Martinsson put the phone down.
“How did it go?”
“She confessed to everything. She’s as cold as ice.”
“Eva Persson is the same way and she’s only fourteen.”
Wallander looked at Martinsson with something like pleading in his eyes.
“What’s happening to the world?”
“I don’t know.”
Wallander was visibly shaken.
“They’re just young girls.”
“I know, I know. And they have no remorse at all.”
They were silent for a while and Wallander felt completely empty inside. Martinsson was the one who finally spoke.
“Do you understand now why I think of quitting so often?”
Wallander roused himself.
“And do you understand why it’s so important that you don’t?”
He got up and walked over to the window.
“How is Lundberg?”
“Still in critical condition.”
“We have to get to the bottom of this, whether or not he dies. They didn’t assault him like that just to get some cash. Either they needed the money for a specific purpose or the attack was about something else entirely.”
“What could that have been?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling that there’s something deeper behind all this.”
“Isn’t the most probable scenario that they were a little drunk and concocted this mad plan to get some money? Without thinking of the consequences?”
“Why do you think that?”
“I’m just sure it wasn’t a random act, like you said.”
Wallander nodded.
“Well, we agree on that. But I want to know what their reasons were. Tomorrow I’ll talk to Eva Persson, as well as her parents. Does either of them have a boyfriend?”
“Eva Persson said she had someone.”
“Not Hökberg?”
“No.”
“Then she’s lying. She has someone and we’ll find him.”
Martinsson made some notes.
“Who will take that on — you or me?”
Wallander’s response was immediate.
“I’ll do it. I want to know what’s going on in this country.”
“Suits me fine.”
“You’re not completely off the hook, though. Not you, nor Hansson, nor Höglund. We have to find out the real reason for this attack. I’m convinced it was an attempted homicide, and if Lundberg dies, then it’s murder.”
Wallander returned to his office. It was half past five and already it was dark outside. He thought about Sonja Hökberg and why the two girls had needed money so badly. Had there been another reason entirely? Then he thought of Anette Fredman.
He still had work to do but felt he couldn’t bear to stay in his office. He grabbed his coat and left. The sharp fall wind burned his face. He heard the strange engine noise again when he started the car. As he turned out of the parking lot, he decided to go shopping. His refrigerator was almost empty except for the bottle of champagne that he had won in a bet with Hansson. He could no longer remember what the bet had been. On an impulse he thought he would swing by the cash machine where the man had died the night before. He could do his shopping in one of the department stores nearby.
After parking the car, he walked up to the ATM and waited while a woman with a baby in a stroller withdrew some money. The concrete pavement was rough and uneven. Wallander looked around. There seemed to be no residential buildings nearby. In the middle of the night the plaza would be quite deserted. Even in the powerful streetlights, a man could scream and collapse onto the ground without anyone hearing or seeing him.
Wallander went into the nearest department store and found the food market. As usual, he found himself plagued by boredom and indecision as he inspected the shelves. He quickly filled up his basket with an assortment of items, paid, and left. When he started the car again, the mystery engine-noise seemed to increase. He took off his dark suit as soon as he was back in his apartment. He showered and noted that he was almost out of soap. He made some vegetable soup for dinner that tasted surprisingly good. He brewed some coffee, and took a cup out with him into the living room. He was tired. He flipped the channels without finding anything interesting, then reached for the phone and called Linda in Stockholm. She was sharing an apartment in Kungsholmen with two women he only knew by name. To make ends meet, she sometimes worked as a waitress in a nearby restaurant. Wallander had eaten dinner there the last time he was in town and had enjoyed the food. But he was surprised she could stand the music, which was oppressively loud.
Linda was twenty-six years old now. They had a good relationship, but he missed being able to see her regularly.
An answering machine came on. Neither Linda nor any of her roommates was home. The message was repeated in English. Wallander said who he was and that it wasn’t anything important.
He put the phone down and stared down at his coffee. It was cold. I can’t keep living like this, he thought irritatedly. I’m only fifty years old, but I feel ancient and weak.
He knew he should go for an evening walk and tried desperately to think of an excuse not to. Finally he put his sneakers on and headed out.
It was half past eight when he returned. The walk had cleared his mind and he no longer felt as dispirited as before.
The phone rang, and Wallander thought it must be Linda. But it was Martinsson.
“Lundberg has died. They just called from the hospital.”
Wallander was silent.
“That means Hökberg and Persson have committed murder,” Martinsson said.
“I know,” Wallander said, “and we have a hell of a mess on our hands.”
They decided to meet at eight o’clock the next morning.
There was nothing more to say.
Wallander stayed in front of the television and absentmindedly watched a news program. The dollar had gained more ground against the krona. The only story that managed to grab his attention was the piece on an insurance company, Trustor. It seemed bafflingly easy these days to drain the resources of an entire corporation without anyone catching on until it was too late.
Linda didn’t call back. Wallander went to bed around eleven o’clock.
It took him a long time to fall asleep.
Chapter Five
Wallander woke up with a sore throat shortly after six o’clock on Tuesday, the seventh of October. He was sweating lightly and he knew it meant he was starting to come down with the flu. He stayed in bed for a while and debated whether or not he should stay home, but the thought of Johan Lundberg’s death forced him up. He showered, drank some coffee, and swallowed some pills to reduce his fever. He tucked the bottle of pills into his pocket. Then, before heading out, he forced himself to eat a bowl of yogurt. The street lamp outside the kitchen window was swaying in the gusty wind. It was overcast and only a couple of degrees above freezing. Wallander rummaged around in his closet for a thick sweater. Then he put his hand on the phone and debated whether he should call Linda. It was too early. When he reached street level and was about to get in his car, he remembered that he had left a to-do list on the kitchen table. There was something on the list that he had been planning to buy today but he couldn’t recall what it was. He decided he didn’t have the energy to go get it.
Wallander took his usual route to the office, driving along the Osterled. Each time he drove this way he felt guilty. He knew he should be out there walking to work, in order to keep his blood sugar at a healthy level. And even today he wasn’t so weak from the flu that he couldn’t have walked.