Höglund was right. The dead can’t speak. And there was a large color photograph of a policeman who had knocked a girl to the ground. The picture was somewhat fuzzy, but no one could have any doubts as to what it depicted.
“The district attorney’s office has demanded as quick an investigation as possible.”
“Who in particular?”
“Viktorsson.”
Wallander didn’t like him. Viktorsson had only been in Ystad since August, but Wallander had already had a couple of run-ins with him.
“It’s going to be one person’s word against another.”
“Except that there’s two them, of course.”
“The strange thing is that Eva Persson doesn’t even like her mother,” Wallander said. “It was clear when I spoke to her.”
“She’s probably realized she’s in deep trouble, even though she’s a juvenile and won’t go to jail. Therefore she’s declared a temporary truce with her mother.”
Wallander suddenly felt he couldn’t keep talking about the subject any longer. Not right now.
“Why did you stop by?”
“I heard you were sick.”
“But not at death’s door. I’ll be back tomorrow. Tell me instead what you learned from your conversation with Eva Persson.”
“She’s changed her story.”
“But she can’t possibly know Sonja Hökberg is dead?”
“That’s what’s so strange.”
It took a while for Wallander to understand what Höglund had just said. Then it dawned on him. He looked at her.
“You’re thinking something?”
“Why does one change one’s story? Eva Persson couldn’t have known that Hökberg was dead when I started questioning her. But that’s when she changed her whole story. Now Hökberg is the one who did everything. Eva Persson is innocent. They were never going to rob a taxi driver. They weren’t going out to Rydsgard. Hökberg had suggested they visit her uncle who lived in Bjäresjö.”
“Does he exist?”
“I’ve called him. He claims he hasn’t seen Sonja in five or six years.”
Wallander thought this over.
“In that case, there’s only one explanation,” he said. “Eva Persson would never have been able to rescind her confession and fabricate another story if she wasn’t sure that Sonja would never be able to contradict it.”
“I can’t find another explanation either. Naturally I asked her why she hadn’t said all this earlier.”
“What was her answer?”
“That she hadn’t wanted all the blame to fall on Sonja.”
“Since they were friends?”
“Yes.”
They both knew what it meant. There was only one possible explanation: that Eva Persson knew that Sonja Hökberg was dead.
“What are you thinking?” Wallander asked.
“That there are two possibilities. One is that Sonja could have called Eva after she left the station. She could have told her she was planning to commit suicide.”
Wallander shook his head.
“That doesn’t sound likely.”
“I don’t think so either. I don’t think she called Eva Persson. I think she called someone else.”
“Someone who later called Eva Persson and told her Sonja was dead?”
“It’s possible.”
“Was anyone monitoring her calls?” Wallander asked.
“I asked Hansson to check the log. But she may still have her cell phone. It wouldn’t surprise me if no one thought to take it away from her.”
“This could mean that Eva Persson knows who killed Sonja. Assuming it was a murder.”
“Could it have been anything else?”
“It’s doubtful. But we have to wait for the autopsy report.”
“I tried to get a preliminary report, but I guess it takes time to work with badly burned bodies.”
“I hope they realize it’s urgent.”
“Isn’t it always?”
She looked down at her watch and got up.
“I have to get home to the kids.”
Wallander thought he should say something to her. He knew from his own life what a hellish experience it was to end a marriage.
“How are things going with the divorce proceedings?”
“You’ve been through it yourself. You know what it’s like.” Wallander walked her to the door.
“You should have a whiskey,” she said. “You need it.”
“I already have,” Wallander replied.
At seven o’clock, Wallander heard a car honk down below. Through his kitchen window he could see Sten Widen’s rusty old van. Wallander stuffed the whiskey bottle in a plastic bag and went down.
They drove out to the farm. As usual, Wallander asked to see the stables first. Many of the stalls were empty. A girl of about seventeen was hanging up a saddle when they came in. She finished and they were left alone. Wallander sat down on a bale of hay. Sten Widen leaned against a wall.
“I’m leaving,” he said. “The ranch has been put up for sale.”
“Who do you think will buy it?”
“Someone crazy enough to think he’ll make money on it.”
“Do you think you can get a good price?”
“No, but it will probably be enough. If I live cheaply I can probably survive on the interest.”
Wallander was curious to know how much money was involved, but couldn’t think of the right way to ask.
“Have you decided where to go?” he asked instead.
“First I have to sell. Then I’ll decide where to go.”
Wallander got out the bottle of whiskey.
“You’ll never be able to live without your horses,” he said. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to drink yourself to death.”
“Or else it’ll be just the opposite. Maybe that’s when I’ll be able to kick the bottle for good.”
They left the stables and walked across the yard to the house. It was a chilly evening. Wallander felt his usual pang of envy. Sten was on his way toward an unknown but surely different future. He, on the other hand, was splashed across the front pages of the paper for assaulting a fourteen-year-old girl.
Sweden has become a place that people try to escape from, he thought. The ones who can afford to. And those who can’t afford it join the hordes who scavenge for enough money to leave.
How had that happened? What had changed?
They sat down in the untidy living room that also served as an office. Widen poured himself a glass of cognac.
“I’ve been thinking about becoming a stage technician.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. I could go to La Scala in Milan and work the curtain.”
“You don’t really think they operate the curtain by hand anymore, do you?”
“Well, I’m sure the occasional prop is still moved by hand. Think about being able to be backstage every night and hear that singing without paying a penny for it. I would even work for free.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?”
“No. I have a lot of ideas. Sometimes I even think about heading up to northern Sweden and burying myself in some cold and unpleasant heap of snow. I just don’t know. The only thing I know is that the ranch is going to be sold and I’ll have to go somewhere. What about you?”
Wallander shrugged without answering. He had had too much to drink. His head was starting to feel heavy.
“Are you still chasing moonshiners?”
Widen had a teasing tone in his voice. Wallander felt himself get angry.
“Murderers,” Wallander said, “People who kill others by crushing their heads with a hammer. I take it you heard about that taxi driver?”
“No.”
“Two little girls beat and stabbed a taxi driver to death the other day. They’re the kind of people I chase. Not moonshiners.”