Hansson went out to the operations centre and spoke with the officer who had taken the call.
“Did she really say that a man had his head split in half?”
The officer nodded. Hansson pondered this.
“We’ll have to ask Svedberg to drive out there,” he said.
“But isn’t he busy with that domestic violence case in Svarte?”
“Right, I forgot,” said Hansson. “Call Wallander.”
For the first time in over a week Wallander had managed to get to sleep before midnight. In a moment of weakness he considered joining the rest of the country watching the match against Russia. But he fell asleep while he was waiting for the players to take the field. When the telephone rang, he didn’t know where he was for a moment. He fumbled on the table next to the bed.
“Did I wake you up?” asked Hansson.
“Yes,” replied Wallander. “What is it?”
Wallander was surprised at himself. He usually claimed that he was awake when someone called, no matter what time it was.
Hansson told him about the call. Later Wallander would brood over why he hadn’t immediately made the connection between what had happened in Bjaresjo and Wetterstedt’s murder. Was it because he didn’t want to believe that they had a serial killer on their hands? Or was he simply incapable of imagining that a murder like Wetterstedt’s could be anything but an isolated event? The only thing he did now was to ask Hansson to dispatch a squad car to the scene ahead of him.
Just before 3 a.m. he pulled up outside the farm in Bjaresjo. On the car radio he heard Martin Dahlin score his second goal against Russia. He realised that Sweden was going to win and that he had lost another 100 kronor.
He saw Noren running over to him, and knew at once that it was serious. But it wasn’t until he went into the garden and passed a number of people who were either hysterical or dumbstruck that he grasped the full extent of the horror. The man who had been sitting on the bench in the arbour had actually had his head split in half. On the left half of his head, someone had also sliced off a large piece of skin and hair.
Wallander stood there completely motionless for more than a minute. Noren said something, but it didn’t register. He stared at the dead man and knew without doubt that it was the same killer who had axed Wetterstedt to death. Then for a brief moment he felt an indescribable sorrow.
Later, talking to Baiba, he tried to explain the unexpected and very un-policeman-like feeling that had struck him. It was as though a dam inside him had burst, and he knew that there were no longer invisible lines dividing Sweden. The violence of the large cities had reached his own police district once and for all. The world had shrunk and expanded at the same time.
Then sorrow gave way to horror. He turned to Noren, who was very pale.
“It looks like the same offender,” said Noren.
Wallander nodded.
“Who’s the victim?” he asked.
“His name is Arne Carlman. He’s the one who owns this farm. There was a Midsummer party going on.”
“No-one must leave yet. Find out if anyone saw anything.”
Wallander took out his phone, punched in the number of the station, and asked for Hansson.
“It looks bad,” he said when Hansson came on.
“How bad?”
“I’m having a hard time thinking of anything worse. There’s no doubt it’s the same person who killed Wetterstedt. This one was scalped too.”
Wallander could hear Hansson’s breathing.
“You’ll have to mobilise everything we’ve got,” Wallander went on “And I want Akeson to come out here.”
Wallander hung up before Hansson could ask questions. What will I do now? he thought. Who am I looking for? A psychopath? An offender who acts in a precise and calculated way?
Deep inside he knew the answer. There must be a connection between Gustaf Wetterstedt and Arne Carlman. That was the first thing he had to discover.
After 20 minutes the emergency vehicles started arriving. When Wallander caught sight of Nyberg, he ushered him straight to the arbour.
“Not a pretty sight,” was Nyberg’s first comment.
“This has got to be the same man,” said Wallander. “He has struck again.”
“It doesn’t look as though we’ll have trouble identifying the scene of the crime this time,” said Nyberg, pointing at the blood sprayed over the hedge and the table. He summoned his crew and set to work.
Noren had assembled all the guests in the barn. The garden was strangely deserted. He came over to Wallander and pointed up towards the farmhouse.
“He’s got a wife and three children in there. They’re in shock.”
“Maybe we ought to call a doctor.”
“She called one herself.”
“I’ll talk to them,” said Wallander. “When Martinsson and Ann-Britt and the others get here, tell them to talk to anyone who might have seen something. The rest can go home. But write down every name. And don’t forget to ask for identification. Were there any witnesses?”
“Nobody has come forward.”
“Have you got a time frame?”
Noren took a notebook out of his pocket.
“At 11.3 °Carlman was seen alive. At 2 a.m. he was found dead. So the murder took place sometime in between.”
“It must be possible to shorten the time span,” said Wallander. “Try and find out who was the last one to see him alive. And of course who found him.”
Wallander went inside. The old Scanian farmhouse had been lovingly restored. Wallander stepped into a large room that served as living-room, kitchen, and dining area. Oil paintings covered the walls. In one corner of the room, the dead man’s family sat on a sofa upholstered in black leather. A woman in her 50s stood up and came over to him.
“Mrs Carlman?”
“Yes.”
She had been crying. Wallander looked for signs that she might break down. But she seemed surprisingly calm.
“I’m sorry,” said Wallander.
“It’s just terrible.”
Wallander noted something a little rehearsed in her answer.
“Do you have any idea who might have done such a thing?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly. She had been prepared for that question. That means there are plenty of people who might have considered killing him, he told himself.
“May I ask what was your husband’s job?”
“He was an art dealer.”
Wallander stiffened. She misconstrued his intense gaze and repeated her answer.
“I heard you,” said Wallander. “Excuse me for a moment.”
Wallander went back outside. He thought about what the woman inside had said, connecting it with what Lars Magnusson had told him about the rumours about Wetterstedt. Stories of stolen art. And now an art dealer was dead, murdered by the hand that took Wetterstedt’s life. He was about to go back inside when Ann-Britt Hoglund came around the corner of the house. She was paler than usual and very tense. Wallander remembered his early years as a detective, when he took every violent crime to heart. From the start, Rydberg had taught him that a policeman could never permit himself to identify with a victim of violence. That lesson had taken Wallander a long time to learn.
“Another one?” she asked.
“Same offender,” said Wallander. “Or offenders.”
“This one scalped too?”
“Yes.”
He saw her flinch involuntarily.
“I think I’ve found something that ties these two men together,” Wallander went on, and explained. In the meantime Svedberg and Martinsson arrived. Wallander quickly repeated what he had told Hoglund.
“You’ll have to interview the guests,” said Wallander. “If I understood Noren correctly, there are at least a hundred. And they all have to show some identification before they leave.”