"One Step Behind" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mankell Henning)

CHAPTER SIX

They gathered in the conference room shortly after 8 a.m. and held an impromptu memorial service. Lisa Holgersson lit a candle at the place where Svedberg normally sat. All those at the station that morning were gathered in the room, filling it with a palpable sense of shock and sadness. Holgersson said only a few words, fighting to keep her composure. Everyone in the room prayed for her not to break down. It would make the situation unbearable. After she had spoken, they stood for a minute's silence. Uneasy images floated through Wallander's mind. He was already having trouble picturing Svedberg's face. He had experienced the same thing when his father died, and earlier with Rydberg.

Although one can certainly remember the dead, it's as if they never existed, he thought.

The impromptu service came to an end, people started to leave. Apart from the members of the investigative team, Holgersson was the only one to stay behind. They sat down at the table. The flame of the candle flickered when Martinsson closed one of the windows. Wallander looked questioningly at Holgersson, but she shook her head. It was his turn to speak.

"We're all tired," he began. "We're upset and sad and confused. What we've always feared the most has finally occurred. Normally we try to solve crimes, even violent crimes, that do not affect people from our own world. This time it's happened in our midst, but we still have to try to approach it as if it were a regular case."

He paused and looked around. No one spoke.

"Let's go over the facts," Wallander said. "Then we can begin to plot our strategy. We know very little. Svedberg was shot sometime between Wednesday afternoon and Thursday evening. It happened in his flat, which shows no signs of forced entry. We can assume that the shotgun lying on the floor was the murder weapon. The flat looks like it was burgled, which may indicate that Svedberg was confronted by an armed assailant. We don't know if this was the case; it is simply a possibility. We cannot disregard other scenarios. We have to keep our search as broad as possible. We also cannot disregard the fact that Svedberg was a policeman. This may or may not be significant. We have no exact time of death yet, and a perplexing fact is that none of the neighbours heard any shots. We therefore have to wait for the autopsy report."

He poured himself a glass of water and emptied it before continuing.

"This is what we know. The only thing to add is that Svedberg did not turn up for work on Thursday. We all appreciate how unusual this is. He gave no reason for his absence, and the only rational assumption is that there was something preventing him from coming in. We know what that means."

Nyberg interrupted him with a gesture.

"I'm not a pathologist," he said, "but I doubt that Svedberg died as early as Wednesday."

"Then we have to deal with the question of what could have prevented Svedberg from coming to work yesterday," Wallander said. "Why didn't he call in? When was he killed?"

Wallander described his conversation with Ylva Brink. "Apart from telling me about the only other relative that Svedberg was in touch with, she said something that stuck in my mind. She said that in the last few weeks Svedberg complained about feeling overworked. But he had just returned from holiday. It doesn't make any sense, particularly if you know that he didn't tend to take strenuous trips on his holiday."

"Did he ever leave Ystad?" Martinsson asked.

"Not very often. He made a day-trip to Bornholm or occasionally took the ferry to Poland. Ylva Brink confirmed this. But he seems mostly to have spent time on his two hobbies, which were Native American history and amateur astronomy. Ylva Brink told me that he owned an expensive telescope, but we haven't found it yet."

"I thought he went bird-watching," said Hansson, who had been silent until now.

"Sometimes, but apparently not so often," Wallander said. "I think we should assume that Ylva Brink knew him quite well, and according to her it was stars and Indians that mattered."

He looked around. "Why was he overworked? What does that mean? It may not be important at all, but I can't help thinking that it is."

"I looked over what he was working on before our meeting," Höglund said. "Just before he went on holiday, he spoke to all the parents of the young people who are missing."

"Which young people?" Holgersson asked, surprised. Wallander explained and Höglund continued.

"The last two days before he went on holiday, he visited the Norman, Boge, and Hillström families, one after the other. But I can't find any notes from those visits even though I searched thoroughly."

Wallander and Martinsson looked at each other.

"That can't be right," Wallander said. "All three of us had a thorough meeting with those families. We had never talked about pursuing them for further questioning, since there was no indication of a crime."

