'It's going to affect so many innocent people,' said Rydberg. 'What do you think will happen at the refugee camp when it gets out that the police are looking for some foreigners?'
Wallander knew that Rydberg was right. Suddenly he was full of doubt.
'Let's sleep on it,' he said. 'We'll have a meeting, just you and me, tomorrow morning at eight. We'll decide then.'
Rydberg nodded and limped towards the door. There he stopped and turned to Wallander again.
'There is one possibility we shouldn't overlook,' he said. 'That it really was refugees who did it.'
Wallander rinsed out his coffee cup and put it in the dish rack.
Actually I hope it was, he thought. I really hope that the killers are at that refugee camp. Then maybe it'll put an end to this arbitrary, lax policy that allows anyone at all, for any reason at all, to cross the border into Sweden. But of course he couldn't say that to Rydberg. It was an opinion he intended to keep to himself.
He fought his way through the strong wind out to his car. Even though he was tired, he had no desire to drive home. In the evenings the loneliness hit him. He turned on the ignition and changed the cassette. The overture to
His wife's departure had come as a complete surprise. But deep inside he knew, even though he still had a hard time accepting it, that he should have sensed the danger long before it happened. That he was living in a marriage that was slowly breaking apart because of its own dreariness. They had married when they were very young, and far too late realised that they were growing apart. Of the three of them, maybe it was Linda who had reacted most openly to the emptiness surrounding them.
On that night in October when Mona had said that she wanted a divorce, he realised that he had seen it coming; but the thought had been too painful for him and he had repeatedly pushed it aside, blaming it on the fact that he was working so hard. Too late, he saw that she had prepared her departure down to the smallest detail. One Friday evening she had talked about wanting a divorce, and by Sunday she had left him and moved into the flat in Malmo, which she had rented in advance. The feeling of being abandoned had filled him with both shame and anger. In an impotent rage he had slapped her face.
Afterwards there was only silence. She had picked up some of her things during the daytime when he wasn't home. But she left most of her belongings behind, and he had been deeply hurt that she seemed prepared to trade her entire past for a life that did not include him, even as a memory.
He had telephoned her. Late in the evenings they had spoken. Devastated by jealousy, he had asked whether she had left him for another man.
'Another life,' she had replied. 'Another life, before it's too late.'
He had appealed to her. He had tried to give the impression that he was indifferent. He had begged her forgiveness for all the attention he had failed to give. But nothing he said changed her mind.
Two days before Christmas Eve the divorce papers had arrived in the post. When he opened the envelope and realised that it was all over, something had cracked inside him. As if in an attempt to flee, he had called in sick over the Christmas holidays and had set off on an aimless trip that had taken him to Denmark. In northern Sjaelland a sudden storm had left him snowbound, and he had spent Christmas in Gilleleje, in a freezing room at a pension near the beach. There he had written her long letters, which he had later torn to pieces and strewn out over the sea in a symbolic gesture, demonstrating that in spite of everything he had begun to accept what had happened.
Two days before New Year's he had returned to Ystad and gone back to work. He spent New Year's Eve working on a serious case involving spousal abuse in Svarte, and he had a terrifying revelation that he could just as easily have physically abused Mona.
The music from
He pulled out of the car park, intending to drive towards home. But he drove in the opposite direction instead, out along the coast road heading west to Trelleborg and Skanor. When he passed the old prison he accelerated. Driving had always distracted his thoughts ...
He realised that he had driven almost all the way to Trelleborg. A big ferry was just entering the harbour, and on an impulse he decided to stay for a while. He knew that a number of former policemen from Ystad had become immigration officers at the ferry dock in Trelleborg. He thought some of them might be on duty tonight.
He walked across the harbour area, which was bathed in pale yellow light. A large lorry came roaring towards him like a ghostly prehistoric beast.
When he walked through the door with the sign 'Authorised Personnel Only', he found he didn't know either of the officers. Wallander introduced himself. The older of the two had a grey beard and a scar across his forehead.
'That's a nasty business you've got in Ystad,' he said. 'Did you catch them?''Not yet,' replied Wallander.
The conversation was interrupted as the passengers from the ferry approached passport control. The majority of them were Swedes returning from celebrating the New Year's holiday in Berlin. There were also some East Germans exercising their newly-won freedom by taking a trip to Sweden.
After 20 minutes there were only nine passengers left. All of them were trying in various ways to make it clear that they were seeking asylum in Sweden.
'It's pretty quiet tonight,' said the younger of the two officers. 'Sometimes up to a hundred asylum seekers arrive on one ferry. You can imagine what it's like.'
Five belonged to the same Ethiopian family. Only one of them had a passport, and Wallander wondered how they had managed to make the long journey and cross all those borders with a single passport. Besides the Ethiopian family, two Lebanese and two Iranians were waiting at passport control.
Wallander found it difficult to decide whether the nine refugees looked hopeful or whether they were simply scared.'What happens now?' he asked.
'Malmo will come and pick them up,' replied the older officer. 'It's their turn tonight. We get word over the radio when there are a lot of people without passports on the ferries. Sometimes we have to call for extra manpower.'
'What happens in Malmo?' asked Wallander.
'They're put on one of the ships anchored out in the Oil Harbour. They have to stay there until they're moved on. If they're allowed to stay in Sweden, that is.''What do you think about these people here?'The policeman shrugged.
'They'll probably get in,' he answered. 'Do you want some coffee? It'll be a while before the next ferry.'
Wallander shook his head. 'Some other time. I have to get going.''Hope you catch them.''Right,' said Wallander. 'So do I.'
On the way back to Ystad he ran over a hare. When he saw it in the beam of his headlights he hit the brakes, but it struck the left front wheel with a soft thud. He didn't stop to check whether the hare was still alive.What's wrong with me? he thought.
That night Wallander slept uneasily. Just after 5 a.m. he awoke with a start. His mouth was dry, and he had dreamt that somebody was trying to strangle him. When he realised that he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he got up and made some coffee.
The thermometer outside the kitchen window showed - 6° C. The light that hung on a wire suspended across the street was swaying in the wind. He sat down at the kitchen table and thought about his conversation with Rydberg the night before. What he had feared had happened. Mrs Lovgren had revealed nothing before she died that could give them a lead. Her mention of something 'foreign' was just too vague. They didn't have a single clue to go on.
He got dressed, searching for a long time before finding the heavy sweater he wanted. He went outside, feeling
the wind tearing and biting at him, drove out of Osterleden and turned onto the main road towards Malmo.
