Wallander gritted his teeth and resisted the temptation to slam down the receiver.
“I’m busy,” he said. “I’ve just found a dead woman in a well. A woman who was murdered. I won’t be able to get out to your place today. I hope you’ll understand.”
To his astonishment his father suddenly sounded friendly.
“I can see you can’t do that,” he said. “It sounds unpleasant.”
“It is,” said Wallander. “I just want to wish you a pleasant evening. And I’ll try and come out tomorrow.”
“Only if you get time,” said his father. “I can’t go on talking any longer right now.”
“Why not?”
“I’m expecting a visitor.”
Wallander could hear he’d been cut off. He was left sitting there with the receiver in his hand.
A visitor, he thought. So Gertrud Anderson goes around to see him even when she’s not working?
He shook his head for a long time.
I must make time to go and see him soon, he thought. It would be a complete disaster if he married her.
He got up and went in to Svedberg. He collected a list of names and telephone numbers, returned to his office, and dialed the first on the list. At the same time he remembered he had to contact the on-duty prosecutor at some point during the afternoon.
Four o’clock came and they still hadn’t traced Stig Gustafson’s relative.
At half past four Wallander called Per Akeson at home. He reported on what had happened so far, and announced that they could now concentrate on tracking down Stig Gustafson. The prosecutor had no objections. He asked Wallander to let him know if anything developed during the evening.
At a quarter past five, Wallander fetched his third list of names from Svedberg. Still no luck. Wallander groaned at the thought of it being Walpurgis Eve. A lot of people were out. They had gone away for the holiday.
Nobody answered the first two numbers he called. The third was to an elderly lady who was quite sure there was no one called Stig in her family.
Wallander opened the window, and could feel a headache coming on. Then he went back to the phone and dialed the fourth number. He let it go on ringing for quite a while, and was just about to replace the receiver when somebody answered. He could hear it was a young woman on the other end. He explained who he was and what he wanted to know.
“Sure,” said the young woman, whose name was Monica. “I have a half-brother called Stig. He’s a marine engineer. Has something happened to him?”
Wallander could feel all his exhaustion and dissatisfaction falling away at a stroke.
“No,” he said. “But we’d like to get in touch with him as soon as possible. Do you know where he lives?”
“Of course I know where he lives,” she said. “In Lomma. But he’s not at home.”
“Where is he, then?”
“He’s in Las Palmas. He’ll be back home tomorrow, though. He’s due to land at Copenhagen at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I think he’s on a Spies package.”
“Excellent,” said Wallander. “I’d be grateful if you could give me his address and phone number.”
She told him what he wanted to know, he apologized for disturbing her evening, and hung up. Then he rushed into Svedberg’s office, collecting Martinson on the way. No one knew where Bjork was.
“We’ll go to Malmo ourselves,” said Wallander. “Our colleagues in town can assist. Run a check at the passport control on everybody disembarking from the various ferries. Bjork will have to fix that.”
“Did she say how long he’d been away?” asked Martinson. “If he had a week’s vacation, that would mean he’d left last Saturday.”
They looked at one another. The significance of Martinson’s point was obvious.
“I think you should go home now,” said Wallander. “At least some of us ought to have had a good night’s sleep before tomorrow. Let’s meet here at eight tomorrow morning. Then we’ll drive to Malmo.”
Martinson and Svedberg went home. Wallander talked to Bjork, who promised to call his counterpart in Malmo and arrange things according to Wallander’s wishes.
At a quarter past six Wallander called the hospital. The doctor was only able to give vague answers.
“There are no visible injuries on the body,” she said. “No bruises, no fractures. Superficially, it doesn’t look as though there was any sexual assault. I’ll have to come back to that, though. I can’t see any marks on her wrists or ankles.”
“That’s fine,” said Wallander. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch again tomorrow.”
Then he left the police station.
He drove out to Kaseberga and sat for a while on the cliff top, staring out to sea.
He was back home soon after nine.
Chapter Seven
At dawn, just before he woke up, Kurt Wallander had a dream.
He had discovered that one of his hands was black. He had not put on a black glove. It was his skin that had grown darker until his hand was like an African’s.
In his dream Wallander wavered between reactions of horror and satisfaction. Rydberg, his former colleague who had been dead for nearly two years, looked disapprovingly at the hand. He asked Wallander why only one of them was black.
“Something will have to happen tomorrow as well,” Wallander replied in his dream.
When he woke up and recalled the dream, he lay in bed wondering about the reply he gave Rydberg. What did he mean, in fact?
Then he got up and looked out the window. The first of May in Skane this year was cloud-free and sunny, but very windy. It was six o’clock.
Although he had only slept for two hours, he did not feel tired. That morning they would get an answer to the question of whether Stig Gustafson had an alibi for Friday afternoon the previous week, when Louise Akerblom had most probably been murdered.
If we can solve the crime today already, it will have been surprisingly simple, he thought. The first few days we had nothing to go on. Then everything started to happen very quickly. A criminal investigation seldom follows everyday rhythms. It has its own life, its own energy. The clocks of a criminal investigation distort time, making it stand still, or race forward. No one can know in advance.
They met at eight o’clock in the conference room, and Wallander set the ball rolling.
“There’s no need for us to interfere in what the Danish police are doing,” he began. “If what his half-sister says is to believed, Stig Gustafson will land on a Scanair flight to Copenhagen at ten o’clock. You can check that, Svedberg. Then he has three possible ways of getting to Malmo. The ferry to Limhamn, the hydrofoil, or the SAS hovercraft. We’ll be keeping an eye on all three.”
“An old marine engineer will probably take the big ferry,” said Martinson.
“He might have had enough of boats,” objected Wallander. “We’ll have two men at each spot. He’s to be taken firmly and informed of the reasons. A certain amount of caution would no doubt be appropriate. Then we’ll bring him here. I thought I would start talking to him.”
“Two men seem on the low side,” said Bjork. “Shouldn’t we have a patrol car in the background, at least?”
Wallander went along with that.
“I’ve talked to our colleagues in Malmo,” Bjork went on. “We’ll get all the help we need. You can decide for yourselves what signal the immigration people should give you when he shows up.”
Wallander looked at his watch.
“If that’s all, we’d better get going,” said Wallander. “It’s best if we get to Malmo in good time.”
“The flight could be delayed by up to twenty-four hours,” said Svedberg. “Wait until I’ve checked.”