"Well, it looks like he went and saw them anyway," Höglund said. "He's noted the exact times of his visits in his calendar."

Wallander thought for a moment. "That would mean that Svedberg was pursuing this on his own without telling us about it."

"That's not like him," Martinsson said.

"No," Wallander agreed. "It's as strange as him staying home from work without notifying anyone."

"We can easily verify this information," Höglund said.

"Please do," Wallander said. "And find out what questions Svedberg was asking."

"This whole situation is absurd," Martinsson said. "We've been trying to meet with Svedberg with regard to these young people since Wednesday and now he's gone and here we are still talking about them."

"Have there been any new developments?" Holgersson asked.

"Nothing apart from the fact that one of the mothers has become extremely anxious. Her daughter sent her another postcard."

"Isn't that good news?"

"According to her, the handwriting was faked."

"Who would do that?" Hansson asked. "Who the hell forges postcards? Cheques I understand. But postcards?"

"I think we should keep the two cases separate for now," Wallander said. "Let's work out how to tackle the investigation of Svedberg's killer or killers."

"Nothing indicates that there was more than one," Nyberg said.

"Can you be sure that there wasn't?"

"No."

Wallander let his palms fall flat onto the table. "We can't be sure about anything right now," he said. "We have to cast a wide net. In a couple of hours we're going to release the news of Svedberg's death, and then we'll really have to move."

"This will take top priority, of course," Holgersson said. "Everything else can wait."

"The press conference," Wallander said. "Let's take care of that right now."

"A police officer has been murdered," Holgersson said. "We'll tell them exactly what happened. Do we have any leads?"

"No." Wallander's answer was firm.

"Then that's what we'll say."

"How detailed should we get?"

"He was shot at close range. We have the murder weapon. Is there any reason to withhold that information?"

"Not really," Wallander said, and he looked around the table. No one had any objections.

Holgersson got up. "I'd like you to be there," she said. "Maybe all of you should be there. After all, a colleague and friend has been killed."

They decided to meet 15 minutes before the press conference.

Holgersson left. The candle went out when the door closed. Höglund lit it again. They went through what they knew one more time and divided up the work at hand. They were returning to work mode. They were just about to stop when Martinsson raised one more issue.

"We should probably decide now if the young people should be left aside for now or not."

Wallander felt unsure. But he knew it was up to him.

"We'll put it aside for now," he said. "At least for the next few days. Then we'll revisit it, unless of course Svedberg was asking some extraordinary questions."

It was 9.15 a.m. Wallander got a cup of coffee and went into his office. He got out a pad of paper and wrote a single word at the top of the first page: Svedberg. Underneath it he drew a cross that he immediately scratched out. He didn't get any further. He had been meaning to write down all the thoughts that had come to him during the night. But he put down the pen and walked to the window. The August morning was sunny and warm. The thought that there was something not quite right about this case returned. Nyberg felt there was something arranged about the murder scene. If so, then why, and by whom?

He looked for Sture Björklund's number in the phone book and dialled it. The phone rang several times.

"Please accept my condolences," Wallander said, when the man answered.

Sture Björklund's voice sounded strained and distant.

"Likewise. You probably knew my cousin better than I did. Ylva called me at 6 a.m. this morning to tell me what had happened."

"Unfortunately this will make headlines in the papers," Wallander said.

"I know. As it happens it's the second murder case in our family."

"Really?"

"Yes, in 1847, or more precisely on 12 April 1847, a man who was Karl Evert's great-great-great-great-uncle was killed with an axe somewhere on the outskirts of Eslöv. The murderer was a soldier by the name of Brun, who had been given a dishonourable discharge from the army for a number of reasons. The murder was simply a matter of money. Our ancestor was a cattle man and fairly wealthy."

"What happened?" Wallander asked, trying to hide his impatience.

"The police, which I guess consisted of a sheriff and his assistant, made heroic efforts and arrested Brun on his way to Denmark a few days later. He was sentenced to death and executed. When Oscar I became king he took on the business of processing death sentences blocked by his predecessor, Charles XV. As many as 14 prisoners were executed as soon as he came to power. Brun was beheaded, somewhere in the vicinity of Malmö."

