They concluded the meeting by going through the heirs to the house that had been blown up.
“They can wait,” said Wallander afterwards. “There’s not a lot here that looks like it will get us anywhere.”
He sent Svedberg and Martinson home and stayed behind in his office a little longer. He called the prosecutor, Per Akeson, at home, giving him a brief summary of where they stood.
“It’s not good if we can’t solve this murder quickly,” said Akeson.
Wallander agreed. They decided to meet first thing Monday morning to go through the investigation so far, step by step. Wallander could see Akeson was afraid of being accused later of allowing a carelessly conducted investigation to go ahead. He ended the conversation, turned off his desk lamp, and left the station. He drove down the long-drawn-out hill and turned into the hospital parking lot.
Bjork was feeling better and expected to be discharged some time Monday. Wallander gave him a report, and Bjork also thought Wallander ought to go to Stockholm.
“This used to be a quiet district,” said Bjork as Wallander was getting ready to leave. “Nothing much used to happen here to attract attention. Now that’s all changed.”
“It’s not just here,” said Wallander. “What you are talking about belongs to a different age.”
“I guess I’m getting old,” sighed Bjork.
“You’re not the only one,” said Wallander.
The words were still echoing in his ears as he left the hospital. It was nearly half past six, and he was hungry. He did not feel like cooking at home, and he decided to eat out. He went home, took a shower, and changed. Then he tried to call his daughter Linda in Stockholm. He let the phone ring for quite some time. In the end he gave up. He went down to the basement and booked himself a time in the laundry room. Then he walked in to the town center. The wind had dropped, but it was chilly.
Getting old, he thought to himself. I’m only forty-four and I’m already feeling worn out.
His train of thought suddenly made him angry. It was up to him and nobody else to decide if he was getting old before his time. He could not blame his work, nor his divorce that was already five years ago. The only question was how he would be able to change things.
He came to the square and wondered where he ought to eat. In a sudden fit of extravagance, he decided to go to the Continental. He went down Hamngatan, paused for a moment to look at the display in the lamp shop, then continued as far as the hotel. He nodded to the girl at the front desk, recalling that she had been in the same class as his daughter.
The dining room was almost empty. Just for a moment he had second thoughts. Sitting all by himself in a deserted dining room seemed like too much solitude. But he sat down anyway. He had made up his mind, and couldn’t be bothered to start rethinking now.
I’ll turn over a new leaf tomorrow, he thought, grimacing. He always put off the most important matters affecting his own life. When he was at work, on the other hand, he insisted on arguing for precisely the opposite approach. Always do the most important things first. He had a split personality.
He took a seat in the bar. A young waiter came over to the table and asked what he would like to drink. Wallander had a feeling he recognized the waiter, but could not quite place him.
“Whiskey,” he said. “No ice. But a glass of water on the side.”
He emptied the glass the moment it reached his table, and immediately ordered another. He did not often drink to get drunk. But tonight he was not going to hold back.
When he got his third whiskey, he remembered who the waiter was. A few years previously Wallander had interrogated him about a series of robberies and car thefts. He was later arrested and found guilty.
So things have turned out all right for him at least, he thought. And I’m not going to remind him about his past. Maybe you could say things have gone better for him than they have for me? If you take the circumstances into account.
He could feel the effects of the liquor almost immediately.
Shortly afterwards Wallander moved over to the dining section and ordered dinner. He drank a bottle of wine with the food, and two brandies with his coffee.
It was half past ten when he left the restaurant. He was pretty drunk by then, but had no intention of going home to lie down.
He crossed over to the taxi stand opposite the bus station and took a cab to the only dance club in town. It was surprisingly full, and he had some difficulty finding room at a table near the bar. Then he drank a whiskey and went out on the dance floor. He was not a bad dancer, and always performed with a certain degree of self- confidence. Music from the Swedish hit parade made him sentimental and maudlin. He invariably fell in love right away with every woman he danced with. He always planned to take them back to his apartment afterwards. But the illusion was shattered on this occasion when he suddenly started to feel queasy, barely managing to get outside before throwing up. He did not go back in, but staggered back to town instead. When he got back to his apartment, he stripped and stood naked in front of the hall mirror.
“Kurt Wallander,” he said aloud. “This is your life.”
Then he decided to call Baiba Liepa in Riga. It was two in the morning, and he knew he shouldn’t do it. But he hung on until she eventually answered.
All of a sudden, he had no idea what to say. He could not find the English words he needed. He had obviously awoken her, and she had been frightened by the telephone ringing in the middle of the night.
Then he told her he loved her. She did not know what he meant at first. Once it had dawned on her, she also realized he was drunk, and Wallander himself felt the whole thing was a terrible mistake. He apologized for disturbing her and went straight into the kitchen and took a half bottle of vodka from the refrigerator. Although he still felt sick, he forced it down.
He woke at dawn on the sofa in the living room. He had a king-size hangover. What he regretted most was the call to Baiba Leipa.
He groaned at the thought of it, staggered into the bedroom, and sank into his bed. Then he forced his mind to go blank. It was late in the afternoon before he got up and made coffee. He sat in front of the television and watched one program after another. He did not bother to call his father, nor did he try to contact his daughter. At about seven he heated up some fish au gratin, which was all he had in the freezer. Then he returned to the television. He tried to avoid thinking about last night’s telephone call.
At eleven o’clock he took a sleeping pill and pulled the covers over his head.
Everything will be better tomorrow, he thought. I’ll call her then and explain everything. Or maybe I’ll write a letter. Or something.
Monday, May 4 turned out to be very different than Wallander had imagined, however.
Everything seemed to happen all at once.
He had just arrived at his office shortly after half past seven when the telephone rang. It was Loven in Stockholm.
“There’s a rumor going around town,” he said. “A rumor about a contract on an African. He can be recognized first and foremost by the bandage he has on his left hand.”
It was a second before it dawned on Wallander what kind of a contract Loven was talking about.
“Oh, shit,” he said.
“I thought that’s what you would say,” said Loven. “If you can tell me when you’ll arrive, we can drive out and pick you up.”
“I don’t know yet,” said Wallander. “But it won’t be before this afternoon. Bjork, if you remember who that is, has gallstones. I have to sort things out here first. But I’ll call as soon as I get things straightened out.”
“We’ll be waiting,” said Loven.
Wallander had just replaced the receiver when the telephone rang again. At the same time, Martinson marched into the room waving a sheet of paper around in excitement. Wallander pointed to a chair, and answered the phone.
It was the pathologist in Malmo, Hogberg, who had completed the preliminary autopsy on Louise Akerblom’s body. Wallander had dealt with him before, and knew the man was thorough. Wallander pulled a notebook towards him and gesticulated to Martinson to give him a pen.
“There is absolutely no trace of rape,” said Hogberg. “Unless the attacker used a condom, and it all took place in peaceful fashion. Nor does she have any injuries to suggest there was any other kind of violence. Just a few
