Wallander got up and went to the window. There was something about the sequence that bothered him. Fredman was the third. Why not the first? Or the last — at least so far? The root of evil, the first or the last to be punished, by a killer who was insane but canny and well-organised. The dock must have been chosen because it was handy. How many docks did he look at before he chose that one? Is this a man who is always near the sea? A well-behaved man; a fisherman, or someone in the coast guard? Or why not a member of the sea rescue service, which has the best bench for meditating on in Ystad? Someone who also managed to drive Fredman away, in his own van. Why did he go to all that trouble? Because it was his only way to get to him? They met somewhere. They knew each other. Peter Hjelm had been quite clear. Fredman travelled a lot and always had plenty of money afterwards. It was rumoured that he was an enforcer. But Wallander only knew of parts of Fredman’s life. They must try to bring the unknown past to light.
Wallander sat down again. The sequence didn’t make sense. What could the explanation be? He went to get some coffee. Svedberg and Hoglund had arrived. Svedberg had a new cap on. His cheeks were a blotchy red. Hoglund was more tanned, and Wallander was paler. Hansson arrived with Mats Ekholm in tow. Even Ekholm had managed to get a tan. Hansson’s eyes were bloodshot with fatigue. He looked at Wallander with astonishment, and at the same time he seemed to be searching for some misunderstanding. Hadn’t Wallander said he’d be in Helsingborg? It wasn’t even 7.30 a.m. yet. Had something happened? Wallander shook his head almost imperceptibly. No-one had misunderstood anything. They hadn’t planned to have a meeting of the investigative team. Ludwigsson and Hamren had already driven out to Sturup, Hoglund was going to join them, while Svedberg and Hansson were busy with follow-up work on Wetterstedt and Carlman. Someone stuck in his head and said that Wallander had a phone call from Helsingborg. Wallander took the call on the phone next to the coffee machine. It was Sjosten, who told him that Elisabeth Carlen was still sleeping. No-one had visited her, and no-one except some curiosity-seekers had been seen near Liljegren’s villa.
“Did Liljegren have no family?” Martinsson asked angrily, as if he’d behaved inappropriately by not marrying.
“He left behind only a few grieving, plundered companies,” Svedberg said.
“They’re working on Liljegren in Helsingborg,” Wallander said. “We’ll get the information in time.”
Wallander knew that Hansson had been meticulous about passing on the latest developments. They agreed that it was likely that Liljegren had been supplying women to Wetterstedt on a regular basis.
“He’s living up to the old rumour about him,” said Svedberg.
“We have to find a similar link to Carlman,” Wallander went on. “It’s there, I know it is. Forget about Wetterstedt for the time being. Let’s concentrate on Carlman.”
Everyone was in a hurry. The link that had been established was like a shot in the arm for the team. Wallander took Ekholm to his office. He told him what he had been thinking earlier that morning. Ekholm was an attentive listener, as always.
“The acid and the oven,” Wallander said. “I’m trying to interpret the killer’s language. He talks to himself and he talks to his victims. What is he actually saying?”
“Your idea about the sequence is interesting,” said Ekholm. “Psychopathic killers often have an element of pedantry in their bloody handiwork. Something may have happened to upset his plans.”
“Like what?”
“He’s the only one who can answer that.”
“Still, we have to try.”
Ekholm didn’t answer. Wallander got the feeling that he didn’t have a lot to say at the moment.
“Let’s number them,” Wallander said. “Wetterstedt is number one. What do we see if we rearrange them?”
“Fredman first or last,” Ekholm said. “Liljegren just before or after, depending on which variant is correct. Wetterstedt and Carlman in positions which tie them to the others.”
“Can we assume that he’s finished?” asked Wallander.
“I have no idea,” Ekholm answered.
“What does your programme say? What combinations has it managed to come up with?”
“Not a thing, actually.” Ekholm seemed surprised by his own answer.
“How do you interpret that?” Wallander said.
“We’re dealing with a serial killer who differs from his predecessors in crucial ways.”
“And what does that tell us?”
“That he’ll provide us with totally new data. If we catch him.”
“We must,” said Wallander, knowing how feeble he sounded.
He got up and they both left the room.
“Criminal psychologists at both the F.B.I. and Scotland Yard have been in touch,” said Ekholm. “They’re following our work with great interest.”
“Have they got any suggestions? We need all the help we can get.”
“I’m supposed to let them know if anything comes in.”
They parted at the reception desk. Wallander took a moment to exchange a few words with Ebba. Then he drove straight to Sturup. He found Ludwigsson and Hamren in the office of the airport police. Wallander was disconcerted to meet a young policeman who had fainted the year before when they were arresting a man trying to flee the country. But he shook his hand and tried to pretend that he was sorry about what had happened.
Wallander realised he had met Ludwigsson before, during a visit to Stockholm. He was a large, powerful man with high colour from blood pressure, not the sun. Hamren was his diametrical opposite: small and wiry, with thick glasses. Wallander greeted them a little offhandedly and asked how it was going.
“There seems to be a lot of rivalry between the different taxi companies out here,” Ludwigsson began. “Just like at Arlanda. So far we haven’t managed to pin down all the ways he could have left the airport during the hours in question. And nobody noticed a motorcycle. But we’ve only just begun.”
Wallander had a cup of coffee and answered a number of questions the two men had. Then he left them and drove on to Malmo. He parked outside the building in Rosengard. It was very hot. He took the lift up to the fifth floor and rang the doorbell. This time it wasn’t the son but Bjorn Fredman’s widow who opened the door. She smelled of wine. At her feet cowering close by was a little boy. He seemed extremely shy. Or afraid, rather. When Wallander bent down to greet him he seemed terrified. A fleeting memory entered Wallander’s mind. He couldn’t catch it, but filed the thought away. It was something that had happened before, or something someone had said, that had been imprinted on his subconscious.
She asked him to come in. The boy clung to her legs. Her hair wasn’t combed and she wore no make-up. The blanket on the sofa told him she had spent the night there. They sat down, Wallander in the same chair for the third time. Stefan, the older son, came in. His eyes were as wary as the last time Wallander had visited. He came forward and shook hands, again with adult manners. He sat down next to his mother on the sofa. Everything was as before. The only difference was the presence of the younger brother, curled up on his mother’s lap. Something didn’t seem quite right about him. His eyes never left Wallander.
“I came about Louise,” Wallander said. “I know it’s hard to talk about a family member who’s in a psychiatric hospital. But it’s necessary.”
“Why can’t she be left in peace?” the woman said. Her voice sounded tormented and unsure, as if she doubted her ability to defend her daughter.