“Once in a while. But seldom. I don’t think Ake trusted them. Probably with good reason.”
“You talked about young girls. Brown girls. Did you mean brunettes, or girls with brown skin?”
“Brown skin.”
“Do you remember ever meeting a girl named Dolores Maria?”
“No.”
“A girl from the Dominican Republic?”
“I don’t even know where that is.”
“Do you remember a girl named Louise Fredman? A teenager. A blonde.”
“No.”
Wallander turned the conversation in another direction. She still seemed willing to continue.
“You say that the parties were wild.”
“Yes, they were.”
“Tell me about wild.”
“Do you want details?”
“Please.”
“Descriptions of naked bodies?”
“Not necessarily.”
“They were orgies. You can imagine the rest.”
“Can I?” said Wallander. “I’m not so sure.”
“If I undressed and lay down on your desk it would be completely unexpected,” she said. “Something like that.”
“Unexpected events?”
“That’s what happens when insatiable people get together, isn’t it?”
“Insatiable men?”
“Exactly.”
Wallander made a hasty outline in his head. He was still scratching the surface.
“I’ve got a proposal,” he said. “And another question.”
“I’m still here.”
“My proposal is that you give me the opportunity to meet you one more time. Soon, within a few days.”
She nodded her assent. Wallander got an unpleasant feeling that he was entering into some sort of agreement.
“My question is simple,” he said. “You were speaking of Liljegren’s chauffeurs. And his butlers. But you said that he had an assistant. Not plural. Is that correct?”
He saw a faint change in her expression. She knew she had said too much even without providing names.
“This conversation is strictly for my memoirs,” said Wallander. “Did I hear correctly or not?”
“You heard wrong,” she said. “Of course he had more than one assistant.”
So, I was right, thought Wallander. “That’ll be all this time, then,” he said, getting up.
“I’ll leave when I finish my cigarette,” she said. For the first time in the conversation she released him from her gaze.
Wallander opened the door. Sjosten was sitting outside reading a sailing magazine. Wallander nodded. She put out her cigarette, stood up, and shook his hand. When Sjosten had shown her out and returned, Wallander was by the window, watching her get into her car.
“Did it go well?” Sjosten asked.
“Maybe,” said Wallander. “She agreed to meet me again.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing, actually.”
“And you think that was good?”
“It was what she didn’t know that interested me,” Wallander said. “I want 24-hour surveillance of Liljegren’s house, and I want you to put a tail on Carlen. Sooner or later somebody will show up who we’ll want to talk to.”
“That sounds like an inadequate reason for surveillance,” said Sjosten.
“I’ll take responsibility for that decision,” said Wallander kindly, “as the chosen leader of this investigation.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t me,” replied Sjosten. “Are you staying overnight?”
“No, I’ll drive home.”
They went down the steps to the ground floor.
“Did you read about a girl who burned herself to death in a field near here?” Wallander asked just before they said goodbye.
“Yes. Terrible story.”
“She had hitchhiked from Helsingborg,” Wallander went on. “And she was scared. I’m just wondering whether she might have had something to do with Liljegren’s fun and games. Although it’s a long shot.”
“There were rumours about Liljegren trading in girls,” said Sjosten. “Among a thousand other rumours.”
Wallander looked at him intently. “Trading girls?”
“There were rumours that Sweden was being used as a transit country for poor girls from South America, on their way to brothels in southern Europe and the former Eastern bloc countries. We’ve found a couple of girls who have managed to escape but we’ve never caught the ones running the business. And we haven’t been able to build a proper case.”
Wallander stared at Sjosten.
“And you waited until now to tell me this?”
Sjosten shook his head, surprised.
“You never asked me about this before now.”
Wallander stood stock still. The girl had started running through his head again.
“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I’ll stay the night.”
They took the lift back up to Sjosten’s office.
CHAPTER 33
On that lovely summer evening Wallander and Sjosten took the ferry to Helsingor on the Danish side and had dinner at a restaurant Sjosten liked. He entertained Wallander while they ate with stories about the boat he was restoring, his numerous marriages and his yet more numerous children. They didn’t begin talking about the investigation until they were having coffee. Wallander listened gratefully to Sjosten, who was a charming storyteller. He was very tired. After the excellent dinner he was feeling drowsy, but his mind was rested. Sjosten had drunk a few shots of aquavit with beer, while Wallander stuck to mineral water.
When the coffee came they exchanged roles. Sjosten listened while Wallander talked. He went over everything that had happened. He talked to Sjosten in a way that forced him to clarify things for himself as well. For the first time he let the girl who had burned herself to death serve as the prelude to the murders. It had seemed improbable to him before that her death might be connected to them. Now he admitted that it had been careless to draw this conclusion. Sjosten was an attentive listener who pounced on him whenever he was vague.
Wallander would think of that evening in Helsingor later as the point when the investigation sloughed off its skin. The pattern he thought he had discovered as he’d sat on the bench on the pier was confirmed. Gaps were filled, holes sealed; questions found their answers, or at least were formulated more clearly and arranged in order. He marched back and forth through the landscape of the case and for the first time felt that he had an overview. But he also had a nagging, guilty feeling that he should have seen it all sooner, that he had been sidetracked, instead of realising that he must go in an entirely different direction. Although he avoided mentioning it to Sjosten, there was one question always on his mind. Could any of the murders have been prevented? Or at least the last one — if it was the last one — Liljegren’s? He couldn’t help but ask. And he knew that it would haunt him for a very long time; maybe he’d never get an answer that he could live with.
The problem was that they didn’t have a suspect, not even a group of people among whom they could cast their net. Nor were there any solid clues that led in a specific direction.
Earlier in the day, when Sjosten had mentioned in passing that it was suspected that Sweden, and especially Helsingborg, served as a transit point for girls destined for brothels, Wallander’s reaction had been immediate. Sjosten was amazed at Wallander’s sudden burst of energy. Without thinking, Wallander had sat down behind the desk, so Sjosten had to take the visitor’s chair in his own office. Wallander told him all he knew about Dolores Maria Santana, that she seemed to be running away when she hitchhiked from Helsingborg.
“A black car came once a week to Gustaf Wetterstedt’s house,” Wallander said. “By chance the housekeeper noticed it. She thought she might recognise the car in Liljegren’s garage. What conclusion can you draw from that?”
“None,” said Sjosten. “There are plenty of black Mercedes with tinted windows.”
“Put it together with the rumours about Liljegren. The rumours of the trade in girls. Is there anything that would prevent him from having parties somewhere else besides his house? Why couldn’t he also run a home delivery service?”
“No reason at all,” said Sjosten. “But there doesn’t seem to be any basis for believing it.”