“Go on,” he said.
“There’s not much more to say,” said Martinson. “For some reason or other, a finger gets cut off. Unless that happened when the house blew up. But it doesn’t look that way. An explosion like that turns a man into pulp. The finger was whole, apart from having been cut off.”
“I don’t know much about South Africa,” said Svedberg. “Except that it’s a racist country with lots of violence. Sweden has no diplomatic relations with South Africa. We don’t even play tennis or do business with them. Not officially, at least. What I can’t understand for the life of me is why something from South Africa should end up in Sweden. You’d think Sweden would be the last place to be involved.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why,” muttered Martinson.
Wallander homed in on Martinson’s comment immediately.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said Martinson. “I just think we have to start thinking in a completely different way if we’re going to get anywhere with this case.”
“I agree entirely,” said Bjork, interrupting the exchange. “I want a written report on this business from every one of you by tomorrow. Let’s see if a little quiet contemplation might get us somewhere.”
They divided up the assignments among themselves. Wallander took over the lawyer in Varnamo from Bjork, who was going to concentrate on producing a preliminary report on examinations of the finger.
Wallander punched in the number to the lawyer’s office, and asked to speak to Mr. Holmgren on urgent business. There was such a long delay before Holmgren answered that Wallander grew annoyed.
“It’s about the property you are looking after in Skane,” he said. “The house that burned down.”
“Completely inexplicable,” said Holmgren. “But I have checked to make sure the insurance policy arranged by the late owner covers the incident. Do the police have any explanation for what happened?”
“No,” said Wallander. “But we’re working on it. I have some questions I need to ask you on the telephone.”
“I hope this won’t take long,” said the lawyer. “I’m very busy.”
“If you can’t take the questions by telephone, the police in Varnamo will have to take you down to the station,” said Wallander, ignoring the fact that he sounded brusque.
There was a pause before the lawyer responded.
“OK, fire away. I’m listening.”
“We’re still waiting for a fax with the names and addresses of the joint heirs to the estate.”
“I’ll make sure that’s sent.”
“Then I wonder who is directly responsible for the property.”
“I am. I’m not sure what you mean by the question.”
“A house needs attention occasionally. Roof tiles need replacing, mice keeping under control. Do you do that as well?”
“One of the beneficiaries of the estate lives in Vollsjo. He usually looks after the house. His name is Alfred Hanson.”
Wallander noted his address and telephone number.
“So the house has been empty for a year?”
“For more than a year. There’s been some disagreement as to whether it should be sold or not.”
“In other words, nobody’s been living in the house?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at. The house has been boarded up. Alfred Hanson has been calling me at regular intervals to report that all is in order.”
“When did he call last?”
“How on earth am I supposed to remember that?”
“I don’t know. But I’d like an answer to my question.”
“Some time around New Year’s, I believe. But I can’t swear to it. Why is that important?”
“Everything is important for the moment. But thank you for the information.”
Wallander hung up, opened his telephone directory, and checked Alfred Hanson’s address. Then he got up, grabbed his jacket and left the office.
“I’m off to Vollsjo,” he said as he passed the door to Martinson’s office. “There’s something odd about the house that blew up.”
“I think there’s something odd about everything,” said Martinson. “I was just talking to Nyberg before you came, by the way. He maintains that radio transmitter could well have been made in Russia.”
“Russia?”
“That’s what he said. Don’t ask me.”
“Another country,” said Wallander. “Sweden, South Africa, Russia. Where’s it all going to end?”
Just over half an hour later, he drove up to the house where Alfred Hanson supposedly lived. It was a relatively modern house, very much different from the original building. Some German shepherds started barking frenziedly as Wallander got out of his car. It was half past four by now, and he was feeling hungry.
A man in his forties opened the door and came out onto the steps in his stocking feet. His hair was in a mess, and as Wallander approached he could smell strong liquor.
“Alfred Hanson?” he enquired.
The man nodded.
“I’m from the police in Ystad,” said Wallander.
“Oh, hell!” said the man even before Wallander had given his name.
“Excuse me?”
“Who’s squealed? Is it that shit Bengtson?”
Wallander thought rapidly before saying anything.
“I can’t comment on that,” he said. “The police protect all their informers.”
“It’s gotta be Bengtson,” said the man. “Am I under arrest?”
“We can talk about that,” said Wallander.
The man let Wallander into the kitchen. He immediately detected the faint but unmistakable smell of fusel oil. Something clicked. Alfred Hanson was running an illegal still, and thought Wallander had come to arrest him.
The man had flopped down on a kitchen chair and was scratching his head.
“Just my luck,” he sighed.
“We’ll talk about the moonshine later,” said Wallander. “There’s something else I want to talk about.”
“What?”
“The property that burned down.”
“I know nothing about that,” said the man.
Wallander noticed immediately that he was worried.
“You know nothing about what?”
The man lit a crumpled cigarette with trembling fingers.
“I’m really a paint sprayer,” said the man. “But I can’t face starting work at seven o’clock every morning. So I thought I might as well rent out that little shack, if anybody was interested. I mean, I want to sell the thing. But the family’s making such a damned fuss.”
“Who was interested?”
“Some guy from Stockholm. He’d been driving around the area, looking for something suitable. Then he found this house, and liked the location. I’m still wondering how he managed to trace it to me.”
“What was his name?”
“He said he was called Nordstrom. I took that with a pinch of salt, though.”
“Why?”
“He spoke good Swedish, but he had a foreign accent. You show me a goddamned foreigner called Nordstrom!”
“But he wanted to rent the house?”
“Yeah. And he paid well. I was gonna get ten thousand kronor a month. You don’t turn your nose up at a deal like that. It wasn’t doing anybody any harm, I thought. I get a bit of a reward in return for looking after the house.
