Martinsson smiled.
“Kurt Wallander is very good at his job,” he said. “You know that. But he’s not renowned for being the life of the party around here, as I’m also sure you’ve already figured out.”
Before she left, he asked her about her reaction to the murdered officer. She told him about the cadet ball, the TV in the kitchen, and its effect on the festivities.
“It’s always a blow,” Martinsson said. “It affects all of us, as if we’re suddenly surrounded by invisible guns out there aimed at our heads. Whenever a colleague is killed a lot of us think about leaving the force, but in the end most people choose to stay. And I’m one of them.”
Linda left the station and walked to the apartment building in the eastern part of Ystad where Zeba lived. She thought about what Martinsson had told her — and what he had left out. That was something her father had drilled into her: always listen for what is left unsaid. That could prove to be the most important thing. But she didn’t find anything like that in her conversation with Martinsson. He strikes me as the simple and straightforward type, she thought. Not someone who tries to read people’s invisible signals.
She only stayed at Zeba’s briefly because Zeba’s boy had a stomach ache and cried the whole time. They decided to meet over the weekend when they would be able to have some peace and quiet to discuss the cadet ball and the success of Zeba’s handiwork.
But the twenty-seventh of August did not go down in Linda’s mind as the day she met with Martinsson, her mentor. It would be filed away in her mind as the day that Anna disappeared. After Linda had let herself into the apartment by picking the lock, she sat on the sofa and tried to recall Anna’s voice telling her about the man who met her gaze through the hotel window and who bore a striking resemblance to her father. What was it she had really been trying to say? She had insisted that it was her father. That was like Anna — she sounded convincing even when she was claiming as facts things that were imagined or invented. But she was never late for an appointment, nor would she forget a date with a friend.
Linda walked through the apartment again, stopping in front of the bookcase by Anna’s desk in the dining room. The books were mostly novels, she determined as she read the titles, as well as one or two travel guides. Not a single medical textbook. Linda frowned. The only thing even close to a textbook was a volume on common ailments, the kind of encyclopedia a lay person would have. There’s something missing, she thought. These don’t look like the bookshelves of a medical student.
She proceeded to the kitchen and took note of the refrigerator contents. There were the usual food items, a sense of future use suggested by an unopened carton of milk with a September 2 expiration date. Linda went back into the living room and returned to the question of why a medical student would have no textbooks in her bookcase. Did she keep them somewhere else? But that made no sense. She lived in Ystad, and she had often told Linda she did most of her studying here.
Linda waited. At seven o’clock she called her father, who answered with his mouth full.
“I thought you were coming home for dinner tonight,” he grumbled.
Linda hesitated before answering. She was torn between wanting to tell him about Anna and saying nothing.
“Something came up.”
“What is it?”
“Something personal.”
Her father growled on the other end.
“I had a meeting with Martinsson today.”
“I know.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me — only that you met. Nothing else. Don’t worry.”
Linda went back to the couch. At eight she called Zeba and asked her if she knew where Anna could be, but Zeba hadn’t heard from Anna in several days. At nine o’clock, after she had helped herself to food from Anna’s small pantry and fridge, she dialed Henrietta’s number. The phone rang a number of times before Anna’s mother answered. Linda tried to approach the subject as carefully as possible so as not to alarm the already fragile woman. Did she know if Anna was in Lund? Had she planned a trip to Malmö or Copenhagen? Linda asked the most harmless questions she could think of.
“I haven’t talked to her since Thursday.”
That’s four days ago, Linda thought. That means Anna never told her about the man she saw through the hotel window, even though they’re close.
“Why do you want to know where she is?”
“I called her and there was no answer.”
She sensed a tinge of anxiety on the other end.
“But you don’t call me every time Anna doesn’t answer her phone.”
Linda was prepared for this question.
“I had a sudden impulse to have her over for dinner tonight. That was all.”
Linda steered the conversation over to her own life.
“Have you heard I’m going to start working here in Ystad?”
“Yes, Anna told me. But neither one of us understands why you would want to be a policewoman.”
“If I’d gone on learning how to refinish furniture as planned, I’d always have tacks in my mouth. A life in law enforcement just seemed more entertaining.”
A clock struck somewhere in Anna’s apartment and Linda quickly ended the conversation. Then she thought it all through again. Anna wasn’t a risk-taker. In contrast to Zeba and herself, Anna hated rollercoasters, was suspicious of strangers, and never climbed into a cab without looking the driver in the eye first. The simplest explanation was that Anna was still disconcerted by what she thought she had seen. She must have gone back to Malmö to look for the man she thought was her father. This is the first time she’s ever stood me up, Linda thought. But this is also the first time she’s been convinced she saw her father walking down the street.
Linda stayed in the apartment for several more hours.
By midnight Anna had still not returned.
Then she knew. There was no good explanation for Anna’s absence. Something must have happened. But what?
7
When Linda got home shortly after midnight, she found her father asleep on the couch. He woke up at the sound of the closing door. Linda eyed the curve of his belly with disapproval.
“You’re getting fatter,” she said. “One day you’re just going to pop. Not like an old troll who wanders out into the sunshine but like a balloon when it gets too full of air.”
He pulled his robe tighter across his chest protectively.
“I do the best I can.”
“No, you don’t.”
He sat up heavily.
“I’m too tired to have this conversation,” he said. “When you walked in I was in the middle of a beautiful dream. Do you remember Baiba?”
“The one from Latvia? Are you still in touch with each other?”
“About once a year, no more. She’s found someone else, a German engineer who works at the municipal waterworks in Riga. She sounds very much in love when she talks about him, the wonderful Herman from Lübeck. I’m surprised it doesn’t drive me insane with jealousy.”
“You were dreaming about her?”
He smiled.
“We had a child in the dream,” he said. “A little boy who was building castles in the sand. An orchestra was playing in the distance and Baiba and I just stood there watching him. In my dream I thought, ‘This is no dream, this is real’ and I was incredibly happy.”
“And you complain about having too many nightmares.”
He wasn’t listening.
“The door opened — that was you, of course — a car door. It was summer and very warm. The whole world was full of light like an overexposed picture. Everyone’s face was white and without any shadows. It was beautiful. We were about to drive away when I woke up.”