picked up the trail of Signe; it had to be here somewhere.
He succeeded at about four in the morning. In the bookcase, hidden behind some big art books, he found a photo album. It did not contain many pictures, but they were carefully mounted, most of them in faded colour, a few in black and white. There was no written commentary, only pictures. There was no picture of the two siblings together, but then he hadn’t expected to find one. When Hans was born, Signe had already vanished, been whisked away, rubbed out. Wallander counted less than fifty photos. Signe was alone in most of them, lying in various positions. But in the last picture Louise was holding her, looking away from the camera. Wallander felt sad to note that the picture made it clear that Louise would have preferred not to have to sit there, holding the child in her arms. The photograph exuded an atmosphere of intense desolation. Wallander shook his head, feeling very uncomfortable.
He lay down on the sofa again. He was exhausted but also relieved, and he fell asleep immediately. He woke up with a start at about eight o’clock when a car in the street below sounded its horn loudly. He had been dreaming about horses. A herd had come galloping over the sand dunes at Mossby and raced straight into the water. He tried to figure out what the dream meant, but he failed. It hardly ever worked; he had no idea how to do it. He ran a bath, drank some coffee and called Ytterberg at about nine. He was in a meeting. Wallander asked the receptionist to pass on a message and received a text in response saying that Ytterberg could meet him at ten thirty at city hall, on the side overlooking the water. Wallander was waiting there when Ytterberg arrived on his bicycle. There was a cafe nearby, and before long they were sitting at a table, each with a cup of coffee.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Ytterberg. ‘I thought you preferred little towns or rural areas.’
‘I do. But sometimes you have no choice.’
Wallander told him about Signe. Ytterberg listened intently without interrupting. Wallander finished by mentioning the photo album he had discovered during the night. He had brought it with him in a plastic bag, and he placed it on the table. Ytterberg slid his coffee cup to one side, wiped his hands on a paper napkin and leafed carefully through the album.
‘How old is she now?’ he asked. ‘About forty?’
‘Yes, if I understood Atkins correctly.’
‘There aren’t any pictures of her in here after the age of two, or three at the most.’
‘Exactly,’ said Wallander. ‘Unless there’s another album. But I don’t think so. After the age of two she’s been expunged.’
Ytterberg pulled a face and carefully slid the album back into the plastic bag. A white-painted passenger boat chugged past along Riddarfjarden. Wallander moved his chair into the shade.
‘I thought of going back to Niklasgarden,’ Wallander said. ‘After all, I’m now a member of this girl’s family. But I need the go-ahead from you. You should be aware of what I’m doing.’
‘What good do you think it would do, meeting her?’
‘I don’t know. But her father visited her the day before he disappeared. And she hasn’t had any visitors since then.’
Ytterberg thought for a while before replying.
‘It’s remarkable that Louise hasn’t been to see her the entire time since he disappeared. What do you make of that?’
‘I don’t make anything of it. But I wonder just as much as you do. Maybe we should go there together?’
‘No, you go on your own. I’ll give them a call and tell them you have the right to see her.’
Wallander walked down to the edge of the quay and gazed out over the water while Ytterberg made his call. The sun was high in the clear blue sky. It’s full summer now, he thought. After a while Ytterberg came and stood beside him.
‘All set,’ he said. ‘But there’s something you should know. The woman I spoke to said that Signe von Enke doesn’t speak. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she can’t. I don’t know if I understood everything correctly, but she seems to have been born without vocal cords. Among other things.’
Wallander turned to look at him.
‘Among other things?’
‘She’s evidently extremely handicapped. Lots of essential parts are missing. I have to say I’m glad it’s not me going there. Especially not today.’
‘What’s special about today?’
‘It’s such lovely weather,’ said Ytterberg. ‘One of the first summer days this year. I’d rather not be upset if I can avoid it.’
‘Did she speak with a foreign accent?’ Wallander asked as they walked away from the quay. ‘The woman at Niklasgarden, I mean.’
‘Yes, she did. She had a lovely voice. She said her name was Fatima. I would guess she’s from Iraq or Iran.’
Wallander promised to get in touch later that day. He had parked outside the main entrance to city hall, and he just managed to drive off before an alert parking attendant turned up. He drove out of town and pulled up outside Niklasgarden about an hour later. When he entered the reception area he was received by an elderly man who introduced himself as Artur Kallberg - he was on duty in the afternoons until midnight.
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Wallander said. ‘Tell me about Signe’s condition.’
‘She’s one of our most severely affected patients,’ Artur Kallberg informed him. ‘When she was born, nobody thought she would live very long. But some people have a will to live that few ordinary mortals can begin to comprehend.’
‘Can you be more precise?’ Wallander asked. ‘What exactly is wrong with her?’
Kallberg hesitated before answering, as if weighing whether Wallander would be able to cope with hearing all the facts; or possibly if he was worthy of hearing the full truth. Wallander became impatient.
‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘She’s missing both arms. And there’s something wrong with her vocal cords, which means that she can’t talk, plus congenital brain damage. She also has a malformation of the spine. That means her movements are incredibly limited.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
‘She has a small amount of mobility in her neck and head. For instance, she can blink.’
Wallander tried to envisage the horrific possibility that Linda might have given birth to a child with such severe disabilities. How would he have reacted? Could he imagine what this tragedy must have meant for Hakan and Louise? Wallander was unable to decide how he would have coped with it.
‘How long has she been here?’ he asked.
‘During the early years of her life she was cared for in a home for severely handicapped children,’ said Kallberg. ‘It was on Lidingo, but it closed in 1972.’
Wallander raised his hand.
‘Let’s be exact,’ he said. ‘Assume that the only thing I know about this girl is her name.’
‘Then perhaps we should stop calling her a girl,’ said Kallberg. ‘She’s about to turn forty-one years old. Guess when.’
‘How on earth should I know?’
‘It’s her birthday today. Under normal circumstances, her father would have come and spent the afternoon here with us. But as things stand, no one is coming.’
Kallberg seemed troubled by the thought that Signe von Enke might be forced to endure a birthday without a visit.
One question was more important than any other, but Wallander decided to wait and do everything in order. He took his battered notebook out of his pocket.
‘So,’ said Wallander, ‘she was born on 6 June 1967, is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Did she ever spend any time at home with her parents?’
‘According to the case notes I’ve been through, she was taken directly from the hospital to the Nyhaga home on Lidingo. When it became necessary to expand the home, the neighbours were scared that their properties would go down in value. I don’t know exactly what they did in order to put a wrench in the works, but they not only prevented the expansion, they managed to get the home closed down completely.’
