Firewall (28 page)

"Can you give us a cause of death? A time?"

"Of course not. You saw what kind of shape he was in. The boy was completely mangled. One of the rescue workers was as sick as a cat. And I don't blame him."

"Is Nyberg still there?"

"I think so."

Dr Bexell left. Captain Sund still had not returned. Martinsson's mobile started to vibrate. It was Holgersson calling from Copenhagen. Martinsson stretched the phone out to Wallander, but he shook his head.

"You talk to her."

"What should I tell her?"

"Tell her the facts. What else?"

Wallander got up and started pacing up and down the empty cafeteria. Landahl's death had closed an avenue that had seemed promising. But what kept working its way to the forefront of his mind was the idea that his death might have been avoided, if it was that Landahl had fled not because he was the killer but because he was frightened of someone else, who was.

Wallander chastised himself. He hadn't been thinking clearly enough. He had simply jumped to the easiest conclusion without keeping other theories in mind. And now Landahl was dead.

Martinsson finished his conversation and put his phone away. Wallander returned.

"I don't think she was 100 per cent sober, to tell you the truth," he said.

"She's at a police conference," Wallander said. "But at least now she knows what our evening has been like."

Captain Sund returned.

"There is one bag that was left behind in one of the cabins," he said.

Wallander and Martinsson got up as one from their chairs. They followed the captain through a myriad of corridors until they came to a cabin with a woman wearing the company uniform posted outside. She was Polish and spoke poor Swedish.

"According to our records this cabin was booked by a passenger called Jonasson."

Wallander and Martinsson exchanged glances.

"Is there anyone who can give us a description of him?"

It turned out that the captain spoke excellent Polish. He translated the question for the woman who listened and then shook her head.

"Did he share the cabin with anyone?"

"No."

Wallander went in. The cabin was narrow and window-less. Wallander shuddered at the thought of having to spend a stormy night in such quarters. On the bed that was attached to the wall there was a small suitcase with wheels. Martinsson handed him a pair of rubber gloves which he put on. He opened the case. It was empty. They searched the room for about ten minutes but without results.

"Nyberg will have to take a look in here," Wallander said when they had given up. "And the taxi driver who took Landahl to the ferry might be able to identify the bag."

Wallander went back out into the corridor. Martinsson made arrangements for the cabin to be kept out of bounds until further notice. Wallander looked at the doors to the cabins on either side. There were used sheets and towels outside each one. The numbers on the doors were 309 and
311.

"Try to find out who was in the cabins on either side," Wallander said. "They may have heard something or even seen someone come or go."

Martinsson wrote it down in his notebook, then started speaking in English to the Polish woman. Wallander had often been envious of Martinsson's proficiency in that language. Wallander spoke it badly. Linda had often teased him about his poor pronunciation, especially when they travelled together. Captain Sund escorted Wallander back to the upper deck.

It was almost midnight.

"Would it be in order for me to offer refreshments of a stronger nature after this ordeal?" Sund said.

"Unfortunately not," Wallander said.

A call came through on Sund's radio. He excused himself. Wallander was glad to be left alone. His conscience kept gnawing at him. Would Landahl have had a chance if Wallander had made different assumptions from the beginning? He knew that he would just have to live with his conscience on this score.

Martinsson joined him after 20 minutes.

"There was a Norwegian called Larsen in room 309. He's probably on the road to Norway as we speak, but I have his home number. In 311, there was a couple who live in Ystad, a Mr and Mrs Tomander."

"Talk to them first thing in the morning," Wallander said. "That may give us something."

"I saw Nyberg on the way up, by the way. He was covered in oil up to his waist. But he promised to take a look at the cabin once he had put on clean clothes."

"I don't know that we can do much else tonight," Wallander said.

They walked together through the deserted ferry terminal where a few young men were sleeping curled up on benches. The ticket office was closed. They stopped when they reached Wallander's car.

"We have to go through everything again tomorrow morning," Wallander said. "At 8 a.m."

Martinsson studied his face. "You seem nervous."

"That's because I am. I'm always nervous when I don't understand what's going on."

"How is the internal investigation going?"

"I haven't heard anything. No journalists have tried to call either, but that may be because I keep my phone unplugged most of the time."

"It's too bad when these things happen," Martinsson said.

Wallander sensed a double meaning in his words. He was on his guard immediately, and angry.

"What does that mean exactly?"