"What a strange story."

"I did some research into our ancestry a couple of years ago. Of course the case of Brun and the murder in Eslöv was already known."

"If it's all right with you, I'd like to come out to see you as soon as possible."

Sture Björklund immediately put up his guard.

"What about?"

"We're trying to clarify our picture of Karl Evert." It felt unnatural to use his first name.

"I didn't know him very well, though, and I have to go to Copenhagen this afternoon."

"This is urgent and it won't take much time."

The man was quiet at the other end of the line. Wallander waited.

"What time?"

"Around 2 p.m.?"

"I'll call Copenhagen and let them know I won't be in today."

Sture Björklund gave Wallander directions. His house didn't seem hard to find.

After the phone conversation, Wallander spent a half hour writing out a summary of the case. He was still searching for the thought he had had when he first saw Svedberg lying on the floor – the thought that something wasn't quite right, the same idea that had also struck Nyberg. Wallander realised that it could simply be a reaction to the unbearable and incomprehensible experience of seeing a colleague dead. But he still tried to explore what might have caused it.

A little after 10 a.m. he went to get another cup of coffee. A number of people were gathered in the canteen. There was a general atmosphere of shock and dismay. Wallander lingered for a while, talking to some traffic officers. Then he walked back to his office and called Nyberg on his mobile phone.

"Where are you?" Wallander asked.

"Where do you think?" he replied sourly. "I'm still in Svedberg's flat."

"You haven't seen a telescope, by any chance?"

"No."

"Anything else?"

"We have a number of prints on the shotgun. We'll be able to get complete copies of at least two or three of them."

"Then we'll hope he's already in the database. Is that it?"

"Yes."

"I'm on my way to question Svedberg's other cousin, who lives outside Hedeskoga. After that I'll be back to do a more thorough search of the flat."

"We'll be done by then. I'm also planning to attend the press conference."

Wallander couldn't remember Nyberg ever coming to a meeting that involved the press before. Maybe it was Nyberg's way of expressing how upset he was. Wallander was suddenly moved.

"Have you found any keys?" he asked after a moment.

"There are some car keys and a key to the basement storage area."

"Nothing in the attic?"

"There don't seem to be storage areas in the attic, only in the basement. You'll get the keys from me at the press conference."

Wallander hung up and went to Martinsson's office.

"Where's Svedberg's car?" he asked. "The Audi."

Martinsson didn't know. They asked Hansson, who didn't know either. Höglund wasn't in her office.

Martinsson looked at his watch.

"It's got to be in a car park close to the flat," he said. "I think I have time to check before 11 a.m."

Wallander went back to his office. He saw that people had started to send flowers. Ebba looked like she had been crying, but Wallander didn't say anything to her. He hurried past her as fast as he could.

The press conference started on time. Afterwards Wallander remembered thinking that Lisa Holgersson conducted the proceedings with dignity. He told her that no one could have done a better job. She was wearing her uniform and standing in front of a table with two bouquets of roses. Her speech was clear and to the point. She told the press the known facts, and her voice did not fail her this time. A respected colleague, Karl Evert Svedberg, had been found murdered in his flat. The exact time of death and the motive were not yet known, but there were indications that Svedberg was attacked by an armed burglar. The police did not have any leads. She concluded by describing Svedberg's career and his character. Wallander thought her description of Svedberg was very good, not exaggerated in any way. Wallander answered the few questions that were asked. Nyberg described the murder weapon as a Lambert Baron shotgun.

It was all over in half an hour. Afterwards, Holgersson was interviewed by the Sydnytt newspaper, while Wallander spoke to some reporters from the evening papers. It was only when they asked him to pose outside the block of flats on Lilla Norregatan that he let his impatience show.

At midday Holgersson asked the members of the investigative team to a simple lunch at her home. Wallander and Holgersson spoke about some of their memories of Svedberg. Wallander was the only one who had heard Svedberg explain why he had decided to become a police officer.

