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  “The last time he was home, Louise was out,” she said. “It’s been several months since she saw him.”

  Wallander approached the most difficult questions gingerly. He knew that he would provoke painful memories, but he tried to move as gently as he could.

  “He was murdered,” he said. “Do either of you have any idea who might have done it?”

  Anette Fredman looked at him with a surprised expression on her face. Her reply was shrill, her previous reticence gone.

  “You ought to be asking who wouldn’t have killed him. I don’t know how many times I wished I’d had the strength to do it myself.”

  Her son put his arm around her.

  “I don’t think that’s what the detective meant,” he said soothingly.

  She quickly pulled herself together after her outburst.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “And I don’t want to know. But I don’t feel guilty for being relieved that he won’t be walking through this door again.”

  She stood up abruptly and left the room. Wallander could tell that Höglund couldn’t decide whether she should follow. But she remained seated as the boy began to speak.

  “Mummy is extremely upset,” he said.

  “We understand that,” said Wallander with sympathy. “But you seem to be calm. Maybe you have some thoughts. I know this must be unpleasant for you.”

  “I don’t think it could be anybody except one of Dad’s friends. My Dad was a thief,” he added. “He also used to beat people up. I’m not sure, but I think he was what people call an enforcer. He collected debts, he threatened people.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you thinking about somebody in particular?”

  “No.”

  Wallander let him think.

  “No,” he repeated. “I don’t know.”

  Anette Fredman returned.

  “Can either of you recall whether he had any contact with a man named Gustaf Wetterstedt? He was the minister of justice for a time. Or an art dealer named Arne Carlman?”

  After looking at each other for confirmation, they both shook their heads. The interview limped along. Wallander tried to help them remember details. Now and then Forsfält interjected. Finally Wallander could see that they weren’t going to get any further. He decided not to ask about the daughter again. Instead he nodded to Höglund and Forsfält that he was finished. But as they said goodbye out in the hall he told them he would have to call on them again, probably quite soon. He gave them his phone numbers at the station and at home.

  Out on the street he saw Anette Fredman standing in the window looking down at them.

  “The daughter,” said Wallander. “Louise Fredman. What do we know about her?”

  “She wasn’t here yesterday either,” said Forsfält. “She may have left home, of course. She’s 17.”

  Wallander stood for a moment in thought.

  “I want to talk to her,” he said.

  The others didn’t react. He knew that he was the only one who had noticed the rapid change when he asked about her. He thought about the boy, Stefan, with his wary eyes. He felt sorry for him.

  “That’ll be all for now,” said Wallander when they parted outside the Malmö police station. “But let’s keep in touch.”

  They shook hands with Forsfält and said goodbye.

  They drove back towards Ystad, through the countryside of Skåne during the most beautiful time of the year. Höglund leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Wallander could hear her humming. He wished he could share her ability to switch off from the investigation, which made him so anxious. Rydberg had said many times that a police officer was never completely free. For once, Wallander wished that Rydberg was wrong.

  Just after they passed the exit to Skurup he noticed that Höglund had fallen asleep. He drove as smoothly as he could, not wanting to wake her. She didn’t open her eyes until he had to stop at the roundabout on the outskirts of Ystad. At that moment the phone rang. He nodded to her to answer it. He couldn’t tell who it was, but he saw at once that something serious had happened. She listened in silence. They were almost at the station when she hung up.

  “That was Svedberg,” she said. “Carlman’s daughter is on a respirator at the hospital. She tried to commit suicide.”

  Wallander was silent until he had parked and switched off the engine. Then he turned to her. He knew she hadn’t told him everything yet.

  “What else?”

  “She’s probably not going to live.”

  Wallander stared out of the window. He thought about how she had slapped him. He got out of the car without a word.

  CHAPTER 23

  It was hot. Wallander was sweating as he walked down the hill from the station towards the hospital.

  He hadn’t even gone to the front desk to see whether he had any messages. He had stood motionless by the car, as if he’d lost his bearings, and then slowly, almost drawling, he told Höglund that she would have to report on their interview while he went to the hospital where Carlman’s daughter lay dying. He hadn’t waited for an answer, but simply turned and left. It was then, on the hill, that he realised that the summer might indeed be long, hot and dry.

  He didn’t notice when Svedberg drove past and waved. As always when he was preoccupied, he walked looking down at the footpath. He was trying to follow a train of thought. The starting point was quite simple. In less than ten days, a girl had burned herself to death, another had tried to commit suicide after her father was murdered, and a third, whose father had also been murdered, had perhaps disappeared or was being hidden. They were of different ages; Carlman’s daughter was the oldest, but all of them were young. Two of the girls had been affected by the same killer, while the third had killed herself. On the face of it, the third had no connection to the other two. But Wallander felt as if he had once again assumed personal responsibility for all three on behalf of his own generation, and especially as the bad father he felt he had been himself. Wallander had a tendency to self-criticise, growing gloomy, filled with melancholy. Often this led to a string of sleepless nights. But since he was now forced to carry on working in spite of everything, as a policeman in a tiny corner of the world, and as the head of a team, he did his best to shake off his unease and clear his head by taking a walk.

