Sidetracked (30 page)

“Who is it?” asked Martinsson, who had so far been silent.

“His name is Sture Holmström,” said Hansson.

“Do we know anything about him?” Martinsson asked.

No-one knew him. Wallander promised to call Forsfält to check on him.

Then Wallander turned to Åkeson.

“The question now is whether we should ask for additional reinforcements,” Wallander began. “What’s the general view? I want everyone’s opinion. I also undertake to bow to the will of the majority. Even though I’m not convinced that extra personnel will improve the quality of our work. I’m afraid we might lose the pace of our investigation. At least in the short run. But I want to hear your views.”

Martinsson and Svedberg were in favour of requesting extra personnel. Höglund sided with Wallander, and Hansson and Ekholm didn’t offer an opinion. Wallander saw that another burdensome mantle of responsibility had been draped around his shoulders. Åkeson proposed that they postpone the decision for a few more days.

“If there’s another murder, it’ll be unavoidable,” he said. “But for the time being let’s keep going the way we have been.”

The meeting finished just before 10 a.m. Wallander went to his room. It had been a good meeting, much better than the last, even though they hadn’t made any progress. They had shown one another that their energy and will were still strong.

Wallander was about to call Forsfält when Martinsson appeared in his doorway.

“There’s one more thing that’s occurred to me,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Louise Fredman was found wandering around on a path in the park. There’s a similarity to the girl running in the rape field.”

Martinsson was right. There was a similarity, albeit a remote one.

“I agree,” he said. “It’s a shame that there’s no connection.”

“Still, it’s weird,” said Martinsson.

He remained in the doorway.

“You bet right this time.”

Wallander nodded.

“I know,” he said. “So did Ann-Britt.”

“You’ll have to split a thousand.”

“When’s the next match?”

“I’ll let you know,” said Martinsson and left.

Wallander called Malmö. While he waited, he looked out of the open window. Another beautiful day. Then Forsfält came on the line, and he pushed all thoughts of summer aside.

He took a long time selecting the right axe from the ones lying polished on the black silk cloth. Finally he chose the smallest one, the one he hadn’t used yet. He stuck it in his wide leather belt and pulled the helmet over his head.

As before, he was barefoot when he locked the door behind him. The evening was warm. He rode along side roads that he had selected on the map. It would take him almost two hours. He would get there a little before 11 p.m.

He’d had to change his plans. The man who had gone abroad suddenly had returned. He decided not to risk his taking off again. He had listened to Geronimo’s heart. The rhythmic thumping of the drums inside his chest had delivered their message to him. He must not wait. He would seize the opportunity.

The summer landscape seen from inside his helmet took on a bluish tinge. He could see the sea to his left, the blinking lights of ships, and the coast of Denmark. He felt elated and happy. It wouldn’t be long now before he could bring his sister the last sacrifice that would liberate her from the fog that surrounded her. She would return to life in the loveliest part of the summer.

He got to the city just after 11 p.m., and 15 minutes later stopped on a street next to the large villa, hidden away in a garden full of tall, sheltering trees. He chained his moped to a lamppost and locked it. On the opposite footpath an old couple were walking their dog. He waited until they disappeared before he pulled off his helmet and stuffed it into his backpack. In the shadows he ran to the back of the property, which looked out over a football pitch. He hid his backpack in the long grass and crept through the hedge, at a point where he had long ago prepared an opening. The hedge scratched his bare arms and feet. But he steeled himself against all pain. Geronimo would not stand for weakness. He had a sacred mission, as written in the book he had received from his sister. The mission required all his strength, which he was prepared to sacrifice with devotion.

He was inside the garden now, closer to the beast than he had ever been. The entire ground floor was in darkness, but there was a light on upstairs. He remembered with anger how his sister had been here before him. She had described the house, and one day he would burn it to the ground. But not yet. Cautiously he ran up to the wall of the house and prised open the basement window from which he had earlier removed the latch. It was easy to crawl inside. He knew that he was in an apple cellar, surrounded by the faint aroma of sour apples. He listened. All quiet. He crept up the cellar stairs, into the big kitchen. Still quiet. The only thing he heard was the faint sound of water pipes. He turned on the oven and opened the door. Then he made his way upstairs. He had taken the axe out of his belt. He was completely calm.

