Linda grabbed her jacket and sat up. She realized what Henrietta had been looking at: the open window.
She started putting on her jacket and stood up, turning around. There was no one outside, but Linda knew someone had been there. She froze. Henrietta’s loud voice, the window that was opened for no reason, her repetitions of the names Linda had given her, and her vehement objections to the accusations. Linda finished putting on her jacket. She didn’t dare turn around and look Henrietta in the eye, since she was afraid her realization was spelled out on her face.
Linda quickly made her way to the front door and bent down to pet the dog. Henrietta followed her out.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of help to you.”
“You could have,” Linda said. “But you chose not to.”
Linda opened the door and walked out. When she reached the end of the path, she turned and looked around. I don’t see anyone, she thought, but someone can see me. Someone watched me in the house and — more to the point — heard what we said. Henrietta repeated my questions and the person outside now knows what I know and what I believe and fear.
She hurried over to the car. She was scared, but she also berated herself for making a mistake. The point at which she was petting the dog and getting ready to leave was the point at which she should have started her questions in earnest. But she had chosen to leave.
Linda kept checking the rearview mirror as she drove away.
46
As Linda walked into the police station, she tripped and split her lip on the hard floor. For a moment she was dizzy, and then she managed to get up and wave away the receptionist, who was on her way over to help her. When she saw blood on her hand she walked to the restroom, wiped off her face with cold water, and waited for the bleeding to stop. When she stepped back out into the reception area she saw Lindman, who was on his way in through the front doors. He looked at her with an amused expression.
“You make quite a pair,” he said. “Your father claims he walked into a door. What about you? That pesky door been making trouble for you as well? Maybe we should call you Black Eye and Fat Lip, to save ourselves the trouble of the two of you having the same name.”
Linda laughed, which caused the wound to reopen and bleed. She went back into the restroom and got more tissues. Together they walked down the corridor.
“It wasn’t a door. I threw an ashtray at him.”
They stopped outside Wallander’s office.
“Did you find Anna?’
“No, she seems to have disappeared again.”
Lindman knocked on the door.
“You’d better go in and tell him.”
Wallander had his feet on the desk and was chewing on a pencil. He raised his eyebrows at her.
“I thought you were bringing Anna.”
“I thought so too, but I can’t find her.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? She’s not at home.”
Wallander didn’t manage to conceal his impatience. Linda prepared for the onslaught, but then he noticed her swollen lip.
“What happened to you?”
“I tripped.”
He shook his head, then started to laugh. Although Linda appreciated this turn in his mood, she found his laugh hard to take. It sounded like the neigh of a horse and was far too high-pitched. If they were ever out together and he started to laugh, people would actually turn around to see who could possibly be responsible for those sounds.
Wallander threw his pencil down and took his feet off the desk.
“Have you called her place in Lund? Her friends? She has to be somewhere.”
“Nowhere that we can reach her, I think.”
“You’ve called her cell phone, at least?”
“She doesn’t have one.”
He was immediately interested in this piece of information.
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t want one.”
“Is there any other reason?”
Linda knew that there was a thought process behind these questions, not simply idle curiosity.
“Everyone has a cell phone these days, especially you young folk. But not Anna Westin. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t. According to Henrietta, she doesn’t want to be reachable at all times.”
Wallander thought about this.
“Are you sure she’s told you everything? Could she have a phone that she hasn’t told you about?”
“How could I know that?”
“Exactly.”
Wallander pulled his phone over and dialed Höglund’s extension. She came into the office shortly thereafter, looking both tired and scruffy. Linda saw that her hair was messy and her blouse slightly soiled. She was reminded of Vanya Jorner, Medberg’s daughter. The only difference between them that she could see was that Höglund was not as fat.
Linda heard her father ask Höglund to see if any cell phone was registered under Anna’s name. Linda was irritated that she hadn’t thought of it herself.
Before leaving the room, Höglund gave Linda a smile that was more like a forced grimace.
“She doesn’t like me.”
“If my memory doesn’t fail me, you don’t care much for her either. It all evens itself out in the end. Even in a small police station like this, people don’t always get along.”
He stood up.
“Coffee?”
They walked out to the lunchroom, where Wallander was immediately pulled into an evidently exasperating exchange with Nyberg. Linda didn’t understand what they were arguing about. Martinsson came in waving a piece of paper.
“Ulrik Larsen,” he said. “The one who tried to mug you in Copenhagen.”
“Not mug me,” Linda said sharply. “The one who threatened me and told me to stop asking questions about a man named Torgeir Langaas.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to talk to you about,” Martinsson said. “Ulrik Larsen has withdrawn his story. The only problem is, he doesn’t have a new version. He continues to deny that he threatened you, and he maintains he doesn’t know anyone by the name of Langaas. Our Danish colleagues are convinced he’s lying, but they can’t get him to tell the truth.”
“Is that it?”
“Not completely. But I want Kurre to hear the rest.”
“Don’t call him that,” Linda warned. “He hates the nickname ‘Kurre.’ ”
“Tell me about it,” Martinsson said. “He likes it about as much as I like being called ‘Marta.’”
“Who calls you that?”
“My wife. When she’s in a bad mood.”
Wallander and Nyberg finished discussing whatever it was that they disagreed about, and Martinsson recounted the information about Ulrik Larsen.
“There’s one more thing,” he added, “which is the most significant. Our Danish colleagues have naturally run a background check on Larsen, and it turns out that he has no previous criminal record. In fact, it turns out that in all other respects he’s a model citizen: thirty-seven years old, married, three children, and with an occupation that doesn’t normally lead its practitioners to criminal activity.”
“What is it?” Wallander asked.
“He’s a minister.”
Everyone stared at Martinsson.
“What do you mean, he’s a minister?” Lindman asked. “I thought he was a drug addict.”
Martinsson looked through his papers.
“Apparently he played the role of a drug addict, but he’s a minister in the Danish State church, with a parish in Gentofte. There have been all kinds of headlines over there about the fact that a minister of the church has been accused of assault and robbery.”
The room fell quiet.