“Which would be?”
“Talking to her.”
Akeson nodded. Wallander was sure he could count on his cooperation. They knew each other well. Akeson respected Wallander’s instincts, even when they lacked solid evidence.
“It can be complicated,” said Akeson. “But I’ll try to do something over the weekend.”
“I’d appreciate it,” said Wallander. “You can call me at the station or at home whenever you like.”
Akeson went inside to make sure he had all of Wallander’s phone numbers. The tension between them had evaporated. Akeson followed him to the gate.
“Summer is off to a good start,” he said. “But I’m afraid you haven’t had much time to think about that.”
Wallander sensed that Akeson was feeling sympathetic.
“Not much,” he replied. “But Ann-Britt’s grandmother predicted that the good weather is going to last for a long time.”
“Can’t she predict where we should be looking for the killer instead?” said Akeson.
Wallander shook his head in resignation.
“We’re getting lots of tip-offs all the time. The usual prophets and psychics have been calling in. There are trainees sorting through the information. Then Hoglund and Svedberg go through it, but so far nothing useful has come in. No-one saw a thing, either outside Wetterstedt’s house or at Carlman’s farm. There aren’t many leads about the pit outside the railway station or the van at the airport either.”
“The man you’re hunting for is careful,” said Akeson.
“Careful, cunning, and totally devoid of human emotions,” said Wallander. “I can’t imagine how his mind works. Even Ekholm seems dumbstruck. For the first time in my life I’ve got the feeling that a monster is on the loose.”
For a moment Akeson seemed to be pondering what Wallander had said.
“Ekholm told me he’s putting all the data into the computer. He’s using the F.B.I. programme. It might produce something.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Wallander.
Wallander said no more. But Akeson understood what was implied. Before he strikes again.
Wallander drove back to the station. He arrived in the conference room a few minutes late. To cheer up his hardworking detectives, Hansson had driven down to Fridolf’s bakery and bought pastries. Wallander sat down in his usual spot and looked around. Martinsson was wearing shorts for the first time that season. Hoglund had the first hint of a tan. He wondered enviously how she had had time to sunbathe. The only one dressed appropriately was Ekholm, who had established his base at the far end of the table.
“One of our evening papers had the good taste to provide its readers with historical background on the art of scalping,” Svedberg said gloomily. “We can only hope that it won’t be the next craze, given all the lunatics we’ve got running around.”
Wallander tapped the table with a pencil.
“Let’s get started,” he said. “We’re searching for the most vicious killer we’ve ever had to deal with. He has committed all three murders. But that’s all we know. Except for the fact that there’s a real risk that he’ll strike again.”
A hush fell around the table. Wallander hadn’t intended to create an oppressive atmosphere. He knew from experience that it was easier if the tone was light, even when the crimes being investigated were brutal. Everyone in the room was just as despondent as he was. The feeling that they were hunting a monster, whose emotional degeneracy was unimaginable, haunted each of them.
It was one of the most demoralising meetings Wallander had ever attended. Outside, the summer was almost unnaturally beautiful, Hansson’s pastries were melting and sticky in the heat, and his own revulsion made him feel sick. Although he paid attention to everything said, he was also wondering how he could bear to remain a policeman. Hadn’t he reached a point where he ought to realise he had done his share? There had to be more to life. But he also knew that what made him down-hearted was the fact that they couldn’t see a single prospect of a break, a chink in the wall that they could squeeze through. They still had a great many leads to pursue, but they lacked a specific direction. In most cases there was an invisible navigation point against which they could correct their course. This time there was no fixed point. They were even starting to doubt that a connection between the murdered men existed.
Three hours later, when the meeting was over, they knew that the only thing to do was keep going. Wallander looked at the exhausted faces around him and told them to try and get some rest. He cancelled all meetings for Sunday. They would meet again on Monday morning. He didn’t have to mention the one exception: unless something serious happened. Unless the man who was out there somewhere in the summertime decided to strike again.
Wallander got home in the afternoon and found a note from Linda saying that she would be out that evening. He was tired, and slept for a few hours. When he awoke, he called Baiba twice without success. He talked to Gertrud, who told him everything was fine with his father. He was talking a lot about the trip to Italy. Wallander hoovered the flat and mended a broken window latch. The whole time the thought of the unknown killer occupied his thoughts. At 7 p.m. he made himself a supper of cod fillet and boiled potatoes. Then he sat on the balcony with a cup of coffee and absentmindedly leafed through an old issue of Ystad Recorder. When Linda got home they drank tea in the kitchen. The next day Wallander would be allowed to see a rehearsal of the revue she was working on with Kajsa, but Linda was very secretive and didn’t want to tell him what it was about. At 11.30 p.m. they both went to bed.
Wallander fell asleep almost at once. Linda lay awake in her room listening to the night birds. Then she fell asleep too, leaving the door to her room ajar.
Neither of them stirred when the front door was opened very slowly at 2 a.m. Hoover was barefoot. He stood motionless in the hall, listening. He could hear a man snoring in a room to the left of the living-room. He stepped into the flat. The door to another room stood ajar. A girl who might have been his sister’s age was in there sleeping. He couldn’t resist the temptation to go in and stand right next to her. His power over the sleeper was absolute. He went on towards the room where the snoring was coming from. The policeman named Wallander lay on his back and had kicked off all but a small part of the sheet. He was sleeping heavily. His chest heaved with his deep breathing.
Hoover stood utterly still and watched him. He thought about his sister, who would soon be freed from all this evil. Who would soon return to life. He looked at the sleeping man and thought about the girl in the next room, who must be his daughter. He made his decision. In a few days he would return.
He left the flat as soundlessly as he had come, locking the door with the keys he had taken from the policeman’s jacket. A few moments later the silence was broken by a moped starting up. Then all was quiet again, except for the night birds singing.
CHAPTER 27
When Wallander awoke on Sunday morning he felt that he had slept enough for the first time in a long while. It was past 8 a.m. Through a gap in the curtains he could see a patch of blue. He stayed in bed and listened for Linda. Then he got up, put on his newly washed dressing gown, and peeked into her room. She was still asleep. He felt transported back to her childhood. He smiled at the memory and went to the kitchen to make coffee. The thermometer outside the kitchen window showed 19 °C. When the coffee was ready he laid a breakfast tray for Linda. He remembered what she liked. One three-minute egg, toast, a few slices of cheese, and a sliced-up tomato. Only water to drink.
He drank his coffee and waited a while longer. She was startled out of her sleep when he called her name. When she saw the tray she burst out laughing. He sat at the foot of the bed while she ate. He hadn’t thought of the investigation except briefly when he’d woken.