“That’s not just a rumor,” said Nyberg. “I have had confirmation. I’ve had help from the army guys.”
“What do you make of that?”
“No idea. The army is very interested to know how it got here. It’s a mystery.”
Wallander pressed ahead.
“The pistol butt?”
“Nothing new on that.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really. The report isn’t going to reveal anything surprising.”
Wallander brought the call to a close. Then he did something he’d made up his mind to do during that morning’s meeting. He dialed the number of police headquarters in Stockholm and asked to speak with Inspector Loven. Wallander had met him the previous year, while investigating a raft carrying two bodies that were washed up at Mossby Beach. Although they only worked together for a few days, Wallander could see he was a good detective.
“Inspector Loven isn’t available at the moment,” said the operator at HQ.
“This is Inspector Wallander, Ystad. I have an urgent message. It has to do with the policeman killed in Stockholm a few days ago.”
“I’ll see if I can find Inspector Loven,” said the operator.
“It’s urgent,” Wallander repeated.
It took Loven exactly twelve minutes to call back.
“Wallander,” he said. “I thought of you the other day when I read about the murder of that woman. How’s it going?”
“Slowly,” said Wallander. “How about you?”
“We’ll get him,” said Loven. “We always get the guys who shoot one of ours sooner or later. You had something to tell us in that connection?”
“Could be,” said Wallander. “It’s just that the woman down here was shot through the head. Just like Tengblad. I think it would be a good idea to compare the bullets as soon as possible.”
“Yeah,” said Loven. “Don’t forget, this guy was shooting through a windshield. Must have been hard to make out a face on the other side. And it’s a hell of a shot if you can get somebody in the middle of the forehead when they’re in a moving car. But you’re right, of course. We ought to check it out.”
“Do you have a description of the guy?” asked Wallander.
The reply came without a pause.
“He stole a car from a young couple after the murder,” said Loven. “Unfortunately they were so scared they’ve only been able to give us very confused accounts of what he looked like.”
“They didn’t happen to hear him speak, did they?” Wallander wondered.
“That was the only thing they agreed on,” said Loven. “He had some sort of a foreign accent.”
Wallander could feel his excitement growing. He told Loven about his conversation with Alfred Hanson and about the man who had paid ten thousand kronor to rent an empty house out in the sticks.
“We’ll obviously have to look into this,” said Loven when Wallander was through. “Even if it does sound odd.”
“The whole business is very odd,” said Wallander. “I could drive up to Stockholm on Monday. I suspect that’s where my African is.”
“Maybe he was mixed up in the tear gas attack on a discotheque in the Soder district of Stockholm,” said Loven.
Wallander vaguely remembered seeing something about that in the Ystad Chronicle the previous day.
“What attack was that?” he asked.
“Somebody threw some tear gas canisters into a club in Soder,” said Loven. “A discotheque with lots of Africans among the clientele. We’ve never had any trouble there before. But we have now. Somebody fired a few shots as well.”
“Take good care of those bullets,” said Wallander. “Let’s take a close look at them as well.”
“You think there’s only one gun in this country?”
“No. But I’m looking for links. Unexpected links.”
“I’ll set things in motion here,” said Loven. “Thanks for calling. I’ll tell the people running the investigation you’ll be coming on Monday.”
They assembled as agreed at five o’clock, and the meeting was very short. Martinson had managed to confirm so much of Stig Gustafson’s alibi that he was well on the way to being excluded from the investigation. All the same, Wallander felt doubtful, without being quite sure why.
“Let’s not let him go altogether,” he said. “We’ll go through all the evidence concerning him one more time.”
Martinson stared at him in surprise.
“What exactly do you expect to find?” he asked.
Wallander shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just worried about letting him go too soon.”
Martinson was about to protest, but checked himself. He had great respect for Wallander’s judgement and intuition.
Svedberg had worked his way through the stack of tips the police had received so far. There was nothing that obviously threw new light on either Louise Akerblom’s death or the blown-up house.
“You’d think somebody would have noticed an African missing a finger,” was Wallander’s comment.
“Maybe he doesn’t exist,” said Martinson.
“We’ve got the finger,” said Wallander. “Whoever lost it was no spook.”
Then Wallander reported on how far he had gotten. They all agreed he should go to Stockholm. There could be a link, no matter how unlikely it seemed, between the murders of Louise Akerblom and Tengblad.
They concluded the meeting by going through the heirs to the house that had been blown up.
“They can wait,” said Wallander afterwards. “There’s not a lot here that looks like it will get us anywhere.”
He sent Svedberg and Martinson home and stayed behind in his office a little longer. He called the prosecutor, Per Akeson, at home, giving him a brief summary of where they stood.
“It’s not good if we can’t solve this murder quickly,” said Akeson.
Wallander agreed. They decided to meet first thing Monday morning to go through the investigation so far, step by step. Wallander could see Akeson was afraid of being accused later of allowing a carelessly conducted investigation to go ahead. He ended the conversation, turned off his desk lamp, and left the station. He drove down the long-drawn-out hill and turned into the hospital parking lot.
Bjork was feeling better and expected to be discharged some time Monday. Wallander gave him a report, and Bjork also thought Wallander ought to go to Stockholm.
“This used to be a quiet district,” said Bjork as Wallander was getting ready to leave. “Nothing much used to happen here to attract attention. Now that’s all changed.”
“It’s not just here,” said Wallander. “What you are talking about belongs to a different age.”
“I guess I’m getting old,” sighed Bjork.
“You’re not the only one,” said Wallander.
The words were still echoing in his ears as he left the hospital. It was nearly half past six, and he was hungry. He did not feel like cooking at home, and he decided to eat out. He went home, took a shower, and changed. Then he tried to call his daughter Linda in Stockholm. He let the phone ring for quite some time. In the end he gave up. He went down to the basement and booked himself a time in the laundry room. Then he walked in to the town center. The wind had dropped, but it was chilly.
Getting old, he thought to himself. I’m only forty-four and I’m already feeling worn out.
His train of thought suddenly made him angry. It was up to him and nobody else to decide if he was getting old before his time. He could not blame his work, nor his divorce that was already five years ago. The only question was how he would be able to change things.
He came to the square and wondered where he ought to eat. In a sudden fit of extravagance, he decided to go to the Continental. He went down Hamngatan, paused for a moment to look at the display in the lamp shop, then continued as far as the hotel. He nodded to the girl at the front desk, recalling that she had been in the same class as his daughter.
The dining room was almost empty. Just for a moment he had second thoughts. Sitting all by himself in a deserted dining room seemed like too much solitude. But he sat down anyway. He had made up his mind, and couldn’t be bothered to start rethinking now.