Part 2 (1/2)
Wallander lay there quite peacefully, listening to the hum of an invisible air conditioning fan. He could hear voices in the corridor.
All pain has a cause, he thought. If it isn't my heart, what is it? The guilt I have at failing to devote enough time and energy to my father? Worry because I suspect the letters my daughter sends me from university in Stockholm don't tell the full story? That things are not at all as she describes them, when she says she likes it there, and is working, and feels that at last she's doing something she wants to be doing? Could it be that although I'm not conscious of it, I'm constantly afraid she's going to try to take her own life again, as she did when she was 15? Or is the pain due to the jealousy I still feel at Mona leaving me, even though that was a year ago now?
The light in the room seemed very bright. He felt that his whole life was characterised by a sense of desolation that he simply couldn't shake off. How could the kind of pain he'd just been feeling be caused by loneliness? He couldn't come up with any solution that didn't immediately fill him with doubt.
”I can't go on living like this,” he said out loud. ”I've got to get my life sorted out. Soon. Now.”
He woke up with a start at 6 a.m. The doctor was standing by his bed, watching him. ”No more pain?” he asked.
”Everything feels OK,” Wallander said. ”What can it have been?”
”Tension,” the doctor said. ”Stress. You know best yourself.”
”Yes,” Wallander said. ”I suppose I do.”
”I think you should have a thorough examination,” the doctor said. ”If nothing else, we need to be sure there's nothing physically wrong with you. It will make it easier for you to look inside your own head and see what kind of shadows are lurking there.”
Wallander drove home, took a shower, and had a cup of coffee. The thermometer read -3 -3C. The sky had cleared, and the wind had dropped. He sat there for a long time, thinking about the previous night. The pains and his stay in the hospital had taken on an air of unreality. But he knew he couldn't just ignore what had happened. His life was his own responsibility.
It was 8.15 a.m. before he felt he could face work.
As soon as he got to the station, he became embroiled in an argument with Bjork, who was insisting that the forensic squad in Stockholm should have been brought in at once to make a thorough investigation at the scene of the crime.
”There was no scene of the crime,” Wallander said. ”If there's one thing we can be sure about, it's that the men were not murdered in that life-raft.”
”Now we don't have Rydberg to rely on, we need outside help,” Bjork said. ”We don't have the expertise. Why didn't you close off the beach where the life-raft was found?”
”The beach wasn't where the crime was committed. The raft had been drifting at sea. Are you suggesting that we should have fixed a plastic ribbon round the waves?”
Wallander was getting angry. True, neither he nor any other of the officers in Ystad had Rydberg's experience, but that didn't mean he was incapable of deciding when to call in a.s.sistance from Stockholm.
”Either you let me make the decisions,” he said, ”or you run the case yourself.”
”There's no question of that,” Bjork said, ”but I still think it was an error of judgement not to consult Stockholm.”
”Well, I don't.”
That was as far as they could go.
”I'll come and see you shortly,” said Wallander. ”I've got some stuff I'd like your opinion on.” Bjork looked surprised.
”Have we got something to go on?” he asked. ”I thought we were up against a brick wall.”
”Not quite. I'll be with you in 10 minutes.”
He went back to his office, rang the hospital, and was astonished to get straight through to Morth.
”Anything new?” he asked the pathologist.
”I'm just writing my report,” Morth answered. ”Can't you wait another couple of hours?”
”I have to put Bjork in the picture. Can you at least say how long they've been dead?”
”No. We have to wait for the results of the lab tests. Stomach content, extent of cell tissue decay. I can only guess.”
”Do it.”
”I don't like guessing, you know that. What good will it do you?”
”You're experienced. You know what you're doing. The test results will only confirm what you suspect already, they won't contradict them. I only want you to whisper in my ear. I won't pa.s.s it on.”
Wallander waited.
”A week,” Morth said finally. ”At least a week. But don't tell anybody I said that.”
”I've forgotten it already. You're still certain they're Russian or East European?”
”Yes.”
”Did you find anything you didn't expect?” ”I don't know anything about ammunition, of course, but I've never come across this type of bullet before.” ”Anything else?”
”Yes. One of the men has a tattoo on his upper arm. It's a sort of sabre. Some kind of Turkish scimitar, or whatever they're called.”
”A what?”
”It's a sword. You can't expect a pathologist to be an expert on obsolete weaponry.” ”Does it say anything?” ”What do you mean?”
”Tattoos usually have some inscription. A woman's name, or a place.”
”There's no inscription.”
”Nothing else?”
”Not at the moment.”
”OK, thanks for all this anyway.”
”It wasn't very much.”
Wallander hung up, fetched himself a cup of coffee and went to see Bjork. The doors of Martinsson's and Svedberg's offices were open, but neither of them was there. He sat down and drank his coffee, listening absentmindedly as Bjork finished a phone conversation, which seemed to be getting rather heated. He jumped as Bjork slammed down the phone.
”That was the d.a.m.nedest thing I've ever heard,” Bjork said. ”What's the point of carrying on?”
”A good question,” Wallander said, ”but I'm not sure what you're referring to.”
Bjork was shaking with anger. Wallander couldn't remember ever having seen him like this.
”What's the matter?” he asked.
Bjork looked at him. ”I don't know if I'm supposed to say anything about it,” he said, ”but I really have to. One of those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who murdered the old couple in Lenarp, the one we called Lucia, was let out on leave the other day.