“I need Eskilsson and his dog,” said Wallander.
“Where are you? Did something happen?”
“I’m out by Carlman’s farm,” replied Wallander. “I just want to make sure of one thing.”
After a short while Eskilsson arrived with his dog. Wallander explained what he wanted.
“Go over to the hill where the dog lost the scent,” he said. “Then come back here.”
Eskilsson left. After about ten minutes he returned. Wallander saw that the dog had stopped searching. But just as he reached the hut he reacted. Eskilsson gave Wallander a questioning look.
“Let him go,” said Wallander.
The dog went straight for the piece of paper and halted. But when Eskilsson tried to get him to continue his search he quickly gave up. The scent had disappeared again.
“Is it blood?” asked Eskilsson, pointing at the piece of torn paper.
“I think so,” said Wallander “At any rate, we’ve found something associated with the man who was up on the hill.”
Eskilsson left with his dog. Wallander was just about to call Nyberg when he found that he had a plastic bag in one pocket. Carefully he deposited the piece of paper in it.
It couldn’t have taken you more than a few minutes to get here from Carlman’s farm. Presumably there was a bicycle here. You changed clothes since you had blood all over them. But you also wiped an object. Maybe a knife or an axe. Then you took off, either towards Malmo or Ystad. You probably crossed the motorway and chose one of the many small roads that criss-cross this area. I can follow you this far right now. But no further.
Wallander walked back to Carlman’s farm. He asked the officer guarding the cordon whether the family was still there.
“I haven’t seen anybody,” he said. “But no-one has left the house.”
Wallander nodded and walked to his car. There was a crowd of onlookers standing outside the cordon. Wallander glanced at them hastily and wondered what kind of people would give up a summer morning for the opportunity to smell blood.
He didn’t realise until he drove off that he had seen something important. He slowed down and tried to remember what it was.
It had something to do with the people who were standing outside the cordon. What was it he had thought? Something about people sacrificing a summer morning?
He braked and made a U-turn in the middle of the road. When he got back to Carlman’s house the onlookers were still there outside the cordon. Wallander looked around without finding any explanation for his reaction. He asked the officer whether anyone had just left.
“Maybe. People come and go all the time.”
“Nobody special that you recall?”
The officer thought for a moment. “No.”
Wallander went back to his car.
It was 9.10 a.m. on the morning of Midsummer Day.
CHAPTER 13
When Wallander got back to the station, the girl in reception told him he had a visitor waiting in his office. Wallander lost his temper and shouted at the girl, a summer intern, that no-one, no matter who it was, was to be allowed into his office. He stormed down the hall and threw open the door, coming face to face with his father, sitting in the visitor’s chair.
“The way you tear open doors,” said his father. “Somebody might think you were in a rage.”
“All they told me was that someone was waiting in my office,” said Wallander, astonished. “Not that it was you.”
Wallander’s father had never visited him at work. When he was a young officer, his father had even refused to let him into the house in uniform. But now here he was, wearing his best suit.
“I’m surprised,” said Wallander. “Who drove you here?”
“My wife has both a driver’s licence and a car,” replied his father. “She went to see one of her relatives while I came here. Did you see the game last night?”
“No. I was working.”
“It was great. I remember the way it was back in ’58, when the World Cup was held in Sweden.”
“But you were never interested in football, were you?”
“I’ve always liked football.”
Wallander stared at him in surprise.
“I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know. In 1958 Sweden had a defender named Sven Axbom. He was having big problems with one of Brazil’s wingers, as I recall. Have you forgotten about that?”
“How old was I in 1958? I was a baby.”
“You never were much for playing football. Maybe that’s why you became a policeman.”
“I bet that Russia would win,” said Wallander.
“That’s not hard to believe,” said his father. “I bet 2–0 myself. Gertrud, on the other hand, was cautious. She thought it would be 1–1.”
“Would you like some coffee?” asked Wallander.
“Yes, please.”
In the hall Wallander ran into Hansson.
“Will you see to it that I’m not disturbed for the next half hour?” he said.
Hansson gave him a worried look.
“I absolutely must speak with you.”
Hansson’s formal manner irritated Wallander.
“In half an hour,” he repeated. “Then we’ll talk as much as you like.”
He went back to his room and closed the door. His father took the plastic cup in both hands. Wallander sat down behind the desk.
“I never thought I’d see you in the station,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have to,” his father replied.
Wallander set his plastic cup on the desk. He should have known straight away that it must be something very important for his father to visit him here.
“What’s happened?” Wallander asked.
“Nothing, except that I’m sick,” replied his father simply.
Wallander felt a knot in his stomach.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I’m starting to lose my mind,” his father went on calmly. “It’s a disease with a name I can’t remember. It’s like getting senile. But it can make you angry at everything. And it can progress very fast.”
Wallander knew what his father meant. Svedberg’s mother was stricken with it. But he couldn’t remember the name either.
“How do you know?” he asked. “Have you been to the doctor? Why didn’t you say something before now?”
“I’ve even been to a specialist, in Lund,” said his father. “Gertrud drove me there.”
Wallander didn’t know what to say.
“Actually, I came here to ask you something,” his father said, looking at him.
The telephone rang. Wallander put the receiver on the desk.
“I’ve got time to wait,” said his father.
“I told them I didn’t want to be disturbed. So tell me what it is you want.”
“I’ve always dreamed of going to Italy,” his father said. “Before it’s too late, I’d like to take a trip there. And I thought you might come with me. Gertrud doesn’t have any interest in Italy. I don’t think she wants to go. I’ll pay for the whole thing. I’ve got the money.”
Wallander looked at his father. He seemed small and shrunken sitting there in the chair. At that moment he suddenly looked his age. Almost 80.
“Of course, let’s go to Italy,” said Wallander. “When did you have in mind?”
“It’s probably best that we don’t wait too long. Apparently it’s not too hot in September. But will you have time then?”
“I can take a week off any time. Or did you want longer than that?”
“A week would be fine.”
His father leaned forward, put down the coffee cup, and stood up.
“Well, I won’t bother you any longer,” he said. “I’ll wait for Gertrud outside.”
“You can wait here,” said Wallander.
His father waved his cane at him.
“You’ve got a lot to do,” he said. “I’ll wait outside.”
Wallander accompanied him out to reception, where his father sat down on a sofa.
“I don’t want you to wait with me,” said his father. “Gertrud will be here soon.”
Wallander nodded.
“We’ll go to Italy together,” he said. “And I’ll come out and see you as soon as I can.”