The door to the bathroom was ajar. In the darkness of the hall he caught a glimpse of the man he was going to kill. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror rubbing cream onto his face. Hoover slipped in behind the bathroom door, waiting. When the man turned off the light in the bathroom he raised the axe. He struck only once. The man fell to the floor without a sound. With the axe he sliced off a piece of the man’s hair from the top of his head. He stuffed the scalp into his pocket. Then he dragged the man down the stairs. He was in pyjamas. The bottoms slipped off the body and were dragged along by one foot. He avoided looking at him.

He pulled the man into the kitchen and leaned the body against the oven door. Then he shoved the man’s head inside. Almost at once he smelled the face cream starting to melt. He left the house the way he had come in.

He buried the scalp beneath his sister’s window in the dawn light. Now all that was left was the extra sacrifice he would offer her. He would bury one last scalp. Then it would be over.

He thought about the man he had watched sleeping. The man who had sat across from him on the sofa, understanding nothing of the sacred mission he had to perform. He still hadn’t decided whether he should also take the girl sleeping in the next room. He would make his final decision the next day, but now he had to rest.

Skåne

5–8 July 1994

CHAPTER 29

Waldemar Sjösten was a criminal detective in Helsingborg who devoted all his free time during the summer to a 1930s mahogany boat he had found by accident. And this was just what he planned to do on Tuesday morning, 5 July, when he let the shade on his bedroom window roll up with a snap just before 6 a.m. He lived in a newly renovated block of flats at the centre of town. One street, the railway line and the docks were all that separated him from the Sound. The weather was as beautiful as the weather reports had promised. His holiday didn’t start until the end of July, but whenever he could he spent a few early mornings on his boat, docked at the marina a short bike ride away. Sjösten was going to celebrate his 50th birthday this autumn. He had been married three times, had six children and was planning his fourth marriage. The woman shared his love of the boat,
Sea King II
. He had taken the name from the beautiful boat that he’d spent his childhood summers on board with his parents,
Sea King I
. His father had sold it to a man from Norway when he was ten, and he had never forgotten it. He often wondered whether the boat still existed, or whether it had sunk or rotted away.

He had finished a cup of coffee and was getting ready to leave when the telephone rang. He was surprised to hear it at such an early hour. He picked up the receiver.

“Waldemar?” It was Detective Sergeant Birgersson.

“Yes.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I was just on my way out.”

“Lucky I caught you then. You’d better get down here right away.”

Birgersson wouldn’t have called unless it was something serious.

“I’ll be right there,” he said. “What is it?”

“There was smoke coming out of one of those old villas up in Tågaborg. When the fire brigade got there they found a man in the kitchen.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered. You’ll understand why I called you when you see him.”

Sjösten could see his morning disappearing, but he was a dutiful policeman, so he had no trouble changing his plans. Instead of the key to his bicycle lock he grabbed his car keys and left at once. It took him only a few minutes to drive to the station. Birgersson was on the steps waiting. He got in the car and gave him directions.

“Who’s dead?” Sjösten asked.

“Åke Liljegren.”

Sjösten whistled. Åke Liljegren was well known, not just in the city but all over Sweden. He called himself “the Auditor” and had gained his notoriety as the
éminence grise
behind some extensive shell company dealing done during the 1980s. Apart from one six-month suspended sentence, the police had had no success in prosecuting the illegal operation he ran. Liljegren had become a by-word for the worst type of financial scams, and the fact that he got off scot-free demonstrated how ill-equipped the justice system was to handle criminals like him. He was from Båstad, but in recent years had lived in Helsingborg when he was in Sweden. Sjösten recalled a newspaper article that had set out to uncover how many houses Liljegren owned across the world.

“Can you give me a time frame?” asked Sjösten.

“A jogger out early this morning saw smoke coming out of the house. He raised the alarm. The fire department got there at 5.15 a.m.”

“Where was the fire?”

“There was no fire.”

Sjösten gave Birgersson a puzzled look.

“Liljegren was leaning into the oven,” Birgersson explained. “His head was in the oven, which was on full blast. He was literally being roasted.”

Sjösten grimaced. He was beginning to get an idea what he was going to have to look at.

“Did he commit suicide?”