  What kind of a world was he living in? A world in which young people burned themselves to death or tried to kill themselves by some other means. They were living in what could be called the Age of Failure. Something the Swedish people had believed in and built had turned out to be less solid than expected. All they had done was raise a monument to a forgotten ideal. Now society seemed to collapse around him, as if the political system was about to tip over, and no-one knew which architects were waiting to put a new one in place, or what that system would be. It was terrifying, even in the beautiful summertime. Young people took their own lives. People lived to forget, not remember. Houses were hiding places rather than cosy homes. And the police stood by helpless, waiting for the time when their jails would be guarded by men in other uniforms, men from private security companies.

  This was enough, thought Wallander, wiping the sweat from his brow. He couldn’t take any more. A mental picture of the boy with the wary eyes sitting next to his mother became muddled with an image of Linda.

  He reached the hospital. Svedberg was standing on the steps waiting for him. Wallander staggered, as if about to fall, suddenly dizzy. Svedberg took a step towards him, reaching out his hand. But Wallander waved him away and continued up the hospital steps. To protect himself from the sun, Svedberg was wearing a ridiculous cap that was much too big for him. Wallander muttered something unintelligible, and dragged him into the cafeteria to the right of the entrance. Pale people in wheelchairs, some connected to intravenous drips sat with friends and relatives, who probably wanted nothing more than to be out in the sunshine, and forget hospitals, death and misery. Wallander bought coffee and a s
andwich, while Svedberg settled for a glass of water.

  “Carlman’s widow phoned,” said Svedberg. “She was hysterical.”

  “What did the girl do?” asked Wallander.

  “She took pills. She was discovered quite by chance, in a deep coma. Her heart stopped just as they got to the hospital. She’s in very bad shape. You won’t be able to talk to her.”

  Wallander nodded. This walk to the hospital had been more for his own state of mind than for any investigative reason.

  “What did her mother say?” he asked. “Was there a letter? Any explanation?”

  “No. Apparently it was quite unexpected.”

  Wallander recalled how the girl had slapped him.

  “She seemed unbalanced when I met her,” he said. “She really didn’t leave a note?”

  “If she did, the mother didn’t mention it.”

  Wallander thought for a moment.

  “Do me a favour,” he said. “Drive there and find out if there was a note or not. If there is something, you’ll have to check it carefully.”

  They left the cafeteria. Wallander went back to the station with Svedberg. He might as well get hold of a doctor by phone to hear how the girl was.

  “I put a few reports on your desk,” said Svedberg. “I did a phone interview with the reporter and photographer who visited Wetterstedt the day he died.”

  “Anything new?”

  “Only a confirmation of what we already know. That Wetterstedt was his usual self. There didn’t seem to be anything threatening him. Nothing he was aware of, anyway.”

  “So I don’t need to read the report?”

  Svedberg shrugged.

  “It’s always better to have four eyes look at something than two.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Wallander distractedly.

  “Ekholm is busy putting the finishing touches to his psychological profile,” said Svedberg.

  Wallander muttered something in reply. Svedberg dropped him off outside the station and drove on to talk to Carlman’s widow. Wallander picked up his messages at the front desk. A new girl was there again. He asked about Ebba and was told that she was at the hospital having the cast taken off her wrist. I could have stopped in and said hello to her, thought Wallander. Since I was over there anyway. If it was possible to say hello to someone who was just having a cast removed.

  He went to his office and opened the window wide. Without sitting down he riffled through the reports Svedberg had mentioned. Then he remembered that he had also asked to see the photographs taken by the magazine. Where were they? Unable to control his impatience, he found Svedberg’s mobile number and called him.

  “The photos,” he asked. “Where are they?”

  “Aren’t they on your desk?” Svedberg replied, surprised.

  “There’s nothing here.”

  “Then they’re in my office. I must have forgotten them. They were in today’s post.”

  They were in a brown envelope on Svedberg’s tidy desk. Wallander spread them out and sat in Svedberg’s chair. Wetterstedt posing in his home, in the garden, and on the beach. In one of the pictures the overturned rowing boat could be seen in the background. Wetterstedt was smiling at the camera. The grey hair which would soon be torn from his head was ruffled by the wind. The photos showed a man who seemed at peace with his old age. Nothing in the pictures hinted at what was to happen. Wetterstedt had less than 15 hours left to live when the pictures were taken. The photos lying before him showed how he’d looked on the last day of his life. Wallander studied the pictures for a few minutes more before stuffing them back in the envelope. He started towards his office but changed his mind and stopped outside Höglund’s door, which was always open.

  She was bent over some papers.

  “Am I interrupting you?” he asked.

  “Not at all.”

  He went in and sat down. They exchanged a few words about Carlman’s daughter.

