The thought cheered him up. It could be a useful ploy for the future.
At five minutes to four Wallander landed at Arlanda, where it was drizzling slightly. He passed through the hangar-like terminal and saw Loven waiting outside the swinging doors.
Wallander noticed he had a headache. It had been a very intense day. He had spent nearly two hours with the prosecutor. Per Akeson had many questions and critical observations. Wallander wondered how to explain to a prosecutor that cops were occasionally forced to rely on instinct when priorities had to be set. Akeson criticized the reports he had received so far. Wallander defended the investigation, and by the end of the meeting the atmosphere was tense between them. Before Peters drove Wallander to Sturup Airport, he managed to stop by at home and throw a few clothes into a bag. That was when he finally managed to get hold of his daughter on the telephone. She was pleased to hear he was coming, he could hear that. They agreed he would call her that night, no matter how late it was.
Only when Wallander was in his seat and the plane had taken off did he realize how hungry he was. The SAS sandwiches were the first food to pass his lips that day.
As they drove to the police station at Kungsholmen, Wallander was filled in about the hunt for Tengblad’s murderer. Loven and his colleagues obviously had no real clues to follow up, and he could see their search was characterized by frustration. Loven also managed to give him a summary of what had happened at the discotheque where the tear gas attack took place. It all seemed to point to either a heavy-handed prank or an act of revenge. There were no definite clues here, either. In the end Wallander asked about the contract. As far as he was concerned, this was something new and frightening. Something that had only come into the mix in the last few years, and then only in the three largest cities in the country. But he had no illusions. Before long it would be happening in his own back yard. Contracts were made between a customer and a professional killer, with the aim of murdering people. The whole affair was a business deal. It seemed to Wallander this must be the ultimate proof that the brutalization of society had reached incomprehensible proportions.
“We have people out there trying to find out what’s actually going on,” said Loven as they passed the Northern Cemetery on the way into Stockholm.
“I can’t figure it all out,” said Wallander. “It’s like it was last year, when that raft drifted ashore. Nothing added up then, either.”
“We’ll have to hope our technical guys can come up with something,” said Loven. “They might be able to make something of the bullets.”
Wallander tapped his jacket pocket. He had with him the bullet that had killed Louise Akerblom.
They drove into the underground garage and then took the elevator straight up to headquarters, where the hunt for Tengblad’s killer was being organized.
As Wallander entered the room, he was struck by the number of cops present. Fifteen or more were staring at him, and he thought about how different it was from Ystad.
Loven introduced him, and Wallander took the chorus of mumbles as a greeting. A short, balding man in his fifties introduced himself as Stenberg, the officer in charge of the investigation.
Wallander suddenly felt nervous and badly prepared. He was also a little worried that they might not understand his Scanian dialect. Nevertheless, he sat down at the table and filled them in on everything that had happened. He had to field a lot of questions, and it was obvious he was dealing with experienced detectives who were very quick to get to the heart of an investigation, locate the weak points, and formulate the right questions.
The meeting dragged on and on, and lasted for more than two hours. In the end, when everyone was obviously beginning to feel washed out and Wallander was forced to ask for some aspirin, Stenberg gave a summary.
“We need a rapid response regarding the results of the ammunition analysis,” he said by way of conclusion. “If we can establish a link between the weapons used, then if nothing else, we’ve succeeded in muddying the waters a bit more.”
One or two of the cops managed a smile, but most of them just sat staring into space.
It was nearly eight by the time Wallander left the Kungsholmen police station. Loven drove him to his hotel on Vasagatan.
“Will you be OK?” asked Loven as he dropped Wallander off.
“I have a daughter here in town,” Wallander replied. “By the way, what’s the name of that disco where they threw the tear gas canisters?”
“Aurora,” said Loven. “But I hardly think it’s the sort of place for you.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” said Wallander.
Loven nodded, and drove off. Wallander picked up his key and resisted the temptation to look for a bar close to the hotel. The memory of Saturday night in Ystad was still all too vivid. He took the elevator to his room, showered, and changed his shirt. After a catnap for an hour on top of the bed, he looked up the address of the Aurora in the telephone book. He left the hotel at a quarter to nine. He wondered whether he should call his daughter before going out. In the end, he decided to wait. His excursion to the Aurora should not take too long. Besides, Linda was a night owl. He crossed over toward Central Station, found a cab and gave an address in the Soder district. Wallander gazed thoughtfully at the city as they drove through it. Somewhere out there was his daughter Linda, and somewhere else his sister Kristina. Hidden among all those houses and people was presumably also an African missing the index finger of his left hand.
He suddenly felt uneasy. It was like he expected something to happen any minute. Something he’d better start worrying about even now.
Louise Akerblom’s smiling face flashed across his mind’s eye.
What had she stumbled upon? he wondered. Had she realized she was going to die?
A staircase led down from ground level to a black-painted iron door. Above it was a filthy red neon sign. Several of the letters had gone out. Wallander began to wonder why he had decided to take a look at the place into which somebody had thrown a few tear gas canisters a couple of days previously. But he was groping so much in the dark, he couldn’t afford not to follow up the very slightest chance of finding a black man with a severed finger. He went down the stairs, opened the door, and entered a dark room where he had difficulty seeing anything at all at first. He could barely hear some music coming from a loudspeaker hanging from the ceiling. The room was full of smoke, and he thought at first he was the only one there. Then he made out some shadows in a corner with the whites of their eyes gleaming, and a bar counter slightly more illuminated than the rest of the room. When he’d gotten used to the light, he went over to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender had a shaven head.
“We can manage on our own, thank you,” he said.
Wallander did not know what he was talking about.
“We can supply all the security cover we need ourselves,” the guy said.
Wallander realized to his surprise that the bartender was onto him.
“How do you know I’m a cop?” he asked, wishing he hadn’t even as the words crossed his lips.
“Trade secret,” the bartender replied.
Wallander noticed he was starting to get angry. The guy’s arrogant self-assurance irritated him.
“I have a few questions,” he said. “Since you already know I’m a cop, I don’t need to show you my ID.”
“I very rarely answer questions,” said the bartender.
“You will this time,” said Wallander. “God help you if you don’t.”
The man stared at Wallander in astonishment.
“I might answer,” he said.
“You get a lot of Africans in here,” said Wallander.
“They just love this joint.”
“I’m looking for a black guy about thirty, and there’s something very special about him.”
“Such as?”