There was a scratchy, faint message from Skane Daily, asking if he was interested in a subscription. He was just on his way back to the kitchen when he heard the next message. “It’s Baiba. I’m going to Tallinn. I’ll be back on Saturday.”
He was seized with jealousy. Why was she going to Tallinn? She had said nothing about it the last time they spoke. He poured a cup of coffee, and called her number in Riga, but there was no answer. He dialled again. His unease was growing. She could hardly have left for Tallinn at 5 a.m. Why wasn’t she home? Or if she was home, why didn’t she answer?
He picked up his coffee cup, opened the balcony door facing Mariagatan, and sat down. Once again he saw the girl running through the rape. For an instant she looked like Baiba. He forced himself to accept that his jealousy was unwarranted. They had agreed not to encumber their new relationship with promises of fidelity. He remembered how they had sat up on Christmas Eve and talked about what they wanted from one another. Most of all, Wallander wanted them to get married. But when Baiba spoke of her need for freedom, he had agreed with her. Rather than lose her, he would accept her terms.
The sky was clear blue and the air was already warm. He drank his coffee in slow sips and tried to keep from thinking of the girl. When he had finished he went into the bedroom and searched for a long time before finding a clean shirt. Next he gathered all the clothes strewn around the flat. He made a big pile in the middle of the livingroom floor. He would have to go to the launderette today.
At 5.45 a.m. he left his flat and went down to the street. He got into his car and remembered that it was due for its M.O.T. by the end of June. He drove off down Regementsgatan and then out along Osterleden. On the spur of the moment, he turned onto the road heading out of town and stopped at the new cemetery at Kronoholmsvagen. He left the car and strolled along the rows of gravestones. Now and then he would catch sight of a name he vaguely recognised. When he saw a year of birth the same as his own he averted his eyes. Some young men in blue overalls were unloading a mower from a trailer. When he reached the memorial grove, he sat on one of the benches. He hadn’t been here since the windy autumn day four years ago when they had scattered Rydberg’s ashes. Bjork had been there, and Rydberg’s distant and anonymous relatives. Wallander had often meant to come back. A gravestone with Rydberg’s name on it would have been simpler, he thought. A focal point for my memories of him. In this grove, full of the spirits of the dead, I can find no trace of him.
He realised that he had difficulty remembering what Rydberg looked like. He’s dying away inside me, he thought. Soon even my memories of him will be gone.
He stood up, suddenly distressed. He kept seeing the burning girl. He drove straight to the station, went into his office, and closed the door, forcing himself to prepare a summary of the car theft investigation that he had to turn over to Svedberg. He moved folders onto the floor so that his desk would be completely clear.
He lifted up his desk blotter to see whether there were any items there that he’d forgotten about. He found a scratch-off lottery ticket he had bought several months before. He rubbed it with a ruler until the numbers appeared, and saw that he had won 25 kronor. From the hall he could hear Martinsson’s voice, then Ann-Britt Hoglund’s. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk, and closed his eyes. When he woke up he had a cramp in one of his calf muscles, but he’d slept for no more than ten minutes. The telephone rang. It was Per Akeson from the prosecutors’ office. They exchanged greetings, and some words about the weather. They had worked together for many years, and had slowly developed a rapport that had become like a friendship. They often disagreed about whether an arrest was justified or whether remanding an offender in custody was reasonable. But there was also a trust that went deep, although they almost never spent time together off duty.
“I read in the paper about the girl who burned to death in a field by Marsvinsholm,” said Akeson. “Is that something for me?”
“It was suicide,” replied Wallander. “Other than a farmer named Salomonsson, I was the only witness.”
“What in heaven’s name were you doing there?”
“Salomonsson called. Normally a squad car would have dealt with it. But they were busy.”
“The girl can’t have been a pretty sight.”
“It was worse than you could imagine. We have to find out who she was. The switchboard has already started taking calls from people worried about missing relatives.”
“So you don’t suspect foul play?”
Without understanding why, Wallander hesitated before answering.
“No,” he said then. “I can’t think of a more blatant way to take your own life.”
“You don’t sound entirely convinced.”
“I had a bad night. It was as you say — a pretty horrible experience.”
They fell silent. Wallander could tell that Akeson had something else he wanted to talk about.
“There’s another reason why I’m calling,” he said finally. “But keep it between us.”
“I usually know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“Do you remember I told you a few years ago that I was thinking of doing something else? Before it’s too late, before I get too old.”
“I remember you talked about refugees and the UN. Was it the Sudan?”
“Uganda. And I’ve actually got an offer. Which I’ve decided to accept. In September I’m going to take a year’s sabbatical.”
“What does your wife think about this?”
“That’s why I’m calling. For moral support. I haven’t discussed it with her yet.”
“Is she supposed to go with you?”
“No.”
“Then I suspect she’ll be a little surprised.”
“Have you any idea how I should break it to her?”
“Unfortunately not. But I think you’re doing the right thing. There has to be more to life than putting people in jail.”
“I’ll let you know how it goes.”
They were just about to hang up when Wallander remembered that he had a question.
“Does this mean that Anette Brolin is coming back as your replacement?”
“She’s changed sides; she’s working as a criminal barrister in Stockholm now,” said Akeson. “Weren’t you a little in love with her?”
“No,” Wallander said. “I was just curious.”
He hung up. He felt a pang of jealousy. He would have liked to travel to Uganda himself, to have a complete change. Nothing could undo the horror of seeing a young person set herself alight. He envied Per Akeson, who wasn’t going to let his desire to escape stop at mere dreams.
The joy he had felt yesterday was gone. He stood at the window and gazed out at the street. The grass by the old water tower was still green. Wallander thought about the year before, when he had been on sick leave for a long time after he had killed a man. Now he wondered whether he had ever really recovered from that depression. I ought to do something like Akeson, he thought. There must be a Uganda for me somewhere. For Baiba and me.
He stood by the window for a long time, then went back to his desk and tried to reach his sister. Several times he got a busy signal. He spent the next half hour writing up a report of the events of the night before. Then he called the pathology department in Malmo but couldn’t find a doctor who could tell him anything about the burned corpse.
Just before 9 a.m. he got a cup of coffee and went into one of the conference rooms. Hoglund was on the phone, and Martinsson was leafing through a catalogue of garden equipment. Svedberg was in his usual spot, scratching the back of his neck with a pencil. One of the windows was open. Wallander stopped just inside the door with a strong feeling of deja vu. Martinsson looked up from his catalogue and nodded, Svedberg muttered something unintelligible, while Hoglund patiently explained something to one of her children. Hansson came into the room. He had a coffee cup in one hand and a plastic bag with the necklace that had been found in the field in the other.