“No. Someone stuck an axe in his head.”

Sjösten stomped involuntarily on the brake. He looked at Birgersson, who nodded.

“His face and hair were almost completely burnt off. But the doctor thought he could tell that someone had sliced off part of his scalp.”

Sjösten said nothing. He was thinking about what had happened in Ystad. That was this summer’s big news. A serial killer who axed people to death and then took their scalps.

They arrived at Liljegren’s villa on Aschebergsgatan. A fire engine was parked outside the gates along with a few police cars and an ambulance. The huge property was cordoned off. Sjösten got out of the car and waved off a reporter. He and Birgersson ducked under the cordon and walked up to the villa. When they entered the house Sjösten noticed a sickly smell, and realised that it was Liljegren’s burnt corpse. He borrowed a handkerchief from Birgersson and held it to his nose and mouth. Birgersson nodded towards the kitchen. A very pale uniformed officer stood guard at the door. Sjösten peered inside. The sight that greeted him was grotesque. The half-naked man was on his knees. His body was bent over the oven door. His head and neck were out of sight inside the oven. With disgust Sjösten recalled the fairy tale of Hänsel and Gretel and the witch. A doctor was kneeling down beside the body, shining a torch into the oven. Sjösten tried to breathe through his mouth. The doctor nodded at him. Sjösten leaned forward and looked into the oven. He was reminded of a charred steak.

“Jesus,” he said.

“He took a blow to the back of the head,” said the doctor.

“Here in the kitchen?”

“No, upstairs,” said Birgersson, standing behind him.

Sjösten straightened up.

“Take him out of the oven,” he said. “Has the photographer finished?”

Birgersson nodded. Sjösten followed him upstairs, avoiding the traces of blood. Birgersson stopped outside the bathroom door.

“As you saw, he was wearing pyjamas,” said Birgersson. “Here’s how it probably happened: Liljegren was in the bathroom. The killer was waiting for him. He struck Liljegren with an axe in the back of the head and then dragged the body to the kitchen. That could explain why the pyjama bottoms were hanging from one leg. Then he put the body in front of the oven, turned it on, and left. We don’t know yet how he got into the house and out again. I thought you might be able to take care of that.”

Sjösten said nothing. He was thinking. He went back down to the kitchen. The body was on a plastic sheet on the floor.

“Is it him?” asked Sjösten.

“It’s Liljegren,” said the doctor. “Even though he doesn’t have much face left.”

“That’s not what I meant. Is it the man who takes scalps?”

The doctor pulled back the plastic sheet covering the blackened face.

“I’m convinced that he cut or tore off the hair at the front of his head,” said the doctor.

Sjösten nodded. Then he turned to Birgersson.

“I want you to call the Ystad police. Get hold of Kurt Wallander. I want to talk to him. Now.”

For once Wallander had fixed a proper breakfast. He had fried some eggs and was just sitting down at the table with his newspaper when the telephone rang. The caller introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Sture Birgersson of the Helsingborg police. What he had feared had finally happened. The killer had struck again. He swore under his breath, an oath that contained equal parts rage and horror. Waldemar Sjösten came to the phone. In the early 1980s they had collaborated on the investigation of a drugs ring extending all over Skåne. Although they were very different people, they had had an easy time working together and had formed the beginnings of a friendship.

“Kurt?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“So what’s happened? Is what I hear true?”

“Unfortunately it is. Your killer has turned up here in Helsingborg.”

“Is it confirmed?”

“There’s nothing to indicate otherwise. An axe blow to the head. Then he cut off the victim’s scalp.”

“Who was it?”

“Åke Liljegren. Does that name ring a bell?”

Wallander thought for a moment. “The one they call ‘the Auditor’?”

“Precisely. A former minister of justice, an art dealer and now a white-collar criminal.”

“And a fence too,” said Wallander. “Don’t forget him.”

“You should come up here. Our superiors can sort out the red tape so that we can cross into each other’s jurisdictions.”

“I’ll come right away,” said Wallander. “It might be a good idea if I bring Sven Nyberg, our head forensic technician.”

“Bring whoever you want. I won’t stand in your way. I just don’t like it that the killer has shown up here.”

