Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,103

I regard it as a dereliction of my duty if I don’t request that you have more personnel put at your disposal.”

“And dogs,” said Wallander sarcastically. “I want police dogs. And helicopters.”

The discussion was at an end. Wallander regretted flying off the handle. He wasn’t sure why he was so opposed to getting reinforcements. He knew that problems in cooperation could damage and delay an investigation. But he couldn’t argue with Åkeson’s point that more things could be investigated simultaneously with more people.

“Talk to Hansson,” Wallander said. “He’s the one who makes the decision.”

“Hansson doesn’t do anything without asking you. And then he does whatever you say.”

“I’ll refuse to give him my opinion. I’ll give you that much help.”

Åkeson stood up and turned off a dripping tap with a green hose attached to it. Then he sat down again.

“Let’s wait until Monday,” he said.

“Let’s do that,” said Wallander. Then he returned to Louise Fredman. He reiterated that there was no proof that Fredman had abused his daughter. But it might be true; he couldn’t rule out anything, and that was why he needed Åkeson’s help.

“It’s possible I’m making a big mistake,” Wallander concluded. “And it wouldn’t be the first time. But I can’t afford to ignore any leads. I want to know why Louise Fredman is in a psychiatric hospital. And when I find out, we’ll decide whether there’s any reason to take the next step.”

“Which would be?”

“Talking to her.”

Åkeson nodded. Wallander was sure he could count on his cooperation. They knew each other well. Åkeson respected Wallander’s instincts, even when they lacked solid evidence.

“It can be complicated,” said Åkeson. “But I’ll try to do something over the weekend.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Wallander. “You can call me at the station or at home whenever you like.”

Åkeson went inside to make sure he had all of Wallander’s phone numbers. The tension between them had evaporated. Åkeson followed him to the gate.

“Summer is off to a good start,” he said. “But I’m afraid you haven’t had much time to think about that.”

Wallander sensed that Åkeson was feeling sympathetic.

“Not much,” he replied. “But Ann-Britt’s grandmother predicted that the good weather is going to last for a long time.”

“Can’t she predict where we should be looking for the killer instead?” said Åkeson.

Wallander shook his head in resignation.

“We’re getting lots of tip-offs all the time. The usual prophets and psychics have been calling in. There are trainees sorting through the information. Then Höglund and Svedberg go through it, but so far nothing useful has come in. No-one saw a thing, either outside Wetterstedt’s house or at Carlman’s farm. There aren’t many leads about the pit outside the railway station or the van at the airport either.”

“The man you’re hunting for is careful,” said Åkeson.

“Careful, cunning, and totally devoid of human emotions,” said Wallander. “I can’t imagine how his mind works. Even Ekholm seems dumbstruck. For the first time in my life I’ve got the feeling that a monster is on the loose.”

For a moment Åkeson seemed to be pondering what Wallander had said.

“Ekholm told me he’s putting all the data into the computer. He’s using the F.B.I. programme. It might produce something.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Wallander.

Wallander said no more. But Åkeson understood what was implied. Before he strikes again.

Wallander drove back to the station. He arrived in the conference room a few minutes late. To cheer up his hardworking detectives, Hansson had driven down to Fridolf’s bakery and bought pastries. Wallander sat down in his usual spot and looked around. Martinsson was wearing shorts for the first time that season. Höglund had the first hint of a tan. He wondered enviously how she had had time to sunbathe. The only one dressed appropriately was Ekholm, who had established his base at the far end of the table.

“One of our evening papers had the good taste to provide its readers with historical background on the art of scalping,” Svedberg said gloomily. “We can only hope that it won’t be the next craze, given all the lunatics we’ve got running around.”

Wallander tapped the table with a pencil.

“Let’s get started,” he said. “We’re searching for the most vicious killer we’ve ever had to deal with. He has committed all three murders. But that’s all we know. Except for the fact that there’s a real risk that he’ll strike again.”

A hush fell around the table. Wallander hadn’t intended to create an oppressive atmosphere. He knew from experience that it was easier if the tone was light, even when the