Wallander went back to the shore of the lake. A solitary swan was on its way towards the jetty. It glided soundlessly across the surface of the dark water. Wallander watched it for a long time. Then he zipped up his jacket and went to Nyberg, who was already starting his work out on the jetty.
Skane
17 October — 3 November 1994
CHAPTER 25
Nyberg slowly slit open the sack. Wallander went onto the jetty to look at the dead man’s face. The doctor, who had just arrived, went with him.
He didn’t recognise the dead man, and of course he hadn’t expected to. Wallander guessed that he must have been between 40 and 50 years old.
He looked at the body as it was pulled clear of the sack. He looked for less than a minute; he simply couldn’t stand more. He felt dizzy the whole time.
Nyberg was going through the man’s pockets.
“He’s wearing an expensive suit,” Nyberg said. “His shoes aren’t cheap either.”
They didn’t find anything in his pockets. Someone had taken the trouble to remove his identity card, and yet the killer must have assumed that the body would very soon be discovered in Krageholm Lake.
The body had now been pulled free and was on a plastic sheet. Nyberg signalled to Wallander, who had stepped aside.
“This was carefully calculated,” he said. “You’d almost think the murderer knew about weight distribution and water resistance.”
“What do you mean?” Wallander asked.
Nyberg pointed to several thick seams running along the inside of the sack.
“The sack has weights sewn into it that ensured two things. One, the weights were light enough so that with the man’s body in it the sack wouldn’t sink to the bottom. Two, the sack would lie with only a narrow air pocket above the water’s surface. Since it was all so carefully calculated, the person who prepared the sack must have known the man’s weight. At least approximately. With a margin of error of maybe four to five kilos.”
Wallander forced himself to think this over, even though all thoughts of how the man had died made him feel sick.
“So the narrow air pocket guaranteed that the man would actually drown?”
“I’m not a doctor,” Nyberg said. “But it’s probable that this man was still alive when the sack was put into the water. So he was murdered.”
The doctor, who was kneeling down to examine the body, had been listening to their conversation. He stood up and came over to them. The jetty swayed under their weight.
“It’s too early to be certain,” he said. “But we have to presume that he drowned.”
“Not just that he drowned,” Wallander said. “But that somebody drowned him.”
“The police are the ones who will have to determine whether it was an accident or a murder,” the doctor said. “I can only speak about what happened to his body.”
“No external marks? No contusions? Or wounds?”
“We’ll need to get his clothes off to be able to answer that question. But I can’t see anything on the parts of his body that are visible. The autopsy may turn up other results.”
Wallander nodded. “I’d like to know as soon as possible if you find any signs of violence.”
The doctor went back to his work. Even though Wallander had met him several times before, he still couldn’t remember his name. Wallander went and gathered his colleagues on the shore. Hansson had just finished talking to the man who had discovered the sack.
“We didn’t find any identification,” Wallander began. “We have to find out who he is. That’s the most important thing right now. Until then we can’t do anything. We’ll start by going through the missing-persons files.”
“There’s a good chance that he hasn’t been missed yet,” Hansson said. “Nils Goransson, the man who found him, claims he was here as late as yesterday afternoon. He does shift work at a machine shop in Svedala and usually takes a walk out here because he has trouble sleeping. He was here yesterday. He always walks out on the jetty. And there wasn’t any sack. So it must have been thrown into the water during the night.”
“Or this morning,” Wallander said. “When did Goransson get here?”
Hansson checked his notes.
“At 8.15. He finished his shift at around 7 a.m. and drove here, stopping on the way for breakfast.”
“So not much time has passed,” Wallander said. “That may give us certain advantages. The difficulty is going to be to find out who he is.”
“The sack could have been put into the lake somewhere else,” Nyberg said.
Wallander shook his head.
“He hasn’t been in the water long. And there’s no current here to speak of.”
Martinsson kicked at the sand restlessly, as if he were cold.
“Does it really have to be the same man?” he asked. “I think this seems different.”
Wallander was as sure about this as he could possibly be.
“No. It’s the same killer. We’d better assume that it is, anyway.”
He sent them off. There was nothing more for them to do out there on the shore of Krageholm Lake. The cars drove away. Wallander stood and gazed out at the water. The swan was gone. He looked at the men working on the jetty. At the ambulance, the police cars, the crime-scene tape. Everything about it suddenly gave him a sense of depthless unreality. He encountered nature surrounded by plastic tape stretched out to protect crime sites. Everywhere he went there were dead people. He could look at a swan on the water, but in the foreground lay a man who had just been pulled dead out of a sack.
His work was little more than a poorly paid test of endurance. He was being paid to endure this. The plastic tape wound through his life like a snake.
He went over to Nyberg, who was stretching his back.
“We’ve found a cigarette butt,” he said. “That’s all. At least out here on the jetty. We’ve already done a superficial examination of the sand for drag marks. There aren’t any. Whoever carried the sack was strong. Unless he lured the man out here and then stuffed him in the sack.”
Wallander shook his head.
“Let’s assume that the sack was carried,” he said. “Carried with its contents.”
“Do you think there’s any reason to dredge the lake?”
“I don’t think so. The man was unconscious when he was brought here. There must have been a car involved. Then the sack was thrown in the water. The car drove off.”
“So we’ll wait on the dragging,” Nyberg said.
“Tell me what you see,” Wallander said.
Nyberg grimaced.
“It could be the same man,” he said. “The violence, the cruelty, they all look familiar. Even though he varies things.”
“Do you think a woman could have done this?”
“I say the same thing you do,” Nyberg replied. “I’d rather not believe that. But I can also tell you that she would have to be capable of carrying 80 kilos without difficulty. How many women can do that?”
“I don’t know any,” said Wallander. “But I’m sure they exist.”
Nyberg went back to his work. Wallander was about to leave the jetty when the swan caught his eye. He wished he had a piece of bread. It was pecking at something near the shore. Wallander took a step closer. The swan hissed and turned back towards the lake.
Wallander went over to one of the police cars and asked to be driven to Ystad. On the way back to town he tried to think. What he had feared most had now happened. The killer was not finished. They knew nothing about him. Was he at the end or the beginning of what he had decided to do? They didn’t even know whether he had motives for his premeditated acts or was just insane.
It has to be a man, he thought. Anything else goes against all common sense. Women seldom commit murder. Least of all well-planned murders. Ruthless and calculated acts of violence. It has to be a man, or maybe more than one. And we’re never going to solve this case unless we find the connection between the victims. Now there are three of them. That increases our chances. But nothing is certain, nothing is going to reveal itself to us.