and the telephone tipoffs dealt with as they come in. I intend to drive out to the scene of the fire again, to see what the technicians have come up with. The finger is on its way to forensics. The question is, shall we let the media know about that or not?”
“Let’s do it,” said Bjork without hesitation. “Martinson can help me write a press release. I guess there’ll be an uproar once the editorial staff get hold of that.”
“It would be better if Svedberg took care of it,” said Martinson. “I’m busy contacting twenty-five thousand Swedish doctors. Plus an endless list of health centers and emergency clinics. That takes time.”
“OK,” said Bjork. “I’ll get onto that lawyer in Varnamo. We’ll meet again this afternoon, unless something happens.”
Wallander went out to his car. It looked like it would be a nice day in Skane. He paused and filled his lungs with fresh air. For the first time that year, he had the feeling spring was on its way.
When he got to the burned-out house, there were two surprises in store for him.
The police technicians had done some fruitful work early that morning. He was met by Sven Nyberg, who had only joined the Ystad force a few months ago. He had been working in Malmo, but did not hesitate to move to Ystad when the opportunity arose. Wallander had not had very much to do with him as yet, but the reputation that preceded him suggested he was a skillful investigator at the scene of the crime. Wallander had discovered for himself that he was also brusque and hard to make contact with.
“I think you ought to look at a couple of things,” said Nyberg.
They walked over to a little rain shelter that had been rigged up over four posts.
Some twisted bits of metal were lying on a sheet of plastic.
“A bomb?” Wallander asked.
“No,” said Nyberg. “We’ve found no trace of a bomb so far. But this is at least as interesting. You’re looking at some bits from a big radio installation.”
Wallander stared at him aghast.
“A combined transmitter and receiver,” said Nyberg. “I can’t tell you what type or what make it is, but it’s definitely an installation for radio buffs. You might well think it’s a bit odd to find something like this in a deserted house. Especially one that’s been blown up.”
Wallander nodded.
“You’re right,” he said. “I want to know more about this.”
Nyberg picked up another piece of metal from the plastic sheet.
“This is at least as interesting,” he said. “Can you see what it is?”
Wallander thought it looked like a pistol butt.
“A gun,” he said.
Nyberg nodded.
“A pistol,” he said. “There was presumably a live magazine in place when the house blew up. The pistol was smashed to bits when the magazine exploded, due either to the fire or the pressure waves. I also have a suspicion this is a pretty unusual model. The butt is extended, as you can see. It’s certainly not a Luger or a Beretta.”
“What is it, then?” asked Wallander.
“Too early to say,” said Nyberg. “But I’ll let you know as soon as we find out.”
Nyberg filled his pipe and lit up.
“What do you think about this little lot?” he asked.
Wallander shook his head.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so confused,” he answered, honestly. “I can’t find any links. All I know is I’m looking for a missing woman, and all the time I keep coming across the strangest things. A severed finger, parts of a powerful radio transmitter, unusual weapons. Maybe it’s precisely these unusual features I should use as a starting point? Something I haven’t come across before in all my police experience?”
“Patience,” said Nyberg. “We’ll establish the links sooner or later, no doubt.”
Nyberg went back to his meticulous piecing together of the jigsaw. Wallander wandered around for a while, trying yet again to summarize everything to his own satisfaction. In the end he gave up.
He got into his car and called the station.
“Have we had many tipoffs?” he asked Ebba.
“The calls are coming in non-stop,” she replied. “Svedberg stopped by a couple of minutes ago, and said some of the people offering information seemed reliable and interesting. That’s all I know.”
Wallander gave her the number of the Methodist chapel, and made up his mind to do another thorough search of Louise Akerblom’s desk at the office, when he’d finished talking to the minister. He had a guilty conscience for not having followed up his first cursory search.
He drove back to Ystad. As he had plenty of time before he was due to meet Tureson, he parked at the Square and went into the radio store. Without wasting much time thinking about it, he signed up for a credit purchase of a new hi-fi installation. Then he drove home to Mariagatan and set it up. He’d bought a CD of Puccini’s Turandot. He put it on, lay back on the sofa, and tried to think of Baiba Liepa. But instead, Louise Akerblom’s face kept filling his mind.
He woke with a start and looked at his watch. He cursed when he realized he ought to have been at the chapel ten minutes ago.
Pastor Tureson was waiting for him in a back room, a sort of storeroom and office combined. Tapestries with various Bible quotations were hanging on the walls. A coffee machine stood on a window ledge.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Wallander.
“I’m well aware you police have a lot to do,” said Tureson.
Wallander sat down on a chair and took out his notebook. Tureson offered him a cup of coffee, but he declined.
“I’m trying to build up an image of just what Louise Akerblom, is really like,” he began. “Everything I’ve found out so far seems to indicate just one thing: Louise Akerblom was a woman completely at peace with herself who would never voluntarily leave her husband and her children.”
“That’s the Louise Akerblom we all know,” said Tureson.
“At the same time, that makes me suspicious,” said Wallander.
“Suspicious?”
Tureson looked puzzled.
“I just cannot believe that such perfect individuals exist,” Wallander explained. “Everybody has his or her secrets. The question is: what are Louise Akerblom’s? I take it for granted she hasn’t vanished voluntarily because she hasn’t been able to cope with her own good fortune.”
“You’d get the same answers from every single member of our church, Inspector,” said Tureson.
Afterwards, Wallander could never manage to put his finger on just what had happened; but there was something in Tureson’s response that made him sit up and take notice. It was as if the minister were defending Louise Akerblom’s image, even though it was not being questioned, apart from the general points Wallander was making. Or was there something else he was defending?
Wallander rapidly shifted his position and put a question that had seemed less important previously.
“Tell me about your congregation,” he said. “Why does one choose to become a member of the Methodist church?”
“Our faith and our interpretation of the Bible stand out as being right,” came Tureson’s reply.
“Is that justified?” Wallander wondered.
“In my opinion and that of my congregation it is,” said Pastor Tureson. “Needless to say, members of other denominations would disagree. That’s only natural.”
“Is there anybody in your congregation who doesn’t like Louise Akerblom?” asked Wallander, and immediately got the impression the man opposite was hesitating just a fraction too long before replying.
“I can’t imagine there would be,” said Pastor Tureson.
There it is again, thought Wallander. Something evasive, something not quite straightforward about his answer.
“Why don’t I believe you?” he asked.
“But you should, Inspector,” said Tureson. “I know my congregation.”
Wallander suddenly felt tired. He could see he would have to put his questions rather differently if he was
