“I don’t recognise the name.”
“Well, he’s the one who knew about you.”
Sandin sat silently, stroking his lips with one finger. Wallander sensed that he was looking for the right place to begin.
“The truth about Wetterstedt is straightforward,” said Sandin. “He was a crook. He may have appeared to be a competent minister of justice. But he was totally unsuitable for the role.”
“Why?”
“His activities were governed by attention to his career rather than the good of the country. That’s the worst testimonial you can give a government minister.”
“And yet he was in line to be leader of the party?”
Sandin shook his head vigorously.
“That’s not true,” he said. “That was media speculation. Within the party it was obvious that he could never be their leader. It’s hard to see why he was even a member.”
“But he was minister of justice for years. He couldn’t have been totally unsuitable.”
“You’re too young to remember. But there was a change sometime in the 1950s. It was barely perceptible, but it happened. Sweden was sailing along on unbelievably fair winds. It seemed as though unlimited funds were available to obliterate poverty. At the same time a change occurred in political life. Politicians were turning into professionals. Career politicians. Before, idealism had been a dominant part of political life. Now this idealism began to be diluted. People like Wetterstedt began their ascent. Youth associations became the hatcheries for the politicians of the future.”
“Let’s talk about the scandals,” said Wallander, afraid that Sandin would get lost in political reminiscences.
“He used prostitutes,” said Sandin. “He wasn’t the only one, of course. But he had certain predilections that he subjected the girls to.”
“I heard that one girl filed a complaint,” said Wallander.
“Her name was Karin Bengtsson,” said Sandin. “She came from an unhappy background in Eksjo. She ran away to Stockholm and came to our notice for the first time in 1954. A few years later she wound up with the group from which Wetterstedt picked his girls. In January 1957 she filed a complaint against him. He had slashed her feet with a razor blade. I met her myself at the time. She could hardly walk. Wetterstedt knew he’d gone too far. The complaint was dropped, and Bengtsson was paid off. She received money to invest in a clothing boutique in Vasteras. In 1959, money magically appeared in her bank account, enough to buy a house. In 1960, she started holidaying in Mallorca every year.”
“Who came up with the money?”
“Even then there were slush funds. The Swedish royal family had established a precedent by paying off women who had been intimate with the old king.”
“Is Karin Bengtsson still alive?”
“She died in 1984. She never married. I didn’t see her after she moved to Vasteras. But she called once in a while, right until the last year of her life. She was usually drunk.”
“Why did she call?”
“As soon as I heard that there was a prostitute who wanted to file a complaint against Wetterstedt, I got in touch with her. I wanted to help her. Her life had been destroyed. Her self-esteem wasn’t very high.”
“Why did you get involved?”
“I was pretty radical in those days. Too many policemen accepted the corruption. I didn’t. No more than I do now.”
“What happened later, when Karin Bengtsson was out of the picture?”
“Wetterstedt carried on as before. He slashed lots of girls. But none of them filed a complaint. Two of them did disappear.”
“What do you mean?”
Sandin looked at Wallander in surprise.
“I mean they were never heard from again. We searched for them, tried to trace them. But they were gone.”
“What do you think happened?”
“They were killed, of course. Dissolved in lime, dumped in the sea. How do I know?”
Wallander couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Can this be true?” he said doubtfully. “It sounds incredible.”
“What is the saying? Amazing but true?”
“You think Wetterstedt committed murder?”
Sandin shook his head.
“I’m not saying that. Actually I’m convinced he didn’t. I don’t know exactly what happened, probably never will. But we can still draw conclusions, even if there’s no real evidence.”
“I’m having a hard time accepting this is true,” said Wallander.
“It’s absolutely true,” said Sandin firmly. “Wetterstedt had no conscience. But nothing could be proved.”
“There were many rumours about him.”
“And they were all justified. Wetterstedt used his position and his power to satisfy his perverted sexual desires. But he was also mixed up in secret deals that made him rich.”
“Art deals?”
“Art thefts, more likely. In my free time I tried to track down all the connections. I dreamed that one day I’d be able to slam such an airtight report down on the prosecutor’s desk that Wetterstedt would not only be forced to resign, but would end up with a long prison sentence. Unfortunately I never got that far.”
“You must have a great deal of material from those days, don’t you?”
“I burnt it all a few years ago. In my son’s kiln. At least ten kilos of paper.”
Wallander swore under his breath. He hadn’t dreamed that Sandin would get rid of the material he had gathered so laboriously.
“I still have a good memory,” said Sandin. “I could probably remember everything I burned.”
“Arne Carlman,” said Wallander “Who was he?”
“A man who raised peddling art to a higher level,” replied Sandin.
“In the spring of 1969 he was in Langholmen prison,” said Wallander. “We got an anonymous tip-off that he had contacted Wetterstedt. And that they met after Carlman got out of jail.”
“Carlman popped up now and then in reports. I think he wound up in Langholmen for something as simple as passing a bad cheque.”
“Did you find links between him and Wetterstedt?”
“There was evidence that they had met as early as the late 1950s. Apparently they had a mutual interest in betting on the horses. Their names came up in connection with a raid on Taby racetrack around 1962. Wetterstedt’s name was removed, since it wasn’t considered wise to tell the public that the minister of justice had been frequenting a racetrack.”
“What kind of dealings did they have?”
“Nothing we could pin down. They circled like planets in separate orbits which happened to cross now and then.”
“I need to find that connection,” said Wallander. “I’m convinced we have to find it to identify their killer.”
“You can usually find what you’re looking for if you look hard enough,” said Sandin.
Wallander’s mobile phone rang. He felt an icy fear. But he was wrong again. It was Hansson.
“I just wanted to know whether you’ll be back today. Otherwise I’ll set up a meeting for tomorrow.”
“Has anything happened?”
“Nothing crucial. Everyone’s up to their eyes in their own assignments.”
“Tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.,” said Wallander. “Not tonight.”
“Svedberg went to the hospital to get his sunburn looked at,” said Hansson.
“This happens every year,” said Wallander. He hung up.
“You’re in the papers a lot,” said Sandin. “You seem to have gone your own way occasionally.”
“Most of what they say isn’t true,” said Wallander.
“I often ask myself what it’s like to be a policeman nowadays,” said Sandin.
“So do I,” said Wallander.
They got up and walked to Wallander’s car. It was a beautiful evening.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Wetterstedt?” asked Wallander.
“There are probably quite a few,” said Sandin.
Wallander stopped short.
“Maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way,” he said. “Maybe we should separate the investigations. Not look for a common denominator, but for two separate solutions. And find the connection that way.”
“The murders were committed by the same man,” said Sandin, “so the investigations have to be interlinked. Otherwise you might end up on the wrong track.”