Henning Mankell - One step behind

"So you fired Ake Larstam. Why?"

"It's hard to explain, but he just didn't fit in here."

"Why not?"

"It will sound strange when I explain it."

"I'm a policeman, I'm used to strange things."

"He wasn't independent enough. He always agreed with everything, even when we knew he had a different opinion. It isn't possible to have constructive discussions with people who are only out to please others. You can't get anywhere with them."

"That's how he was?"

"Yes. It just wasn't working out. He never came up with any ideas of his own."

"How were his technical abilities?"

"Excellent. That was never the issue."

"How did he react to his termination?"

"He didn't show any emotion at all, as far as I could tell. I was expecting to keep him on for another half a year at least, but he left immediately. He walked out of my office, got his coat, and just left. He didn't even pick up the severance pay due to him. It was as if he vanished into thin air."

"Did you have any contact with him after that?"

"I tried to, but I never managed to speak with him in person."

"Did you know he went to work for the post office?"

"I heard about it. There was some paperwork that came through from the employment office."

"Did he have any close friends that you were aware of?"

"I knew nothing about his personal life. He wasn't particularly close to anyone at this office. Sometimes he looked after other people's flats when they were gone, but otherwise I think he simply kept to himself."

"Do you know if his parents were still alive, or if he had any siblings?"

"I have no idea. His life outside this office was a complete blank. That's a real problem at a small firm."

"I understand. Thanks for your help."

"You'll understand if my curiosity has been piqued," Persson said. "Can you tell me what this is about?"

"You'll hear about it soon enough," Wallander said. "I can't tell you more than that right now."

Wallander hung up abruptly. He was struck by something Persson had said, something about how Larstam looked after other people's flats when they were away on holiday. He hesitated, but decided it should be looked into.

"Has anything been done with Svedberg's flat?" he asked.

"Ylva Brink said at the funeral that she was going to empty it soon, but she hasn't started yet."

Wallander thought about the keys that were still in his desk drawer.

"Hansson," he said. "You and someone else should go down to his flat and look around. See if you can tell if anyone's been there recently. The keys are in my top drawer."

Hansson left with one of the officers from Malmo. It was just before 9 a.m. Hoglund was trying to find Larstam's parents. Martinsson went back to double-check the database. Wallander went to the men's room, refusing to look at himself in the mirror. When he returned to the conference room, someone was passing around a plate of sandwiches, but he shook his head. Hoglund appeared in the doorway.

"Both of his parents are dead," she said.

"Any siblings?"

"Two older sisters."

"Find them."

She left, and Wallander thought about his own sister, Kristina. How would she describe him if the police came around asking questions?

He heard someone shouting in the corridor. Wallander got up quickly as a policeman appeared in the door.

"Gunfire," he shouted. "Down at the main square."

Wallander knew what it meant. "It must be Svedberg's flat," he shouted back. "Anyone injured?"

"I don't know. But the gunfire has been confirmed."

Four cars with blaring sirens were on their way in less than a minute. Wallander sat in the back seat with his gun held tightly in his hand. Larstam was there, he thought. What had happened to Hansson and the colleague from Malmo? He feared the worst, but pushed the thought away. It was too unbearable.

Wallander was out of the car before it came to a halt. A crowd had gathered at the door to the block of flats on Lilla Norregatan. Wallander dived through the crowd at full speed, bellowing, he was later told, like a charging bull. Then he saw both Hansson and the officer from Malmo. They were unhurt.

"What happened?" Wallander yelled.

Hansson was pale and shaking. The Malmo officer was sitting on the kerb.

"He was there," Hansson said. "I had just unlocked the door and stepped inside. He appeared out of nowhere and fired his gun. Then he was gone. It was pure luck we weren't hit. We turned and ran. It was sheer luck."

Wallander didn't say anything, but he knew luck had nothing to do with it. Larstam was an excellent marksman. He could have taken out both of them if he had wanted to. But he hadn't. Someone else was marked as his victim.

The flat was now empty. The back door was ajar. A greeting, Wallander thought when he saw it. A second door left open. He's showing us how good he is at getting away.

Martinsson emerged from Svedberg's bedroom.

"He's been sleeping in there," he said. "Now at least we know how he thinks. He takes shelter in empty nests."

"We know how he thought," Wallander corrected. "He won't do the same thing twice."

"Are you sure?" Martinsson said. "He's probably trying to figure out how we think. Maybe it makes sense to leave some men here. We don't expect him to return here, so that may be exactly what he does."

"He can't read our thoughts."

"It seems to me," Martinsson said, "that he gets pretty damn close to that. He always manages to stay one step ahead of us and one step behind at the same time."

Wallander didn't reply. He was thinking the same thing.

It was 10.30 a.m. There was only one thing Wallander was sure of and that was that Larstam had not yet killed victim number nine. If he had, Hansson would have been number ten, and their colleague from Malmo number eleven.

Why is he waiting, Wallander thought. Because he has to? Is his victim out of reach, or is there another explanation? Wallander left Svedberg's flat with nothing but more questions. I might as well face it, he thought. I'm back to square one.

He felt a sense of regret when it was over. Should he have aimed at their heads after all? He knew that it had to be the police. Who else would have reason to visit Karl Evert's flat, now that he was dead and buried? He also knew that they were trying to track him down. There was no other reasonable explanation.

Once again he had managed to escape, something that was both reassuring and satisfying. Although he hadn't expected them to come looking for him there, he had taken the necessary precautions by unlocking the back door and propping a chair against the front door. It would fall to the ground if someone tried to enter. The gun lay loaded on the bedside table. He slept with his shoes on.

The noise from the street disturbed him. It wasn't like sleeping in his soundproofed room. How many times had he tried to convince Karl Evert to renovate his bedroom? But nothing had come of it, and now it was too late.

The images had been blurry and indistinct, but he'd known he was dreaming of his own childhood. He was standing behind the sofa. He was very young. Two people were fighting, probably his parents. There was the harsh, domineering voice of a man. It swooped over his head like a bird of prey. Then there was a woman's voice, weak and afraid. When he heard it, he thought he was hearing his own voice, though he was still safely hidden behind the sofa.

That was when he was woken by the sounds from the hall. They entered his dreams by force. By the time the chair fell over, he was on his feet, the gun cocked in his hand. It would have meant changing his plans, but he should have shot them. He had left the building, his gun tucked into his coat pocket. The car was parked down at the railway station. He'd heard sirens in the distance. He'd driven out past Sandskogen, towards Osterlen. He stopped in Kaseberga and took a walk down to the harbour. He thought about what he should do next. He needed more sleep, but it was getting late and he had no idea when Wallander would return home. He had to be there when he did. He had already decided that it should happen today, and he couldn't risk changing his plans.