It wasn't the first time in his years as a policeman that Wallander had received an anonymous threat. Several years earlier, a man who considered himself unjustly convicted of assault and battery had harassed him with insinuating letters and night-time phone calls. It was Mona who finally got fed up and demanded that he do something about it.
Wallander had sent Svedberg to the man with a warning that he was risking a long jail sentence. Another time his tyres had been slashed.
But this man's message was different. 'Something's going to burn,' he had said. That meant anything from refugee camps to restaurants to houses owned by foreigners.
Three days - 72 hours. That meant Friday, or Saturday the 13th at the latest.
He went and lay down on the bed again and tried to sleep. The wind tore and ripped at the walls of the house. How could he sleep when he kept waiting for the man to call again?
At 6.30 a.m. he was back at the station. He exchanged a few words with the duty officer and learned that the stormy night had been peaceful at least. An articulated lorry had tipped over outside Ystad, and some scaffolding had blown down in Skarby. That was all.
He got himself some coffee and went to his office. With an old electric shaver that he kept in a desk drawer he got rid of the stubble on his cheeks. Then he went out for the morning papers. The more he looked through them, the more irritated he became. Despite the fact that he had been on the telephone talking to a number of reporters until late the night before, they had printed only vague and incomplete denials that the police were concentrating their investigation on foreign citizens. It was as though the papers had only reluctantly accepted the truth.
He decided to call another press conference for that afternoon and to present an account of the status of the investigation. He would also disclose the anonymous threat he had received during the night.
From a shelf behind his desk, he took down a folder in which he kept records on the various refugee centres in the region. Besides the big refugee camp in Ystad, several smaller ones were scattered throughout the district.
But what was there to prove that the threat actually had to do with a refugee camp in Ystad's police district? Nothing. The threat might equally be directed at a restaurant or a house. For instance, how many pizzerias were there in the Ystad area? Twelve? More?
There was one thing he was quite sure of. The threat had to be taken seriously. In the past year there had been too many incidents that confirmed that these were well-organised factions that would not hesitate to resort to open violence against foreigners living in Sweden or refugees seeking asylum.
He looked at his watch. It was 7.45 a.m. He picked up the phone and dialled the number of Rydberg's house. After ten rings he hung up. Rydberg was on his way.Martinsson stuck his head around the door.'Hello,' he said. 'What time is the meeting today?'
'Ten o'clock,' said Wallander.'Awful weather, isn't it?''As long as we don't get snow. I can live with the wind.'
While he waited for Rydberg, he looked for the note Sten Widen had given him. After Herdin's visit he realised that perhaps it wasn't so unusual for someone to have given the horse hay during the night. If the killers were among Johannes and Maria Lovgren's acquaintances, or even members of their family, they would naturally know about the horse. Maybe they also knew that Johannes Lovgren made a habit of going out to the stable in the night.
Wallander had only a vague idea of what Widenwould be able to add. Maybe the real reason he had called him was to avoid losing touch with him. No-one answered, even though he let the phone ring for over a minute. He hung up and decided to try again a little later.
He also had another phone call he wanted to make before Rydberg arrived. He dialled the number and waited.
'Public prosecutor's office,' a cheerful female voice answered.'This is Kurt Wallander. Is Akeson there?''He's on leave of absence^ Did you forget?'
He had forgotten. It had completely slipped his mind that public prosecutor Per Akeson was taking some university courses. And they had had dinner together as recently as the end of November.
'I can connect you with his deputy, if you'd like,' said the receptionist.'Do that,' said Wallander.To his surprise a woman answered. 'Anette Brolin.''I'd like to talk with the prosecutor,' said Wallander.'Speaking,' said the woman. 'What is this about'
Wallander realised that he hadn't introduced himself. He gave her his name and went on, 'It's about this double murder. I think it's time we presented a report to the public prosecutor's office. I had forgotten that Per was on leave.'
'If you hadn't called this morning, I would have called you,' said the woman.
Wallander thought he detected a reproachful tone in her voice. Bitch, he thought. Are you going to teach me how the police are supposed to co-operate with the prosecutor's office?
'We actually don't have much to tell you,' he said, noticing that his voice sounded a little hostile. 'Is an arrest imminent?' 'No. I was thinking more of a short briefing.' 'All right,' said the woman. 'Shall we say eleven o'clock
at my office? I've got a warrant application hearing at quarter past ten. I'll be back by eleven.'
'I might be a little late. We have a case meeting at ten. It might run on.'
'Try to make it by eleven.'She hung up, and he sat there holding the receiver.
Co-operation between the police and the prosecutor's office wasn't always easy. But Wallander had established an informal and confidential relationship with Per Akeson. They often called each other to ask advice. They seldom disagreed on when detention or release was justified.
'Damn,' he said out loud. 'Anette Brolin, who the hell is she?'
Just then he heard the unmistakable sound of Rydberg limping by in the corridor. He stuck his head out of the door and asked him to come in. Rydberg was dressed in an outmoded fur jacket and beret. When he sat down he grimaced.
'Bothering you again?' asked Wallander, pointing at his leg.
'Rain is OK,' said Rydberg. 'Or snow. Or cold. But this damned leg can't stand the wind. What do you want?'
Wallander told him about the call he had received during the night.
'What do you think?' he asked when he'd finished. 'Serious or not?''Serious. At least we have to proceed as if it is.'
'I'm thinking about a press conference this afternoon. We'll present the status of the investigation and concentrate on Lars Herdin's story. Without mentioning his name, of course. Then I'll speak about the threat. And say that all rumours about foreigners being involved are groundless.'
'But that's actually not true,' Rydberg mused. 'What do you mean?'
'The woman said what she said. And the knot may be Argentine.'
'How do you intend to make that fit in with a robbery that was presumably committed by someone who knew Lovgren very well?'
'I don't know yet. I think it's too soon to draw conclusions. Don't you?'
'Provisional conclusions,' said Wallander. 'All police work deals with drawing conclusions, which you later discard or keep building on.'Rydberg shifted his sore leg.
'What are you thinking of doing about the leak?' he asked. 'I'm thinking of giving them hell at the meeting,' said Wallander. 'Then Bjork can deal with it when he gets back.' 'What do you think he'll do?' 'Nothing.' 'Exactly.'Wallander threw his arms wide.
'We might as well admit it right now. Whoever leaked it to the TV people isn't going to get his nose twisted
