Martinsson gave him a puzzled look.
“Do we really have time for her now?”
“No. But we can’t just let it drop either.”
Martinsson promised to send off another request. Wallander went in his office and called Lars Magnusson. He answered after a long time. Wallander could hear that he was drunk.
“I need to continue our conversation,” he said.
“I don’t conduct conversations at this time of day,” said Magnusson.
“Make some coffee,” said Wallander. “And put away the bottles. I’m coming over in half an hour.” He hung up on Magnusson’s protests.
Someone had placed two preliminary autopsy reports on his desk. Wallander had gradually learned to decipher the language used by pathologists and forensic doctors. Many years ago he had taken a course in Uppsala arranged by the national police board. Wallander remembered how unpleasant it was to visit an autopsy room.
There was nothing unexpected in the reports. He put them aside and looked out the window, trying to visualise the killer. What did he look like? What was he doing right now? But Wallander saw nothing but darkness before him. Depressed, he got up and left.
CHAPTER 17
When Wallander left Lars Magnusson’s flat after more than two hours of trying to conduct a coherent conversation, all he wanted to do was go home and take a bath. He hadn’t noticed the filth on his first visit, but this time it was obvious. The front door was ajar when Wallander arrived. Magnusson was lying on the sofa while a saucepan of coffee boiled over in the kitchen. He’d greeted Wallander by telling him to go to hell.
“Don’t come around here, just get out and forget there’s anyone called Lars Magnusson,” he’d shouted.
But Wallander stood his ground. The coffee on the stove indicated that Magnusson had thought he might talk to someone in the daytime after all. Wallander searched in vain for clean cups. In the sink were plates on which the food and grease seemed have fossilised. Eventually he found two cups, which he washed and carried into the living-room.
Magnusson wore only a pair of dirty shorts. He was unshaven and clutched a bottle of dessert wine like a crucifix. Wallander was horrified at his dissipation. What he found most disgusting was that Lars Magnusson was losing his teeth. Wallander grew annoyed and then angry that the man on the sofa wasn’t listening to him. He yanked the bottle away from him and demanded answers to his questions. He had no idea what authority he was acting on. But Magnusson did as he was told. He even hauled himself up to a sitting position. Wallander wanted to get more of a sense of the time when Wetterstedt was minister of justice, of the rumours and scandal. But Magnusson seemed to have forgotten everything. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said on Wallander’s last visit. Finally, Wallander gave him back the bottle and once he had taken a few more slugs, feeble memories begin to surface.
Wallander left the flat with one lead. In an unexpected moment of clarity, Magnusson remembered that there was a policeman on the Stockholm vice squad who had developed a particular interest in Wetterstedt. Rumour had it that this man, who Magnusson remembered was Hugo Sandin, had created a dossier on Wetterstedt. As far as Magnusson knew, nothing had ever come of it. He’d heard that Sandin had moved south when he retired and now lived with his son, who had a pottery workshop outside Hassleholm.
“If he’s still alive,” Magnusson said, smiling his toothless smile, as though he hoped that Hugo Sandin had died before him.
Wallander drove back to the station, feeling determined to locate Sandin. In reception he ran into Svedberg, whose burnt face was still troubling him.
“Wetterstedt was interviewed by a journalist from MagaZenith,” said Svedberg.
Wallander had never heard of the magazine.
“Retirees get it,” Svedberg told him. “The journalist’s name was Anna-Lisa Blomgren, and she did take a photographer with her. Now that Wetterstedt is dead they aren’t going to publish the article.”
“Talk to her,” said Wallander. “And ask for the pictures.”
Wallander went to his office. He called the switchboard and asked them to find Nyberg, who called back 15 minutes later.
“Do you remember the camera from Wetterstedt’s house?” Wallander asked.
“Of course I remember,” said Nyberg grumpily.
“Has the film been developed yet? There were seven pictures exposed.”
“Didn’t you get them?” Nyberg asked, surprised.
“No.”
“They should have been sent over to you last Saturday.”
“I never got them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe they’re lying around somewhere.”
“I’ll have to look into this,” said Nyberg. “I’ll get back to you.”
Somebody would bear the brunt of Nyberg’s wrath, and Wallander was glad that it wouldn’t be him.
He found the number of the Hassleholm police and after some difficulty managed to get hold of Hugo Sandin’s phone number. When Wallander asked about Sandin, he was told that he was about 85 years old but that his mind was still sharp.
“He usually stops by to visit a couple of times a year,” said the officer Wallander spoke to, who introduced himself as Mork.
Wallander wrote down the number and thanked him. Then he called Malmo and asked for the doctor who had done the autopsy on Wetterstedt.
“There’s nothing in the report about the time of death,” Wallander said to him. “That’s very important for us.”
The doctor asked him to wait a moment while he got his file. After a moment he returned and apologised.
“It was left out of the report. Sometimes my dictaphone acts up. But Wetterstedt died less than 24 hours before he was found. We’re still waiting for some results from the laboratory that will enable us to narrow the time span further.”
“I’ll wait for those results,” said Wallander and thanked him.
He went in to see Svedberg, who was at his computer.
“Did you talk to that journalist?”
“I’m just typing up a report.”
“Did you get the time of their visit?”
Svedberg looked through his notes.
“They got to Wetterstedt’s house at 10 a.m. and stayed until 1 p.m.”
“After that, nobody else saw him alive?”
Svedberg thought for a moment. “Not that I know of.”
“So, we know that much,” said Wallander and left the room.
He was just about to call Hugo Sandin, when Martinsson came in.
“Have you got a minute?” he asked.
“Always,” said Wallander. “What’s up?”
Martinsson waved a letter.
“This came in the mail today,” he said. “It’s from someone who says he gave a girl a ride from Helsingborg to Tomelilla on Monday, 20 June. He’s seen the description of the girl in the papers, and thinks it might have been her.”
Martinsson handed the envelope to Wallander, who took out the letter and read it.
“No signature,” he said.
“But the letterhead is interesting.”
Wallander nodded. “Smedstorp Parish,” he said. “Official church stationery.”
“We’ll have to look into it,” said Martinsson.
“We certainly will,” said Wallander. “If you take care of Interpol and the other things you’re busy with, I’ll look after this.”
“I still don’t see how we have time,” said Martinsson.
“We’ll make time,” said Wallander.
After Martinsson left, Wallander realised that he’d been subtly criticised for not leaving the suicide case for the moment. Martinsson might be right, he thought. There was no space for anything but Wetterstedt and Carlman. But then he decided the criticism was unjustified. They must make time to handle every case.
As if to prove that he was right, Wallander left the station and drove out of town towards Tomelilla and Smedstorp. The drive gave him time to think about the murders. The summer landscape seemed a surreal backdrop to his thoughts. Two men are axed to death and scalped, he thought. A young girl walks into a rape field and sets herself on fire. And all around me it’s summertime. Skane couldn’t be more beautiful than this. There’s a paradise hidden in every corner of this countryside. To find it, all you have to do is keep your eyes open. But you might also glimpse hearses on the roads.