'I'll be in touch again soon,' he said, getting up and taking his coat. 'If you think of anything else, don't hesitate to call the police. Ask for me, Inspector Wallander.''What if they come back ... ?' asked the old woman.Wallander shook his head.
'They won't,' he said. 'It was probably robbers. They never come back. There's nothing for you to worry about.'
He thought that he ought to say something more to reassure them. But what? What security could he offer to people who had just seen their close neighbour brutally murdered? Who had to wait and see whether his wife was also going to die?'The horse,' he said. 'Who will feed it?'
'We will,' replied the old man. 'We'll see that she gets what she needs.'
Wallander went outside into the cold dawn. The wind was stronger, and he hunched his shoulders as he walked towards his car. He knew he ought to remain and give the crime-scene technicians a hand. But he was freezing and feeling lousy and didn't want to stay any longer. Besides, he saw through the window that it was Rydberg who had come with the team's car. That meant that the technicians wouldn't finish their work until they had turned over and inspected every lump of clay. Rydberg, who was supposed to retire in a couple of years, was a passionate policeman. He might appear pedantic and slow, but his presence was a guarantee that a crime scene would be treated the way it should be.
Rydberg had rheumatism and used a cane. Now he came limping across the yard towards Wallander.
'It's not pretty,' Rydberg said. 'It looks like a slaughterhouse in there.''You're not the first to say that,' said Wallander.Rydberg looked serious. 'Have we got any leads?'Wallander shook his head.
'Nothing at all?' There was something of an entreaty in Rydberg's voice.
'The neighbours didn't hear or see anything. I think it was ordinary robbers.''You call this insane brutality ordinary?'
Rydberg was upset, and Wallander regretted his choice of words. 'I meant, of course, that it was particularly fiendish individuals who did this last night. The kind who make their living picking outfarms in isolated locations where lonely old people live.'
'We have to find these people,' said Rydberg. 'Before they strike again.'
'You're right,' said Wallander. 'Even if we don't catch anyone else this year.'
He got into his car and drove off. On the narrow farm road he almost collided with a car coming around a curve towards him at high speed. He recognised the man driving. It was a reporter for one of the big national papers, who always showed up when something of more than local interest happened in the Ystad area.
Wallander drove back and forth through Lunnarp a few times. There were lights in the windows, but no-one was out and about. What were they going to think when they found out?
He was feeling uneasy. Being confronted with the old woman with the noose around her neck had shaken him. The cruelty of it was unthinkable. Who would do something like that? Why not hit her over the head with an axe so it would all be over in an instant? Why torture her?
He tried to plan the investigation in his head as he drove slowly through the village. At the crossroads towards Blentarp he stopped, turned up the heat in the car because he was cold, and then sat motionless, gazing off towards the horizon.
He was the one who would have to lead the investigation, he knew that. No-one else was even possible. After Rydberg, he was the criminal detective in Ystad who had the most experience, despite the fact that he was only 42 years old.
Much of the investigative work would be routine. Examining the scene of the crime, questioning people in Lunnarp and along the escape routes the robbers might have taken. Had anyone seen anything suspicious? Anything unusual? The questions were already running through his mind. But Wallander knew from experience that farm robberies were often difficult to solve. What he could hope for was that the old woman would survive. She had seen what happened. She knew. But if she died, a double murder would be even harder to solve.
He felt uneasy. Under normal circumstances this unease would have spurred him to greater energy and activity. Since these were the prerequisites for all police work, he had imagined that he was a good policeman. But right now he felt uncertain and tired. He forced himself to shift into first gear. The car rolled a few metres. Then he stopped again. It was as if he only now realised what he had witnessed on that frozen winter morning.
The senselessness and savagery of the attack on the helpless couple scared him. Something had happened that shouldn't have, not here. He looked out of the car window. The wind was rushing and whistling around the doors. I have to get started, he thought. It's as Rydberg said: we've got to find whoever did this.
He drove directly to the hospital in Ystad and took the lift up to the intensive care unit. In the corridor he immediately recognised the young police cadet Martinsson sitting on a chair outside one of the rooms. Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed. Was there really no-one else available to send to the hospital but a young, inexperienced cadet? And why was he sitting outside the door? Why wasn't he sitting at the bedside, ready to catch the slightest whisper from the brutalised woman?'Hello,' said Wallander, 'how is she?'
'She's unconscious,' replied Martinsson. 'The doctors don't seem too hopeful.'
'Why are you sitting out here? Why aren't you in the room?''They said they'd tell me if anything happened.'
Wallander noticed that Martinsson was starting to feel unsure of himself.
I sound like a grumpy schoolteacher, he thought. Carefully he pushed open the door and looked in. Various machines were sucking and pumping in death's waiting room. Tubes undulated like transparent worms along the walls. A nurse was standing there reading a chart.'You can't come in here,' she said sharply.
'I'm a police inspector,' replied Wallander feebly. 'I just wanted to hear how she's doing.''You've been asked to wait outside,' said the nurse.
Before he could answer, a doctor came rushing into the room. Wallander thought he looked surprisingly young.
'We would prefer not to have any unauthorised persons in here,' said the doctor when he caught sight of Wallander.
'I'm leaving. But I just wanted to hear how she's doing. My name is Wallander, and I'm a police inspector. Homicide,' he added, not sure whether that made any difference. 'I'm heading the investigation into the person or persons who did this. How is she?'
'It's amazing that she's still alive,' said the doctor, nodding to Wallander to step over to the bed. 'We can't tell yet the extent of the internal injuries she may have suffered. First we have to see whether she survives. But her windpipe has been severely traumatised. As if someone had tried to strangle her.'
'That's exactly what happened,' said Wallander, looking at the thin face visible among the sheets and tubes.
'She should have died,' said the doctor.
'I hope she survives,' said Wallander. 'She's the only witness we've got.'
'We hope all our patients survive,' replied the doctor sternly, studying a monitor where green lines moved in uninterrupted waves.
Wallander left the room after the doctor insisted that he could tell him nothing more. The prognosis was uncertain. Maria Lovgren might die without regaining consciousness. There was no way to know.'Can you Hp-read?' Wallander asked the cadet.'No,' Martinsson replied in surprise.'That's too bad,' said Wallander, and left.
From the hospital he drove to the brown police station that lay on the road out towards the east end of town. He sat down at his desk and looked out of the window, over at the old red water tower.
Maybe the times require another kind of policeman, he thought. Policemen who aren't distressed when they're forced to go into a human slaughterhouse in the Swedish countryside early on a January morning. Policemen who don't suffer from my uncertainty and anguish.
His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone. The hospital, he thought at once. They're calling to say that Maria Lovgren is dead. But did she wake up? Did she say anything? He stared at the ringing telephone. Damn, he thought. Damn. Anything but that.
But when he picked up the receiver, it was his daughter. He gave a start and almost dropped the phone on the floor.
