“You’re right,” said Wallander, turning to Hansson. “Call a press conference as soon as possible. We’ll tell the press everything we know. That we’re looking for a single killer. And that we need all the clues we can get.”
Svedberg got up and opened a window. Martinsson yawned loudly.
“I know we’re all tired,” said Wallander. “But we have to carry on. Try to grab some sleep when you get a chance.”
There was a knock on the door. An officer handed over an atlas. They set it on the table and found the Dominican Republic and the city of Santiago.
“We’ll have to deal with this girl later,” said Wallander. “We can’t worry about it now.”
“I’ll send a reply,” said Martinsson. “And ask for more information about her disappearance.”
“How did she end up here?” muttered Wallander.
“The message from Interpol gives her age as 17,” said Martinsson. “And her height as about 160 centimetres.”
“Send them a description of the medallion,” said Wallander. “If the father can identify it, the case is closed.”
They left the conference room. Martinsson went home to talk to his family and cancel their holiday. Svedberg went down to the basement and took a shower. Hansson vanished down the hall to organise the press conference. Wallander followed Hoglund into her office.
“Do you think we’ll catch him?” she asked gravely.
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “We have a lead that seems solid. This isn’t an offender who simply kills anyone who gets in his way. He’s after something. The scalps are his trophies.”
She sat down in her chair as Wallander leaned against the doorframe.
“Why do people take trophies?” she asked.
“So they can brag about them.”
“To themselves or to others?”
“Both.”
Suddenly he realised why she had asked about the trophies.
“You think that he took these scalps so he could show them to somebody?”
“It can’t be ruled out,” she said.
“No,” said Wallander, “it can’t be ruled out. Nothing can.”
He was just about to leave the room, but turned around.
“Will you call Stockholm?” he asked.
“It’s Midsummer Day,” she said. “I don’t think they’ll be on duty.”
“You’ll have to call someone at home,” said Wallander. “Since we don’t know whether he’s going to strike again, we’ve got no time to lose.”
Wallander went to his own office and sat down heavily in the visitor’s chair. One of its legs creaked precariously. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.
He woke up with a start when someone entered the room. He glanced at his watch and saw that he’d been asleep for almost an hour. He still had a headache, but he wasn’t quite so tired.
It was Nyberg. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was standing on end.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said apologetically.
“I was just dozing,” said Wallander. “Have you got any news?”
Nyberg shook his head.
“All I can come up with is that the person who killed Carlman must have had his clothes drenched with blood. Subject to the forensic examination, I think we can assume that the blow came from directly overhead. That would mean that the person holding the axe was standing quite close.”
“Are you sure it was an axe?”
“No,” said Nyberg. “It could have been a heavy sabre. Or something else. But Carlman’s head was split like a log.”
Wallander felt sick.
“All right, then,” he said. “So the killer got his clothes covered with blood. Someone might have seen him. And that clears all of the guests.”
“We looked along the hedge,” said Nyberg. “We searched all the way along the rape field and up towards that hill. The farmer who owns the fields around Carlman’s farmhouse came and asked whether he could harvest the rape. I said that he could.”
“A wise decision,” said Wallander. “Isn’t it late already?”
“I think so,” said Nyberg. “It’s Midsummer, after all.”
“What about the hill?” asked Wallander.
“The grass was trampled down. At one spot it looked as if some-one had been sitting there. We took samples of the grass and the soil.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think that old bicycle is of any interest to us,” said Nyberg.
“The police dog lost the scent. Why?”
“You’ll have to ask the officer about that,” said Nyberg. “But it could be that another smell is so strong that the dog loses the scent he was originally following. There are plenty of reasons why trails suddenly stop.”
“Go home and get some sleep,” said Wallander. “You look exhausted.”
“I am,” said Nyberg.
After Nyberg left, Wallander went into the canteen and fixed himself a sandwich. A girl from the front desk came and gave him a pile of messages. He leafed through them and saw that reporters were calling. He knew he ought to go home and change his clothes, but instead he decided to do something entirely different. He knocked on the door of Hansson’s office and told him he was driving out to Carlman’s farm.
“I said we’d talk to the press at one o’clock,” said Hansson.
“I’ll be back by then,” replied Wallander. “But unless something crucial happens, I don’t want anyone to look for me. I need to think.”
“And everybody needs to get some sleep,” said Hansson. “I never imagined we’d wind up in such a nightmare.”
“It always happens when you least expect it,” said Wallander.
He drove out towards Bjaresjo in the beautiful summer morning, the windows rolled down. He ought to visit his father today. And call Linda too. Tomorrow Baiba would be back in Riga after her trip to Tallinn. In less than two weeks his holiday should be starting.
He parked the car by the cordon surrounding Carlman’s farm. Small groups of people had gathered on the road. Wallander nodded to the officer guarding the cordon. Then he walked around the garden and followed the dirt road up towards the hill. He stood at the spot where the dog had lost the scent and looked around.
He had chosen the hill with care. From here he could see everything going on in the garden. He also must have been able to hear the music coming from inside the barn. Late in the evening the crowd in the garden thinned out. The guests had all said that everyone went indoors. At about 11.30 p.m. Carlman came walking towards the arbour with Madelaine Rhedin. Then what did you do?
Wallander didn’t try to answer the question. Instead he turned around and looked down the other side of the hill. At the bottom there were tractor tracks. He followed the grassy slope until he reached the road. In one direction the tractor tracks led into a wood, and in the other down towards a road to the motorway to Malmo and Ystad. Wallander followed the tracks towards the woods. He walked under a clump of tall beech trees. The sunshine shimmered through the foliage. He could smell the earth. The tractor tracks stopped at a site where some newly felled trees were stacked.
Wallander searched in vain for a path. He tried to picture the roads. Anyone wanting to reach the motorway from the woods would have to pass two houses and several fields. The motorway was about two kilometres away. He retraced his steps and continued in the opposite direction. After almost a kilometre he came to the place where the road reached the E65.
By the side of the road was a road workers’ hut, which was locked. He stood there and looked around. Then he went around to the back, finding a folded tarpaulin and a couple of iron pipes. Something was lying on the ground. He bent down and saw that it was a piece torn from a brown paper bag. It had some dark spots on it. Carefully he placed the piece of paper back on the ground. He looked underneath the hut, which was raised on four concrete blocks, and saw the rest of the paper bag. He reached in and pulled it out. There were no spots on the bag itself. He stood motionless, thinking. Then he put down the bag and called the station. He got hold of Martinsson, who had just got back.