“I’m going to see the farmer,” he said. “I’ll be in this afternoon.”
He drove back to Ystad. In the cafeteria at the hospital he had some coffee and a sandwich. Then he looked for the ward where Salomonsson was. He stopped a nurse, introduced himself, and stated his business. She gave him a quizzical look.
“Edvin Salomonsson?”
“I don’t remember whether his name was Edvin,” Wallander said. “Did he come in last night after the fire outside Marsvinsholm?”
The nurse nodded.
“I’d like to speak with him,” said Wallander. “If he’s not too sick, that is.”
“He’s not sick,” replied the nurse. “He’s dead.”
Wallander gave her an astonished look.
“Dead?”
“He died this morning in his sleep. Apparently it was a heart attack. It would probably be best if you spoke to one of the doctors.”
“I just came by to see how he was doing,” said Wallander. “Now I have my answer.”
He left the hospital and walked out into the bright sunshine. He had no idea what to do next.
CHAPTER 5
Wallander drove home knowing that he must sleep if he were ever going to be able to think clearly again. No-one could be blamed for the old farmer’s death. The person who might have been held responsible, the one who had set fire to his rape field, was already dead herself. It was the events themselves, the fact that any of this had happened, that made him feel sick at heart. He unplugged the phone and lay down on the sofa in the living-room with a flannel over his eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come. After half an hour he gave up. He plugged in the telephone, lifted the receiver, and dialled Linda’s number in Stockholm. On a sheet of paper by the phone he had a long list of numbers, each crossed out. Linda moved often, and her number was forever changing. He let it ring a long time. Then he dialled his sister’s number. She answered almost at once. They didn’t speak very often, and hardly ever about anything but their father. Sometimes Wallander thought that their contact would cease altogether when their father died.
They exchanged the usual pleasantries, without really being interested in the answers.
“You called,” Wallander said.
“I’m worried about Dad,” she said.
“Has something happened? Is he sick?”
“I don’t know. When did you visit him last?”
Wallander tried to remember.
“About a week ago,” he said, feeling guilty.
“Can you really not manage to see him more often?”
“I’m working almost round the clock. The department is hopelessly understaffed. I visit him as often as I can.”
“I talked to Gertrud yesterday,” she went on, without commenting on what Wallander had said. “I thought she gave an evasive answer when I asked how Dad was doing.”
“Why would she?” said Wallander, surprised.
“I have no idea. That’s why I’m calling.”
“He was the same as always,” Wallander said. “Cross that I was in a hurry and couldn’t stay very long. But the whole time I was there he sat painting his picture and made out as though he didn’t have time to talk to me. Gertrud was happy, as usual. I have to admit I don’t understand how she puts up with him.”
“Gertrud likes him,” she said. “It’s a question of love. Then you can put up with a lot.”
Wallander wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible. As she got older, his sister reminded him more and more of their mother. Wallander had never had a very happy relationship with his mother. When he was growing up it was as though the family had been divided into two camps — his sister and his mother against him and his father. Wallander had been very close to his father until his late teens, when he decided to become a policeman. Then a rift had developed. His father had never accepted Wallander’s decision, but he couldn’t explain to his son why he was so opposed to this career, or what he wanted him to do instead. After Wallander finished his training and started on the beat in Malmo, the rift had widened to a chasm. Some years later his mother was stricken with cancer. She was diagnosed at New Year and died in May. His sister Kristina left the house the same summer and moved to Stockholm, where she got a job in a company then known as L. M. Ericsson. She married, divorced, and married again. Wallander had met her first husband once, but he had no idea what her present husband even looked like. He knew that Linda had visited their home in Karrtorp a few times, but he got the impression that the visits were never very successful. Wallander knew that the rift from their childhood and teenage years was still there, and that the day their father died it would widen for good.
“I’m going to see him tonight,” said Wallander, thinking about the pile of dirty laundry on his floor.
“I’d appreciate it if you called me,” she said.
Wallander promised he would. Then he called Riga. When the phone was picked up he thought it was Baiba at first. Then he realised that it was her housekeeper, who spoke nothing but Latvian. He hung up quickly. At the same moment his phone rang and he jumped.
He picked up the phone and heard Martinsson’s voice.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” said Martinsson.
“I just stopped by to change my shirt,” said Wallander, wondering why he always felt it necessary to excuse himself for being at home. “Has something happened?”
“A few calls have come in about missing persons,” said Martinsson. “Ann-Britt is busy going through them.”
“I was thinking more of what you had come up with on the computer.”
“The mainframe has been down all morning,” Martinsson replied glumly. “I called Stockholm a while ago. Somebody there thought it might be up and running again in an hour, but he wasn’t sure.”
“We’re not chasing crooks,” Wallander said. “We can wait.”
“A doctor called from Malmo,” Martinsson continued. “A woman. Her name was Malmstrom. I promised her you’d call.”
“Why couldn’t she talk to you?”
“She wanted to talk to you. I suppose it’s because you were the last one to see the woman alive.”
Wallander wrote down the number. “I was out there today,” he said. “Nyberg was on his knees in the filth, sweating. He was waiting for a police dog.”
“He’s like a dog himself,” said Martinsson, not disguising his dislike of Nyberg.
“He can be grumpy,” Wallander protested. “But he knows his stuff.”
He was about to hang up when he remembered Salomonsson.
“The farmer died,” he said.
“Who?”
“The man whose kitchen we were drinking coffee in last night. He had a heart attack.”
After he hung up, Wallander went to the kitchen and drank some water. For a long time he sat at the kitchen table doing nothing. Eventually he called Malmo. He had to wait while the doctor named Malmstrom was called to the phone. From her voice he could hear that she was very young. Wallander introduced himself and apologised for the delay in returning her call.
“Has any new information come to light that indicates that a crime was committed?” she asked.
“No.”
“In that case we won’t have to do an autopsy,” she replied. “That will make it easier. She burned herself to death using petrol — leaded.”
Wallander felt that he was about to be sick. He imagined her blackened body, as if it were lying right next to the woman he was speaking to.
“We don’t know who she was,” he said. “We need to know as much as possible about her in order to be able to give a clear description.”
“It’s always hard with a burned body,” she said, without emotion. “All the skin is burned away. The dental examination isn’t ready yet. But she had good teeth. No fillings. She was 163 centimetres tall. She had never broken a bone.”
“I need her age,” said Wallander. “That’s almost the most important thing.”
“That’ll take a few more days. We can base it on her teeth.”
“What would you guess?”
“I’d rather not.”