"He was afraid of the dark," Wallander said. "That's what he said. The fear had been with him since his earliest childhood, and he had never been able to understand it or overcome it. He became a police officer because he thought it would be a way to fight this fear, but it never left him."

A little before 1.30 p.m. they returned to the station. Wallander drove back with Martinsson.

"She handled that very well," Martinsson said.

"Lisa's good at her job," Wallander answered. "But you knew that already, didn't you?"

Martinsson didn't answer.

Wallander suddenly remembered something. "Did you find the Audi?"

"There's a private car park at the back of the building. It was there. I looked it over."

"Did you see a telescope in the boot?"

"There was only a spare tyre and a pair of boots. And a can of insecticide in the glove compartment."

"August is the month for bees," Wallander said glumly.

They went their separate ways when they arrived at the station. Wallander had got a bunch of keys from Nyberg at the lunch, but before he returned to the fiat he drove to Hedeskoga. Sture Björklund's directions were very clear, Wallander thought, as he turned into a little farmhouse that lay just outside the town. There was a fountain in front of the house, and the large lawn had plaster statues dotted all over it. Wallander saw to his surprise that they all looked like devils, all with terrifying, gaping jaws. He wondered briefly what he would have expected a professor of sociology to have in his garden, but his thoughts were interrupted by a man wearing boots, a worn leather coat, and a torn straw hat. He was very tall and thin. Through the tear in the hat Wallander could see one similarity between Svedberg and his cousin: they were both bald.

Wallander was thrown for a moment. He hadn't expected Professor Björklund to look like this. His face was sunburnt, and had a couple of days' worth of stubble. Wallander wondered whether professors in Copenhagen really appeared unshaven at their lectures. But then he reminded himself that the semester had not yet started and that Björklund probably had other business across the strait.

"I hope this isn't too much of an inconvenience," Wallander said.

Sture Björklund threw his head back and laughed. Wallander noted a certain amount of derision in his laughter.

"There's a woman I meet in Copenhagen every Friday," Sture Björklund said. "I suppose you would call her a mistress. Do policemen in the Swedish countryside have mistresses?"

"Hardly," Wallander said.

"It's an ingenious solution to the problems of coexistence," Björklund said. "Each time may be the last. There's no co-dependence, no late-night discussions that might get out of hand and lead to things like furniture buying or pretending that one takes the idea of marriage seriously."

This man in the straw hat with the shrill laugh was starting to get on Wallander's nerves.

"Well, murder is something to take seriously," he said.

Sture Björklund nodded and took off the hat, as if he felt compelled to show a sign of something resembling mourning.

"Let's go in," he said.

The house was not like anything Wallander had ever seen before. From the outside it looked like a typical Scanian farmhouse. But the world that Wallander entered was completely unexpected. There were no walls left on the inside of the house – it was simply one big room that stretched all the way to the rafters. Here and there were little tower-like structures with spiral staircases made out of wrought iron and wood. There was almost no furniture and the walls were bare. One of the walls at the end of the house was entirely taken up by a large aquarium. Sture Björklund led him to a huge wooden table flanked by a church pew and a wooden stool.

"I've always thought that chairs should be hard," Björklund said. "Uncomfortable chairs force you to finish what you have to do more quickly, whether it's eating, thinking, or talking to a policeman."

Wallander sat down in the pew. It really was very uncomfortable.

"If my notes are correct, you're a professor at Copenhagen University," he said.

"I teach sociology, but I try to keep my course load down to an absolute minimum. My own research is what interests me, and I can do that from home."

"This is probably not relevant, but what is it you do your research on?"

"Man's relationship to monsters."

Wallander wondered if Sture Björklund was joking. He waited for him to continue.

"Monsters in the Middle Ages were not the same as they were in the 18th century. My ideas are not the same as those of future generations will be. It's a complicated and fascinating world: hell, the home of all terror, is constantly changing. Above all, this kind of work gives me a chance to make extra money, a factor which is not insignificant."

"In what way?"

"I work as a consultant for American film companies that make horror movies. Without boasting, I think I can claim to be one of the most sought-after consultants in the world when it comes to commercial terror. There's some Japanese man in Hawaii, but other than that it's just me."

