Hoglund, Svedberg, Ludwigsson and Hamren had already arrived and been briefed on the work that was under way. There was no sighting of the security company’s car yet. Interviews were being conducted in different rooms. The Spanish-speaking girls had each been supplied with an interpreter. Hoglund was talking to one of them, while three female officers from Helsingborg took care of the others. The guards whose car had collided with the Mercedes had also been interviewed, while forensic technicians were busy cross-checking fingerprints. Finally, several officers were leaning over a number of computers, entering all the information that they had on Hans Logard. The activity was intense. Birgersson concentrated on keeping order so that their work stayed on track.
When Wallander had been briefed, he took his colleagues from Ystad into a room and closed the door. He had obtained Birgersson’s approval to do so. Birgersson was an exceptional policeman who performed his job impeccably, and didn’t seem to suffer from the jealousy and rivalry that so often degraded the quality of police work. He was interested only in catching the man who had shot Sjosten, working out exactly what had happened and who the killer was.
Wallander told his version of events, but what he wanted to resolve was the reason for his unease. Too many things didn’t add up. The man who had shot Sjosten, was he really the same man who had assumed the role of a lone warrior? It was difficult to believe. He would have to do his thinking out loud, with all of them together and just one thin door separating them from the frenzied investigative work. Wallander wanted his colleagues to step aside — and Sjosten would have been there too if he wasn’t in hospital — so that they could serve as a kind of counterweight to the work being done. Wallander looked around and wondered why Ekholm wasn’t there.
“He left for Stockholm this morning,” Svedberg said.
“Just when we need him most,” Wallander said, dismayed.
“He’s supposed to be back tomorrow morning,” Hoglund said. “I think one of his children was hit by a car. Nothing serious. But even so. .”
Wallander nodded. The phone rang. It was Hansson for Wallander.
“Baiba Liepa has called several times from Riga,” he said. “She wants you to call her right away.”
“I can’t right now,” said Wallander. “Explain to her if she calls again.”
“If I understood her correctly, you’re supposed to meet her at Kastrup on Saturday. To go on a holiday together. How were you planning to pull that off?”
“Not now,” Wallander said. “I’ll call you later.”
No-one except Hoglund seemed to notice that the conversation with Hansson was over a personal matter. Wallander caught her eye. She smiled, but didn’t say a word.
“Let’s continue,” he said. “We’re searching for a man who shot at both Sjosten and me. We find some girls locked up inside a farmhouse in the countryside near Bjuv. We can assume that Dolores Maria Santana once came from such a group, passing through Sweden on the way to brothels and the devil knows what else in other parts of Europe. Girls lured here by people associated with Liljegren. In particular, a man named Hans Logard, if that’s his real name. We think he was the one who shot at us, but we aren’t sure. We don’t have a picture of him. Maybe the guards can give us a usable description, but they’re pretty shaken up. They may have seen nothing but his gun. Now we’re hunting for him. But are we actually tracking our killer? The one who killed Wetterstedt, Carlman, Fredman and Liljegren? I’m doubtful. We must catch this man as soon as possible. In the meantime, I think we have to keep working as if this were simply one event on the periphery of the major investigation. I’m just as interested in what has happened to Louise Fredman. And what was discovered at Sturup. But first, of course, I’d like to hear if you have any reactions to my view of the case.”
The room was silent, then Hamren spoke up. “Looking from outside, and not needing to be afraid of causing offence, the whole thing seems like a problem in approach. The police have a tendency to focus on one thing at a time, while the offenders they’re hunting are thinking about ten.”
Wallander listened approvingly, though he wasn’t sure Hamren meant what he was saying.
“Louise Fredman disappeared without a trace,” said Hoglund. “She had a visitor. She followed the visitor out. The name written in the visitors’ book was illegible. Because there were only summer temps working, the normal system had almost fallen apart.”
“Someone must have seen the person who came to get her,” Wallander said.
“Someone did,” Hoglund said. “An assistant nurse named Sara Pettersson.”
“Did anyone talk to her?”
“She’s left on holiday.”
“Where to?”
“She’s bought an Interrail card. She could be anywhere.”
“Damn!”
“We can trace her through Interpol,” Ludwigsson said. “That’ll probably work.”
“Yes,” said Wallander. “I think we should do that. And this time we won’t wait. I want someone to contact Akeson about it tonight.”
“This is Malmo’s jurisdiction,” Svedberg pointed out.
“I don’t give a shit whose jurisdiction we’re in,” Wallander said. “Do it. It’ll have to be Akeson’s headache.”
Hoglund said she would get hold of him. Wallander turned to Ludwigsson and Hamren.
“I heard rumours about a moped,” he said. “A witness who saw something at the airport.”
“That’s right,” Ludwigsson said. “The timing fits. A moped drove off towards the E65 on the night in question.”
“Why is that of interest?”
“Because the night watchman is sure that the moped was driven off just about the same time Bjorn Fredman’s van arrived.”
Wallander recognised the significance of this.
“We’re talking about a time of night when the airport is closed,” Ludwigsson went on. “Nothing’s happening. No taxis, no traffic. Everything is quiet. A van comes up and stops in the car park. Then a moped drives off.”
The room grew still. If there were magic moments in a complex criminal investigation, this was definitely one of them.
“A man on a moped,” Svedberg said. “Can this be right?”
“Is there a description?” Hoglund asked.
“According to the watchman, the man was wearing a helmet that covered his whole head. He’s worked at Sturup for many years. That was the first time a moped left there at night.”
“How can he be sure that he headed towards Malmo?”
“He wasn’t. And I didn’t say that either.”
Wallander held his breath. The voices of the others were far away, like the distant, unintelligible noise of the universe. He knew that now they were very, very close.
CHAPTER 37
Somewhere in the distance Hoover could hear thunder. He counted the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. The storm was passing far away. It wouldn’t come in over Malmo. He watched his sister sleeping on the mattress. He had wanted to offer her something better, but everything had happened so fast. The policeman whom he now hated, the cavalry colonel with the blue trousers, whom he’d christened “Perkins” and “the Man with the Great Curiosity” when he drummed his message to Geronimo, had demanded pictures of Louise. He had also threatened to visit her.
Hoover had realised that he had to change his plans right away. He would pick up Louise even before the row of scalps and the last gift, the girl’s heart, were buried. That’s why he had only managed to take a mattress and a blanket down to the basement. He had planned to do something quite different. There was a big empty house in Limhamn. The woman who lived there alone went to Canada every summer to see her family. She had been his teacher and he sometimes ran errands for her, so he knew she was away. He had copied a key to her front door long ago. They could have lived in her building while they planned their future. But now Perkins had got in the way. Until he was dead, and that would be soon, they would have to settle for the mattress in the basement.