Wallander asked her to draw him a map. She tore up a bread bag and drew the route on it for him. It was almost 6 p.m. They drove out of town, following the road to Hoganas. Wallander navigated with the bread bag. They reached an area where the farms thinned out. That’s where they took the first wrong turn. They ended up in an enchantingly beautiful beech forest, but they were in the wrong place.
Wallander told Sjosten to turn around, and when they got back to the main road they started again. They took the next side road to the left, then to the right, and then left. The road ended in a field. Wallander swore to himself, got out of the car, and looked around for a church spire the ladies had told him about. Out there in the field he felt like someone floating out to sea, searching for a light-house to navigate by. He found the church spire and then understood, after a conference with the bread bag, why they had got lost. Sjosten was directed back; they started again, and this time they found it.
Hordestigen was an old farm, not unlike Arne Carlman’s, and it was in an isolated spot with no neighbours, surrounded by beech woods on two sides and gently sloping fields on the others. The road ended at the farmhouse. There was no letter box. His post must go elsewhere.
“What can we expect?” asked Wallander.
“You mean is he dangerous?”
“He might be the one who killed Liljegren. Or all of them. We don’t know a thing about him.”
Sjosten’s reply surprised Wallander.
“There’s a shotgun in the boot. And ammunition. You take that. I’ve got my service revolver.”
Sjosten reached under the seat.
“Against regulations,” he said, smiling. “But if you had to follow all the regulations that exist, police work would have been forbidden long ago by the health and safety watchdogs.”
“Forget the shotgun,” Wallander said. “Have you got a licence for the revolver?”
“Of course I have a licence,” Sjosten said. “What do you think?”
They got out of the car. Sjosten stuffed his revolver in his jacket pocket. They stood and listened. There was thunder in the distance. Around them it was quiet and extremely humid. No sign of a car or a living soul. The farm seemed abandoned. They walked up to the house, shaped like an L.
“The third wing must have burned down,” Sjosten said. “Or else it was torn down. But it’s a nice house. Well preserved. Just like the boat.”
Wallander went and knocked on the door. No answer. Then he banged on it hard. Nothing. He peered in through a window. Sjosten stood in the background with one hand in his jacket pocket. Wallander didn’t like being so close to a gun. They walked around the house. Still no sign of life. Wallander stopped, lost in thought.
“There are stickers all over saying that the windows and doors are alarmed,” Sjosten said. “But it would take a hell of a long time for anyone to get here if it was set off. We’ll have time to go inside and get out of here before then.”
“Something doesn’t fit here,” said Wallander, as if he hadn’t heard Sjosten.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
They went over towards the wing that served as a tool shed. The door was locked with a big padlock. Through the windows they could see all kinds of equipment and rubbish inside.
“There’s nobody here,” said Sjosten flatly. “We’ll have to put the farm under surveillance.”
Wallander looked around. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. He walked round the house again and looked in at several of the windows, listening. Sjosten followed. When they had gone round the house for a second time, Wallander stopped by some black rubbish bags next to the house. They were sloppily tied with string. Flies buzzed around them. He opened one of the sacks. Food remains, paper plates. He picked up a plastic bag from the Scan Deli between his thumb and forefinger. Sjosten stood next to him, watching. He looked at the various expiry dates. He could smell the meat. They hadn’t been here many hours. Not in this heat. He opened the other sack. It too was filled with frozen food containers. It was a lot of food to eat in a few days.
Sjosten stood next to Wallander looking at the sacks.
“He must have had a party.”
Wallander tried to think. The muggy heat was making the pressure build in his head. Soon he would have a headache, he could feel it.
“We’re going in,” he said. “I want to look around inside the house. Isn’t there any way to get around the alarm?”
“Maybe down the chimney.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to take our chances.”
“I’ve got a crowbar in the car,” Sjosten said.
Wallander examined the front door of the house. He thought about the door he had broken down at his father’s studio in Loderup. He went to the back of the house with Sjosten carrying the crowbar. The door there seemed less solid. Wallander decided to prise it open. He jammed the crowbar between the hinges. He looked at Sjosten, who glanced at his watch.
“Go,” he said.
Wallander braced himself and pushed on the crowbar with all his strength. The hinges broke off, along with some chunks of wall plaster and tile. He jumped to one side so the door wouldn’t fall on him.
The house looked even more like Carlman’s on the inside, if that were possible. Walls had been torn down, the space opened up. Modern furniture, newly laid hardwood floor. They listened again. Everything was quiet. Too quiet, Wallander thought. As if the house were holding its breath. Sjosten pointed to a telephone and fax machine on a table. The light on the answer machine was blinking. Wallander nodded. Sjosten pushed the play button. It crackled and clicked. Then there was a voice. Wallander saw Sjosten jump. A man’s voice asked Hans to call him as soon as possible. Then it was silent again. The tape stopped.
“That was Liljegren,” Sjosten said, obviously shaken. “God damn.”
“Then we know that message has been here for quite a while,” Wallander said.
“So Logard hasn’t been here since then.”
“Not necessarily,” Wallander said. “He might have listened to the message but not erased it. If the power goes off later, the light will start blinking again. They may have had a thunderstorm here. We don’t know.”
They went through the house. A narrow hall led to the part of the house at the angle of the L. The door there was closed. Wallander suddenly raised his hand. Sjosten stopped short behind him. Wallander heard a sound. At first he couldn’t tell what it was. It sounded like a growling animal, then like a muttering. He looked at Sjosten, who’d heard it too. Then he tried the door. It was locked. The muttering had stopped.
“What the hell is going on?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “I can’t break this door open with the crowbar.”
“We’re going to have the security company here in about 15 minutes.”
Wallander thought hard. He didn’t know what was on the other side, except that it was at least one person, maybe more. He was feeling sick. He knew that he had to get the door open.
“Give me your revolver,” he said.
Sjosten took it out of his pocket.
“Get back from the door,” Wallander shouted as loud as he could. “I’m going to shoot it open.”
He looked at the lock, took a step back, cocked the gun, and fired. The blast was deafening. He shot again, then once more. The ricochets hit the far wall in the hall. He handed the revolver back to Sjosten and kicked open the door, his ears ringing.
The room was large. It had no windows. There were a number of beds and a partition enclosing a toilet. A refrigerator, glasses, cups, some thermoses. Huddled together in a corner of the room, obviously terrified, were four young girls clutching one another. Two of them reminded Wallander of the girl he had seen from 20 metres away in Salomonsson’s rape field. For a brief moment, with his ears ringing, Wallander thought he could see it all before him, one event after another, how it all fitted together and how everything suddenly made sense. But in reality he saw nothing at all. There was just a feeling rushing straight through him, like a train going through a tunnel at high speed, leaving behind only a light shaking of the ground.