Just as Wallander was starting to wonder if the man sitting across from him on the little stool was insane, he handed him a drawing that had been lying on the table.

"I've interviewed seven-year-olds in Ystad about monsters. I've tried to incorporate their ideas into my own work and have come up with this figure. The Americans love him. He's going to get the starring role in a cartoon series aimed at frightening seven- and eight-year-olds."

Wallander looked at the picture. It was extremely unpleasant. He put it down.

"What do you think, Inspector?"

"You can call me Kurt."

"What do you think?"

"It's unpleasant."

"We live in an unpleasant world."

He laid the straw hat on the table and Wallander smelt a strong odour of sweat.

"I've just decided to cancel my telephone service," he said. "Five years ago I got rid of the TV. Now I'm getting rid of the phone."

"Isn't that a little impractical?"

Björklund looked at him seriously. "I'm going to exercise my right to decide when I want to have contact with the outside world. I'll keep the computer, of course. But the phone is going."

Wallander nodded and took the opportunity to change the subject.

"Your cousin, Karl Evert Svedberg, has been killed. Apart from Ylva Brink, you are the only remaining relative. When was the last time you saw him?"

"About three weeks ago."

"Can you be more precise?"

"Friday, 19 July, at 4.30 p.m."

The answer came so quickly that Wallander was surprised. "How can you remember the time of day so well?"

"We had decided to meet at that time. I was going to Scotland to see some friends, and Kalle was going to house-sit, like he always did. That was really the only time we saw each other, when I was going away and when I came back."

"What was involved in house-sitting?"

"He lived here."

The answer came as a surprise to Wallander, but he had no reason to doubt Björklund.

"This happened regularly?"

"For the last ten years at least. It was a wonderful arrangement."

Wallander thought for a moment. "When did you come back?"

"27 July. Kalle picked me up at the airport and drove me home. We chatted for a bit and then he went back to Ystad."

"Did you have the feeling that he was overworked?"

Björklund threw his head back and laughed his shrill laugh again.

"I take it you meant that as a joke, but isn't it disrespectful to joke about the dead?"

"I meant the question seriously."

Björklund smiled. "I suppose we can all seem a bit overworked if we indulge in passionate relationships with women, can't we?"

Wallander stared at Björklund.

"What do you mean?"

"Kalle met his woman here while I was gone. That was part of the arrangement. They lived here whenever I went to Scotland or anywhere else."

Wallander gasped.

"You seem surprised," Björklund said.

"Was it always the same woman? What was her name?"

"Louise."

"What was her last name?"

"I don't know. I never met her. Kalle was quite secretive about her, or perhaps one should say 'discreet'."

Wallander was caught completely by surprise. He had never heard of Svedberg having any relationship with a woman, let alone a long-term one.

"What else do you know about her?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"But Kalle must have said something?"

"Never. And I never asked. Our family is not one for idle curiosity."

Wallander had nothing more to ask. What he needed now was time to digest this latest piece of information. He got up, and Björklund raised his eyebrows.

"Was that it?"

"For now. But you'll hear from me again."

Björklund followed him out. It was warm and there was almost no breeze.

"Do you have any idea who might have killed him?" Wallander asked when they reached his car.

"Wasn't there a break-in? Who knows what criminal is lurking just around the corner?"

They shook hands and Wallander got into the car. He had just started the engine when Björklund leaned down to the window.

"There's just one more thing," he said. "Louise changed her hair colour pretty often."

"How do you know?"

"The hairs left in the bathroom. One year it was red, then black, then blond. It was always different."

"But you think it was the same woman?"

"I actually think Kalle was very much in love with her."

Wallander nodded. Then he drove away. It was 3 p.m. One thing was certain, Wallander thought. Svedberg, our friend and colleague, may have been dead for just a couple of days, but we already know more about him than when he was alive.

At 3.10 p.m., Wallander parked his car in the town square and walked up to Lilla Norregatan. Without knowing why, he quickened his step. Something about this had suddenly become a matter of urgency.