"Isn't it what we're always afraid of? That we're going to lose control and start lashing out at people?"

"I slapped her. End of story. I did it to protect her mother."

"I know," Martinsson said. "But still."

He doesn't believe me, Wallander thought after he sat down behind the wheel. Maybe no-one does. The insight came as a shock. He had never before felt truly betrayed or at least abandoned by his closest colleagues. He sat there without turning on the engine. The feeling even overshadowed the image of the young man crushed in the propeller shaft.

For the second time in a week he felt hurt and bitter. I'm leaving, he thought. I'll hand in my resignation first thing in the morning and then they can shove this whole investigation up their backsides.

He was still upset when he got home. In his mind he continued a heated discussion with Martinsson. It was a long time before he fell asleep.

They met at 8 a.m. the next day. Viktorsson joined them, and Nyberg, who had oil under his fingernails still. Wallander was in a better mood this morning. He was not going to resign, nor would he confront Martinsson. First he would wait for the results of the internal investigation. Then he would wait for the right moment to tell his colleagues what he thought of them and their lack of faith in him.

They talked at length about the discovery of last night. Martinsson had already spoken to Mr and Mrs Tomander, but neither of them had seen or heard anything from the next-door cabin. The Norwegian, Larsen, had not yet reached home, but his wife assured Martinsson he would be back by mid-morning.

Wallander set out his two theories regarding Landahl and no-one had any quarrel with them. The discussion proceeded calmly and methodically, but Wallander sensed that beneath the surface everyone was impatient to get on with their own jobs.

When they finished, Wallander had decided to concentrate his energies on Falk. He was more than ever convinced that everything started with him. Lundberg's murder had to be put on one side for now and its exact connection with the rest of the events remained to be determined. The questions Wallander kept returning to were very simple. What dark forces had been set in motion when Falk had died during his late-night walk? Had he died from natural causes? Wallander spent the next few hours calling the coroner's office in Lund and talking again to the pathologist who had performed the autopsy on Falk. He called Enander again, Falk's doctor who had visited Wallander at the police station. As before, there was no consensus. But by lunchtime, when Wallander was suffering acute pangs of hunger, he was convinced that Falk had died a natural death. No crime had been committed, but this sudden death in front of a cash machine had set a certain course of events in motion.

Wallander pulled over a sheet of paper and wrote the following words:
Falk. Minks. Angola.
He looked at what he had written, then added:
20.
The words formed an impenetrable matrix. What was it that he was unable to perceive?

To assuage his sense of irritation and impatience, he left the station and took a walk. He stopped at a pizzeria for his lunch. Then he returned to his office and stayed there until 5 p.m. He was on the verge of giving up. He couldn't see a motive or logic behind any of the events. He was about to get a cup of coffee when the phone rang. It was Martinsson.

"I'm at Runnerströms Torg," he said. "We've done it at last."

"What?"

"Modin got through. He's in. And there are some strange happenings on the screen."

Wallander threw down the receiver. At last, he thought. We have finally broken through.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Wallander did not think to look around as he got out of his car. If he had, he might have caught a glimpse of the shadow retreating into the darkness further up Runnerströms Torg. He would then have known that someone was watching the flat. The undercover cars posted on Apelbergsgatan and Runnerströms Torg had not been a deterrent.

He locked his car and hurried into the building, eager to see for himself the strange things that Martinsson said were happening on Falk's computer. Wallander was surprised to see that Martinsson had brought in the kind of folding chair that people used on camping trips. There were two new computers in the room. Modin and Martinsson were mumbling and pointing at the screen in front of them. Wallander could almost feel the intense concentration emanating from them. He greeted them without getting much of a reply.

The screen really did look different now. The chaotic swarms were gone, replaced by more orderly, fixed arrangements of numbers. Modin had removed his headphones. His hands wandered back and forth between the three keyboards like a virtuoso playing different instruments at the same time. Wallander waited. Martinsson had a pad in his hands and from time to time Modin dictated something. Modin was obviously running the show. Ten minutes had passed before it was as if they suddenly became aware of Wallander's presence. Modin stopped typing.

"What's happening?" Wallander said. "And why are there now three computers?"

"If you can't get over the mountain, you have to go around it," Modin said. His face was shiny with sweat, but he looked happy.

"It's best if Robert explains," Martinsson said.

