Firewall (9 page)

"What else could he have died of?"

"That I don't know. But I wanted it clear that whatever killed him it wasn't his heart."

"I'll pass on what you've told me," Wallander said. "Was there anything else?"

"Something must have happened," Enander said. "I don't know if I'm right about this, but I gather he had a head wound. I think he was probably attacked. Killed."

"Nothing points to that conclusion. His wallet wasn't taken."

"I'm neither a pathologist nor a forensic specialist, so I can't tell you what killed him," Enander said. "But it wasn't his heart. I'm sure of it."

Wallander made a note of Enander's phone number and address. Then he got up. The conversation was over. He didn't have any more time.

Wallander saw Enander back to reception, then returned to his office. He put the notes about Falk in a drawer and used the following hour to write up the events of the night before.

As he typed, he thought about the fact that he had once thought of his computer with distaste. But then one day he realised that it actually made his work easier. His desk was no longer drowning in random notes jotted on odd pieces of paper. He still typed with two fingers and often made mistakes, but nowadays when he wrote up his reports he no longer had to use Tipp-Ex to remove all his mistakes. That in itself was a huge blessing.

Martinsson came in with the list of people who had keys to the power substation. There were five altogether. Wallander glanced at the names.

"Everyone can account for their keys," Martinsson said. "Not one of them has let them out of their possession. Apart from Moberg, no-one has been to the substation in the past few days. Should I look into what they were doing during the time that Hökberg was missing?"

"Let's hold on that," Wallander said. "Until the forensic reports come back we can't do much except wait."

"What should we do with Persson?"

"She should be questioned again, more thoroughly."

"Are you going to do that?"

"No thanks. I thought we would leave that to Höglund. I'll put it to her."

By noon, Wallander had brought her up to date on the Lundberg case. His throat was feeling better, but he still felt tired. He had tried, without success, to start his car and, in despair, he called a garage and asked them to collect it. He left the keys with Irene and walked into town to have lunch. At the next table, people were talking about the power cut. Afterwards he went to the chemist's and bought soap and painkillers. When he returned to the station his car was gone. He called the mechanic, but they hadn't had time to identify the problem. When he asked how much the repair was going to cost the answer was vague. He hung up and decided that enough was enough. He was going to get a new car.

Then he let himself sink down into his thoughts. The more he thought about it the more he was convinced that Hökberg had not ended up at that substation by accident. And it was no coincidence that it was one of the most vulnerable points in Skåne's power distribution system.

He reached for Martinsson's list. Five people, five sets of keys: Andersson, line repairman; Lars Moberg, line repairman; Hilding Olofsson, power manager; Artur Wahlund, safety manager; Stefan Molin, technical director.

The names still told him as little as when he had first looked at them. He called Martinsson, who answered immediately.

"These key people," he said. "You haven't by any chance looked them up in the police register, have you?"

"Should I have?"

"Not necessarily, but I know you're very thorough."

"I can do it now, if you like."

"Perhaps it's not a priority. There's nothing from the pathologist?"

"I don't think they'll be able to give us anything until tomorrow at the earliest."

"Then plug in the names. If you have time."

In contrast to Wallander, Martinsson loved his computer. If anyone at the station was having a problem they always turned to him for help.

Wallander turned back to the Lundberg murder case. At 3 p.m. he went for some coffee. He was starting to feel better; his throat was almost back to normal. Hansson told him that Höglund was talking to Persson. Everything is flowing nicely, he thought. For once we have time for everything we need to do.

He had just sat down with his paperwork when Holgersson appeared at his door. She had one of the evening papers in her hand. Wallander could see from her face that something had happened.

"Have you seen this?" she asked and handed him the newspaper.

Wallander stared at the photograph. It was a picture of Eva Persson sprawled on the floor of the interrogation room. It looked as if she had fallen.

He felt a knot form in his stomach as he read the caption:
WELL-KNOWN POLICEMAN ASSAULTS TEENAGE GIRL. WE HAVE THE PICTURES
.

"Who took this picture?" Wallander said, in disbelief. "There were no journalists there, were there?"

"There must have been."

Wallander had a vague recollection of the door being slightly open to the corridor and there might have been a shadow of a person there.

"It was before the press conference," Holgersson said. "Maybe one of the reporters came early and was hanging around the hallway."

Wallander was paralysed. He had often been involved in scuffles and fist fights in his 30-year career, but that had always been during a difficult arrest. He had never jumped anyone in the middle of an interrogation, however irritated he had become.

It had only happened once, and that once there had been a photographer present.

"There's going to be trouble here," Holgersson said. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"She was attacking her mother. I slapped her to keep her from hurting her mother."

"That's not the story the picture tells."

"That's how it was."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Wallander had no answer.

"I hope you understand I'm forced to order an investigation into this."

Wallander heard the disappointment in her voice. It angered him. She doesn't believe me, he thought.

"Am I suspended?"

"No, but I want to hear exactly what happened."

"I've told you already."

"Persson gave a different version to Ann-Britt. She said your assault came out of the blue."

"Then she's lying. Ask her mother."

