“We understand this,” Wallander said.
“Louise Fredman is at St Lars Hospital in Lund,” Akeson continued. “She has been there for more than three years. The diagnosis is severe psychosis. She has stopped talking, sometimes has to be force-fed, and there is no sign of improvement. She’s 17 years old. Judging from a photograph I saw she’s quite pretty.”
The group was silent.
“Psychosis is usually caused by something,” said Ekholm.
“She was admitted on 9 January 1991,” said Akeson, after looking through his papers. “Her illness seems to have struck like a bolt from the blue. She had been missing from home for a week. She was having serious problems at school and was often truant. There were signs of drug abuse. Not heavy narcotics, mostly amphetamines and possibly cocaine. She was found in Pildamm Park, completely irrational.”
“Were there signs of external injuries?” asked Wallander, who was listening intently.
“Not according to the material I’ve received.”
Wallander thought about this.
“Well, we can’t talk to her,” he said finally. “But I want to know whether she had any injuries. And I want to talk to the person who found her.”
“It was three years ago,” said Akeson. “But the people involved could probably be traced.”
“I’ll talk to Forsfalt in Malmo,” said Wallander. “Uniformed officers most probably found her. There will be a report on it.”
“Why do you wonder if she had any injuries?” Hansson asked.
“I just want to fill in the picture as completely as possible,” Wallander replied.
They left Louise Fredman and went on to other topics. Since Ekholm was still waiting for the F.B.I. programme to finish cross-referencing all the investigative material, Wallander turned the discussion to the question of reinforcements. Hansson had already received a positive response from the county chief of police as to the possibility of a sergeant from Malmo. He would be in Ystad by lunchtime.
“Who is it?” asked Martinsson, who had so far been silent.
“His name is Sture Holmstrom,” said Hansson.
“Do we know anything about him?” Martinsson asked.
No-one knew him. Wallander promised to call Forsfalt to check on him.
Then Wallander turned to Akeson.
“The question now is whether we should ask for additional reinforcements,” Wallander began. “What’s the general view? I want everyone’s opinion. I also undertake to bow to the will of the majority. Even though I’m not convinced that extra personnel will improve the quality of our work. I’m afraid we might lose the pace of our investigation. At least in the short run. But I want to hear your views.”
Martinsson and Svedberg were in favour of requesting extra personnel. Hoglund sided with Wallander, and Hansson and Ekholm didn’t offer an opinion. Wallander saw that another burdensome mantle of responsibility had been draped around his shoulders. Akeson proposed that they postpone the decision for a few more days.
“If there’s another murder, it’ll be unavoidable,” he said. “But for the time being let’s keep going the way we have been.”
The meeting finished just before 10 a.m. Wallander went to his room. It had been a good meeting, much better than the last, even though they hadn’t made any progress. They had shown one another that their energy and will were still strong.
Wallander was about to call Forsfalt when Martinsson appeared in his doorway.
“There’s one more thing that’s occurred to me,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Louise Fredman was found wandering around on a path in the park. There’s a similarity to the girl running in the rape field.”
Martinsson was right. There was a similarity, albeit a remote one.
“I agree,” he said. “It’s a shame that there’s no connection.”
“Still, it’s weird,” said Martinsson.
He remained in the doorway.
“You bet right this time.”
Wallander nodded.
“I know,” he said. “So did Ann-Britt.”
“You’ll have to split a thousand.”
“When’s the next match?”
“I’ll let you know,” said Martinsson and left.
Wallander called Malmo. While he waited, he looked out of the open window. Another beautiful day. Then Forsfalt came on the line, and he pushed all thoughts of summer aside.
He took a long time selecting the right axe from the ones lying polished on the black silk cloth. Finally he chose the smallest one, the one he hadn’t used yet. He stuck it in his wide leather belt and pulled the helmet over his head.
As before, he was barefoot when he locked the door behind him. The evening was warm. He rode along side roads that he had selected on the map. It would take him almost two hours. He would get there a little before 11 p.m.
He’d had to change his plans. The man who had gone abroad suddenly had returned. He decided not to risk his taking off again. He had listened to Geronimo’s heart. The rhythmic thumping of the drums inside his chest had delivered their message to him. He must not wait. He would seize the opportunity.
The summer landscape seen from inside his helmet took on a bluish tinge. He could see the sea to his left, the blinking lights of ships, and the coast of Denmark. He felt elated and happy. It wouldn’t be long now before he could bring his sister the last sacrifice that would liberate her from the fog that surrounded her. She would return to life in the loveliest part of the summer.
He got to the city just after 11 p.m., and 15 minutes later stopped on a street next to the large villa, hidden away in a garden full of tall, sheltering trees. He chained his moped to a lamppost and locked it. On the opposite footpath an old couple were walking their dog. He waited until they disappeared before he pulled off his helmet and stuffed it into his backpack. In the shadows he ran to the back of the property, which looked out over a football pitch. He hid his backpack in the long grass and crept through the hedge, at a point where he had long ago prepared an opening. The hedge scratched his bare arms and feet. But he steeled himself against all pain. Geronimo would not stand for weakness. He had a sacred mission, as written in the book he had received from his sister. The mission required all his strength, which he was prepared to sacrifice with devotion.
He was inside the garden now, closer to the beast than he had ever been. The entire ground floor was in darkness, but there was a light on upstairs. He remembered with anger how his sister had been here before him. She had described the house, and one day he would burn it to the ground. But not yet. Cautiously he ran up to the wall of the house and prised open the basement window from which he had earlier removed the latch. It was easy to crawl inside. He knew that he was in an apple cellar, surrounded by the faint aroma of sour apples. He listened. All quiet. He crept up the cellar stairs, into the big kitchen. Still quiet. The only thing he heard was the faint sound of water pipes. He turned on the oven and opened the door. Then he made his way upstairs. He had taken the axe out of his belt. He was completely calm.
The door to the bathroom was ajar. In the darkness of the hall he caught a glimpse of the man he was going to kill. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror rubbing cream onto his face. Hoover slipped in behind the bathroom door, waiting. When the man turned off the light in the bathroom he raised the axe. He struck only once. The man fell to the floor without a sound. With the axe he sliced off a piece of the man’s hair from the top of his head. He stuffed the scalp into his pocket. Then he dragged the man down the stairs. He was in pyjamas. The bottoms slipped off the body and were dragged along by one foot. He avoided looking at him.
He pulled the man into the kitchen and leaned the body against the oven door. Then he shoved the man’s head inside. Almost at once he smelled the face cream starting to melt. He left the house the way he had come in.