"I never did manage to find out what the password was," Modin said. "But I brought in my own computers and connected them to Falk's. That way I could get in through the back door."

Wallander knew computers had windows, but he had never heard about there being doors.

"How does that work?"

"It's hard to describe without getting technical. Moreover, it's kind of a trade secret. I'd rather not get into it."

"OK, let it go. What have you found?"

Martinsson took over. "Falk was connected to the Internet, of course, and in a file with the bizarre name 'Jacob's Marsh' we found a long row of phone numbers, apparently in a particular order. At least that was what we thought. No more codes. There were two columns, one consisting of names, and then a long number. Now we're trying to work out what these are."

"In point of fact, there are both phone numbers and codes in there," Modin said. "And there are long number combinations that serve as code names for institutions in various parts of the world. There are codes for the USA, some in Asia, some in Europe, even one each in Brazil and Nigeria."

"What sort of institutions are we talking about?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Martinsson said. "But there's one that Robert recognised right away. That was why we called you."

"What was it?"

"The Pentagon," Modin said. Wallander couldn't make up his mind whether it was a note of triumph or of fear in Modin's voice.

"What does that tell you?"

"We don't know yet," Martinsson said. "But there is a hell of a lot of classified, some of it perhaps illegally obtained, information stored in this computer. It might mean that Falk had hacked his way into these institutions."

"I can't help feeling that someone who thinks the same way I think has been working on this computer," Modin said suddenly.

"Let me get this clear," Wallander said. "Falk was breaking into other people's computer networks, is that it?"

"That seems to be the case."

"And what could he have been using all this classified information for?" he asked.

"It's too early to say," Martinsson said. "First we have to identify more of these sources, then we may get a clearer picture. But it will take time. Every stage is complicated, because Falk arranged it very deliberately so that no-one from outside would be able to see what he was doing."

He got up from his folding chair. "I have to go home for a while," he said. "It's Terese's birthday. But I'll be back soon." He handed Wallander the pad.

"Give her my congratulations. How old is she?"

"Sixteen."

Wallander remembered her as a little girl. He had been to her fifth birthday party. She was two years older than Persson.

Martinsson paused at the door. "I forgot to tell you that I talked to Larsen," he said.

It took Wallander a few seconds to place the name.

"He had the cabin next door to Landahl," Martinsson said. "The walls were thin, so he heard him, but he never saw him. Larsen says he was tired and slept most of the way from Poland."

"What did he hear?"

"Voices, but nothing to suggest any trouble or a fight. He couldn't be sure how many people were there."

Wallander sat down gingerly on the folding chair. Modin kept working. Wallander realised the futility of his asking more questions. This new age of electronic development would soon demand a whole new breed of police officer. As always, for the time being, criminals were way ahead.

Modin hit "enter" and leaned back in his chair. The modem next to the monitor started blinking.

"What are you doing now?" Wallander said.

"I'm sending an e-mail to see where it ends up. But I'm sending it from my own computer."

"But weren't you using the keyboard for Falk's?"

"I've connected them."

Modin jumped up and leaned towards the monitor. Then he started typing again. Suddenly everything on the screen went blank. Then the numbers came back. Modin furrowed his brow.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know, but I was denied access. I have to cover my tracks. Give me a couple of minutes."

The typing continued. Wallander was getting impatient.

"One more time," Modin mumbled.

Then something happened that made Modin jump up again. He stared for a long time at the screen.

"The World Bank," he said at last.

"What do you mean, the World Bank?"

"That is one of the institutions Falk has access to. If I'm right, the code here is for a branch that deals with global finance inspections."

"The Pentagon and the World Bank," Wallander said. "We're not talking corner shops."

"It's time I had a little conference with my friends," Modin said. "I've asked them to be on alert."

"Where are these friends?" Wallander said.

"One lives in Rättvik, the other in California."

Wallander realised that it was high time he got in touch with computer experts at the National Crime Division. He played out bruising scenarios in store. He had no illusions about the risk he was running: he would be fiercely criticised for recruiting Modin, however skilled he had turned out to be.

While Modin was communicating with his friends, Wallander paced the room. He was thinking about the case, but his thoughts kept reverting to the feeling that his colleagues mistrusted him. Perhaps this extended beyond the incident with Persson; perhaps they thought he was over the hill? Did they think it was time for Martinsson to take charge?

