He couldn’t allow the policeman to visit his sister. They were so close to their goal now, the sacred moment, when the evil spirits in her head would be driven out for good. He couldn’t let anyone get near her.
The policeman’s visit had been a sign that now was the time to act. He thought about the girl it had been so easy for him to meet. She had reminded him of his sister somehow. That was a good sign, too. Louise would need all the strength he could give her.
He took off his jacket and looked around the room. Everything he needed was there. The axes and knives gleamed, laid out on the black silk cloth. Then he took one of the wide brushes and drew a single line across his forehead.
Time was running out.
CHAPTER 35
Wallander put the photograph of Louise Fredman face down on the desk in front of him. Elisabeth Carlen followed his movements with her eyes. She was dressed in a white summer dress, which Wallander guessed was very expensive. They were in Sjosten’s office, Sjosten in the background, leaning against the doorframe, Elisabeth Carlen in the visitor’s chair. The summer heat swept in through the open window. Wallander felt himself sweating.
“I’m going to show you a photograph,” he said. “And I simply want you to tell me whether you recognise the person in it.”
“Why do policemen have to be so dramatic?” she asked.
Her haughty, imperturbable manner irritated Wallander, but he controlled himself.
“We’re trying to catch a man who has killed four people,” he said. “And he scalps them too. Pours acid into their eyes. And stuffs their heads into ovens.”
“Well obviously you can’t let a maniac like that run around loose, can you?” she replied calmly. “Shall we look at that photograph?”
Wallander slid it over and watched Elisabeth Carlen’s face. She picked it up and seemed to be thinking. Almost half a minute passed, then she shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I’ve never seen her before. At least not that I can remember.”
“It’s very important,” said Wallander.
“I have a good memory for faces,” she said. “I’m sure I’ve never met her. Who is she?”
“That doesn’t matter for the time being,” Wallander said. “Think carefully.”
“Where do you want me to have seen her? At Ake Liljegren’s?”
“Yes.”
“She may have been there sometime when I wasn’t.”
“Did that happen a lot?”
“Not recently.”
“How many years are we talking about?”
“Maybe four.”
“But she could have been there?”
“Young girls are popular with some men. The real creeps.”
“What creeps?”
“The ones with a single fantasy. To go to bed with their own daughters.”
What she said was true, of course, but her indifference angered him. She was part of this market that sucked in innocent children and wrecked their lives.
“If you can’t tell me whether she was ever at any of Liljegren’s parties, who could?”
“Somebody else.”
“Give me a straight answer. Who? I want a name and address.”
“It was always completely anonymous,” said Elisabeth Carlen patiently. “That was one of the rules for these parties. You recognised a face now and then. But nobody exchanged cards.”
“Where did the girls come from?”
“All over. Denmark, Stockholm, Belgium, Russia.”
“They came and then they disappeared?”
“That’s about it.”
“But you live here in Helsingborg?”
“I was the only one who did.”
Wallander looked at Sjosten, as if wanting confirmation that the conversation hadn’t completely got off the track before continuing.
“The picture is of a girl called Louise Fredman,” he said. “Does the name mean anything to you?”
She gave him a puzzled look.
“Wasn’t that his name? The one who was murdered? Fredman?”
Wallander nodded. She looked at the photograph again. For a moment she seemed moved by the connection.
“Is this his daughter?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head again.
“I’ve never seen her before.”
Wallander knew she was telling the truth, if only because she had nothing to gain by lying. He retrieved the photograph and turned it over again, as if to spare Louise Fredman from further participation.
“Were you ever at the house of a man named Gustaf Wetterstedt?” he asked. “In Ystad?”
“What would I be doing there?”
“The same thing you normally do to make your living. Was he your client?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Completely sure?”
“Yes.”
“Were you ever at the house of an art dealer named Arne Carlman?”
“No.”
Wallander had an idea. Maybe names weren’t used in those cases either.
“I’m going to show you some other photographs,” he said, getting to his feet. He took Sjosten outside.
“What do you think?” Wallander asked.
Sjosten shrugged. “She’s not lying.”
“We need photos of Wetterstedt and Carlman,” Wallander said. “Fredman too. They’re in the investigative material.”
“Birgersson has the folders,” said Sjosten. “I’ll get them.”
Wallander went back into the room and asked whether she’d like coffee.
“I’d rather have a gin and tonic,” she said.
“The bar isn’t open yet,” Wallander answered.
She laughed. His reply appealed to her. Wallander went out into the hall. Elisabeth Carlen was very beautiful. Her body was clearly visible through her dress. Sjosten came of out Birgersson’s office with a plastic folder. They went back into the room. Elisabeth Carlen was sitting there smoking. Wallander put a picture of Wetterstedt in front of her.
“I recognise him,” she said. “From TV. Wasn’t he the one who ran around with whores in Stockholm?”
“He may have still been at it later on.”
“Not with me,” she replied calmly.
“And you’ve never been to his house?”
“Never.”
“Do you know anyone else who’s been there?”
“No.”
Wallander replaced the picture with one of Carlman. He was standing next to an abstract painting, smiling broadly at the camera.
“This one I’ve seen,” she said firmly.
“At Liljegren’s?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
Elisabeth Carlen thought for a moment. Wallander surreptitiously studied her body. Sjosten took a notebook out of his pocket.
“About a year ago,” she said.
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
Wallander nodded. Another connection, he thought. Now all we have to do is find the right box to put Fredman in.
He showed her Bjorn Fredman. Fredman was playing guitar. It was a prison photograph, and must have been old. Fredman had long hair and was wearing bell-bottoms; the colours were faded.
She shook her head again. She had never seen him.
Wallander let his hands drop with a smack on the desk.
“That’s all I wanted to know for now,” he said. “I’ll swap places with Sjosten.”
Wallander took up the position by the door. He also took over Sjosten’s notebook.
“How the hell can you live a life like yours?” Sjosten began, surprisingly. He asked the question with a big smile. He sounded quite friendly, but Elisabeth Carlen didn’t let down her facade for a moment.
“What business is that of yours?”
“None. Just curious, that’s all. How can you stand to look at yourself in the mirror every morning?”
“What do you think when you look in the mirror?”
“That at least I’m not making a living by lying on my back for anyone who happens to have enough cash. Do you take credit cards?”
“Go to hell.”
She made a move to get up and leave. Wallander was annoyed at the way he was needling her. She might still be useful.
“Please forgive me,” Sjosten said, still just as friendly. “Let’s forget about your private life. Hans Logard? Is that name familiar?”