“She’s dead,” he said.
Stefan looked at him, his face distorted. Wallander quickly got up, afraid that the boy would jump on him. But he didn’t. He kept howling.
Somewhere behind him in the rain he heard a siren. It wasn’t until Hansson was standing next to him that he realised he was crying himself. Wallander left all the work to the others. He told Hoglund briefly what had happened. When he saw Akeson, he took him to his car. The rain was drumming on the roof.
“It’s over,” Wallander said.
“Yes,” said Akeson, “it’s over.”
“I’m going on holiday,” said Wallander. “I realise there’s a pile of reports that have to be written. But I thought I’d go anyway.”
Akeson’s reply came without hesitation.
“Do that,” he said. “Go.”
Akeson got out of the car. Wallander thought he should have asked him about his trip to the Sudan. Or was it Uganda?
He drove home. Linda wasn’t there. He took a bath and was drying himself off when he heard her close the front door. That evening he told her what had really happened. And how he felt.
Then he called Baiba.
“I thought you were never going to call,” she said, keeping her anger in check.
“Please forgive me,” Wallander said. “I’ve had so much to do lately.”
“I think that’s a pretty poor excuse.”
“It is, I know. But it’s the only one I’ve got.”
Neither of them said anything else. The silence travelled back and forth between Ystad and Riga.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Wallander finally said.
“All right,” she said. “I guess so.”
They hung up. Wallander felt a knot in his stomach. Maybe she wouldn’t come. After supper he and Linda packed their bags. The rain stopped just after midnight. The air smelled fresh as they stood out on the balcony.
“The summer is so beautiful,” she said.
“Yes,” Wallander said. “It is beautiful.”
The next day they took the train together to Malmo. Then Wallander took the hydrofoil to Copenhagen. He watched the water racing past the sides of the boat. Distracted, he ordered coffee and cognac. In two hours Baiba’s plane would be landing. Something close to panic gripped him. He suddenly wished that the crossing to Copenhagen would take much longer. But when she arrived at the airport he was waiting for her.
Not until then did the image of Louise Fredman, dead and broken, finally disappear from his mind.
Skane
16–17 September 1994
EPILOGUE
On Friday, 16 September, autumn suddenly rolled in to Skane. Kurt Wallander woke up early that morning. His eyes flew open in the dark, as if he had been cast violently out of a dream. He lay still and tried to remember. But there was only the echo of something that was gone and would never return. He turned his head and looked at the clock next to the bed. The fluorescent hands showed 4.45 a.m. He turned over on his side to go back to sleep. But the knowledge of what day it was kept him awake.
He got up and went to the kitchen. The streetlight hanging over the street swayed forlornly in the wind. He checked the thermometer and saw that the temperature had dropped. It was 7 °C. He smiled at the thought that tomorrow night he would be in Rome where it was still warm. He sat at the kitchen table and had some coffee, going over the preparations for the trip in his mind. A few days earlier he had finally fixed his father’s studio door. He had also taken a look at his father’s new passport. He had exchanged some money for Italian lire at the bank and had bought traveller’s cheques. He was going to leave work early to pick up the tickets.
Now he had to go to work for one last day before his holiday. He left the flat and went down to his car. He zipped up his jacket and shivered when he got into the driver’s seat. On the way to the station he thought about this morning’s meeting.
It was exactly 8 a.m. when he knocked on the door of Lisa Holgersson’s office and opened the door. She nodded and asked him to have a seat. She had been serving as their new chief for only three weeks, but Wallander thought she had already set her stamp on the atmosphere of the department.
Many had been sceptical about a woman who came from a police district in Smaland. And Wallander was surrounded by colleagues who still believed that women weren’t even suited to be police officers. How could one be their chief? But Lisa Holgersson had soon demonstrated how capable she was. Wallander was impressed by her integrity, her fearlessness and the clear presentations she gave, no matter what the topic.
The day before she had arranged a meeting. Now Wallander sat in her visitor’s chair wondering what she wanted.
“You’re going on holiday,” she said. “I heard you were going to Italy with your father.”
“It’s his dream,” Wallander said. “It may be the last chance we get. He’s 80.”
“My father is 85,” she said. “Sometimes his mind is crystal clear. Sometimes he doesn’t recognise me. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that you never escape your parents. The roles are simply reversed. You become your parents’ parent.”
“Exactly,” Wallander replied.
She moved some papers on her desk.
“I don’t have a specific agenda for this meeting,” she said. “But I realised that I’ve never had a proper chance to thank you for your work this summer. It was model detective work.”
Wallander gave her a surprised look. Was she serious?
“That’s putting it a little strongly,” he said. “I made a lot of mistakes. I let the whole investigation be sidetracked. It could have failed miserably.”
“The ability to lead an investigation often means knowing when to shift tactics,” she said. “To look in a direction you may have just ruled out. The investigation was a model in many ways, especially because of your tenacity and your willingness to think along unconventional lines. I want you to know this. I’ve heard it said that the national police chief has expressed his satisfaction. I think you’ll be receiving an invitation to hold seminars about the investigation at the police academy.”
“I can’t do that,” he said. “Ask someone else. I can’t speak to people I don’t know.”
“We’ll take this up again after you get back,” she said, smiling. “Right now the most important thing is that I had a chance to tell you what I thought.”
She stood to indicate that the meeting was over.
Wallander walked down the hall thinking that she’d meant what she said. He tried to dismiss it, but the appreciation made him feel good. It would be easy to work with her in the future.
He got some coffee from the canteen and exchanged a few words with Martinsson about one of his daughters who had tonsillitis. When he got to his office he made an appointment for a haircut. He had made a list the day before, which was on his desk. He’d planned to leave the station as early as midday so that he could deal with all his errands. But it was 4.15 p.m. by the time he left to go to the travel agency. He also stopped at the state off licence and bought a bottle of whisky. When he got home he called Linda. He promised to send her a postcard from Rome. She was in a hurry, and he didn’t ask why. The conversation was over much sooner than he would have liked.
At 6 p.m. he called Loderup and asked Gertrud if everything was in order. She told him that his father had such travel fever that he could hardly sit still. Wallander walked into the centre of town and ate dinner at one of the pizzerias. When he got back to Mariagatan he poured himself a glass of whisky and spread out a map of Rome. He had never been there and didn’t know a word of Italian. But there are two of us, he thought. My father has never been there either, except in his dreams. And he doesn’t speak Italian either. We’re heading into this dream together and will have to guide each other.