“I’d like to talk to them,” said Wallander when they got into the car. “But it’s probably better to wait until tomorrow.”
He knew he wasn’t being honest. He hated disturbing a family whose relative had suffered a violent death. Above all, he couldn’t bear talking to children who had just lost a parent. Waiting until the next day would make no difference to them. But it gave Wallander breathing space.
They said goodbye outside the station. Forsfalt would get hold of Hansson to clear up formalities between the two police districts. He made an appointment to meet with Wallander the next morning.
Wallander and Svedberg drove back towards Ystad. Wallander’s mind was swarming with ideas. They remained silent.
CHAPTER 22
Copenhagen’s skyline was just visible across the Sound in the hazy sunlight.
Wallander wondered whether he’d get to meet Baiba there or whether the killer they sought — about whom they seemed to know less, if that were possible — would force him to postpone his holiday.
He stood waiting outside the hovercraft terminal in Malmo. It was the morning of the last day of June. Wallander had decided the night before to take Hoglund rather than Svedberg when he returned to Malmo to talk to Fredman’s family. She’d asked whether they could leave early enough for her to do an errand on the way. Svedberg hadn’t complained in the least at being left behind. His relief at not having to leave Ystad two days in a row was unmistakable. While Hoglund took care of her errand in the terminal — Wallander hadn’t asked what it was — he’d walked along the pier. A hydrofoil, the Runner, he thought it said, was on its way out of the harbour. It was hot. He took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, yawning.
After they’d returned from Malmo the night before, he’d called a meeting with the investigative team, since they were all still there. He and Hansson had also held an impromptu press conference. Ekholm had attended the meeting. He was still working on a psychological profile of the killer. But they had agreed that Wallander should inform the press that they were looking for someone who wasn’t considered dangerous to the public, but who was certainly extremely dangerous to his victims.
There had been differing opinions on whether it would be wise to take this action. But Wallander had insisted that they couldn’t ignore the possibility that someone might come forward out of sheer self-preservation. The press were delighted with this information, but Wallander felt uncomfortable, knowing that they were giving the public the best possible news, since the nation was about to close down for the summer holiday. Afterwards, when both the meeting and the press conference were over, he was exhausted.
He still hadn’t gone over the telex from Interpol with Martinsson. The girl had vanished from Santiago de los Treinta Caballeros in December. Her father, Pedro Santana, a farm worker, had reported her disappearance to the police on 14 January. Dolores Maria, who was then 16 years old, but who had turned 17 on 18 February — a fact that made Wallander particularly depressed — had been in Santiago looking for work as a housekeeper. Before then she had lived with her father in a little village 70 kilometres outside the city. She had been staying with a distant relative when she had disappeared. Judging by the scanty report, the Dominican police had not taken much interest in her case, though her father had hounded them to keep looking for her, managing to get a journalist involved, but eventually the police decided that she had probably left the country.
The trail ended there. Interpol’s comments were brief. Dolores Maria Santana hadn’t been seen in any of the countries belonging to the international police network. Until now.
“She disappears in a city called Santiago,” said Wallander. “About six months later she pops up in farmer Salomonsson’s rape field, where she burns herself to death. What does that mean?”
Martinsson shook his head dejectedly. Wallander was so tired he could hardly think, but he roused himself. Martinsson’s apathy made him furious.
“We know that she didn’t vanish from the face of the earth,” he said with determination. “We know that she had been in Helsingborg and got a lift from a man from Smedstorp. She seemed to be fleeing something. And we know she’s dead. We should send a message back to Interpol telling them all this. And I want you to make a special request that the girl’s father be properly informed of her death. When this other nightmare is over, we’ll have to find out what terrified her in Helsingborg. I suggest you make contact with our colleagues there tomorrow. They might have some idea what happened.”
After this muted outburst, Wallander drove home. He stopped and ordered a hamburger. Newspaper placards were posted everywhere, proclaiming the latest news on the World Cup. He had a powerful urge to rip them down and scream that enough was enough. But instead he waited patiently in line, paid, picked up his hamburger, and went back to his car.
When he got home he sat down at the kitchen table, tore open the bag and ate. He drank a glass of water with the hamburger. Then he made some strong coffee and cleared the table, forcing himself to go over all the investigative material again. The feeling that they had been sidetracked was still with him. Wallander hadn’t laid the clues they were following. But he was the one who was leading the investigative group, and determining the course that they took. He tried to see where they should have paid more attention, whether the link between Wetterstedt and Carlman was already clearly visible, but unnoticed.
He went over all the evidence that they had gathered, sometimes solid, sometimes not. Next to him he had a notebook in which he listed all the unanswered questions. It troubled him that the results from many of the forensic tests still weren’t available. Although it was past midnight, he was sorely tempted to call up Nyberg and ask him whether the laboratory in Linkoping had closed for the summer. But he refrained. He sat bent over his papers until his back hurt and the letters began blurring on the page.
He didn’t give up until after 2 a.m., when he’d concluded that they couldn’t do anything but continue on the path that they had chosen. There must be a connection between the murdered men. Perhaps the fact that Bjorn Fredman didn’t seem to fit with the others might point to the solution.
The pile of dirty laundry was still on the floor, reminding him of the chaos inside his own head. Once again he had forgotten to get an appointment for his car. Would they have to request reinforcements from the National Criminal Bureau? He decided to talk to Hansson about it first thing, after a few hours’ sleep.
But by the time he got up at 6 a.m., he’d changed his mind. He wanted to wait one more day. Instead he called Nyberg and complained about the laboratory. He had expected Nyberg to be angry, but to Wallander’s great surprise he had agreed that it was taking an unusually long time and promised to follow the matter up. They’d discussed Nyberg’s examination of the pit where they’d found Fredman. Traces of blood indicated that the killer had parked his car right next to it. Nyberg had also managed to get out to Sturup Airport and look at Fredman’s van. There was no doubt that it had been used to transport the body. But Nyberg didn’t think that the murder could have taken place in it.
“Fredman was big and strong,” he said. “I can’t see how he could have been killed inside the van. I think the murder happened somewhere else.”
“So we must find out who drove the van,” said Wallander, “and where the murder occurred.”
Wallander had arrived at the station just after 7 a.m. He’d called Ekholm at his hotel and found him in the breakfast room.
“I want you to concentrate on the eyes,” he said. “I don’t know why. But I’m convinced they’re important. Maybe crucial. Why would he do that to Fredman and not to the others? That’s what I want to know.”