“Yes, I do.”
“I want you to do some work for me. Spread it around that the police are looking for a connection between these three men. I assume you agree that we have to get this lunatic off the streets. A man who pours acid in somebody’s eyes.”
Hjelm grimaced.
“OK.”
Wallander got up.
“Call Detective Forsfalt,” he said. “Or give me a call. In Ystad. Anything you can come up with might be important.”
“Bjorn had a girlfriend named Marianne,” said Hjelm. “She lives over by the Triangle.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Eriksson, I think.”
“What kind of work does she do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you got her phone number?”
“I can look it up.”
“Do it.”
Wallander waited while Hjelm left the room. He could hear whispering voices, at least one of which sounded annoyed. Hjelm came back and handed Wallander a piece of paper. Then he followed him out to the hall.
Hjelm had sobered up, but he still seemed completely unfazed by what had happened to his friend. Wallander felt a great uneasiness at the coldness Hjelm exhibited. It was incomprehensible to him.
“That crazy man. .” Hjelm began, without finishing his sentence. Wallander understood his unasked question.
“He’s after specific individuals. If you can’t see yourself in any connection with Wetterstedt, Carlman, and Fredman, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Why haven’t you caught him?”
Wallander stared at Hjelm, his anger returning.
“One reason is that people like you find it so hard to answer simple questions,” he said.
When he got down to the street he stood there facing the sun and closed his eyes. He thought over the conversation with Hjelm, and the anxiety that the investigation was on the wrong track returned. He opened his eyes and walked over to the side of the building, into the shade. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was steering the whole investigation into a blind alley. He remembered the half-formed idea that he’d had, that something he’d heard was significant. There’s something missing, he thought. There’s a link between Wetterstedt and Carlman and Fredman that I’m tripping over. The man they were searching for could strike again, and Wallander knew one thing about the case for certain. They had no idea who he was. And they didn’t even know where to look. He left the shadow of the wall and hailed a cab.
It was past midday when he got out in front of the Malmo station. When he reached Forsfalt’s office he got a message to call Ystad. Again he had the terrible feeling that something serious had happened. Ebba answered. She reassured him and then switched him over to Nyberg. They had found a fingerprint on Fredman’s left eyelid. It was smudged, but it was still good enough for them to confirm a match with the prints they had found. There was no longer any doubt they were after a single killer. The forensic examination confirmed that Fredman was murdered less than twelve hours before the body was discovered, and that acid had been poured into his eyes while he was alive.
Next Ebba put him through to Martinsson, who had received a positive confirmation from Interpol that Dolores Maria Santana’s father recognised the medallion. It had belonged to her. Martinsson also mentioned that the Swedish embassy in the Dominican Republic was extremely unwilling to pay to transport the girl’s remains back to Santiago.
Wallander was listening with half an ear. When Martinsson finished complaining about the embassy, Wallander asked him what Svedberg and Hoglund were working on. Martinsson said that neither of them had come up with much. Wallander told him he’d be back in Ystad that afternoon and hung up. Forsfalt stood out in the hall sneezing.
“Allergies,” he said, blowing his nose. “Summer is the worst.”
They walked in the dazzling sunshine to a restaurant where Forsfalt liked to eat spaghetti. After Wallander told him about his meeting with Hjelm, Forsfalt started talking about his summer house, up near Almhult. Wallander guessed that he didn’t want to spoil their lunch by talking about the investigation. Normally this would have made Wallander impatient, but he listened with growing fascination as the old detective described how he was restoring an old smithy. Only when they were having coffee did they return to the investigation. Forsfalt would try to interview Marianne Eriksson that same day. But most important was the revelation that Louise Fredman had been a patient in a psychiatric hospital for the past three years.
“I’m not sure,” said Forsfalt. “But I’d guess that she’s in Lund. At St Lars Hospital. That’s where the more serious cases finish up, I think.”
“It’s hard to bypass all the obstacles when you want to get patient records,” said Wallander. “And that’s a good thing, of course. But I think we must know everything about Louise Fredman. Especially since the family haven’t told the truth.”
“Mental illness isn’t something people want to talk about,” Forsfalt reminded him. “I had an aunt who was in and out of institutions her whole life. We almost never talked about her to strangers. It was a disgrace.”
“I’ll ask one of the prosecutors in Ystad to get in touch with Malmo,” said Wallander.
“What reason are you going to give?” asked Forsfalt.
Wallander thought for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I have a suspicion that Fredman may have abused her.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Forsfalt firmly.
“I know,” said Wallander. “Somehow I have to show that it’s crucial to the whole murder investigation to obtain information on Louise Fredman. About her and from her.”
“What do you think she could help you with?”
Wallander threw out his hands.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe nothing will be cleared up by finding out what it is that’s keeping her locked up. Maybe she’s incapable of holding a conversation with anyone.”
Forsfalt nodded, deep in thought. Wallander knew that Forsfalt’s objections were well-founded, but he couldn’t ignore his hunch that Louise Fredman was important. Wallander paid for lunch. When they got back to the station Forsfalt went to the reception desk and got a black plastic bag.
“Here are a few kilos of papers on Bjorn Fredman’s troubled life,” he said, smiling. But then he turned serious, as if his smile had been inappropriate.
“That poor devil,” he said. “The pain must have been incredible. What could he possibly have done to deserve it?”
“That’s just it,” said Wallander. “What did he do? What did Wetterstedt do? Or Carlman? And to whom?”
“Scalping and acid in the eyes. Where the hell are we headed?”
“According to the national police board, towards a society where a police district like Ystad doesn’t need to be manned at all on weekends,” said Wallander.
Forsfalt stood silent for a moment before he replied. “I hardly think that’s the answer,” he said.
“Tell the national commissioner.”
“What can he do?” Forsfalt asked. “He’s got a board of directors on his back. And above them are the politicians.”
“He could always refuse,” said Wallander. “Or he could resign if things get too far out of hand.”
“Perhaps,” said Forsfalt absently.
“Thanks for all your help,” said Wallander. “And especially for the story about the smithy.”
“You’ll have to come up and visit sometime,” said Forsfalt. “I don’t know whether Sweden is as fantastic as all the magazines say it is. But it’s a great country all the same. Beautiful. And surprisingly unspoiled. If you take the trouble to look.”
“You won’t forget Marianne Eriksson?”
“I’m going to see if I can find her right now,” replied Forsfalt. “I’ll call you later.”
Wallander unlocked his car and tossed in the plastic bag. Then he drove out of town and onto the E65. He rolled down the window and let the summer wind blow across his face. When he arrived in Ystad he stopped at the supermarket and bought groceries. He was already at the checkout when he discovered he had to go back for washing powder. He drove home and carried the bags up to his flat, but found that he had lost his keys.