“I’ll be in Helsingborg in two hours,” said Wallander. “If you can tell me whether there’s some connection between Liljegren and the others who were killed, we’ll be ahead of the game. Did the killer leave any clues?”

“Not directly, although we can see how it happened. This time he didn’t pour acid into his victim’s eyes. He roasted him. His head and half his neck, at least.”

“Roasted?”

“In an oven. Be glad you won’t have to look at it.”

“What else?”

“I just got here, so nothing really.”

After Wallander hung up he looked at his watch. It was very early. He called Nyberg, who answered at once. Wallander told him what had happened, and Nyberg promised to be outside Wallander’s building in 15 minutes. Then Wallander dialled Hansson’s number, but changed his mind and called Martinsson instead. As always, Martinsson’s wife answered. It took a couple of minutes before her husband came to the phone.

“He’s killed again,” said Wallander. “This time in Helsingborg. A crook named Åke Liljegren. They call him ‘the Auditor’.”

“The corporate raider?” asked Martinsson.

“That’s him.”

“The murderer has taste.”

“Bullshit,” Wallander said. “I’m driving up there with Nyberg. They’ve asked us to come. I want you to tell Hansson. I’ll give you a call as soon as I know more.”

“This means that the National Criminal Bureau will be called in,” Martinsson said. “Maybe it’s the best thing.”

“The best thing would be if we caught this killer,” Wallander replied. “I’ll call you later.”

He was outside when Nyberg drove up in his old Amazon. It was a beautiful morning. Nyberg drove fast. At Sturup they turned off towards Lund and reached the motorway to Helsingborg. Wallander told him what he knew. After they had passed Lund, Hansson called. He was out of breath. He’s been even more afraid of this than I have, Wallander thought.

“It’s terrible,” said Hansson. “This changes everything.”

“For the time being it doesn’t change a thing,” Wallander replied. “It depends entirely on what actually happened.”

“It’s time for the National Criminal Bureau to take over,” said Hansson. Wallander could tell from Hansson’s voice that to be relieved of his responsibility was what he wanted most of all. Wallander was annoyed. He couldn’t ignore the hint of disparagement of the work of the investigative team.

“That’s your responsibility – yours and Åkeson’s,” Wallander said tersely. “What occurred in Helsingborg is their problem. But they’ve asked me to go up there. We’ll talk about what we’re going to do later.”

Wallander hung up. Nyberg didn’t say a word. But Wallander knew he had been listening carefully.

They were met by a squad car at the exit to Helsingborg. Wallander realised that it must have been somewhere nearby that Sven Andersson had stopped to give Dolores María Santana a lift on her last journey. They followed the car up to Tågaborg and stopped outside Liljegren’s villa. Wallander and Nyberg passed through the police cordon and were met by Sjösten at the bottom of the steps to the villa, which Wallander guessed had been built around the turn of the century. They said hello and exchanged a few words. Sjösten introduced Nyberg to the forensic technician from Helsingborg. The two of them went inside.

Sjösten put out his cigarette and buried the butt in the gravel with his heel.

“It’s your man who did this,” he said.

“What do you know about the victim?”

“Åke Liljegren was famous.”

“Infamous, you mean.”

Sjösten nodded. “There are probably plenty of people who have dreamt of killing him,” he said. “With a criminal justice system that worked better, with fewer loopholes in the laws on financial fraud, he would have been locked up.”

Sjösten took Wallander into the house. The air was thick with the stench of burnt flesh. Sjösten gave Wallander a mask, which he put on reluctantly. They went into the kitchen where the body still lay under the plastic sheet. Wallander nodded to Sjösten to let him see, thinking that he might as well get it over with. He didn’t know what he had expected, but he flinched involuntarily. Liljegren’s face was gone. The skin was burnt away and large sections of the skull were clearly visible. There were just two holes where the eyes had been. The hair and ears were also burnt off. Wallander nodded to Sjösten to put back the sheet. Sjösten quickly described how Liljegren had been found leaning into the oven. Wallander got some Polaroids from the photographer. It was almost worse to see the pictures. Wallander shook his head with a grimace and handed them back. Sjösten took him upstairs, pointing out the blood, and describing the apparent sequence of events. Wallander occasionally asked a question about a detail, but Sjösten’s scenario seemed convincing.