Henning Mankell - Faceless Killers

Modin stared at him.

“Why are you looking for them?” he asked.

“They may have committed a crime. A serious crime.”

“The murders in Lenarp? Is that what you mean?”

Wallander suddenly saw no reason not to answer. “Yes. I think they’re the ones.”

He reached Celsius Estate in central Malmö at a few minutes past seven PM. He parked on a side street and went up to the main entrance, which was protected by a security guard. After several minutes a man came to get him. His name was Larson, a former seaman, and he was emanating the unmistakable odor of beer.

“Haas and Kraftczyk,” said Wallander after they sat down in Larson’s office. “Two Czech asylum seekers.”

The man who smelled like beer answered at once.

“The chess players,” he said. “Yes, they live here.”

Goddamn, thought Wallander. We’ve finally got them.

“Are they here in the building?”

“Yes,” said Larson. “I mean, no.”

“No?”

“They live here. But they’re not here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they’re not here.”

“Where the hell are they then?”

“I don’t really know.”

“But they do live here?”

“They ran away.”

“Ran away?”

“It happens all the time — people run away from here.”

“But aren’t they seeking asylum?”

“They still run away.”

“What do you do then?”

“We report them, of course.”

“And then what happens?”

“Usually nothing.”

“Nothing? People run away who are waiting to hear whether they can stay in this country or whether they’re going to be deported? And nobody cares?”

“I guess the police are supposed to look for them.”

“This is completely idiotic. When did they disappear?”

“They left in May. They both probably suspected that their applications for asylum would be turned down.”

“Where do you think they went?”

Larson threw his hands wide. “If you only knew how many people live in this country without residency permits. More than you can imagine. They live together, falsify their papers, trade names with each other, work illegally. You can live all your life in Sweden without anyone asking about you. No one wants to believe it. But that’s the way it is.”

Wallander was speechless.

“This is crazy,” he said. “This is fucking crazy.”

“I agree. But that’s the way things are.”

Wallander groaned.

“I need all the documents you have on these two men.”

“I can’t give those out to just anybody.”

Wallander exploded. “These two men have committed murder,” he shouted. “A double murder.”

“I still can’t release the papers.”

Wallander stood up.

“Tomorrow you’re going to hand over those papers. Even if I have to get the chief of the National Police to come and get them himself.”

“That’s just the way things are. I can’t change the regulations.”

Wallander drove back to Ystad. At quarter to nine he rang Björk’s doorbell. Quickly he told him what had happened.

“Tomorrow we put out an APB on them,” he said.

Björk nodded. “I’ll call a press conference for two o’clock. In the morning I have a consultation with the police chiefs. But I’ll see to it that we get the papers from that camp.”

Wallander went over to see Rydberg. He was sitting in the dark on his balcony.

All of a sudden he saw that Rydberg was in pain.

Rydberg, who seemed to read his thoughts, said bluntly, “I don’t think I’m going to make it through this. I might live past Christmas; I might not.”

Wallander didn’t know what to say.

“One has to endure,” said Rydberg. “But tell me why you’re here.”

Wallander told him. He could dimly make out Rydberg’s face in the darkness.

Then they sat in silence.

The night was cool. But Rydberg didn’t seem to notice as he sat there in his old bathrobe with slippers on his feet.

“Maybe they’ve skipped the country,” said Wallander. “Maybe we’ll never catch them.”

“In that case, we’ll have to live with the fact that at least we know the truth,” said Rydberg. “Justice doesn’t only mean that the people who commit crimes are punished. It also means that we can never give up.”

With great effort he stood up and got a bottle of cognac. With shaking hands he filled two glasses.

“Some old police officers die worrying about ancient, unsolved puzzles,” he said. “I guess I’m one of them.”

“Have you ever regretted becoming a cop?” asked Wallander.

“Never. Not a single day.”

They drank cognac. Talked some, or sat in silence. Not until midnight did Wallander get up to leave. He promised to come back the following evening. After he left, Rydberg stayed where he was, sitting on the balcony in the dark.

On Wednesday morning, July twenty-fifth, Wallander told Hanson and Martinson what had happened after the meeting the day before. Since the press conference was set for that afternoon, they decided to pay a visit to the Kivik market after all. Hanson took on the task of writing the press release along with Björk. Wallander figured that he and Martinson would be back no later than noon.

They drove by way of Tomelilla and joined a long line of cars just south of Kivik. They pulled in and parked in a field where a greedy landowner demanded a fee of twenty kronor.

Just as they reached the market area, which stretched before them with a view of the sea, it started to rain. In dismay they stared at the throngs of stalls and people. Loudspeakers were screeching, drunken youths were bellowing, and they were shoved back and forth by the crowd.

“Let’s try to meet somewhere in the middle,” said Wallander.

“We should have brought walkie-talkies in case something happens,” said Martinson.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” said Wallander. “Let’s meet in an hour.”

He watched Martinson shamble off and vanish into the crowd. He turned up the collar of his jacket and headed off in the opposite direction.

After a little more than an hour they met up again. Both of them were soaked and feeling annoyed with the throngs of people and the jostling.

“To hell with this,” said Martinson. “Let’s go someplace and get some coffee.”

Wallander pointed at a cabaret tent in front of them.

“Have you been in there?” he asked.

Martinson grimaced. “Some tub of lard doing a striptease. The audience roared like it was some kind of sexual revival meeting. Jesus.”

“Let’s walk around the tent,” said Wallander. “I think there are a few stalls over there too. Then we can go.”

They trudged through the mud, pushing their way between a house trailer and rusty tent stakes.

A few stalls were selling various goods. They all looked the same, their awnings pitched above red-painted metal poles.

Wallander and Martinson saw the two men at exactly the same moment.

They were standing inside a stall, its counter covered with leather jackets. A sign showed the price, and Wallander had time to think that the jackets were unbelievably cheap.

The two men were behind the counter.

They stared at the two police officers.

Much too late Wallander realized that they recognized him. His face had appeared so often in pictures in the papers and on television. Kurt Wallander’s description had been spread all over the country.

Then everything happened very fast.

One of the men, the one they had started calling Lucia, stuck his hand under the leather jackets on the counter and pulled out a gun. Both Martinson and Wallander dove to the side. Martinson got tangled up in the ropes of the cabaret tent, while Wallander hit his head on the back end of the house trailer. The man behind the counter fired at Wallander. The shot could hardly be heard amid the commotion from the tent where the “death riders” were tearing around on their roaring motorcycles. The bullet struck the trailer, just a few inches from Wallander’s head. In the next instant he saw that Martinson was holding a pistol. Even though Wallander was unarmed, Martinson had brought along his service revolver.