“The whole thing has to be viewed in its entirety,” said Ekholm. “A psychopath almost always creates rituals, which he then follows as if they were written in a sacred book. The eyes have to fit into that framework.”
“Whatever,” Wallander said curtly. “But I want to know why only Fredman had his eyes put out. Framework or no framework.”
“It was probably acid,” said Ekholm.
Wallander had forgotten to ask Nyberg about that.
“Can we assume that’s the case?” he asked.
“It seems so. Someone poured acid in Fredman’s eyes.”
Wallander grimaced.
“We’ll talk this afternoon,” he said and hung up.
Soon afterwards he had left Ystad with Hoglund. It was a relief to get out of the station. Reporters were calling all the time. And now the public had started calling too. The hunt for the killer had become a national concern. Wallander knew that this was inevitable, and also useful. But it was an enormous task to record and check on all the information that was flooding in.
Hoglund emerged from the terminal and caught up with him on the pier.
“I wonder what kind of summer it’ll be this year,” he said.
“My grandmother in Almhult predicts the weather,” said Hoglund. “She says it’s going to be long, hot and dry.”
“Is she usually right?”
“Almost always.”
“I think it’ll be the opposite. Rainy and cold and crappy.”
“Can you predict the weather too?”
“No.”
They walked back to the car. Wallander wondered what she’d been doing in the terminal. But he didn’t ask.
They pulled up in front of the Malmo police station at 9.30 a.m. Forsfalt was waiting on the footpath. He got into the back seat and gave Wallander directions, talking to Hoglund about the weather at the same time. When they stopped outside the block of flats in Rosengard he told them what had happened the day before.
“The ex-wife took the news of Fredman’s death calmly. One of my colleagues smelt alcohol on her breath. The place was a mess. The younger boy is only four. He probably won’t comprehend that his father, whom he almost never saw, is dead. But the older son understood. The daughter wasn’t home.”
“What’s her name?” asked Wallander.
“The daughter?”
“The wife. The ex-wife.”
“Anette Fredman.”
“Does she have a job?”
“Not that I know of.”
“How does she make a living?”
“No idea. But I doubt that Fredman was very generous to his family.”
They got out of the car and went inside, taking the lift up to the fifth floor. Someone had smashed a bottle on the floor of the lift. Wallander glanced at Hoglund and shook his head. Forsfalt rang the doorbell. After a while the door opened. The woman standing before them was very thin and pale, and dressed all in black. She looked with terror at the two unfamiliar faces. As they hung up their coats in the hall, Wallander saw someone peer quickly through the doorway to the flat and then disappear. He guessed it was the older son or the daughter.
Forsfalt introduced them, speaking gently and calmly. There was nothing hurried in his demeanour. Wallander could see he might be able to learn from Forsfalt as he once had from Rydberg.
They went into the living-room. It looked as though she had cleaned up. The living-room had a sofa and chairs that looked almost unused. There was a stereo, a video, and a Bang amp; Olufsen TV, a Danish brand Wallander had had his eye on but couldn’t afford. She had set out cups and saucers. Wallander listened. There was a four-year-old boy in the family. Children that age weren’t quiet. They sat down.
“Let me say how sorry I am for the inconvenience,” he said, trying to be as friendly as Forsfalt.
“Thank you,” she replied in a low, fragile voice, that sounded as if it might break at any moment.
“Unfortunately I have to ask you some questions,” continued Wallander. “I wish they could wait.”
She nodded but said nothing. At that moment the door into the living-room opened. A well-built boy of about 14 entered. He had an open, friendly face, but his eyes were wary.
“This is my son,” she said. “His name is Stefan.”
The boy was very polite, Wallander noticed. He came and shook hands with each of them. Then he sat down next to his mother on the sofa.
“I’d like him to hear this too,” she said.
“That’s fine,” said Wallander. “I’m sorry about what happened to your father.”
“We didn’t see each other very much,” replied the boy. “But thank you.”
Wallander was impressed. He seemed mature for his age, perhaps because he’d had to fill the void left by his father.
“You have another son, don’t you?” Wallander went on.
“He’s with a friend of mine, playing with her son,” said Anette Fredman. “I thought it would be better. His name is Jens.”
Wallander nodded to Hoglund, who was taking notes.
“And a daughter too?”
“Her name is Louise.”
“But she’s not here?”
“She’s away for a few days, resting.”
It was the boy who’d answered. He took over from his mother, as if he wanted to spare her a heavy burden. His answer had been calm and polite. But something wasn’t quite right. It had come a little too quickly. Or was it that the boy had hesitated before replying? Wallander was immediately on the alert.
“I understand that this must be trying for her,” he continued cautiously.
“She’s very sensitive,” replied her brother.
Something doesn’t add up here, Wallander thought again. He knew he shouldn’t press this now. It would be better to come back to the girl later. He glanced at Hoglund, but she didn’t seem to have noticed.
“I won’t have to repeat the questions you’ve already answered,” said Wallander, pouring himself a cup of coffee, to show that everything was normal. The boy had his eyes fixed on him. There was a wariness in his eyes that reminded Wallander of a bird, as though he’d been forced to take on responsibility too soon. The thought depressed him. Nothing troubled Wallander more than seeing children and young people damaged.
“I know that you hadn’t seen Mr Fredman in several weeks,” he went on. “Was that true of Louise too?”
This time it was the mother who answered.
“The last time he was home, Louise was out,” she said. “It’s been several months since she saw him.”
Wallander approached the most difficult questions gingerly. He knew that he would provoke painful memories, but he tried to move as gently as he could.
“He was murdered,” he said. “Do either of you have any idea who might have done it?”
Anette Fredman looked at him with a surprised expression on her face. Her reply was shrill, her previous reticence gone.
“You ought to be asking who wouldn’t have killed him. I don’t know how many times I wished I’d had the strength to do it myself.”
Her son put his arm around her.
“I don’t think that’s what the detective meant,” he said soothingly.
She quickly pulled herself together after her outburst.
“I don’t know,” she said. “And I don’t want to know. But I don’t feel guilty for being relieved that he won’t be walking through this door again.”
She stood up abruptly and left the room. Wallander could tell that Hoglund couldn’t decide whether she should follow. But she remained seated as the boy began to speak.
“Mummy is extremely upset,” he said.
“We understand that,” said Wallander with sympathy. “But you seem to be calm. Maybe you have some thoughts. I know this must be unpleasant for you.”
“I don’t think it could be anybody except one of Dad’s friends. My Dad was a thief,” he added. “He also used to beat people up. I’m not sure, but I think he was what people call an enforcer. He collected debts, he threatened people.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you thinking about somebody in particular?”