  “Svedberg is out at the farmhouse hunting for a suicide note,” said Wallander. “If there is one.”

  “She must have been very close to her father,” said Höglund.

  Wallander didn’t reply. He changed the subject.

  “Did you notice anything strange when we were visiting the Fredman family?”

  “Strange?”

  “A chill that settled over the room?”

  He immediately regretted his description. Höglund wrinkled her brow as if he had said something out of line.

  “I mean that they seemed evasive when I asked questions about Louise,” he explained.

  “No, I didn’t,” she replied. “But I did notice that you acted differently.”

  He told her of the feeling he’d had. She thought before she answered.

  “You might be right,” she said. “Now that you mention it, they did seem to be on their guard. That chill you were talking about.”

  “The question is whether they both were, or only one of them,” said Wallander.

  “Was that the case?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling I had.”

  “Didn’t the boy start answering the questions you were actually asking his mother?”

  Wallander nodded.

  “That’s it,” he said. “And I wonder why.”

  “Still, you have to ask yourself whether it’s really important,” she said.

  “Of course,” he admitted. “Sometimes I have a tendency to get hung up on unimportant details. But I still want to have a talk with that girl.”

  This time she was the one who changed the subject.

  “It frightens me to think about what Anette Fredman said. That she felt relief that her husband would never walk through their door again. I can’t imagine what it means to live like that.”

  “He was abusing her,” said Wallander. “Maybe he beat the children too. But none of them filed a complaint.”

  “The boy seemed quite normal,” she said. “And well brought up, too.”

  “Children learn to survive,” said Wallander, reflecting for a moment on his own childhood and Linda’s. He stood up.

  “I’m going to try and get hold of Louise Fredman. Tomorrow if I can. I’ve got a hunch that she hasn’t gone away at all.”

  He got a cup of coffee and headed towards his room. He almost collided with Norén and remembered the photos he had asked to have taken of the crowd standing outside the cordon watching the police work.

  “I gave the film to Nyberg,” said Norén. “But I don’t think I’m much of a photographer.”

  “Who the hell is?” said Wallander, in a kindly tone. He went into his room and closed the door. He sat staring at his telephone, collecting his thoughts before he called the M.O.T. garage and asked for a new appointment for his car. The slot they offered him was during the time he had intended to spend at Skagen with Baiba. When he angrily informed them of the atrocities he was trying to solve, a time that had been reserved inexplicably became free. He wondered who that slot had been assigned to. After he hung up he decided to do his laundry that evening.

  The phone rang. It was Nyberg.

  “You were right,” he said. “The fingerprints on that piece of paper you found behind the road workers’ hut match the ones we found on the pages from the comic book. So there’s no doubt that the same person is involved. In a couple of hours we’ll also know whether we can tie him to the van at Sturup. We’re also going to try and get some prints from Fredman’s face.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “To pour acid into Fredman’s eyes the killer must have used one hand to hold his eyelids open,” said Nyberg. “It’s unpleasant, but if we’re lucky we’ll find prints on the lids themselves.”

  “It’s a good thing people can’t hear the way we talk to each other,” said Wallander. “How about that bulb? The light at Wetterstedt’s garden gate.”

  “I was just getting to that,” said Nyberg. “You were right about that too. We found fingerprints.”

  Wallander sat
up straight in his chair. His bad mood was gone. He could feel his excitement rising. The investigation was showing signs of breaking wide open.

  “Have we got the prints in the archives?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Nyberg. “But I’ve asked central records to double check.”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that we don’t. That means we’re dealing with someone without a record.”

  “Could be,” Nyberg replied.

  “Run the prints through Interpol too,” said Wallander. “And Europol. Ask for highest priority. Tell them it concerns a serial killer.”

  Wallander hung up and asked the girl at the switchboard to find Ekholm. In a few minutes she called back and said he’d gone out for lunch.

  “Where?” asked Wallander.

  “I think he said the Continental.”

  “Get hold of him there,” said Wallander. “Tell him to get over here right away.”

  A while later Ekholm knocked on the door. Wallander was talking to Per Åkeson. He pointed to a chair. Wallander was busy trying to convince a sceptical Åkeson that the investigation wouldn’t be aided by a larger team, at least in the short term. Åkeson finally gave in, and they postponed the decision for a few more days.

  Wallander leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He told Ekholm about the fingerprints.

  “The prints we’re going to find on Björn Fredman’s body will be the same ones too,” he said. “We know for certain that we’re dealing with the same killer. The only question is: who is he?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the eyes,” said Ekholm. “All available information tells us that aside from the genitals, the eyes are the part of the body most often subjected to a final revenge.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That killers seldom begin by putting out someone’s eyes. They save that for last.”

  Wallander nodded for him to continue.

  “We can approach it from two directions,” said Ekholm. “We might ask why Fredman was the one to have his eyes put out. We could also turn the whole thing around and ask why the eyes of the other two men weren’t violated.”

  “What’s your conclusion?”