“This is the first murderer I’ve ever hunted,” said Engman.
“We don’t know if he’s our man,” said Wallander. “In this country a man is innocent until he’s proven guilty. Never forget that.”
He was uncomfortable about the critical tone of his voice. He thought he’d better make up for it by saying something kind. But he couldn’t think of anything.
At half past ten Svedberg and his colleague made an undramatic arrest at the hydrofoil terminal. Stig Gustafson was a small man, thin, balding, sunburnt after his holiday.
Svedberg explained how he was suspected of murder, put the cuffs on him and announced he was being taken to Ystad.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Stig Gustafson. “Why do I have to be handcuffed? Why are you taking me to Ystad? Who am I supposed to have murdered?”
Svedberg noted that he seemed genuinely surprised. The thought suddenly struck him that marine engineer Gustafson might be innocent.
At ten minutes to twelve Wallander was sitting opposite Gustafson in an interview room at the Ystad police station. By that time he had already informed the prosecutor, Per Akeson, of the arrest.
He started by asking if Stig Gustafson would like a cup of coffee.
“No,” he said. “I want to go home. And I want to know why I’m here.”
“I want to talk to you,” said Wallander, “and the answers I get will decide whether or not you can go home.”
He started from the beginning. Wrote down Gustafson’s personal details, noted that his middle name was Emil, and that he was born in Landskrona. The man was obviously nervous, and Wallander could see he was sweating at the roots of his hair. But that did not necessarily mean anything. Police phobia is just as real as snake phobia.
Then the real interrogation started. Wallander came straight to the point, intrigued to find out what sort of a reaction he would get.
“You are here to answer questions about a brutal murder,” he said. “The murder of Louise Akerblom.”
Wallander saw the man stiffen. Had he not counted on the body being found so soon? wondered Wallander. Or is he genuinely surprised?
“Louise Akerblom disappeared last Friday,” he continued. “Her body was found a few days ago. She was probably murdered during the latter part of Friday. What have you to say to that?”
“Is it the Louise Akerblom I know?” asked Stig Gustafson.
Wallander could see he was scared now.
“Yes,” he said. “The one you got to know through the Methodists.”
“Has she been murdered?”
“Yes.”
“That’s terrible!”
Wallander immediately began to feel a gnawing sensation in his stomach, and knew something was wrong, absolutely damned wrong. Stig Gustafson’s shocked astonishment gave the impression of being completely genuine. Mind you, Wallander knew from his own experience there were perpetrators of the most horrific crimes you could think of who nevertheless had the ability to appear innocent in the most convincing way possible.
All the same, he could feel that gnawing sensation.
Had they been following a trail that was cold from the start?
“I want to know what you were doing last Friday,” said Wallander. “Start by telling me about the afternoon.”
The answer he got surprised him.
“I was with the police,” said Stig Gustafson.
“The police?”
“Yes. The cops in Malmo. I was flying to Las Palmas the next day. And I’d suddenly realized my passport had run out. I was at the station in Malmo, getting a new passport. The office was already closed by the time I got there, but they were nice and helped me anyway. I got my passport at four o’clock.”
Deep down Wallander knew from that moment on that Stig Gustafson was out of the picture. Even so, he didn’t seem to want to let go. He had a pressing need to solve this murder as soon as humanly possible. Anyway, it would have been dereliction of duty to allow the interrogation to be governed by his feelings.
“I parked at Central Station,” added Gustafson. “Then I went to the bar for a beer.”
“Is there anybody who can prove you were in the bar shortly after four o’clock last Friday?” asked Wallander.
Stig Gustafson considered for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said eventually. “I was sitting on my own. Maybe one of the bartenders will remember me? I very rarely go to the bar, though. I’m not exactly a regular customer.”
“How long were you there?” asked Wallander.
“An hour, maybe. No longer.”
“Until about half past five? Is that right?”
“I suppose so. I’d planned to go to the liquor store before they closed.”
“Which one?”
“The one behind the NK department store. I don’t know the name of the street.”
“And you went there?”
“I just bought a few beers.”
“Can anybody prove you were there?”
Stig Gustafson shook his head.
“The man who served me had a red beard,” he said. “But I might still have the receipt. There’s the date on those receipts, isn’t there?”
“Go on,” said Wallander, nodding.
“Then I collected the car,” said Stig Gustafson. “I was going to buy a suitcase at the B amp;W discount warehouse, out at Jagersro.”
“Is there anybody there who might recognize you?”
“I didn’t buy a suitcase,” said Stig Gustafson. “They were too expensive. I thought I could manage with my old one. It was a disappointment.”
“What did you do next?”
“I had a hamburger at the McDonald’s out there. But the servers are only kids. I don’t suppose they’ll remember anything at all.”
“Young people often have good memories,” said Wallander, thinking of a young bank teller who had been extremely helpful in an investigation some years ago.
“I’ve just remembered something else,” said Stig Gustafson suddenly. “Something that happened while I was at the bar.”
“Go on.”
“I went down to the rest room. I stood there talking to a guy for a couple of minutes. He was complaining that there weren’t any paper towels to dry your hands on. He was a bit drunk. Not too much. He said his name was Forsgard and he ran a garden center at Hoor.”
Wallander made a note.
“We’ll follow that one up,” he said. “If we go back to Mc-Donald’s at Jagersro, the time would have been about half past six, right?”
“That’s probably about right,” said Stig Gustafson.
“What did you do next?”
“I went to Nisse’s to play cards.”
“Who’s Nisse?”
“An old carpenter I used to have as a shipmate for many years. His name’s Nisse Stromgren. Lives on Foreningsgatan. We play cards now and then. A game we learned in the Middle East. It’s pretty complicated. But fun once you know it. You have to collect jacks.”
“How long were you there?”
“It was probably near midnight by the time I went home. A bit too late, as I was going to have to get up so early. The bus was due to leave at six from Central Station. The bus to Kastrup, that is.”
Wallander nodded. Stig Gustafson has an alibi, he thought. If what he says is true. And if Louise Akerblom really was killed last Friday.
Right now there were not enough grounds to arrest Stig Gustafson. The prosecutor would never agree to it.
It’s not him, thought Wallander. If I start pressing him on his persecution of Louise Akerblom, we’ll get nowhere.
He stood up.
“Wait here,” he said and left the room.
They gathered in the conference room and listened gloomily to Wallander’s account.