Holgersson hesitated before answering. "We did," she said. "She says her daughter never hit her."

Wallander was quiet. I'm going to resign, he thought. I'm going to resign from the force and leave this place. And I'm never coming back. Holgersson waited for an answer, but Wallander said nothing. Finally she left the room.

CHAPTER NINE

Wallander left the station immediately. He wasn't sure if he was running away or just going out for air. He knew he was right about what happened, but Holgersson didn't believe him and that upset him. It was only when he was outside that he remembered he didn't have a car. He swore. When he was upset he liked to drive around until he had calmed down again.

He went down to the off-licence and bought a bottle of whisky. Then he went straight home, unplugged the phone and sat at the kitchen table. He opened the bottle and took a couple of deep draughts. It tasted awful. But he felt he needed it. If there was one thing that made him feel helpless it was being accused of something he hadn't done. Holgersson hadn't spelled it out for him, but he wasn't wrong about her doubts. Maybe Hansson had been right all along, he thought angrily. Never have a woman for a boss. He took another swig. He was beginning to feel better, and was even starting to regret the fact that he had come straight home. That could be interpreted as a sign that he was guilty. He plugged in the phone. He felt a sense of childish impatience over the fact that no-one called him. He dialled the station and Irene answered.

"I just wanted to let you know I've gone home for the day," he said. "I have a cold."

"Hansson has been asking for you, and Nyberg. Also people from several newspapers."

"What did they want?"

"The papers?"

"No, Hansson and Nyberg."

"They didn't say."

She probably has the paper in front of her right now, Wallander thought. She and all the rest of them. Probably no-one's talking about anything else. Some of them are probably even gleeful about the fact that that bastard Wallander has finally got what's been coming to him.

He asked Irene to put him through to Hansson's office. It was a while before he answered. Wallander suspected that Hansson had been pouring over some complicated betting sheets that were supposed to get him that big jackpot, but never helped him do much more than break even.

"How are the horses doing?" Wallander asked when Hansson answered.

He said that to let him know that the story in the evening papers hadn't affected him.

"What horses?"

"You're not betting on horses these days?"

"No, not right now. Why do you ask?"

"It was just a joke. What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"Are you in your office?"

"I'm at home with a cold."

"I wanted to tell you that I've worked out the times that our cars went up and down that road. I've talked to the drivers and no-one saw Hökberg. All in all that stretch of road was covered four times."

"Then she didn't walk. She must have had a lift. The first thing she did when she left the station was call someone. Or else she walked to someone's house first. I hope Ann-Britt knew enough to ask Persson about that, about who could have given Hökberg a lift. Have you talked to Ann-Britt?"

"I haven't had time."

There was a pause. Wallander decided to be the first to bring it up.

"That picture in the paper wasn't too flattering, I suppose."

"No."

"The question is what was a photographer doing floating around the corridor of the station. They're always brought in as a group for the press conferences."

"It's odd that you didn't notice someone taking pictures."

"With today's cameras it's not so easy."

"What exactly happened?"

Wallander told him what had happened. He used the same words that he had used when he described it to Holgersson.

"There were no witnesses?" Hansson said.

"No-one apart from the photographer and he's going to lie. Otherwise his picture wouldn't be worth anything."

"You'll have to make a public rebuttal and tell your side."

"And how well would that work? An ageing police officer's word against a mother and her daughter? It'll never work."

"You forget that this particular girl committed murder."

Wallander wondered if that was really going to help. A policeman using excessive force was always a serious matter. That was his own opinion. It didn't help that the details of the situation had been quite unusual.

"I'll think about it," he said and asked Hansson to put him through to Nyberg.

By the time Nyberg came on the line Wallander had taken a few more swigs from his whisky bottle and was beginning to feel tipsy, but the pressure was lifting from his chest.

"Have you seen the papers?" Wallander said.

"Which papers?"

"The picture? The picture of the Persson girl?"

"I don't read the evening papers, but I heard about it. I understand she had been attacking her mother."

"That's not what the picture caption says."

"So what does that matter?"

"It means I'm in big trouble. Lisa is going to set up a formal investigation."

"So then the truth comes out. Isn't that what you want?"

"I just wonder if the media will buy it. Who cares about an old policeman when there's a young, fresh-faced murderess involved?"

Nyberg sounded surprised. "Since when have you cared what they write in the paper?"

"Maybe I still don't. But it's different when they publish a picture saying I've punched out a young girl."

"But she's committed murder."

"It still makes me uncomfortable."

"It'll blow over. Look, I just wanted to confirm that one of the car prints was from Moberg's car. That means that all the sets of tracks have been accounted for except one, but that unknown one is using common tyres."

"So we know someone drove her out there. And left her."

"There's one other thing," Nyberg said. "Her handbag."

"What about it?"

"I've been trying to work out why it was so far away, over by the fence."

"Don't you think he just threw it there?"

"But why? He couldn't have expected us not to find it."

Nyberg was right. This was important.

"You mean: why didn't he just take it with him? Especially if he was hoping the body wouldn't be identified."

