Wallander had his second wind. Hoglund left to go and find Birgersson. Svedberg almost collided with her in the doorway as he came in with the security guards’ account of the theft of their car.
“You’re right,” he said. “Basically all they saw was the gun. And it all happened very fast. But he had blond hair, blue eyes and was dressed in some kind of jogging suit. Normal height, spoke with a Stockholm accent. Gave the impression of being high on something.”
“What did they mean by that?”
“His eyes.”
“I assume the description is on its way out?”
“I’ll check.”
As Svedberg left, excited voices came from the hall. Wallander guessed that a reporter had tried to cross the boundary that Birgersson had drawn. He found a notebook and quickly wrote a few notes in the sequence he remembered them. He was sweating profusely now, checking the wall clock, and in his mind Baiba was sitting by the phone in her spartan flat in Riga waiting for the call he should have made long ago.
It was close to 3 a.m. The security company’s car was still missing. Hans Logard was hiding. The Dominican girl who had been taken to the yacht club couldn’t make a positive identification of the boat. Maybe it was the same one, maybe not. A man who had always kept in the shadows had been at the wheel. She couldn’t remember any crew. Wallander told Birgersson that the girls had to get some sleep now. Hotel rooms were arranged. One of the girls smiled shyly at Wallander when they met in the hall. Her smile made him feel good, for a brief moment almost exhilarated. At regular intervals Birgersson would find Wallander and provide information on Logard. At 3.15 a.m. Wallander learned that Logard had been married twice and had two children under 18. One of them, a girl, lived with her mother in Hagfors, the other in Stockholm, a boy of nine. Next Birgersson came back and reported that Logard might have had one other child, but that they hadn’t managed to confirm it.
At 3.30 a.m. an exhausted officer came into the room where Wallander was sitting with a coffee cup in his hand and his feet on the desk and told him that Stockholm Radio had contacted the Malmstroms’ Maxi. Wallander jumped up and followed him to the command centre, where Birgersson stood yelling into a receiver. He handed it to Wallander.
“They’re somewhere between two lightships named the Havringe and the Gustaf Dalen,” he said. “I’ve got Karl Malmstrom on the line.”
Wallander quickly handed the phone back to Birgersson.
“I’ve got to talk to his wife. Only the wife.”
“I hope you realise that there are hundreds of pleasure boats out there listening to the conversation going out over the coastal radio.”
In his haste, Wallander had forgotten that.
“A mobile phone is better,” he said. “Ask if they have one on board.”
“I’ve already done that,” Birgersson said. “These are people who think you should leave mobile phones at home when you’re on holiday.”
“Then they’ll have to put into shore,” Wallander said. “And call me from there.”
“How long do you think that will take?” said Birgersson. “Do you have any idea where the Havringe is? Plus, it’s the middle of the night. Are they supposed to set sail now?”
“I don’t give a shit where the Havringe is,” Wallander said. “Besides, they might be sailing at night and not lying at anchor. Maybe there’s some other boat nearby with a mobile phone. Just tell them that I have to get in touch with her within an hour. With her. Not him.”
Birgersson shook his head. Then he started yelling into the phone again. Half an hour later Agneta Malmstrom called from a mobile phone borrowed from a boat they’d met out in the channel. Wallander got straight to the point.
“Do you remember the girl who burned herself to death?” he asked. “In a rape field a few weeks ago?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Do you also recall a phone conversation we had at that time? I asked you how a young person could do such a thing to herself. I don’t remember my exact words.”
“I have a vague memory of it,” she replied.
“You answered by giving an example of something you had recently experienced. You told me about a boy, a little boy, who was so afraid of his father that he tried to put out his own eyes.”
“Yes,” she said. “I remember that. But it wasn’t something I had experienced myself. One of my colleagues told me about it.”
“Who was that?”
“My husband. He’s a doctor too.”
“Then I’ll have to talk to him. Please get him for me.”
“It’ll take a while. I’ll have to row over and get him in the dinghy. We put down a drift anchor some way from here.”
Wallander apologised for bothering her.
“Unfortunately, it’s necessary,” he said.
“It’ll take a while,” she said.
“Where the hell is the Havringe?” asked Wallander.
“Out in the Baltic,” she said. “It’s lovely where we are. But just now we’re making a night sail to the south. Even though the wind is poor.”
It took 20 minutes before the phone rang again. Karl Malmstrom was on the line. In the meantime Wallander had learnt that he was a paediatrician in Malmo. Wallander reverted to the conversation he had had with his wife.
“I remember the case,” he said.
“Can you remember the name of the boy off the top of your head?”
“Yes, I can. But I can’t stand here yelling it into a mobile phone.”
Wallander understood his point. He thought feverishly.
“Let’s do this, then,” he said. “I’ll ask you a question. You can answer yes or no. Without naming any names.”
“We can try,” said Malmstrom.
“Does it have anything to do with Bellman?” asked Wallander.
Malmstrom instantly understood the reference to Fredman’s Epistles by the famous Swedish poet.
“Yes, it does.”
“Then I thank you for your help,” said Wallander. “I hope I won’t have to bother you again. Have a good summer.”
Karl Malmstrom didn’t seem annoyed. “It’s nice to know we have policemen who work hard at all hours,” was all he said.
Wallander handed the phone to Birgersson.
“Let’s have a meeting in a while,” he said. “I need a few minutes to think.”
“Take my office,” Birgersson said.
Wallander suddenly felt very tired. His sense of revulsion was like a dull ache in his body. He still didn’t want to believe that what he was thinking could be true. He had fought against this conclusion for a long time. But he couldn’t do that any longer. The truth that confronted him was unbearable. The little boy’s terror of his father. A big brother nearby. Who pours hydrochloric acid into his father’s eyes as revenge. Who acts out an insane retribution for his sister, who had been abused in some way. It was all very clear. The whole thing made sense and the result was appalling. He also thought that his subconscious had seen it long ago, but he had pushed the realisation aside. Instead he had allowed himself to be sidetracked, distracted from his goal.
A police officer knocked on his door.
“We just got a fax from Lund,” he said. “From a hospital.”
Wallander took it. Akeson had acted fast. It was a copy of a page from the visitors’ book for the psychiatric ward. All the names but one were crossed out. The signature really was illegible. He took out a magnifying glass from Birgersson’s desk drawer and tried to make it out. Illegible. He put the paper on the table. The officer was still standing in the doorway.
“Get Birgersson over here,” Wallander said. “And my colleagues from Ystad. How’s Sjosten, by the way?”
“He’s sleeping. They’ve removed the bullet from his shoulder.”
A few minutes later they were gathered in the room. It was almost 4.30 a.m. Everyone was exhausted. Still no sign of Logard. Still no trace of the security guards’ car. Wallander nodded to them to sit down.