Martinsson returned.
“We’re in luck,” he said. “They’ve put the relay in a plastic bag.”
“Any prints?”
“They’re working on it right now.”
“No signs of the body?”
“No.”
“No witnesses?”
“Not as far as I know.”
Wallander told him what he had been thinking. Martinsson agreed with his conclusions. The relay was a deliberate message, and the body had been removed in order to conceal something from them. Wallander also told him about Enander’s visit and the phone call from Falk’s ex-wife.
“I didn’t put too much stock in what they told me,” he conceded.
“You have to be able to trust the coroner’s report.”
“Just because the body’s been stolen doesn’t mean Tynnes Falk was murdered.”
Martinsson was right.
“I still have trouble seeing any other reason to remove the body except to conceal the manner of death,” he said.
“What do we do now?”
“We need to determine who Tynnes Falk was,” Wallander said.
“Since we closed the case so quickly, we had no need to examine his life closely. But when I talked to the ex-wife she said that Falk was nervous and that he claimed to have many enemies. In fact, she said a number of things that led me to believe he was a complicated person.”
Martinsson made a face.
“A computer consultant with enemies?”
“That was what she said. And none of us has spoken to her in any detail.”
Martinsson was carrying the file folder that contained all the information they had on the Falk case.
“We never talked to his kids,” he said, checking the report. “We never talked to anyone, since we concluded he had died of natural causes.”
“That’s what we’re still assuming,” Wallander said. “It’s as plausible at this stage as anything else. What we have to acknowledge, however, is that there is some kind of connection between him and Sonja Hokberg. Perhaps even to Eva Persson.”
“Why not also with Lundberg?”
“You’re right. Maybe also with the taxi driver.”
“At least we know that Tynnes Falk was already dead when Sonja Hökberg was killed,” Martinsson said. “He’s not our man.”
“And if we assume Falk was murdered, the killer may be the same person who killed Hökberg.”
Wallander’s sense of anxiety increased. They were delving into something they didn’t understand. We have to find the part where it comes together, he thought. We have to go deeper.
Martinsson yawned. Wallander knew he was often asleep by this time.
“The question is whether we can really get much further,” he said.
“We’re not in a position to send people out to look for a lost body.”
“We should take a look at his apartment,” Martinsson said, stifling a new yawn. “He lived alone. We can start there and then talk to the wife.”
“Ex-wife. He was divorced.”
Martinsson got up.
“I have to get some sleep. How’s the car?”
“It’ll be ready tomorrow.”
“Do you want a ride?”
“No, I’m going to stay for a while.”
Martinsson hesitated.
“I know it must have upset you,” he said. “The whole business with the picture in the paper.”
Wallander looked at him closely.
“What’s your take?”
“On what?”
“Whether or not I’m guilty?”
“Clearly you slapped her. But I believe you. She was attacking her mother and you were trying to restrain her.”
“Well, my mind’s made up,” Wallander said. “If they try to pin it on me, I’m quitting.”
He was surprised by his own words. It had never occurred to him before to quit if the internal investigation came back with a guilty verdict.
“In that case, we’ll be swapping roles,” Martinsson said.
“How do you mean?”
“Then I’ll be the one trying to convince you to stay.”
“You’ll never do it.”
Martinsson didn’t reply. He took the folder and left. Wallander stayed at the table. After a little while, two patrol officers on the night shift walked through the room. They nodded at him. Wallander listened absently to their conversation. One of them was thinking of buying a motorcycle in the spring.
Once they had poured themselves coffee and left, Wallander was alone again. Without being completely aware of it, he had already arrived at a decision.
He looked down at his watch. It was almost half past eleven. He knew he should wait until the morning, but the sense of urgency was too great.
He left the station shortly before midnight, a set of pass keys in his pocket.
It took him ten minutes to walk to Apelbergsgatan. There was a soft breeze, and it was a few degrees above freezing. It was overcast. The town felt deserted. Some heavily laden trucks barrelled past him on their way to the Polish ferries. It occurred to Wallander that it was about this time of night that Falk had died.
Wallander stood in the shadows and looked at the apartment building at 10 Apelbergsgatan. The top floor was dark. That was where Falk had lived. The apartment below was also dark, but in the first-floor apartment the lights were on. Wallander shivered. That was where he had once fallen asleep in the arms of a total stranger. He had been so drunk he hadn’t even known where he was.
He fingered the pass keys in his pocket and hesitated. What he was about to do was unnecessary as well as unlawful. There was no reason not to wait until the morning, when he could arrange to get the keys to the apartment. But his sense of urgency wouldn’t let up. And it was something he had learned to trust over the years.
The front door to the building was unlocked. The stairway was dark. He turned on the flashlight he had remembered to bring with him and listened for any sounds before starting up the stairs. There were two doors on the top floor. The one to the right was Falk’s. He listened again, putting his ear up against both doors. Nothing. Then he gripped the little flashlight between his teeth and got out the passkeys. If Falk had outfitted his door with specialty locks, he would have been forced to give up at the outset. But Falk had only ordinary locks. That doesn’t fit with what she said, he thought. That Falk was worried and had many enemies. She must have exaggerated.
It took him longer than he’d expected to get the door open. The pass keys felt unfamiliar in his hands and he had started to sweat. When the door finally opened, he thought he heard breathing coming at him from out of the darkness. But then it was gone. He stepped into the hall and shut the door softly behind him.
The first thing he always noticed about an apartment was the smell. But here there wasn’t one, as if the apartment was new and no one had moved in yet. He made a mental note of it and started to walk through the apartment with the flashlight in his hand, expecting to find someone in there at any moment. Only when he had assured himself that he was alone did he take off his shoes, shut all the curtains, and turn on a lamp.
Wallander was in the bedroom when the phone rang. He flinched and held his breath. The answering machine in the living room picked up and he hurried over to it. But the caller didn’t leave a message. Who had called? Who called a dead person in the middle of the night?
Wallander walked over to one of the windows that looked out onto the street. He peeked out through a tiny slit in the curtains. The street was empty. He tried to penetrate the shadows with his gaze, but he didn’t see anyone.