Henning Mankell - Faceless Killers

“Who would be that desperate?”

“You know as well as I do that there are plenty of drugs that create such a dependency that people are ready to do anything at all.”

Wallander knew that. He had seen the accelerating violence at first hand, and narcotics trafficking and drug dependency almost always lurked in the background. Even though Ystad’s police district was seldom hit by visible manifestations of this increasing violence, he harbored no illusions that it was not steadily creeping closer and closer.

There were no protected zones anymore. A little insignificant town like Lenarp was confirmation of that fact.

He sat up straight in the uncomfortable chair.

“What are we going to do?” he said.

“You’re the boss,” replied Rydberg.

“I want to hear what you think.”

Rydberg got up and went over to the window. With one finger he felt the dirt in a flowerpot. It was dry.

“If you want to know what I think, I’ll tell you. But you should know that I’m by no means positive that I’m on the right track. I think that no matter what we decide to do, there’s going to be a big fuss. But maybe it would be a good idea to keep at it for a few days anyway. There are plenty of things to investigate.”

“Like what?”

“Did the Lövgrens have any foreign acquaintances?”

“I asked about that this morning. They may have known some Danes.”

“There, you see.”

“It couldn’t be Danes camped out in tents, could it?”

“Why not? No matter what, we’ll have to check it out. And there are more people than just the neighbors to question. If I understood you correctly yesterday, you said that the Lövgrens had a big family.”

Wallander realized that Rydberg was right. There were investigative reasons to keep quiet about the fact that the police were searching for a person or persons with foreign connections.

“What do we actually know about foreigners who have committed crimes in Sweden?” he asked. “Do the National Police have special files on that?”

“There are files on everything,” Rydberg replied. “Put someone in front of a computer and hook into the central criminal database, and then maybe we’ll find something.”

Wallander stood up.

Rydberg gave him a quizzical look. “Aren’t you going to ask about the noose?”

“I forgot.”

“There’s supposed to be an old sailmaker in Limhamn who knows all about knots. I read about him in a newspaper sometime last year. I thought I’d spend some time trying to track him down. Not because I’m sure anything will come of it. But just in case.”

“I want you to come to the meeting first,” said Wallander. “Then you can drive over to Limhamn.”

At ten o’clock they were all gathered in Wallander’s office.

The run-through was very brief. Wallander told them what the woman had said before she died. For the time being, this piece of information was not to be disclosed. No one seemed to have any objections.

Martinson was put on the computer to search for foreign criminals. The officers who were going to continue with the questioning in Lenarp went on their way. Wallander assigned Svedberg to concentrate on the Polish family, who were presumably in the country illegally. He wanted to know why they were living in Lenarp. At quarter to eleven Rydberg left for Limhamn to look up the sailmaker.

When Wallander was alone in his office, he stood for a while looking at the map hanging on the wall. Where had the killers come from? Which way did they go afterwards?

Then he sat down at his desk and asked Ebba to start putting through calls. For over an hour he spoke with various reporters. But there was no word from the girl from the local radio station.

At quarter past twelve Norén knocked on the door.

“I thought you were going to Lenarp,” Wallander said, surprised.

“I was,” said Norén. “But I just thought of something.”

Norén sat on the edge of a chair, since he was wet. It had started to rain. The temperature had now risen to +1 °Celsius.

“This might not mean anything,” said Norén. “It was just something that crossed my mind.”

“Most things mean something,” said Wallander.

“You remember that horse?” asked Norén.

“Sure, I remember the horse.”

“You told me to give it some hay.”

“And water.”

“Hay and water. But I never did.”

Wallander wrinkled his brow. “Why not?”

“It wasn’t necessary. The horse already had hay. Water too.”

Wallander sat in silence for a moment, looking at Norén.

“Go on,” he said. “You’re getting at something.”

Norén shrugged his shoulders.

“We had a horse when I was growing up,” he said. “When the horse was in its stall and was given hay, it would eat all of it. I just mean that someone must have given the horse some hay. Maybe just an hour or so before we got there.”

Wallander reached for the phone.

“If you’re thinking of calling Nyström, don’t bother,” said Norén.

Wallander let his hand drop.

“I talked to him before I came here. And he hadn’t given the horse any hay.”

“Dead men don’t feed their horses,” said Wallander. “Who did?”

Norén stood up. “It seems weird,” he said. “First they kill a man. Then they put a noose on somebody else. And then they go out to the stable and give the horse some hay. Who the hell would do anything that weird?”

“You’re right,” said Wallander. “Who would do that?”

“It might not mean anything,” said Norén.

“Or maybe it does,” replied Wallander. “It was good of you to tell me.”

Norén said goodbye and left.

Wallander sat and thought about what he had just heard.

The hunch he had been carrying around with him had proved to be right. There was something about that horse.

His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone.

Another reporter who wanted to talk with him.

At quarter to one he left the police station. He had to visit an old friend he hadn’t seen in many, many years.

Kurt Wallander turned off the E14 where a sign pointed toward the ruins of Stjärnsund Castle. He got out of the car and unzipped to take a leak. Through the noise of the wind he could hear the sound of accelerating jet engines at Sturup airport. Before he got back in the car, he scraped off the mud that had stuck to his shoes. The change in the weather had been abrupt. The thermometer in his car that showed the outside temperature indicated -5 °Celsius. Ragged clouds were racing across the sky as he continued down the road.

Right outside the castle ruin the gravel road forked, and he kept to the left. He had never driven this route before, but he was positive it was the right way. Despite the fact that almost ten years had passed since the road had been described to him, he remembered the route in detail. He had a mind that seemed programmed for landscapes and roads.

After about a kilometer the road deteriorated. He crept forward, wondering how large vehicles ever managed to negotiate it.

The road suddenly sloped sharply downward, and a large farm with long wings of stables lay spread out before him. He drove into the large farmyard and stopped. A flock of crows was cawing overhead as he climbed out of the car.

The farm seemed strangely deserted. A stable door stood flapping in the wind. For a brief moment he wondered whether he had taken the wrong road after all.

What desolation, he thought.

The Scanian winter with its screeching flocks of black birds.

The clay that sticks to the soles of your shoes.

A teenage blonde girl suddenly emerged from one of the stable doors. For a moment he thought she looked like Linda. She had the same hair, the same thin body, the same ungainly movements as she walked. He watched her intently.