Henning Mankell - Faceless Killers

“I don’t read the papers,” said Widen. “I read racing forms and starting lists. That’s all. I don’t give a damn about what’s happening in the world.”

“An old couple was killed,” Wallander continued. “And they had a horse.”

“Was it killed too?”

“No. But I think the killers gave it some hay before they left. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. How fast does a horse eat an armload of hay?”

Widen emptied the bottle and lit another cigarette.

“Are you kidding?” he asked. “You came all the way out here to ask me how long it takes a horse to eat a load of hay?”

“Actually, I was thinking about asking you to come with me and take a look at the horse,” said Wallander, making a quick decision. He could feel himself starting to get mad.

“I don’t have time,” said Widen. “The blacksmith is coming today. I’ve got sixteen horses that need vitamin shots.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

Widen gave him a glazed look. “Is there money involved?”

“You’ll be paid.”

Widen wrote his telephone number on a dirty scrap of paper.

“Maybe,” he said. “Call me early in the morning.”

When they stepped outside, Wallander noticed that the wind had picked up.

The girl came riding up on her horse.

“Nice horse,” he said.

“Masquerade Queen,” said Widen. “She’ll never win a race in her life. The rich widow of a contractor in Trelleborg owns her. I was actually honest enough to suggest that she sell the horse to a riding school. But she thinks the horse can win. And I get my training fee. But there’s no way in hell this horse will ever win a race.”

They said goodbye at the car.

“You know how my dad died?” asked Widen suddenly.

“No.”

“He wandered off to the castle ruin one autumn night. He used to sit up there and drink. Then he stumbled into the moat and drowned. The algae are so thick there that you can’t see a thing. But his cap floated to the surface. ‘Live Life,’ it said on the cap. It was an ad for a travel bureau that sells sex trips to Bangkok.”

“It was nice to see you,” said Wallander. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Whatever,” said Widen and went off toward the stable.

Wallander drove away. In the rearview mirror he could see Sten Widen talking with the girl on the horse.

Why did I come here? he thought again.

Once a long time ago we were friends. We shared an impossible dream. When the dream burst like a phantom there was nothing left. It may be true that we both loved opera. But maybe that was just our imagination too.

He drove fast, as if he were letting his agitation control the pressure he put on the gas pedal.

Just as he braked for the stop sign at the main road, his car phone rang. The connection was so bad that he could hardly make out that it was Hanson on the line.

“You’d better come in,” yelled Hanson. “Can you hear what I’m saying?”

“What happened?” Wallander yelled back.

“There’s a farmer from Hagestad sitting here who says he knows who killed them,” Hanson shouted.

Wallander could feel his heart beating faster.

“Who?” he shouted. “Who?”

The connection was abruptly cut off. The receiver hissed and squealed.

“Damn,” he said out loud.

He drove back to Ystad. And much too fast, he thought. If Norén and Peters had been on traffic duty today, I would have kept to the speed limit.

On the way down the hill into the center of town, the engine suddenly started coughing.

He had run out of gas.

The dashboard light that was supposed to warn him was evidently on the blink.

He managed to make it to the gas station across from the hospital before the engine died completely. Getting out to put some money in the pump, he discovered that he didn’t have any cash on him. He went next door to the locksmith shop in the same building and borrowed twenty kronor from the owner, who recognized him from an investigation of a break-in a few years back.

He pulled into his parking spot and hurried into the police station. Ebba tried to tell him something, but he dismissed her with a wave.

The door to Hanson’s office was ajar, and Wallander went in without knocking.

It was empty.

In the hall he ran into Martinson, who was holding a stack of printouts.

“Just the man I’m looking for,” said Martinson. “I dug up some stuff that might be interesting. I’ll be damned if some Finns might not be behind this.”

“When we don’t have a lead, we usually say it’s Finns,” said Wallander. “I don’t have time right now. You know where Hanson is?”

“He never leaves his office, you know that.”

“Then we’ll have to put out an APB on him. Anyway, he’s not there now.”

He poked his head in the lunchroom, but there was only an office clerk in there making an omelet.

Where the hell is that Hanson? he thought, flinging open the door to his own office.

Nobody there either. He called Ebba at the switchboard.

“Where’s Hanson?” he asked.

“If you hadn’t been in such a rush, I could have told you when you came in,” said Ebba. “He told me he had to go down to the Union Bank.”

“What was he going there for? Was anyone with him?”

“Yes. But I don’t know who it was.”

Wallander slammed down the phone.

What was Hanson up to?

He picked up the phone again.

“Can you page Hanson for me?” he asked Ebba.

“At the Union Bank?”

“If that’s where he is.”

He very seldom asked Ebba for help in tracking people down. He could never get used to the idea of having a secretary. If he needed something done, he was the one who had to do it. In the past he had thought it was a bad habit he carried with him from his upbringing. It was only rich, arrogant people who sent others out to do their footwork. Not being able to look up a number in the phone book and pick up the receiver was indefensible laziness.

The telephone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was Hanson calling from the Union Bank.

“I thought I’d get back before you did,” said Hanson. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.”

“You can say that again.”

“We were taking a look at Lövgren’s bank account.”

“Who’s we?”

“His name is Herdin. But you’d better talk to him yourself. We’ll be back in half an hour.”

It was almost an hour and a quarter later before Wallander got to meet the man called Herdin. He was almost six foot six, thin and wiry, and when Wallander was introduced it was like shaking hands with a giant.

“It took a while,” said Hanson. “But we got results. You’ve got to hear what Herdin has to say. And what we discovered at the bank.”

Herdin was sitting erect and silent in a captain’s chair.

Wallander had a feeling that the man had dressed up in his Sunday best before coming to the police station. Even if it was only a worn suit and a shirt with a frayed collar.

“It’s probably best if we start at the beginning,” said Wallander, grabbing a notebook.

Herdin gave Hanson a bewildered look.

“Should I start all over?” he asked.

“That would probably be best,” said Hanson.

“It’s a long story,” Herdin began hesitantly.

“What’s your name?” asked Wallander. “Let’s start with that.”

“Lars Herdin. I have a farm of forty acres near Hagestad. I’m trying to make ends meet by raising livestock. But things are a little slim.”

“I’ve got all his personal data,” Hanson interjected, and Wallander guessed that Hanson was in a hurry to get back to his racing forms.

“If I understand the matter correctly, you came here because you think you may have information relating to the murder of Mr. and Mrs. Lövgren,” said Wallander, wishing he had expressed himself more simply.