“Kurt?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“So what’s happened? Is what I hear true?”
“Unfortunately it is. Your killer has turned up here in Helsingborg.”
“Is it confirmed?”
“There’s nothing to indicate otherwise. An axe blow to the head. Then he cut off the victim’s scalp.”
“Who was it?”
“Ake Liljegren. Does that name ring a bell?”
Wallander thought for a moment. “The one they call ‘the Auditor’?”
“Precisely. A former minister of justice, an art dealer and now a white-collar criminal.”
“And a fence too,” said Wallander. “Don’t forget him.”
“You should come up here. Our superiors can sort out the red tape so that we can cross into each other’s jurisdictions.”
“I’ll come right away,” said Wallander. “It might be a good idea if I bring Sven Nyberg, our head forensic technician.”
“Bring whoever you want. I won’t stand in your way. I just don’t like it that the killer has shown up here.”
“I’ll be in Helsingborg in two hours,” said Wallander. “If you can tell me whether there’s some connection between Liljegren and the others who were killed, we’ll be ahead of the game. Did the killer leave any clues?”
“Not directly, although we can see how it happened. This time he didn’t pour acid into his victim’s eyes. He roasted him. His head and half his neck, at least.”
“Roasted?”
“In an oven. Be glad you won’t have to look at it.”
“What else?”
“I just got here, so nothing really.”
After Wallander hung up he looked at his watch. It was very early. He called Nyberg, who answered at once. Wallander told him what had happened, and Nyberg promised to be outside Wallander’s building in 15 minutes. Then Wallander dialled Hansson’s number, but changed his mind and called Martinsson instead. As always, Martinsson’s wife answered. It took a couple of minutes before her husband came to the phone.
“He’s killed again,” said Wallander. “This time in Helsingborg. A crook named Ake Liljegren. They call him ‘the Auditor’.”
“The corporate raider?” asked Martinsson.
“That’s him.”
“The murderer has taste.”
“Bullshit,” Wallander said. “I’m driving up there with Nyberg. They’ve asked us to come. I want you to tell Hansson. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know more.”
“This means that the National Criminal Bureau will be called in,” Martinsson said. “Maybe it’s the best thing.”
“The best thing would be if we caught this killer,” Wallander replied. “I’ll call you later.”
He was outside when Nyberg drove up in his old Amazon. It was a beautiful morning. Nyberg drove fast. At Sturup they turned off towards Lund and reached the motorway to Helsingborg. Wallander told him what he knew. After they had passed Lund, Hansson called. He was out of breath. He’s been even more afraid of this than I have, Wallander thought.
“It’s terrible,” said Hansson. “This changes everything.”
“For the time being it doesn’t change a thing,” Wallander replied. “It depends entirely on what actually happened.”
“It’s time for the National Criminal Bureau to take over,” said Hansson. Wallander could tell from Hansson’s voice that to be relieved of his responsibility was what he wanted most of all. Wallander was annoyed. He couldn’t ignore the hint of disparagement of the work of the investigative team.
“That’s your responsibility — yours and Akeson’s,” Wallander said tersely. “What occurred in Helsingborg is their problem. But they’ve asked me to go up there. We’ll talk about what we’re going to do later.”
Wallander hung up. Nyberg didn’t say a word. But Wallander knew he had been listening carefully.
They were met by a squad car at the exit to Helsingborg. Wallander realised that it must have been somewhere nearby that Sven Andersson had stopped to give Dolores Maria Santana a lift on her last journey. They followed the car up to Tagaborg and stopped outside Liljegren’s villa. Wallander and Nyberg passed through the police cordon and were met by Sjosten at the bottom of the steps to the villa, which Wallander guessed had been built around the turn of the century. They said hello and exchanged a few words. Sjosten introduced Nyberg to the forensic technician from Helsingborg. The two of them went inside.
Sjosten put out his cigarette and buried the butt in the gravel with his heel.
“It’s your man who did this,” he said.
“What do you know about the victim?”
“Ake Liljegren was famous.”
“Infamous, you mean.”
Sjosten nodded. “There are probably plenty of people who have dreamt of killing him,” he said. “With a criminal justice system that worked better, with fewer loopholes in the laws on financial fraud, he would have been locked up.”
Sjosten took Wallander into the house. The air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh. Sjosten gave Wallander a mask, which he put on reluctantly. They went into the kitchen where the body still lay under the plastic sheet. Wallander nodded to Sjosten to let him see, thinking that he might as well get it over with. He didn’t know what he had expected, but he flinched involuntarily. Liljegren’s face was gone. The skin was burnt away and large sections of the skull were clearly visible. There were just two holes where the eyes had been. The hair and ears were also burnt off. Wallander nodded to Sjosten to put back the sheet. Sjosten quickly described how Liljegren had been found leaning into the oven. Wallander got some Polaroids from the photographer. It was almost worse to see the pictures. Wallander shook his head with a grimace and handed them back. Sjosten took him upstairs, pointing out the blood, and describing the apparent sequence of events. Wallander occasionally asked a question about a detail, but Sjosten’s scenario seemed convincing.
“Were there any witnesses?” asked Wallander. “Clues left by the murderer? How did he get into the house?”
“Through a basement window.”
They returned to the kitchen and went down to the basement that extended under the whole house. A little window stood ajar in a room where Wallander smelt the faint aroma of apples stored for the winter.
“We think he got in this way,” said Sjosten. “And left that way too. Even though he could have walked straight out the front door. Liljegren lived alone.”
“Did he leave anything behind?” Wallander wondered. “So far he has been careful to leave no clues. On the other hand, he hasn’t been excessively meticulous. We have a whole set of fingerprints. According to Nyberg, we’re missing only the left little finger.”
“Fingerprints he knows the police don’t have on file,” said Sjosten.
Wallander nodded. Sjosten was right.
“We found a footprint in the kitchen next to the stove,” said Sjosten.
“So he was barefoot again,” said Wallander.
“Barefoot?”
Wallander told him about the footprint they had found in the blood in Fredman’s van. He would have to provide Sjosten and his colleagues with all the material they had on the first three murders.
Wallander inspected the basement window. He thought he could see faint scrape marks near one of the latches, which had been broken off. When he bent down he found it, although it was hard to see against the dark floor. He didn’t touch it.
“It looks as though it might have been loosened in advance,” he said.
“You think he prepared for his visit?”
“It’s conceivable. It fits with his pattern. He puts his victims under surveillance. He stakes them out. Why, and for how long, we have no idea. Our psychologist from Stockholm, Mats Ekholm, claims this is characteristic of serial killers.”
They went into the next room. The windows were the same. The latches were intact.
“We should probably search for footprints in the grass outside that window,” Wallander said. He regretted his words immediately. He had no right to tell an experienced investigator like Sjosten what to do. They returned to the kitchen. Liljegren’s body was being removed.