“A bullet straight into the forehead,” said Martinson. “That doesn’t make me think of uncontrolled passion and unhappy love. It makes me think of a cold-blooded execution.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Wallander.
The firemen pumped the water out of the well. Then they went down again, and when they came back up they had with them Louise Akerblom’s purse, her briefcase, and one of her shoes. The other was still on her foot. The water was pumped into a hastily constructed plastic pool. Martinson found nothing else of interest when they filtered it.
The firemen went back one more time to the bottom of the well. They shone powerful lamps all around, but found nothing apart from a cat’s skeleton.
The doctor looked pale when he emerged from the tent.
“It’s terrible,” she said to Wallander.
“Yeah,” he replied. “We know the most important thing, namely that she was shot. I want the pathologists in Malmo to find out two things for me right away: first the bullet, second a report on any other injuries which might suggest she had been beaten or held prisoner. Anything you can find. And of course, whether she’s been subjected to sexual assault.”
“The bullet’s still in her head,” said the doctor. “I can’t see any exit hole.”
“One other thing,” said Wallander. “I want her wrists and ankles examined. I want to know if there is any sign of her having been put in handcuffs.”
“Handcuffs?”
“That’s right,” said Wallander. “Handcuffs.”
Bjork had been staying in the background while they worked to lift the corpse out of the well. Once the body had been placed on a stretcher and driven off to the hospital in an ambulance, he took Wallander aside.
“We have to inform her husband,” he said.
“We,” thought Wallander. You mean, I’ll have to do it.
“I’ll take Pastor Tureson with me,” he said.
“You’ll have to try and find out how long it will take him to inform all her close relatives,” Bjork continued. “I’m very much afraid we won’t be able to keep this quiet for very long. And then, I really don’t understand how you could just let that thief go. He can run to some evening tabloid or other and earn himself a fortune if he spills the beans on this story.”
Wallander was irritated by Bjork’s niggling tone. On the other hand, he had to admit that there was a very real risk.
“Yes,” he said. “That was stupid. My fault.”
“I thought it was Svedberg who let him go,” said Bjork.
“It was Svedberg,” said Wallander. “But it’s my responsibility in any case.”
“Please don’t get angry with me for saying this,” said Bjork.
Wallander shrugged.
“I’m angry at whoever did this to Louise Akerblom,” he said. “And to her daughters. And to her husband.”
They put the house out of bounds, and the investigation continued. Wallander got into his car and called Pastor Tureson. He answered more or less right away. Wallander explained what had happened. Pastor Tureson was silent for quite some time before answering. He promised to wait for Wallander outside the church.
“Will he break down?” asked Wallander.
“He has faith in God,” said Pastor Tureson.
We’ll see about that, thought Wallander. We’ll see if that’s enough.
But he said nothing.
Pastor Tureson was standing on the street, his head bowed.
Wallander found it difficult to gather his thoughts as he drove into town. There was nothing he found more difficult than informing relatives that someone in their family had suddenly died. There was no real difference whether the death was caused by an accident, a suicide, or a violent crime. No matter how hard he tried to express himself carefully and considerately, his words were cruelty itself. It had occurred to him that he was the ultimate herald of tragedy. He remembered what Rydberg, his friend and colleague, had said a few months before he died. There will never be an appropriate way for a cop to tell somebody a sudden death has occurred. That’s why we have to do it ourselves, and never delegate it to anybody else. We’re probably more resilient than the others-we’ve seen more of what nobody ought ever to see.
On the way into town he had also been aware of that persistent feeling that something was completely wrong, absolutely incomprehensible; the whole investigation was totally misguided, and some explanation or other must soon come to light. He would ask Martinson and Svedberg straight up if they felt the same as he did. Was there a link between that severed black finger and Louise Akerblom’s disappearance and eventual death? Or was it just a combination of unpredictable coincidences?
It occurred to him that there might also be a third possibility: that somebody had intentionally created the confusion.
But why had this death taken place so suddenly, he asked himself. The only motive we have been able to find so far is unrequited love. But it is a pretty big step from there to accusations of murder. Not to mention being so cold-blooded that the car was hidden in one place while the body was found somewhere else.
Maybe we haven’t found a single stone worth turning over, he thought. What do we do if we find Stig Gustafson is not worth following up?
He thought of the handcuffs. Of Louise Akerblom’s constant smile. Of the happy family that no longer existed.
But was it the image that had collapsed? Or was it the reality?
Pastor Tureson got into the car. He had tears in his eyes. Wallander immediately felt a lump in his throat.
“Well, she’s dead,” said Wallander. “We’ve found her at the site of an empty house some way outside of Ystad. I can’t tell you any more just now.”
“How did she die?”
Wallander thought for a moment before replying.
“She was shot,” he said.
“I have one more question,” said Pastor Tureson. “Apart from wanting to know who could have carried out such a crazy act. Did she suffer a lot before she died?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Wallander. “But even if I did know, I would tell her husband that death came very quickly, and hence painlessly.”
They stopped outside the house. On the way to the Methodist church Wallander had stopped off at the station and taken his own car. He did not want to turn up in a police car.
Robert Akerblom answered almost as soon as they rang the doorbell. He’s seen us, thought Wallander. The moment a car brakes in the street outside, he runs over to the nearest window to see who it is.
He ushered them into the living room. Wallander listened to see if there was any noise. The two girls did not appear to be home.
“I’m afraid I have to tell you your wife is dead,” Wallander began. “We’ve found her at an abandoned house some way outside of town. She was murdered.”
Robert Akerblom stared at him, his face motionless. It seemed he was waiting for more.
“I very much regret this, ” said Wallander. “But the best I can do is to tell you exactly how it is. I’m afraid I shall also have to ask you to identify the body. But that can wait. It doesn’t need to be done today. And it would be all right if Pastor Tureson were to do it.”
Robert Akerblom kept on staring at him.
“Are your daughters at home?” asked Wallander, cautiously. “This must be awful for them.”
He turned to Pastor Tureson, appealing for help.
“We’ll do all we can to help,” said Tureson.
“Thank you for letting me know,” said Robert Akerblom all of a sudden. “All this uncertainty has been so difficult to bear.”
“I am really sorry things have turned out so badly,” said Wallander. “All of us on the case were hoping there
