Wallander looked at Hansson in silence. He felt sorry for him. Being chief had never been one of Hansson’s dreams.
“I’m going back to Malmo,” he said. “I want to talk to the members of Fredman’s family again. Especially the ones who weren’t there yesterday.”
Hansson gave him a quizzical look.
“Are you going to interrogate a four-year-old boy? That’s not legally permitted.”
“I was thinking of the daughter,” said Wallander. “She’s 17. And I don’t intend to ‘interrogate’ anyone.”
Hansson nodded and got up slowly. He pointed to a book lying open on the desk.
“I got this from Ekholm,” he said. “Behavioural science based on a number of case studies of serial killers. It’s unbelievable the things people will do if they’re sufficiently deranged.”
“Is there anything about scalping?” asked Wallander.
“That’s one of the milder forms of trophy collecting. If you only knew the things that have been found in people’s homes, it would make you sick.”
“I feel sick enough already,” said Wallander. “I’ll leave the rest to my imagination.”
“Ordinary human beings,” said Hansson in dismay. “Completely normal on the surface. Underneath, mentally ill beasts of prey. A man in France, the foreman of a coal depot, used to cut open the stomachs of his victims and stick his head inside to try and suffocate himself. That’s one example.”
“That’ll do,” said Wallander, trying to discourage him.
“Ekholm wanted me to give you the book when I’ve read it,” said Hansson.
“I bet he did,” said Wallander. “But I really don’t have the time. Or the inclination.”
Wallander made himself a sandwich in the canteen and took it with him. As he ate it in the car, he wondered whether he should call Linda. But he decided not to. It was still too early.
He arrived in Malmo at around 8.30 a.m. The summer calm had already started to descend on the countryside. The traffic on the roads that intersected the motorway into Malmo was lighter than usual. He headed towards Rosengard and pulled up outside the block of flats he had visited the day before. He turned off the engine, wondering why he had come back so soon. They had decided to investigate Bjorn Fredman’s life. Besides, it was necessary that he meet the absent daughter. The little boy was less important.
He found a dirty petrol receipt in the glove compartment and took out a pen. To his great irritation he saw that it had leaked ink around the breast pocket where he kept it. The spot was half the size of his hand. On the white shirt it looked as if he’d been shot through the heart. The shirt was almost new. Baiba had bought it for him at Christmas after she’d been through his wardrobe and cleaned out the old, worn-out clothes.
His immediate impulse was to return to Ystad and go back to bed. He didn’t know how many shirts he’d had to throw away because he forgot to cap the pen properly before he put it in his pocket. Perhaps he should go and buy a new shirt. But he’d have to wait at least an hour until the shops opened, so he decided against it. He tossed the leaking pen out the window and then looked for another one in the messy glove compartment. He wrote down some key words on the back of the receipt. BF’s friends. Then and now. Unexpected events. He crumpled up the note and was just about to stuff it in his breast pocket when he stopped himself. He got out of the car and took off his jacket. The ink from his shirt pocket hadn’t reached the jacket lining. He went into the building and pushed open the lift door. The broken glass was still there. He got out on the fifth floor and rang the doorbell. There was no sound from inside the flat. Maybe they were still asleep. He waited more than a minute. Then he rang again. The door opened. It was the boy, Stefan. He seemed surprised to see Wallander. He smiled, but his eyes were wary.
“I hope I haven’t come too early,” said Wallander. “I should have called first, of course. But I was in Malmo anyway. I thought I’d pop in.”
It was a flimsy lie, but it was the best he could come up with. The boy let him into the hall. He was dressed in a cut-off T-shirt and a pair of jeans. He was barefoot.
“I’m here by myself,” he said. “My mother went out with my little brother. They were going to Copenhagen.”
“It’s a great day for a trip to Copenhagen,” said Wallander warmly.
“Yes, she likes going there a lot. To get away from it all.”
His words echoed disconsolately in the hall. Wallander thought the boy had sounded strangely unmoved last time when he mentioned the death of his father. They went into the living-room. Wallander laid his jacket on a chair and pointed at the ink spot.
“This happens all the time,” he said.
“It never happens to me,” said the boy, smiling. “I can make some coffee if you want.”
“No thanks.”
They sat down at opposite ends of the table. A blanket and pillow on the sofa indicated that someone had slept there. Wallander glimpsed the neck of an empty wine bottle under a chair. The boy noticed at once that he had seen it. His attention didn’t flag for an instant. Wallander hastily asked himself whether he had the right to question a minor about his father’s death without a relative present. But he didn’t want to pass up this opportunity. And the boy was incredibly mature for 14. Wallander felt as though he was talking to someone his own age. Even Linda, who was several years older, seemed childish in comparison.
“What are you going to do this summer?” asked Wallander. “We’ve got fine weather.”
The boy smiled. “I’ve got plenty to do,” he replied.
Wallander waited for more, but he didn’t continue.
“What class are you going to be in this autumn?”
“Eighth.”
“Is school going well?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your favourite subject?”
“None of them. But maths is the easiest. We’ve started a club to study numerology.”
“I’m not sure I know what that is.”
“The Holy Trinity. The seven lean years. Trying to predict your future by combining the numbers in your life.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It is.”
Wallander could feel himself becoming fascinated by the boy sitting across from him. His strong body contrasted sharply with his childish face, but there was obviously nothing wrong with his mind.
Wallander took the crumpled gas receipt out of his jacket. His house keys dropped out of the pocket. He put them back and sat down again.
“I have a few questions,” he said. “But this is not an interrogation, by any means. If you want to wait until your mother comes home, just say so.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll answer if I can.”
“Your sister,” said Wallander. “When is she coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
The boy looked at him. The question didn’t seem to bother him. He had answered without hesitation. Wallander began to wonder if he had been mistaken the day before.
“I assume that you’re in contact with her? That you know where she is?”
“She just took off. It’s not the first time. She’ll come home when she feels like it.”
“I hope you understand that I think that sounds a little unusual.”
“Not for us.”
Wallander was convinced that the boy knew where his sister was. But he wouldn’t be able to force an answer out of him. Nor could he disregard the possibility that the girl was so upset that she really had run away.
“Isn’t it true that she’s in Copenhagen?” he asked cautiously. “And that your mother went there today to see her?”
“She went over to buy some shoes.”
Wallander nodded. “Well, let’s talk about something else,” he went on. “You’ve had time to think now. Do you have any idea who might have killed your father?”
“No.”
“Do you agree with your mother, that a lot of people might have wanted to?”
“Yes.”
“Why’s that?”
For the first time it seemed as though the boy’s polite exterior was about to crack. He replied with unexpected vehemence.