“I think we’ve found the scene of the crime,” said Svedberg.
“Where?”
“Our colleagues at Sturup found a delivery van soaked in blood in the airport car park.”
A van. That would fit.
A few minutes later they left the station. Wallander couldn’t remember ever in his life feeling that he had so little time. When they reached the edge of town he told Svedberg to turn on the police lights. In the fields beside the road a farmer was harvesting his rape.
CHAPTER 21
They arrived at Sturup Airport. The air felt stagnant in the oppressive heat of the late morning. In a very short period of time they determined that the murder had very likely taken place in the van. They also thought they knew who the dead man was.
The van was a late-1960s Ford, with sliding side doors, and painted black sloppily, the original grey showing through in patches. The body was dented in many places. Parked in an isolated spot, it resembled an old prizefighter who had just been counted out, hanging on the ropes in his corner.
Wallander knew some of the officers at Sturup. He also knew that he wasn’t particularly popular after an incident that had occurred the year before. The side doors of the Ford were standing open. Some forensic technicians were already inspecting it. An officer named Waldemarsson came to meet them. Even though they had driven like madmen from Ystad, Wallander tried to appear totally nonchalant.
“It’s not a pretty sight,” said Waldemarsson as they shook hands.
Wallander and Svedberg went over to the Ford and looked in. Waldemarsson shone a torch inside. The floor of the van was covered with blood.
“We heard on the morning news that he had struck again,” said Waldemarsson. “I called and talked to a woman detective whose name I can’t remember.”
“Ann-Britt Hoglund,” said Svedberg.
“Whatever her name is, she said you were looking for a crime scene,” Waldemarsson went on. “And a vehicle.”
Wallander nodded.
“When did you find the van?” he asked.
“We check the car park every day. We’ve had a number of car thefts here. But you know all about that.”
Wallander nodded again. During the investigation into the export of stolen cars to Poland he had been in contact with the airport police several times.
“The van wasn’t here yesterday afternoon,” said Waldemarsson. “It couldn’t have been here more than 18 hours.”
“Who’s the owner?” asked Wallander.
Waldemarsson took a notebook out of his pocket.
“Bjorn Fredman,” he said. “He lives in Malmo. We called his number but didn’t get an answer.”
“Could he be the one we found in the pit?”
“We know something about Fredman,” said Waldemarsson. “Malmo has given us information. He was known as a fence, and has done time on several occasions.”
“A fence,” said Wallander, feeling a flash of excitement. “For works of art?”
“They didn’t say. You’ll have to talk with our colleagues.”
“Who should I ask for?” Wallander demanded, taking his mobile phone out of his pocket.
“An Inspector Sten Forsfalt.”
Wallander got hold of Forsfalt. He explained who he was. For a few seconds the conversation was drowned out by the noise of a plane. Wallander thought of the trip to Italy he planned to take with his father.
“First of all, we have to identify the man,” said Wallander when the plane had climbed away in the direction of Stockholm.
“What did he look like?” asked Forsfalt. “I met Fredman several times.”
Wallander gave as accurate a description as he could.
“It might be him,” said Forsfalt. “He was big, at any rate.”
Wallander thought for a moment.
“Can you drive to the hospital?” he asked. “We need a positive identification as quickly as possible.”
“Sure, I can do that,” said Forsfalt.
“Prepare yourself, because it’s a hideous sight,” said Wallander. “He had his eyes poked out. Or burnt away.”
Forsfalt didn’t reply.
“We’re coming to Malmo,” said Wallander. “We need some help getting into his flat. Did he have any family?”
“He was divorced,” said Forsfalt. “Last time he was in, it was for battery.”
“I thought it was for fencing stolen property.”
“That too. Fredman kept busy. But not doing anything legal. He was consistent on that score.”
Wallander said goodbye and called Hansson to give him a brief run-down.
“Good,” said Hansson. “Let me know as soon as you have more information. By the way, do you know who called?”
“The national commissioner again?”
“Almost. Lisa Holgersson. Bjork’s successor. She wished us luck. Said she just wanted to check on the situation.”
“It’s great that people are wishing us luck,” said Wallander, who couldn’t understand why Hansson was telling him about the call in such an ironic tone.
Wallander borrowed Waldemarsson’s torch and shone it inside the van. He saw a footprint in the blood. He leaned forward.
“That’s not a shoe print. It’s a left foot.”
“A bare foot?” said Svedberg. “So he wades around barefoot in the blood of the people he kills?”
“We don’t know that it’s a he,” said Wallander dubiously.
They said goodbye to Waldemarsson and his colleagues. Wallander waited in the car while Svedberg ran to the airport cafe and bought some sandwiches.
“The prices are outrageous,” he complained when he returned. Wallander didn’t bother answering.
“Just drive,” was all he said.
It was past midday when they stopped outside the police station in Malmo. As he stepped out of the car Wallander saw Bjork heading towards him. Bjork stopped and stared, as if he had caught Wallander doing something he shouldn’t.
“You, here?” he said.
“We need you back,” said Wallander in an attempt at a joke. Then he explained what had happened.
“It’s appalling what’s going on,” said Bjork, and Wallander could hear that his anxious tone was genuine. It hadn’t occurred to him before that Bjork might miss the people he worked with for so many years in Ystad.
“Nothing is quite the same,” said Wallander.
“How’s Hansson doing?”
“I don’t think he’s enjoying his role.”
“He can call if he needs any help.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Bjork left and they went into the station. Forsfalt still wasn’t back from the hospital. They drank coffee in the canteen while they waited.
“I wonder what it would be like to work here,” said Svedberg, looking around at all the policemen eating lunch.
“One day we may all wind up here,” said Wallander. “If they close down the district. One police station per county.”
“That would never work.”
“No, but it could happen. The national police board and those bureaucrats have one thing in common. They always try to do the impossible.”
Forsfalt appeared. They stood up, shook hands, and followed him to his office. Wallander had a favourable impression of him. He reminded him of Rydberg. Forsfalt was at least 60, with a friendly face. He had a slight limp. Wallander sat down and looked at some pictures of laughing children tacked up on the wall. He guessed that they were Forsfalt’s grandchildren.
“Bjorn Fredman,” said Forsfalt. “It’s him, all right. He looked appalling. Who would do such a thing?”
“If we only knew,” said Wallander. “Who was Fredman?”
“A man of about 45 who never had an honest job in his life,” Forsfalt began. “I don’t have all of the details. But I’ve asked the computer people for his records. He was a fence and he did time for battery. Quite violent attacks, as I recall.”
“Was he involved in fencing stolen art?”