Viktorsson lifted his hand and interrupted Wallander’s train of thought.
“I will of course be following this internal investigation very closely, and I suggest that we consider Eva Persson’s new version of the events seriously. It’s quite possible that things happened as she says, that Sonja Hökberg was solely responsible for the planning and execution of the assault.”
Wallander couldn’t believe his ears. He looked around the room, trying to elicit support from his closest colleagues. Hansson, in his checkered flannel shirt, looked lost in thought. Martinsson was rubbing his chin, and Höglund was slumped in her chair. No one met his gaze, but he decided to interpret from what he saw that they were still with him.
“Eva Persson is lying,” he said. “Her first story is the true one. That’s the version we will also be able to prove, if we get down to business and do our jobs.”
Viktorsson wanted to go on, but Wallander didn’t let him. He doubted that most people had been informed of what Höglund had called him about last night.
“Sonja Hökberg was murdered,” he said. “The pathologist has informed us that fractures consistent with a strong blow to the back of the head have been found. It may have been the cause of death; at the very least it knocked her unconscious. Thereafter she was thrown in among the power lines. At any rate, we no longer need to have any doubts about whether or not she was murdered.”
He had been correct. Everyone in the room was surprised.
“I should emphasize that this is the pathologist’s preliminary report,” he continued. “There may be more information forthcoming.”
No one said anything, and he felt he had control of the proceedings now. The photograph in the papers nagged at him and gave him renewed energy. But he still couldn’t get over Holgersson’s open distrust of him.
He continued to give a thorough overview of the investigation to date.
“Johan Lundberg was murdered in what appears to be a hastily planned and executed robbery. The girls have said they needed money, but not for anything in particular. They make no attempts to conceal themselves from the police after the deed. When we bring them in, both of them confess almost immediately. Their stories are consistent with each other and neither one of them appears repentant. We also find the murder weapons. Then Sonja Hõkberg escapes from the police station in what seems like a spur-of-the-moment decision. Twelve hours later she turns up murdered in one of the Sydkraft power substations. Establishing how she got there will be of crucial importance for us. We also don’t know why she was murdered. But parallel to these events, something else happens that must also be considered cruciaclass="underline" Eva Persson recants her earlier confession. She now lays the entire blame for what happened on Sonja. She gives new information that cannot be checked because Sonja is now dead. The question is how Eva Persson knew this — and she must have known it. Information about the murder has still not been publicly released. The people who know about it are very few in number; yesterday that number was even smaller. Yet that was when Eva Persson suddenly changed her story.”
Wallander finished and sat back in his chair. The level of attentiveness in the room had risen sharply. Wallander had managed to isolate the decisive issues.
“What did Sonja Hökberg do when she left the station?” Hansson asked. “That’s what we need to find out.”
“We know she didn’t walk to the substation,” Wallander said. “Even if it will be hard for us to prove with one-hundred-percent certainty. But we have to assume she was driven.”
“Aren’t we proceeding a little too quickly?” Viktorsson asked. “She could have been dead when she got there.”
“I haven’t finished yet,” Wallander said. “Of course that is a possibility.”
“Is there anything that speaks against this assumption?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it in fact the most logical conclusion? What reasons do we have to assume she went there willingly?”
“Only that she knew the person who drove her there.”
Viktorsson shook his head.
“Why would anyone seek out a power substation located in the middle of a field? Wasn’t it raining the whole time? Doesn’t this tell us that she was in fact killed somewhere entirely different?”
“You’re proceeding too quickly,” Wallander said. “We’re trying to lay all the alternatives on the table. We shouldn’t be zeroing in on any of them just yet.”
“Who gave her the ride?” Martinsson said. “If we know that, we’ll know who killed her, even if we still don’t know why.”
“That will have to come later,” Wallander said. “My thought is that Eva Persson couldn’t have found out about Sonja’s death through anyone other than the person who killed her. Or, at the very least, from a witness.”
He looked over at Holgersson.
“That means Eva Persson is our key to figuring out what happened. She’s a juvenile and she’s lying, but now we have to turn up the heat. I want to know how she learned of Sonja’s death.”
He stood up.
“Since I won’t be involved in Eva Persson’s questioning, I’ll be attending to other matters in the meantime.”
He quickly left the room, pleased with his exit. He knew it was a childish display, but he also thought it would hit its mark. He assumed Höglund would be the one who would be given the responsibility of talking to Eva Persson. She knew what to ask; he didn’t have to prepare her.
Wallander picked up his coat and left. He would be using his time to check something else. Before leaving the station he tucked two photographs from the case file into his pocket. He walked down toward the center of town. One aspect of the whole case had continued to bother him: Why had Sonja Hökberg been killed, and why had it taken place in such a way as to cut power to large parts of Scania? Had that really been a coincidence?
He crossed the main square and ended up on Hamngatan. The restaurant where Sonja and Eva had had their beers wasn’t open yet. He peeked in through a window. There was someone in there, and it was a man he recognized. He knocked on the pane of glass. The man continued his work behind the counter. Wallander knocked harder and the man looked up. When he recognized Wallander he smiled and opened the door.
“It’s not even nine o’clock yet,” he said. “Do you want pizza already?”
“Sort of,” Wallander said. “A cup of coffee would be nice. I need to talk to you.”
Istvan Kecskemeti had come to Sweden from Hungary in 1956. He had operated a number of restaurants in Ystad, and Wallander had made it a habit to eat at one of them when he didn’t have the energy to cook for himself. He talked a lot at times, but Wallander liked him. He was also one of the few people who knew about Wallander’s diabetes.
“You don’t stop by very often,” Istvan said. “When you come, we’re closed. That means you want something other than food.”
He raised his arms and sighed.
“Everyone comes to Istvan for help. Sports clubs and charities, someone who wants to start,a cemetery for animals — they all want money. They all promise some advertising in return. But how is advertising in a pet cemetery going to help a pizzeria?”
He sighed again before continuing.
“Perhaps you also want something? Do you want me to give a donation to the Swedish police force?”
“Answers to a couple of questions will do fine,” Wallander said. “Last Wednesday — were you here?”
“I’m always here. But last Wednesday is a while ago.”
Wallander put the two photographs on the table. The lighting was poor.
“See if you recognize either one of these faces.”
Istvan took the photographs with him to the bar area. He looked at them for a long time before he returned.