Henning Mankell: Faceless Killers

“The horse,” he said. “Who will give it hay?”

“We will,” replied the old man. “We’ll see that she gets what she needs.”

Wallander went outside into the cold dawn. The wind had increased, and he hunched his shoulders as he walked toward his car. Actually he ought to stay here and give the crime-scene technicians a hand. But he was freezing and feeling lousy and didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary. Besides, he saw through the window that it was Rydberg who had come with the team’s car. That meant that the techs wouldn’t finish their work until they had turned over and inspected every lump of clay at the crime scene. Rydberg, who was supposed to retire in a couple of years, was a passionate policeman. Although he might appear pedantic and slow, his presence was a guarantee that a crime scene would be treated the way it should be.

Rydberg had rheumatism and used a cane. Now he came limping across the yard toward Wallander.

“It’s not pretty,” Rydberg said. “It looks like a slaughterhouse in there.”

“You’re not the first one to say that,” said Wallander.

Rydberg looked serious. “Have we got any leads?”

Wallander shook his head.

“Nothing at all?” There was something of an entreaty in Rydberg’s voice.

“The neighbors didn’t hear or see anything. I think it’s ordinary robbers.”

“You call this insane brutality ordinary?”

Rydberg was upset, and Wallander regretted his choice of words. “I meant, of course, that it was some particularly fiendish individuals who were at it last night. The type who make their living picking out farms in solitary locations where lonely old people live.”

“We’ve got to catch these guys,” said Rydberg. “Before they strike again.”

“You’re right,” said Wallander. “If we don’t catch anyone else this year, we’ve got to catch these guys.”

He got into his car and drove off. On the narrow farm road he almost collided with a car coming around a curve toward him at high speed. He recognized the man driving. It was a reporter who worked for one of the big national papers and always showed up whenever something of more than local interest happened in the Ystad area.

Wallander drove back and forth through Lenarp a few times. There were lights in the windows, but no one was outside.

What are they going to think when they find out? he wondered to himself.

He was feeling uneasy. The discovery of the old woman with the noose around her neck had shaken him. The cruelty of it was incomprehensible. Who would do something like that? Why not hit her over the head with an axe so it would all be over in an instant? Why torture her?

He tried to plan the investigation in his head as he drove slowly through the little town. At the crossroads toward Blentarp he stopped, turned up the heat in the car because he was cold, and then sat completely still, gazing off toward the horizon.

He was the one who would have to lead the investigation, he knew that. No one else was even likely. After Rydberg, he was the criminal detective in Ystad who had the most experience, despite the fact that he was only forty-two years old.

Much of the investigative work would be routine. Crime scene examination, questioning people who lived in Lenarp and along the escape routes the robbers may have taken. Had anyone seen anything suspicious? Anything unusual? The questions were already echoing through his mind.

But Kurt Wallander knew from experience that farm robberies were often difficult to solve.

What he could hope for was that the old woman would survive.

She had seen what happened. She knew.

But if she died, the double murder would be hard to solve.

He felt uneasy.

Under normal circumstances the uneasiness would have spurred him on to greater energy and activity. Since those were the prerequisites for all police work, he had imagined that he was a good cop. But right now he felt unsure of himself and tired.

He forced himself to shift into first gear. The car rolled a few meters. Then he stopped again.

It was as if he just now realized what he had witnessed on that frozen winter morning.

The meaninglessness and cruelty of the attack on the helpless old couple scared him.

Something had happened that shouldn’t have happened here at all.

He looked out the car window. The wind was rushing and whistling around the car doors.

I have to get started, he thought.

It’s just like Rydberg said.

We’ve got to catch whoever did this.

He drove straight to the hospital in Ystad and took the elevator up to the intensive-care unit. In the corridor he noticed at once the young police cadet Martinson sitting on a chair outside a room.

Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed.

Was there really no one else available to send to the hospital but a young, inexperienced police cadet? And why was he sitting outside the door? Why wasn’t he sitting at the bedside, ready to catch the slightest whisper from the brutalized woman?

“Hi,” said Wallander, “how’s it going?”

“She’s unconscious,” replied Martinson. “The doctors don’t seem too hopeful.”

“Why are you sitting out here? Why aren’t you in the room?”

“They said they’d tell me if anything happened.”

Wallander noticed that Martinson was starting to feel unsure of himself.

I sound like some grumpy old schoolteacher, he thought.

He carefully pushed open the door and looked in. Various machines were sucking and pumping in death’s waiting room. Hoses undulated like transparent worms along the walls. A nurse was standing there reading a chart when he opened the door.

“You can’t come in here,” she said sharply.

“I’m a police inspector,” replied Wallander feebly. “I just wanted to hear how she’s doing.”

“You’ve been asked to wait outside,” said the nurse.

Before Wallander could answer, a doctor came rushing into the room. He thought the doctor looked surprisingly young.

“We would prefer not to have any unauthorized persons in here,” said the young doctor when he caught sight of Wallander.

“I’m leaving. But I just wanted to hear how she’s doing. My name is Wallander, and I’m a police inspector. Homicide,” he added, unsure whether that made any difference. “I’m heading the investigation of the person or persons who did this. How is she?”

“It’s amazing that she’s still alive,” said the doctor, nodding to Wallander to step over to the bed. “We can’t tell yet the extent of the internal injuries she may have suffered. First we have to see whether she survives. But her windpipe has been severely traumatized. As if someone had tried to strangle her.”

“That’s exactly what happened,” said Wallander, looking at the thin face visible among the sheets and hoses.

“She should have been dead,” said the doctor.

“I hope she survives,” said Wallander. “She’s the only witness we’ve got.”

“We hope all our patients survive,” replied the doctor sternly, studying a monitor where green lines moved in uninterrupted waves.

Wallander left the room after the doctor insisted that he couldn’t tell him anything. The prognosis was uncertain. Maria Lövgren might die without regaining consciousness. There was no way to know.

“Can you read lips?” Wallander asked the police cadet.

“No,” Martinson replied in surprise.

“That’s too bad,” said Wallander and left.

From the hospital he drove straight to the brown police station that lay on the road out toward the east end of town.

He sat down at his desk and looked out the window, over at the old red water tower.

Maybe the times require another type of cop, he thought. Cops who don’t react when they’re forced to go into a human slaughterhouse on an early January morning in the countryside of southern Sweden. Cops who don’t suffer from my uncertainty and anguish.