Wallander said: “I don’t have a lot of time and I can’t explain why I’m here. So just answer my questions, please, nothing else.”
He unfolded the map and laid it on the table.
“There was a man lying on a path,” he said. “Can you point to where?”
She leaned across and drew a little circle with her index finger on a track marked to the south of the stables.
“About there,” she said.
“I have to ask you if you had seen the man before.”
“No.”
“What was he wearing?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it a uniform?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. My mind’s a blank.”
There was no point in pressing her further. Her terror had affected her memory.
“Has anything else happened today, anything out of the ordinary?”
“No.”
“Nobody’s been here to talk to you?”
“No.”
Wallander tried to figure out what that meant. But the image of Ström lying there in the darkness forced all other thoughts from his mind.
“I’m going now,” he said. “If anybody comes, don’t tell them I’ve been.”
“Will you come back?” she said.
“I don’t know. But you don’t need to worry, nothing’s going to happen.”
He peered out through a crack in the curtains, hoping the assurance he had just given her really would turn out to be true. Then he opened the door quickly and ran to the back of the building. He did not stop until he was in the shadows again. A slight breeze had started blowing. Beyond the trees he could see the powerful beams lighting up the dark red facade of the castle. He could also see lights in several of the windows on all floors.
He was shivering.
After thinking hard once more about the map he had lodged in his memory, he set off again, flashlight in hand. He passed the site of an artificial lake that had been drained of water. Then he turned left and began looking for the path. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had forty minutes before he was due to contact Höglund again.
Just as he was beginning to think he was lost, he found the path. It was about a meter wide, and he could see the tracks of horses’ hooves. He stood still, listening. But it was silent everywhere, although the wind seemed to be getting stronger. He continued along the path, expecting to be grabbed at any moment.
After about five minutes he stopped. If she had indicated correctly on the map, he had walked too far. Was he on the wrong path? He went on, more slowly. After another hundred meters he was sure he must have passed the point she had marked by now.
He stood still, feeling uneasy.
There was no sign of Ström. The body must have been taken away. He turned and began to retrace his steps, wondering what to do next. He stopped again, this time because he needed to urinate. He stepped into the bushes by the side of the path. When he had finished he took the map from his pocket and checked again, just to be certain that he had not mistaken the spot Sofia had circled, or taken the wrong path.
As he turned on the flashlight he caught sight of a naked foot. He gave a start and dropped the flashlight, which went out when it landed on the ground. He must have imagined it. He bent down to retrieve the flashlight. He turned it on again and found himself looking straight at Kurt Ström’s dead face. It was ashen, the lips tightly clenched. Blood had drained away and coagulated on his cheeks. He had an entry wound in the middle of his forehead. Wallander thought about what had happened to Sten Torstensson. He stood up and hurried away. Leaned against a tree and threw up. Then he ran. He got as far as the empty lake and sank to his knees at its edge. Somewhere in the background a bird flew, clattering, from the top of a tree. He jumped down into the lake bed and crept to a corner. It was like being in a burial vault. He thought he could hear footsteps approaching and drew his pistol, but nobody appeared. He took a few deep breaths and forced himself to think. He was close to panic and felt that he would lose his self-control at any moment. Another fourteen minutes and he was due to contact Höglund. But he did not have to wait, he could call her now and ask her to phone Björk. Ström was dead, shot through the head, and nothing was going to bring him back to life. They should call a full-scale emergency, Wallander would be waiting for them at the gates, and what would happen after that he had no idea.
But he did not make the call. He waited for fourteen minutes and then reached for the radio. She answered at once. “What’s happening?” she said.
“Nothing yet,” he said. “I’ll call again in an hour.”
“Have you found Ström?”
He switched off. Once again he was alone in the darkness. He had committed himself to do something, but did not know what. He had given himself an hour to fill without knowing how. Slowly he rose to his feet. He was freezing. He clambered up out of the lake bed and walked toward the light glimmering through the trees. He stopped where the trees came to an end and he found himself at the edge of the big lawn sloping up to the castle.
It was an impenetrable fortress, but somehow Wallander would have to force his way in. Ström was dead, but he could not be blamed for that. Nor could he be held responsible for the murder of Sten Torstensson. Wallander’s guilt was different in kind, a feeling that he was going to let his side down once again, and when he could very well be on the brink of solving the case.
There had to be a limit to what they were capable of doing, in spite of everything. They could not simply shoot him, a Ystad detective who was only doing his job. Then again, perhaps these people did not recognize any limits at all. He tried to unravel that conundrum, but he could not. Instead, he started making his way around to the back of the castle, a side of the building he had never seen. It took him ten whole minutes, despite walking briskly—not only because he was afraid, but also because he was so cold. He could not stop shivering. At the back of the castle was a half-moon-shaped terrace jutting out into the grounds. The left side of the terrace was in shadow: some of the hidden spotlights must have stopped working. There were stone steps from the terrace down onto the lawn. He ran as fast as he could until he was in the shadows again. He crept up the steps, his flashlight in one hand and his radio in the other. The pistol was in his pants pocket.
Suddenly he stopped dead and listened. What had he heard? It was one of his internal alarms going off. Something’s wrong, he thought. But what? He pricked up his ears, but he could hear nothing apart from the wind coming and going. Something to do with the light, he thought. I’m being drawn toward the shadows, and they are lying in wait for me.
When the penny dropped and he realized he had been tricked, it was too late. He turned to go back down the steps, but was blinded by a dazzling white light shining straight into his face. He had been lured into the shadowy trap, and now it had sprung. He held the hand holding the radio over his eyes to keep out the light, but at the same time he felt himself being grabbed from behind. He tried to fight his way free, but it was too late. His head exploded and everything went black.
A part of his mind was conscious of what was happening all the time. Arms lifted him up and carried him, he could hear a voice speaking, somebody laughed. A door opened and the sound of footsteps on the stone terrace ceased. He was indoors, perhaps being carried up a staircase, and then he was set down on something soft. Whether it was the pain in the back of his head or the feeling of being in a room with the lights out, or at least dimmed, he did not know; but he came around, opened his eyes, and found himself lying on a sofa in a very large room. The floor was tiled, possibly with marble. Several computers with flickering screens stood on an oblong table. He could hear the sound of air-conditioning fans and somewhere, out of his field of vision, a telex machine was clicking away. He tried not to move his head, the pain behind his right ear was too great. Then somebody started speaking to him, a voice he recognized, close by his side.