Henning Mankell - Faceless Killers

Suddenly he realized that he had driven almost all the way to Trelleborg. A big ferry was just entering the harbor, and on a sudden impulse he decided to stay for a while.

He knew that some former police officers from Ystad had become immigration police at the ferry dock in Trelleborg. He thought some of them might be on duty tonight.

He walked across the harbor area, which was bathed in pale yellow light. A big truck came roaring toward him like a ghostly prehistoric beast.

But when he walked through the door with the sign “Authorized Personnel Only,” he didn’t know either of the officers.

Kurt Wallander nodded and introduced himself. The older of the two had a gray beard and a scar across his forehead.

“That’s a nasty business you’ve got in Ystad,” he said. “Did you catch them?”

“Not yet,” replied Wallander.

The conversation was interrupted, since the passengers from the ferry were approaching passport control. The majority of them were Swedes returning from celebrating the New Year’s holiday in Berlin. But there were also some East Germans trying out their newly won freedom by taking a trip to Sweden.

After twenty minutes there were only nine passengers left. All of them were trying in various ways to make it clear that they were seeking asylum in Sweden.

“It’s pretty quiet tonight,” said the younger of the two officers. “Sometimes up to a hundred asylum seekers arrive on one ferry. You can imagine.”

Five of the asylum seekers belonged to the same Ethiopian family. Only one of them had a passport, and Wallander wondered how they had managed to make this long journey and cross all those borders with a single passport. Besides the Ethiopian family, two Lebanese and two Iranians were waiting at passport control.

Wallander had a hard time deciding whether the nine refugees looked expectant or whether they were just scared.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“Malmö will come and pick them up,” replied the older officer. “It’s their turn tonight. We get word over the radio when there are a lot of people without passports on the ferries. Sometimes we have to call for extra manpower.”

“What happens in Malmö?” asked Wallander.

“They’re put on one of the ships anchored out in the Oil Harbor. They have to stay there until they’re shuttled on. If they’re allowed to stay in Sweden, that is.”

“What do you think about these people here?”

The policeman shrugged.

“They’ll probably get in,” he answered. “Do you want some coffee? It’ll be a while before the next ferry.”

Wallander shook his head.

“Some other time. I have to get going.”

“Hope you catch them.”

“Right,” said Wallander. “So do I.”

On the way back to Ystad he ran over a hare. When he saw the animal in the beam of his headlights he hit the brakes, but the hare struck the left front wheel with a soft thud. He didn’t stop the car to get out and check whether the hare was still alive.

What’s wrong with me? he thought.

That night Wallander slept uneasily. Just after five he awoke with a start. His mouth was dry, and he had dreamed that somebody was trying to strangle him. When he realized that he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he got up and made some coffee.

The thermometer outside the kitchen window showed -6 °Celsius. The streetlight was swaying in the wind. He sat down at the kitchen table and thought about his conversation with Rydberg the night before. What he had feared had happened. The dead woman had revealed nothing that could give them a lead. Her words about something foreign were just too vague. He realized that they didn’t have a single clue to go on.

At six thirty he got dressed and searched for a long time before finding the heavy sweater he was looking for.

He went outside, felt the wind tearing and biting at him, and then drove out Osterleden and turned onto the main road toward Malmö. Before he met Rydberg at eight, he had to pay a return visit to the neighbors of the old couple that was killed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something didn’t quite add up. Attacks on lonely old people were not often random. They were usually preceded by rumors of money stashed away. And even though the attacks could be brutal, they were hardly characterized by the methodical malice that he had witnessed at this murder scene.

People in the country get up early in the morning, he thought as he swung onto the narrow road that led to the Nyströms’ house. Maybe they’ve had time to mull things over.

He stopped in front of the house and turned off the engine. At the same instant the light in the kitchen window went off.

They’re scared, he thought. They probably think it’s the killers coming back.

He left the lights on as he got out of the car and walked across the gravel to the steps.

He sensed rather than saw the muzzle flash coming from a bush beside the house. The ear-splitting noise made him dive for the ground. A pebble slashed his cheek, and for an instant he thought he had been hit.

“Police!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot! Damn it, don’t shoot!”

A flashlight shone on his face. The hand holding the flashlight was shaking, and the beam wobbled back and forth. Nyström was standing in front of him, an old shotgun in his hand.

“Is it you?” he said.

Wallander got up and brushed off the gravel.

“What were you aiming at?” he asked.

“I shot straight up in the air,” said Nyström.

“Do you have a permit for that weapon?” Wallander queried. “Otherwise there could be trouble.”

“I’ve been up all night, keeping watch,” said Nyström. Wallander could hear how upset the man was.

“I have to turn off my lights,” said Wallander. “Then we’ll talk, you and I.”

Two boxes of shotgun shells lay on the kitchen table. On the sofa lay a crowbar and a big sledgehammer. The black cat was in the window, staring menacingly at Wallander as he came in. The old woman stood at the stove stirring a pan of coffee.

“I had no idea it was the police coming,” said Nyström, sounding apologetic. “And so early.”

Wallander moved the sledgehammer and sat down.

“Mrs. Lövgren died last night,” he said. “I thought I’d come out and tell you myself.”

Every time Wallander was forced to notify someone of a death, he had the same feeling of unreality. To tell strangers that a child or a relative had suddenly died, and to do it with dignity, was impossible. The deaths that the police announced were always unexpected, and often violent and gruesome. Somebody drives off to buy something at the store and dies. A child on a bicycle is run over on the way home from the playground. Someone is abused or robbed, commits suicide or drowns. When the police are standing in the doorway, people refuse to accept the news.

The two old people in the kitchen were silent. The woman stirred the coffee with a spoon. The man fidgeted with his shotgun, and Wallander discreetly moved out of the line of fire.

“So, Maria is gone,” the man said slowly.

“The doctors did everything they could.”

“Maybe it was just as well,” said the woman at the stove, unexpectedly forceful. “What did she have left to live for after he was dead?”

The man put the shotgun down on the kitchen table and stood up. Wallander noticed that he favored one knee.

“I’ll go out and give the horse some hay,” he said, putting on an old cap.

“Do you mind if I come with you?” asked Wallander.

“Why would I mind?” said the man, opening the door.

From her stall the mare whinnied as they entered the stable, which smelled like warm manure. With a practiced hand Nyström flung an armload of hay into the stall.