“That can’t be true.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t understand. I don’t even know exactly what a private detective is. Do we really have them in Sweden?”
“That’s a different question altogether,” Wallander said. “But your father spent time doing business as a private detective.”
“Like Ture Sventon? That’s the only Swedish detective I’ve ever heard of.”
“Forget about the comic books,” Wallander said. “I’m serious about this.”
“I am too. I’ve never heard a word about my father being involved in anything like this. What did he do?”
“It’s too early to tell.”
Wallander was now convinced that she didn’t know what her father had been up to. Of course Wallander might be completely wrong, yet he was almost certain that he was right. The secret room on Harpegatan might lead them on to other secret rooms, but it had shaken up the entire investigation. Everything had been set in motion again.
He got up from the chair. “That’s all for now,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m sure we’ll meet again.”
She gave him a sombre look.
“Who did it?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Wallander said. “But I’m convinced we’ll catch whoever killed your father.”
Hansson followed him out to the hall. “Private detective? Is that some sort of joke?”
“No,” Wallander said. “We found a secret office that belonged to Runfeldt. You’ll hear more about it later.”
Hansson nodded. “Ture Sventon wasn’t a comic book character,” he said. “He was in a series of mystery novels.”
But Wallander had already left. He got a cup of coffee and closed the door to his office. The phone rang. He hung it up without answering. He was dying to get out of that press conference. He had too many other things to think about. With a grimace he pulled over a notebook and wrote down the most important things to tell the press.
He leaned back and looked out the window. The wind was howling.
If the killer speaks a language, than we can attempt to answer him, he thought. If it’s the way I think it is, he wants to show other people what he’s doing. So we have to acknowledge that we’ve seen, but that we haven’t let ourselves be scared off.
He made some more notes. Then he got up and went into Chief Holgersson’s office. He told her what he had been thinking. She listened carefully and agreed that they would do as he suggested.
The press conference was held in the largest conference room in the station. Wallander felt as though he’d been dragged back to last summer, and that tumultuous press conference that he had stormed out of in a rage. He recognised many of the same faces.
“I’m glad you’re handling this,” Chief Holgersson whispered. “I’ll make the opening remarks. The rest is yours.”
They went up to the dais at one end of the room. Lisa Holgersson welcomed everyone and then handed over to Wallander, who could already feel himself starting to sweat.
He gave a thorough description of the murders of Holger Eriksson and Gosta Runfeldt. He told them that these were among the most savage crimes he and his colleagues had ever investigated. The only significant information he held back was the discovery that Runfeldt had probably worked as a private detective. He also didn’t mention that they were looking for a man who had once been a mercenary in a remote African war and called himself Harald Berggren.
Instead he said something completely different, something that he and Lisa Holgersson had agreed on. He said that the police had some clear leads to follow. He couldn’t go into details at this time, but there were clues and indications. The police were on a specific track that they couldn’t talk about yet, for reasons crucial to the investigation.
He’d had this idea when it had seemed to him that the investigation had been shaken up. Movement deep down inside, almost impossible to register, but there nevertheless. The thought that came to him was quite simple. When there is an earthquake, people flee from the epicentre in a hurry. The killer wanted the world to see that the murders were sadistic and well planned. The investigators could confirm that they were aware of this, but they could also give a more detailed answer. They had seen more than what may have been intended.
Wallander wanted to get the killer moving. A person in motion was easier to see than one who kept still and hid in his own shadow. Wallander realised that the whole tactic could backfire. The killer might make himself invisible, but it was worth a try.
He had also received Chief Holgersson’s permission to say something that was not altogether true. They had no leads. All they had were unrelated fragments.
When Wallander finished, the questions began. He was ready for most of them. He had heard and replied to them before, and he would keep on hearing them as long as he was a policeman.
Not until it was almost over, when Wallander had started to grow impatient and Chief Holgersson had signalled to him to wind it up, did everything turn in another direction. The man who raised his hand and then stood up had been sitting far back in a corner. Wallander didn’t see him and was just about to adjourn the conference when Holgersson drew his attention to the fact that there was one more question.
“I’m from the Anmarkaren,” the man said. “I have a question.”
Wallander searched his memory. He’d never heard of a magazine called the Anmarkaren. His impatience was growing.
“What magazine did you say you were from?”
“The Anmarkaren.”
“I have to admit that I’ve never heard of your magazine, but what’s the question?”
“The Anmarkaren has roots that go way back,” the man replied, unfazed. “There was a magazine in the early 19th century with that name. A magazine of social criticism. We plan to publish our first issue shortly.”
“One question,” Wallander said. “When you come out with the first issue I’ll answer two questions.”
There was tittering in the room. The man had the air of a preacher about him. Wallander wondered whether the Anmarkaren might be religious. Or pseudo-religious, he thought. New-age spirituality has finally reached Ystad. The southern plain of Sweden has been conquered, and Osterlen is all that’s left.
“What do the Ystad police think about the fact that the residents of Lodinge have decided to set up a citizen militia?” asked the man in the corner.
Wallander couldn’t see his face clearly.
“I haven’t heard that the people of Lodinge have considered committing any collective stupidities,” Wallander replied.
“Not only in Lodinge,” the man continued calmly. “There are plans to start a people’s movement across the whole country. An umbrella organisation for the citizen militia that will protect the populace, which will do everything the police don’t want to do. Or can’t do. One of the starting points will be the Ystad district.”
There was a sudden silence in the room.
“And why was Ystad selected for this honour?” asked Wallander. He was still not sure whether to take the man seriously.
“Within the past few months there have been a large number of brutal murders. The police succeeded in solving the crimes from this summer, but now it seems to have started again. People want to live their lives. The Swedish police have capitulated to the criminal elements that are creeping out of their holes today. That’s why the citizen militia is the only way to solve the problem of security.”
“It doesn’t solve anything for people to take the law into their own hands,” Wallander replied. “There can only be one response to this from the Ystad police. And it is clear and unequivocal. No-one can misunderstand it. We will regard all private initiatives to establish a citizen militia as illegal, and participants will be prosecuted.”
“Should I interpret that to mean you are against it?” the man asked.
Now Wallander could see his pale, emaciated face. He decided to memorise it.