Wallander nodded.
“Call me again sometime,” said Sandin. “I have all the time in the world. Growing old means loneliness. A long wait for the inevitable.”
“Did you ever regret joining the police?” asked Wallander.
“Never,” said Sandin. “Why would I?”
“Just wondering,” said Wallander. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”
“You’ll catch him,” said Sandin encouragingly. “Even if it takes a while.”
Wallander nodded and got into the car. As he drove off he could see Sandin in the rear-view mirror, pulling dandelions from the lawn.
It was 7.45 p.m. by the time Wallander got back to Ystad. He parked the car outside his building and was just about to walk through the main door when he remembered that he hadn’t any food in the house. And that he had forgotten to have the car inspected again. He swore out loud.
He walked into town and ate dinner at the Chinese restaurant on the square. He was the only customer. After dinner he strolled down to the harbour and walked out on the pier. As he watched the boats rocking in their moorings he thought about the two conversations he had had that day.
Dolores Maria Santana had stood at the motorway slip road from Helsingborg one evening, looking for a ride. She didn’t speak Swedish and she was frightened. All they knew about her was that she was born in the Dominican Republic.
He stared at an old, well-kept wooden boat as he formulated his questions. Why and how did she come to Sweden? What was she running from? Why had she burned herself to death?
He walked farther out along the pier.
There was a party going on board a yacht. Someone raised a glass and said “Skal d” to Wallander. He nodded back and raised an invisible glass.
At the end of the pier he sat down on a bollard and went over his conversation with Sandin. Everything was one big tangle. He couldn’t see any openings, anything that might lead to a breakthrough.
At the same time he still felt a sense of dread. He couldn’t get away from the possibility that it might happen again. He tossed a fistful of gravel into the water and got up. The party on the yacht was in full swing. He walked back through town. The heap of dirty clothes still lay in the middle of his floor. He wrote himself a note and put it on the kitchen table. M.O.T., damn it! Then he switched on the TV and lay down on the sofa.
A little later he phoned Baiba. Her voice was clear and close by.
“You sound tired,” she said. “Have you got a lot to do?”
“It’s not so bad,” he lied. “But I miss you.”
He heard her laugh.
“We’ll see each other soon,” she said.
“What were you really doing in Tallinn?”
She laughed again.
“Meeting another man. What did you think?”
“Just that.”
“You need some sleep,” she said. “I can hear that all the way from Riga. I hear Sweden’s doing well in the World Cup.”
“Are you interested in sports?” asked Wallander, surprised.
“Sometimes. Especially when Latvia is playing.”
“People here are completely nuts about it.”
“But not you?”
“I promise to improve. When Sweden plays Brazil I’ll try to stay up and watch.”
He heard her laugh again. He wanted to say something more, but he couldn’t think of anything. After he hung up he went back to the TV. For a while he tried to watch a movie. Then he turned it off and went to bed. Before he fell asleep he thought about his father. This autumn they would take a trip to Italy.
CHAPTER 19
The fluorescent hands of the clock twisted like snakes and showed 7.10 p.m. on Tuesday 28 June. A few hours later Sweden would play Brazil. This was part of his plan. Everybody would be focused on their TV sets. No-one would think about what was happening outside in the summer night.
The basement floor was cool under his bare feet. He had been sitting in front of his mirrors since early morning. He had completed his great transformation several hours earlier, changing the pattern on his right cheek. He had painted the circular decoration with blue-black paint. Until now he had used blood-red paint. His face was even more frightening.
He put down the last brush and thought about the task awaiting him. It would be the greatest sacrifice for his sister yet, even though he had been forced to alter his plans. For a brief moment the evil forces surrounding him had got the upper hand. He had spent an entire night in the shadows below his sister’s window planning his strategy. He’d sat between the two scalps and waited for the power from the earth to enter him. With his torch he had read from the holy book she had given him, and he realised that nothing prevented him from changing the order that he had prepared.
The last victim was to have been their evil father. But since the man who was supposed to meet his fate this evening had left the country suddenly, the sequence would have to be changed.
He had listened to Geronimo’s heart beating in his chest. The beats were like signals from the past. His heart drummed a message: the most important thing was not to waver from his sacred task. The earth under his feet was already crying out for the third retribution.
He would wait until the third man returned from abroad. Their father would have to take his place.
As he’d sat in front of the mirrors, undergoing the great transformation, he’d looked forward to meeting his father with special anticipation. This mission required careful preparation. He’d begun by readying his tools. It had taken him more than two hours to attach a blade to the toy axe he had been given by his father as a birthday present. He was seven at the time. Even then he knew that one day he would use it against the man who had given it to him. Now the moment had finally arrived. He had reinforced the badly decorated plastic shaft with special tape used by ice hockey players.
You don’t know what it’s called. It’s not for chopping wood. It’s a tomahawk.
He felt violent contempt when he remembered how his father had given the toy to him so long ago. It was a plastic replica manufactured in an Asian country. Now, with a proper blade, he had transformed it into a real axe.
He waited until 8.30, going over the plan once more. He checked his hands, noting that they weren’t shaking. Everything was under control. The arrangements he had made over the past two days would ensure that things would go well.
He packed up his weapons, a glass bottle wrapped in a handkerchief, and a rope in his backpack. Then he pulled on his helmet, turned out the light, and left the room. When he came out onto the street he looked up at the sky. It was cloudy. It could rain. He started up the moped he had stolen the day before and rode to the centre of Malmo. At the train station he entered a phone booth. He had selected one in advance that was out of the way. On one side of the window he had pasted up a fake poster for a concert at a youth club. There was no-one around. He pulled off his helmet and stood with his face pressed against the poster. Then he stuck in his phone card and dialled the number. With his left hand he held a rag over his mouth. It was just before 9 p.m. He waited as the phone rang. He was totally calm. His father answered. Hoover could hear his irritation. That meant he had started drinking and didn’t want to be disturbed.
He spoke into the rag, holding the receiver away from his mouth.
“This is Peter,” he said. “I’ve got something that should interest you.”
“What is it?” His father was still annoyed. But he believed it was Peter calling.
“Stamps. Worth almost half a million.”
His father hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
“At least half a million. Maybe more.”
“Speak up a little, will you?”
“We must have a bad connection.”