“I thought you were starting in a couple of weeks.”
“She’s just keeping me company,” Wallander said. “What’s happened out here?”
They walked down behind the farmhouse to a new-looking barn. The farmer was kneeling next to the burned animal. He was a young man close to Linda’s age. Farmers should be old, she thought. In my world there’s no place for a farmer my own age.
Wallander stretched out his hand and introduced himself.
“Tomas Åkerblom,” the farmer said.
“This is my daughter. She happened to be with me.”
As Tomas Åkerblom looked over at Linda, a light from the barn illuminated his face. She saw that his eyes were wet with tears.
“Who would do anything like this?” he asked in a shaky voice.
He stepped aside to let them see, as if displaying a macabre art installation. Linda had already picked up the smell of burned flesh. Now she saw the blackened body of the calf lying on its side in front of her. The eye socket closest to her was completely charred. Smoke still rose from the singed skin. The fumes were starting to make her nauseated and she took a step back. Wallander looked at her. She shook her head to indicate that she wasn’t about to faint. He nodded and looked around at the others.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
Åkerblom started talking. He still sounded on the verge of tears.
“I had just gone to bed when I heard a sound. At first I thought I must have cried out in my sleep — that happens sometimes when I have a bad dream. Then I realized it came from the barn. The animals were braying and one of them sounded bad. I pulled the curtains away and saw fire. It was Apple — of course I couldn’t identify him immediately, just that it was one of the calves. He ran straight into the wall of the barn. His whole body and head were consumed by flames. I couldn’t really take it in. I pulled on a pair of old boots and ran down there. He had already collapsed when I reached him. His legs were twitching. I grabbed an old piece of tarp and tried to put out the rest of the fire, but he was already dead. It was horrible. I remember thinking, ‘This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.’ Who would do something like this?”
“Did you see anything else?” Wallander asked.
“No, just what I told you.”
“You said, ‘Who would do something like this?’ Why? Is there no way it could have been an accident?”
“You think a calf poured gasoline over his own head and lit a match? How likely is that?”
“Let’s assume it was a deliberate attack. Did you see anyone when you pulled the curtain away from the window?”
Åkerblom thought hard before answering. Linda tried to anticipate her father’s next question.
“I only saw the burning animal.”
“What kind of person do you imagine did this?”
“An insane. . a fucking lunatic.”
Wallander nodded.
“That’s all for now,” he said. “Leave the animal as it is. Someone will be sent out in the morning to take pictures of it and the area.”
They returned to their cars.
“What kind of crazy lunatic bastard...” Åkerblom muttered.
Wallander didn’t answer him. Linda saw how tired he was. His forehead was deeply furrowed and he looked old. He’s worried, she realized. First there’s the report about the swans, and then a young calf named Apple is burned alive.
It was as if he read her mind. Wallander let his hand rest on the car door handle and turned to Åkerblom.
“Apple,” he said. “That’s an unusual name for an animal.”
“I played table tennis when I was younger. I often name my animals after great Swedish champions. I have an ox by the name of Waldner.”
Wallander nodded. Linda could see he was smiling. She knew he appreciated originality.
They drove back to Ystad.
“What do you think this is about?” Linda asked.
“The best-case scenario is a pervert who gets a kick out of hurting animals.”
“And that’s the best-case scenario?”
He hesitated.
“The worst case would be someone who won’t stop at animals,” he said.
8
When Linda woke up the next morning she was alone in the apartment. It was half past seven. The sound of her father slamming the front door must have woken her up. He does that on purpose, she thought and stretched out in bed. He doesn’t like me sleeping in.
She got up and opened the window. It was a clear day, and the nice weather looked like it would continue. She thought about the events of the night, the still-smoking carcass and her father looking suddenly old and worn-out. It’s the anxiety, she thought. He can hide a lot from me, but not his anxiety.
She ate breakfast and put on her clothes from yesterday, then changed her mind and tried on two other outfits before deciding what to wear. She called Anna. The answering machine picked up after five rings and she simply asked Anna to answer the phone if she was there. No reply. Linda walked out into the hall and looked at herself in the mirror. Was she still worried about Anna? No, she said to herself, I’m not worried. Anna has her reasons. She’s most likely chasing down that man she saw on the street, a man she thinks is her long-lost father.
Linda went out for a walk and picked up a newspaper from a bench. She turned to the automobile section and looked at the ads for used cars. There was a Saab for 19,000. Her father had already promised to chip in 10,000, and she knew she wanted a car. But a Saab for 19,000? How long would it last?
She tucked the newspaper into her pocket and walked over to Anna’s apartment. No one answered the door. After picking the lock again and letting herself in, she was suddenly struck by the feeling that someone had been there since she had left the place the night before. She froze and looked all around the hall — the coats hanging in their place, the shoes all in a row. Was anything different? She couldn’t put her finger on it but was convinced there was something.
She continued into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Dad would tell me to look for the impressions people have left behind in this room, of themselves and their dramatic interactions. But I see nothing, only the fact that Anna isn’t here.
After combing through the apartment twice, she convinced herself that Anna had not been home during the night. Nor anyone else, for that matter. The only things she saw were tiny, near-invisible traces she herself had left behind.
She went into Anna’s bedroom and sat down at the little desk. She hesitated at first, but her curiosity got the better of her. She knew that Anna kept a diary — she had done so since she was little. Linda remembered an incident from middle school when Anna had been sitting in a corner writing in her journal. A boy pulled it out of her hands as a joke but she was so furious that she bit him on the shoulder, and everyone knew to leave the journal alone after that.
Linda pulled out the drawers in the desk. They were full of old diaries, thumbed, crammed with writing. The dates were written on the spines. Up until Anna was sixteen they were all red. After that they were all black.
Linda closed the drawers and looked through some papers lying on the desk. She found the journal Anna was currently keeping. I’m only going to look at the last entry, she thought, telling herself it was justified since she was motivated only by her concern for Anna’s well-being. She opened the folder at the last entry, from the day that they were supposed to have met. Linda bent over the page; Anna’s handwriting was cramped, as if she were trying to hide the words. Linda read the short text twice, first without understanding it, then with a growing sense of bafflement. The words Anna had written made no sense: myth fear, myth fear, myth fear. Was it a code?