"Something like that."

"What would the answer be?"

"That's your job. I'm just giving you the facts. The handbag was lying 15 metres from the transformer building."

"Anything else?"

"No."

The conversation was over. Wallander lifted up the bottle of whisky but then quickly put it down. He had had enough. If he kept on drinking he would cross a threshold he didn't even want to think about. He walked into the living room. It felt strange to be home in the middle of the day. Was this what retirement would be like? The thought made him shiver. He walked to the window and looked into the street. It was already getting dark. He thought about the doctor who had paid him a visit and about the man who had been found dead next to the cash machine. Wallander decided to call the pathologist the next day and tell him what Enander had said. It wouldn't change anything, but at least he would have passed on the information.

He switched to thinking about what Nyberg had said about Hökberg's handbag. There was really only one conclusion, and it was one that brought out his keenest investigative instincts. The bag was where it was because someone wanted it to be found.

Wallander sat on his sofa and thought it through. A body can be burned beyond recognition, he thought. Especially if it is burned with a high-voltage charge that can't be controlled. A person who is executed in the electric chair is boiled from the inside out. Hökberg's murderer knew it would be hard to identify her body. That's why the handbag was left behind.

That still didn't explain what it was doing by the fence, however. Wallander thought it through again, but still could not come up with a sensible explanation. He abandoned the question of the bag. In any case, he was proceeding too quickly. First they had to confirm that Hökberg had in fact been murdered.

He returned to the kitchen and made some coffee. Still no telephone call and it was 4 p.m. He sat at the kitchen table with his coffee and called in again. Irene told him that the papers and television had been on the line all afternoon. She had not given out his number: it had been unlisted for a couple of years now. Wallander thought again that his absence was going to be interpreted as an admission of guilt, or at least as a sign of deep embarrassment about the matter. I should have stood my ground and stayed put, he thought. I should have talked to every damned reporter who called and told them the truth: that both Persson and her mother were lying.

The moment of weakness was over. He was starting to get angry. He asked Irene to put him through to Höglund. He should have started with Holgersson and told her once and for all that her attitude was unacceptable. But he put the phone down before there was an answer. He didn't want to talk to either one of them. Instead he dialled Sten Widén's number. By the time he picked up, Wallander had almost had time to regret it. But he was fairly sure Widén would not yet have seen the picture in the papers.

"I was thinking of coming over," Wallander said. "The only problem is that my car is in the garage."

"I'll pick you up if you like."

They decided on 7 p.m. Wallander glanced in the direction of the whisky bottle, but didn't touch it.

The doorbell rang. Wallander jumped. No-one ever came to his flat unannounced. It was probably a reporter who had somehow got hold of his address. He put the whisky in a cabinet and opened the front door. But it wasn't a reporter, it was Höglund.

"Is this a bad time?"

He stood aside to let her in and turned his face away so she wouldn't smell the alcohol on his breath. They sat down in the living room.

"I have a cold," Wallander said. "I didn't have the energy to keep working."

She nodded, but he didn't for a second suppose that she believed him. She had no reason to. Everyone knew Wallander always kept working through whatever fevers or ailments he was suffering from.

"How are you holding up?" she said.

The moment of weakness is over, Wallander thought. Even if it has just retreated for now and I know it's still in there. But I'm not going to show it.

"If you are referring to the picture in the papers, I know it looks bad. On the other hand, how can a photographer find his way unseen all the way to our interrogation rooms?"

"Lisa is very concerned."

"She should listen to what I have to say," Wallander said. "She should support me, not immediately believe everything they say in the paper."

"She can't just ignore what's in the picture."

"I'm not saying she should. I hit the girl, but only because she was laying into her mother."

"You know that they have a different story."

"They're lying. But maybe you believe them?"

She shook her head. "The question is only how to prove that they're lying."

"Who's behind it?"

Her answer came quickly and firmly. "The mother. I think she's smart. She sees an opportunity to turn the attention away from what her daughter has done. And now that Hökberg is dead they can try to pin everything on her."

"Not the bloody knife."

"Oh, but they can. Even though it was recovered with Persson's help she can claim that Hökberg was the one who used it on Lundberg."

She was right. The dead can't speak. And there was a large colour photograph of a policeman who had knocked a girl to the ground. The picture was somewhat fuzzy, but no-one could have any doubts as to what it depicted.

"The prosecutor's office has demanded a quick investigation."

"Who in particular?"

"Viktorsson."

Wallander didn't like him. He had only been in Ystad since August, but Wallander had already had a couple of run-ins with him.

"It's going to be my word against theirs."

"And there's two of them, of course."

"The strange thing is that Persson doesn't even like her mother," Wallander said. "It was very clear to me when I spoke to her."

"She's probably realised that she's in deep trouble, even though she's a juvenile and won't go to jail. Therefore she's declared a temporary truce with her mother."

Wallander suddenly felt he couldn't keep talking about the subject any longer. Not right now.

"Why did you come round?"

"I heard you were sick."

"But not at death's door. I'll be back tomorrow. Tell me instead what you learned from your conversation with Persson."