Henning Mankell - Faceless Killers

“I bought it at a stall in the Sjöbo marketplace,” she replied. “Sometimes you can actually find something great in the midst of all the junk.”

Wallander smiled and moved on. On the way to his office he dropped by to see Hanson and Martinson and asked them to come along with him.

There was still no trace of Baldy or Lucia.

“Two more days,” said Wallander. “If we don’t come up with something by Thursday, we’ll call a press conference and release the pictures.”

“We should have done that right from the start,” said Hanson.

Wallander said nothing.

They went over the chart again. Martinson would continue to organize a search of various campgrounds where the two men might be hiding out.

“Check the youth hostels,” said Wallander. “And all the rooms that are for rent in private homes in the summer.”

“It was easier before,” said Martinson. “People used to stay put in the summer. Now they run all over the place.”

Hanson would continue to look into a number of smaller, less particular construction companies that were known to hire undocumented workers from various Eastern European countries.

Wallander would go out to the strawberry fields. He couldn’t overlook the possibility that the two men might be hiding out at one of the big berry farms.

But all their efforts turned up nothing.

When they met again late that afternoon, the reports were negative.

“I found an Algerian pipelayer,” said Hanson, “two Kurdish bricklayers, and a huge number of Polish manual laborers. I feel like writing a note to Björk. If we hadn’t had this damn double homicide, we could have cleaned up that crap. They’re making the same wages as kids with summer jobs. They don’t have any insurance. If there’s an accident, the contractors will say that the workers were living illegally at the sites.”

Martinson didn’t have any good news either.

“I found a bald Bulgarian,” he said. “With a little luck he could have been Baldy. But he’s a doctor at the clinic in Mariestad and would have no trouble producing an alibi.”

The room was stuffy. Wallander got up and opened the window.

All of a sudden he thought of Ebba’s music box. Even though he hadn’t heard its melody, the music box had been playing in his subconscious all day.

“The marketplaces,” he said, turning around. “We should take a look at them. Which market is open next?”

Both Hanson and Martinson knew the answer.

The one in Kivik.

“It opens today,” said Hanson. “And closes tomorrow.”

“I’ll go out there tomorrow,” said Wallander.

“It’s a big one,” said Hanson. “You should take somebody with you.”

“I can go,” said Martinson.

Hanson looked happy to get out of the trip. Wallander thought that there were probably harness races on Wednesday nights.

They concluded their meeting, said goodbye to each other, and Hanson and Martinson left. Wallander stayed at his desk and sorted through a stack of phone messages. He arranged them by priority for the following day and got ready to leave. Suddenly he caught sight of a note that had fallen under his desk. He bent down to pick it up and saw that the message was about a call from the director of a refugee camp.

He tried the number. He let it ring ten times and was just about to hang up when someone answered.

“This is Wallander at the Ystad police. I’m looking for someone named Modin.”

“Speaking.”

“I’m returning your call.”

“I think I have something important to tell you.”

Kurt Wallander held his breath.

“It’s about the two men you’re looking for. I came back from vacation today. The photographs the police sent were on my desk. I recognize those two men. They lived at this camp for a while.”

“I’m on my way,” said Wallander. “Don’t leave your office before I get there.”

The refugee camp was located outside of Skurup. The drive took him nineteen minutes. The camp was housed in an empty parsonage and was used only as a temporary shelter when all the permanent camps were full.

Modin, the director, was a short man close to sixty. He was waiting in the courtyard when Wallander’s car skidded to a stop.

“The camp is empty right now,” said Modin. “But we’re expecting a number of Romanians next week.”

They went into his small office.

“Start at the beginning,” Wallander said.

“They lived here between December of last year and the middle of February,” said Modin, leafing through some papers. “Then they were transferred to Malmö. To Celsius Estate, to be exact.”

Modin pointed to the photo of Baldy. “His name is Lothar Kraftczyk. He’s a Czech citizen seeking political asylum because he claims that he was persecuted for being a member of an ethnic minority in his own country.”

“Are there minorities in Czechoslovakia?” wondered Wallander.

“I think he regarded himself as a gypsy.”

“Regarded himself?”

Modin shrugged. “I don’t believe he is. Refugees who know they have insufficient reason for staying in Sweden learn quickly that one excellent way to improve their chances is to claim that they’re gypsies.”

Modin picked up the photo of Lucia. “Andreas Haas. Also a Czech. I don’t really know what his reason was for seeking asylum. The paperwork went with them to Celsius Estate.”

“And you’re positive that they’re the men in the photographs”

“Yes. I’m sure of it.”

“Go on,” said Wallander. “Tell me more.”

“About what?”

“What were they like? Did anything special happen while they were living here? Did they have plenty of money? Anything you can recall.”

“I’ve been trying to remember,” said Modin. “They mostly kept to themselves. You should know that life in a refugee camp is probably the most stressful thing anyone can be subjected to. They played chess. Day in and day out.”

“Did they have any money?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“What were they like?”

“Very reserved. But not unfriendly.”

“Anything else?”

Wallander noticed that Modin hesitated.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“This is a small camp,” said Modin. “I don’t stay here at night, and neither does anyone else. On certain days it was also unstaffed. Except for a cook who prepared the meals. We usually keep a car here. The keys are locked in my office. But sometimes when I arrived in the morning, I had the feeling that someone had been using the car. Somebody had been in my office, taken the keys, and driven off in the car.”

“And you suspected these two men?”

Modin nodded. “I don’t know why. It was just a feeling I had.”

Wallander pondered this.

“So at night no one was here,” he said. “Or on certain days either. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Friday, January fifth,” said Wallander. “That’s over six months ago. Can you remember whether there were any staff here that day?”

Modin paged through his desk calendar.

“I was at an emergency meeting in Malmö,” he said. “There was such a backlog of refugees that we had to find more temporary camps.”

The stones were starting to burn under Kurt Wallander’s feet.

The chart had come alive. Now it was speaking to him.

“So nobody was here that day?”

“Only the cook. But the kitchen is in the back. She might not have noticed if anyone had used the car.”

“None of the refugees said anything?”

“Refugees don’t get involved. They’re scared. Even of each other.”

Wallander stood up.

He was suddenly in a big hurry.

“Call up your colleague at Celsius Estate and tell him I’m on my way,” he said. “But don’t mention anything about these two men. Just make sure that the director is available.”