over by the wind stood on top of the hill. An old bicycle frame lay half-buried in the ground. Wallander stood next to the tree and looked at the farm in the distance. The view of the garden was excellent. With binoculars it would have been possible to see who was outside the house at any given time.
He shuddered at the thought that someone else, someone unknown to him, had stood on the same spot earlier that night. He went back to the garden. Hansson and Svedberg were sitting on the steps of the farmhouse. Their faces were grey with fatigue.
“Where’s Ann-Britt?” asked Wallander.
“She’s getting rid of the last guest,” said Svedberg.
“Martinsson? What’s he doing?”
“He’s on the phone.”
Wallander sat down next to the others on the steps. The sun was already starting to feel hot.
“We’ve got to keep at it a little longer,” he said. “When Ann-Britt is done, we’ll go back to Ystad. We have to summarise what we know and decide what to do next.”
No-one spoke. Hoglund emerged from the barn. She crouched in front of the others.
“To think that so many people can see so little,” she said wearily. “It’s beyond me.”
Eskilsson passed by with his dog. They heard Nyberg’s grumpy voice near the arbour.
Martinsson came striding around the corner of the house. He had a telephone in his hand.
“This may be irrelevant right now,” he said. “But we’ve received a message from Interpol. They have a positive identification of the girl who burned herself to death.”
Wallander looked at him quizzically.
“The girl in Salomonsson’s field?”
“Yes.”
Wallander got up.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know. But there’s a message waiting for you at the station.”
They left Bjaresjo at once and headed back to Ystad.
CHAPTER 12
Dolores Maria Santana.
It was 5.45 a.m. on Midsummer morning. Martinsson read out the message from Interpol identifying the girl.
“Where’s she from?” asked Hoglund.
“The message is from the Dominican Republic,” replied Martinsson. “It came via Madrid.”
Puzzled, he looked around the room.
Hoglund knew the answer.
“The Dominican Republic is one half of the island where Haiti is,” she said. “In the West Indies. Isn’t it called Hispaniola?”
“How the hell did she wind up here, in a rape field?” asked Wallander. “Who is she? What else did Interpol say?”
“I haven’t had time to go through the message in detail,” said Martinsson. “But it seems that her father has been looking for her, and she was reported missing in late November last year. The report was originally filed in a city called Santiago.”
“Isn’t that in Chile?” Wallander interrupted, surprised.
“This city is called Santiago de los Treinta Caballeros,” said Martinsson. “Don’t we have an atlas somewhere?”
“I’ll get one,” said Svedberg and left the room.
A few minutes later he returned, shaking his head.
“It must have been Bjork’s,” he said. “I couldn’t find it.”
“Call our bookseller and wake him up,” said Wallander. “I want an atlas here now.”
“Are you aware that it’s not even six in the morning and it’s Midsummer Day?” Svedberg asked.
“It can’t be helped. Call him. And send a car over to get it.”
Wallander took a 100-krona note out of his wallet and gave it to Svedberg. A few minutes later Svedberg had roused the bookseller and the car was on its way.
They got coffee and went into the conference room. Hansson told them that they wouldn’t be disturbed by anyone except Nyberg. Wallander took a look around the table. He met the gazes of the group of weary faces and wondered how he looked himself.
“We’ll have to come back to the girl later,” he began. “Right now we need to concentrate on what happened last night. And we might as well assume from the start that the same person who killed Gustaf Wetterstedt has struck again. The modus operandi is the same, even though Carlman was struck in the head and Wetterstedt had his spine severed. But both of them were scalped.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Svedberg. “The man who did this must be a complete animal.”
Wallander held up his hand.
“Hold on a minute,” he said. “There’s something else we know too. Arne Carlman was an art dealer. And now I’m going to tell you something I learnt yesterday.”
Wallander told them about his conversation with Lars Magnusson, and the rumours about Wetterstedt.
“So we have a conceivable link,” he concluded. “Art: stolen art and fenced art. And somewhere, when we find the point that connects the two men, we’ll find the offender.”
No-one spoke. Everyone seemed to be considering what Wallander had said.
“We know where to concentrate our investigation,” Wallander continued. “Finding the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman. But we have another problem.”
He looked around the table and could see that they understood.
“The killer could strike again,” said Wallander. “We don’t know why he killed either man. So we don’t know whether he’s after other people too. And we don’t know who they might be. The only thing we can hope for is that the people threatened are aware of it.”
“Another thing we don’t know,” said Martinsson. “Is the man insane? We don’t know whether the motive is revenge or something else. We can’t even be sure that he hasn’t simply invented a motive. No-one can predict the workings of an insane mind.”
“You’re right, of course,” replied Wallander. “We’re dealing with many unknowns.”
“Maybe this is just the beginning,” Hansson said grimly. “Do you think we’ve got a serial killer on our hands?”
“It could be that bad,” said Wallander firmly. “That’s why I also think we should get some help from outside, from the criminal psychiatric division in Stockholm. Since this man’s modus operandi is so remarkable, perhaps they can do a psychiatric profile of him.”
“Has this offender killed before?” asked Svedberg. “Or is this the first time?”
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “But he’s cautious. I get a feeling that he plans what he does very carefully. When he strikes he does it without hesitation. There could be at least two reasons for this. First, he doesn’t want to get caught. Second, he doesn’t want to be interrupted before he finishes what he set out to do.”
A shudder of revulsion passed through the group.
“This is where we have to start,” he said. “Where is the connection between Wetterstedt and Carlman? Where do their paths cross? That’s what we have to clarify. And we have to do it as quickly as possible.”
“We should also realise that we won’t be working in peace,” said Hansson. “Reporters will be swarming around us. They know that Carlman was scalped. They have the story they’ve been longing for. For some strange reason Swedes love to read about crime when they’re on holiday.”
“That might not be such a bad thing,” said Wallander. “At least it might send a warning to anyone who might be on the hit list.”
“We ought to stress that we want clues from the public,” said Hoglund. “If we assume that you’re right, that the murderer has a list he’s working through, and that other people could realise that they’re on it, then there may be a chance that some of them have an idea of who the killer is.”