'What happened to you?' Hemberg asked and pointed to his cheek.
'I bumped into a doorpost,' Wallander said.
'Just what abused wives say when they don't want to turn in their husbands,' Hemberg said breezily and sat up.
Wallander felt found out. It was getting harder and harder for him to determine what Hemberg was really thinking. Hemberg seemed to have a double-edged language, one that made the listener constantly search for the meaning behind the words.
'We're still waiting for definitive results from Jorne,' Hemberg said. 'That takes time. As long as we can't pinpoint exactly when the woman died we also cannot proceed with the theory that Halen killed her and then went home and shot himself out of regret or fear.'
Hemberg stood with his papers tucked under his arm. Wallander followed him to a conference room further down the corridor. There were already several detectives there, among them Stefansson, who regarded Wallander with animosity. Sjunnesson was picking his teeth and did not look at anyone. There were also two other men who Wallander recognised. One was called Horner and the other Mattsson. Hemberg sat down at the short end of the table and pointed out a chair to Wallander.
'Is the patrol squad helping us out now?' Stefansson said. 'Don't they have enough to do with all those damn protestors?'
'The patrol squad has nothing to do with this,' Hemberg said. 'But Wallander found that lady out in Arlov. It's as simple as that.'
Only Stefansson seemed to object to Wallander's presence. The others nodded kindly. Wallander imagined that more than anything they were happy to have an additional hand. Sjunnesson put down the toothpick with which he had been picking his teeth. Apparently this was the sign that Hemberg could begin. Wallander noted the methodical care that characterised the investigative unit's proceedings. They worked from the existing facts, but they also took time – Hemberg, above all – to feel their way in exploring various directions. Why had Alexandra Batista been murdered? What could the connection to Halen be? Were there any other leads?
'The precious stones in Halen's stomach,' Hemberg said towards the end of the meeting. 'I have received an evaluation from a jeweller of about 150,000 kronor. A lot of money, in other words. People in this country have been murdered for much less.'
'Someone hit a taxi driver on the head with an iron pipe a couple of years ago,' Sjunnesson said. 'He had twenty-two kronor in his wallet.'
Hemberg looked around the table.
'The neighbours?' he asked. 'Have they seen anything? Heard anything?'
Mattsson glanced through his notes.
'No observations,' he said. 'Batista lived an isolated life. Rarely went out except to buy groceries. Had no visitors.'
'Someone must have seen Halen come by?' Hemberg objected.
'Apparently not. And the nearest neighbours gave the impression of being regular Swedish citizens. That is to say, extremely nosy.'
'When did someone see her last?'
'There were differing opinions on this. But of what I have been able to document, one can draw the conclusion that it was several days ago. What's not clear is if it was two or three days ago.'
'Do we know what she lived on?'
Then it was Horner's turn.
'She seems to have had a small annuity,' he said. 'In part with unclear origins. A bank in Portugal that in turn has affiliated branches in Brazil. It always takes a damn long time with banks. But she didn't work. If you look at the contents of her cupboards, fridge and pantry, her life did not cost much.'
'But the house?'
'No loans. Paid for in cash by her former husband.'
'Where is he?'
'In a grave,' Stefansson said. 'He died a couple of years ago. Was buried in Karlskoga. I spoke to his widow. He had remarried. That was unfortunately somewhat embarrassing. I realised too late that she had no idea that there had once been an Alexandra Batista in his life. But he did not appear to have had any children with Batista.'
'That's how it can be,' Hemberg said, and turned to Sjunnesson.
'We're in the process,' he said. 'Different fingerprints on the glasses. Seems to have been red wine in them. Spanish, I think. We're trying to match this to an empty bottle that was in the kitchen. We're checking to see if we have the prints in the register. Then of course we'll also compare them to Halen's.'
'He may also be in Interpol's registers,' Hemberg pointed out. 'It can take a while until we hear back from them.'
'We can assume she let him in,' Sjunnesson continued. 'There were no signs of forced entry on the windows or doors. He can also have had his own key, for that matter. But there were none that fitted. The balcony door was open, as our friend Wallander has informed us. Since Batista had neither a dog nor a cat, one could imagine that it was open to let in the night air. Which in turn should mean that Batista did not fear or expect that anything would happen. Or else the perpetrator exited that way. The back of the house is more protected from prying eyes.'
'Any other evidence?' Hemberg said.
'Nothing out of the ordinary.'
Hemberg pushed away the papers that were spread out in front of him.
'Then all we can do is keep going,' he said. 'The medical examiner will have to hurry up. The best possible outcome is if Halen can be bound to the crime. Personally, that is what I believe. But we will have to keep talking to neighbours and digging around in background material.'
Then Hemberg turned to Wallander.
'Do you have anything to add? You found her, after all.'
Wallander shook his head and noticed that his mouth was dry.
'Nothing?'
'I didn't notice anything that you haven't already commented on.'
Hemberg drummed his fingers against the tabletop.
'Then we have no need to sit here any longer,' he said. 'Does anyone know what the lunch is today?'
'Herring,' Horner said. 'It's usually good.'
Hemberg asked Wallander to join him for lunch. But he declined. His appetite was gone. He felt that he needed to be alone to think. He went to his office to get his coat. He could see through the window that it had stopped raining. Just as he was about to leave his office, one of his colleagues from the patrol squad came in and threw his police cap on a table.
'Shit,' he said, and sat down heavily in a chair.
His name was Jorgen Berglund and he came from a farm outside Landskrona. Wallander sometimes had trouble understanding his dialect.
'We've cleaned up two blocks,' he said. 'In one of them we found some runaway thirteen-year-old girls who had been missing for weeks. One of them smelled so bad we had to hold our noses. Another one bit Persson on the leg when we were going to lift them out. What is happening in this country, anyway? And why weren't you there?'
'I was called in by Hemberg,' Wallander said. As to the other question, about what was happening in Sweden, he had no answer.
He took his coat and left. In the reception area he was stopped by one of the girls who worked in the call centre.
'You have a message,' she said and she handed him a note through the window. There was a phone number on it.
'What is this?' he asked.
'Someone called and said he was a distant relative to you. He wasn't sure you would even remember him.'
'Didn't he say what his name was?'
'No, but he seemed old.'
Wallander studied the telephone number. There was an area code: 0411. This can't be true, he thought. My father calls and introduces himself as a distant relative. One I may not even remember.
