Martinsson came in and sat down. He got straight to the point.
“I’ve been thinking about all that mercenary stuff. And Berggren’s diary. This morning when I woke up it struck me that I’ve actually met a person who was in the Congo at the same time as Harald Berggren.”
“As a mercenary?” asked Wallander in surprise.
“No. As a member of the Swedish UN contingent that was supposed to disarm the Belgian forces in Katanga province.”
Wallander shook his head. “I was 12 or 13 when all that happened. I don’t remember much about it. Actually, nothing except that Dag Hammarskjold was in a plane crash.”
“I wasn’t even born,” Martinsson said. “But I remember something about it from school.”
“Who was it you met?”
“Several years ago I was going to meetings of the People’s Party,” Martinsson continued. “There was often coffee afterwards. I got an ulcer from all the coffee I drank in those days.”
Wallander drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk.
“At one of the meetings I wound up sitting next to a man of about 60. How we got to talking about it I don’t know, but he told me he’d been a captain and adjutant to General von Horn, who was commander of the Swedish UN force in the Congo. I remember him mentioning that there were mercenaries involved.”
Wallander listened with growing interest.
“I made a few calls this morning. One of my fellow party members knew who that captain was. His name is Olof Hanzell, and he’s retired. He lives in Nybrostrand.”
“Great,” Wallander said. “Let’s pay him a visit as soon as possible.”
“I’ve already called him. He said he’d gladly talk to the police if we thought he could help. He sounded lucid and claimed he has an excellent memory.”
Martinsson placed a slip of paper with a phone number on Wallander’s desk.
“We have to try everything,” Wallander said. “This morning’s meeting will be short.”
Martinsson stood up to go. He stopped in the door.
“Did you see the papers?” he asked.
“When would I have time for that?”
“People in Lodinge and other areas have been talking to the press. After what happened to Eriksson they’ve started talking about the need for a citizen militia.”
“They’ve always done that,” Wallander replied. “That’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not so sure,” Martinsson said. “There’s something different about these stories.”
“What’s that?”
“People aren’t speaking anonymously any more. They’re giving their names. That’s never happened before. The idea of a citizen militia is acceptable all of a sudden.”
Wallander knew that Martinsson was right, but he still doubted that it was more than the usual manifestation of fear when a brutal crime had been committed.
“There’ll be more tomorrow once the news about Runfeldt gets out. It would probably be a good idea for us to prepare Chief Holgersson for what’s coming.”
“What’s your impression?” Martinsson asked.
“Of Lisa Holgersson? I think she seems first-rate.”
Martinsson stepped back into the room. Wallander saw how tired he was. He had aged rapidly during his years as a policeman.
“I thought what happened this summer was the exception,” he said. “Now I realise it wasn’t.”
“There aren’t many similarities,” Wallander said. “We shouldn’t draw parallels that aren’t there.”
“That’s not what I was thinking about. It’s all this violence. As if nowadays it’s not enough to kill, you have to torture your victims as well.”
“I know. But I can’t tell you how we’re supposed to deal with it.”
Martinsson left the room. Wallander thought about what he had heard. He decided to talk to Captain Olof Hanzell himself that very day.
As Wallander had predicted, the meeting was brief. Even though no-one had had much sleep, they all seemed determined and energised. Per Akeson had shown up to listen to Wallander’s summary. Afterwards he had very few questions.
They divided up the assignments and discussed what should be given priority. The question of calling in extra manpower was left for the time being. Chief Holgersson had released more officers from other assignments so they could take part in the murder investigations, which would now involve twice as much work. When the meeting neared its conclusion after about an hour, they all had far too much work to handle.
“One more thing,” Wallander said in closing. “We have to expect that these murders are going to get a lot of press. What we’ve seen so far is just the tip of the iceberg. As I understand it, people out in the surrounding areas have started to talk again about organising night patrols and a citizen militia. We’ll have to wait and see if things develop the way I think they will. For now, it’s easier if the chief and I handle the contact with the press. And I’d be grateful if Ann-Britt could help out at our press conferences.”
Wallander talked to Chief Holgersson for a while after the meeting. They decided to hold a press conference at 5.30 p.m that day. Wallander went to find Per Akeson, but he had already left. He went back to his office and called the number Martinsson had given him, remembering as he did so that he still hadn’t put Svedberg’s note on his desk. Captain Hanzell answered the phone. He had a friendly voice. Wallander introduced himself and asked if he could come out and see him that morning. Hanzell said he was welcome to, and gave him directions.
When Wallander left the station the sky had cleared again. It was windy, but the sun was shining between the scattered clouds. He reminded himself to put a jumper in his car. Though he was in a hurry, he stopped at an estate agent’s and stood looking at the properties for sale in the window. One of the houses looked promising. If he’d had more time he would have gone and asked about it. He went back to his car, wondering whether Linda had managed to get on a plane to Stockholm or was still waiting at Sturup.
After taking several wrong turns, he finally found the correct address. He parked the car and walked through the gate of a villa that must have been less than ten years old, but still seemed rather dilapidated. The front door was opened by a man dressed in a tracksuit. He had close-cropped grey hair, a thin moustache, and seemed to be in good physical shape. He smiled and held out his hand in greeting. Wallander introduced himself.
“My wife died years ago,” Hanzell said. “Since then I’ve lived alone. Please forgive the mess. But come on in!”
The first thing Wallander noticed was a large African drum in the hall. Hanzell followed his gaze.
“The year I was in the Congo was the journey of my life. I never travelled again. The children were small and my wife didn’t want to. And then one day it was too late.”
He invited Wallander into the living room, where coffee cups were set out on a table. There too, African mementos hung on the walls. Wallander sat down on a sofa and said yes to coffee. Actually, he was hungry and could use something to eat. Hanzell had put out a tray of biscuits.
“I bake them myself,” he said, nodding at the biscuits. “It’s a good pastime for an old soldier.”
Wallander wanted to get to the point. He took the photograph of the three men out of his pocket and handed it across the table.
“I want to start by asking whether you recognise any of these men. I can tell you that the picture was taken in the Congo at the time that the Swedish UN force was there.”
Hanzell took the photograph and put on a pair of reading glasses. Wallander remembered the visit he would have to make to the optician. Hanzell took the photograph over to the window and looked at it for a long time. Wallander listened to the silence that filled the house. He waited. Then Hanzell came back from the window. Without a word he laid the photograph on the table and left the room. Wallander ate another biscuit. He had almost decided to go and look for Hanzell when he returned with a photograph album in his hand, went back to the window, and starting leafing through it. Wallander kept waiting. Finally Hanzell found what he was looking for. He came back to the table and handed the open album to Wallander.