He was hurt and racked with self-pity. But anger pounded in his veins. He wasn't going to give up without a fight. He had no exotic place in the wings where he could start a new life. He had no stud to sell. All he had to look forward to was a state pension, and a meagre one at that.

The typing behind him had stopped. Modin got up from his chair and stretched.

"I'm hungry," he said.

"What did your friends say?"

"We're taking an hour's break to think. Then we'll talk again."

Wallander, too, was hungry. He suggested they go out for a pizza. Modin seemed insulted by the suggestion.

"I never eat pizza," he said. "It's not healthy."

"What do you eat?"

"Bean sprouts."

"Nothing else?"

"Pickled egg is good."

Wallander wondered if there was any restaurant nearby, let alone in Ystad, that offered a menu that would appeal to Modin. Modin looked through the plastic bags of food that he had brought with him, but there seemed to be nothing there that caught his fancy.

"A plain salad will do," he said.

They left the building. Wallander asked Modin if he wanted them to drive, but he preferred to walk. They went to the only salad bar Wallander knew of in Ystad. Wallander ate heartily, but Modin scrutinised every leaf of lettuce and every vegetable before chewing it. Wallander had never seen a person who ate so slowly. He tried making conversation with Modin, but the latter answered only in monosyllables. After a while Wallander realised he was still obsessed with the figures and patterns in Falk's computer.

They were back at Runnerströms Torg before 8 p.m. Martinsson was not back. Modin sat at the computer to reconnect with his friends. Wallander imagined that they must look exactly like the young man beside him.

"No-one has traced me," Modin said after he had performed some operations far too complex for Wallander to follow on the computer.

"How can you tell?"

"I just see it."

Wallander shifted on the folding chair. It really is like being on a stalking expedition, he thought. We're out stalking electronic elk. We know they're there. But we don't know what direction they're going to come from.

Wallander's mobile rang. Modin flinched.

"I hate mobile telephones," he said with distaste.

Wallander went out to the landing. It was Höglund. Wallander told her where he was and what Modin had managed to extract from Falk's computer.

"The World Bank and the Pentagon," she said. "Two of the world's most powerful institutions."

"We don't know what it all means yet," Wallander said. "But why did you call?"

"I decided that I needed to talk to that man Ryss again. He was, after all, the one who led us to Landahl, and I'm becoming more than ever convinced that Persson knew very little about the friend she claims to have worshipped. In any case we know she's lying."

"What did he say? His name is Kalle, isn't it?"

"Kalle Ryss. I wanted to ask him why he and Hökberg broke up. He wasn't expecting that question and he plainly didn't want to answer it, but I wouldn't back off. But he said something interesting. He said he broke up with her because she was never interested."

"Interested in what?"

"In sex, of course."

"He told you this?"

"Yes, and once he started the whole story came pouring out. He fell in love with her the moment he first saw her, but soon after they started going out it was obvious that she had no interest in sex. Eventually he tired of her. But it's the reason for her lack of interest that's important."

"What was it?"

"Hökberg had told him that she had been raped a few years ago. She was still traumatised by the experience."

"Sonja Hökberg was raped?"

"According to him she was. I checked our files, but I didn't find any case that involved Hökberg."

"Did it happen in Ystad?"

"Apparently. So I started putting two and two together."

Wallander saw where she was heading. "Lundberg's son. Carl-Einar?"

"It's only a theory, but I think it holds water."

"What do you think happened?"

"This is what I was thinking: Carl-Einar Lundberg has been on trial for a nasty rape case. He was acquitted, but there were several pointers to his having been guilty. In which case nothing would prevent him from having committed an earlier rape. But Sonja Hökberg never went to the police."

"Why not?"

"There are many reasons why a woman doesn't go to the police in such a case. You should know that."

"So what's your conclusion?"

"It's bizarre, I admit, but I think it's possible to see Lundberg's murder as a revenge on his son."

"That gives us a motive. And it also tells us something about Hökberg that perhaps we did not know before."

"What is that?"

"That she was stubborn. And you said her stepfather described her as a strong person."

"I'm not entirely convinced. How did the girls know that the father would be the one driving the taxi? And how would she have known he was Carl-Einar's father?"

"Ystad is a small town. We don't know how Hökberg reacted to the rape. She could have been consumed by the idea of vengeance. Rape affects the victims very deeply. Some withdraw and turn inward, but some are possessed by violent dreams of revenge."