Henning Mankell: Faceless Killers

“You kept at it,” said Rydberg. “You never gave up. You wanted to catch whoever committed those murders in Lenarp. That’s the important thing.”

The conversation gradually petered out.

I’m sitting here with a dying man, thought Kurt Wallander in confusion. I don’t think I ever realized that Rydberg is actually going to die.

He remembered the time in his youth when he was stabbed.

He also thought about the fact that a little less than six months ago he had driven his car while intoxicated. In reality he should have been dismissed from the police force.

Why don’t I tell Rydberg about that? he wondered. Why don’t I say anything? Or does he already know?

The incantation flashed through his mind.

A time to live, a time to die.

“How are you doing?” he asked cautiously.

Rydberg’s face was invisible in the darkness.

“Right now I don’t have any pain,” he said. “But tomorrow it’ll be back. Or the next day.”

It was almost two in the morning when Wallander left Rydberg, who stubbornly remained sitting on his balcony.

Wallander left his car where it was and walked home.

The moon had disappeared behind a cloud.

Now and then he took a little hop.

The voice of Maria Callas resounded in his head.

Before he went to sleep, he lay in bed for a while in the dark of his apartment with his eyes open.

Again he thought about the senseless violence. The new times, which might demand a different kind of cop.

We’re living in the time of the noose, he thought. Fear will be on the rise.

Then he forced himself to push these thoughts aside and started looking for the black woman in his dreams.

The investigation was over.

Now he could finally get some rest.